Chapter I: One Man And His Monsters

Later they would call him a monster. Later. For now, they called him 'Master Glasscracker.'

"Why are you here?" the Glasscracker asked, undisturbed by the muffled footsteps and loud click of the door's rusty bolt. He did not turn and did not greet his visitor. Still as a long-dead tree, he stared at the tattered map of Europe on an otherwise empty wall. The dark room smelled of dusty antiques and moldy newspapers – mementos of the lives left behind and forgotten. Had he bothered to remove the clutter from the building, it might have looked more like a home than a collapsed warehouse. But he never cared.

"You buy lives," the guest's voice trailed off, when he caught a glimpse of the host's colorless eyes and greying hair. "I've come to offer you mine."

The Glasscracker turned around, measuring the newcomer from head to toe, his stare cold and calculating.

"A bold choice. Your past will fade if you join us. Eventually, it will be gone. But I cannot guarantee your survival."

The man retreated, pressing his lips together and picking at the seams of his worn jacket. He was no different from the rest of the Glasscracker's visitors – a creature hollowed by despair, coming to his doorstep with fresh hopes in tow. The man did not dare to meet his gaze.

"You are a ghost, aren't you?" he asked. "The one who brought me here called you 'Master Glasscracker'."

"Did he?" The Glasscracker scoffed. The strange nickname stuck to him like evergreen sap, but he never knew if it was the sound of his brittle voice, or the scars left by glass shards on his face that had inspired it. "We refer to ourselves as 'Offcasts'," he said, folding his arms on his chest. "'Ghost' is your word."

"It does not matter what you call yourselves," the man said, staring into his empty eyes. "You can fix me. That is all that counts."

"The procedure may be deadly," the Glasscracker noted with a nervous shrug.

"I'll take the chance."

"The result will terrify you." He sighed, shook his head and stepped forward. "You'll feel the Veil and you'll be a part of it, but you won't be able to stay sane more than a couple of days without its cover. That's the price for living in another dimension. That's what discerns an Offcast from a Native. Your environment is hostile to us, and given a chance, it will kill us. We are stuck between worlds. We don't belong anywhere. We fear suffocation and madness."

"It sounds… implausible. I've always thought you were some sort of spirits." A deep frown marred the guest's smooth forehead, "I do not mean to offend you, of course…"

Did he think he could offend him? The Glasscracker pressed his thin lips together and stared at the map again. The room drowned in darkness, and only the timid light from his table lamp cast shadows across his bland wallpapers. Could it be different this time? Could he succeed?

"Are you certain you want to proceed, knowing all the risks involved?" he asked. The man replied without thinking.

"I am dying. What are the risks in my case?"

The Glasscracker sighed. It took him years to understand how painfully insignificant his destiny, ambitions and hopes were – all cogs in a wheel that never stopped spinning. The man in front of him did not have the time to come to this conclusion. Death meant something big to this man. Death was important.

The man's hazel eyes widened in shock when the Glasscracker swirled around and grabbed his arm, sending electricity through his veins, giving him his first taste of the Veil. Then he withdrew, pulling a vial filled with purple-colored liquid out of his sleeve.

"This is your ticket to our side."

"What will happen to me if it does not work?" the man asked, his voice grim and raspy.

"I never know."

"You are insane, aren't you?" The man stared at the purple liquid and laughed a sharp, humorless rattle. Then he grabbed the vial and drained it before the Glasscracker could warn him about the possible aftershock. When the guest lifted his head, the Glasscracker smiled, catching familiar flickers of light in his eyes: "Energy. All around. You feel it now, don't you?"

The guest trembled and leaned on the wall, squinting against the lamplight, grappling with his own slow transformation. Blood drained from his reddish face, and the Glasscracker smelled the bilious skim of fear over his desperate thoughts. He could not fail this time. "Breathe. Slowly. Through the Veil. Does it feel better this way?" The man's smile filled him with unreasonable hope. Aspirations were dangerous. The Glasscracker knew them, despised them, shunned them. Yet, they always returned like a swing pushed forward by a child's playful hand. Maybe… it could work this time. Maybe. Maybe.

"Please… help me!" The man fell to his knees, blinking in despair. The Glasscracker retreated, recognizing the familiar outlines of agony in his features. He knew failure, when he saw its effects. The man crouched on the floor, his helpless hands beating the wooden planks. When the convulsions intensified, the Glasscracker leaned over him, his eyes focused on the victim - the least he could do was to see the disastrous results of his experiments.

The Glasscracker remained perfectly still when his assistant stormed into the room, careening off the wall, his square face and strong build impressive even in the encroaching darkness.

"Master Glasscracker?" The man froze, his attentive eyes shifting from the butcher to the victim. The Glasscracker waved his question away, unexpected moisture welling up in his colorless eyes. Once, tears had leaked through the cracks in his indifference. Long ago.

When the victim passed away after rounds of helpless struggle, the Glasscracker rose to his feet.

"A fiasco…"

"What went wrong with this one?" his assistant asked grimly.

"Nothing." He sighed and turned away. "How many should I murder to discover the flaw in my own calculations?"

"You've never asked this question before…"

The Glasscracker did not miss the surprise in his assistant's voice. Had he indeed grown sentimental?

"Eventually, I will succeed," he said. His assistant pointed at the dark blood stains on the floor.

"You should be careful. It's not easy to get rid of the bodies. We can't let any rumors spread…"

"Spare me the banter, Oláh!" the Glasscracker snapped, "I don't care what those Council bureaucrats have to say! Besides, even if they find out… There are not many of us left here. Those who live would do anything to protect the status-quo. Everyone else? Well, they will likely stay away from our squabbles. Our last Balkan war was enough for them to see what the most diverse cluster of Offcasts can do. We have many Psychics in Eastern Europe. They do not."

"Sixteen years passed. The Dalmatian Serpent is dead, and things have changed." Oláh's measured tone sounded like a warning. "This time, others may interfere."

The Glasscracker bit his lip and said nothing. Oláh could never understand him. Nobody could. They kept talking about the brilliant Dalmatian Serpent and his untimely demise. Yet, they did not give a damn about the research that the Dalmatian Serpent had left behind. Not the way he did. If he could only find the Serpent's papers. If he could only capture the woman, who had the Serpent killed. Whatever he did, Leudora Galbur remained outside his reach. Whatever he planned, he could not proceed without her blood and her secrets.

"Some things do not change," the Glasscracker said after a long pause. "The First Balkan War. The Second Balkan War. Someone will always stir the hornet's nest, regardless of the consequences."

"Kill them. Silence them," his assistant shrugged, "there's always a way. We know that."

"Do we?" The Glasscracker balled his fists and leaned over the windowsill, feeling a cold breeze lift the greasy strands of his hair. "My task is to create a potion. And the Natives pay the price. It's an unfair arrangement."

"Does this bother you?"

"It does. It used to bother you too, didn't it? Before you realized what we truly are."

"Other Psychics are different from you, Master Glasscracker. You are not a regular Byzantine Blood, you…" Oláh never finished the sentence. The Glasscracker sent an electrifying impulse through the lamp, extinguishing the light. With deliberate precision, he leapt to the other side of the room, forcing Oláh to withdraw.

"You will never call me that again!" he hissed, catching his assistant's stupefied glare. Oláh's mouth was set in a grim line, but his nostrils flared, hungry for the thick Veil's air. He was, after all, no different from the rest of them.

"I do not require your opinions, only your assistance."

"I did not mean to… offend you."

Was Oláh trying to apologize? Was it fear that forced him to spit those fatuous words?

The Glasscracker retreated to the window, suppressing the unexpected laughter bubbling in his chest. He hated his assistant. He loathed that moldy house. Above all else, he detested Budapest.

"Don't try to predict my moves, Oláh," he said, arching a thin eyebrow. "You are just another Psychic. A simple time-master. Your enhancement may be useful, but it does not grant you a single advantage over me."

His assistant shrugged and leaned on the wall.

"You will ask me for another sample. I can predict that much."

"You are not wrong," he said with a sigh. "I need a Byzantine Blood this time. But not the usual kind. I need a rare Offcast."

Oláh's lips trembled, stubborn fear resurfacing despite his best efforts to hide it, anxiety clenching his jaw and clouding his gaze.

"No." Oláh shook his head. "Out of the question."

"I have a person in mind."

"No."

"She was struck by lightning… You know what happens when such limitless energy surges through an Offcast's body. They call it an additional life for a reason. The woman will go mad. Eventually."

Oláh whispered the name so quietly that the Glasscracker could barely discern it.

"Leudora Galbur. The Byzantine Basilisk."