Vampires are rich, resourceful, cunning, & magnificently vindictive. Cross one, and he will hunt you to the corners of the earth. Cross one, and you’d best slay him too.

Those words, penned by the Sage Nytios, echoed in Niccolò di Manarola’s mind as he departed Petra’s Hill, the fabled guild district on the balmy isle of Verona. It was the night of the Amethyst Festival. As citizens diced, dined, danced, and whored, Nico and his companions had embarked upon their latest Quest. A shadowy client had commissioned them to infiltrate a vampire’s baroque manse and recover the Jayce Scepter.

The Jayce Scepter, legend held, was an eldritch artifact forged in the basalt depths of Mount Dread. The precise nature of its powers was unknown and widely debated, but one theory held that it granted the bearer the power to summon ancient gods.

On the surface, this might have seemed like an ordinary Quest for Nico and his companions, who specialized in Rare & Esoteric Artifact Recovery, a subdivision of the Pathfinders adventure guild. But a vampire was no ordinary foe. By fate or fortune, this one — whose name was Gasper Martín — was supposedly dormant. He slumbered in an enchanted bier in his opulent estate, nursing old wounds and cultivating new strengths.

“Our first job in weeks,” Leonardo Sforza said. “A pity it coincides with the festival.”

“It’s no coincidence,” Nico replied, his voice slow and contemplative. “Our client chose this day and time because he knew the Whitecloak guards would be preoccupied with the Festival.”

“Oh, how very thoughtful of him,” Leo muttered. “Did we ever catch his name?”

“Tomasso’s being tight-lipped,” Nico said, shaking his head. He was referring to Tomasso Vasari, Pathfinders’ guildmaster. “But from what I gather, the client is a foreigner — possibly hailing from the Free Cities of the Far East, and he is rich beyond measure.”

“Bah! Rich is not the same as generous. If this vocation has taught me one thing, it’s that half the nobles are as miserly as… as…” Leo waved his hand airily, searching for an appropriate metaphor. “As misers,” he finished lamely.

They crossed the Charles Bridge, which was ornamented with the animated statues of dead dukes. The dukes were always bickering about politics or the weather or who deserved blame for historical blunders. Other times they amused themselves by harassing passersby. One of them pelted Leo with a rotten apple core.

Next they came to the Via Cardenza, the city’s main thoroughfare. To the east people were gathered at the harbor, enjoying the festival’s Spectacle. The Water Lilies, an aquamancer guild, had poled out to the shallow waters of Sapphire Bay and were conjuring ephemera — water-borne elementals like lions and wyverns that soared into the lavender sky, dancing and twirling before exploding into ice-pellets.

“You know, when I was a young lad Ambrose performed the Spectacles. And he’s no mere mage, he’s a Wizard.”

“Fascinating, Grandpa,” said Gianna di Verona, their twelve-year old pink-haired apprentice. “Now tell me stories about the war.”

Leo laughed. “How did you become such a cheeky little cunt?”

“Practice,” she said, beaming. “And I’m not little anymore. I’m twelve.”

“I thought you were nine…?”

“I was nine. When we met three years ago.”

“Three years? Ah, well, arithmetic was never my forte.”

“No,” Gianna said. “Nor reading, nor writing… nor fashion…”

“My fashion is impeccable.”

“You flatter yourself,” Nico said, joining in the fun. “I’ll say your cooking is pretty lousy as well. Remember that time you nearly burnt down the guildhouse trying to boil an egg?”

Leo laughed. “I’ve been banned from the scullery ever since. I may be lousy with a kitchen knife, but I can wield a sword, and that’s all that matters in life — is it not? Wielding swords, slaying foes, extinguishing hope from one’s enemies…” His eyes twinkled wistfully.

“There’s more to life than swords, Lee. Like knowledge, for one. Books.”

“Books are overrated. Violence is underrated. There is no obstacle in life that cannot be solved with sufficient bloodshed. I call it, ah… Sforza’s Theory of Problem Resolution.” Self-satisfied, he ran a hand through his thick golden hair. “They ought to dub me a Sage.”

“The whole world has already dubbed you a dumbass, Lee,” Gianna said, and they laughed again, no one harder than Leo himself.

***

Martín’s manse was based in Silvercrest, which was home to Verona’s elite, their manses and villas strung along the slopes like a pearl necklace. To trespass in Silvercrest was a death sentence. Duke Ferdinand II meted out harsh justice to those who dared rise above their station.

Nico felt a rill of sweat run down his back as they climbed the Via Positano, the sole avenue into Silvercrest.

There were two types of guards in Verona: first, there were the Whitecloaks, the city’s main guard. Second, the Black Cabal, the Empress’ secret spy ring. The Whitecloaks were more numerous — comparable to a standing army, but it was the Black Cabal whom Nico most feared.

Little was known for certain about the Black Cabal, whose members wore sinister black lacquered masks and blended invisibly with the shadows. The Oculus, the base of their operations, loomed to the west upon a soaring bluff. Their symbol, an O with a diagonal slash, was carved into it, like baleful eye glaring down omnisciently upon them.

It was rumored that those who transgressed the Empress’ law were brought to the Oculus and subjected to cruel punishments. They were tortured ceaselessly, their lives extended by preternatural alchemies so that their suffering might be indefinitely prolonged. It was a fate Nico was rather keen to avoid.

The Black Cabal’s numbers had been more numerous of late, ever since the mysterious disappearance of the Duke’s great grand-nephew one month ago.

***

Martín’s manse was tucked away in the hillside, surrounded by a thicket of dense forest which was peopled by hags and ghouls and other minor terrors — doubtless placed by the vampire himself. Leo made sport of slaying their spectral foes, and after a half-hour trek, they emerged upon a clearing and arrived at their destination.

The manse had a foreboding aspect: a grim, cube-like structure hewn from solid granite, squat and resolute, with fanged gargoyles cresting its roof. The courtyard featured a fountain of a nude woman weeping tears of blood. The garden, well-manicured yet macabre, featured black-petaled flowers like nightlilies and black dahlias. Scarlet-spotted snakes slithered among mysterious, bioluminescent orange eggs.

Silently and stealthily, the adventurers slipped past the fountain and climbed the stone steps to the front door.

Nico set his lockpicks down; they landed on the porch with a small clink. Immediately he set to work.

Most deathtrap engineers outsourced lockmaking to experts. It was its own distinct discipline — a technical art form akin to watchmaking or shipwrighting. Kanedias was too vain for that. His hubris would be his undoing, for Nico was a crack lockpick.

“Why can’t we just heave a stone through the window?” asked Leo. “He’s hibernating. He won’t hear.”

“He’s not a polar bear, Lee,” said Gianna.

“Huh?”

“Vampires don’t hibernate, they go dormant.” She pulled a book out of her satchel — So, You Want to Slay a Vampire — and tapped on its cover. “You really ought to read more.”

“This is what happens when you give her books, Nico. She gets preachy.”

Gianna ignored the jest. “But really though, why can’t we break in? Hurl a brick through the window and it may even expend or disarm a few traps.”

“We could do that,” Nico said, “but it would be imprudent. There are two types of deathtraps. The first are those meant never to be solved, to guard precious relics for eternity. The Temple of Artuas, for example.”

The Temple of Artuas was a legend among adventurers: a fourteen-story pagoda temple of the Kyonese style containing the tomb and (more importantly) the staff of the ancient wizard Artuas. No one had yet solved it, and few dared the attempt.

“The second,” Nico continued, “are those that serve to fortify a defensive position. This deathtrap —” he gestured vaguely at Kanedias’ seal on the door — “is the latter. There must be some mechanism to arm or disarm the traps, to protect the vampire when he stirs from his slumber, or to protect Kanedias if he visits to inspect his traps.”

“So what’s the mechanism? How do we disarm them?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it could be this lock. It’s possible the traps only arm when the manse detects an intrusion, or only disarm when this lock is disengaged. So if I pick it —”

“—we can waltz right in,” Leo finished. “Clever.”

As Nico suspected, the lock proved to be no challenge. Within minutes, it clicked open.

The door slid slowly open, revealing a yawning darkness.

But the instant they stepped across the threshold, torches sputtered to life with blue flames, illuminating a grand foyer with a checkered marble floor, suits of armor, and a crystal chandelier. Hallways branched in each direction, and a broad stairwell led upstairs.

The front door slammed shut, startling Gianna.

The trio stayed put, not moving an inch. Nico searched for any signs of traps. Typically, there were subtle clues that gave away traps, like a floorboard that was a slightly different hue, or little holes in the wall where poison darts might be loosed.

He saw no such signs, but it wasn’t exactly reassuring. Perhaps they were only well-concealed.

What he did find, however, was a large and rather conspicuous keyhole. Is that the mechanism for disarming the traps?

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Footfalls. Someone was descending the stairs. The three of them tensed, hands reaching for their weapons.

A figure appeared on the stairway landing — a skeleton. But this skeleton was not like the accursed draugrs which infested Diji tombs. This one seemed almost friendly and inviting. He wore a scarlet beret and a brown cashmere scarf.

“Oh blessed saints,” the skeleton said, his dainty voice dripping with scorn. “Not another one.”

“Another what?” asked Leo.

“Another challenger. You lot mark the fourth set of aspirants to enter my master’s abode this week. This one here is still warm.”

The skeleton kicked a round object that sat upon the uppermost stair. It flew toward them, crashing with a horrid squelch before rolling to a halt before Nico’s feet.

A human head. One he recognized.

“Gods,” said Leo, “is that? — it can’t be — no, it is! Casper!”

“Who?” asked Gianna.

“Casper Villenueva. A rival of ours… err, he was a rival…”

“You truly are exquisitely ignorant. Do you know where you are? Do you have even the merest inkling what grisly fate imminently awaits you?”

“Well, Mr. Bones,” Leo said slowly, “our fate, judging by the mouldy severed head you kicked at us… death by decapitation, I wager?”

Gianna laughed. Even Mr. Bones chortled.

“Very droll,” he said. “A fine jest. Seldom do I have occasion to laugh these days.”

“Perhaps we can help each other,” Leo said, “I am a font of witty retorts. Lead us to the Jayce Scepter and I shall regale you with my biting wit.”

“I think… perhaps… not.”

“We know where we are,” said Nico. “Gasper’s manse. A Kanedias deathtrap.”

“Ah, so then you’re not entirely ignorant, but merely transcendentally stupid. My friends, your fates are sealed, your deaths assured. I see no reason to prolong the inevitable.”

The skeleton clapped, and the suits of armor sprang to life. They pulled swords from ancient scabbards, the blades rasping as they were liberated from leather sheaths.

There were five of them in all, each a towering eight feet tall. They moved slowly but deliberately.

“Stand back!” Leo shouted, holding up a bracing arm.

“I can fight too!” Gianna protested, pushing his arm away.

“I know. I just want to save the fun for myself.” He winked at her, then withdrew his falchion Wraith and his saber Ice, spinning the dual blades gracefully. No man was a match with Leo when it came to swordplay.

No man, and certainly no lumbering suit of armor.

Leo hurled himself at the enemy, engaging three at once, his blades clanging as he parried their blows. He moved like lightning, ducking under one and swinging Wraith in a perfectly-placed uppercut, landing between gorget and helm of one foe, killing it. Its armor clattered on the floor in an untidy heap.

The other two, sensing their Leo’s prowess, formed up on either side of him. They raised their broadswords and thrust at Leo. Their swordsmanship was ungainly, but they were marvelously strong. One errant blow struck a marble column, fracturing it and quite nearly destroying it. Dust rained down from the ceiling above.

Leo danced around, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

“In swordplay,” he lectured Gianna, “timing is everything.”

But Gianna wasn’t listening. She had already drawn Poinsettia, her beloved rapier, and launched herself at one of the other combatants. Poinsettia was razor sharp but it had little heft to it. So rather than parry her enemy’s blows, she bobbed and weaved, ducking and diving with stylish aplomb.

Nico had claimed the remaining foe. He had little skill with blades, but he was lithe and spry. He engaged the adversary, easily dodging its ponderous swordblows, hoping to delay and distract. If he could defer long enough, Leo could swoop in and finish the job. But Leo was still busy the two suits that had teamed up against him.

“Very well,” Nico muttered to himself. “We’ll do it my way.”

He reached into the folds of his doublet and produced a Thunderbolt spell scroll. He cast it in the air, muttering its incantation. A bolt of lightning shot forth with concussive energy, smiting the enemy.

“Why’d you waste that?” Leo said. He had just finished up, as had Gianna.

Nico smiled. “Just trying to help.”

“This was entirely too easy,” Leo said. “If this was a foretaste of what awaits — I reckon we should be back in the guildhouse by suppertime.”

“Don’t count on it. Kanedias was a virtuoso trapwright, famous for incorporating a diverse assortment of traps.”

Leo took the lead marching upstairs, with Nico and Gianna following close behind.

They ascended lightly, muffling their steps to better hear what was ahead and above. It was quiet. Eerily quiet. Distantly, ever so faintly, Nico swore he could hear a thumping noise — almost like a heartbeat. It was beating a precise cadence.

“What’s that noise?” he said.

But Leo’s attention was focused on something else. He had picked something up off the ground, turning it over in his hands, brow furrowed.

“I thought he was at the opera tonight?”

“Who?”

Leo handed over the item he had found: a cufflink with a fiery shimmer, forged from a rare alchemical alloy of gold and sapphire. It was embossed with initials TV. And there was blood on it. Wet blood.

Nico recognized both the cufflink and the initials. Tomasso Vasari — Pathfinders guildmaster.