The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

“You promised the battle would be defensive,” I stammered.

Arnaud chuckled. “Well, you know what they say. The best defense is a good offense.”

“You lied to me.”

“Yes, about that…” He and the shadow fiend continued to stalk me in the dark. “I take my pledges very seriously. I have a reputation for my word being as reliable as gold. It’s what elevated me to the heights of lower Manhattan while lesser of my kind ended up in the filth of Forty-second Street. The late Sonny Shoat, for example. But in your case, Mr. Croft, I made an exception to my own rule. And you have your grandfather to blame.”

“My grandfather? What in the hell does he have to do with this?”

I could feel the talons of Arnaud’s mind probing my thoughts. What he found was terror and uncertainty.

“You know about the original Pact, of course,” Arnaud said. “The union between wizards and vampires to resist the enforcers of the Inquisition. Why, you used the Pact’s binding power against me in our first meeting. That never should have happened. Your dear grandfather violated the Pact when he double-crossed not only me, but his fellow wizards.”

Anger flared hot in my cheeks. “Bullshit.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you for not knowing, Mr. Croft. He hid the deception very well. Indeed, even I wasn’t aware of what he’d done until after his death. But I received a visit one day from someone in your Order. A representative, I suppose. The fellow asked some interesting questions, and though he disguised his mission well, I soon understood what he was after. You see, during the campaign in Eastern Europe, some powerful artifacts were stolen, including the Scaig Box over there. I, along with others, had always assumed the Church to have taken and destroyed them. But by the nature of the fellow’s questions, it became clear he suspected a vampire of the thefts—me, in particular, given my movements during the war. I must have said enough to convince him otherwise, because he left, and I never saw or heard from him again. It got me thinking back, though. Your grandfather, the Grand Mage himself, had been with me or close by during much of the war. He was at the same places the fellow from the Order had mentioned during our interview.”

I continued to ease along the wall of the vault as he talked, chanting quietly.

“Fortunately, I kept close tabs on your grandfather since his arrival in Manhattan. He was behaving quite curiously, performing work far beneath his station. A stage magician and insurance man? I was convinced the war had addled his mind. Some form of shell shock. But after the fellow’s visit, I began to wonder whether your grandfather had been hiding something.”

Though I kept up the chant, I couldn’t help but think about Grandpa’s strange habits, his odd hours.

“Every so often he would take a trip out to Port Gurney. If you haven’t been, it’s a waterfront town, very working class. Old dockyards, warehouses, a few bars as well. Your grandfather would go directly to one bar in particular—a place called the Rhein House—and sit on the same stool, sometimes for hours. He would then emerge, perfectly sober, and drive home, scarcely having spoken. Maybe the man just liked to spend time in a place suggestive of his German past. Or maybe, I thought, there was more going on than met the eye. Late one night, following the fellow’s visit, I dispatched a pair of slaves to that waterfront bar to have a look around. And do you know what they discovered?”

“What?”

“A vault in the bar’s basement. Despite considerable coercion, the owner seemed not to know how to open it, claiming the vault was closed and locked when he bought the establishment. After a bit of research, I discovered a strange clause in the property deed. The vault could not be considered a part of any subsequent sale. Very curious, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What’s your point?”

“When we finally managed to open the vault, we found the Scaig Box alongside a host of artifacts. Ones belonging to both vampires and wizards. It appears your grandfather used the Pact to steal them. I care not for the wizards’ grievances—that is for them to sort out. But he stole from me. Did you know the earliest vampires were shadow fiends? Only a precious handful remain, and your grandfather took one for himself, the thief.”

From the darkness above, the shadow fiend smacked its lips.

“So yes, Mr. Croft,” Arnaud said, swooping in close, “my point is that your grandfather violated the Pact first, effectively dissolving it.”

I kept moving, trying not to allow Arnaud’s words to challenge my concentration. But the things he was saying … The vampire had no reason to deceive me now, unless it was to incite confusion and dismay, to fill the vault with more of my stress hormones. But I had felt Grandpa’s magic on the Scaig Box. And if Grandpa was as powerful as he seemed, he could easily have cast a projection spell to make it seem as though he were at the bar, drinking for hours, while, in fact, he was down inside the vault, checking on the artifacts.

But why?

“I’m not my grandfather,” I said defiantly.

“Of course not, Mr. Croft,” Arnaud agreed. “If you were even a tenth of the man, you would not be in this precarious position. But that’s neither here nor there. The penalty for violating the Pact is death, and since your grandfather is no longer among us, that penalty defaults to his descendants. Or descendant in this case. Be grateful you didn’t sire children.”

I was at the back of the vault now, moving past the altar.

Almost ready…

“One final thing,” Arnaud said, his voice tightening. “You called me a liar, but remember this. Every mistruth, every furtive act, was in accordance with seeing justice through.”

“How noble,” I scoffed. “You just left out the part about