Chapter 2: Whispers in the Warrens

The Arcane Crimes Unit's bullpen buzzed with the particular energy that came from a case everyone knew was bigger than it appeared. Lycan sat at his desk, surrounded by a fortress of case files and empty coffee cups, staring at a sketch of the vanishing runes. Every lead they'd followed in the past eighteen hours had hit the same wall of silence.

"The goblin clans are stonewalling us," Dru announced, dropping into the chair across from his desk. Her usual confident demeanor showed cracks of frustration. "Spoke to three different clan elders, and they all gave me the same line—'Goldweaver's business was his own, Detective Nova.'"

"Even threatened with obstruction charges?"

"Especially then. They circled the wagons faster than I've ever seen. Whatever this is about, they're terrified." She pulled out her phone, scrolling through contacts. "The supernatural community's gone into full lockdown mode. My usual informants aren't returning calls."

Lycan pushed back from his desk, the silver scars on his hands catching the fluorescent light. The Pack's ritual marks served as a constant reminder of the world he'd turned his back on when he joined the force. Now, for the first time in years, he needed to return to it.

"I might have an option," he said, the words tasting like bitter medicine. "But you're not going to like it."

"Try me."

"Ezra Moonwright. He's a lore-keeper for the Northern Pack, the old-school werewolves who still follow the traditional ways. If those runes have any connection to ancient magic, he'll know."

Dru's eyebrows rose. "The same traditional ways that consider your job a betrayal of lupine nature?"

"The very same." Lycan stood, already dreading the conversation ahead. "Ezra and I have... history. He trained me in the old languages before I left the Order. He considers my defection a personal insult."

"And you think he'll help us?"

"I think he owes me a debt from before I became a cop. Question is whether his hatred of what I've become outweighs his honor." Lycan grabbed his coat. "Either way, we need answers, and he's the only one who might have them."

---

The Northern Pack's territory occupied a forgotten slice of Central Park, hidden behind wards that made joggers unconsciously change direction and tourists suddenly remember urgent appointments elsewhere. Lycan hadn't set foot in the Warren in three years, but his wolf recognized the scent markers immediately—pack bonds that had once been as natural as breathing.

Ezra Moonwright emerged from the shadows between two ancient oak trees like he'd grown there. Tall and lean, with iron-gray hair braided with bone charms and eyes that held the accumulated wisdom of eight decades, he looked exactly as Lycan remembered. The ritual scars on his arms told stories of hunts and honors that went back to a time when the city was still farmland.

"The Turncoat returns," Ezra said, his voice carrying the particular disdain reserved for blood family who'd chosen disgrace. "I can smell the human corruption on you from here."

"Hello, Ezra. You look well." Lycan kept his posture neutral, neither submissive nor challenging. "I need your help with something."

"You need." Ezra's laugh held no warmth. "The one who abandoned the Pack, who chose human law over lupine honor, comes crawling back when he needs something. Tell me, boy, how does it feel to wear their collar?"

The insult hit home, but Lycan had expected it. "Three years ago, when the Riverside Killer was hunting pack younglings, who tracked him through seventeen different scent trails? Who put him down when your traditional methods failed?"

Ezra's expression darkened. "You dare—"

"I dare because children were dying, and I was the only one willing to work outside the old ways to stop it." Lycan pulled out his phone, showing the sketch of the runes. "Now children are dying again, only this time the killer turns them to gold. I've seen symbols like these before, Ezra. In the old texts you made me memorize. In the forbidden sections."

The lore-keeper's eyes fixed on the phone screen, and for the first time since Lycan's arrival, his hostility flickered. He leaned closer, studying the angular symbols with growing unease.

"Where did you find these?" His voice had lost its mocking edge.

"At a crime scene. They vanished before we could document them properly."

"Of course they did." Ezra straightened, suddenly looking every one of his eighty-seven years. "Do you know what you're dealing with, Turncoat?"

"Enlighten me."

"Primordial alchemy. The art of transformation through will and sacrifice. These symbols..." He gestured at the phone. "They're binding runes, meant to trap the essence of a living being during the transmutation process."

"Transmutation into what?"

"Gold, apparently. But that's not the worst part." Ezra began pacing, his agitation growing. "Traditional alchemy transforms matter, yes, but it leaves the soul intact. Primordial alchemy transforms everything—body, spirit, consciousness. The victim doesn't just die, Lycan. They cease to exist on every level of reality."

The wolf in Lycan's chest howled in distress. Complete obliteration was the deepest fear of every supernatural being—worse than death, worse than hell. It was absolute nothingness.

"Who would know how to do this?"

"No one should. The knowledge was sealed away centuries ago, locked behind wards that would kill anyone foolish enough to attempt access." Ezra stopped pacing, fixing Lycan with a stare that could have frozen blood. "If someone has broken those seals..."

"How many others might have this knowledge?"

"In theory? Three bloodlines possessed the complete texts. The Morganti vampire clan controlled the emotional aspects, the Goldspinner goblins held the material components, and House Ashworth of the high fae maintained the spiritual bindings." Ezra's expression grew grimmer. "But the Morganti were wiped out in the Prague Purges of 1847. House Ashworth scattered to the winds after the Iron Court fell. And the Goldspinners..."

"Were Goldweaver's ancestors," Lycan finished.

"The very same. Which means either someone has reconstructed the forbidden knowledge from fragments, or..." Ezra left the sentence hanging.

"Or what?"

"Or something that shouldn't exist is walking your human streets, boy. Something old enough to remember when these arts were commonplace."

---

Meanwhile, across the city, Dru stood before the ornate iron gates of the Velvet Rose, adjusting her leather jacket and checking her appearance in the reflection of a passing car window. The exclusive vampire establishment occupied a converted mansion in the Upper East Side, its windows blacked out and its doormen carefully selected for their discretion and supernatural awareness.

Getting an invitation to tonight's soirée had required calling in three favors and promising two more, but her hybrid nature gave her unique access to vampire social circles. They were fascinated by her dual heritage—vampire enough to understand their customs, succubus enough to intrigue their predatory instincts.

The doorman, a pale young man whose stillness marked him as recently turned, checked her name against a leather-bound list. "Ms. Nova, welcome to the Rose. Lady Evangeline is expecting you in the Crimson Salon."

The mansion's interior was a study in elegant decay—Persian rugs that had witnessed centuries, oil paintings whose subjects seemed to follow visitors with their eyes, and furniture that belonged in a museum. The air carried the subtle metallic scent of old blood and older secrets.

Lady Evangeline Rousseau held court in a parlor decorated in shades of burgundy and gold. Ancient even by vampire standards, she possessed the kind of ethereal beauty that could stop hearts—literally, in some cases. Her dark hair was arranged in an elaborate style that had been fashionable during the French Revolution, and her gown would have cost more than most people's annual salary.

"Darling Dru," Evangeline purred, extending one pale hand. "How lovely to see you again. Come, sit. We have such interesting gossip to share."

Dru accepted the offered seat on a velvet divan, hyper-aware of the other vampires arranged around the room like elegant predators at rest. Her succubus heritage helped her navigate the social undercurrents, but vampire politics were a minefield even for those born to it.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Evangeline continued, pouring blood-wine into crystal glasses. "The Goldweaver investigation is quite the coup for the Arcane Crimes Unit."

"Actually, that's what I wanted to discuss with you." Dru accepted the glass, taking a careful sip. The wine was exquisite—probably centuries old and worth more than her apartment. "Cornelius had quite the social calendar. I was hoping someone might have seen him recently."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the assembled vampires. Evangeline's smile never wavered, but her eyes grew calculating.

"Oh, my dear, surely you don't suspect one of us? Vampires and goblins have such a long history of mutual... respect."

The pause before 'respect' told Dru everything she needed to know. "Of course not. I'm simply trying to establish his final movements. Professional thoroughness."

"Naturally." Evangeline leaned back, studying Dru over the rim of her glass. "As it happens, dear Cornelius did attend a little gathering last week. Nothing formal, you understand. Just friends sharing conversation and refreshments."

"What kind of conversation?"

"Business, primarily. Cornelius was always so dreadfully focused on commerce." Evangeline's tone suggested this was a character flaw rather than an admirable trait. "He spoke of an acquisition he was pursuing. Something quite valuable, apparently. Enough to make him nervous, which was unusual for our goblin friend."

Dru felt her pulse quicken, but kept her expression neutral. "Did he mention what kind of acquisition?"

"Some sort of artifact. Historical piece, he claimed. Worth enough to justify considerable risk." Evangeline set down her glass with deliberate precision. "He seemed particularly anxious about competing bidders. Kept checking his phone, muttering about 'other interested parties.'"

"Any idea who these other parties might be?"

"Oh, darling, you know how secretive Cornelius could be about his business dealings. But..." Evangeline paused for effect, savoring the moment. "He did mention something about an auction. Very exclusive, very private. The kind of event that attracts collectors of the most unusual items."

Before Dru could press for more details, her phone buzzed with an urgent text: Second body found. Golden statue. Get back here now. - Orlov

Her blood ran cold. She stood quickly, offering Evangeline a polite smile. "I'm afraid duty calls. Thank you for the lovely evening."

"Leaving so soon? How disappointing." But Evangeline's eyes held knowledge and amusement, as if she'd been expecting this interruption. "Do give my regards to your partner, dear. And Dru?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful whom you trust. The old magic remembers old grudges."

---

Dru found Lycan pacing outside a warehouse in the Industrial District, his usual coffee replaced by something that smelled strong enough to wake the dead. His expression was grimmer than she'd ever seen it.

"Another banker?" she asked.

"Worse. Miranda Copperstone, goblin metallurgist. Found in her workshop six hours ago, turned to gold mid-experiment." He gestured toward the warehouse. "The scene's identical—no signs of struggle, no witnesses, and the runes appeared and vanished before forensics could arrive."

"The killer's escalating. Two victims in three days."

"And there's something else." Lycan's voice carried an edge of barely controlled anger. "I spoke to Ezra Moonwright. The magic we're dealing with—it's primordial alchemy. The victim's soul gets erased along with their body."

Dru felt her hybrid nature recoil at the concept. Both sides of her heritage valued the continuation of consciousness beyond death—vampires through their undead state, succubi through their connection to spiritual energy. Complete obliteration was antithetical to everything she was.

"There's more," she said, filling him in on her conversation with Evangeline. "Goldweaver was bidding on something at a private auction. Valuable enough to make him nervous, exclusive enough that Lady Evangeline knew about it."

"What kind of artifact would attract that level of interest?"

"The kind that gets people killed, apparently." Dru pulled out her phone. "I have contacts in the antiquities black market. If there's been a high-profile auction recently, someone will know about it."

As she made calls, Lycan studied the warehouse where Miranda Copperstone had met her golden end. Two victims, both goblins, both involved in the financial side of the supernatural economy. It wasn't random—there was a pattern here, a purpose that went beyond simple murder.

His enhanced hearing caught the sound of Dru ending her final call. When he turned, her expression was equal parts excitement and dread.

"The Philosopher's Heart," she said. "An auction was held four days ago for something called the Philosopher's Heart. Three bidders, all goblin financiers. Goldweaver and Copperstone were two of them."

"And the third?"

"Marcus Ironforge. He runs the Dwarvish Mining Consortium out of Brooklyn."

Lycan was already heading for the car. "Then we better find him before someone else turns him into a very expensive paperweight."

But as they drove through the neon-lit streets of the Locus Nocturne, both detectives carried the same dark thought: they weren't just hunting a killer anymore. They were racing against something that consumed souls and left golden monuments to its appetite.

And somewhere in the city, that something was preparing to feed again.