Page 4

My tattoos flare to life, silver crescents blazing through my jacket sleeves. The ancient magic responds to mortal danger and floods my system with power that makes my muscles ache. I vault over the pew behind me, boots connecting with ancient wood as practitioners close in from both sides.

"Sorry, but I have a strict policy against being harvested."

A ward specialist lunges for my arm, his fingers crackling with binding magic. I twist away, my enhanced reflexes turning his grab into empty air. The momentum sends him into the stone pillar with a satisfying crack.

More white-clad practitioners pour down the side aisles, their coordinated movements suggesting military training beneath the religious theater. The Prophet watches from his altar, eclipse mask tilted with what I imagine is amusement.

"You can’t escape, child of the Crowe bloodline."

"Yeah, my family comes with a serious attitude problem. And neither of us wants to experience that."

I channel energy into my legs and leap onto the nearest pew back, using it as a springboard to reach the carved stone gallery above. My fingers find purchase on gargoyle heads worn smooth by centuries, and I haul myself up as hands grasp for my boots below.

The cathedral's architecture works against the mob—narrow passages and decorative stonework create bottlenecks they can't exploit with numbers. I scramble along the gallery's edge and search for any opening that doesn't lead straight into their arms.

A maintenance grate catches my eye, partially hidden behind a crumbling saint's statue. The metal looks newer than the surrounding stonework—probably added when they converted this building for their twisted purposes. I kick at the corroded bolts, my magic lending strength to desperation.

"She seeks the old passages," someone shouts from below.

The grate gives way with a screech of protesting metal. I squeeze through the opening as robed figures thunder up narrow stone stairs, their ceremonial garments hampering their pursuit. The maintenance shaft continues into blessed darkness, merely wide enough for my shoulders.

My phone's flashlight illuminates rusted pipes and electrical conduits as I crawl through decades of accumulated grime. The sounds of pursuit fade behind me, replaced by the muffled roars of active subway lines. The shaft connects to the modern tunnel system—emergency access for repairs and inspections.

After what feels like hours but probably measures in minutes, I emerge through another grate into the familiar stench of the working tunnels. A Red Line train thunders past, its windows full of late-night commuters who have no idea what horrors lurk beneath their feet.

I sprint toward the nearest station, my boots splashing through puddles of questionable origin. The adrenaline crash hits as I climb the emergency stairs, legs shaking with exhaustion and magical depletion.

Chicago streets hit me with a wall of honking traffic and the blessed normalcy of human chaos. I blend into the sidewalk crowd, purely another leather-clad figure hurrying through the night. But the Prophet's words echo in my memory with chilling certainty.

They know exactly what family I come from.

2

DARIUS

The last vampire mercenary hits the warehouse floor with a wet thud that echoes through the cavernous structure. Metal restraints bite into his wrists as consciousness flickers behind his eyes, leaving him alive but thoroughly neutralized. Blood spatters my tactical vest, though most of it belongs to the enemies.

I roll my shoulders and work out the tension from thirty minutes of close-quarters combat against fanged psychopaths who thought they could muscle in on my client's territory instead of facing the most feared paranormal security specialist in Chicago. The warehouse reeks of spilled blood and fear, where broken crates litter concrete stained by decades of questionable business dealings.

My phone buzzes against my ribs. Kellan's name flashes on the cracked screen. "Job's done. Need pickup for three packages."

"Christ, Darius. Three of them?" The familiar mix of admiration and concern colors Kellan’s question. "You know, normal people use teams for vampire nests, right?"

"Normal people don't get results."

I nudge the unconscious leader with my boot. Martel Vex, according to his reputation, is two centuries of violence wrapped in expensive suits and arrogance. His fangs retract as the enchanted metal suppresses his supernatural strength.

"Fair point. I'll bring the van and some extra restraints.”

“These bloodsuckers going to the PGC or straight to processing?" I ask while I keep an eye out for him.

"PGC wants them intact. They need them for questioning about the territory disputes. Apparently, someone's been feeding them intel about ward placements."

Through the warehouse's grimy windows, Chicago's skyline glitters like scattered diamonds. It is simply another night and another group of parasites thinking they can carve out pieces of the city through intimidation and murder. The work pays well, but satisfaction comes from knowing these particular monsters are permanently finished feeding on the innocent.

"Speaking of jobs," Kellan's tone shifts, becoming carefully neutral. "We got a call while you were playing exterminator. High-priority protection request."

"Client?"