The circle's magic pressed down on me like a lead blanket, pinning my arms and legs with an unnatural weight. My lungs dragged in air, but each breath felt like pulling it through molasses. I craned my neck upward, locking eyes with the woman standing in the doorway. Slim flickered in agitation beside me, his translucent form struggling to push through the invisible binds.

  "I can't break this one," he hissed, voice jittery. "It's tight work, Shaw. Real tight."

  "Yeah, thanks for the update," I muttered, focusing on the figure stepping into the light.

  For the dame's part, she didn't react to Slim. The damned specter must have at least had the sense to make himself only detectable by me. It was an old ghost trick, but useful. My captor moved with deliberate grace, her heels clicking on the concrete floor like a metronome of menace. The suit she wore was sharp enough to cut glass, blood-red accents peeking out from under a black lapel. Her presence filled the room before she even spoke, predatory and polished in equal measure.

  "Mr. Shaw," she began, her tone smooth as polished marble, "I trust you’ll forgive the theatrics. The circle is merely a precaution."

  I glared up at her from my knees, biting back every colorful word swimming to the surface. "Precaution? You could’ve just asked for a meeting like normal people."

  A faint smile curved her lips. "Normal people don’t interest me." She crouched slightly, meeting my eyes directly now. Her iridescent gaze shimmered faintly—her bound spirit close to the surface. "You’re everything I was told you’d be: sharp-tongued, unyielding... but not stupid."

  "Flattery's no proper apology for kidnapping." I forced myself upright as much as the magic allowed. "Maybe start with an introduction?"

  She rose smoothly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve.

  "Lady Alura Fenwick," she said, like her name alone should answer every question I had. The annoying part was that she was right--I had damned well heard of her. Beside me, Slim let out a long, low whistle.

  "Vampire nobility, even," he muttered. "You're moving up in the world, Shaw... Ask to see her fangs." His tone was somewhere between terrified and thrilled. I didn't care for it.

  A Lady of the Crimson Accord. Damn. It at least helped explain the suffocating aura rolling off her. And the perfect composure. And the completely inhuman beauty. It explained a lot, is what I'm saying.

  "You staged that call," I said flatly.

  "Correct." Alura clasped her hands behind her back and began pacing slowly around me. "The woman who contacted you was merely bait—an actress delivering lines we provided. It wasn’t personal; we simply needed you here."

  "For what? Can’t imagine vampires need private detectives for much."

  Her smile widened slightly—a predator indulging its prey before striking. "A rogue Neophyte of ours has... complicated matters." She paused dramatically, turning back toward me. "Esmond Fane absconded with an artifact—a Blood Chalice critical to our rituals."

  And there it was: my ticket into their mess—and likely deeper trouble ahead.

  "Why me?" I asked, dragging the words through the weight still pressing on my chest. "Pretty sure you’ve got an army of bloodsuckers at your beck and call. Why hire outside help?"

  Alura tilted her head, a faint flicker of amusement in her expression. "You’ve earned a reputation, Mr. Shaw. Discretion, effectiveness, and—most importantly—a tendency to succeed where others fail." She gestured to the glowing circle beneath me. "And while I trust my people implicitly, internal... complications make it unwise to involve them in this particular matter."

  "Complications," I echoed, spitting the word back at her like it left a bad taste. "You mean infighting."

  Her smile didn’t falter. "Your cynicism does you credit, but we prefer the term 'delicate internal politics.' Regardless, involving our own would draw unwanted attention to our predicament." She leaned closer now, her voice softening into something razor-sharp. "You, however, are deniable."

  Slim’s voice buzzed in my ear, low and mocking. "Guess it’s not your charming personality after all."

  I ignored him.

  "And what exactly am I supposed to retrieve?" I asked.

  Alura straightened, her expression turning grave as if flipping a switch. "The Blood Chalice. An artifact forged in Vitae and binding magic—its significance to the Crimson Accord cannot be overstated."

  "Yeah? Enlighten me."

  "In the wrong hands," she continued smoothly, ignoring my sarcasm, "it could unmake the fragile balance of power within Pentharrow’s supernatural world. It holds enough residual energy to create a small army of rogue vampires—or worse."

  "Worse!" Slim echoed beside me. His tone suggested he’d love nothing more than to see how bad things could get for sheer entertainment.

  I didn’t share his enthusiasm.

  "You’re telling me some rookie Neophyte got his hands on this thing and just... walked off with it?" I asked.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "Esmond Fane is resourceful," Alura replied coolly. "A shame his loyalty doesn’t match his ambition."

  She pulled a sleek black folder from somewhere inside that immaculate suit and tossed it onto the floor just outside the binding circle.

  "Find him," she said simply. "Recover the Chalice."

  "And if I say no?"

  Her smile returned—colder now. "That would be... unfortunate."

  "What’s in it for me?" I pressed.

  "Substantial compensation," she replied smoothly. "A retainer upfront and a generous bonus upon delivery. No questions asked about your methods or alliances."

  I eyed the folder warily but didn’t move yet.

  I knelt there, anger bubbling up inside me, beneath Alura's cool gaze, the magical bonds biting into my limbs like steel wire. The air felt like it was charged with static, every hair on my arms standing on end. Slim hovered nearby, watching anxiously, his ethereal form flickering with the rhythm of his nervous energy. The vampires, especially this Crimson Accord with their rigid hierarchy and blood-chilling rituals, were dangerous. That much was common knowledge. But what concerned me more was their uncanny knack for manipulation, for putting pawns in motion without them even knowing they'd become a part of the game.

  I cast a glance at the folder lying there like an unwanted omen on the concrete. Vampires and their motives always danced in the shadows, shrouded by curtains of intrigue and deceit. There was a gravity to their games that sucked you in and refused to let go, and I wasn't keen on becoming another piece on their board. But this damned lost cup—its power the stuff of supernatural nightmare—loomed far too large in my mind to ignore.

  The rational part of me screamed to walk away, to leave the Crimson Accord and their machinations behind before they ensnared me deeper. Vampire politics were a quagmire that bogged you down until you couldn't tell up from down, right from wrong. But there was something else knocking at the door—an obligation. A sense of accountability. A hatred for supernatural chaos bleeding into the mundane world I called home. Add in the fact there was substantial pay on the table, the kind that could solve enough of my problems to make them worth tackling.

  Slow deep breath. Time to make a decision, to set the damn internal debate to rest.

  "I'd love to decline this charming invitation," I said, injecting my voice with as much sardonic charm as I could muster, "but the idea of Fane running wild with a mystical doomsday device is hard to stomach. But I'm not your lackey. If I'm taking this on, we do it my way: I expect that retainer up front, just like you promised. And I work alone—no vampires peeking over my shoulder. I get full access to any Accord intel on Fane and the Chalice, and when it's done, we part ways. No strings, no leftover debts."

  Alura's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she masked her irritation with a thin smile, clearly anticipating my terms.

  "Negotiation seems to come naturally to you, Mr. Shaw," she said, her voice a mix of admiration and clipped calm, hinting at polite disdain.

  "The last thing I need," I added, "is a bunch of you Reds lurking around every corner, breathing down my neck while I work. You want this done clean and tight? Then you stay out of my way."

  "Very well." Alura's reply was clipped, brief, like cutting through a knot. "Terms accepted. You'll have what you need, and I'll stay out of your way. At least until the situation forces my hand. Do try not to let that happen, Shaw."

  And with that, she gestured, and the tormenting, invisible bonds slithered away, dissipating into the ether. I rose to my feet, muscles singing with the lingering ache of their temporary incarceration. The moment had passed—the deal struck, the terms clear. But I was far from at ease.

  As Alura departed with an assured, confident stride, I felt a simmering, roiling churn in my gut, like water on the verge of boiling over. It only got worse as I watched the vampiress casually pull out a velvet pouch and drop it on the floor behind her as she exited the building. I knew what I'd find in the bag—coins, in various flavors of precious metal. I supposed that was my up-front, paid out old-school.

  Tangling with vampire business would throw my life into disarray in ways I wouldn't grasp until the fallout was raining down. I was angry—with the Accord for their elegant subterfuge, with the damned Neophyte for his treacherous heist, and with myself most of all for getting roped into their world yet again.

  Life, it seemed, was hell-bent on complicating the simple every time it could. I drew a deep breath and glanced at Slim, his ghostly form a comfort in his familiarity, if nothing else.

  "I should stop answering the phone after 2 in the morning, huh?"

  "Shaw," Slim replied, sidling up to me. "We both know the only gigs that pay worth a damn are the ones that come in overnight."

  I sighed, defeated, and slombered my way back to the car.

  I slumped into the driver’s seat, the folder Alura had tossed my way now open on my lap. The pages inside were crisp and clinical, smelling faintly of old parchment and expensive ink. Vampires always had a flair for presentation, especially when delivering bad news.

  The first page featured a grainy photo of Esmond Fane. Young guy, early twenties maybe, with slicked-back hair and the kind of sharp cheekbones that made him look like he belonged in some underground nightclub instead of running from the Accord. His eyes, though—there was something about them. Not the usual predatory glint I’d seen in vampires; no, this was different. Fear mixed with desperation. He didn’t look like someone trying to make a power grab; he looked like someone running for his life.

  Flipping through, I found more details: Fane’s background as a Neophyte, freshly bound and barely stable. No known family or close ties outside the Accord—standard vampire loner routine—but there was mention of an associate: Miriam Thorne, an old flame turned confidante. The notes claimed she ran a pawn shop on the edge of Pentharrow’s industrial district. Shady types tended to gravitate there when they needed cash or a place to lie low.

  Then came the escape routes. Alura’s people suspected he might try to slip through one of the Accord’s less monitored territories, maybe heading toward the borderlands where supernatural laws were murkier than swamp water. They even highlighted a couple of potential safe houses in his path—convenient breadcrumbs for me to follow.

  I let out a slow breath, letting the folder drop onto the passenger seat. “Slim,” I muttered, glancing at the ghost lounging next to me in his usual spectral slouch. “Start digging around. I want every whisper about Fane and this Chalice you can find.”

  Slim straightened, his translucent face lighting up with exaggerated delight. “Well, well! Is that you officially asking for my help? Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Yeah yeah,” I snapped, rubbing at my temples as fatigue clawed its way back into my skull. “You can write whatever you want about the case later—‘Shaw Finally Eats Crow,’ headline exclusive—but for now? Just get to it.”

  He grinned like he’d just won some invisible prize and gave me a mock salute before dissolving into mist. His laugh echoed faintly as he vanished into the night, already imagining himself penning some posthumous scoop that would never see print.

  I stared at where he’d been for a moment before leaning back in my seat with a heavy sigh. Slim always treated these cases like they were some grand adventure—a chance to chase stories that might rattle Pentharrow’s underbelly. Me? I just saw another late night, another pile of trouble waiting to bury me if I wasn’t careful.

  But then, Slim was dead. What did he have to worry about?