“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, and be sure to contact me when Trevin is dead.”
“Of course, sir.” The radio crackled once and was silent. The agent gathered his belongings and set about his work.
***
Fang pulled herself onto the riprap and lay still. Her eyes searched the buildings for prying eyes. The pouring rain concealed her shape, but she could never be too sure. Her body was frozen against the rocks, just another shadow among the shadows. She waited less than three minutes before pulling herself up and slipping across the street.
Throughout the city, the military kept hideouts with caches of supplies, and the nearest was a block away. She slipped through a window, peeled out of her wet clothes, and strapped herself into a fresh suit of reinforced leathers. A pair of daggers in her sheaths, stocked utility belt, and a thick night-cloak to keep off the rain, and she was hunting on the street in less than two minutes.
The closer she drew towards the main city, the louder it became. And instead of a few men walking the streets near the docks, there were droves. Trevin’s old haunts were nearby, in the defunct streets of the Barbary Coast, the term most San Franciscans used to describe an area known for its wild debauchery. She blended in with the other riffraff. Forgotten miners, drunk sailors and prostitutes of all ages scuttled through saloons and parlors. No one batted an eye at the dark-cloaked woman who walked beside them as she searched for Trevin with her mind.
Her Reach sought the most disturbing conscience among the disturbed. Not an easy task given the surroundings, but she knew she would find him. His was a rotting carcass amidst blocks of refuse, and his pungent soul finally effused.
He was a block ahead, directly in front of her. She leaned against a wall and watched. The sounds of clinking glass and bawdry songs slinked out from the saloon doors as they opened. The shape of him was unmistakable, as was his trademark white, three-piece suit. A slim woman clung to his side. Fang noticed the woman’s head turning this way and that, gathering as many details of the street as she could. Just like Fang would do. So, Trevin had an assassin guarding him. Fang wasn’t put off by his bodyguard. The woman was merely a window Fang would smash to get to the real target.
The pair walked away nonchalantly through the crowds. Fang followed, her eyes boring into the back of his head, heart swimming in adrenaline, fingers flexing. Her daggers were merely inches away, resting in sheaths on her belt. Fang drew a sharp breath as she slowly gained ground on the pair. Each step assuring their deaths. Fang was in her element and for once, under no duress of orders from men with aurorium.
The pair ducked into a dilapidated brick building, one of his whorehouses. She arrived at the entrance and was met with a sea of drunk sailors leaving after spending their hard earned money. She paused, glanced inside and caught Trevin’s companion gliding up the stairs. Someone grabbed her bottom.
“Oi! I’ll take this one here, mates,” a sailor laughed and elbowed the others.
She turned. Her Reach whispered his crimes of rape. She smiled and nodded to the corner. The men cheered as she led him into the dark alley. Before he could say another word, she snapped his neck and stuffed his corpse into a trash bin.
She walked the length of the building and waited. Her enhanced hearing picked out the muffled screams from a prostitute’s room on the third floor. Her fingertips dug into the brick and mortar and she shimmied up to the curtained window like a spider. A groan caught her attention and she peered down. A drunk woman teetered in the alley and stared at Fang a moment. Fang returned the stare. The drunk raised her bottle in a salute and sauntered off. Fang peered back through the window.
Trevin was leaning over the woman and pointed his stubby finger at her. His warnings became urgent when he pulled out a knife. Fang waited until his back was turned before she exploded through the glass, baring fangs and daggers. Like a pouncing tiger, she soared through the room—when the air changed. It was as though she’d jumped into a vat of molasses. Her heart skipped. Adrenaline flooded her veins, but not to fight—to run.
Aurorium.
Trevin turned, held a thick arm out and swatted Fang aside, sending her into the wall. The daggers clattered across the room. The shock on his face was what she had hoped for, but the shock on hers was what made him frown.
“Fang?” he said, gripping his knife. “What in the world are you doing here?”
Terror coursed through her body as she crawled away from him. Her strength evaporated, lungs spasmed. A high-pitched screech dug into her ears, and her vision blurred.
“Oh. You must not have known about my aurorium-infused blood?” He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her face close to his. “You’re a mess. Bleeding out from your eyes is never a good sign of health, is it?”
His words were muddled and strange to her. The aurorium’s effect was devastating. Her stomach turned into knots, blood ran through her like boiling water. She raised a weak hand, as if that would do anything.
“My dear, poor vampire,” he taunted. “Such a lovely experiment. Don’t you know how perfect we created you? How wonderfully crafted you are? Holy water, crosses, silver, sunlight. All the typical contrivances most vampires fear and loathe have no effect on you, do they? But Moreci and I were given a special defense just in case.”
He picked her up and threw her across the room. Wood shattered as she crashed into a cabinet. She could barely breathe. He picked her up again, wincing as he held her throat and pushed his face close to hers. Waves of searing pain pummeled every
