We wound our way down the main road for about twenty minutes before veering onto a thin game trail that snaked through some thick underbrush and into an old-growth forest that climbed up the side of rock-strewn foothills. While we hiked—Arturo at a leisurely pace including lots of breaks—we talked.

“Tell me about monsters,” I said while scanning the landscape for blinds, potential cover, and choke points that might make excellent ambush locations. It was force of habit and my mind did it without me even really thinking about it.

“What’s there to tell?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow and giving me a curious sidelong glance. “The Mortka roam the wild places, making lairs for themselves and killing to survive. Some are evil, others are more benign in nature, but they’re all dangerous. Even the most benevolent of the Fae has access to deadly magics.” He shrugged. “That is the nature of the world itself.”

“Not the world we come from,” Cal said.

“Surely you jest,” Arturo replied.

“Nope.” Cal shook his head. “I never joke. Ever. Under any circumstances.”

“He’s kidding,” I said, offering Cal a dirty look, “but not about the no monsters thing. We have myths and legends, but none of them are real.”

“Bigfoot is real,” Cal insisted. “You know I saw one back behind Wagner farm. It was right there. Like two hundred feet away in the tree line.”

“I was there too and that was a dog. I’ve said that a thousand times. The guy had a bunch of mastiffs on the property.”

“Okay,” Cal muttered. “Sure. A dog. Who walks upright. But I’m the crazy one.”

“Fine, maybe it was a bear, but it doesn’t matter. The point is”—I glowered at Cal—“monsters aren’t real.”

“Except Bigfoot,” Cal said. “And probably aliens. But let’s not go down that rabbit hole. We do have a bunch of other dangerous animals, like wolves and lions and gator crocs, but nothing even remotely like those Crave Ghouls we fought.”

“That I fought,” I corrected. “You stood there and watched.”

“Hey, I offered moral support,” Cal shot back. “Besides, we’re a team, your victories are mine. Let’s not just throw esprit de corps out the window here, Boyd.”

Arturo ran a hand through his lank, greasy hair. “Gods above. A world devoid of Mortka.” He blew out his cheeks. “I can hardly even imagine such a place. It must be a paradise. A utopia.”

I thought back to the abandoned rag doll lying in a dusty alley in Fallujah. Thought of McInnes with half his face blown off and Cal’s charbroiled body.

“Yeah. Paradise isn’t the word I’d use,” I said. “Turns out, humans make plenty good monsters when they set their minds to it.”

“I have no doubt about that,” the padre replied. “I have seen the wickedness that man can offer, but it is nothing compared to the ravages of monsters. I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastation left behind by the Empty Faced. Whole towns murdered overnight, the corpses piled in heaps, heads torn from their bodies, their faces gone—stolen by powerful magics. I’ve seen the ruins of Oblivion Lichs who eat the souls of children to fuel their never-ending lives of damnation. Humans, even at their worst, aren’t capable of such things.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen a chemical weapon,” Cal said, “or a nuke.”

“A nuke?” the priest asked, sounding curious.

“It’s a type of weapon,” I replied, waving a hand through the air. “A big-ass bomb capable of wiping out entire cities and turning anyone unlucky enough to be in the blast radius into ash. One nuke can kill tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands in a matter of seconds.”

Arturo’s face paled as I spoke. “The magics of your people must be immense to both banish the Mortka and create such devastating weapons of war.” He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “I am curious, though,” he said after a moment, “how did your magicians manage to rid the world of monsters without also ridding the world of magic?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, the Mortka are the natural result of Essence leaking into the Material Realm from the Etheric Realm,” he said matter-of-factly, as though this were something even small children knew intuitively. “Essence fuels all life and all magic. Essence is life in many crucial ways. Raw Essence is wildly unstable on its own. It needs to be used. To be formed and channeled and shaped into something else. As it bleeds through the barrier between realms, it pools in Essence dense areas, and those areas eventually spawn Mortka.”

“What determines what kind of Mortka gets made?” I asked. “Why does some Essence form into pixies while other Essence forms into Crave Ghouls?”

“That’s a bad example,” Arturo replied. “The Fae Folk aren’t true Mortka. They often get lumped in with others, but they are actually creatures of Ether, like your friend there.” He nodded toward Cal. “The Fae inhabit the Wylds, which are nestled inside the Etheric Realm. They are born just as we are and can move between the realms at will. True Mortka, such as the Crave Ghouls you battled, are manifestations of wild Essence here in the Material Realm. As to what type of Mortka forms, that depends entirely on where the energy leaks through.

“The Material Realm also has energy Affinities—hundreds if not thousands of them—earth, wind, air, fire, steel, ground, wood, glass.” He paused and looked at me. “Even alcohol. Or more intangible things. Grief, in a graveyard. Hope around powerful sites of faith. When raw Essence bleeds through in a specific spot, it mixes with whatever combination of energy Affinities are present in an area and eventually that mixture has enough sheer strength to manifest physically in our world. Crave Ghouls are creatures of hunger. They are quite common, and their layers often form in the dens of wild but natural predatory beasts. Places where death and hunger hang thick in the air.”

Arturo stopped by a birch, panting while he leaned against his staff. He might have prepared his mind for the appearance of the Vigil, but he hadn’t taken care of his body.

“You didn’t answer my question, though,” he said. “How did your magicians manage to rid the world of Mortka without ridding the world of magic?”

“Simple. We don’t have magic either,” I replied. “Who knows, maybe we did once. We have legends of wizards and witches that could cast spells, but those stories are all myth and legends just like the tales of monsters.”

I took the provisions bundle from him and undid the careful knots that held the square of fabric snug around our food. It meant we had a built-in picnic blanket. Arturo had packed some cured meat, olives, and hardtack. I’d had my share of molar breakers over the years, but none served with quite this much style. I was happy to see that he hadn’t packed any liquor. That was a good sign. I mean, I was all for having a good time when the occasion called for it, but the mission was the mission. When you were on, you needed to be on. Period.

Arturo sank to the foot of the tree, grateful for the break in our not-at-all-taxing hike. He popped an olive into his mouth, retrieved his buck knife, and sliced the meat into small rounds. “Your world sounds so vastly different from this one,” he said thoughtfully. “And what of the gods? Are they but a thing of myth and legend as well?”

“Some people think so,” I said. “But not me. I grew up Southern Baptist, went to church every Sunday, and I’d count myself as a believer. My momma would whoop my ass even from across the galaxy if she heard me saying otherwise.”

“Dude, you might be a believer,” Cal said, “but you’re a terrible one. You drink. You smoke. You’ve got a body count higher than Manson—and I’m not talking about actual KIAs—and your momma would also scrub your mouth out with soap if she ever heard the way you talk.”

I rolled my eyes. “I follow the important rules. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Love God, love people. Kick the holy living shit out of evil. Don’t be a colossal dick to your fellow man, basically. You know, the big ones. But let’s not get bogged down in religion. I want to get back to this monster stuff. Like where exactly do Vigils fit into the picture? We can absorb Essence…” I dropped my voice. “Does that make us some kind of Mortka? Or does everyone absorb Essence when they off some monster roaming the countryside?”

Arturo chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re no monster, but absorbing Essence is certainly not normal. When a Mortka is slain, its Essence is freed from its manifested corporeal form. Its body. The Pure Essence returns to the Etheric plane from whence it came while the various Affinities that shaped the Essence remain behind in the form of Affinity Scales.”

Huh. So that was where Affinity Scales came from.

“There are those, however, who can absorb such Essence as it leaves the body, harnessing it to strengthen their spirit—allowing them to ascend to ever-greater heights of power. Such are those with the True Gift. But not all with the Gift are created equal. There are rankings among those born and schooled in magic.” Arturo raised his hand over his head to demonstrate the ranks. “Vigils and Warlocks are at the top of the heap. Your kind derive your power not from the natural, but from the supernatural—granted the True Gift by the gods themselves. All Vigils serve at the behest of Raguel, Five-Faced God of Justice.

“Warlocks also draw their abilities from a deity. But most often they are dark, old gods. Gods of blood and pain and chaos. Warlocks sell themselves to these inhuman beings, forming compacts to serve in order for power. And, trust me, they are powerful, with untold magics. There are those who say Warlocks have a greater potential for magic than Vigils, because they are not constrained by the laws of morality or even the will of the gods. Budding Warlocks are vigorously hunted down by the Vigils before they can amass true power, because once they do, they are often unstoppable.”

“Man,” Cal said, “DnD got it right. Warlocks with Dark Patrons? Spot on. I wonder if Gary Gygax was tapped into all of this somehow.”

“What’s below Vigils and Warlocks?” I asked, ignoring Cal.

“Yes. Right. Well below them are those possessed of natural magics. Born with the True Gift in some iteration. Sorcerers and Steelborn come next. Magic tends to run in generational lines, so oftentimes these are the Scions of Vigils and Warlocks, though not always. Sorcerers are humans born with the ability to harness or shape Essence externally, casting powerful spells and cantrips. The Arcane is a part of them, in their blood. They can let it grow or wither on the branch, but it is always there. A Sorcerer can never not be a Sorcerer. Like you, their power grows as they defeat Mortka, but it grows unpredictably—which powers they will unlock as they advance, no one can say.

“Steelborn are of the same vein, in many ways, but their power is expressed internally instead of externally. They cannot cast visible spells—cannot hurl fireballs or call down lightning. Instead, their gift reinforces the body. They are stronger, faster, often immune to sickness and disease. Some are capable of mastering weapons forms in a month that might take a normal man a lifetime to learn. They need less sleep, are numb to pain, and often have an uncanny awareness in battle. Like Sorcerers, these inherent gifts are a part of their nature and can grow more potent as they use them.”

What he was describing sounded an awful lot like the various Wards that I had access to inside my Soul Vault. Stronger, faster, more physically resilient? Diamond Body, Matchless Endurance, Purity of Form. Uncanny awareness in battle—that had to be Combat Sense. Unconsciously unlocking some form of the Weapons Mastery ability might also explain how and why they learned combat skills so efficiently.

“Then there are the lowliest of the True Gift users,” Arturo continued. “The Magi. These are not born with the True Gift. The Arcane doesn’t flow through their veins, yet they have the capacity to learn. Generally speaking, their powers are significantly weaker than either Sorcerers or Steelborn, but in one way they have an advantage. Through study and great discipline, they can learn. Every spell or ability is a choice. In that, they are masters of their own destiny, not beholden to fate or genetics.”

“Following so far,” I said. “But that makes me wonder about you, padre.” I glanced at the scars covering his hands and those carved into the leathery panels of his face. “You can see Cal, which means you have access to the True Gift, and I saw you cast a pretty fancy banishment ritual. So what exactly are you?”

“I…” He faltered, a war of emotions playing out across his face. “I am ready to move on,” he finished, as though he hadn’t heard me. “We are losing daylight and there is still much road left to travel today. Come, let us continue our trek.”

I let the question go as we packed up our limited supplies, but that didn’t mean I would forget about it. Arturo was more than he seemed. He had secrets. He seemed like a good enough man—earnest, straightforward, driven—but I still didn’t trust him. Not completely. A dark thought lurked on the edge of my awareness.

“Circling back around to the Mortka,” I said as we hiked, “you told me last night that people are whispering that the thing haunting Ironmoor might be an Elder Changeling. What can you tell me about them?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve heard stories. They are half-fae—beasts born from the unnatural union between humanity and the fair folk. Adolescent Changelings have a quicksilver nature and can evolve into any number of different creatures, depending on what type of Essence they feed off of during their early development. Elder Changelings, though, are fixed form—powerful, humanoid shapeshifters that intermingle and hunt among the cities of men, blending in by stealing the identity of their victims.”

“So, what you’re saying is this shapeshifter could look like anyone?”

He nodded.

“Even you?” I asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. It seemed like a stretch that the drunk priest would be the killer I was after, but he was hiding things from me, and honestly what better way to throw suspicion off yourself than to pretend to be the man responsible for finding the monster in the first place? “Could he look like you if he wanted to?”

The priest laughed, though there was something uneasy to it. Fear maybe?

“That would be ironic, would it not?” he said, more statement than question. “If I said I was the Arbitrator but in fact was the monster itself?”

“Yeah, super funny,” I replied. “But just humor me. In theory this thing could look like you if it wanted to?”

“Aye, I suppose it could.” This time he spoke more seriously. “In theory it could temporarily borrow the face of anyone. The mayor. Maggie the innkeeper. An unassuming beggar sitting on the side of the road.”

“So, who do we trust?”

Arturo nodded slowly. “That is the best question you’ve asked so far and one you should constantly be asking yourself from this point forward. You must trust no one. Not until you are sure of both their intentions and their identity. Your Arcane Insight skill should offer some aid, though, in my admittedly limited experience, the clues that Raguel doles out and the wisdom of the spirit guides”—he glanced at Cal—“can be woefully general and frustratingly unspecific. Or sometimes too specific.”

I grunted. He wasn’t wrong about that. The Bounty prompts I’d received so far were helpful, but in the case of the shapeshifter, it told me a whole lot of nothing. I was on the lookout for a monster that was hunting the people of Ironwood, but there wasn’t anything useful past that. Hell, it didn’t even tell me outright that the creature I was looking for was an Elder Changeling. I could be looking in the wrong direction entirely. And Cal also wasn’t much use either, not yet anyway.

“Finding the creature isn’t important right now,” the padre said. “Even if it were to jump out at you from behind that bush up there”—he gestured toward a clump of greenery by the side of the road—“there is naught you could do about it. You may be a Vigil, but you have no idea how to access or utilize your abilities. An Elder Changeling would eat you for lunch and never even bat an eye. Before we start rooting around in town and calling attention to ourselves, it’s best that you are ready to handle the beast when it inevitably appears.”

“And you’re going to teach me to do that?”

“More or less,” he replied with a dubious smile.

“More or less?”

“In my experience, practice is the best medicine for these sorts of things. Nothing like a baptism by fire to sort you out and get those arcane juices flowing.”

We crested a hill, which overlooked a peaceful valley with a grassy clearing at the bottom, ringed in by looming oaks. Arturo sauntered over and took up a post on a jutting boulder, far away from the inner clearing.

“Alright, in you go, honorable Vigil.” He shooed me toward the clearing with one hand.

“What’s in there?” I asked, eyeing the circle, which was sending up as many red flags as my last three girlfriends combined.

“Practice,” the padre replied, before pulling out a small flask from his cassock. “Bottoms up and try not to die.”