The dusty, cold reek slowly faded. The Anima of the fallen Wights fell away, their corrupted essence dissipating into nothing. I knew it would be hours, or even days, before anyone found the rotting husks. No suspicion was roused, and a new hunt was on. I checked my equipment, secured my mask, and moved.

  Now the spider.

  I ascended the stairs, my boots silent on the wooden treads despite their hard soles. The raucous din of the saloon grew louder with each step: drunken laughter, the clink of bottles, and the rhythmic creak of bedsprings from down the hall all combined into a wall of sound. I locked it all down and focused on the task at hand, an active effort that was slowly getting easier.

  The staircase led to the back room of the main-floor bar, where they stored extra bottles for quick access. I crept up to the wooden horizon, the edge of visibility, where I could look into the room from a mostly hidden vantage.

  The room was empty, but someone was working nearby. They smelled of sweat covered by cheap perfume and talcum powder; probably one of the serving gals, pouring drinks for patrons. I waited for her to finish, then slipped out and around the corner to ascend the next flight of stairs to the private party rooms.

  The loudness of the first floor faded, replaced by the sounds of a more subdued party: muffled laughter, clinking wine glasses, and polite banter. The door at the top of the stairs was a knob-and-key affair. I knew I could pick it, but I checked it first anyway. Locked. I could feel the cheap inner mechanism strain against my strength. No need to pick the lock. I just turned hard, with my enhanced strength, shearing the pin with a low pop. The sound was lost in the din.

  I eased the door open, just a crack. Moody red-globed oil lamps lighted the hallway beyond, casting everything in shades of crimson. The air smelled like a higher class of criminal than below: expensive tobacco, French perfume, and old money. I moved out into the hallway to the left, flowing from shadow to shadow, past a pair of unoccupied rooms. The office at the end of the hall was my destination.

  Foss’s map had indicated that this was Evangeline’s office, and the ballroom was beyond. A heavy oak door, lacquered blood red, with a real lock, barred my way. I knelt, pulling a small tension wrench and pick from my kit. The lock turned exactly as I’d practiced, ending with a sharp, metallic click. The lock opened.

  The sound of footsteps echoed up the stairs behind me. I was faced with a split decision. If I entered the office and the Madam was there, I’d have to deal with her, and the spying mission would be a wash. If I didn’t enter the office, I’d need to deal with the man coming up the stairs.

  The Instinct prompted me, breaking my indecision. Strike from shadows. Take them by surprise. I didn’t have a better plan, so I approached the stairs, arriving right as the suit-clad man reached the top. I didn’t know him, but he looked like he had visited the same tailor Julien used. I stepped from the shadows, sending the man recoiling in shock.

  “Sir?” was all he had time to mutter before I grabbed him by the silk tie with my left hand and pulled him hard into a right cross. The man was out, immediately crumpling. I held onto his tie, not letting him fall backward down the stairs.

  Drink. Hot blood. My inner voice crooned, celebrating the “kill.” The Thirst was barely noticeable before, but this opportunity to feast caused it to flare up and ignite.

  Why shouldn’t I? It would be a waste not to. The scent of his blood was vibrant, even through his potent aftershave; so much more vital than animal blood. Here it was, fresh and ready for me. Just take a little. He’d survive.

  I licked my lips and hefted the man over my shoulder. I took him to one of the empty rooms and dropped him to the ground. I hesitated. The Thirst was a cramp in my gut, and the Instinct was giddy at the meal before us. Feast on him, use the blood to kill the rest.

  I closed my eyes and thought about the man I had been, and who I wanted to be. I understood that feeding was a requirement of my condition, no different than men slaughtering animals for food. But I had just fed last night, and this would be gluttonous. This man, regardless of his politics, did not smell like a Thrall. He wasn’t my enemy, but a victim of my enemy. I had never killed a peaceful man in my life… but the blood… His pulse drummed, calling me.

  “No!” I said, a rasping whisper. “I’m not… a monster.”

  I closed the door, leaving him there. Choosing integrity over convenience was an act of Cold Iron discipline, and it taxed me. The Instinct’s screeching disappointment and the Thirst’s greedy cold bit deep. I had denied my primal need, and it stung my body. But it felt right in my mind.

  I made my way back down the hall and pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. I eased the door open and slipped inside. The room was opulent by Cinder Creek standards, a gaudy imitation of a European parlor: red velvet draped from runners, thick carpet soft enough to muffle footsteps, and a polished mahogany desk.

  The party was in full swing in the room beyond. The dull roar was impossible to ignore. The sound came from a brass lattice-worked vent grate on the wall closest to the ballroom. That was the perfect place to install Foss’s canister.

  I moved a plush chair beneath the grate and unscrewed it with one of my lockpicks. Through the grate on the other side, lights danced from a crystal chandelier. There were at least a dozen men, and many more of the Madam’s women, enjoying the festivities.

  I retrieved the small brass canister and wound the tiny watch-spring mechanism. It gave a soft whir, beginning the process of aerosolizing the compound. I placed the device between the grates and reattached the one in the office. In a few minutes, everyone in that room would be marked with the Anima tracking agent. The mission was nearly complete.

  I waited impatiently, eventually deciding to check the desk for valuable intelligence. The first couple of drawers had nothing notable in them. The bottom one, however, contained neatly rolled liberty dollars. Silver. I pocketed a few rolls when a crisp click from the other side of the room interrupted me.

  The sound of the door opening and closing surprisingly fast turned my blood cold. I spun, ready to draw, and saw her standing by the door.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She wasn’t the garish silk-draped creature of the saloon floor. She wore an elegant black dress with a red flower on her chest, the fabric expensive and fitted. Her painted smile was gone, replaced with an intense glare. Her pale blonde hair fell in loose ringlets.

  I stood perfectly still, my face hidden, waiting for her to act. She smelled of Red-Eye; the cloying chemical tang mixing with her perfume. Her skin was flushed, and she stood with absolute confidence. She held no gun, just something small, intentionally obscured behind a fold in her dress.

  “I was told a stray cat was slinking about,” she said, dripping with mock amusement. “Perhaps I should scoop you up and give you a home.”

  “No, thank you. I think I’ll be going now,” I said, hoping to play it off as a burglary. I slowly stepped backward, towards the door.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “It’s not really optional. You work for me, or I end you.” She pressed a button. Click-snap. A five-inch stiletto blade, gleaming with a pale sheen of silver, snapped into place. I had never seen one of the new-fangled devices, but it looked deadly.

  “I don’t think you will,” I said coolly. My voice had no challenge or aggression, only a statement of fact and a rebuke of both options.

  She didn’t hesitate. She lunged with precision and skill. Not a streetfighter’s slash, but a calculated attack aimed at my heart. I wasn’t expecting her speed. She covered the distance much faster than I believed possible.

  I Surged backward, drawing my saber. I moved it back and forth in defensive sweeps. Even still, the silver tip of her blade came close, cutting my duster.

  She was fast. The Red-Eye in her veins lent her terrifying speed and power. She was nearly as fast as my Surge, and she pressed the attack. A flurry of stabs, slashes, and cuts, the silver blade working intricate patterns. This was her territory, her killing ground.

  I brought my saber up, barely stopping a thrust at my face. “Why are you content being Vane’s dog?” I growled at her.

  “I am the chosen. The daylight master of his Sovereign domain,” she spat, pushing harder.

  I lunged to the side, evading her fury. The angle allowed me to press the attack while she turned to follow. I swept my saber horizontally, forcing a parry, and kicked her in the side of the knee savagely. A sick pop brought a grin of triumph to my face.

  She turned on the injured knee and withdrew for the first time, returning my reach advantage. I thought the fight was turning, but I was wrong. Her knee straightened and righted itself, regenerating as quickly as my own wounds. She was an elder among Thralls, a retainer with decades of experience and power.

  The Madam’s grin was sinister, pleased with my reaction. She savored it. Her confidence filled the room. She didn’t fear me in the least.

  She came again, a silent dance of death. Her nimble duelist’s footwork, practiced and honed, was superior to my battlefield experience. Her skill and the confined quarters negated my strength and the superior reach of my saber. I was a cavalryman, not a fencing master. I had to do something; a gambit.

  I finally saw an opening. I feinted high, and she took the bait, raising her small blade to block. I dropped my point and thrust hard for her gut. She flashed a smile, revealing that she knew exactly what I intended.

  She spun impossibly fast and pressed forward, crowding my blade and dodging my thrust. Her silver blade shot forward, around my guard, right at my eye. I turned my head and jerked it back. The blade went through my cheek, into my tongue, and jawbone. My mask fell free when she pulled her blade back, revealing my face.

  The pain was excruciating. It burned, a cold unmaking fire, reacting with my flesh. It was a small dose of sun-fire on my face and in my mouth. The Instinct roared in pain and fury. I glanced at myself in the massive mirror on her wall. The wound wasn’t knitting. Black ichor gathered and wept from the stab. The silver was poison, halting my regeneration.

  She smiled, the first genuine joy I’d seen from her, and it was full of malice. “It’s only a matter of time, you filthy bastard. You can’t beat me. I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.”

  The pain, the silver-burned stab, and the heady coppery scent of her Anima-enriched blood… it was too much. The Instinct raged, and the Thirst became an unquenchable void. She’s too fast, take the blade. Accept pain, overwhelm her.

  She lunged, cocky, ready for the kill. Her dagger was aimed right at my heart.

  I didn’t counter. I didn’t parry. I blurred forward and met her attack.

  I launched myself at her, intentionally leaping high. She couldn’t adjust fast enough for her thrust to strike true. The blade sank deep in my abdomen, glancing off my bottom rib. It burned like hellfire, but now I was inside her guard. Every rational thought told me this wasn’t the way to win, but I trusted the Instinct. It knew that this fight was no longer cerebral; it was primal.

  Crashing into her, I dropped my saber. My left hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, crushing bones with a sickening crunch. My right hand grabbed her by her hair and yanked her head back.

  I pulled her close, my fangs extending, and bit down hard. My teeth pierced deep into her neck. The taste was… explosive, nothing like the cold blood of the long-dead animal, or even the fresh blood of the deer. It was hot blood, empowered by Vane’s elder Anima and a cocktail of drugs engineered to heighten the experience. I immediately understood the source of her arrogance and power. Her blood was teeming with borrowed power.

  It was a detonation in my system. Power roared through me. It was a wildfire during a drought. The hot blood raged in my veins. It coursed through my system, washing me in corrupted vigor. The silver burns in my mouth faded, then vanished. The stabs in my cheek and abdomen knit closed in the span of a few seconds. Poisoned agony was replaced with vital potency. The previously unquenchable Thirst void was instantaneously silenced, replaced with a feeling of invincibility. The feeling was divine. I was unstoppable.

  Every sound was heightened and refined, not the overwhelming rush I had experienced before, but an increase in range and nuance in my hearing. It was the same for all of my senses. The hot blood of the ancient Thrall refined my perception. Pulling her closer, I breathed her in, noting every detail: the soap she used, her favorite cocktail, the sweat of our battle, and so much more.

  Madam Evangeline gurgled and choked on her own blood, sputtering with disbelief. Her eyes were wide with horror and shock. The silver switchblade fell from her crushed hand and clattered on the floor.

  I drank deeper, savoring the rush, needing more. When her heart slowed, the Instinct prompted me. Stop before she dies, lest she rise again. I locked eyes with the dying woman. Her cruel mask gave way to desperation and urgency. I didn’t need her to suffer. With a quick, brutal twist of her neck, I ended it. Her face finally relaxed, her death mask serenely beautiful. I held her for a moment, then let her fall.

  I stood there, reveling in the rush. My senses were on fire, alive with this terrifying new power. I looked at the blade on the ground, considering what I’d do to Vane with it. I picked it up, closed it, and tucked it in my pocket.

  Someone yelled something at the office door. It broke me from my reverie. They called again. “Ma’am? Is everything alright? I heard you cry out.” Heavy footsteps, at least two sets, told me the party was about to end. I pulled my mask back up and put my saber in its scabbard.

  There was no time for the door. They would be in here soon. I looked at the large window in the back of the office. Someone pounded on the door. “Ma’am. I’m coming in.” Then a kick.

  I grabbed the heavy oak chair from behind the desk and hurled it effortlessly. The chair, the window, and the entire window frame exploded outward with terrifying force.

  I rushed toward the window and leapt through. I fell two stories, enjoying the rush of night air, and landed in the alleyway. I didn’t roll or stumble. I landed in a perfect low crouch. I stood, the elder’s power flowing through me, the world sharp and crystal clear.

  The mechanical sound of a repeating rifle’s lever-action loading a round cut through the air.

  “Hold it. Right there.” Not a shout or a scream. A cold, steady voice from the shadows twenty feet away.

  My eyes snapped to the source. Hunkered down behind a rain barrel, a tall, slim figure in a duster. A Henry repeater, not just held, but leveled at the dead center of my chest. A pale face shone in the moonlight, and a single pheasant feather in her hat.

  Deputy Jo Clay.

  We locked eyes for one frozen second.

  She didn’t shoot. Her finger was steady on the trigger, but she was assessing me. The shock in her eyes was plain as day. Underneath it, steel. She was a cold, hard soldier, sizing up an impossible, horrific target. She saw the blood on my hands and soaking my shirt. She saw my two-story jump, but she didn’t panic. She was aiming, ready to end me.

  The Instinct, still feeling invincible, sneered. How dare she? Dominate her. Take her blood.

  No. That’s not me.

  I didn’t give her a chance to pull the trigger. I Surged into the shadows. Away from her, toward Flint. He was on his way.

  I vanished; a black blur of speed, tearing through the night.

  “Damn it!” She said, followed by the report of her Henry repeater. The shot came fast, the heavy slug striking the brick wall where I once stood, but I was already long gone.

  Flint’s presence brushed my mind before the thudding of his galloping hooves reached my ears. He caught up with me, and I leapt into the saddle from a dead sprint. Flint picked up speed, and we were gone.