Ryan began his training session with Morgan as his sparring partner. They were both sweating and the quiet hum of discipline echoed off the stone walls of the underground chamber. Ryan's hands tightened around the gun he'd been practising with, firing again and again into the targets that appeared like phantoms before him.
But no matter how many rounds he let off, his thoughts were elsewhere. Greta's words had been replaying in his mind since dawn. Someone trusted had betrayed them. His parents hadn't simply died in some wild ambush. Their deaths had been orchestrated, deliberate. And worse still someone close, someone his father had trusted, had played a hand in it.
He lowered the gun slowly, his eyes scanning the rows of weapons mounted along the wall swords, axes, curved daggers that seemed to hum faintly with enchantment, and heavier rifles crafted for more than just ordinary prey. The gentleman's words came back to him. When you reach the level, your weapon will choose you.
Ryan wasn't there yet. Still, he needed to start finding answers.
"Morgan," he called, breaking the silence between shots.
His driver and sparring partner straightened from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Ryan's every move with that sharp, evaluative gaze of his. "What's on your mind, sir?"
Ryan set the gun down on the counter, wiped the sweat from his brow, and asked quietly, "Have you heard a word about Matthias?"
Morgan's expression hardened instantly. He shook his head. "Nothing. He would have retreated underground after your confrontation with him. That demon isn't one to stay in the open when his plans have been shaken."
Ryan's jaw tightened. He had expected as much, but disappointment still sank through him. "So there's no way to track him?"
"There is," Morgan said after a pause. His voice carried the weight of warning. "There's somewhere lurking in the back corner of the city called the underground bar. It's where warlocks, witches, shape-shifters--anyone not exactly human--go to trade news, favors, information. A Dangerous place. But if anyone has heard Matthias's name whispered, it would be there."
Ryan considered it. Dangerous didn't bother him. In fact, danger was beginning to feel like second nature.
Before he could respond, the heavy door of the training hall creaked open. Greta slipped in, her footsteps brisk but careful. She looked between them, her eyes sharp, and then focused on Ryan.
"You have a call, boss," she said simply.
Ryan arched a brow, surprised. "A call?"
"Yes," she replied. "On the line."
Ryan set his towel aside and followed her out, his mind shifting from Matthias to whoever could possibly be reaching out to him. He picked up the receiver, and the voice that came on the line startled him with its brightness.
"Ryan?"
It was Thelma.
A rare warmth loosened something in his chest. "Thelma," he answered.
She hesitated for a moment, as though rehearsing her words. Then, in a rush, she said, "I--um--know this isn't urgent. Not at all urgent. But I was wondering… would you like to have coffee with me?"
Ryan blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her nervous lilt. She sounded almost shy, almost girlish, and it was so different from the bold way she had defended him against her aunt that he found himself smiling despite the weight on his mind.
"You want to have coffee?" he asked, his tone deliberately even, though amusement flickered beneath it.
"Yes," she replied quickly, and then laughed at herself. "I mean--if you're not too busy. I know you probably are. You always seem… occupied. But I thought maybe tomorrow morning, if that isn't too much to ask…"
Her words tumbled over each other, and Ryan could picture her standing there with that unsure expression, biting her lips after every sentence like she was afraid of overstepping.
"Tomorrow sounds perfect," Ryan said at last.
There was a pause on her end, and then a small, relieved exhale that carried through the line. "Really?"
"Really."
She giggled then--soft, nervous, but genuine. "Good. Great. Then… tomorrow it is."
Ryan allowed himself the faintest chuckle. "Tomorrow it is."
When the call ended, he lingered for a moment with the receiver in his hand, the faint echo of her voice still in his ears. There was something refreshing about her, something untainted in the midst of everything else he was drowning in.
But the warmth was fleeting. He returned to the underground chamber, and as he descended, his eyes caught on something among the rows of weapons and relics.
The Reaper mantle.
A black cape hung there, its fabric catching the dim light, beside matching black boots and trousers, the full ensemble that his father had once worn. Ryan's hand hovered over it, then touched the material lightly. It felt heavier than it looked, as though it carried the weight of legacy itself. It was about time he put it on.
That night, under the cover of shadow, Ryan dressed with deliberate care. His boots silent against the pavement, his cape pulled tight, he made his way through the winding streets, following the directions Morgan gave him until the underground bar came into view.
A warlock stood guard at the door, broad-shouldered, eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural hue. Ryan braced himself for resistance, but the warlock merely stepped aside. Wordless. As though some unseen recognition passed between them.
Inside, the bar was alive with a dangerous sort of energy mingling with the sound of clinking glasses and low laughter. It was another world. Shifters lounged with predatory ease, witches whispered over glowing cards, warlocks muttered in dark corners, and creatures that were neither human nor demons watched him as he entered.
He drew stares immediately. He was an outsider, yet not. Something in the way he carried himself set him apart. He moved through the space until he reached a corner table, where he sat with his back to the wall, taking everything in.
The bartender approached, his eyes darting nervously over Ryan's features. "What's your order?"
"Beer," Ryan said simply.
The man returned a moment later with the drink. Ryan took a slow sip, then asked casually, "Have you heard of the demon Matthias?"
The bartender stiffened. He shook his head too quickly. "I don't know who you're talking about, man."
Ryan studied him, seeing through the lie as easily as if the man had shouted it aloud.
He asked again, this time of another patron nearby--a man with shifting eyes. The answer was the same. A denial that was too quick and afraid.
The name Matthias was poison here. Everyone knew it, and no one dared to speak it.
Ryan pushed back from his seat, ready to leave, when someone collided with him. He turned sharply, his instinct rising, but paused when he saw it was a woman. She steadied herself, her cloak shifting to reveal just a hint of fiery red hair.
Her green eyes met his. They were calm, sharp and knowing.
"I know who you might be looking for," she said softly.