Branded

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Authors: Rob Cornell
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a sick pleasure to find it. I felt a scary grin pull at my cheeks.
    “Yeah,” I said. “You better keep your distance. You don’t want any part of this.” I waved my pointed finger in a circle in the air. “You got it?”
    She huffed, but she didn’t have anything else to say. I stared her down until she finally waddled back to her house and disappeared inside. She slammed the door shut, but I would have bet she was peeking through the curtains of her bay window.
    “To hell with her,” I said and went inside.

Chapter Ten
    I wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed, not even take off my clothes or clean off the wound on my neck. Plop down on top of the covers and drift off into oblivion.
    But I knew that was a bad idea. Sly’s potion might keep my magical energy up enough to fight the infection from spreading, but I did not feel comfortable allowing myself to lose consciousness without a little more backup. Last thing I wanted was to wake up undead. So I went into the basement.
    It had been a couple years since I’d gone down those steps. Yet I recognized every creak and give to the wooden risers. I recognized the musty smell and the faint oaken scent from the various wooden chests set along the floors between the metal shelving units carrying an infinite assortment of magical curios my parents had collected over their decades as scholars. They would often go on “digs” in far off locations, all corners of the globe, unearthing ancient artifacts. Magic had taken many forms throughout history, but it had always remained the same at its core.
    There was a lot more stuff downstairs than I remembered. So many shelves. So many chests. Three long wooden tables covered with bottles and artifacts and broken things. Dust and debris between everything. Old books with leather bindings coming apart. Newer paperbacks with broken spines. Titles like Witchcraft for the Modern Age and Curses from the Mid-Eighteenth Century . My parents had turned our basement into a madman’s museum.
    I had little doubt, though, that if my mother were her old self, she could find anything she was looking for. No problem. Same with Dad, if he’d still been around.
    I glanced around at the dust strewn chaos and sighed.
    What could I hope to find down here? Not that I questioned whether something of use existed among the mess. I was certain there were several things that could help me. Where to find them…where to even start , on the other hand, was beyond me.
    I almost turned around. There was a reason I hadn’t come down here in so long. Not only because I had no clue what to do with all this stuff. I knew if I started digging through it, the memories of my parents’ lives would assault me from all directions. Considering my weakened state at the moment, I was bound to break down into a blubbering mess if I thought of them too much.
    Still, the idea of waking up in the morning as a vampire was even more unpalatable than risking my manliness and a crying fit.
    I took a deep breath and moved in.
    I started with a table in the far west corner from the staircase. This corner had belonged mostly to my dad, and he had an affinity for magical knick knacks. If there was some kind of dormant power source in any of the items down here, I’d probably find it among his things.
    A small wooden chest sat on the edge of the bench. Stacks of books stood around the chest like ramparts defending it against the mass of statuettes and talisman scattered across the rest of the table’s surface. I tried opening the chest. Found it locked.
    Rather than fuss with it, I sifted through the other items. All sorts of pendants and small sculptures. Goblets of varying size and design. A flew dusty glass bottles with a dark coating at their bottoms, the remnants of whatever concoction had once filled them. Nothing sang out to me though. A muffled quiver of magical energy lay like a mist over the entire collection, but no single thing had a large enough signature

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