Am I determined to post more often? Maybe, maybe not. I dove into this complicated thing called investigations, and I have as much credibility as Sammy & Scooby, so it takes time, and I apologize for that. I hope you still enjoy the story (yes, you're just waiting for Derek's arrival, I know, me too, sniff).

Anyway, I hope you're doing well.

Without (too much) transition, I leave you with the chapter (and a brief recap):

Stiles dies in 2011 in Beacon Hills where he is buried, etc.

The upcoming chapter takes place in 2020.

So, there's a good 9-year timeskip that will be detailed (or not) in potential upcoming chapters.

VIII - NUMBER SEVEN

Eventually, the two men had left the morgue for the hotel reception desk. They had run out of information to obtain from the corpses, so had decided it was time to delve into some dusty old books. They needed somewhere conducive to their research, and for that, nothing better than a private suite in a luxury hotel.

Mietek left it to Sumar to book the suite, while he lost himself in thought. Four murders had been committed, and he doubted the perpetrator would stop there. Was this just another serial killer, as banal as it gets? Or was it really linked to the mystical and magical side of the world? Her instincts told her it was the latter. There was no trace and no obvious reason for the deaths of these four people. It wasn't even a question of heart attack, as all four victims were in relatively good health.

Mietek sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd been confronted with a complex case. He'd seen all sorts of cases, in all sorts of categories. He simply had to use his brain once again and solve this puzzle. Apparently, this was how his life was now reduced: that of a supernatural detective.

"'We're googd", said Sumar, walking back towards him with two magnetic badges in his hands.

His colleague took one last look at the hotel's gigantic lobby, then nodded. In Mietekian, this meant something between "cool" and "I follow you".

"The suite's free, but I take it you don't want to abuse the room service," grinned the dark-skinned man.

Mietek laughed silently.

"On a more serious note, I've got a bad feeling about this whole thing."

"People died, so I suppose so," signed the pseudo-mage.

Sumar rolled his eyes. The expression on his face was more serious. That in itself was rare.

"Four murders in four days. Our culprit is at one a day. We're somewhere between addiction and raving mad. That's not a good sign."

And what did you want to say to that?

"I think we can cross off raving madness."

Sumar gave him a questioning look.

"I think if we were dealing with someone deranged, we'd have more than one murder a day. What's more, there would have to be some kind of evidence. You can't be in the grip of a manic phase and get away with it without a drop of blood spilled, without a trace of DNA left behind."

'Certainly. So an addict who discovers the joys of murder?"

Mietek shrugged.

"I doubt it. He's too conscientious."

"Afraid of getting caught?"

"Why not. To me, he's not a lambda human being in any case. "

Sumar added nothing. With Mietek on the move and unable to read his lips, he decided to postpone further conversation until they were out of earshot.

One thing was certain, however: they weren't about to leave Vegas anytime soon.

The discovery of the brand-new suite, paid for by the hotel itself, took place in exactly this order: Sumar walked back and forth, mouth agape, as excited as a child on Christmas Eve, while Mietek contented himself with a proper storming of the living room table. Within moments, laptop and dusty old books were open and ready for use.

"Dude, dude, dude," cooed Sumar. Have you seen the size of the beds? I don't think we've ever had beds that big in all our chaotic adventures. And the bathtub? Sorry, but I call it a pool. It's got massage jets, man. Massaging jets."

"Far be it from me to break your enthusiasm, but we've got work to do."

"Enthusiasm broken, congratulations," grunted the man who came to sit heavily on a chair around the table.

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

" Right. So less blather and more research. If we follow our culprit's pseudo-logic, he or she will kill again. Which leaves us just under 24 hours, since the last corpse was found shortly before 5pm tonight."

"You really have a way of bringing joy to our activities."

"Tell that to the four guys sitting in the basement morgue, I'm sure they'll be delighted to hear you bitching about how you'd like to take a bath."

Sumar grimaced. Yes. There was no denying that Mietek was a nice guy.

"Right, sure. Where do we start?"

"Given your love of social networks, I'll let you dig up as much information as you can on Messrs Winger, Valez, Fritz and Lloyd. As for me, I'll take a look at newspapers in surrounding states to see if we have any matches. If not, we'll look into the Bestiary."

"You think our men might have their share of responsibility?"

Mietek shrugged.

"Not necessarily, but I'd like not to rule out any leads just because one's a family man and the other's an average kid."

The man nodded. It seemed legitimate enough, really.

The mood quickly turned to research. The two men, buried in studious silence, moved only to take notes and stock up on sugar and caffeine. Next to the table on which he was seated, Mietek had set up a whiteboard (kindly requested from room service) on which he had posted a snapshot for each victim found, as well as the place where they had been found. There was no murder weapon, no apparent cause of death. Nothing at all, nada. Cabbages.

At around 3 a.m., Sumar let out a sigh that would wake the dead, grabbed his laptop and went to lie down in one of the king-size beds. On the way, he mumbled something like "I'm too old for this crap" and "it's not my age anymore". Far from raising an eyebrow, Mietek seemed passionately engrossed in an article from the last century. It was about women also found dead, for no apparent reason. Frowning, the magician looked up from his computer screen and began a new search. Victims' names, ages, places of birth, everything.

As the sun began to shine in the living room, the silent man stormed into the room where Sumar had retreated, only to fall asleep on Fritz's Facebook page. The mage's sudden entrance startled him, and for a brief moment, panic was visible on his face.

"Look," came Mietek's out-of-tune tone. "One hundred and seventy-seven years ago, seven women were found dead in New Orleans."

"Please, feminicides happen several times a day all over the world. If you wake me up because your male conscience has just been outraged by it, I'm going to slap you in the face."

Mietek, annoyed to the core, administered a smack to the back of his traveling companion's head.

"Don't be stupid," he hissed.

"Don't wake people up so suddenly. Some have died for less, I'll have you know."

Unimpressed, the mage took his place on the comfortable mattress and set up his PC before the swarthy man's very eyes.

"Seriously," he scolded.

Sumar muttered an insult of some kind under his breath, squinted, then finally gave his attention to what was a fascinating subject. It must have been an interesting read, because he soon frowned, straightened up and grabbed his own computer so he could match the information he'd discovered.

"Hang on, I think we've got something here."

Mietek leaned over to the second screen.

"Fritz died at the age of 49. So did Olivia Blanc. So far, you might say, coincidence. But so did William Winger and Calixte Richard, both found dead at 42. And I'll give it to you straight: Juan Vález and Edmée Fontenot were both 35."

"What about Blaise Lloyd? Do we have a match?" He signed.

"Yeah. Meet Dolores Bourgeois. Also 28."

Silence fell over the room and remained for long minutes. The two men, lost in thought, sighed in unison.

"All right," said Sumar. "If anyone asks, it's a lead to follow. How many deaths have you counted for these women?"

"Seven."

"We have four bodies. So we should expect three more. Las Vegas is big. There's no guarantee he'll stop at this hotel."

"On the contrary. These seven women all died in a bar: Lafitte's. Now we just have to hope that our culprit doesn't change location and stays at the hotel."

"So wait, we're looking for a guy who's inspired by old murders?"

"Or a creature capable of living for a very long time."

"I hate vampires, just so you know."

Mietek rolled his eyes.

"I know."

He paused.

"Rest assured, there were no bite marks. If we're dealing with the occult, then we've just entered the playground of a mage, a witch or something similar."

Sumar stood up and started pacing. Frowning, the man seemed genuinely concerned. Finally, he caught his colleague's interest with a pen, which he tossed across the room in the direction of the hearing-impaired man.

"What do we know about the other victims?"

"We've got a 21-year-old woman, Grâce Cormier and..."

The man took his head in his hands, bewildered.

"What?" asked Sumar.

He had nothing else to throw across the room, so he decided to return to the bed and take the computer from Mietek's hands. He wasn't too thrilled with his reading, however, as he let the machine fall onto the mattress.

"No, no, no! Fuck!"

Mietek remained silent.

"I refuse to do a Washington 2.0, I warn you."

Yet the luminous screen clearly showed the following information about the last two victims: Wilhelmina Jones, age 14 - Prudence Breaux, age 7. Obviously, this was not to the liking of the two pseudo-investigators. Adult corpses were bad enough, but children?

Both Sumar and Mietek would have done anything to avoid them.

"All right, all right," said Sumar again, trying to organize his thoughts.

"If we follow the sequence, the next person to die will be a 21-year-old man."

"That's Vegas. Twenty-one-year-olds, that's all there is."

"Right. But in this hotel? A room, no matter how small, already cost a kidney. So we're looking for a financially well-off youngster or one who's enjoyed an all-expenses-paid vacation."

"We should be able to ask Mrs. Banks for the guest list. She might be willing to help us out."

"Look, at some point, people don't have a choice. Either we stop our guilty bastard before a youngster gets killed, or we're too late and we lose a couple of kids too."

Mietek tilted his head. The sun had just risen, but that didn't stop any of them from calling on the hotel manager. Ten minutes later, they found themselves in Mrs. Bank's office.

It was a large room whose walls were lined with bookcases and other storage cupboards. In the middle, at the far end of the room, stood a massive oak desk. It impeccably tidy, all the way down to the pencils, perfectly sharpened and lined up to the millimeter. Not a speck of dust or loose sheet of paper was to be seen. Every file was perfectly stacked and sorted alphabetically. Mrs. Bank, sitting upright in her office chair, invited them in with pursed lips. Mietek thought this must be her default expression.

"Mrs. Bank," Sumar beamed in a charming tone. "What a pleasure to see you again!"

"I still don't have time for your nonsense. Get to the point."

Sumar grumbled and grumbled some more when he was elbowed in the ribs.

"We had a few questions to ask you."

"Obviously, why else would you have come to bother me? I told you to get to the point."

"We'd like a list of your cli..."

Mrs. Bank replied immediately, without batting an eyelid and/or looking up from her stack of papers.

"Absolutely not."

Sumar frowned, tilted his head and uncrossed his arms to place his hands on his hips. He looked like a disgruntled parent in front of a child who had just made a mistake.

"You didn't even let me finish."

"As I told you," she said, "I don't have much time to waste on your nonsense."

"People are going to die," insisted Sumar.

"People have already died."

"Yes, well, add someone to your list. Because you're about to find three new bodies, aged between 21 and 7."

Mrs. Bank was not an emotional woman, yet both men felt as if they had seen a slight twitch in her face.

Sumar had come so close as to slam his hand down on the matron's desk, but she didn't flinch.

"Well, well," she said. "You are a psychic now? I'm well aware of where we are, but that's no reason to spread your fortune-telling theories."

"You're quite a nasty piece of work, you know?"

The woman about to reply was interrupted by Mietek, who stepped forward. No doubt he too would try to plead his case in order to obtain the client files. However, he neither signed nor uttered a single word. Instead, he held out his right hand, palm raised to the sky. In the palm of his hand, a small spark ignited, quickly followed by a fiercer blaze, then an inferno that nearly blackened the ceiling. All this lasted only a brief moment, a few seconds at most.

"We are no fortune tellers," he said in a husky tone.

Mrs. Bank just stared at him for a long time, her eyes slightly wider than if she'd just witnessed a very common circus show.

"I see," she said.

A glint of understanding seemed to have lit up in her gaze, now wary but also reverent. Then, without another word, Mrs. Bank opened the drawer of her massive desk, inserted what must have been a digicode by the sound of it. There was a click, and the woman pulled out several very, very thick folders.

"Meh," muttered Sumar as he discovered the hours of research ahead.

The binders piled up in front of him formed an insurmountable mountain.

"You'll find all the information in these records. It goes without saying that I'm relying on your discretion," said Mrs. Bank in a stern voice tinged with concern.

Mietek nodded in agreement as Sumar loaded the folders. Mietek helped him unload half of them before thanking the old woman with a wave of his hand. She waved hers as if to swat away a fly, but in her eyes was a hint of curiosity mixed with anxiety.

"Give my regards to the Mother-of-All-Things," she said, lowering her eyes to what must have been accounting files (or something else, neither Sumar nor Mietek had the slightest idea, to be quite honest).

The dark-skinned man squinted.

"I've got so many questions, right now," he confessed, his mind reeling.

"Later," muttered Mietek in reply.

Then he turned and Sumar followed.

They had less than 24 hours to go through all the hotel's customer files. Even if Mietek could summon fire with his hands, he couldn't read the equivalent of several lifetimes' worth of files in the span of 12 hours. A race against time had begun, and neither of the two budding investigators was sure they could stop their killer before it was too late.

The walk back to the room was littered with unanswered questions. Sumar didn't seem ready to drop the subject and kept asking how and why and who the hell was that old woman? He got nothing out of his friend, who seemed determined to remain silent as the grave. Mietek could be as stubborn as a mule, which was far from pleasing to his colleague. Yet he dropped the subject as soon as they returned to the luxurious comfort of their suite. Mietek returned to his seat in front of his laptop, and Sumar took his with him, before slumping onto the much too large and comfortable sofa.

"Don't fall asleep," chuckled Mietek, not before glancing at Sumar.

With a sigh, Sumar slid down to the floor, where he took a seat, cross-legged in front of him, and built a tower of files beside him. His laptop on the coffee table was unlocked with a few clicks, and the man silently plunged back into his research.

Such research was not something the two of them were particularly fond of. As much as they enjoyed learning more and more about a wide variety of things, the circumstances were neither on their side, nor generally to their liking. Knowing they could be responsible for another murder left a monstrous pressure on their shoulders and a sour taste on their tongues. It was as if an invisible sword of Damocles hung over them, ready to fall at any moment.

Mietek rubbed his temples, feeling the headache intensify. He bit his lower lip to suppress his growing frustration. The names and faces of the victims ran through his head like a never-ending nightmare. He felt powerless, prey to constant anxiety.

Sumar, for his part, rose abruptly from his seat and dropped onto the sofa, nervously rubbing his hands on his thighs. His fingers drummed nervously against the binder stranded on the sofa seat.

"How can there be nothing to find with so many files? Damn!"

Concerned by the motion on his back, Mietek turned to stare at his companion. He sighed and leaned back thoughtfully against his chair.

"Keep calm. Getting worked up won't get us anywhere."

However, not knowing what they were supposed to find made their search even more arduous. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, a desperate quest for the truth amidst an ocean of information scattered like fragments of a giant puzzle that refused to take shape.

Thus, the investigation went on in dead silence, marked by frequent trips back and forth between the kitchen (where twelve liters of coffee were extracted from the coffee machine that day), and the bathroom (due to coffee abuse and battered bladders).

Regularly, the two men paced back and forth, notebook and pen in hand, as if hoping for inspiration to strike out of nowhere. From time to time, crumpled balls of paper flew across the room, depicting the growing frustration of one or the other.

Sumar swore repeatedly, expressing his anger at this impotence, while Mietek pounded his fist on the table with growing exasperation at each new fruitless lead, as if this might miraculously bring up the answer they were desperately seeking.

It was clear that both investigators needed to take a break, but neither dared for fear of the consequences that might bring. It seemed that an hour or two's sleep could spell the end of time.

As fatigue swept over Sumar like Morpheus, he realized that a break was no longer up for debate. He exchanged the prospect of an endless night, for the brief pleasure of a cigarette. With a flick of his wrist, he extracted a thin stick from his packet. At that precise moment, he met Mietek's worried gaze, for whom a shrug of the shoulders was enough to signify that all was well, or at least that all would be well after this short pause.

The balcony in front of him was a welcome refuge from the Las Vegas heat. The hot air made itself an accessory to his momentary dizziness. The insulation in the luxury suites was serious business (and Sumar was willing to believe it, given the price per night), he mused, not without searching feverishly for a lighter. The cold metal sank to the bottom of his pockets, a temporary treasure he eventually unearthed. A brief flash of orange light illuminated the tip of his cigarette, which began to redden.

He leaned back against the balcony rail, letting the toxic nicotine smoke invade his lungs. He inhaled deeply, eyelids closed, and exhaled slowly, letting out the accumulated stress and tension. The resulting relief was short-lived, but welcome. When he opened his eyes again, the metropolis of Las Vegas unfolded beneath his feet in a giant anthill of sin and excess.

Their suite, located on the highest floors of the Stratosphere, offered a panoramic view of the city. Yet Sumar wasn't in the mood to enjoy the view. The hours flew by, leaving behind a feeling of helplessness and frustration. The feeling was familiar, almost too familiar. Sumar let out a grunt of frustration, his aching muscles crying out in despair.

He stretched out along the banister, his arms extended and his knees bent in a vain attempt at relief. A glance up at the blue sky inspired a silent prayer, although the idea of the gods paying attention to his pleas made him sigh. The deities had wider concerns than mere mortals, those selfish bastards.

Leaning back against the banister, he took a puff of his cigarette with a mixture of weariness and resignation.

He looked again at the city of sin, a swirling megalopolis where everyone pursued their frenzied quest for pleasure or fortune. Passers-by hurried along the sidewalks, some braving pedestrian lights under the furious horns of impatient motorists. Mothers waited patiently for the green man to allow them to cross safely, guiding their children clinging to strollers like dogs on a leash. A newlywed couple posed for a street photographer, their smiles frozen in time.

The sound of an electric guitar plugged into an amplifier echoed through the already noise-saturated streets. An incessant chaos reigned, exhausting the senses and the mind. Sumar, for whom big cities were synonymous with cacophony, remembered the tranquility of quieter places, where thoughts could be expressed without being overwhelmed by the surrounding agitation.

A sinister thought crossed his mind as he contemplated the smiling faces of the tourists immortalizing the iconic Stratosphere. Little did they know that four sordid murders had already occurred there, turning the place into a tomb disguised as a tourist attraction. He sniffed, took a comforting puff of his cigarette, and let his thoughts wander.

The sun was reaching its zenith. A thin film of sweat formed on Sumar's temples, a reminder of his disaffection for torrid climates. Clammy hands clenched on the balcony banister, and his light T-shirt betrayed the effort his body was making to dissipate the heat. The city itself seemed to emit relentless waves of heat.

A bath wouldn't have gone amiss, he thought, imagining the coolness of icy water.

To think that Mietek had shattered his dreams almost eight hours earlier. The man sighed. Three guys wouldn't be able to bathe soon.

He wished his thoughts understood the concept of pause, but they seemed determined to invade his mind relentlessly. Magic, a recurring subject of thought, was no exception to this rule. It was cluttered with strict rules, often ignored or broken by those who sought to push its boundaries. He wasn't a mage for a penny, but had been around Mietek for enough years to have retained most of the rules.

"Think about it, buddy," he mumbled aloud, as if the walls of the room could answer him. "The networks didn't work, everybody's clean. This doesn't happen. Not four times in a row."

Winding his way through the living room, he grabbed his laptop, a formidable weapon in his quest for the truth, before returning to the balcony in case the fire alarm went on. He opened an application outside his jurisdiction, typed in the name of their first victim and pressed the "Enter" key.

An hourglass icon appeared on the screen, spinning in an endless cycle. Each passing second, each passing minute, weighed on his shoulders.

"Come on, find me something, baby..."

He felt as if time was stretching on forever. The temptation to call Mietek for a second opinion was strong, but he resisted, fearing to confuse his partner with false leads.

His gaze fell on the clock at the bottom of the screen. 14h04. Less than three hours before the next macabre act, if their calculations proved correct. Excitement surged through him, a rush of pure adrenalin. The cells of his being seemed to activate, as if the imminent prospect of a new breakthrough revived his exhausted spirit.

A beep sounded, breaking the oppressive tension in the room. Sumar let out a cry of deliverance, no longer able to contain his relief.

On the screen, a criminal record appeared in the name of Alexander Henry Fritz, born July 7, 1971. An arrest for tax fraud was recorded.

Okay, he thought. Okay, okay, okay. Let's not get carried away. It's only one in four Sumar, buddy, calm down.

He knew all too well that getting carried away by premature excitement would only make the disappointment even more painful. So he took a moment to inhale deeply, taking the time to transfer his notes to a notebook, before tackling the next name. His fingers pounded the keys with controlled frenzy.

Once again, that cursed loading icon appeared, and Sumar almost cursed it, as well as all future generations of software designers. Just as an eternity seemed to pass, a new result popped up under the name William Winger, born July 7, 1978, for a racial crime involving a morbid history of death threats against a third party.

Sumar blinked, stunned by the discovery he had just made. The elements had been there, in front of their eyes all along, but it had taken some time for them to put them together. The number seven, the date of birth common to all the victims, was the key to the enigma. He almost felt foolish for not having thought of it sooner.

"The bloody number seven," he breathed to himself, realizing how significant this simple coincidence could be.

He was now certain that other names would appear in their research, all born on July 7, all criminals. It was too big to be a mere coincidence.

He continued his research with a new conviction, typing Juan Valez's name into the database. And once again, the result did not disappoint him. Juan Valez was born on July 7, 1985, confirming the pattern. This discovery filled him with relief because it meant they had a chance to track the next targets of the killer using this correlation.

When information about Juan Valez's arrest for sexual assault appeared on the screen, Sumar felt torn between the satisfaction of finding a link between the victims and disgust towards yet another assailant. He struggled not to feel a certain justice in the fact that the killer targeted people who had committed reprehensible acts. Yet, he couldn't simply give up and wait for the killer to rid the world of all the scum on earth. After all, they had no idea what the ritual was supposed to produce and getting rid of a sick person to retrieve their evil double: not his cup of tea.

He quickly typed Blaise Lloyd's name, already anticipating the results. As expected, the birthdate matched that of the first three victims, July 7, 1992. This time, the victim had been involved in human trafficking but was released due to lack of evidence. Sumar couldn't help pinching the bridge of his nose. They had quite a collection of scumbags.

Tired from his discoveries, he left the terrace, disposing of his long-extinguished cigarette in the designated ashtray, and returned to the living room where he caught Mietek's attention, earning a concerned look. He must have noticed that something was amiss because he stood up to fetch the coffee pot and serve them two fresh, steaming cups.

"So?" his friend asked.

As a response, Sumar placed his laptop on the table and motioned for Mietek to sit. He knew that what would follow wouldn't be as joyful as expected.

"I hope you're seated comfortably because you're not in for an easy ride," the dark-skinned man warned.

Mietek furrowed his brows, intrigued by his friend's serious tone.

"I found the connection," Sumar explained.

"And that's it? No victory dance or cheer?"

Sumar rolled his eyes. Okay, fine. Maybe he was used to being a bit over the top. Only, Sumar wasn't in the mood for anything other than burying himself under his blanket and slipping into a six-month coma (or taking a nap, depending on preferences).

"You'll understand quickly," he said, pointing at his notes.

Without wasting time, the mage leaned over the notes, then the bright screen, his face losing some of its confidence as he read. Mietek understood why suddenly Sumar wasn't in the mood for jokes. Murder cases were already unpleasant, but when such grim facts came to light...

"Wait... this makes no sense," Mietek remarked.

"How so?"

"I mean... Our killer is apparently targeting criminals. And during the murders in 1977, we found two children aged seven and fourteen. If they're selected for their 'sins'... I don't see what kids are doing on his little serial killer shopping list, damn it."

"What, you don't want to believe that kids can commit crimes?"

"You see a seven-year-old getting involved in organ trafficking?"

"Humans always do weird stuff anyway, what do I know?"

"Okay, hold on," the mage said. "Okay, let's say yes. We need to cross-reference the lists of hotel occupants with everyone born on July 7."

"We find the guys, see if they've ever killed, eaten, trafficked anyone, and what? We arrest them on the grounds that maybe they'll get killed, maybe not by some cracked-up magical entity? You'll end up in a cell faster than it takes to say 'hello.'"

Mietek crossed his arms, a mix of annoyance and thoughtful contemplation furrowing his face. The idea of smashing his head against a wall crossed his mind, but he opted to finish his coffee instead, trying to clear his thoughts. It was an unusually intense case for him. Usually, he dealt with managing ghouls too ravenous or sirens too greedy. When he intervened, creatures generally knew what to expect because he exuded a particular aura, a sort of "you messed up, and I have to fix all this crap, and I'm not exactly thrilled about it."

There had been murders, of course, sometimes accidental, sometimes perpetrated by groups of individuals he had to send to the Sanctuary, the equivalent of a prison where no one came out before spending more years than a human lifespan in a cell meant to torture the soul and mind (pure joy concentrate). However, rituals of this kind were rare. Mietek had already heard about them because he wasn't the only Servant to tread these lands, but he had never imagined having to face such a deranged mage or witch. For a moment, he wondered if he was really ready for this kind of work. He thought about asking other Servants for help, but quickly dismissed the idea. As long as they had no information about the mage or what hid behind these serial murders, Mietek couldn't risk putting other lives in danger.

"Okay, so what do you suggest?"

Sumar, facing him, seemed to have regained his nonchalant attitude.

"We find our three jolly fellows, lock them in a room, and in four days, we set them free."

Mietek nearly spat out his coffee. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. Was he understanding correctly that Sumar was seriously considering kidnapping the mage's targets?

"Oh, don't make that face," Sumar insisted as if discussing a minor detail. "I'm not a monster either. You put them to sleep with your magic, then in three or four days, once the story has settled, you wake them up, and after that, we head to Lapland. They say it's beautiful at this time of year."

Mietek let his head fall between his arms, muffling a frustrated exclamation in the fabric of his clothes. Sumar was going to wear him down, he decided. This guy had serious issues.

"All we're going to achieve," he said, raising his head, "is an Amber Alert with our faces plastered all over the country."

"But no, you're a professional!" he added, raising two thumbs up.

That wasn't exactly reassuring.

"A professional kidnapper?" the mage exclaimed. "Su-per, thanks for the image you have of me."

"You're a grumbler, Mietek."

"I'm serious."

Sumar paused, then sighed.

"I know. I don't have another plan for now. We have three potential targets, and we're only two. So either we gather them in the same place, or we split up, but you and I both know that wouldn't be a good idea."

"We could..."

"Nope," Sumar interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Where you go, I go."

Mietek raised his arms to the sky, as if expressing his frustration. Sumar was also a damn stubborn mule who wouldn't hesitate to make his life more complicated than planned.

"Fine," he signed. "Let's start putting names on our suspects and then decide. One thing at a time. It's almost three o'clock, which gives us less than two hours to find our guy, secure him, and pray really hard."

The dark-skinned man nodded. He grabbed his computer, glanced at his watch, and returned to the couch from which he ordered something to fill up from room service before focusing on his task.