Chapter 2 - The ShiftThe metal object Doyle drew from his coat wasn't a gun. It was an antique silver lighter, engraved with the same biting adder. As his thumb flicked the wheel, a blue flame hissed to life, casting long, writhing shadows against the peeling wallpaper.
Cookie stopped three feet from the old man. The fur along the dog's spine was standing straight up, stiff as needles.
"You think a parlor trick with sulfur and silver can finish what the betrayal started?"
The voice didn't come from Mia. It didn't come from the hallway. It vibrated in the marrow of their bones—a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded like grinding stones and rolling thunder, echoing in a room that was far too small to hold it.
Mia stumbled backward, her breath catching in her throat. She looked down at the dog. Cookie's mouth hadn't moved.
Doyle’s composure fractured. The smooth, terrifying confidence vanished, replaced by sudden, frantic panic as he snapped the lighter upward. "Kill him! Burn the vessel before he anchors—"
Before Doyle could finish the syllable, the shadows in the room exploded.
It wasn't a transformation of light and magic like in the fairy tales Mia had read as a child; it was violent, structural, and raw. The black fur seemed to melt into cascading lines of midnight-colored silk and heavy wool. The floorboards splintered with a deafening crack as massive boots slammed down where paws had been a heartbeat before.
Mia fell against the kitchenette counter, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a scream.
Standing in the cramped space between her bed and the small table was a man. He had to be at least six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with damp, ink-black hair falling over a high, sharp forehead. A jagged, pale scar cut vertically through his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone, accentuating eyes of an impossible, piercing silver—the exact same eyes that had looked up at her from the pavement in the rain.
He was wearing what remained of a bespoke charcoal suit that had been shredded and stained during months in the gutters, its expensive fabric now hanging in tatters from a chest carved of pure muscle and old battle scars.
May you like
Viktor didn't look at Mia. His gaze was locked entirely on Doyle, whose face had gone the color of skim milk.
"You smell like sulfur and cheap gin, Thomas," Viktor said, his voice a low, terrifying purr. He rolled his right shoulder, the joints popping like pistol shots. "And you have my seat."
