The silver threads of the soul-probe began to retract, dissolving into the damp air like morning mist. As the connection severed, the vacant look in Clark's eyes was replaced by something far more harrowing—a torrent of raw, unfiltered grief and a resentment so sharp it seemed to vibrate in the very air between them.
She remembered now. Every cold drop of blood leaving her veins, every second of the encroaching dark.
"It was him," she hissed, her voice gaining a jagged, metallic edge. "The Duke of Night. He didn't just kill me; he hollowed me out. He drank until there was nothing left but this... this echo."
Daisy stepped closer, her anger having completely evaporated into a puddle of sympathy. She looked at the small, shivering figure in red and then at her brother. Her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were shimmering with unshed tears. She didn't speak, but she gave Allen's sleeve a firm, pleading tug.
Allen sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. With a precise flick of his wand, he dissolved the Halt Undead binding. Clark didn't flee; she simply drifted there, looking smaller than she had moments ago.
"The Duke of Night?" Daisy asked, her voice soft. "Who is he, Clark? Why was he here?"
"He is a monster wearing the skin of a scholar," Clark replied, her translucent hands clenching into tiny fists. "A member of the Tremere. My father... he was a man of logic, a Great Master of architectural design. He trusted the Duke. He thought they were peers sharing secrets of the arcane. He never saw the knife until it was already at my throat."
"Tremere?" Daisy turned to Allen, her brow furrowed. "I've read about the thirteen clans in the Restricted Section, but the Tremere were always described as... different. Almost like a myth."
Allen leaned against the damp stone wall, his wand light casting long, dancing shadows. "Because they weren't born into the night, Daisy. They stole it. Originally, the Tremere were a cabal of human mages—Hermetic sorcerers who couldn't accept the mortality of their own flesh. They used alchemy, stolen blood, and a ritual involving an ancient Elder to force a transformation. They turned themselves into vampires through sheer, bloody-minded will."
Daisy's eyes widened. "They used magic to become monsters? That's... that's insane."
"It came with a price," Allen continued, his voice low and clinical. "The moment they turned, they lost their connection to traditional life-magic. But they didn't just give up. They created Thaumaturgy—Blood Magic. It's a discipline that uses the vitae in their veins to fuel spells that would make an ordinary wizard's skin crawl. The other clans hate them because they're upstarts. Usurpers."
"You're a walking encyclopedia, aren't you?" Daisy murmured, looking at her brother with a mix of pride and a strange, growing distance. He was growing up too fast, his mind filling with dark corners she hadn't even peeked into yet.
"Knowledge is the only thing that keeps us from being 'harvested' like Clark," Allen replied flatly.
Clark drifted toward them, her form becoming more opaque. "My father knew the Duke's hunger. That's why he built the Chamber of Secrets within this manor—not for gold, but for the architectural treasures and ancient blueprints he had collected. The Duke wants that knowledge. He wants to turn this manor into a permanent anchor for a Blood Formation—a ritual that would allow him to feast on the magic of the land itself."
"A Blood Formation," Allen mused, his interest piqued. Compassion was one thing, but the prospect of witnessing a Tremere high-ritual was a lure he couldn't ignore. "Do you know where he's hiding? Where the center of his 'domain' is?"
Daisy shot him a look. "Allen, you aren't actually considering hunting a Tremere Duke, are you? That's suicide. We need to go back, find Albert, find anyone who isn't a teenager!"
"And what about Aunt Josephine?" Allen countered, his voice sharp. "Think about it, Daisy. Her behavior, the hints she's been dropping, the way she looks at us when she thinks we aren't watching. She's likely been turned into a 'ghoul' or a blood-thrall. She can't speak against him, but she's trying to lead us to the truth. If we leave now, the Duke will know we've found the tunnel. He'll finish his ritual and discard Josephine like a used bandage."
Daisy opened her mouth to argue, but the logic held her tongue. She looked at the dark tunnel ahead and then back at the tiny girl in red.
"Fine," she whispered. "But the second things look bad, we're out. I'm serious, Allen."
"I can show you," Clark said, her voice filled with a desperate hope. "I want him to scream the way I did."
The ghost led the way, floating with a predatory grace that they had to scramble to match. The tunnel twisted and turned, defying the external logic of the house's foundation. The air grew thicker, smelling of old wood and metallic iron. Finally, they reached a dead end—a massive, dark red wooden door that looked like it had been carved from a single, ancient cedar.
Clark stopped several yards back, her form beginning to flicker and pale. "I cannot go further. The Duke's presence is too heavy here. It feels like a weight on my soul." She looked at Allen, her eyes wide. "If you kill him... if you end the hunger... I will show you where the gold and the scrolls are hidden. My father's legacy shouldn't belong to a parasite."
With that, she dissolved into the shadows of the corner, leaving the siblings alone before the red door.
Allen reached for the handle.
"Wait!" Daisy hissed, grabbing his wrist. "Let's think for a second. We have no plan. We have one wand each and a handful of school-level spells."
"I have the Halt Undead," Allen said, his voice eerily calm. "And I have the Philosopher's Stone's residual energy. I can feel the Duke through the wood, Daisy. He's dormant. He thinks he's safe in his hole."
"And what if he isn't?" she whispered. "What if Josephine is in there right now?"
"Then we save her," Allen said. He didn't wait for her to process the fear. He turned the heavy brass handle.
The door groaned, a long, low sound that seemed to vibrate in their teeth. It swung open to reveal a perfectly square room. No windows, no furniture, no decoration. Just smooth, grey stone walls and a floor that looked like it had been polished with oil.
"It's empty," Daisy breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "It's just a cellar."
"Look at the center," Allen said, his wand beam cutting through the gloom.
In the middle of the floor sat a massive, rectangular object. It was made of a wood so dark it looked like a hole in the world. Polished to a high gloss, it reflected the light of Allen's wand like dark water. Brass handles, tarnished with age but still sturdy, were bolted to the sides.
"It's a coffin," Daisy whispered, her voice cracking.
She didn't run. Instead, her body seemed to lock up, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. She felt a strange, electric tension—the kind of excitement that felt indistinguishable from terror.
Allen walked toward it, his boots making no sound on the polished floor.
"What are you doing?" Daisy called out, staying firmly in the doorway. "Don't touch it! What if he wakes up the second the lid moves?"
"Vampires of this caliber don't wake up just because someone walks in," Allen said, though he wasn't entirely sure. "They're anchored to their sleep by the weight of their own power. I need to see if he's actually inside."
"We should go get Albert," Daisy pleaded, her chin beginning to tremble. "Or Dad. This is a grown-up problem, Allen. A 'Great Wizard' problem."
"Dad is an architect, Daisy. Albert is a Ministry official. They don't know the Tremere. They'll try to negotiate or follow protocol, and they'll get killed." Allen turned back to her, the light of his wand illuminating the sheer terror on her face. "If you're too scared, go back. Use the sliver of light from the entrance to guide you. But I'm finishing this."
"I'm not scared!" she snapped, though her shivering told a different story. "I'm being sensible! You don't just open a vampire's coffin like you're checking the mail!"
"I'm not checking the mail," Allen said, his hand hovering just inches above the dark, cold wood of the lid. "I'm checking our future. If this monster stays here, none of us are leaving this manor alive."
He took a deep breath, the cold air of the chamber filling his lungs. He could feel the pulse of the Duke now—a slow, rhythmic thrumming of dark magic that felt like the beating of a drum made of ice.
"Stay by the door," Allen commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If I give the signal, you run. Don't look back. Just run."