Chapter 14
The dappled light of the mangrove canopy cast an intricate interplay of shadows across the brackish water as Newt Scamander, Arvind Iyer, and Rina Deshmukh observed a Maha-Jharukha Sloth engaged in its methodical foraging. The colossal, moss-laden creature, its fur an ecosystem unto itself, stripped leaves from the upper branches of a partially submerged mangrove with an almost ritualistic deliberation. The sloth’s sheer mass should, by all conventional ecological models, pose an unsustainable burden on such a precariously balanced biome, yet here it thrived, an apex megaherbivore in a seemingly improbable niche.
Newt’s quill moved fluidly across the pages of his well-worn journal. "Its presence challenges fundamental assumptions about allometric constraints in mangrove ecosystems," he mused. "A terrestrial mammal of this magnitude persisting in a hydrologically unstable environment is counterintuitive. And yet, its foraging patterns appear non-disruptive."
Arvind, crouched beside him, traced an intricate sketch of the sloth’s elongated forelimbs. "The key is metabolic adaptation and selective herbivory. Long-term observational data suggests an aversion to juvenile vegetation, a trait that mitigates overconsumption and facilitates cyclical regrowth. Their preference for senescent foliage and weakened arboreal structures indicates a self-regulating ecological function."
Rina adjusted her brass-rimmed spectacles, her gaze fixed on the creature’s vast, root-like tusks. "Those tusks exhibit more than mere defensive morphology. Observe how it utilizes them as leverage to manipulate higher foliage. This suggests an advanced degree of problem-solving capability—perhaps even learned behavior transmitted across generations."
Newt’s expression shifted, his curiosity piqued. "Intraspecific social learning within such a taxonomic outlier would necessitate a reevaluation of its cognitive classification. Have any controlled ethological studies been conducted to verify juvenile imitation behaviors?"
Arvind ran a contemplative hand through his beard. "Preliminary field studies indicate that juveniles exhibit extensive allomothering behaviors, often mimicking foraging techniques of older conspecifics, particularly in hydrologically complex terrains. This implies a sophisticated interplay of observational learning and adaptive memory encoding."
A deep, resonant exhalation from the sloth reverberated through the air, akin to the creaking of ancient timber. Its gargantuan claws, reminiscent of arboreal grappling hooks, sank into the spongy wood as it shifted its weight with an effortless grace. Below, the water teemed with displaced ichthyofauna, their reflexive dispersal underscoring the sloth’s integral role in trophic interactions.
Rina gestured toward the sloth’s tail, its structure almost indistinguishable from the mangrove’s gnarled roots. "This caudal morphology suggests a dual function—both for stability in semi-aquatic substrates and as a passive camouflage adaptation. Given the absence of significant predation pressures, this could be an evolutionary holdover from a period of heightened ecological competition."
Newt’s quill scratched rapidly, his mind already formulating comparative hypotheses. "Cryptic morphology coupled with biomechanical anchoring. Given its ecological station, its primary selective pressures must derive from resource scarcity rather than predation. But have we documented any interspecies interactions—particularly with magical fauna?"
A knowing glance passed between Arvind and Rina before Arvind spoke. "Indigenous narratives reference a distinct nāga species engaging in apparent mutualism with these sloths. Localized accounts depict nāgas coiling around the sloths’ dorsum, utilizing their elevated vantage for predation surveillance, while the sloths, in turn, benefit from an added deterrent against opportunistic carnivores."
Newt looked up sharply, his eyes alight with scholarly fervor. "An obligate mutualism between a cryptid ophidian and a colossal folivore? If substantiated, that would redefine our understanding of interspecies cooperation within magically influenced ecotones."
For a moment, the scholars stood in pensive silence, absorbing the implications of their discussion. Around them, the mangrove exuded an almost sentient stillness—an ancient, self-sustaining equilibrium, persisting as it had for millennia, unperturbed by the transient inquiries of those who sought to decipher its mysteries.
Dhruv Kashyap pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply as he skimmed the latest report on the enchanted parchment glowing on his desk. His office, typically an oasis of structure amid the perpetual chaos of the Bhopal Department of Magical Law Enforcement, felt suffocating today. Standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, Aisha Rao observed him with a knowing expression, waiting for his inevitable reaction.
"Tell me I misread this," Dhruv muttered, shoving the parchment toward her.
Aisha took it, her sharp brown eyes scanning the directive. "Nope. Direct order from the Ministry. The Rentier Institute is sending a team to assist us in tracking down an escaped Sanguisuge. And not just any bloodsucker—this one’s a devout adherent of the ‘D’Abano ideology.’”
Dhruv groaned, rubbing his temples. "Because apparently, the first Blood War wasn’t catastrophic enough. Now we have zealots trying to rekindle it." He leaned back in his chair, glaring at the ceiling as if it bore some responsibility for his predicament. "What do we know about our fugitive?"
Aisha flipped to the next page. "Name: Silas Roarke. American-born, turned in 1912. Former enforcer for the New Orleans coven before splintering off to peddle his ‘vampires as the next step in evolution’ rhetoric. He went underground after a failed raid in Chicago. The Rentiers lost his trail near Kolkata. Now they’re asking for our help before he gains a foothold here."
Dhruv sat up, his expression hardening. "D’Abano’s disciples don’t just spread ideology—they build power structures. If Roarke is here, he’s not merely hiding; he’s recruiting. And the last thing we need is a resurgence of 1895."
Aisha nodded. "The Rentiers have already deployed scouts. They’re sending a liaison to coordinate with us—a field operative named Vickey Dale. A veteran."
Dhruv let out a dry chuckle. "Perfect. A Rentier veteran. Which means she's probably grizzled, set in her ways, and predisposed to shoot first and ask questions never. Just what I needed."
"Come on, maybe she’ll be pleasant," Aisha teased, smirking.
"Unlikely," Dhruv muttered, rising from his chair. "Alright, let’s get to the briefing. If we’re going vampire hunting with Rentiers, I’m going to need a lot more caffeine—and a headache potion."
Aisha grinned. "I’ll grab both."
The sky above Bhopal darkened slightly as Dhruv Kashyap and Aisha Rao stood at the edge of the landing platform, gazing up at the approaching Rentier airship. The sight was unlike anything either of them had seen before—a hulking behemoth of reinforced metal and enchanted alloys, its silhouette dominating the horizon.
The Dreadnought-class Battle Zeppelin, ominously named The Leviathan , was a floating fortress designed for war. Massive, riveted plates of reinforced armor lined its hull, punctuated by turreted gun emplacements and magical conduits that crackled faintly with residual energy. The nose of the vessel bore the emblem of the Rentier Institute—an insignia that signified a relentless pursuit of the supernatural. Smokestacks at the rear vented plumes of steam, while twin funnels directed propulsion magic into the ether, allowing the airship to hover with eerie precision. Along its length, gun batteries and mounted cannons sat at the ready, their barrels gleaming in the fading sunlight. The plasma turret emplacements remained retracted for now, but their hangars were visible, hinting at the devastating firepower the vessel carried.
“Subtle,” Dhruv muttered, shielding his eyes from the gleam of polished steel.
Aisha smirked. “You were expecting something smaller?”
Before he could respond, a sudden crackle of energy split the air, and both Aurors instinctively turned away as a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the landing bay. The scent of ozone hung thickly in the air, and as the light faded, a figure now stood where empty space had been just moments before.
A striking woman, clad in the same battle-worn Rentier Institute uniform as the deputy headmaster of India's most prodigious school, stood with an air of effortless confidence. Her form-fitting, reinforced coat bore the same crimson-lined edges and armored plates, the fabric swaying slightly from the residual static clinging to her frame. Waves of platinum hair cascaded down her back, streaked faintly with silver, and piercing gray eyes assessed the two Aurors with the sharpness of a blade.
She exhaled, shaking off the last crackles of energy from her fingers, before offering a wry smile. “Well, looks like the gearheads finally got the lightning ladder working. About time.”
Dhruv exchanged a glance with Aisha, who raised an eyebrow. “You must be the Rentier liaison.”
The woman inclined her head slightly. “Captain Vickey Dale, veteran field operative.” Her smirk widened. “And I assume you’re my babysitters for this little manhunt?”
Dhruv sighed, already feeling the beginning of a headache. “Something like that.”
Aisha chuckled. “Welcome to Bhopal. Hope you like vampires.”
Vicky leaned back against a nearby crate, her gloved fingers tapping idly on the worn leather of her gun belt as she regarded Dhruv and Aisha with a sharp gaze. The hum of The Leviathan loomed overhead, a distant reminder of the firepower at their disposal, though Vicky made it clear she’d rather handle this job with precision than brute force.
“Silas Roarke,” she began, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had tracked far too many creatures like him before. “The Rentier Institute’s been on his trail for a while now. The bastard’s smart—far too smart for his own good. We had him pinned down in Charleston three months ago, but he slipped through our fingers. Since then, he’s been bouncing from one underground enclave to the next, and now he’s here, stirring up trouble in Bhopal’s back alleys.”
Aisha frowned, crossing her arms. “And what exactly is he doing here? What’s his endgame?”
Vicky smirked, adjusting the brim of her hat. “Well, aside from spreading the D’Abano ideology? He’s recruiting. Roarke isn’t just any Sanguisuge—he’s one of the old guard, a direct disciple of the D’Abanos. He buys into the whole ‘night belongs to the bloodborn’ nonsense. He’s not here just to hide; he’s here to build.”
Dhruv exhaled sharply. “And you’re saying he’s not alone?”
Vicky shook her head. “Far from it. We’ve had reports of strange attacks in the darker streets. Not just on locals, but gangsters too. Magical or not, no one’s safe. The descriptions we’ve got all point to boo-hags. ”
Aisha’s eyes narrowed. “Boo-hags?”
Vicky nodded grimly. “Nasty pieces of work. Skinless, three-fingered, three-toed nightmares. The Sanguisuge use them as foot soldiers. They don’t have much independent thought, but they’re pack hunters—smart in their own way, and worse in groups. Rip the skin off their prey and wear it until it rots. They burn real easy in the daylight, but that’s why they stick to the shadows. If Roarke’s got a pack of them, then he’s not just squatting in some abandoned building—he’s nesting.”
Dhruv sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fantastic. So not only do we have to take down a powerful Sanguisuge, but we also have to deal with his entourage of flayed monstrosities.”
Vicky grinned, unholstering one of her revolvers and spinning the chamber. “Welcome to the hunt.”
Dhruv wiped a streak of blood from his face, his expression twisted in a mix of exhaustion and frustration. The alley reeked of burnt flesh, the remnants of their battle with the boo-hags still smoldering. His coat was shredded, his limbs ached, and every breath felt heavier than the last. "I’m done," he muttered, raking a hand through his disheveled hair.
Aisha, however, was still riding the high of combat. She grinned, her eyes alight with adrenaline. "Twelve of them," she said, nearly laughing. "And I was worried this mission would be dull."
Vicky, unfazed by the carnage, was already scanning their surroundings. She turned slowly, her gauntlet humming with energy. A sharp pulse confirmed her suspicion, and she clenched her fist, sending a massive crystalline barrier surging into place over what had once been a storefront. She smirked. "Knew it."
Dhruv straightened, his exhaustion momentarily pushed aside. "What exactly are we looking at?"
Vicky pointed at the dark, vein-like structures running through the translucent surface. "See these artery-like tubes? They all lead to a central, tumorous mass. That’s a glamour seal," she explained. "And judging by this one, we’re dealing with three of them."
Aisha wrinkled her nose, prodding one of the pulsating veins with her blade. "This is disturbingly organic."
Vicky chuckled dryly. "That’s because American vampires don’t just rely on shadows, fear, and old-world magic like their European counterparts. The Sanguisuge took a more... scientific route. Biological warfare. They don’t just act like monsters; they innovate. That’s what makes them so damn dangerous."
Dhruv exhaled sharply. "Fantastic. As if regular vampires weren’t enough of a headache."
Aisha twirled her dagger between her fingers. "Less talking, more slicing. Let’s find these tumors and cut them out."
Vicky grinned, cocking her revolver. "Now you’re speaking my language."
The trio stood amidst the ruins, bloodstained and weary, as the last of the glamour seals burst apart in a sickening splatter of organic residue. The crystalline wall that had barred their entry shattered like glass, disintegrating into nothingness as if it had never been there at all. With the barrier gone, they stepped forward, their weapons at the ready, senses sharp.
Inside the decrepit structure, a single figure stood hunched over a lifeless body, his long fingers deftly working at something unseen. Silas Roarke, the escaped Sanguisuge, barely acknowledged their presence at first, his attention absorbed in whatever grotesque task occupied him. But then, as if sensing their intent, he stilled. Slowly, he turned, lifting his head to meet their eyes.
The transformation was instantaneous. His body elongated, sinew stretching, bones cracking audibly as he surged upward. In mere seconds, the gaunt, humanoid form gave way to the monstrous visage of a Vampire Highborn. Standing twelve feet tall, Silas loomed over them, massive bat-like wings unfurling with an earsplitting crack. His head reshaped into that of a predatory bat, his mouth splitting wide to reveal jagged fangs dripping with fresh blood. His limbs twisted into lethal appendages, talons clicking against the floor with anticipation, the wrappings around his body barely containing the raw power he exuded.
Dhruv exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he tightened his grip on his wand. He had seen enough, fought enough, lost enough. His patience had long since worn thin, his tolerance for theatrics nonexistent. Without hesitation, he raised his wand, voice calm and utterly devoid of emotion as he muttered, “I’m so glad I can do this, because legally, vampires are not alive.”
With a precise flick, the Killing Curse shot forward in a flash of sickly green light. It struck Silas square in the chest before he could even launch himself at them, his monstrous form freezing in place for the briefest of moments before collapsing in an unceremonious heap. The impact sent dust billowing through the air, his massive wings twitching once before going still. Just like that, it was over.
Aisha and Vicky exchanged glances, both momentarily taken aback by the sheer efficiency of the execution. Then, after a beat of silence, Aisha smirked, rolling her shoulders as she glanced at Dhruv, who merely stood there, expression unreadable.
“My partner has had a bad couple of years,” she remarked, tone dripping with amusement. “I think he deserves this one.”
Vicky let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she holstered her weapon. “I suppose that works.”
The body of Silas Roarke lay still on the floor, the remnants of his monstrous visage already beginning to decay. The mission was done. But Dhruv barely reacted, simply stepping over the corpse and heading for the exit without a second glance. He had nothing left to say.