Page 3 of Hound

A half-human’s scent was manageable. Their humanity overrode their vampirism, thinning their smell to the point of nothingness. But a vampire’s was the opposite. They were damp, bitter, and permeated like rot.

Like now.

My stomach twisted as the smell burrowed onto my tongue, solidifying my poker face. I’d rather be surrounded by carcasses than vampires.

The hairs on my arms stood when I settled on a velvet stool in front of the bar.

A broad build cased in sepia skin and formal wear rounded behind the sleek bar top, amber eyes meeting mine. A glint shined within them before the bartender glanced away and pulled a distinct octagonal, ruby red bottle from a concealed corner. The small thing disappeared in his large hand as he poured a measured amount into a silver goblet. His nostrils slightly flared as a powdery scent spiked the air.

There was only one liquor vampires drank. Unlike the human liquor they displayed as decoration, this one was a shared secret for those who knew what it was made of: snake venom. If humans got a taste of it, death would be immediate.

“Humans have died from it thinking they’re the outlier. But a vampire's creation isn’t a test of will for humans, it’s atestament to what humans aren’t: vampires,”Lace had warned me before my first mission. The precaution was appreciated, but unnecessary.

I wasn’t human, after all.

The bartender slid the cup across the counter and my left hand met the cool stem. His short hair swayed when his chin tilted to me, a hoarse voice scratching the air as he said, “On the house.”

And the confirmation was in the burn that trailed down my throat as I sipped, the acidic aftertaste that smoothed my tongue. Bane had no effect on my system, but it did smolder the vampire smell by a hair.

“Thanks,” I muttered as he walked toward other customers.

Midnight struck against the clock above me. Based on Lace’s phone call, Mallory should have been here already. While I knew what he looked like, his scent would be easier to notice between the four floors.

But there was no rush. I had all night.

I slowly sipped as I took everything in. Besides the very illegal consumption of human blood, nothing stood out. And while this place was one call away from shutting down, I couldn’t risk reporting it. Not only would Lace not like it, it would?—

A slender, tall man exited one of the dens, wavy, platinum blonde hair cascading over narrow shoulders and swaying against a cinched waist. Ruffles ran along his white shirt’s neckline to the bottom hem, collar bones peeking through.

He was a Victorian doll misplaced in a world infiltrated by modernism.

He possessed my vision, called to me like a magnet. It could have been the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips, the curve of his shoulders. But then our eyes collided and something snapped within the hunger.

My focus dissipated. And my nostrils flared.

His scent was different. No muddled rot lingered. Instead, a faint, refined powdery-like smell brushed my nose.

What the fuck.

Sage, green eyes widened as he took me in. It was too late to look away. So, I did what every man would do.

I waited.

His subtle gulp was somehow audible against my ears, even though we had about four meters between us. Before he could tug his gaze away from my hardened restraint, high-pitched laughter snatched my attention.

There.

A thick, fox fur jacket drowned a familiar puny man, highlighting the five o’clock shadow that did nothing to his sickly skin. He walked toward the spiral staircase at the far end, each step stumbling on each other, his murmurs slurring into an incoherent mess. Bleached strands with charcoal roots framed pointed features. A smoky, starched scent defined his profile like a shadow.

Sylvester Reynard-Mallory was in direct line. No time was wasted when it came to pouncing on my prey.

The remaining liquor went down in one swift gulp, the trace of the familiar burn subduing underneath the weight of sage green eyes, remnants leaking into my line of focus as I made my way toward the reporter’s demise.

The hunt has begun. Time to let out the beast.

Chapter 2

CHRISTOPHER SEPHTIS

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