“The Hunger, Marcel. People are going missing, and I’m hearing something about a cannibal cult. Your cannibal cult. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The cigarette fell from his fingers, his mouth open in shock. For a moment I could have believed his act. It was written on his face. He had no idea what I was talking about, or was doing a fantastic job of feigning ignorance.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, eyebrows almost crossed in confusion. If nothing else, Dubois was a great actor. I’d give him that. “I swear.”
“You’re lying,” I growled. My sneakers crunched the asphalt as I walked closer. “About this, and about everything else in your sorry life. You’re not even French, are you? My friend said so. That accent is fake as all hell.”
He held his hands up in front of him, trembling. “My name’s Marcus,” he blubbered, in what distinctly sounded like a Brooklyn accent. “Please. Come on, man. Nobody gave me the time of day when I was Marcus Dobbs. It’s just an affectation. Please. My career.”
I stepped up to him, never touching him, but pressing close enough that he had no choice but to back up against the wall. “I don’t give a fuck about your career, or whatever the fuck your real name is. I only care about the Hunger.”
“The Hunger? What the fuck are you talking about?”
I raised a finger, pointing directly into his face. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Why are your people eating my people? What does Beelzebub want with all the nephilim?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, eyes huge. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he said, tugging nervously at his cravat, squirming against the wall. “I promise you. Why the hell would I risk everything I’ve built on something as stupid as – did you say cannibalism? What kind of sick fuck would do that? And all these words, are you just making shit up? What are you even saying to me?”
I cracked my knuckles. Marcel lifted his hands to cover his face, whimpering, and then he just – stopped. I don’t mean that he zipped himself up and stopped making those small, fearful sounds that were almost genuine enough to make me feel sorry. He just stopped making any sounds at all. He’d stopped moving completely.
I shoved my palm up against my forehead, understanding what was happening. “Ah, nuts.”
“Normally, Mr. Albrecht, we would send other employees to come and intercept you,” said Maharani Naidu, stepping into the dim light of the alley. The tiny hourglass that dangled at her throat gleamed with arcane light, the very magic keeping Marcel Dubois frozen in place. “A Wing, accompanied perhaps by one or two Hands. We Scions are very busy people, you see, so you can imagine how unhappy we are to be forced to make such personal appearances.”
Royce approached from my other side, his face as dark as the shadows he’d emerged from. “Our special little boy, because Rani says sending in the grunts isn’t quite good enough.”
Maharani scoffed, waving a hand towards Marcel Dubois. “And which of them do you think would have handled this as delicately? This way you can get to work at immediately wiping his memory of the night.” She folded her arms, tutting at me, one eyebrow cocked. “What happened to you, Mr. Albrecht? Why have you resorted to such violence?”
I held my hands up, backing away from Marcel. “I didn’t touch him.”
“Technically, this is true,” Rani said. “But the damage is done. You threatened a normal. An innocent. I realize you feel personally invested in what is happening with the Hunger, but this is not the way to do things. You know better.”
I lifted my chin. “So you knew about the Hunger, and you’ve done nothing?”
“We don’t answer to you.” The soles of Royce’s shoes fell heavily as he moved in between me and Marcel, too threateningly close. “We’re monitoring the Hunger situation closely, but when a local nephilim acts up, we don’t just stand by and watch.”
“A local nephilim,” I said. “So there’s more than just me in Valero.”
The total silence and the glances exchanged between the two Scions told me everything I needed to know.
“You should know that we’re already showing you lenience, Mason,” said Rani, stepping next to Royce, closing ranks. “We know about the four people you ambushed as well. Initially we assumed that the flare of nephilim essence our Eyes noticed simply suggested that you were defending yourself from hooligans. Imagine our surprise when we realized it was quite the opposite.”
“This is personal to me,” I said, my teeth and my fists clenched. “You don’t understand.”
Royce scoffed. “We understand perfectly well that you’re a terrible criminal and a half-decent hero at best, Albrecht. What’s with you and dark alleys, anyway?”
“Easier for ambushes,” I said, sneering at him. “And for expeditious retreats.”
My wings burst from my shoulder blades, ripping my shirt and my jacket to shreds, but that was a small price to pay for freedom. I sprinted away from the Scions, striking the pavement one last time with my right foot as I launched myself into the air and out of the alley.
But I never made it out. My body hung in thin air, my wings and my muscles frozen in time. Oh, of course. Rani was a chronomancer. Why did I think I stood a chance against these two?
Even my eyes were stuck, huge and focused on the world outside the alley, on freedom. I couldn’t see Royce, but I could hear his stupid shoes clomping as he sauntered up to me, hear the flick of his lighter, smell the wisps of smoke from his first drag of a cigarette. He stepped into my line of sight, glowering right into my face.
“So now we add resisting arrest to the charges. You’re lucky Rani’s stasis field sealed your mouth shut, too, or else you’d probably be incriminating yourself even more.
