The dead man on the slab had good posture, which I appreciated.
So many these days arrived slouched or broken—modern death lacked dignity. But this one, even in stillness, looked as though he'd once stood tall, shoulders squared by either pride or labor. He was drained, yes. But at least he had manners.
I stood beside him with sleeves rolled up, coat draped over the nearest chair, and a silver scalpel resting lightly in my fingers. The scent of warmed foxblood filled the embalming room, spicy and faintly metallic, steeped with nettle and glassroot. It curled into the quiet like incense, seeping through the breath of magic embedded in the floor.
The runes etched beneath Morrow's End were old. Older than the city, older than me. But I had reinforced them—painted bone dust into the mortar, whispered red words into the walls. This mortuary didn't just house the dead. It listened to them. It remembered.
Which made this business of bloodless bodies all the more insulting.
"I really hate being lied to," I murmured, more to myself than to the corpse. "And I especially hate being undercut without so much as a—" I paused, gesturing vaguely. "—dramatic monologue."
The body didn't respond. Rude.
I set the scalpel aside and reached for the summoning bowl—silver, engraved with a family of ouroboros, and warm to the touch. I poured a measured vial of foxblood into its center. The liquid hissed as it met the base, activating the sigil beneath the slab in a low flicker of red light.
I pressed two fingers gently to the corpse's sternum.
"Time to chat."
The reaction was immediate.
A pulse of blue snapped beneath the body. Its back arched once, then fell. The eyes opened—not wide, not screaming, just… open. Glassy and milk-veined, they settled on nothing and everything at once.
"Don't panic," I said, as if that ever worked. "You're dead. That part's permanent. But lucky you—I just need a moment of your time."
The corpse shuddered slightly. Not pain. Just memory rethreading itself through flesh.
"Name?" I asked.
The mouth opened slowly. "Bren... Odren…"
"Good." I stepped closer, just inside the circle. "Bren, I need you to remember the end. Where were you?"
His brow twitched. A pause. Then: "Three blocks… from the canal. Brick alley. Metal stairwell. She—she smiled…"
I tensed.
"She?" I asked.
The man's throat clicked as his tongue struggled to shape words. "White eyes… beautiful… wrong."
"Did she bite you?"
"No."
I leaned in. "What did she do?"
"She sang."
That stopped me.
"Sang?"
Bren's whole body convulsed once—not violently, but like something inside him recoiled.
"With her breath," he whispered. "Like... it pulled me apart."
The sigil beneath him flared gold. The spell was ending.
"Did she take your blood?"
The corpse's lip twitched. "All of it. From the inside out."
Then silence.
The eyes went still. The lungs stopped imitating breath.
Bren Odren was gone again.
I sat down slowly on the stool beside the slab, running a hand through the locs tied at the crown of my head. The rest fell across my back like dried flame. My fingers smelled of foxblood and old magic.
This wasn't the first. And I was beginning to suspect it wouldn't be the last.
It would be easier if it were one of Kaustherion's lackeys slipping out after hours to indulge their impulses. Vampires break the rules sometimes; they get hungry, they get cocky. That's what contracts are for—so that when they get reckless, I can get even.
But this?
This was something different. Something deeper.
Singing?
Not even the old-blood vamps used breath magic. Not in centuries. Most couldn't even speak the old tongue without choking on their own teeth.
I rose and crossed to the back door, opening it with a whisper and a gesture. Cool night air flowed in—sweet, herb-rich, touched with dew. The rear garden of Morrow's End was lush in its wildness: dark flowering vines curling up the stone walls, flat stepping paths half-eaten by moss, the skeletal shape of an old pergola overgrown with witch ivy and moonleaf.
I stood there for a moment, letting the silence brush against me like cloth. The city was a soft glow in the near distance. Close enough to touch, distant enough to maintain privacy and a veil of mystery.
They didn't know everything about this place. Not really. Not the humans, not the cops. The vampires respected the boundary. The witches knew better than to scry too close. And the secret council behind the government?
They allowed it—because I kept balance.
But this… whatever this was… it was unraveling the whole thing.
I returned to the slab and peeled off my gloves, dropping them into the brass bin with a soft metallic clink. The air felt heavier now, like the magic had recoiled into itself, watching from behind the walls.
"Someone's challenging me," I muttered to the room. "Stealing blood I was promised. Interfering with rituals. Leaving hollow corpses at my door."
I smiled then.
It wasn't a nice smile.
"I hope they ready, because nobody fucks with my profit." He remarked. A Subtle smirk playing at his lips.