“Not so fast, you little bastard,” Maverick growled, stepping out from the shadows. He held his hands up, fingers splayed, and the air thrummed with a dark, metallic energy. Blood magic, raw, potent, and alive billowed out of him. I could feel it like iron under my tongue.
The creature screeched, slamming against the wall as Maverick’s power anchored it in place. Its claws scratched uselessly against the invisible bond holding it there as a small hiss escaped its jaws. It continued to thrash, but Maverick’s dark magic was unyielding.
Maverick’s voice was low, calm. “Answer her. Now. Who sent you, and why are you here?”
“Master sent me,” the thing responded in a strange voice that was raspy but also high-pitched. “I wasn’t supposed to leave until I returned with his possessions.”
“What possessions?” I demanded.
“His books,” the creature responded.
“And your master is the one who cursed the dragon girl?” I asked.
The Kobold gave me a furious expression but didn’t respond. Until Maverick did something with his magic, which seemed to tighten around the thing’s neck, and its eyes began to bulge out of its head. Then Maverick eased up on it and it panted a few times before it nodded at me in a way that said it was ready to confess.
“Master needs the books back.”
“Explain,” Smith said.
“Master needs the spells in the book.”
I looked back at the little kobold, who remained silent, but his breath was definitely coming faster. His eyes darted this way and that, like he was searching for any way out.
“Who is your master?” I asked it.
“I can’t tell you. Master will be furious if I say too much.”
“Who sent you?” Maverick repeated. “Don’t make me tighten my magic around you again.”
“And why did you wreck my house?” I added, leaning closer, trying to look the little thing in the eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need answers. I want to know who put you up to this.”
The kobold scowled. “Master Klaus.”
“Who is that?” Maverick asked, looking at me but the kobold answered.
“Klaus Schwarzkopf—the man who wrote the books Smith gave me.”
The kobold nodded. “Master is the final heir to a dynasty of half-mad alchemists. He’s been dying for years.”
The words seemed to hang in the still air. Even Maverick’s spell hummed quieter.
The kobold swallowed, throat bobbing.
“Zen is it true zat Herr Klaus made zee Philosopher’s Stone?” Olga suddenly piped up. “As I read in zee book?”
The kobold nodded. “He once made the stone, yes.”
“Why did he make the stone?” Maverick asked.
“Master used the stone to extend his life. And it worked. For a while. But someone corrupted the core of the spell. Master didn’t know. Master drank the serum he made from the stone as he always did, thinking it was pure. But it was not. And now, the essence of the spell is killing him. Eating Master from the inside. Like… rot.”
Violetta’s lips pressed into a thin line. Wanda crossed her arms. I didn’t know what to think.
“So this,” I asked, motioning to the wrecked furniture and scattered charms around the room, “is because he’s dying?”
The kobold’s gaze darted between us. “Master is trying to fix what happened to him. And he needs his books to understand what went wrong.”
“How did he lose them in the first place?” I asked, remembering how Smith had happened upon them at a garage sale.
