Two minutes later, a woman approached their table, notepad in hand. Her brown hair was neatly braided, each taut and precise. Her attire was a white blouse beneath a dark vest, a knee-length skirt, and a plain apron tied at the waist, a testament to the Soaring Sparrow Inn's standards.
"Sorry for the wait, my name is Roxanne and I'll be your waitress for this morning," she said, bowing slightly."What can I get you both?"
Damon closed his menu." Something sweet and spicy, I'll have a number 4".
Henry leaned back, twiddling his thumbs in thought. "I'll have something butter to drink and also a spicy dish for me and our brother upstairs."
Roxanne nodded, noting their orders before moving toward the kitchen. When the door swung open, a ribbon of warm steam escaped. The scent was earthy, herbaceous, faintly floral, curling like thin threads in the air. Damon's eyes followed her for a moment, lingering on the quiet precision of her movements, before he shifted his gaze to Madame Jetavii.
"Did you notice anything off about her?" he asked, suppressing his voice.
Henry lifted his head, following his gaze. "Who? Madame Jatavii?"His eyes narrowed slightly. "Her spiritual energy level's rather low for a healthy person, but that's all I picked up."It wasn't strange for a civilian to possess so little. During one of their nightly sessions, Cassie had mentioned that most humans carried only one to three gallons worth of spiritual energy, enough to sense the warmth within but unable to manipulate it.
Damon remained silent, letting the information settle. 'Master, ' he called inwardly. 'What do you think?'
['That woman has made a Heavenly Restriction Vow.'] Tomoe's voice rang in his mind, sharp with clear disapproval.
Damon's brow furrowed. 'A Vow?'
["A pact bound by the heavens themselves,"]she continued.
["For every gain, a corresponding sacrifice is required. Such bargains are poison. Those who make a vow surrender their Will, and those who break it become marionettes, vessels for higher thoughts. Know this child: if you ever make such a vow in the future, you're no longer my student."] Her voice seethed with Anger and disdain so thick he felt her presence prickling against his skin.
Damon was left speechless at his revelation. For a long moment, he said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Jetavii as she moved through the room, smiling politely at passing guests. Her welcoming smile now seemed practiced, an armor shaped by necessity.
"What did you trade, I wonder.."He muttered.
As if she sensed it, Jetavii glanced up. Their eyes met, hers polite, calm, with a fleeting shadow beneath the surface. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the shadow vanished.
Henry, noticing Damon's fixed stare, smirked slightly."Careful. That's the sort of look that gets you in trouble."
"What look?" Damon asked.
"The one where you leer too long," Henry said. "She's a little old for you, you know."
Damon looked at him dryly; Henry's jest didn't amuse him. "You've got some issues."
Henry causally shrugged with a subtle smile. "Maybe. Still looks like you're the one blushing."
"Shut up," Damon muttered, leaning back with a sigh. "I miss when you used to talk less. Ever since we got our techniques, you've been acting like Vincent."
"At least I'm not a hypocrite," Henry replied smoothly. "You had an issue with Vincent risking innocent lives, yet you just risked one yourself to replicate my technique."
"Better to be a hypocrite than a cowered, afraid of a room number, what's so scary about room 237 anyway?"Damon replied Icily.
Upon hearing his words, Henry felt a sense of helplessness. "It's a bad omen, okay!, I read abo-"
Suddenly, the air shifted as a familiar voice intruded. "I knew I'd find you two here."
Vincent pulled up a chair and dropped into it as if he owned the table. He directly unfolded a small note and placed it in front of them.
"I woke up to this," he said, eyes flicking between Damon and Henry, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's from Mr. Junnan. The meeting location is written here. We'll head out after we eat. So…what did you order before I got here?"
The faint clatter of dishes rose from the kitchen, punctuating the moment. Plates were set down one by one. For each brother, Kung Pao chicken arrived, golden-brown cubes glazed in dark, glossy sauce, ringed with roasted peanuts and fiery red chili slices. Charred garlic and ginger sent sharp wafts into the air.
Beside each plate, small bowls of sweet bread steamed, sticky with honey glaze. Damon broke one open with his chopsticks. The soft crack of the crust revealed tender, spiced meat inside, droplets of oil glinting in the morning light. A fried egg rested beside each dish, its edges crisped to gold, yolk thick and rich. Two black coffees were set down, one for Henry, one for Vincent. Henry sipped immediately, brow tightening at the bitter bite softened by milk. Damon's cup was pale porcelain, a swirl of golden Tian-cha inside. The tea's warmth spread down his throat, floral notes mingling with faint sweetness and spice.
Vincent leaned back, tapping his spoon idly. "Not bad. Almost makes up for waking up this early."Henry nodded, already halfway through his chicken, yet Damon said nothing, letting the flavors settle on his tongue: the glaze, the chili, the crunch of peanuts, the subtle interplay of sweetness and heat.
.....
Fifteen minutes later, Roxanne returned to their table, with a wave of their hands, the brothers parted ways with Jetavii and left the Soaring Sparrow Inn, heading northwest toward the edge of the district. At the far corner, the Montelli Mortuary rose quietly. Black railings flanked the entrance, glinting faintly with dew. A brass plaque gleamed I the morning sun, letters etched deep and precise.
Vincent let out a low whistle. "This is the place, this is much better than I was expecting, considering corpses aren't usually stored passed five days."
Damon looked at Vincent in confusion and asked. "You expected cobwebs and candlelight?"
"A little," Vincent said, grinning. "You'd think a mortuary would at least try to set the mood."
Detecting something, Henry's head turned toward the entrance. "Someone's coming."
The curtains in the upper windows shifted slightly. Inside, movement traced the staircase, deliberate and quiet.
The front door opened. A man stepped out, walking with a straight back, unhurried. Brown hair combed neatly, eyes calm and watchful. His dark blue suit fell loose over the shoulders, white shirt crisp beneath, narrow tie precise.
"The Attendants of Redhill, I presume. A pleasure to finally meet you in person," he said. "I'm Song Junnan," he continued, hands folded briefly before shaking Vincent's. "Chief mortician and forensic consultant for the district. Thank you for coming."
Vincent stepped forward, quick and confident. "The Visionary spoke highly of you, Mr. Junnan. They said you handle the cases people prefer not to name in Augustine."
"That's quite the honor," Mr Junnan Shook his head, "I'm merely a civil servant doing his duties."He said humbly.
Damon and Henry observed silently, noting the faint hollows beneath Junnan's eyes. Not fatigue, but habit, the kind of gaze used to measure time in stillness.
"What's the situation?" Vincent asked.
For a moment, Junnan's eyes shifted to the street, then back. "Another body was brought in yesterday evening. The examiner confirmed it was the same as the others, the head and spine completely removed. The Specters from the churches arrived a few minutes ago to conduct their investigation. We can meet with them now."
He gestured toward the open doors. Inside, the corridor stretched narrow and immaculate, walls lined with silver trays, faint light spilling from frosted windows. Only the hum of ventilation reached them.
Vincent sighed, disappointment flickering across his expression. "I was really hoping we'd get here before those people."
"Please," Junnan said, voice even. "We can speak freely beyond the threshold."
Vincent stepped forward first, his expression easing into practiced charm. Damon followed, his attention caught by the subtle chill drifting from within. Henry brought up the rear, quiet as a reflection, closing the door softly behind them.
The corridor widened into a room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and something heavier, more persistent, the lingering essence of formaldehyde. Steel tables gleamed beneath the frosted light that fell from high windows, reflecting muted shapes of the bodies laid upon them. Silver trays, neatly arranged, caught stray glimmers of sunlight, like miniature mirrors suspended above the cold floor.
The figures of a man and a woman stood visible through a room window. The woman moved with the deliberate elegance of a discipline, but the man seemed to loom over the bodies, expressionlessly observing everything.
Walking closer, Damon was able to discern that the woman was no more than nineteen years old; her hair was a pale blue that seemed to shimmer beneath the fluorescent light. Her attire bridged faith and sorcery, a robe of white trimmed in gold and black, crossed by a blue sash embroidered with faint constellations. A golden brooch fastened it at her chest, tassels swaying softly with her breath.
Turning around, she folded her arms, shoulders squared. Her gaze landed on the siblings with the precision of a scalpel. "You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice sharp and high-pitched. "Your presence is unwanted. People like you will contaminate the bodies."