Page 37

Maybe I’m arrogant, but I think Asha is tracking my activities ever since she left Babylon. If I read my messages, she could very well see them too, and maybe even manipulate them. Okay, probably not that. She might act shady as all get-out, but she is not an evil tech whiz supermind.

I tap the tablet and pull it closer as it boots. The message is from headquarters, thank fuck. I pull it up and skim over the text, then frown and read it again more slowly.

‘New murder, fits the profile, 244 Burnham St., Border District. See police file and pictures attached’

Well well well, seems like I was right to stay. Who is the greenhorn now, huh? Although I do wonder who is responsible for the murders, if not the two vampires we met at the hospital. They are both dead now, so who else is there? I call up the files more or less on autopilot, skimming over the familiar police lingo and clunky sentences, grumbling to myself as I try to find the connection to my murders.

Another member of the theology faculty of Babylon University, this time a professor. Kind of an escalation if you ask me, especially since professors are a lot more prominent than some second-year student. Feels like I have forgotten everything while I was hunting down the rot. Or maybe I’m just slow after the blood loss, the fever, the fights,…

I can’t ignore the message, though. I send them a short confirmation, telling them I’m close by and will check out the crime scene ASAP. I’m about to turn off the tablet and get a move on when a reply plings in. The message makes me freeze.

‘Backup will be on site within six hours. Send address.’

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I do a quick google search and pick the next best hotel close to the safe house, sending the address to HQ without further thought. Then I turn off the tablet, grab my phone and the broken amulet, and hobble out the door, already dialing the alibi place to book two rooms. No way am I going to share a room again, especially since I’m pretty sure they will send Asha. She’s familiar with the case and the most logical choice, since nobody knows about my suspicions or her dealings with the local cultists.

Shit, times a hundred.

I HOBBLE ALONG the Bracket river like a drunkard, one hand on the metal banister, the other in my coat pocket. My leg throbs, deeply and painfully, especially where the claw mark has bled through the bandages. I managed to stop the pants from sticking to the drying blood, but I can’t take a break and take stock, or make a pit-stop at a doctor’s office or E.R.; I already lost enough time at Looke’s, delivering the amulet and making sure she could do what I need her to. She even asked me if she should look at my wounds, but I declined. Maybe that was stupid.

I’m not happy with the way my knees buckle, but I have to follow any pointer where I might find this Norseman guy, no matter how vague. Asha would slap me if she knew I’m wandering into the lair of a non-registered vampire kiss, bleeding and alone. No, not slap me, laugh at me and kick me into the river. Fucking Asha and the trouble she gets me in.

The world tilts on its axis, and I catch myself on the banister, dry-retching as I blink furiously. Seems like I lost more blood than I thought in the last 24 hours. Not the best combination with the bright sunlight and a good, long hike along the river. As soon as my stomach ceases revolting, I push myself up and look around. As a parting gift, Looke recommended I take the road along the Bracket River to reach the Darkcity district, and so far she’s been right. No shootings, no stick-ups, just a few sleeping hobos and one dead junkie. The quiet down here is almost pleasant. And my destination isn’t far off either; the distinct factory chimney peeks out from behind faceless building blocks, promising me a quick arrival and a chance to sit down. I can’t wait.

The road meanders along the brownish river and then veers off into the concrete jungle. The Darkcity is just as I remember it: depressing, empty, and vaguely threatening. I pull the collar of my shirt up, instinctively trying to cover my neck where the bite wound sits covered by glaringly white bandages. The shudders come unbidden, but I can’t suppress them. It’s not just the autumn cold, either. I’m about to step into a vampire’s lair, a powerful, old vampire’s lair, with nothing more than a gun and unwelcome questions, hoping to survive by profession alone. My abs clench at the thought, twisting my stomach until my breathing grows labored.

I take a while to find the right building, but Loreley’s directions were surprisingly spot-on. Without them, I wouldn’t have stood a chance of getting even close. Autumn leaves—God knows where they come from here—whisper nervously against the red brick wall surrounding the old factory, slapping against my pants legs as I pass through the half open front gate. No courtyard this time, just a big, roomy factory floor. And vampires.

A woman stands in the deeper shade of the building, a mere ten feet away from me, arms crossed in front of her athletic chest like I’ve kept her waiting and should regret it. Her hair is short, white blond, parted at the side, and one of the prettiest hairdos I’ve ever seen. The gun strapped to her thigh is even more mouth-watering, or worrying, depending on the point of view. “Hunter,” she says. A statement, not a question, not a welcome. Her poker face is flawless, her voice tinged with a subtle Scandinavian accent. And she breathes age, like time has its own gravity around her.

I don’t ask how she knows, or why she’s there, waiting for me. I’ve just stepped through the door, and already I’m out of my league. These are not little Stanley-clones I can bully into doing what I want by hiding behind my calling. No, if the lady is anything to go by, these people are the real thing. Like Cor is. Like the pus-vampire was. And they will eat me alive if I give them a reason to.

I straighten and nod in greeting, forcing myself to stay still and upright and not betray my weakness. “I’ve come to talk to the Norseman,” I say, my voice more even than I feel.

She nods and turns around, waving me to follow her with two fingers. No ‘why,’ no ‘what do you want,’ no ‘you can’t,’ just a wave and a nerve-wracking walk through a building too quiet to soothe my nerves. There are others here; I can feel them in the air, feel their eyes rake over me, but they stay hidden. For now.

My nameless guide calmly leads me through the building, up some stairs, through a room stacked with new looking transport crates, and up another set of stairs into a vaulted, lantern-lit room with no windows and a makeshift throne. It’s covered in a spread of impossibly soft looking furs, languidly crushed by the ass of a blond giant.

I stop where I am, frozen and wide-eyed. I don’t even need to ask if this is him; he suffocates my mind with his presence. The Norseman lounges on his throne like a thing forgotten by time. Long, dirty blond tresses curl down his nape and creep over his chest and arms, framing a scarred, harsh, pale face and shockingly light blue eyes. Either he played dress-up and threw on the leather jerkin just for me, or he doesn’t give a shit about what year It is. The age-darkened leather hugs his muscled chest like a second skin, groaning and sighing when he moves to take me in. His pants are less skin-tight, a billowing mass of pale gray, thick cloth that sits wide around his thighs and pokes out of his bootlegs. His boots at least are modern, steel capped army boots worn down so much they look as if they might rip at any moment.

A giant ax leans against his armrest, twinkling in the lantern light.

I swallow before I can stop myself. He notices and stares at my throat until I tug my collar higher. His eyes flash. “I assume you’re the one they call Ove Egil?” I croak and leave my collar be. It doesn’t help, and I don’t want his attention on my neck.

“And you are the Hunter who led my men to my property,” he replies. His accent is so thick I have trouble understanding him, but he talks slowly, his rumble deceptively lulling. He sounds vaguely Russian, but not quite. Nordic, just like the woman who stands by the door, quiet as a statue. His next words don’t bode well for my survival. “No breach of Contract has been issued.”

Shit. Already balls-deep in hot water, and I haven’t even gained anything from this yet. I keep my face carefully blank and nod. “That is correct. I’m not here to enforce a breach investigation.”

His lips quiver, and a tiny slice of teeth appears between them. They look very pointy. “That is good to know. Especially since you must realize that you have no ground to stand on without it.”

Now that we have both stated the obvious, I’m out of my depth. I want to look around; it would help me gather my scattered thoughts, but I don’t dare to avert my eyes. He has me pinned with his stare. My mind races, stumbling over misfiring neurons, until I finally give up.

“I’ve come to ask about Cor,” I say, wincing at my own words. Not the greatest start, especially since I actually planned to segue into cultists and rotting vampires.

The Norseman’s reaction isn’t what I expected. Meaning, he doesn’t move at all; he just keeps staring at me. The guard behind me is another thing. Quiet footsteps cross the entrance behind me until she stands right in the middle of it, blocking my way out. Even if I weren’t already committed to this, I wouldn’t have any choice now.

The vampire waits calmly until the trap is sprung, then shifts. He doesn’t lean forward; he just kind of shimmies a little, a picture of relaxation were it not for his eyes spearing me like a fish. “What do you know of Cor?”