Chapter 2: The Price of Power

Chapter 2: The Price of Power

The high of the hunt vanished, leaving only the dregs. Back in my sterile, anonymous flat in a forgotten corner of Lambeth, the price of Flóga’s power came due. It started as a tremor in my hands and blossomed into a full-body seizure of pain. My muscles, pushed far beyond any human limit, felt like they were being shredded by microscopic claws. My head was a bell jar with a frantic bird trapped inside, beating its wings against my skull.

I collapsed onto the cold bathroom tiles, my tactical gear a lead-lined straitjacket. Sweat beaded on my brow, cold and slick. I lay there for a long time, riding the waves of agony, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

<Such a fragile vessel,> Flóga’s voice echoed in the quietest part of my mind. She was distant now, a satiated predator digesting her meal. There was no sympathy in her tone, only a faint, clinical disappointment. <You burn so brightly, Kaelen. And then you gutter like a cheap candle.>

"Go to hell," I gasped, the words barely audible.

A whisper of what might have been amusement brushed against my consciousness.

With a groan that felt like it was tearing my throat, I forced myself to move. Every motion was a negotiation with pain. I stripped off the gear, the clips and buckles an impossible puzzle for my trembling fingers. I dumped the blood-flecked clothes in an industrial-grade incinerator bag—no loose ends, no DNA. My Glock, still smelling of cordite and ozone, was field-stripped and cleaned with an automaton's precision, my hands working from memory while the rest of my body screamed in protest.

A steaming hot shower did little to ease the deep, cellular ache, but it washed away the grime of the job. Staring at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror, I saw the cost. My face was pale and drawn, new shadows under my eyes making them look like bruises. The old scar through my eyebrow seemed darker, a permanent reminder of the day my life ended and this… arrangement… began.

Two hours and a bottle of high-grade painkillers later, the world had sharpened back into a semblance of focus. The agony had subsided to a dull, grinding ache. It was time to get paid.

---

Khalfani Trent’s office was on the top floor of a different kind of skyscraper—one he owned outright. Where the last tower had been a monument to transient corporate greed, this one was a fortress of old money and predatory power. Polished mahogany, original art, and a floor-to-ceiling window offering a god's-eye view of his domain: London.

He sat behind a desk large enough to land a helicopter on, not looking at me as I entered. He was dressed in a charcoal suit so perfectly tailored it looked like a second skin. An alpha wolf in his den, radiating an aura of absolute control.

"The work is complete," I said, my voice flat. My throat was still raw.

Trent finished signing a document with a heavy gold pen before finally lifting his eyes to mine. They were dark and intelligent, but for a split second, I caught the glint of predatory gold within.

"So I gathered," he said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone that sent a primal chill down my spine. "The Conclave has already started the cleanup. Sanitizing the scene, memory-wiping the human assets. It seems you were… thorough."

He gestured to a small, sleek tablet on his desk. With a flick of his finger, he transferred the agreed-upon sum to my encrypted account. The numbers were obscene. Enough to disappear on. For a little while, anyway.

"There was a complication," Trent continued, steepling his fingers. "One of your targets. The werewolf pup, Marcus Thorne."

"He's dead," I stated.

"Yes. But he wasn't just some new-money dilettante. He was the son and sole heir of Alistair Thorne."

I kept my face impassive, but a cold knot formed in my stomach. Alistair Thorne. The Alpha of the Docklands Pack. A brutal, old-school werewolf who saw Trent's business empire and relatively "civilized" approach as a weakness. They were rivals, perpetually circling each other for dominance.

"And the vampires," Trent added, watching me closely. "Not fledglings out for a thrill. They were envoys from the Ordo Sanguinis in Vienna, here for 'diplomatic' reasons. Killing them was tantamount to spitting in the face of one of the oldest vampire courts in Europe."

I let the silence hang for a moment. "You gave me a list of targets, Trent. You didn't give me their résumés. My fee would have been different."

"Indeed." A flicker of a smile touched his lips. "This was not a simple party gone wrong, Kaelen. This was a message. A deliberate provocation, staged in a building under my protection, using pawns from two factions that despise me."

He leaned forward, the polished veneer cracking just enough to see the wolf beneath. "Someone is trying to start a war, and they used you to fire the first shot."

My desire to simply take my money and spend a month nursing my wounds in a place with no extradition treaty was overwhelming. This reeked of the kind of supernatural politics that got people like me permanently erased.

"Not my problem," I said, turning to leave. "The contract is complete."

"Is it?" Trent’s voice stopped me cold. "There’s the matter of the bait."

I turned back. "The girls?"

"The three human girls," he confirmed, his expression hardening. "They weren't random tourists, Kaelen. I had my people run their identities. They were all regulars at my club downstairs."

Shades. The most exclusive supernatural club in London. Neutral ground, owned and operated by Trent himself. A place where peace was enforced by his own brutal pack.

"They were lured from my establishment," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Brought to that party for a specific purpose. Someone breached my territory, compromised my security, and used my patrons as fodder to start a war on my doorstep. That makes it my problem." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "And since you were the weapon they used, it makes it yours, too."

He slid a new contract across the desk on the tablet. The payment offered was triple the last one. It wasn't just a payment; it was a retainer.

"This is no longer a simple wetwork job," Trent said. "This is an investigation. I want you to find out who orchestrated this. Who brought Thorne’s son and the Ordo’s envoys together. Who chose those girls and why. I want you to follow this thread back to the spider who spun the web." He leaned back in his chair. "And then I want you to burn the whole web down."

I stared at the tablet. My body ached. My soul was weary. All I wanted was to walk away. But I knew I couldn't. Leaving this unresolved was like leaving a primed grenade on my doorstep. The Docklands Pack and the Ordo Sanguinis would be looking for answers, and my name, however anonymous, would be at the top of their list. Trent was offering me the only path forward that didn't end with me being hunted by two powerful factions at once: find the real culprit and deliver them as a peace offering.

My protective instincts, the ghost of the cop I used to be, flared at the thought of the girls being selected, targeted. But it was pure survival that made my decision. I was already in the crossfire. My only way out was through.

<This is… intriguing,> Flóga murmured, her interest piqued for the first time since the fight. She didn't care for politics, but she could smell the potential for future, grander violence.

I met Trent’s predatory gaze.

"The investigation starts at your club," I said. "It starts at Shades."