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There was a common saying about magic demanding a price, and many a lesser vampire or demon loved to go about spouting that drivel. I never corrected anyone or reminded them that it only worked if you believed it.

All the more for me.

I suspected the false statement about magic was invented specifically to give those smart enough the upper hand, and I wasn’t ever going to show mine.

The particular contraband I was concerned about attracted unwanted attention and had a very specific, faceted pattern that spread across the ether. I was likely the only vampire to ever acquire such an item.

So far, I hadn’t done much with it other than to set a corner to a grinding wheel and ingest some dust from the piece after. Sprinkling the remaining debris over random artifacts was a way to ensure, should I lose the item, there would be hidden traces at my disposal.

After I purposely inhaled some of the particles, I discovered it mildly enhanced my power, which was the whole point.

No one could consider the company I kept “friendly,” so I hadn’t told a soul.

The disruption in the magic surrounding my home and most of the forest around it wouldn’t be tolerated, and it was time to do something that went beyond standard magical practices. Out of longstanding habit, I snatched my coat from the hook and put it on. Then, I went into the kitchen.

After searching the corners and the pantry, I realized that wasn’t where the previous owners kept a shovel. It may have been where I was used to one being, but there were none. All I could do was shake my head at myself. My childhood home had several shovels handy in the kitchen.

Not once had I ventured into the mansion’s basement. When I acquired this place, I simply kept what I wanted and removed the rest from the first floor and the two upper floors. It’d taken two hundred years of living here under various, anonymous trusts, but I’d turned it into a home full of valuable and curious items.

My lantern lit the way as I descended into pitch black darkness. Unsurprisingly, thick cobwebs and dust covered the skeletal remains of many pieces of furniture and possibly a carriage. There was no outer door, though there must have been in the past.

I didn’t find anything useful other than a rusting shovel head, so I took a bed post and skimmed my hand over it, feeling the magic flow through me as it connected with the metal and formed what I needed.

Resting the newly created tool against my shoulder, I went back upstairs and headed outside.

It would have been much easier to just wave my hand at the ground to dig the holes, but survival dictated that I work both smarter and harder at the same time. If I was being watched, such an action would have immediately been noticed and likely investigated. I tried to keep the killings away from my property whenever possible.

However, these holes couldn’t be helped. I dug four of them, equally spaced apart, about ten feet deep and ten feet wide and long.

The first one, I filled with sharpened wooden stakes. The second one, copperhead rattlesnakes. Those weren’t too hard to summon as they were relatively common in my geographical area. The third one I filled with what looked like fog, however, I charged it electrically. The fourth hole, I took some time thinking about and finally decided on a false bottom. What appeared to be dirt would be an illusion, as the pit was never-ending. Who knew where someone would end up?

That last one made me chuckle. The most likely place I figured they’d go was what I called a void, the strange sentient blackness along the underground tunnels of some of the other Realms. There was no coming back from that, and the Kakians would never know why their friend didn’t return with a report. It would serve them right for sticking their nose in my business.

My mood had vastly improved by the time I walked back inside.

Once I settled in my office, I began my daily search for rare books and esoteric items. Fortunately, I’d invested in both Fulgere Industries—a major marketing and security company run by demons, and my friend’s company, Ipomoea. These interests, along with my ancestors’ efforts from long ago, kept my finances extraordinarily comfortable.

I had significant competition from others searching for the same or similar items, but my monthly financial donations to a local ivy league college ensured I received priority notice when something new was being offered from them in particular. And something had—going by the email I’d just opened.

While most of my kind utilized chauffeurs, I preferred to drive myself. I’d only ever met one other vampire who knew how to drive a car and did so. If you wanted to call street racing “driving.”

The university I worked with had a Hausburg writing box I was very interested in. Supposedly, the included ink had magical properties. The historian had noted the liquid as “oddly sparkling” and “requiring intervention.”

Those were properties exclusive to the Second or Fourth Realms and technically impossible, here. The black, glittering liquid could be empowered to do one’s bidding via spells, and disappear, reappear, and only allow the intended recipient to read it.

It was worth checking out, but I’d purchase it either way based on the rumors. One never knew when it would come in handy.

After I parked my large, blacked out sedan in the shaded parking lot, I walked down the winding brick-laid path to the antiquities department office. It was early, and a cool breeze stirred my hair and my long coat. A young man was walking toward me, distracted by his cell phone, and when he looked up, his head jerked and he swung onto the grass and did his very best not to stare, and failed. I leveled him with a gaze as I continued on my way.

My appearance was carefully curated to keep people away. The heavy makeup inspired others to call me things such as a “mime” or a “panda,” but also had the interesting effect of attracting certain types of women. I fit in perfectly in the goth subculture—not that I minded at all. In fact, I preferred it as they were more open to my tastes.

Macabre subjects and the darkness were where I preferred to exist. Unseen, unheard, overlooked or avoided completely were comfortable states of being. It wasn’t easy, being eternal, and trying to consistently exist in the same locale for so many years, but my methods ensured I remained unbothered.

“Mister Hawthorne, what a pleasure to see you again,” Maryann, the department curator, greeted me as I walked inside.

Approaching the desk, I replied, “Good morning.”

The woman was in her mid-fifties, dressed in brown tweed pants and a white blouse, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her aesthetics matched every part of her job, and she rarely smiled or made small talk, which I preferred.