Dawn Slayer

by Clara Coulson

  Busted, I think, cringing.

  The captain takes a moment to situate himself in the chair before he acknowledges me. “Imagine our surprise, Mr. Kinsey,” he says in accented English, “when we ran your fingerprints, and the match that popped up belonged to another DSI agent.”

  “That was probably a shock.”

  Underneath the flippant response, my mind races. After the match came back, did they contact DSI Aurora and ask about me? Does Riker know I’m here? And if so, is he sending someone to Moscow to find out what’s going on, to talk to me? My stomach twists into a knot at the possibility that one of my own teammates, one of my own friends, might kill me by inadvertently violating the terms of my binding oath with Targus.

  Irrespective of Hays’ warning, I should’ve never let myself be caught by DSI Moscow.

  “It’s interesting,” the captain continues as if I said nothing, “the pattern of your movements over the past twenty-four hours. According to your DSI personnel file, you are still under active employment, but the email we just received from one of Aurora’s administrators claims that you resigned from your job yesterday evening. Immediately after penning this resignation, it appears, you departed from the United States via airplane and flew straight to this city. Where you seem to have intentionally embroiled yourself in a supernatural matter of some importance, and with several supernatural persons who represent a significant threat to the civilian population.”

  That story already has mistakes in it, but I hold my tongue. This man has clearly spun some false narrative about me based on a set of incorrect assumptions that must have taken root as a result of the encounters I’ve had with DSI today. Now he’s building up to some sort of grand accusation. I need to wait until he finishes his spiel in order to find out which tidbits of the truth I can use to dismiss his allegations and send him back to the drawing board.

  The captain flips open the manila folder, revealing that, in addition to my file, it contains a set of notes in illegible cursive Russian and a stack of photographs that look to have been taken by a phone camera. “This morning, you scuffled with a DSI team outside the Moscow Academic Theater of Satire. During this engagement, multiple agents sustained injuries, including burns and broken bones. A couple minutes after that fight, you were then spotted by a second team. But before they could engage you, they were attacked by someone in a car covered in wards. These two things we know to be absolutely true, so do not bother trying to claim you were uninvolved.”

  As he speaks, he slips a few of the photos out of the folder and slides them across the tabletop toward me. The first one shows the damage done to the interior of the theater by the magic bomb Hays used to distract the Children and the Knight during the attempted hand-off of the sword. The second picture shows the bodies of the DSI agents who were killed by that bomb, their myriad injuries harshly emphasized by a set of glaring crime scene lights. The third picture shows the damage to the DSI SUV that Lucian rammed on Blagoveshchensky Lane and the broken front window of Duckstar’s Bar.

  “What we do not know is whether you had anything to do with the explosion at the theater, and the related deaths of the DSI agents that we sent to recover what we believe to be a dangerous magic artifact that was smuggled into our country.” The captain’s tone has taken on a rough edge. A warning that I better damn well tell him the truth about what happened to his fellow agents. “We also do not know the identities of the two parties who arranged the smuggling operation in the first place. Something we would very much like to know, seeing as all the involved persons escaped from us during the confusion caused by the bombing.”

  I roll my shoulders back, and pretend it doesn’t hurt. “What makes you think I’ll tell you any of that?”

  His gray eyebrow rises. “Firstly, because I’m Aleksei Volkov, and lowlifes do not lie to me, because they do not like what happens when they lie to me. Secondly, because your cooperation in this matter may result in a reduction of the hefty punishment you are likely to receive after you are convicted of numerous acts of espionage against the United States government.”

  Taken aback, I blurt out, “What are you talking about?”

  Volkov pulls another photo from his stack and slaps it onto the table. The picture is a still from a security video taken inside Aurora’s DSI building, and it depicts Lucian standing outside Riker’s office. The timestamp in the corner indicates the original video was recorded the day after the battle with the Black Knights at the art museum. That was when Lucian went to the office to give Riker an official statement from House Tepes regarding the series of unfortunate events that led up to the final bloody conflict with Lizzie Banks and her Knight buddies.

  Volkov cracks a grin as he observes my growing unease. “The representative of the Aurora office who emailed us after our inquiry into you identified this man as an intelligence operative under the employ of House Tepes, with whom you have had multiple encounters over the past year. You were spotted by our agents in the company of this man today, during a raid operation on a flophouse where we believed you were hiding.”

  Wait. Where they believed I was hiding?

  All my unease hardens into suspicion. Because it suddenly occurs to me that he hasn’t mentioned anything about a shapeshifter. There’s only one way that DSI could’ve pinned down that flophouse as a location of interest, and that’s by recognizing the other copy of me that was running around as a shapeshifter, either by spotting his tell—the purple eyes—after injuring him, or by actually seeing him change his appearance.

  The fact that Volkov is framing this narrative to explicitly exclude Hays’ involvement in the failed sword exchange can only mean a handful of things. And one of those things is that Hays is somehow connected to DSI Moscow.

  Could it be that DSI Moscow is, knowingly or unknowingly, at the beck and call of Hays’ unidentified client? Could it be that said client is attempting to erase any signs of their involvement in the Dawn Slayer matter? That would go a long way in explaining DSI’s convenient timing for the raid on the flophouse:

  The client, either a supernatural power player or the underling of one, had eyes on Lucian and me. They realized after our visit to Ken’s bar that we were likely to uncover the coded messages Hays had left in his flophouse room, so they nudged DSI onto a collision course with us to try and prevent us from obtaining them.

  Speculation is a dangerous thing, Kinsey, I warn myself. Don’t go too far down a rabbit hole.

  I tamp down my racing thoughts and hash out a response to Volkov’s half-spoken accusation. “You seem to be implying that my incidental acquaintance with ‘that man’ is actually a front for some kind of ongoing covert intelligence activity. Yet you’ve produced nothing beyond circumstantial evidence to back up that claim.”

  Volkov frowns, displeased that I’ve gone on the offensive. “I won’t need anything beyond circumstantial evidence once you confess to me.”

  “And you think your hardass reputation will make me give you a false confession?”

  He settles farther back in his chair and raps his gloved fingers against the tabletop. “I can be very persuasive.”

  I jut my chin toward the folder. “You didn’t even read my full file before you walked in here, did you?”

  His eye twitches at the insult. “I reviewed everything that was relevant to this discussion.”

  “If you had, you’d know that threatening to torture me is a bad move.”

  His fingers stop moving. “Why is that?”

  “Because I’ve been tortured before, pal, by people far more intimidating than you.” I lean as far forward as my cuffs will allow. “Funny thing is, I’m still here, alive and kicking, while those people who hurt me, all of them, are either dead or wish they were.”

  Volkov growls, “Is that a threat?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  He slams his fist against the tabletop, stirring the line of photos. One of them tips over the edge of the table and flutters to the floor. “Enough wit
h your juvenile bluster. You are a spy for House Tepes. I know it. You know it. We all know it. You have been found out. Accept it and cooperate with this investigation, and perhaps whoever prosecutes you for crimes against your state will favor life without parole over the death penalty. Refuse to admit your role in this offense against my city, and I will be forced to take more drastic measures.”

  He swipes up the picture of the dead agents in the theater and holds it close to my face. “I don’t like people who kill my colleagues. I don’t like them at all. And I’m not particularly kind to people I don’t like. So choose wisely, Mr. Kinsey. Choose very wisely.”

  I pull away from the photo and give him the most unimpressed look I can manage while cuffed to a chair in a barebones cell with DSI agents pointing weapons at me. “If you wanted me to play nice with you, the last thing you should’ve done was accuse me of killing DSI agents. Now you’ve managed to offend me—which disinclines me to speak to you at all—in addition to utterly failing to threaten me in a manner that actually makes me concerned for my life or well-being.”

  Volkov flushes, the effect offset by his stubble. “You little sh—”

  Someone bangs on the door to the cell, interrupting what I’m sure would’ve been an impressive tirade from Captain Asshole. Said captain throws a furious look at the door and stands up so fast that his chair falls over and clatters against the floor.

  The door is unlocked remotely by whoever’s watching through the security camera. Once the last lock disengages, Volkov hauls the door open, revealing a lanky redhead about a decade younger than the captain.

  The woman speaks to Volkov in hushed Russian whispers. Volkov stiffens more and more after each sentence, until his shoulders are wound so tight it’s a wonder they don’t pop out of their sockets. When the woman finishes, Volkov slowly cranks his head around to peer back at me, his eyes alight with the kind of rage that would make Charun the Psychopomp proud.

  Like a puppet, Volkov mechanically spins on his heels, marches back to the table, and gathers up the photos. He stuffs them into the manila folder, which he slams shut and tucks under his arm.

  “You,” he sneers, like I’m the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen, “are free to go.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”

  “Because your master has come to claim you.”

  “Huh?”

  Volkov rolls his eyes. “Lord Tepes is standing in the lobby of this building, with an entourage large enough to wipe out half our staff. He has provided our commissioner with legal documentation claiming that you are a formalized agent of House Tepes, and that all acts you have committed in this city today were authorized by the house prior to their undertaking. Therefore, if we want to seek punitive action or compensatory damages against you for whatever role you played in our agents’ injuries, and deaths, we must negotiate with House Tepes through the standard diplomatic channels made available to us by the Vampire Federation.”

  He snaps his fingers, and one of the agents playing sentry lowers her weapon and scuttles over to me. She unlocks my cuffs and then backs away cautiously. As if she thinks the only reason I haven’t yet unleashed hell on this holding room is because there were two flimsy pieces of metal pinning my wrists to the chair. Since I don’t want to be shot, by her or her friend in the other corner, I make no sudden movements.

  Eying Volkov like a pot about to boil over, I slowly stand up. He doesn’t move to hit me. But I can tell he’s barely restraining himself. The expression on his face promises a brutal vengeance. And something in his dark eyes twinkles with the sort of ambition that never ends well for anyone. Whether Volkov ever learns the truth about this Dawn Slayer business or not, I’m pretty sure I’ve made myself an enemy for life, just by virtue of embarrassing him in his own domain.

  Making enemies of DSI agents. Brilliant move there, Kinsey. Utterly brilliant.

  The woman at the door breaks the silence. “Shall I escort him, sir?”

  Volkov makes a dismissive sniffing noise. “Yes. Get him out of my sight, Irina.”

  Irina gives him a deferential nod, and addresses me. “Follow me, Mr. Kinsey.”

  I head for the door at an awkward angle, unwilling to put my back to Volkov.

  When I’m two steps from the threshold, Volkov says, “I will take a great deal of pleasure in writing this report.”

  I pause with one foot outside the cell. “Come again?”

  Volkov bends his lips into something that only a fool would call a smile. “For the time being, you may wriggle out of any formal punishments for your crimes, Kinsey, but there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop us from telling the world what you truly are. By the end of the day, all of DSI will know you are a traitor who has thrown in his lot with the vampires.

  “And from the mouths of DSI’s best gossips, the news will gradually bleed out to the ICM, to the Wolves, and to everyone else of consequence. So you better pray that House Tepes doesn’t chew you up and spit you out, like they have done to so many others. Because if you fall out of the young lord’s favor, no one else in this world will give you safe harbor. I will make sure of that.”

  I press my lips together to fight off the urge to spit at him. Volkov notices my discomfort, and that twinkle in his eye grows brighter. Little does he know that I don’t give a crap about his ambitions. It’s Alexander Targus that I’m worried about.

  By the terms of our oath, Targus can’t use my status as a practitioner in any attempt to discredit DSI or otherwise damage its reputation. But if Volkov convinces people that I was some kind of high-level Federation spy working in deep cover right under Riker’s nose for over a year, then Targus will undoubtedly twist that “revelation” into a weapon he can use to prove that DSI is incompetent in the handling of supernatural matters and that Riker is an ineffectual commissioner. If he successfully slanders DSI in that way, he’ll be able to cement his position as a supernatural authority in Aurora, which will allow him to swing the results of countless political negotiations in his favor.

  Volkov is planning to help the ICM critically damage DSI, and he doesn’t even know it.

  And I can’t tell him about it, I think bitterly as I force myself to exit the holding room, to move beyond arm’s reach of Volkov, before I do something I’ll later regret. Fuck you, Targus. And fuck you too, Volkov. Fuck you both to hell and back.

  Chapter Twelve

  The woman called Irina doesn’t say a word to me as she leads me to the elevator. I hobble along behind her, my bones and muscles weak and stiff from being repeatedly battered during today’s “excitement.” My appearance, dirt streaked and bloodstained, attracts a great deal of attention from the other agents loitering near the doors of the various holding rooms along the hall. Some of them give me mystified looks, unaware of who I am and why I’m being politely escorted out of a dungeon instead of interrogated to the fullest extent. Others have clearly taken a turn on the rumor mill, and they scowl at me as I pass by, whisper “traitor” and “spy” to all their friends.

  I try not to take it personally—they have no clue what’s really going on—but it still hurts.

  Blessedly, the elevator arrives empty, and only Irina accompanies me up to the ground floor. She stands beside me in the elevator car with her hands laced in front of her, close enough to her thigh holsters to pull a gun and shoot me dead if I so much as breathe in her direction. Her expression seems placid enough, but I don’t take that appearance at face value. Over the course of my turbulent year as a DSI detective, some of my worst enemies have turned out to be people who seemed perfectly nice at first glance.

  A peaceful mask can hide all kinds of chaos.

  The elevator arrives at the ground floor without incident. The doors roll open to reveal a retro lobby that speaks to the building’s former occupation as some sort of Soviet government office. The room is one big rectangle bisected by a security desk situated directly across from the entrance, which consists of three pairs of glass double doors.
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br />   Twelve DSI agents, including two men with security guard patches who should probably be manning the abandoned front desk, are huddled together about ten feet from the central set of doors. None of them have drawn their guns, but a few have their beggar rings charged, and all of them are so tense that the crinkle of a plastic wrapper would set them off.

  I don’t blame them for their wariness.

  Five vampires are standing just inside those double doors. The one at the head of the pack is Lord Tepes himself, with his crimson irises on full display. Annette stands to his left, her amber gaze brushing over each of the DSI agents in turn, as if she’s mapping out exactly how she’ll kill each one with a single blow.

  The two men in black who were guarding the door to the Hyatt suite this morning stand behind Foley, their impressive bulk a warning to keep away from the young lord, or else. And the final vampire, who was in the Hyatt suite but whose name I didn’t learn, is a petite woman with short red hair who wears a fang-bearing smirk like a fashion statement.

  These five vampires could probably wipe out everyone in this room in ninety seconds, if they really put their minds to it. So if I was one of the DSI agents facing off against this crew, I’d be quaking in my boots too. Lucky for me, the vampires are on my side today.

  God, what a weird situation.

  As Irina and I cross the lobby, the stairwell door to my right creaks open. A tall man in a pristine suit with a DSI-issue coat hanging over his shoulders exits the stairwell. He’s about Riker’s age, with salt-and-pepper hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and a pair of bifocals perched on his hawk-like nose. His attention is directed at a stapled packet of paper he’s holding in one hand. He runs the back of a pen along several lines of text and mouths a few of the words, like he’s checking some important piece of information for accuracy.

  Irina comes to a sudden stop. “Commissioner Petrov.”

  The man looks up from his papers, and finally notices me. Peering over the rims of his glasses, he takes in my soiled clothing and my skin streaked with dried blood. “Ah,” the man says in English, his voice carrying only a slight accent, “so you’re the one who’s been causing me so much trouble today.”