Chapter 18: Professional Contact
The address led to a high-rise in the Pearl District, all glass and steel and the kind of aggressive modernity that announced wealth without taste. Cole parked two blocks away and walked, using the distance to scan for surveillance and clear his head.
The Blutbad instincts were manageable now, but they still colored his perceptions. Every person on the street registered as potential prey. Every shadow hid potential threats. The predator never slept—it just waited.
Focus. This is business, not hunting.
The lobby was all marble and diffused lighting, staffed by a security guard who checked Cole's ID with professional thoroughness before directing him to the elevator. Thirty-second floor. Corner office.
The elevator opened onto a reception area that cost more than Cole's entire apartment. A woman in a tailored suit smiled professionally.
"Mr. Ashford? You're expected. Please follow me."
She led him down a corridor lined with abstract art and through a set of heavy wooden doors. The office beyond was expansive—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Portland, furniture that probably qualified as antique, and a man sitting behind a desk with the comfortable authority of someone who owned everything he surveyed.
Sean Renard looked exactly like Cole remembered from the show.
Tall, dark-haired, conventionally handsome in a way that suggested careful grooming rather than genetic luck. He wore a suit that cost more than most people's monthly salary, and his expression held the pleasant neutrality of someone who'd learned to control every micro-expression decades ago.
[WARNING: SIGNIFICANT THREAT DETECTED]
[SPECIES: ZAUBERBIEST (PARTIAL). CLASS A THREAT. POLITICAL ENTITY. EXTREME CAUTION ADVISED.]
Cole kept his face neutral as the Detection Matrix screamed alerts.
"Mr. Ashford." Renard stood and extended a hand. His grip was firm, measured—the handshake of someone who could crush bones but chose not to. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Your message suggested urgency."
"Please, sit." Renard gestured to a chair opposite his desk. "Can I offer you something? Coffee? Water?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
They sat across from each other, two predators in expensive clothing, measuring each other with careful attention. Cole could smell something off about Renard—not quite human, not quite Wesen, something in between that the Detection Matrix couldn't fully categorize.
Half-Zauberbiest. Royal bastard. Police captain by day, puppet master by night.
He knew all of this from the show. Renard didn't know he knew.
"I'll be direct," Renard said. "The case I mentioned doesn't exist. Or rather, it exists only as a pretext for this meeting."
"I appreciate honesty."
"Do you?" Renard's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then let me be more honest. You've been operating in Portland for approximately one month. In that time, you've established a PI business, taken on several clients, and conducted surveillance operations that touched on interests I monitor closely."
Cole kept his expression pleasant. "I follow leads where they go. Sometimes that means crossing paths with corporate interests."
"Indeed. But your leads have an interesting pattern, Mr. Ashford. The waterfront district. The industrial east side. Areas with certain... complications that most investigators avoid."
He knows about the Skalenzahne territory. Maybe about Volk's operation too.
"Portland's a complex city."
"It is." Renard leaned back in his chair. "Which brings me to my point. You're not police. You're not federal. You're not connected to any organization I've been able to identify. And yet you've operated in spaces that typically require... sponsorship."
"I'm good at my job."
"You're more than good. You're invisible." Renard's eyes held something that might have been respect—or calculation. "Three weeks in Portland, and you've left almost no footprint. No social connections. No patterns I can predict. Either you're the most disciplined investigator I've ever encountered, or you're something else entirely."
Cole felt the Blutbad rage stir at the edges of his control. Renard was probing, pushing, trying to provoke a reaction that would reveal something useful.
Don't give him anything.
"I take my work seriously."
"I'm sure you do." Renard's smile remained fixed. "Tell me, Mr. Ashford—what do you know about the warehouse fire in the industrial district last week?"
The question landed like a punch.
Cole kept his face neutral through sheer force of will. "I saw the news coverage. Terrible tragedy."
"Yes. Eighteen dead, by the official count. Although some of my sources suggest the actual numbers may be higher." Renard's eyes never left Cole's face. "The operation was run by a man named Marcus Volk. Did you know him?"
"I've heard the name. Underground figure, connected to various illegal enterprises. Not the kind of person I'd associate with."
"And yet you were conducting surveillance in that area just days before the fire."
He knows. Or he suspects. Either way, this is dangerous.
Cole met Renard's gaze evenly. "I follow leads where they go. Sometimes that means being in places that later become newsworthy. It's coincidence, not conspiracy."
"Of course." Renard nodded slowly. "Coincidence."
The silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but loaded with unspoken calculations. Cole could feel Renard's attention like a physical weight, could sense the half-Zauberbiest's supernatural awareness probing at his defenses.
[WARNING: SUBJECT MAY POSSESS ENHANCED PERCEPTION. RECOMMEND MINIMAL EMOTIONAL RESPONSE.]
Already on it.
Finally, Renard spoke again. "I didn't invite you here to accuse you of anything, Mr. Ashford. I invited you because I believe we might have complementary interests."
"Such as?"
"Portland has become... complicated in recent weeks. Certain parties have grown bolder. Certain balance have shifted." Renard's expression remained pleasant, but his eyes were cold. "I prefer stability. Order. Predictable outcomes that serve long-term goals rather than short-term chaos."
"And you think I can help with that?"
"I think you're a variable I don't fully understand. In my experience, unknown variables either become assets or problems. I'd prefer the former."
Cole considered his options. Renard was dangerous—far more dangerous than Volk had been, operating with resources and connections that spanned continents. But he was also potentially useful. The captain knew things about Portland's supernatural politics that Cole would need months to learn on his own.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Although I'm not sure which category Renard fits.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"Nothing formal. Nothing that would compromise your independence." Renard spread his hands in a gesture of openness. "Simply an understanding. You operate in Portland. I operate in Portland. Our paths may cross. When they do, I'd prefer those crossings to be... productive rather than problematic."
"And what do I get in return for this understanding?"
"Access. Information. Occasionally, protection from parties who might take an interest in your activities." Renard's smile sharpened. "Portland can be dangerous for independent operators. Having friends in useful places makes it less so."
He's offering to bring me into his network. Partially. Conditionally. As an asset he can monitor and potentially control.
Cole's Blutbad instincts recoiled at the suggestion. The wolf didn't accept leashes. Didn't tolerate masters. Didn't bow to anyone's authority.
Control it. Use it. Don't let it use you.
"I appreciate the offer," Cole said carefully. "But I value my independence. I'm not looking for sponsorship or protection."
"And I'm not offering servitude." Renard's eyes glittered. "Think of it as professional courtesy between people who understand that Portland has layers most never see. We'll likely encounter each other again. I'd rather those encounters be civil."
A truce, then. Not an alliance.
Cole nodded slowly. "Professional courtesy. I can work with that."
"Excellent." Renard stood and extended his hand again. "Then we understand each other. For now."
The handshake was the same as before—controlled, measured, promising nothing but capable of everything.
"One more thing," Renard said as Cole turned to leave. "The warehouse fire. Whoever was responsible eliminated a significant problem. Someone who'd been operating outside acceptable boundaries for too long." His expression remained neutral. "Some people might consider that a public service."
He knows. Or he's guessing. Either way, he's telling me he's not unhappy about the outcome.
"Interesting perspective."
"Portland requires interesting perspectives to survive."
Cole left the building and walked four blocks before he stopped to check for surveillance. His enhanced senses picked up nothing—no followers, no electronic monitoring, no supernatural attention.
That didn't mean Renard wasn't watching.
Captain Sean Renard. Half-Royal bastard. Portland's shadow king.
The meeting had gone as well as Cole could have hoped—better, actually, since Renard seemed willing to tolerate his presence rather than eliminate it. But tolerance wasn't trust, and the captain's probing questions about the warehouse fire suggested he'd be watching Cole carefully going forward.
Fine. Let him watch. I've got nothing to hide that he can prove.
The lie felt comfortable by now. Cole had been hiding things since the moment he woke up in this body—hiding his origins, his abilities, his knowledge of the future. Adding Renard to the list of people he was deceiving barely registered.
He stopped at a coffee shop on his way home. Not the one on Quimby—he didn't want to establish predictable patterns that Renard could track. A different place, anonymous and forgettable.
The barista was a young woman with purple hair and a tired smile. She made his espresso without comment and handed it over with practiced efficiency.
Cole sat by the window and watched Portland move past. Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the predators walking among them. Unaware that their police captain served multiple masters. Unaware that monsters fought in warehouses and burned in industrial fires.
Ignorance is a gift. They don't know how lucky they are.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Coffee sometime? I know the best places. — R
Renard, already establishing contact protocols. Already treating their relationship as something that would develop over time.
Cole considered ignoring the message, then reconsidered. Renard could be useful—a source of information, a window into Portland's power structures, potentially even an ally against larger threats. The trick was engaging without being captured.
The same game I've been playing since day one. Just with higher stakes.
He typed a brief response: Name the time and place.
The reply came instantly: Friday, 3 PM. Fulton's on Broadway. Ask for the back room.
Cole finished his espresso and left the coffee shop. Friday was three days away. Three days to research Renard more thoroughly, to identify leverage points and vulnerabilities, to prepare for a meeting that was really a chess game disguised as social interaction.
The Blutbad inside him stirred with anticipation. Not for violence—not this time—but for competition. The wolf recognized another apex predator and wanted to test itself against a worthy opponent.
Not yet. Renard's not prey. He's a player.
Cole walked home through Portland's streets, thinking about power and politics and the delicate dance of supernatural survival. He'd killed two Wesen in less than a month, absorbed their abilities, and drawn the attention of the city's shadow government.
The next phase of his evolution was beginning.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, where the wolf prowled and the predator calculated, Cole felt something that might have been excitement.
The hunt was just getting interesting.
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