Something hit me, harder than anything I had felt before. A full-on blow to the top of the chest that stopped my panicked sprint cold. Faster than I could react, another force scooped under my legs. The world lurched top-over-bottom, giving only the shortest glimpse of the night sky before I landed face-down in the soaking wet dirt.

“Got him!” A voice declared, several series of movements all around me.

“Keep him down!” A different voice ordered and on cue a massive force laid across my whole body, pinning me. I wasn't about to go down without a fight. I scraped and kicked, hunting for anything I could get a grip on.

Then something full-body picked me up and wrestled my arms behind my back, cuffs were forced on me and by the time I was aware of what was going on I was in the back of a van. With my arms clamped together behind my back. Only the tiniest amount of light was coming from the little bulb built into the roof that cast an ugly yellow glow across the interior.

The van was very heavily modified, a lot of after-market add-ons including power sockets under the seats and equipment racks across the top. Fancy upholstery, a little hatch for the passengers to talk to whoever was in the cabin. The engine was practically silent and the suspension meant I didn't feel a thing. All of it freshly cleaned without a spot on anything. Whoever owned this thing had money to burn.

However, I wasn't focussing on any of that. Right now all I could focus on was the gun being pointed at me. The business end of a frankly massive revolver was aimed right at my head. Safety off, hammer back, finger curled around the trigger.

My vision crawled up the hand that held the weapon, moving slowly so I wouldn't spook the person holding it. She was only a bit older than me, about late-twenties, tall with broad shoulders and a middle-eastern skin tone.

She was sat with her back to the far corner, wearing one of those massive military-issue vests with the high collars they use to defuse bombs. But this one had what looked like an extra layer of metal layered over the top. Her coat had a little patch on the arm, over the bicep. It looked like the rank icons from an army jacket but it didn't look like any rank I had seen before.

I gave the cuffs a tug, the woman wordlessly shook her head, tilting the gun slightly to emphasize her point. I sat back.

“Don't tell me. Society?” She didn't answer. “I'll take that as a yes. Didn't think you dealt in kidnappings.”

“This is for your safety.” Was it really? Not bloody likely.

“What's that supposed to mean?” She didn't answer again. Just kept that gun pointed at me.

The van came to a rather awkward, shuddering halt. The woman gestured with the barrel of her gun toward the door. “Move.” The door opened to a flight of cement stairs leading up.

I stood up carefully, the lady with the gun got up behind me and gave me the classic movie-thug thing of jabbing me in the back with the barrel.

The parking area was small, enclosed and with only four spaces total. A garage door at one end with stairs at the other.

I was pushed up the stairs and through the door into a kind of communal area to whatever this building was. A small kitchen area, bookshelves, a large table with cheap chairs and a stained beige couch in front of a TV that was tuned to the 24-hour news and playing at full blast.

Sitting at the table was an older man, about sixty I'd say, wearing a dark blue bomber jacket that looked like it should read 'FBI' across the back. There were two patches, one on the chest and another on the arms, same as the woman. They looked more elaborate than hers. That told me pretty conclusively that this guy was the boss.

He had piles of papers in front of him and looked at me with the same face I had seen on a job interviewer.

“Good morning, Mitchell.” He said, putting on the flimsiest attempt at a smile. He nodded to the woman behind me and there was a series of short metal clicks. The hammer of her revolver being set forward and the cuffs being unlocked. “Sit down, I'm sure you're very confused.”

“That's putting it lightly.” I glanced over at the woman, who was still glaring at me but had at least put the gun away, now she had it in her holster and was keeping her hand firmly on the grip. I sat down.

“My name is Copper, my colleague here is Sand.” The chair creaked as he shifted his weight.

“Code names?” My eyebrows dropped. “Aren't you a bit old to be playing spies?”

Copper cleared his throat. Not happy that I interrupted his little speech. “It's for the safety of all involved. And we're not playing.” There was a short pause, waiting for me to interrupt him again. “You've been busy.” He gestured to the papers in front of him. “But we're here to help.”

“I'll be fine, thanks.” If kidnapping me and putting a gun to my head was their idea of help then I didn't want it.

“You're wanted for murder.” Copper pointed out. I felt my face redden and my heart rate picked up a few points.

“Two murders.” Sand corrected. I whipped my head around and looked between her and Copper in disbelief.

“Aiden Humphries and Charles Bishop.” Copper continued.

“I didn't kill Bishop!” I blurted out.

“No, but you're wanted for his death.” I was stunned, I couldn't believe this.

“I caught the assassin in the act! How could they think it was me?!”

“You were seen fleeing the scene where he was killed. Innocent men don't run.”

“I...He...” Copper held up a hand to silence me.

“We know you didn't kill Mr. Bishop-”

“Then tell them who did!”

“We honestly don't know. Even if we did, right now the Bishops and the Knights are in a frenzy. They won't listen to us.”

I sagged in the chair, at a total loss. “So I'm basically dead, is that it?”

“Not if we have anything to say about it.”

Copper placed a hand on one of the piles of documents and slid it towards me. It had my name on the front with [HIGH PRIORITY] stamped on it. “This is all the data we have on you. Read it whenever you're ready.”

“You've been stalking me?” I asked, immediately suspicious again.

“That's a dark way to put it. Your dad asked us to.”

“He didn't tell me about that.”

“He didn't tell you about a lot of things.” Fair point.

Copper stood up from his chair. “Come with me.” He led me to another door, through some stairs and up to the next floor of the building. “You'll need to lie low for a while, until things calm down and we can get you safely out of town.”

The next floor just a single corridor flanked by rows of more doors. Copper lead me to one of them and pushed it open, revealing what amounted to a hotel room. A bed, a desk, a single polarized window with blackout blinds, and a little u-shaped wall that hid a bathroom. All of it in that lovely beige, white and brown that you seem to get exclusively in hotels.

“I realise it's not what you're used to.” Copper understated. “Make yourself at home.” He handed me the folder he had indicated before then simply turned and carried on down the hallway, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he went. I ditched the folder on the desk that sat opposite the bed. I'd check it out later, I wasn't really in the right frame of mind for playing CSI on myself.

I wasn't about to complain about the room though. It was small, sure, but a good stretch better than my flat. No discarded food packs or DVDs missing their boxes. I was still going to miss the luxury of the place the Knights had given me. I remembered the key in my pocket and turned it over in my fingers. It wasn't going to be any good to me now. If they hadn't already gotten somebody to change the locks then they would at least had ransacked all my stuff.

I tossed the key away. No sense holding onto something I would never use.

Now that the adrenaline had finally died down I could properly feel the small lumps under my shirt dotted around my chest. There was a decently large mirror to one side of the desk so I decided to check the damage. After a little manoeuvring to get the now shredded coat and armour vest off I managed to get a good look at them. The vest was one of those ceramic plate ones, basically, a means to carry a massive slab of metal around. It hadn't done well in the face of an MP5k loaded with armour-piercing rounds. The plate had caught the first shot, the second had shattered it, the third passed through the gap and a fourth had hit the un-armoured shoulder strap. There were two holes in my t-shirt where they had hit me, but there was nothing beyond that. I tugged the neck of my shirt and peered down, seeing two metal fragments jutting out of my own natural plates. They had stopped both bullets cold with only cosmetic damage.

The sharp roll of nerves shot up both my arms and I came close to a fit of giggles. I had been shot! With barely a scratch on me!

I reached up my shirt and grasped one of the bullets, trying to twist it free. No good. The scales had healed up against the rifling to form a perfect interference fit, no way was I getting them out by hand.

Pliers. That's what I needed. I needed the excuse to explore my new surroundings anyway. I stepped out of the room and right into the path of somebody else, almost crashing right into them. The other guy made a weird non-verbal exclamation and steered himself quickly to the side. He was carrying massive armfuls of just...stuff. There was no real pattern to it, it was just stuff. He was about mid-thirties, pale and skinny, he didn't look like he ate much, as well as the bags under his eyes it was easy to tell that this was a guy who got lost in his work a lot. He had blond crew-cut and the kind of facial hair you get when you're thinking about growing a beard.

“Oh, hey.” He had to strain to look at me over the mountain he was carrying. “Didn't expect to see you around so soon.” I couldn't see his mouth but the corners of his eyes creased up to show that he was smiling.

“Yeah I'm...still a little energetic so I didn't want to sit around.” He was being way too polite all things considered.

“That's fair.” The mountain shifted when he shrugged. “I'm Clay, by the way. Resident Wizard.” He shifted the weight back so it was resting on his chest, letting him offer his hand for me to shake. I did, trying not to jostle him too much. “Well -oof- let me know if I can help you with anything.” He smiled again and quickly regained control of the pile when it started to tilt.

“Yeah, actually. Is there a pair of pliers I can borrow?” Clay's eyebrow shunted up an inch. “I've been shot.” I explained with a level of calmness that surprised me.

“Oh! Right-right. Yeah, I've got a toolkit in the storeroom.” He lifted a knee and shunted the pile upward to reset its position.

“You want a hand with all that?”

“Nah 'sfine.” He audibly strained when he turned to lead the way.

Clay bumbled his way upstairs to the next floor, almost losing control of his things several times but every time quickly said that he didn't need any help.

The third floor was an office setup, Six doors, four of them with name-plates on them, one labelled “MEETING” and one “STORAGE”. Clay wobbled his way to the storage one and bumped it open with a hip. The inside of the storage room was a very different look to the outside. Instead of panelled plaster was bare wood and aisles prefab shelving units. The kinds you buy in Homebase for £10 for your granddad's shed. The far wall was a straight bank of workbenches with grinding stones, vices and even a lathe. Every flat surface was covered in more stuff, Jars of swirling green sludge sealed with wax, labels faded to nothing from years of sun-bleaching. Books a foot thick and bound in white leather.

“What is this place?”

“My workshop. Clay grunted, clearing a space on one of the tables and dumping the pile of junk. Then turning his attention to locating his toolkit. “I'm in charge of wizardry around here. Also, don't touch that.” I hastily stepped back from the small painted oak box I had been looking at when he said that. A pair of long-nose pliers appeared in my vision.

“Thanks.” I took the tool and stuffed it down the bullet hole in my shirt. It took a bit of work to get a purchase and a whole lot of twisting but the plates holding the first bullet finally relented with a sharp pop.

“Do you mind if I keep those?” Clay asked.

“Yeah, sure, fine.” I started digging around for the second bullet.

“Where is...” Clay muttered to himself, hunting around the various shelves until he found what looked like an ice cream tub full of spent bullets and shell casings. Simply dropping the two I handed to him in there and placing the tub back on a different shelf.

“So!” Clay rubbed his hands together, seemingly pleased with himself. “Anything else I can help you with?”

There was a question that had been on my mind a fair bit that I hadn't had the chance to ask Dad about.

“How the hell did I not know about all this? About Vampires and all that, I mean.” Clay scratched his head, visibly thinking on that question.

“It's kind of recursive. You didn't know because you didn't know.” I frowned at him. “Eh, think of it this way. To you, magic didn't exist, it's only in fiction, right? So that means any time you would have seen magic you would have just assumed it was something else. After all, it couldn't have been magic, because magic doesn't exist.”

That made a pretty impressive amount of sense. The look on my face probably sold it since Clay just smirked in satisfaction.

“Well, it's also kind of the Society's job to keep magic a secret.” He added. I just nodded. This was going to take a long time to get used to it all.

“So, could you explain how magic works? Short version, if possible?”

Clay muttered something about printing off a primer while leaning back against one of the tables, folding his arms over his chest and furrowing his eyebrows.

“You ever seen the Star Wars movies?”

“Only the prequels, but yes.” Clay looked disgusted for a split second.

“Well, magic is kind of like the Force. It's the natural energy of the universe.”

I just stared at him while he rattled off explanations. “Wizards pull that energy through themselves to do...basically whatever you need to.” There was a pretty clear waver in his voice there.

“So what's the limit? What's to stop a Wizard taking over the world?”

“Oh, where do I start? The biggest one is using too much power in one go and causing a veil-tear.”

I blinked, that sounded pretty dramatic for how nonchalantly he said it. “A what-now?”

“The veil is like this big filter that controls how much magic is in one place at any time. You go too hard and you'll tear it. Then you'll really be in trouble.”

“How much trouble?”

“Ranges between smeared-across-the-walls-and-ceiling to all-traces-remove-from-history.” Clay seemed pretty pleased with that explanation and quickly wrote something down. From the brief glance I got at his notebook it looked like he was compiling a kind of beginners guide to magic.