The Following Week

The safehouse smelled like old blood and cheaper whiskey.

Alistair had shown them the location on a map—a dot in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Ashen Guard territory and the unclaimed lands where the Veil ran thin. No name. No markers. Just a place where people went when they didn’t want to be found.

"You’ll be mercenaries," he’d said. "Hired muscle looking for work. Don’t flash your badges. Don’t use your real names. And for the love of the Veil, don’t start a fight you can’t finish."

Cora had grinned at that. Lucian had watched her and said nothing.

The van dropped them at a crossroads outside town. The driver left without a word.

---

Lucian had changed more than the others.

His hair was darker now—dyed black, the farm-boy brown gone. He wore a worn leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a scarf pulled high enough to hide half his face. His twin blades were wrapped in cloth, strapped across his back like a mercenary’s trophy. He looked like someone you’d cross the street to avoid.

Cora had tied her hair back, swapped her usual jacket for a grey hoodie. Mason wore a beanie pulled low over his eyes. Sera had ditched her crossbow for a handgun—standard mercenary issue, nothing special. Derek had the hardest time. His staff was too distinctive, too recognizable. He’d wrapped it in tape and canvas, made it look like a broken tool.

"You look like a plumber," Sera said.

"I look like a plumber who can summon ghosts."

"Same thing."

---

The town had no walls, no gates, no sign.

It just appeared—buildings rising out of the dust and scrub, old and weathered, their paint peeling. The streets were narrow, crooked, lined with shops that had no windows and doors that stayed closed. The people who walked those streets didn’t look at each other. They kept their heads down and their hands in their pockets.

No children. No dogs. No laughter.

The team walked in a loose formation, Lucian at the front, Mason at the rear. They didn’t talk. Didn’t look around too much. Mercenaries didn’t gawk.

The first vampire they saw was a woman in a red coat, her arm around a young man with hollow cheeks and glassy eyes. She led him into an alley, and he went willingly, like a dog following a treat. His neck was bare. His pulse was slow.

Cora’s hand moved toward her blade.

Lucian’s voice was low. "No."

"She’s feeding on him."

"He’s willing."

"That doesn’t make it right."

"It makes it not our problem." He kept walking.

Cora followed, her jaw tight.

---

The gambling den was a tent in an empty lot, its flaps tied open, its interior lit by lanterns that burned green. Inside, beastkin of all kinds crowded around tables—wolves and foxes and bears, their human faces barely holding back the animal underneath. They played cards with silver coins and bone dice, their growls and barks mixing into a low roar.

One of them saw the team passing. He was tall, broad, with fur on his arms and yellow eyes. He sniffed the air.

"Hunters," he said.

Lucian didn’t slow. "Mercenaries."

"Same smell."

"Different pay."

The beastkin laughed. It was a rough sound, like rocks grinding together. He let them pass.

Derek exhaled.

"Keep breathing," Dr. Blackwood whispered.

"I’m trying."

"Try harder."

---

The potion shop was a cart in the square, its wheels rusted, its canopy patched. A woman stood behind it—old, thin, her hair white, her nails black. Jars lined the cart’s shelves, filled with liquids that glowed and smoked and bubbled. She didn’t call out to customers. She just watched, her eyes pale and patient.

Cora glanced at the jars. "Love potions?"

"Curse removers," Sera said. "And a few things that shouldn’t be sold anywhere."

"How do you know?"

"I recognize the labels. Black market stuff."

The old woman’s eyes found them. She smiled. Her teeth were too sharp.

Lucian walked faster.

---

The square opened ahead, wider than the streets, ringed by buildings that looked less broken than the rest. A fountain stood in the center, dry, its basin cracked. People sat on its edge—drifters, deserters, people with nowhere else to go.

And across the square, in the mouth of a dark alley, Voss stood talking to a demon.

Cora saw her first.

She stopped. Her hand went to her blade.

Lucian caught her wrist. "Don’t."

"That’s her. That’s Voss."

"I know."

"She escaped. She’s working with them."

"We don’t know that."

Cora turned on him. "She’s talking to a demon. In a neutral town. What else would she be doing?"

Lucian didn’t answer. He was watching Voss—the way she stood, the way she listened, the way her silver hand hung at her side, relaxed but ready. The demon was tall, hooded, its face hidden. They spoke low, fast, like people who had done this before.

"Keep walking," Lucian said.

"Lucian—"

"Keep walking."

He pulled her forward. The others followed. They crossed the square, passed the fountain, disappeared into a side street.

Cora shook her arm free. "We could have taken her."

"We could have started a war."

"That’s not the same thing."

"It’s exactly the same thing."

She glared at him. He didn’t glare back.

They found a room above a tavern—small, dirty, with one window and three cots. Mason took first watch. Sera checked her gun. Derek sat in the corner, his ghosts close.

Cora stood by the window, looking out at the square.

"She’s still there," she said.

"I know."

"She’s meeting someone else now. A witch."

Lucian joined her at the window.

Voss had moved deeper into the alley, but her silhouette was visible—taller than the witch beside her, her silver hand catching the faint light. They talked. The witch nodded. Then both of them vanished.

Cora turned to Lucian. "What are they planning?"

He watched the empty alley.

"Nothing good."

A/N

Thanks for reading, I really appreciate, you can support me by gifting and subscribing.

Thanks once again.