46

You huddle beside Qui's tired old sedan as a cool wind blows down the street. Somehow, not even the leaves rustle to pierce the quiet. You can feel Jordan growing increasingly restless beside you as each individual second passes with glacial slowness. When the Sheriff materializes in front of you, you almost cry out from the anticipation.

"You followed orders. Good. I was worried I was going to have to follow you inside."

"We waited here like you asked," Jordan says. "But I'm getting worried. I'm pretty sure there was a break-in here."

Qui nods. "Very likely. Body on the back porch and something blocking the rear entrance. Bookcase or heavy shelf pushed in front of the door. I'm not in the habit of asking for help, but three sets of eyes are better than one. I've already radioed for backup, but we should move now. I have a bad feeling about this."

You slowly open the grand front door to Vivian's estate, taking note of its damaged hinges and using as little force as possible to make your way through the opening and into the front foyer.

The main room is dominated by a massive Victorian-era portrait of Ms. Maier, though it would be safe to guess that she went by another name that long ago. The clothes are different, but the face is unmistakable as it looks down on you disapprovingly. The air is cold and the distinctive smell of death beckons you to a small alcove to the right where you find the body of Vivian's butler propped up on a stool. His eyes have rolled back and a trickle of blood and drool dangles from the edge of his mouth.

"This gives me the creeps," Jordan whispers as she checks the body for any signs of a vampire assault. "Still warm, but I don't think anyone drank from him. Whoever did it could still be mortal, but I have my doubts. All I know is that they must have a serious death-wish."

"They'll be dead within the night," Qui mutters. "Unlucky for them that you ran into me at Mekuztli's haven. They'll have less time to slip the net now."

"We'll find them," you whisper. Anarchs gathering by the Ottawa River is one thing, but an assault on a Primogen is another thing entirely. "This has to be answered for or the whole city will be in chaos."

Jordan is already moving toward a graceful set of stairs in the back leading up to the second floor. You and Qui move to keep up. "I can sense something up there—I smell more blood. There's a dripping sound."

Qui's lips pull back in a silent snarl before he disappears into the shadows. "Be careful when you move on," the empty air whispers with the Sheriff's voice. "Anything could be up here."

You exchange a knowing look with Jordan and the two of you shroud yourselves, climbing the remaining stairs in silence, concealed so completely that only a pack-like stalking instinct informs you of each other's presence. A door just past the landing has been left ajar, and as you watch, it creeps an inch or two wider to admit the Sheriff. You remind yourself that the group should stick together so you don't lose track of each other. You step carefully, avoiding any missteps that could give away your position to a lurking enemy.

The heavy wooden door is composed of six interlocking panels, each outlined by intricately carved scrollwork. The room beyond is likewise exquisitely purposeful in its design, marred only by the notable exception of Vivian Maier's crucified body suspended on the opposing wall, chest transfixed by a thick wooden stake. The Primogen's wrists are wrapped in layers of metal wire holding her aloft with the symmetric perfection of a well-loved painting. A single man in servant's attire kneels before her, his back to you as he seeks absolution—from God or his mistress, you cannot say.

You circle around the room, positioning yourself between the servant and the only other escape route—a window as tall as you are, its twin panes thrown wide open and filling the room with a chill night breeze. As you advance, the man unclasps his shivering hands and moves them to his belt, knuckles white as he pulls a knife and holds the hilt under his chin, its tip inches away from his chest.

This may be the only witness left alive who can tell you what happened here. You run forward and grab his wrist with supernatural strength. The blade clatters to the floor and the servant looks up at you, his bloodshot eyes brimming with sadness. He looks so old—too old to feel horror anymore—or perhaps that's the result of long years in the service of an older vampire. He runs a hand over his balding pate, oblivious to the small wisps of white hair falling loose and drifting lazily to the floor.

"You can't stop this," he stammers. "I'm already dead."