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‘Isolde,’ the viking vampire whispered. Fuck. “I think that warden who was supposed to control Cor might have been one of the rotting vampires,” I say and cough to clear my throat. “Asha thinks the female vampire was our serial killer, and she might as well have been the keyholder to whatever magic trinket they used to control Cor.” I don’t mention that I don’t agree with her. I need to keep at least some secrets to myself.

That makes Stanley perk up, as if I finally said something of value for him. “Last time I saw him it was a man, but did you find the amulet on the woman you killed?” The idea seems to excite him, god knows why.

“Eh, no? I personally didn’t find it at all—” I’m a lying liar who lies, “—but I know the amulet broke in the fight, which is why Cor is roaming the streets, now that I think about it. But since the vampire was rotting, and his female companion was rotting, I think there might be something going on with their… group? Clan?”

“Mh, indeed, might be,” Stanley murmurs softly, folding his hands. His knuckles are turning pale with tension. “Now, if you knew more about where they caught it, that might be worth a lot more, but…” He shakes his head and sighs, as if I have let him down. Little shit wants to get more out of me. Hah.

I roll my eyes, even though it causes stabs of pain in my head. “Oh, come on, you know as well as me you guys know more about where those guys were and might be in the future than I ever will. Do some basic pandemic prevention steps and you’re good. Probably. But in any case, it’s good information, and you know it. Enough to get some more information out of you. Like for example, what do you know about the cultists, I mean, synodists?”

Flashes of memory jerk through my head. Arzel calling back Asha in the hallway outside Loreley’s office. Arzel’s voice hissing at Asha in our hotel room. Asha’s weird reaction when she found out I heard things.

Stanley’s face takes on a sullen expression. “That’s what you’re bargaining for? Fine, fine. They call themselves the Templars of Damnation. Typical demon worshipers, as far as I’ve heard. Based in the harbor, somewhere in Irish Town. They’re a bunch of wackos. Instead of just summoning demons and sacrificing virgins like good little cultists, they seem to be way too interested in drug dealing, human trafficking, and being crazy. Crazier than you’d expect, that is. They used to stay away from the veils, but recently they’ve started showing up here, too. Pisses off the warlocks something fierce, I tell you. Not that it’s surprising. Those two groups are like cats and dogs. That’s all I know.”

If that is all that has happened so far, I’m surprised. I’ve read of battles of epic proportions between local warlock covens and invading cults, and I do mean, epic. After all, both groups deal in the forces of hell. Cultists differ from warlocks in only one aspect: Warlocks are cursed with a lasting connection to hell that gives them incredible powers, but also drives them mad over time, whereas cultists are just really into that sweet demon juice. Meaning, they either try to get possessed by a demon, or use thaumaturgy, a kind of magic, to contact and control demons. It’s apples and pears, if we’re honest here, because both sources of power are evil.

But hell itself doesn’t have a mind that cares what exactly you do with your magic. Demons do. And they are definitely opinionated about what a good little cultist may do with their powers, and what not. I’ve never quite understood why the thaumaturges don’t just become warlocks, get free rein over their powers and all that, but it’s almost like it’s not just about the power for those demon worshipers, but about the demons themselves. Driven by the same lure as every other religious cult, I guess.

And adding to that, there is something about a warlock that simply pisses off demons, which is kinda counter-productive if you’re trying to kiss their asses. They simply can’t stand the sight of them. Which, funny enough, makes warlocks the absolute best demon hunters possible. Even the most brilliant of demon masterminds can’t let a chance to smack a warlock pass by. I’ve heard of demons going undercover for years and years, dormant and waiting, just to throw everything away at the first chance tangling with a warlock.

Weirdly enough, in a one-on-one combat, warlocks beat any run-off-the-mill thaumaturge easily, so you’d expect the cultists to see the signs and switch sides to get more powerful, but nope. Maybe it’s the going crazy over time, or maybe it’s the fact that warlocks try to keep hell out, whereas cultists do everything they can to get it closer to the living world. Fact is, they just don’t mix well.

That doesn’t answer the question of what Arzel could want with Asha, though. Granted, we Hunters are every supernatural creature’s natural enemy, but cultists are neither a top priority nor especially dangerous in the grand scheme of monsters. Hunters eradicate them like vermin whenever they make too much trouble, but that’s basically it. We’re definitely not friend material for a demon-hugging worshiper of evil, though. Therefore, Arzel just making nice with my partner doesn’t fit the story. And they definitely didn’t know each other before we came to Babylon City, because Asha seemed genuinely surprised by the presence of a cultist, and she isn’t that good an actress.

Zero commonalities. Zero shared ideologies. Zero previous contact. They shouldn’t even glance at each other in passing. Except that Arzel had Asha steal a magical artifact from a vampire. Because that’s what she had in her hand when I found her in the hospital. And there is a chance, a slim, slight chance, that she left me to die just so she could take off with the amulet. My chest stings.

“How about cultists and vampires? Any clashes?”

Stanley lifts his brows, looking surprised. His shoulders relax a little as he scratches his chin. “Not that I know of. Well, I heard a rumor about some cultist nut job running around the vampire hangout in the Darkmoon Market, bleeding from cuts he inflicted on himself and screaming something about being dinner for the sharks, but that’s just standard cultist craziness. Why do you ask?”

I can’t answer that question without giving details away, so I don’t. “You’re my vampire envoy; you know things like that. Who else could tell me the latest rumors about vampires?” I say instead and smile politely.

A look of distrust passes over Stanley’s face, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he adjusts himself a little and glances toward the door. “In that case, you might also want to ask his master about cultists. My clan may be the clan of Babylon City, but we’re not the only vampires here.”

Cor’s growl makes me shudder and freeze for a moment, like any deep warning growl would. I take a deep breath and force myself to look over my shoulder and watch the vampire enter the room in a gliding, slick prowl, as if he has muscles where there aren’t supposed to be any. The track pants he is wearing still hug his legs tightly, maybe a little too tight, but it does nothing but good for the play of muscles beneath the cloth.

He looks better than before; the cheap, golden light gives his skin a bronze shine, but doesn’t make him appear any darker; some people would look crisped over in the wrong light, but he just looks sun-kissed, like his skin captured some of the sun’s light. Which is confusing, since he definitely hasn’t sun-bathed in a few centuries.

Cor glides closer and stops behind me, grabbing the backrest of my bench so that his arms are framing my shoulders. A warm, tickling breeze rustles my hair as he sniffs my head, and now I’m having trouble remembering what we were talking about… again. I try, though. “What do you mean, ask his master?”

A tense smile plays around Stanley’s lips, even though he tries to hide it. “Don’t tell me you already forgot what I told you about him. His master, the Norseman I mean, will be close by, or he,” and he points at Cor, “wouldn’t be here. His clan is always traveling, staying a few years here, a few years there, but they never pick a home. I don’t know what you hope to gain from asking about the cult, but he might know things others don’t.”

My backrest groans softly. I glance to the side from the corner of my eye in time to see Cor’s fingers leaving grooves in the dark wood, knuckles white with strain. Other than that, he is completely still, outwardly calm, a lifeless rock behind my back. I’m not sure what to make of it, so I ignore it for now. “And where might I find this Norseman?”

Stanley shakes his head and waves the question off. “Way above my pay grade. I don’t know, and I have no way to find out about his whereabouts without tripping every single alarm bell in Loreley’s head. But if anyone knows, it’s the people in this district. I just don’t expect you to survive long if you poke around too much.”

I nod carefully and grunt in agreement, breathing out softly when my chair stops groaning. “Thanks for the warning, I’ll keep it in mind. Now, if I give you my credit card and promise to keep you up to date on all rotting vampire insights, will you please go shopping for me? And if you can, bring some vampire blood? There has to be some source around here.”

Stanley looks like he’s about to say no, so I add, “other option is you stay here and monitor Cor, and I go shopping. Or you take off and I go shopping, and Cor runs around unsupervised until I’m back.”

He grabs my black credit card, teeth grinding. “Asshole,” he hisses and stomps out.

I grin. Gotta relish the small wins.

THE SECOND FLOOR of our little city hideout doesn’t offer any surprises: three bedrooms, one with a completely rubber-covered en suite bathroom, thick curtains and UV-resistant foil covering the windows. Beds, bedding, towels, even some books, everything is available, if a little musty. I decide on taking a quick shower in the smaller hallway-adjacent bathroom. At least I was able to bring my stuff and a change of clothes that actually fit.

Cor lurks in front of the bathroom door while I’m in, moving from one squeaky floor tile to the other as if to ease my mind while he creepy-stalks me. When Stanley’s car stops outside, Cor disappears, squeaking down the stairs and then switching to his silent prowl mode. I curse softly and finish my shower, scrubbing my head vigorously with a towel as I try to hop into pants and shirt half wet and sticky.

When I finally make it downstairs, Stanley is once again huddling behind the kitchen table, this time behind a stack of shopping bags.