The sun's descent pulled me from slumber. I woke to darkness and hunger; the former welcome, the latter expected.

  Flint's steady presence waited outside, a warm anchor at the edge of my awareness. The Thirst hummed low and sated from last night's hunt; a dormant ember rather than a roaring flame. Slumber had healed my wounds, the fresh blood serving as fuel.

  Dr. Foss sat at her alchemical workbench, running tests on the Red-Eye from the night before. She was there when I woke, which was new. She paid me no mind until I shrugged on the duster, the leather settling across my shoulders like familiar armor.

  "Before you leave, Captain." She held up a small steel canister, turning it in the lamplight. "A consideration."

  I paused, hand on the cellar door.

  "The Madam is the obvious target. Communications hub, probable Red-Eye distributor, the spider at the center of the web." Foss set the canister on the workbench. "Simple assassination would be effective. But what if we could use her first?"

  "Use her how?"

  "What if we could identify everyone in her clutches before removing her from the board?"

  The tactical implications unfolded. "We could evaluate each one. Remove key supporters from Vane's operation. Flip the ones who might turn against him."

  "Precisely." She tapped the canister. "This is a dispersal device, of my own design.” She unscrewed the top and slid the housing free. The inner workings were brass clockwork, a low-tension spring, and a bladder-like reservoir. “Once activated, the spring slowly applies pressure to the micro-bellows, making it an automatic vapor canister.” She looked pleased with the device, proud of her work.

  “Poison? Effective, but indiscriminate.”

  “No, it can be pre-loaded with any liquid suitable for aerosolization, but I have something specific in mind.” She pulled a small vial of clear fluid from another shelf. “This will settle on individuals like dust, and through the course of a few hours, it will bind to their Anima. Odorless, invisible, and harmless.”

  “I suppose you have a method of detecting it later?” Having ruled out smell, which was my initial guess.

  “Very insightful, Captain. I do indeed.” She picked up a pair of modified spectacles from the same shelf. They looked otherwise normal, except for a pearly sheen on the glass. “With these, we can map the entire web.” She put them on and raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ve been working at this for a while, I see.” Her mind was a marvel sometimes. “During one of her after-hours parties, I can sneak in and plant it.”

  “Indeed. You must not be seen so that the device can do its work. This is a stealth operation, not a cavalry charge, Captain.”

  “Understood. Do we have a map of the building, and do we know when her next party is scheduled?”

  “I have a rough layout, assembled from multiple second-hand reports. No plans for the building were on file at the county clerk’s office.” Foss retrieved a sketchbook, larger than her research journals, and opened it to an architectural sketch. “This is the main floor. Here, in the staff area, there’s a stairwell from the cellar. The cellar also has an external entrance, where liquor and other supplies are loaded. I think that might be your best option.”

  “I’d need to ascend two flights of stairs.” I considered my options, weighing the risks against the benefits. “Probably better than trying to break into an upper-story window and hoping nobody sees me outside.”

  “There’s also the complication of locks. You have some options.” She motioned to a tool kit on her workbench. “I can teach you the fundamentals of lockpicking, and you can rely on your elevated senses of touch and hearing. I could also give you a fine-toothed metal saw and some oil to reduce the sound. What do you think?”

  “Depends on how long we have. I can see the long-term benefits of understanding locks, but I can also tear any lock off its hasp if necessary. That won’t be quiet.”

  “Indeed. A padlock would be easy, but a lock built into a door would be challenging. Madam Evangeline has a soiree every Friday night for her VIP clients. That gives us two days to prepare.”

  “Then let’s try the lockpicks and see if I have the knack. Worst case, I bring the saw and improvise if need be.” I moved over to the workbench.

  Foss retrieved a waxed canvas tool roll from the tool chest and a well-made padlock. She explained the fundamentals and had me try it. After dozens of failed attempts, I closed my eyes and focused my senses on the lock. My fingertips felt every scrape and prod of the pick, every tumbler turning and thunking into place.

  After an hour, I could reliably pick that simple lock in moments. Useful in situations where silence was required, but not if I was limited on time.

  “Just as I suspected. Your supernatural perception and tactile sensation make this task significantly more efficient.” She seemed pleased with our progress. “For simple locks, that will be sufficient, but more complex mechanisms will be impossible until you’ve memorized their inner workings.”

  I moved on to the lock on a chest, then the door, and started over from square one. She was correct, again. My lack of knowledge was my limitation. I worked on them for hours before finally getting each to open. It was so much faster than before, but still not easy.

  Over the next two nights, I practiced picking every lock in the immediate vicinity, which gave me significant practice honing my senses. I got passably decent at hyper-focusing on one thing, to the exclusion of others. That let me feel the tumblers, then look inside to get clues about the mechanisms.

  On the second night, Foss banged metal together nearby to force me to tune out adversity. It was everything I could do to push away the painful ringing and hone in on the sounds I needed. I failed more than I succeeded when she did that. Good to know, so I didn’t waste my time on an impossible scenario.

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  Confident in my ability to open simple locks and tune out distractions, I used my last few free hours to hunt fresh blood. I wanted to be ready first thing next dusk. I took a pair of coyotes that night. Their vitality felt different from the deer’s, but still wild and vibrant. Made me wonder what a wolf, or even a wildcat, might feel like.

  The sky faded from purple to deep blue, stars beginning to prick through the twilight. Flint and I moved stealthily through Cinder Creek. His trotting hooves made no more sound than my feet would have made at a walking pace. Uncanny how the Blood Bond had shared my innate unnatural stealthiness, letting my Nightmare warhorse glide through shadow.

  We circled and found a quiet alley where Flint could wait. I didn’t doubt that if any stray drunks noticed him, his sheer intimidation would keep them away.

  I dismounted and approached the Gilded Lily from the rear. I left the sawed-off shotgun tucked in the saddlebag, hoping I wouldn’t need it on a stealth mission, but kept my Colt and saber at the ready.

  Foss’s words echoed in my head. “This is a stealth operation, not a cavalry charge, Captain.”

  She was right. I was a soldier, but this was more than deep reconnaissance. I couldn’t be seen or recognized as Silas Hatcher. If that happened, the entire battlefield would change, and not in my favor.

  I pulled my hat brim low and tied the dark gray neckerchief around my neck. Foss had acquired them while I slept. I’d worn similar gear for years on the march. It had kept the Georgia dust and sun off me. Now it would keep the shadows in. I pulled the cloth up, covering my face. This would have to do.

  The building was two floors above ground, and one below. Smoke-filtered lantern light spilled from the windows, and the sound of a piano drifted from the main saloon area. The smell of sweat and beer dominated, but the foul stink of Red-Eye was unmistakable. Having it in the cellar for the last few nights had etched that scent profile in my mind.

  A drunk slumped in the alley, already unconscious despite the early hour. His rhythmic breathing and steady heartbeat confirmed he was out cold. I slipped past him, hugged by the shadows. These sharpened senses were an immense tool now, at least when they remained under my control. A far cry from the beginning, when they were a curse.

  The stairs to the cellar had thick wooden doors with iron fittings and a bulky padlock where the metal edging met. I wanted to test my strength and see if I could rip the doors off, but Foss’s words reminded me. We could use this situation to achieve much greater gains.

  The lock clicked open with minor effort, built for strength, not precision. I paused and put my ear to the door. The distant sound of clinking glasses, the monotonous tone of the card dealer, and something from below that was hard to identify: a wet snuffling sound, a light clap of flesh on stone, and a scraping metal sound.

  I crept down the stairs, saber ready, my boots a whisper on stone. I eased the heavy door back into place, barely making a sound. The stale air was thick with the smell of death. Rotting meat in a dank hole. Ammonia, old blood, and the cloying sweetness of Vane’s drug permeated everything. Years of campaigning let me hold back the revulsion. I’d smelled worse.

  The scraping sound came again. A shuffle and drag followed. Chain. I’d heard that before, back in Georgia. Men on a chain gang, shuffling and dragging their bindings as they moved.

  Crates were stacked in a disorganized maze throughout the storeroom. My eyes adjusted effortlessly. The room like a detailed moonlit landscape. Two sources of stink: one on the left side of the room, the other on the right. This would be a treacherous, circuitous crossing.

  Slinking between two crates on the right, I narrowed my vision, focusing on every detail. My senses heightened, revealing the form of a chained man, crouched by the stone wall; a tethered guard dog. Calling him a man was wrong; this was a Wight, like Foss had described. A feral hunter, ruled by Instinct; a vampire spawn. The thing sniffed at the air, knowing I was there, but unable to detect me.

  Lesser things, kill them. I was of an accord with the Instinct. They had been men once, and didn’t deserve this.

  The creature prowled toward me, barely upright. Sallow skin clung to its emaciated, skeletal body. The talons brushed against the floor, adding to the sound of the dragging chain. The Wight’s seeking eyes scanned the darkness, but it followed its nose. It knew something was there, but not what or where.

  Then, from the left, a low snake-like hiss. The scrape of a dragged chain followed. The guard dogs, guided by feral Instinct, hunted me. Driven, but ultimately predictable.

  This could be a brawl, but I could win it clean if I used the right strategy. My Colt, loaded with silver rounds, would make short work of them, but the noise wouldn’t stand. I had to do this quietly. My gaze tracked the chains, noting their length, estimating their range. They couldn’t fully cross the room but could reach each other. A plan started to form. Time to make a chain gang of my own.

  I scanned my surroundings for a distraction. A loose brick. That would do. I picked it up and tossed it underhand, just past the first Wight.

  The first creature bolted with surprising alacrity. The chain slithered and clanged taut, jerking its neck back.

  The second one didn’t move. A growling hiss, my only warning. It bolted right at my hiding place. It used my distraction against me, pinpointing my location with smell while I watched the other Wight.

  It lunged, talons poised to strike, jaw agape. It came for me, its sunken yellow eyes ablaze.

  No time to think. Move. I Surged away from the thing, leaving my hiding spot, blurring to the central aisle. The Wight’s claws tore through the space where I’d been a moment before, hitting the crate with a splintering crash. It shrieked in fury, fanged maw slavering dark ichor.

  I stood in the open, both Wights knowing right where I was.

  The furious Wight, in hot pursuit, lunged again. I reacted with a celerity that still felt alien. I didn’t meet its lunge. I dodged aside, letting its momentum carry it past me. As it hit the end of its chain, I turned and Surged past it, my saber a steel blur.

  I didn’t aim for the neck. I went low. My blade slashed deep into the Wight’s hamstrings. A guttural gasp escaped its lips, a wet, gurgling rasp. The flesh felt like hard leather, but my saber bit deep, crumpling the creature. Its legs, rendered useless.

  I didn’t slow, knowing the other would soon be on me. I was between them; right where I wanted to be.

  Glancing back, it was already barreling toward me. I planted and paused for a fraction of a second, until I could see the whites of its eyes. I Surged towards the stairs, dodging the onslaught of tooth and claw, and hurdled the wounded one. The healthy creature’s lunge carried it right over its crippled partner.

  Their chains clanged together, twisted, and fouled. The healthy one, blinded with bestial rage, tried to pull back, dragging the other one with it. They were tangled in a writhing, hissing, snarling heap of flesh and iron.

  The plan held, despite the changes. They were my weapon against each other. I didn’t give them time to extract themselves.

  I stepped toward them, my saber an extension of my will. The fight was over. All that was left with the killing.

  A thrust to the first one’s heart ended it. The thing’s pale, corrupted Anima winked out. A visceral void took its place. The cold, tiny spark died in the dark. The Instinct reveled in the kill, but still had work to do.

  The second one clawed me, desperate rage on its face. I drove my boot into its neck, pinning it, and snapped a quick thrust through its eye, into its brain. The body convulsed and thrashed, wracked with pain. Another quick thrust through the ribs, into the heart, ended it.

  I sheathed my saber. The twisted mass on the floor was no longer a threat to anyone. I took in the scene, inwardly allowing the Instinct to exult in the kill. Weak, pathetic… Corrupted blood, leave it.

  Two down. No bullets fired. No alarms raised. I headed for the stairs. Now for the spider.

  Time to hunt the Madam