Chapter 1: The Devil Wears Damascus Steel

Chapter 1: The Devil Wears Damascus Steel

The whiskey was a twenty-five-year-old single malt, a ghost of peat and sea salt that cost more than most people’s rent. It was Caleb Helsing’s third glass, and it was doing absolutely nothing.

He stood before the floor-to-ceiling armored glass of his penthouse office, the apex of Aeturnum Tower. Below, the city sprawled like a circuit board of captured starlight, a tapestry woven from threads of electric and arcane light. It was the picture of the peace he’d supposedly won. A peace managed by Aeturnum Inc., the sprawling supernatural conglomerate he was now, against all reason, the CEO of.

To Caleb, it looked less like peace and more like a gilded cage.

He swirled the amber liquid, the crystal tumbler cold against his knuckles. His reflection stared back: a man in a ridiculously expensive, unbuttoned Brioni suit jacket thrown over a worn band t-shirt. Dark hair a mess, a three-day beard shadowing a jawline that was usually clean-shaven for magazine covers. The Hero of the Dracule War. The Slayer Scion. The papers had a dozen names for him. None of them felt real. The only thing that felt real was the bone-deep weariness in his eyes.

A soft chime, the sound of an angel clearing its throat, announced her arrival. The heavy office door slid open without a whisper.

“You’re drinking again, Mr. Helsing.”

Caleb didn’t turn. “Observant as ever, Elara. It’s a core competency. I’m fostering it.”

Elara Vance stepped into the room, a stark slash of professional grey against the chaotic luxury of his office. Her hair was pulled into a bun so severe it seemed to defy gravity, and her smart glasses perched on her nose like sentinels. In her hands, she clutched a tablet, her modern-day grimoire of data and discipline.

“It’s four in the afternoon,” she stated, her tone flat. “Your last meeting was at ten. You missed it. It was with the Selkie representative about the North Sea kelp farm allocations.”

“Tragic,” Caleb drawled, taking a sip. “I’m sure the kelp is devastated. Send them a fruit basket. Or some fish. Do Selkies like fish? Seems a bit on the nose.”

Her sigh was a sound of finely controlled exasperation, a noise he had perfected the art of provoking. “I handled it. As I handle everything. Which brings me to my next point.”

She strode to his side, her reflection joining his against the glass. A human in a world of monsters, armed with nothing but terrifying competence. He caught a glimpse of the intricate, key-shaped tattoo that coiled around her wrist as she adjusted her grip on the tablet. A mystery she never talked about, one of the few things about her that wasn’t logged in a file somewhere.

“The Board is… displeased,” she said, her voice dropping to a more serious register.

“The Board is always displeased,” Caleb countered. “It’s a collective of ancient, power-hungry creatures who’ve been squabbling since the Bronze Age. Displeasure is their baseline emotional state.”

“This is different.” She tapped her tablet, and a series of charts bloomed across the screen—red lines plunging downwards, angry metrics highlighted in crimson. “Q3 projections are down. Your public approval among the signatory factions is waning. A poll among the Werewolf Conclave of North America described your leadership style as ‘aggressively absentee.’ Lord Valerius of the Fae Winter Court simply sent an emoji of a flaming pile of garbage.”

“Creative. I like him.”

“Caleb.” She used his first name, and the sound of it cut through the alcoholic haze like a shard of ice. “This isn't a joke. They’re calling a vote. Not about policy. About you.”

He finally turned to face her. The playful sarcasm fell from his face, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of the warrior beneath. “Let them try.”

“They will succeed,” Elara said, her gaze unwavering. “You were a symbol, a hero to rally behind when Dracula’s hordes were at the gates. War, you understand. Peace? Peace is logistics. It’s trade agreements and resource management. It’s spreadsheets and quarterly reports. It’s everything you hate.”

Every word was a nail being hammered into his coffin. He hated that she was right. He could face down a blood-starved Nosferatu without blinking, could duel a demon in the ruins of a cathedral and feel nothing but the thrill of the fight. But a balance sheet? It made his skin crawl. The weight of his legacy, the name ‘Helsing,’ wasn’t supposed to end up stamped on corporate letterhead. It was supposed to be carved on tombstones—theirs, not his.

“They gave me this company,” he muttered, gesturing to the opulent prison around them. “My reward for saving the world was a corner office with a view.”

“It wasn't a reward, it was a necessity,” she corrected, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. “You were the only one powerful enough, the only name respected enough by all sides to hold the peace together. But you have to do the job. Perform, or be purged. That was the phrase Lord Valerius used.”

Defeated, Caleb ran a hand through his hair. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a familiar, soul-crushing resignation. He was trapped. A godkiller chained to a desk. He stalked over to his large, obsidian desk, the surface cluttered with everything except work. A half-finished schematic for a new silver-delivery system lay next to an empty pizza box.

“Fine,” he ground out, the word tasting like ash. “Fine. What’s first on the agenda of my slow, bureaucratic death? More kelp?”

Elara looked relieved, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. “The revised accords on goblin-run mining operations in the Urals. They’re demanding a seven percent increase in…”

Her voice was drowned out by a different sound. Not the sterile chime of Aeturnum’s systems, but a low, resonant hum, like a cello string plucked in a crypt. It emanated from a small, lacquered box on the corner of Caleb’s desk—a pre-digital relic for secure, magical communiques.

A single, blood-red rune glowed on its surface.

Elara frowned. “An unscheduled communication? On the Venetian channel?”

Caleb felt a jolt, a current of something hot and familiar that had nothing to do with the whiskey. Venice. That meant one person. He leaned over and pressed his thumb to the rune. The box opened with a hiss of displaced air, and a swirl of dark mist coalesced into shimmering, gothic script. It wasn't a long message. It didn't need to be.

Helsing,

A pestilence has come to my city. An old vintage with a new, bitter taste. The bodies are piling up, but the method is… novel. My own people are blind to it.

I require a specialist. A butcher, not a bureaucrat. Your presence is requested.

Consider it a favor. You may find yourself in need of one on your Board very soon.

M.B.

Caleb read the message twice. Pestilence. Bodies. Butcher. The words sang to a part of him he thought was dying. This wasn’t a problem that could be solved with a spreadsheet. This was a puzzle to be unlocked with violence, a knot to be cut with a blade.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the first one in months. It was a predator’s smile, full of teeth. The weariness in his eyes was burned away by a sudden, intense fire.

“Elara,” he said, his voice alive with a purpose that had been absent for far too long. “Cancel my meetings.”

“What? For how long? The goblin accords are…”

“Indefinitely,” he interrupted, his gaze fixed on the phantom message. He could already feel the familiar, comforting weight of the Damascus steel blade hidden in the arcane holster strapped to his forearm. Under his suit sleeve, a faint, ethereal shimmer of light was suddenly visible, hungry for release. “Pack your bags. We’re going to Venice.”

Elara stared at him, her mouth slightly agape, the perfectly ordered world on her tablet forgotten. She saw the change in him—the CEO had vanished, and the Slayer had just clocked in.

“This is insane,” she breathed. “You can’t just abandon your post to run off on a… a whim!”

“It’s not a whim,” Caleb said, grabbing his suit jacket. “It’s a hostile asset investigation. Tell the Board I’m exploring a new market opportunity.”

He was already moving towards the door, the caged beast suddenly freed. Venice. A city of shadows, secrets, and now, a new kind of monster.

It felt like coming home.