Castello di Lagorio, Italy. Late.



Candles snuffed – all traces of poison long since evaporated – Theo had left the Colbalt Room unmolested. Even after it had immediately become apparent that neither Hayward nor Sergei were about to follow, or that a soft patter of footsteps had disappeared into the room, or even after their bodies had been discreetly carried out—he had left the premises with nary a sideways glance. Poisoned goblets were more common, perhaps, but a game was a game. Playing was only polite. What was a small one between peers? It wasn’t as though anyone had actually died…

For no one had. Once both men had regained consciousness they had left London posthaste, leaving behind hastily liquidated assets and a boardroom in an uproar. No one, it seemed, had the slightest inkling of where Mr. Graham, his guards, or his valuables had gone.

No one, that is, except Theo.

In a room where a single flame hovered above a table, a blot of black ichor had glided across a map, leaving the occasional speck behind. From London it had slid to Munich, then Copenhagen. Oslo. Vienna. Hayward, it seemed, had a fondness for safehouses. It was almost impressive, how many he had.

But now time was up, and the truth of it sunk in like a chill, biting and inexorable. It seeped into the cobblestones paving a driveway. It suffused the once pristine contents of a three-tier fountain. It slipped between ribs, wrapped around necks and shattered bones. The very floor went slick with it, and now it softly tread the halls, picking its way through the castle with care.

Only when it reached the final landing did it pause, head cocked as it listened. In the quiet, whispers drifted down the stairs, fragmented and tense.


     e’s here, he fucking

          aham said

     fuck wot Graham said, I

          the hell you fucks on about? He’s just a

     shut up!


Theo didn’t smile. But only just.

He reached the top of the stairs. The doors burst open, giving way to a small, whip-thin man and a much larger one with a thickset neck. Their faces cleared with recognition, then twisted, hostility writ in every line.

“You–!” the larger man started, and lunged for him–

Only to catch an armful of smoke; he scrabbled for the railing. Behind him, the dark cloud coalesced and braced a gloved, steadying hand on his shoulder.

A small knife – a scalpel – appeared in the other. “Me,” Theo agreed, and slit his throat.




When he finally approached the end of the hall, the tiles behind him were awash in cold evening and a deep, rich red. One that, after a black handkerchief was pulled from the recesses of a jacket, disappeared into the cloth as he wiped off the blade. His cheek. The underside of his chin.

Before him, his last obstacle stood proud, their handles innocuously clean. Carefully Theo wrapped the cloth around one, waited for the sullen glow to fade, and pulled.

The study was a work of modern art, glass and spartan surfaces—as inelegant as its owner. Behind his desk, Hayward fixed Theo with a tight smile. “You’re late.” There was little in it that suggested the man from three days ago. Palatial rabbit holes aside, it was clear that the fugitive life had not been kind to him. “I was expecting you hours ago.”

Theo inclined his head.

The smile tightened further. The gaze above it flickered—his only warning.

Sergei sprung from the shadows, blunt features peeled back in a snarl. The tip of his wand an incandescent green, he lashed out; the space where Theo had stood burst into flames.

A vase hurtled across the room, almost catching him by the chin. A crystal paperweight came at him from behind, then a painting. A stone bust. Books flew off the shelves. Sergei ducked, throwing up an arm to take the brunt of the hits as he dashed for cover.

Chains shot out from the floor, wrapping themselves around a leg, an arm. With a roar, the werewolf flung out a curse—a sharp, concussive blast–

And then Theo was there, right in front of him, with an arm wound around Sergei’s in a python’s grip. His other shot out in a burst of writhing shadows, hand gloved and outstretched to clamp around the man’s throat—forcing him to meet Theo’s gaze.


Imperius.


Yellow eyes dimmed, clouding over. Theo pulled him even closer.

“Be still,” he said sweetly, and dug in.

Flesh gave way like soft butter. A hitched gasp; as blood welled beneath fingertips, Sergei began to struggle. But Theo only squeezed—physically, and mentally. With a placid, implacable smile, he forced the werewolf to his knees.

Sergei’s eyes began to clear. He scrabbled at Theo’s grip—tried to wrench his arm out of it, palmed at his face in an attempt to push it away—but to no avail; he began to splutter, choking on his own blood. Specks of it freckled Theo’s mouth, and Theo smiled. Slowly, languidly, he ran his tongue along his lips.

Sergei clutched at his wrist one last time.

Amidst the spreading flames, shattered glass and debris, Theo gently laid him down to the floor. He drew his wand, and pointed. “Sellifors.”

Man became chair, similar to the one behind the desk. Theo gave himself a little smile. He pulled out a small, thin vial, broke its seal and emptied its thick, tar-like contents onto the chair.

As it bubbled away he turned, just in time to catch the figure outside head for the trees; the smile became a laugh. Oh, Hayward. He still hadn’t learned.

Shaking his head, Theo followed him outside.