Scythe and Pen

By A.C. Hobbs

Demetrius Raske strikes a deal with the Devil to stop a monster stalking the city, but he may have unleashed another villain entirely…

 

The Capital of the United League of Nations glitters like jewels on a dame's neck—a city of wicked splendor and possibility. The deals struck in the Senate are as ruthless as the ones struck in the city's criminal underbelly. No one knows this better than vampire politician Demetrius Raske, who walks both worlds.

 

Demetrius fights for a bill that will grant humans and vampires equal civil liberties. But many citizens don't share his sentiment, especially after the murders begin. Body after body, drained of blood, appear throughout the city, threatening the League's tenuous peace treaty between humans and vampires. If Demetrius's bill doesn't pass the Senate, his campaign for a united future will be crushed. Only one man has the ability to apprehend the bloodthirsty monster—a man known simply as the Devil. And rumor has it, he isn't a man at all. Together, they strike a deal to catch the murderer before Demetrius's bill fails—a disaster that would push the League to the brink of civil war.

 

But Demetrius's calculated moves don't go unnoticed. He catches the attention of Gabriella Rose, a journalist whose hunt for her next big headline pushes her right into the murderer's path, costing her everything she holds dear. Now something dark grows within Gabriella—a power her allies wish to control and her enemies want to exploit.

 

The only way Demetrius and Gabriella can save themselves—and the city they love—is to strike another deal with the Devil. But their villainous partner is playing his own game. And soon they will learn how the Devil earned his name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Counterpoise Press
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781736741481

Book preview

Part One

Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening room.

– The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

Chapter 1

23 October 1924

Eastgate

White wall tires slopped through the rain. Streetlights slithered over the Packard’s fenders as Harriet Gale pulled into the Central Station trainyard. Gripping the wheel, she peered into the dark. Engines squatted like sleeping beasts on the tracks.

Harriet released a measured breath. Where have you brought me, Boss? she murmured. Harriet glanced over her shoulder at the canvas-draped form occupying the backseat.

This is no place for ladies, is it, honey? she asked.

She guided the Packard between two resting engines. They loomed over the car like sentinels at a gateway. Jesus, Boss. The Packard bumped over rail ties, and the corpse jostled. Harriet’s eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. Hold still, girl. I better not hear a peep out of you, all right?

Empty freight cars stretched on either side of the path. Ahead, a car marked WALTON DRY GOODS blocked any exit. Her headlights wavered over the corrugated metal, down the painted letters, and struck a figure. Harriet’s gloved fingers curled tight on the wheel.

A man stood at the end of the tracks, his shadow stretching above him like the wings of a bat. His body itself seemed composed of darkness: black overcoat, black fedora, black suit.

The Packard’s brakes whined as Harriet stopped, then cut the engine.

The man did not move.

Harriet swallowed. Well, here we are, honey. End of the line. She stepped out of the car. Gravel crunched beneath her buckle shoes as she marched forward with more bravado than she felt. Fancy meeting you here, Boss.

The fedora tilted in greeting.

Harriet motioned to the car. Signed, sealed, delivered. Just for you, honey.

The Boss gave no answer, simply strode past her to the vehicle. As he passed, moonlight struck his features: aquiline nose, harsh cheekbones, the severe down-turn of a scowl. The car door squeaked as he leaned inside to inspect the delivery. Harriet frowned at his stooped back and pulled her manteau cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Bit of an odd meeting place, isn’t it?

Any trouble? The Boss’ voice rumbled from the car, deep and harsh as the surrounding night. At Harriet’s headshake, he grunted: Good.

Harriet leaned against the Packard’s warm hood. Care to explain this? She waved her hand at the body. Ferrying dead girls across town isn’t in my usual job description.

The Boss hoisted the corpse like a sack of flour. As the body bumped the door frame, Harriet’s stomach flopped. Nerves, she realized with some surprise. It had been a long time since Harriet Gale had felt nervous on a job. Boss? Her voice wavered.

And that single note of concern made him look up. The fedora concealed his eyes, but Harriet felt the weight of his glare.

I saw her face, she said softly. Only a fool would deny what happened.

The Boss scoffed. Fools run this city.

Harriet’s nose wrinkled. I don’t like this. Moving her. And here? She spread her hands. How does this help?

The car door slammed. "We aren’t trying to help, growled the Boss, his voice strained under his burden. We’re trying to send a message."

To whom?

His voice filtered back as he trudged into the dark. It’s time those bastards in the Tower paid attention. Before it’s too fucking late.

Harriet’s chest tightened. His answer was exactly what she’d feared. They had operated in the shadows for so long…and now he was claiming center stage. Isn’t that just what we need? she thought bitterly. Every suit setting his sights on Eastgate. All for some dead whore.

Where are you taking her? asked Harriet.

She turned but found herself alone, the railyard empty save for slumbering trains and empty cars. The Boss and his grim burden were gone, as assuredly as if they’d vanished into thin air.

Harriet’s skin crawled. Jesus-saints, I hate when he does that.

Chapter 2

24 October 1924

The Capital

334 ALL SAINTS ST.

SENATOR B. RASKE

INCIDENT REPORTED IN CENTRAL CITY. POLICE DISPATCHED. DEFENSE MINISTER NOTIFIED.

COME PREPARED.

SEN. P.A. ROSE

1:15 PM

204 ROCKWELL AVE, ALL SAINTS, CENTRAL CITY

DEMETRIUS RASKE

REPORT TO PRECINCT. HOSTILITY EXPECTED.

SEN. B. RASKE

1:45 PM

Demetrius Raske checked his pocket watch simply for the pretext of having something to do. He hovered in the bustling lobby of Central City Precinct, his only companion a frowning policeman. Ten minutes prior, Demetrius had attempted sitting on a lobby bench, only to have the copper glare so severely that he leapt back to his feet.

You know, drawled Demetrius, I’m not going anywhere.

The copper grunted.

Demetrius quirked an eyebrow. Suit yourself.

A shout echoed through the lobby. Mr. Raske!

Demetrius jerked upright. An inspector approached, hand extended. My apologies for the wait, he said with an air of hurried injustice.

Demetrius stepped forward. Inspector Cleveland?

Guilty as charged. Cleveland sniffed as he eyed the young suit.

Based on his attire, the boy (to the detective inspector, no one under the age of thirty should be called a man) was wealthy but not ostentatiously so. His suit was bespoke; his boots polished but well-worn. A trim figure, broad in the shoulders while lean in the waist. Clean-shaven, no jawline shadow despite the late hour. Yet the boy’s most striking feature was his eyes: as blue and cold as winter frost.

And who in the bloody hell are you? Cleveland frowned. What stunt has Rose pulled this time?

Then he shook the young man’s hand and understood.

Ice cold.

Cleveland’s eyes narrowed. Well. I’d say you’re the man for the job.

Demetrius’ pleasant expression froze. Senator Rose seemed to think so.

Well, if you’re here for information, I’m afraid there’s not much to share. The coroner hasn’t concluded his examination.

Demetrius inclined his head. As it happens, that’s why I’m here.

I hardly think it appropriate for a consultant to be involved in a medical—

Quite the contrary. I’m at your full disposal, Demetrius interjected smoothly. "The Defense Minister indicated that he wanted this…ah, incident resolved as quickly as possible. Bad press for the police. For the entire Defense Department, really."

Cleveland arched an eyebrow. Rather bad press for you and that senator father of yours too, I’d wager. That’s why you’re really here. Ol’ Gunfort has nothing to do with it.

Demetrius shrugged, a What can you do? expression on his handsome face. Cleveland’s mouth pursed.

A heartbeat passed in which Demetrius wondered whether the inspector would refuse. Worry prickled his skin. He needed to examine the body and, in so doing, get a handle on the situation before the press spun their own horror story.

A curt nod was Cleveland’s only response, but it was enough.

White tiles stretched down a narrow corridor. A picture window waited at the end. Demetrius hesitated.

Even vampires shivered peering into morgues.

Beyond the window loomed a small amphitheater. A raised platform occupied the center, as if the morgue were a stage upon which magicians performed unholy arts. Demetrius supposed there was a certain dark elegance to the operation: exposing the secrets of the human body and the killer’s mind.

Framed within the window, a medical examiner in his dark apron stooped over a sheet-clad form.

Our examiner is top in his field, boasted Cleveland. Citadel students attend his lectures. Hence all the… He indicated the seats ringing the room. Reaching past Demetrius, Cleveland jabbed a button mounted onto the wall. A metallic buzz grated through the morgue.

Coming in, Doctor, he barked.

The examiner startled; his eyes were two white coins, bright and round, above his mask. Inspector, I really must protest—

Doctor, this is Demetrius Raske, interrupted Cleveland. He’s here on the Senate’s orders. To speed things along.

Demetrius held up a hand. Oh no, please. I’m just here to help—

But the damage had been done. With one hooked finger, the coroner lowered his mask. His glare raked Demetrius from collar to brogues.

A doctor I presume?

No, sir. Just a lawyer, I’m afraid. But I do have some experience in this area.

What? In autopsy?

Ah, no. In vampirism.

The coroner’s mask snapped back into place. "A lawyer, is it? Disdain dripped from the word. Very well, he muttered. I hope you’re not squeamish, Mr. Raske. Masks are on that table. Let’s investigate why those politicians believe a lawyer more capable of performing my job than I."

Demetrius slipped on a mask. She was found alone?

Inspector Cleveland grunted. Dawn patrol noticed her lying on a bench. Just outside Central Station. Thought she was a passenger what missed her train. Went to wake her and—Well, you’ll see.

The coroner peeled back the sheet. Demetrius’ mask stirred as he sucked in a breath.

Any beauty the woman may have possessed had shriveled. Cheekbones jutted through skin taut and yellow. Hollows caved in melted cheeks, betraying the planes of her skull. Her lips puckered, as if tasting a perpetual sour. She was a cruel caricature of a woman: paint plastered onto a morbid, skeletal doll.

Demetrius’ eyebrows shot to his hairline. Exsanguination.

And severely so, I would say, said the coroner.

Demetrius’ throat worked. And ah—blinking rapidly above the surgical mask—were any items found on the body?

Cleveland plucked a clipboard from the table. He rattled off a list: Silk chemise. Two oxblood pumps. One necklace, brass with fake rubies. One lace glove. And a change purse with two pounds in coin, a one-way train ticket, a tube of lipstick, and a handful of red rose petals.

Red rose petals? Demetrius asked.

Cleveland shrugged. The random riffraff of a woman’s purse. Contrary to what the penny dreadfuls would have you believe, not every item is case-shattering evidence.

Demetrius’ eyes darkened, but he did not reply. Like a pot nearing boil, the coroner watched with crossed arms.

After a silent minute, Demetrius asked, May I view the bite wounds?

Primly, the coroner folded the sheet to expose a white swath of torso and thigh. "Help yourself, Mr. Raske. I daresay you do have experience in this area at least."

Cleveland chuckled. Demetrius’ jaw clenched, but his gaze remained focused on the victim. Gently he rotated her arm to expose her wrist. Two puncture wounds, blackened at the edges, marred the white flesh.

Cleveland cleared his throat. So, if the lass was murdered by a vampire, do we have to worry about her, ah, turning on our hands?

Without looking up, Demetrius replied, Does she look capable of resurrection?

Well, no, not exactly…

Then, no. I would say it’s not likely.

Across the table, the coroner scoffed. There have been cases of resurrection with victims in worse condition than—

No scientifically documented cases, though. Isn’t that right, Doctor? interrupted Demetrius. His glare was an ice-blue dagger. Horror stories won’t help this poor woman. Then, unable to keep the rancor from his voice: "Contrary to what the penny dreadfuls would have you believe, she was simply murdered."

Businesslike, he reached for the woman’s other wrist. Helping himself to a pair of calipers on the coroner’s carefully laid table, he measured each bite mark, muttering under his breath. In his peripheral vision, he caught Cleveland craning forward.

Demetrius addressed the coroner. Were there also wounds on her neck, ankle, and inner thigh? At the coroner’s startled affirmation, Demetrius flipped back the sheet and measured those wounds as well. After a moment, he straightened and covered the body.

She was killed with the initial bite to the neck. Afterward, she was bitten repeatedly. Marks on each wrist, one on her left ankle, and one on her right thigh. Each bite measures differently.

The coroner turned startled eyes to Cleveland, who barked, "She was attacked by multiple creatures?"

If the barb creatures stung, Demetrius did not betray it. He tossed aside his mask. Doctor, feel free to verify my findings, but I imagine you’ll find them to be accurate. In the meantime, do you have any other information for the Senate?

The coroner blinked, caught off guard by Demetrius’ rapid change of pace. Yes, ah— Where is— He scrambled for his clipboard. Skimming notes, he motioned toward the woman’s lower half. Abrasions on the wrists indicate she was bound. No evidence of sexual assault. Although, interestingly, the victim appears to have been the recent recipient of an abortion. Here, he peered over his clipboard.

Cleveland tutted. A whore?

Most likely.

Demetrius blinked. Because she had one abortion?

Cleveland and the coroner exchanged a long-suffering look.

So. The killer, what? Hires her, murders her, then dumps her body? said Demetrius.

Cleveland’s eyes cut sideways. You have the most in common with the murderer, Mr. Raske. Why don’t you tell us?

Demetrius smiled, thin and cold. Well, if she is a prostitute, as you assert, I assume you’ll start your investigation in Eastgate. Maybe someone will recognize her. Or remember her last client.

Cleveland’s whiskers bristled. I know how to do my own job.

Demetrius inclined his head. I defer to your expertise. I’d like a copy of that report when it’s complete, please. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll see myself out.

The men exchanged curt goodbyes, and Demetrius left, steps fading down the hall.

The coroner cocked an eyebrow at the inspector. How’d you get stuck with that kid?

With a smoldering glare, Cleveland pointed to the clipboard. You give me that report first. I’ll be reading it before that boy. Or any damned politicians.

Outside the precinct, Demetrius stepped to the curb and whistled for a cab.

Automobiles whipped past. Horns bleated. Pedestrians rushed to catch a departing trolley, hail a passing cabbie, find their wide-eyed way to the nearest tourist attraction. The city roared all day and all night.

A slow grin spread over Demetrius’ face. He loved it.

Although born to the fierce mountains and seven-month winters of Northern Europa, he’d adored this raucous city from the moment he’d arrived, sixteen and gangly, gawking at the steel-flanked buildings, the multi-colored multitudes, the rank smells, the ceaseless sounds. With one inhale of smog, he had fallen in love with the Capital. Now, eleven years later, he belonged to it the way a part of oneself always belonged to one’s first love: the first heart-racing touch, the first heart-breaking scorn.

A black cab careened to the curb. Demetrius leapt into the backseat. Tower Black.

They lurched into traffic mid-stream. Behind, a truck blasted protest. Oblivious or indifferent, the cab driver whipped into the next lane, then the next, until he attained whatever hidden jetstream would send them rushing to their destination.

One hand gripping the front seat, Demetrius unfolded his newspaper. The grisly headline blasted its alarm: GHOULISH DISCOVERY IN CENTRAL CITY. His stomach twisted. Earlier that morning, on his way to the precinct, he’d prayed reports had been incorrect, that superstition had fueled sensationalism. But one glance at that poor woman had erased every held-out hope.

A vampire murder. The first in decades.

Demetrius closed his eyes. This will change everything.

The cab lurched. Demetrius gripped the seat as they wheeled left, shot down a one-lane alley, then burst back onto a main street.

Short cut, grunted the driver.

Demetrius released his death-grip and glared out the window.

Marble and glass, steel and concrete zipped past. Greco-Roman buildings opened to a glittering ribbon of water. Canal boats puttered by, steam tufting into the autumn air.

A white-columned bridge spanned the canal. Cars inched along its length, reflections glimmering beetle-black on the water below. Demetrius’ cab merged into the crawling line of traffic. As they slowly turned, Demetrius was afforded a full view of Tower Island.

A manmade spit of earth straddled the intersection of canal and river. Atop it loomed three skyscrapers: one white, one red, one black. The tallest, glistening like a beacon, was Tower White, the seat of the United League of Nations.

As he fished in his coat for his access badge, Demetrius’ mind raced. He needed to relay his findings to his department, but first there was someone he needed to speak to. Someone who could make this entire problem go away.

Chapter 3

24 October 1924

Tower White

Heated invectives pinged between father and son. The conversation was one shout away from all-out war.

You do realize what you’re saying?

If the legislation stands—

At present, that legislation is the only thing protecting our people.

"Our people? Protecting our people from what, exactly? Edward Rose stopped his prowl. Two of his vest-buttons had popped during his tirade. He beheld his father, white-lipped. How can you believe this? You of all people!"

His father, Senator Philip Rose, put a hand to his head. Edward—

The young man’s voice echoed through the room. How? How can you justify this?

Rose’s head jerked up. "I justify it the same way I have always justified my decisions in this office. Let each nation abide in peaceful union. Let each senator protect the greater good."

Edward’s eyes rolled heavenward as, with the cadence of an evangelical minister, Senator Rose jabbed his finger in the air.

That, boy, goes beyond individual need. It goes beyond fear. It’s the vow every man swore when joining the League Senate. Every single man.

Empty words, spat Edward, spreading his hands. Empty words that haven’t been upheld. If they had, we wouldn’t even be in the present situation. After today, what more proof do you need?

Rose shook his head. Reform doesn’t happen overnight, son. Saints, vampires have only been part of the League for five years. Sinking back into his chair, he waved a futile hand. You can’t condemn an entire nation for one murder. Besides,—he pulled a stack of papers closer, signaling the end of their debate—no official statement has been released regarding that poor woman’s death.

Edward snorted. You sent Demetrius Raske to the precinct. A bit obvious, don’t you think? He grasped the edge of his father’s desk. "And those creatures are not people. They’re beasts. Beasts who hunt and murder. Lip curling, he straightened. They are un-evolved. Evil. And you’re a blind fool if you don’t see that."

"Or perhaps they are more highly evolved, Edward, snarled Rose. Perhaps God created them to remind us of our own frailty. In a swift stroke, he signed the document before him and jammed his pen back onto its stand. Perhaps that’s why you fear them so. Rose stood and reached for his bowler. Eyes cold, he fixed his son with a hard glare. You speak of my blindness, son. Consider your own." Before Edward could sputter a rebuttal, Rose strode from the room.

In the hall, his cold veneer faltered. He ran a shaking hand over his face.

When he’d begun this fool-hearted campaign, Senator Rose had resigned himself to opposition. Valhalla’s entry into the United League of Nations had occurred alongside dailies smearing Rose's family; the day he announced his partnership with Senator Balthazar Raske, his mailbox had been inundated with hate mail. Now, with the end of his seven-year term looming, Rose doubted he would be re-elected.

We don’t have much time, he thought worriedly.

At the end of the hall, he nodded to the elevator operator. Snapping to, the boy pulled the lift grate open.

Which floor, Senator Rose?

Tenth, please.

The boy hesitated, white-gloved hand hovering over the buttons. He quickly schooled his features, but Rose caught the brief flash of fear. Years had not erased the dark stigma of the tenth floor. Rose checked a weary sigh. Would things ever change?

Clearing his throat, the boy shut the grate. Very good, sir.

The lift creaked into motion.

An ebony desk squatted on clawed feet, prickly with ornamentation. Angelic forms twisted down the legs: seraphim and nephilim alike tossed writhing into Chaos. Down they tumbled, teeth bared, hands clawed. Around them fell swords and spears, covered in gold leaf. Each fallen weapon was shattered, save for a scythe clutched in the fist of the topmost angel. Wings unbroken, he glared defiantly at some distant purged heaven.

Senator Balthazar Raske selected a letter from the small mountain accumulating on his desk. A knock echoed from the door. Without looking up, he gave a quick shout of Enter!

Rose’s bowler popped around the corner. Good day to you, Raske! If indeed a good day is still possible for any of us now. A large man, Rose squeezed his body into the cubby-sized room.

Raske extended a hand. Please be seated. May I offer you a drink?

Rose shook his head. Regrettably, I must decline. My wife has imposed strict guidelines on my health. At Raske’s commiserating chuckle, he sighed. God knows I could use a dram.

Raske indicated the letters towering in his inbox tray. Telegrams and letters. Nearly thirty arrived this morning. Some demanding explanation. All demanding immediate action. Others…well, others were not so humane.

Rose scowled. Have any other senators stopped by?

Oh yes. Raske cut his eyes toward his partner. Senator Caddigan, of course. Also Lord Avering. And one terrified aide with an urgent memo from the Defense Minister. He held up a small square card. One side bore a large silver seal: crossed pistols surmounting a broadsword.

Rose scanned the memo. Your presence is requested. Rose tossed the card back onto the desk. At least he didn’t march here himself.

Barely just, grunted Raske. The silver ink was a nice touch.

My friend, nothing has been proven yet. A body has simply been found. Cause of death is still unknown.

Raske’s fingers steepled before his face. Oh, but the papers have made their decision, haven’t they? Demetrius should be returning shortly with the information we need.

Your son’s a good lad, assured Rose. He’ll be thorough.

Raske’s mouth hardened. He did not reply.

Chapter 4

24 October 1924

Tower Black

Demetrius hated Tower Black’s dungeon level. No matter how many times he made the trip, he never grew accustomed to it. As he descended, he comforted himself by ticking off all the things he hated about the place.

Number one, the absurd number of steps. Once he had attempted counting them but had given up at five hundred and twenty-four.

The Chronicler’s Library was sequestered deep beneath Tower Black in what had once been the city dungeons. Groundwater seeped down stone walls to puddle on the floor. After the first level, electric lights vanished and were replaced by torches. Muttering to himself, Demetrius considered snatching one from its sconce and brandishing it as a precaution against evil beasts.

His lips twitched at the thought. Some might argue that he was said evil beast.

Number two, he considered as he turned another bend. The darkness.

Contrary to the common stereotype, vampires did not enjoy dank cellars. Nor did they prefer crumbling castles. Such domiciles had stemmed from dire necessity rather than choice. Dire necessity, in this instance, meaning a burning stake or a silver bullet to the temple.

Personally, Demetrius Raske loathed dark spaces. A man of modern sensibilities, he appreciated the comforts of his townhome on Rockwell Avenue.

Demetrius descended a final staircase, which ended at a wooden door. Two torches framed the doorway, casting twisted shadows across the floor.

Finally, he grumbled. He raised a fist and banged on the door. The sound echoed along the tunnel’s empty length.

Demetrius implored the ceiling. Surely, surely, I did not take a wrong turn.

He started to knock again, but a dull thud vibrated through the chamber. Then the door opened, old hinges whining in protest. A black threshold yawned.

Demetrius waited. But no one stepped forward. Neck tingling, he edged nearer. Gas hissed and a torch sputtered, illuminating a hallway stretching into blackness.

Reason number three, Demetrius glowered. Goddamned theatrics.

Demetrius followed the tunnel until a glow appeared ahead, first faint, then stronger. He shielded his eyes against the brightness. Beneath his boots, the floor transitioned to smooth pavers as he stepped into a mammoth cavern.

His breath caught.

Each visit to the Chronicler’s Library felt like the first. Black stone walls rose beyond sight. Monolithic columns had been chiseled into the rock, their scope an overwhelming testament to modern engineering. Forty feet below the outcropping upon which he stood, the cavern floor gleamed like a formless sea. Pinpricks of light flickered within the polished slabs, reflected from two enormous chandeliers. Flames hissed in delicate bulbs, powered by a gas line drilled down from the surface.

Silence pressed upon Demetrius, heavy as a wool coat. Slowly, he descended the hewn-stone staircase. Bookshelves stretched the length of the chamber, row after row in an infinite mirror image. Shadows drenched the aisles. Nothing stirred.

Demetrius paused, pulling his overcoat tighter. No matter how many times he visited the Library, he never grew accustomed to the chill. The dampness of stone crept into his bones. Above, in the busy halls of Tower Black, one could forget that such places existed: dark chambers filled with secrets.

He stepped into the main aisle. Hello?

His call echoed off the black walls, growing smaller and smaller. He glanced left and right, even back over his shoulder.

He drew a deep breath and tried again. Excuse me, is anyone here?

Something glimmered at the end of the aisle. He frowned.

My name is Demetrius Raske. His voice rang loud in the hollow space. I’ve come to speak with the Chronicler.

Only his echo replied. Brow furrowing, Demetrius pivoted a half-circle. Perhaps this had been a mistake. His stomach clenched at the thought of returning to Tower White, of going before his father with nothing but bad news.

He must be here, thought Demetrius. Hey! I’m not leaving until I get some answers!

Not leaving—not leaving—I’m not leaving—until—answers—I’m not—The echo mocked his desperation.

Demetrius peered into the gloom. This subterranean Library held no grand collections of literature or dusty annals of history. Instead, each shelf housed a thick tome bound in black calfskin, spine and cover bare. No title, no author, no publisher logo. Just thousands of copies of the same volume, stretching as far as his eye could see.

Mr. Raske.

Demetrius jumped. A figure appeared in the shadows of the last bookcase. Preoccupied, he had not heard the footsteps.

Features concealed by the dark, the person stood so still that, for a disoriented moment, Demetrius thought he stared at a statue. Wary, Demetrius glanced back up the aisle, but nothing else stirred. He turned back and hissed.

The person now stood several feet closer.

Orange light graced a straight nose and the curved bow of a mouth. Walnut skin glowed against a dove-grey dress. Not a statue, not a specter: a woman. Embarrassment heated Demetrius’ cheeks.

I’m sorry, are you—Do you work here? he asked through gritted teeth.

The woman did not answer.

Demetrius drew an irritated breath. Look. I don’t have time for smoke-and-mirrors bullshit. The woman’s head tilted, and light slithered up her cheekbone, brushing the edge of a sharp black bob. I need to speak with the Chronicler. It’s urgent.

He isn’t here.

The rebuttal, uttered in a husky alto, raised Demetrius’ eyebrows. What do you mean he isn’t here? He’s always here.

He has business elsewhere today. Rich and smooth as caramel, the woman’s voice poured over him.

Of course he does, grumbled Demetrius as he checked his pocket watch. I don’t have time for his games. I need to access a Tome.

No. Her one-word refusal hit like a hammer on a nail.

Demetrius blinked. Excuse me?

Only the Chronicler may access Library records.

Demetrius laughed, one mirthless huff. He pulled his badge from his coat pocket and flashed it at the woman. She made no move to take it.

I’m here on behalf of Senators Raske and Rose, as part of a consultation between the city police and the Department of Defense. Their credentials should suffice.

The woman’s voice remained patient. "Mr. Raske, the Defense Minister himself doesn’t have access to the Chronicler’s records, much less your father."

You can’t be serious, Demetrius snapped. He needed that record. So, he switched tactics, brandishing his final trump card. Miss, I realize you don’t know me, but your boss certainly does. I need to speak with him. Now.

You’re more than welcome to do so, Mr. Raske. As soon as he returns.

It’s a matter of life and death. A bit dramatic, he conceded, but not untrue.

You can tell that to the Chronicler. When he returns. The honeyed patience melted from the woman’s tone, replaced by steel sparks. Perhaps he can be persuaded to make an exception for you, Mr. Raske…But I doubt it.

Her smug refusal snapped the last tether holding Demetrius’ temper. He took a menacing step forward. Fangs peeking from his mouth, he snarled: "You tell Hades Cronus—yes, I know his real name—that Demetrius Raske wants to speak with him."

Without awaiting her reaction, he turned on his heel and stormed back down the aisle. His footsteps echoed on the glossy walls as over his shoulder, he fired one last shot.

Tell your boss I’m calling in that favor he owes me. And I won’t be kept waiting.

Chapter 5

24 October 1924

Tower White

Edward Rose marched down a winding hallway.

Senatorial offices, including his father’s, were located within Tower White. The tallest building in the modern world, it loomed a thousand feet above the city skyline. The most beautiful of the League’s iconic three towers, it served as the unofficial symbol of the United League of Nations. Its glistening pinnacle housed the Senate, the supreme legislative body of Europa’s international parliament.

Edward quickened his pace, hugging the walkway interior, well away from the railing. Glancing over made his stomach churn. In a grand (and perhaps ill-conceived) gesture, the Tower architects had elected to create one continuous walkway leading from the base of the tower to its peak. No stairs or visible supports of any kind, just a graceful corridor, spiraling like the notches of a nautilus shell. For the less stout of heart, six golden elevators glided through the Tower’s core.

Stupid design, thought Edward. In the seventy years since the tower’s completion, there had been two suicides within the building: disconsolate statesmen leaping to their doom after an ill-fated vote. Edward had once viewed such desperation as ridiculous; now he understood that bone-crushing worry, the realization of a world slipping through your fingers like so much loose sand.

He neared Senator Rose’s suite. With a familiar nod to the secretary, he walked right into the senator’s private office without knocking.

Ah, Edward, greeted Rose. He returned to his paperwork. I know I needn’t introduce Senator Raske.

Edward cursed inwardly. Here sat the reason he had rushed to his father’s office, coyly watching Edward as he panted in the doorway like an old hunting hound. Somehow Balthazar Raske had beaten him to the meeting. The vampire senator always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

Raske extended a hand. The vampire’s icy grip sent a sharp chill up Edward’s forearm.

Your father and I were just discussing the bill, explained Raske.

Or what’s left of it now that the damned committees have had their way, Rose grumbled.

Edward frowned. Won’t today’s attack delay the vote?

"I would hardly call one woman’s demise an attack, dismissed Rose. Be that as it may, the city police are investigating. And, as I understand it, Demetrius as well." He inclined his head in Raske’s direction.

Edward affected mild disinterest as he turned to Raske. "So, you do think the woman was murdered by a vampire? I assume. Since you sent your own son to the precinct."

Raske paused, clearly choosing his words. Nothing has been confirmed. But I felt it necessary that we maintain a firm presence in the investigation.

I’m sure you did, thought Edward.

They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Rose’s secretary peeked into the room.

Demetrius Raske, sir.

Oh, send him in, send him in. Rose stood with a much warmer smile than he’d afforded Edward. No need to wait on the secretary, Mr. Raske. Come on in. Tell us what needs knowing.

Demetrius launched into a quick explanation of his observations at the morgue. As he described the woman’s injuries, Edward had to look away. Anger smoldered beneath his breastbone, the other men’s voices fading to background drones.

Five vampires had attacked the woman and drained her life from her veins. Five murderers—five monsters, he amended angrily—walking free upon the Capital streets, preying on its citizens.

Edward stared at his hands, whitening as he clenched his fists. A red line blushed the crest of each knuckle. He could not face the vampires in the room. He could not bear to see them solemnly discussing the barbarism committed by their own countrymen.

The room quieted as the four men absorbed the information. Raske sat with head bowed.

Rose blew out a breath. Well. He turned to Senator Raske. How do you want to handle this?

The vampire senator ran a hand over his face. Of course, the Defense Minister must be informed immediately. With a deep sigh, he straightened. The moment the press gets wind of this story… He exchanged a strained grimace with his son. It could ruin us.

Edward startled as his father nodded.

Yes, agreed Rose slowly. An alleged attack by a group of vampires—

"An alleged attack? blurted Edward. He pointed at Demetrius. He just described the bite wounds. The woman was murdered!"

"I say alleged because the police have released no official statement, snapped Rose. And thus, the government—and this office, I might add—has no official statement either. He rapped a knuckle against the desk. At this point, all the public should know is that a woman was found dead outside Central Station."

And if there’s a full-page spread tomorrow? Demetrius let the question dangle in the air.

Rose’s smile turned grim. "Well. As it happens, I have a rather close contact at the Daily Courier. Bad publicity would be devastating to the Equality Bill right now. We’ll use whatever means necessary."

Edward’s eyebrows shot up. He felt some gratification to see that even Demetrius sat up straight at this proclamation.

Rose continued, We must handle this incident with our overall goal in mind. Perhaps it’d be better, for now, if this information didn’t leave this office.

Yes, murmured Senator Raske. Buy ourselves a little time to put the correct spin on things. And, hopefully, ensure the votes we need.

The correct spin. Votes. Edward’s skin crawled.

Of course Raske wanted to quell any reports of vampirism in the Capital. Introduced last year, Raske’s Equality Bill aimed to grant vampires full civil rights within the League, rights hereto denied due to their nation’s violent history. If the truth reached the public, garnering votes would become impossible. Raske’s entire election platform, his entire aim since assuming office, would be demolished.

Edward gaped at his father. "So, your strategy is to suppress a violent crime? We’re talking about five murderers. Who’s to say they won’t attack again? Before Rose could react, Edward whirled on Senator Raske. How do we know the bill isn’t the very reason for this attack? Perhaps your constituents aren’t as supportive of your cause as you claim."

Edward— Senator Rose’s voice slid into a dangerous treble, but Edward had risen from his chair.

"We need to address this situation today. Stay ahead of it, prepare a response—"

The papers will eviscerate my father if we take responsibility, exclaimed Demetrius.

Edward rounded on the vampire. "Fitting choice of words. That poor woman was literally eviscerated by one of your people."

Demetrius’ features stiffened. "One of my people? My entire country is responsible for this now?"

Edward’s face twisted. You’re responsible for a hell of a lot more than this.

Demetrius’ face flushed. He jerked in his chair—Senator Raske’s hand flew out to catch his elbow—but Rose stood first and unleashed a shout that rattled the windows.

Boy! You will show some respect when speaking to your superiors in my office.

Edward paled as his father rounded the desk in two strides. Rose stopped an inch from his son’s nose, a finger leveled at his eyes.

"Now, before you further embarrass yourself, consider this: one woman—one—has been tragically killed. The woman was a prostitute whose nefarious lifestyle led her into a dangerous situation—"

"Prostitution doesn’t justify being murdered—"

Let. Me. Finish. Rose eyes were black marbles; his mustache bristled. "One person. One. Compared to the thousands of citizens who will be impacted if Raske’s bill doesn’t pass the Senate."

Edward’s mouth worked, but he did not correct his father.

Rose softened his voice somewhat. I understand your frustration, Son. But there’s not an easy answer. At times, a man must act for the greater good.

The greater good? echoed Edward. It was the second time today Rose has used that term. He stared at his father as if he had never seen him before. "Right now, I see only two people who will benefit if that damned bill passes. Edward leaned forward. What did he promise you, Father? In exchange for your help? Shares in the Valhallan mines? Property in the Borderlands?"

Edward Rose! Senator Rose’s fist slammed the desk. "You are out of line, boy! I will excuse your impertinence once. Once. Face red, he spewed the last word. But if you ever speak to me in such a disgraceful manner again, I will dismiss you from your position."

Edward went white. He swallowed, then said hoarsely, "Don’t bother, Father, I quit."

Rose was thunderstruck. Neither Raske moved, both discreetly tense before this familial debacle. Recovering, Rose thrust a finger toward the door. This conversation is over. Get out.

Edward spread his hands. "Father, this course is wrong—"

I will not ask again! bellowed Rose. Excuse yourself from my office.

Crimson flooded Edward’s face. He clenched his fists at his sides. Demetrius tensed, afraid for one wild moment that the young man would swing at his own father. But then, without another word, Edward stormed out.

The room tingled. Demetrius sat stiffly, unsure whether to excuse himself or remain seated.

Senator Rose sank back into his chair and covered his eyes. Please excuse my son, Lord Raske. His opinions do not reflect this office. He’ll be dealt with, I assure you. Hand falling to reveal a grey face, he added, "Rest assured, nothing discussed here today will be disclosed."

Senator Raske shook his head. Please. I have children as well, Senator. No need to apologize.

Demetrius wisely did not comment.

Raske stood. If anything further develops, I’ll reach out.

Recognizing a gracious exit when he heard one, Rose inclined his head. I’m at your disposal.

Raske took his leave, indicating for Demetrius to follow. As they strode down the central walkway, Demetrius glanced over the railing. A golden elevator crept past. Through its glass windows, he glimpsed Edward Rose’s grey suit. The young man looked up and, for a moment, their eyes met before the elevator descended out of sight.

Demetrius and his father walked in silence until they reached the suite of rooms reserved for the Kingdom of Valhalla’s meager staff. Interdepartmental missives overflowed Raske’s mailbox. Unlike Rose, Balthazar did not have his own secretary. Budget restrictions, reasoned the administration.

Once inside, Demetrius’ expression crumpled into worry. As much as I hate to say it, I agree with Edward. It didn’t look good, Father. That woman was slaughtered. The bites were unmistakable.

Leafing through the memos, Raske glanced up. I’m sure she was, he said grimly. We’ve always been aware that rogue covens don’t agree with our efforts. This is someone’s attempt at protest.

Then we mustn’t seem weak. If she was murdered by a coven—

It’s not weakness, my son. It’s politics.

Demetrius recognized the dismissal, but principle urged him on. I don’t think suppressing the truth is wise. A strong, offensive stance would prove that we have the public’s best interests—

Raske cut him off. Or convince them I’m unable to control my own constituents.

Demetrius shook his head. If a rogue coven hunted a human, then they should be punished. Hard and fast.

Raske’s glare was sharp. The murder was committed within city limits, Demetrius. Thus the crime falls under the Capital police jurisdiction. Not our Queen’s.

But how can we—

Thank you for all your help today, son. You did well. Raske nodded toward the door. I will keep you informed as necessary.

Demetrius’ lips pursed but, unlike Edward Rose, he knew better than to test the limitations of his father’s patience. Already absorbed in his work, Balthazar did not even look up as the door clicked shut.

Demetrius’ own office stood adjacent his father’s. More of a broom cupboard than an office, the windowless room barely provided enough space for his desk and chair. Both were shoved into the corner to make room for a single bookshelf lined with law books and case files. Demetrius kept his office pristine, papers neatly stacked, desk spotless.

Thus, the envelope on his chair immediately claimed his attention.

He picked it up with a frown. The small card inside bore no letterhead. Handwritten, its message was succinct.

11:30

Demetrius flipped the card over, but the back was empty, save for a small image stamped in red ink: a grinning skull.

The Chronicler had replied to Demetrius’ demand.

Chapter 6

24 October 1924

Eastgate

The Capital possessed two faces. One worn during the day: scrubbed cheeks, combed hair, neat suit. The other worn at night.

Tower Island and Central City slumbered, windows dark, signs turned to Closed. Yet downtown, deep in the metropolis’ heart, a rhythm began to beat. Everything and everyone awoke. Theatres and clubs sparked to sudden frenzied life. Marquee bulbs popped; headlights flashed. Pedestrians flooded the sidewalks. Suits rippling like sharkskin, dresses sparkling like fish scales—a sea of humanity prowled for entertainment. The night leered beneath hooded, smoky eyes: Come and get it, boys.

Through the dirty glass of a cab window, Demetrius watched a Capital night unfold. His cab crept down Market Street. Restaurants and nightclubs lined the curb. Life passed his window in flashes: a man hailing a cab, a busker’s trumpet crooning, a girl’s white face pitched back in wild laughter.

This was Old Towne, the oldest sector of the city, teeming like a hive, flush with money and liquor.

Demetrius reclined in the cab’s rear seat. Blue light shimmered over his suit. His long legs filled the floorboard, forcing him to bend uncomfortably. Rubbing his knees, he sighed. His nerves gnawed, begging a cigarette. After this day, he deserved one.

He patted his vest, then his pants pocket. Producing pack and matches, he lit a cigarette and sucked a deep, steadying pull. Eyes closed, he rested his head against the seatback. Outside, jazz thumped as they prowled deeper into the warrenlike streets.

Where’ye wantin’, mister?

The cabbie’s rasp startled Demetrius back to wakefulness. Market Street’s lights faded in the rear window.

He dragged on his smoke. Keep going.

A direction would be ’elpful, snipped the driver.

Demetrius’ fist clenched on his knee. He sighed white smoke, then growled, East.