It’s good that I’m going to the Moliere Coven I suppose. They live slightly outside of Boston, and that might keep me from the Order’s immediate radar. Of course, it all depends on whether they’ll even let me inside as to whether I’ll make actual progress on this case or not. I get on the train that will take me out to Weston before I can question the merits of this plan, thinking that I might convince myself not to go otherwise.

Being on the train feels like a break. Getting out of the city more so. I try not to wonder what Billy would say about all of this, and I know he would have come with me even if the rest of the Order is convinced I’m a lunatic by now. Billy was always good about standing by me, and I’m certain he’s the reason Carver didn’t bench me entirely, and shoved me off to Day Shift instead of giving me the proverbial…or maybe literal with her…ax. I sigh and shut my eyes, still feeling exhausted. I just want this to be over, I want the last 48 hours to have been a horrible nightmare. I’m not that naive though, and certainly not imaginative enough to pretend otherwise. I focus on steeling myself for what’s ahead, rather than lamenting everything that happened of late.

Vampires, actual vampires and not Henry vampires, are clever and dangerous. They deal in deceit, and the older they are the more deceptive they can be. To them, I’m just another mortal. It doesn’t matter that I’m a Centurion, they only ever really give our Senior operatives any kind of respect, and even that may be feigned for civility’s sake. I’m not sure exactly how old Charlemagne is, but if he came into the name around the time of the Holy Roman emperor with the same one, that puts him over a thousand. That’s a whole lot more experience he has over myself, in all manner of things. Although, I’ve heard that he is…tediously theatric. I guess when you’re immortal, you need to find some ways to keep life fun.

Public transit doesn’t quite reach where I need to go. I’d hire an Uber, but there’s protocol against that kind of thing. I’m not meant to lead mundanes to a vampire den, and since I don’t have a car, the only thing I can do is walk. It’s only about 30 minutes, and the later in the day it is the more chance I have of speaking to Charlemagne rather than a thrall. Besides, it’s nice out here. Less cluttered, and grossly rich…these houses are easily in the 8 to 9,000 square foot range. I can’t imagine how much time it takes to clean them.

I follow South Street to Summer Street, keeping a leisurely pace and periodically checking street names. This would be a hell of a lot easier if I still had my phone and GPS, but I want to say I’m recalling it correctly. I don’t remember the exact number of the house, but I’m certain I’ll recognize it from the dozier files we have on the coven. Hopefully. I do feel encouraged when I wind up on Meadowbrook Road after a few wrong turns makes the trip closer to an hour, because I know the house is here somewhere. I look to my left, then to my right, shrug, and go right.

The homes, or rather mansions, are spaced out a bit and not even by city standards. I keep creeping into the drive of these affluent properties to study the exteriors, hoping none of the homeowners look out the window at the wrong time and call the cops. Fortunately, my day isn’t that shitty yet, and I manage to continue my search until I stop, feel my heart skip a beat, and realize that I’m at the right spot. I needed a win, and I’m considering this one even if I still feel heavy and want to drop out of existence for a while.

This feeling only intensifies as I walk up to the large house. Now that I’ve reached my destination, my mind keeps going back to Billy. Billy agreeing to follow up on my hunch, Billy beginning to seize, Billy bleeding, Billy dying. A tremor runs through me and I feel my chest constrict and my throat tighten. I need to pull myself together fast, I can’t be walking into a coven as well-established as the Moliere one while going through a total breakdown. I can mourn later…although that thought stings me like a needle. Billy doesn’t deserve to be put on the back burner, but I need to solve this for his sake. He won’t have died in vain, if that’s the only thing I can do for anyone at this point, it’s enough for me.

I clear my throat as I get up to the door and knock. Reconsidering as I once again gauge how fucking huge this mansion is, I ring the doorbell instead and hear deep chimes from within. A few minutes later the door opens and while I’m expecting the interior to look like some Gothic mansion, reminiscent of the Victorian age, I’m surprised that the entrance hall at least is a bright white and very modern. The person who answered the door is a thrall. I can tell by all the various teeth marks in his arms and neck, as well as the somewhat glazed over expression that gives the impression the man is high as a kite. It's a good cover, mundanes think ‘stoner’ before they think ‘vampire doll.’

“Who are you?” the man asks me, and his voice is whimsical, like someone caught in a dream. Poor bastard. Still, if the Moliere Coven is strict about following the regulations they agreed to with the Order, any thrall here is here by choice.

“My name is Riley Averline, I’m a Centurion working on the…big case,” I hope that’s enough to go off of.

“My betters have entertained enough Centurions and Incantatores and Sentinels regarding this matter,” the thrall hums. “So, be on your way. We’re quite done with you all and must consider preparing for battle.”

“Battle?”

“The wolves won’t stay in the city,” the thrall replies. “They’ll spread like…locusts.”

“Not very fond of them, are you?” I ask.

The man smiles sleepily. He may not care one way or the other, and I know that his disdain for the werewolves comes from his masters rather than himself.

“Regardless, it is very important that I speak with Charlemagne,” I urge.

The man gasps and slowly brings a hand to his mouth. “You mean, the Master.”

“Er…yes, that’s the one.”

“One does not waltz into our sanctuary and ask for the Master.”

“Uh huh, and supposedly one doesn’t just walk into Mordor either, but the ring still ended up melted,” I grouse. “He’s going to want to hear this, I think I have a line of questioning that he hasn’t heard before…and considering we’re all going to be in the shit if the killer succeeds, maybe he can make an exception about meeting me without an appointment.”

The man stares at me, I stare back. Then he blinks slowly and another languid smile spreads across his face. “Follow me,” he says cordially.

He opens the door further to permit me inside and closes it behind me. Then he almost seems to glide deeper into the house. It’s not hard to see how, he’s wearing socks and all the floors are a sleek, bright marble. There are dark veins throughout it, like forks of lightning making an indiscernible pattern. The walls are bright white, with one loud accent wall in deep colors of either dark gray or black. It is eerily quiet inside, but it is still the afternoon and I imagine the ‘betters’ of the household are all tucked away in their coffins. I wonder if Henry has started sleeping in one yet.

My guide brings me to the west wing of the house and opens the door to a dark room. I’m immediately on edge, thinking it's going to be some mysterious occult room, maybe a feeding den, something sinister…but I let out an impressed breath when I realize it’s a home theater, full sized, IMAX. Why the fuck am I running around the city chasing these creatures when I should ask to join them and live a life of luxury? At least Billy would still be…no, I need to stop thinking about him. I have to keep my focus.

“Ho there, Centurion,” a voice sounds from the back of the theater. I look to the last row of seats and see a man sitting there. Well, not really a man, a vampire.

Charlemagne does not fit the typical mold of an ancient vampire. He’s not beautiful, he’s not even remotely attractive. He has a bulbous nose, a round pockmarked face, piggy eyes, and thin hair that wilts sadly to his feeble shoulders. I can see a pot-belly from here and when he stands, I realize that for once I’m taller than another man. It’s his choice of fashion that drives everything out of my head for a merciful second though. A mesh shirt that does not hide the hair on his chest, a shiny, silver suit jacket that looks suitable for a Sci-Fi movie, skinny jeans that his belly hangs over slightly, and cowboy boots. I have to believe he’s messing with me, because if this is legit how he walks around all the time, I don’t know how anyone here remained sane. Or at least didn’t tell him he looks completely ridiculous.

“What is it that you just had to see me about?” he asks, giving his thrall a look as if he’s entertaining a child about to tell a wild story.

“Elena.”

Charlemagne huffs. “You could introduce yourself first.”

“You asked what I came here for.”

“Is etiquette truly dead? Are we all barbaric heathens? Snarling for our own needs and desires with nary a thought for gracious hosts and their taking time for one undeserving of it?”

Oh, dear God, this is exactly what I need right now. This pompous ass is doing a great job of pulling me from my dark grief, replacing it with incredulity instead. “Okay. Hello then, Charlemagne, I’m—”

Cut off when both Charlemagne and his thrall gasp loudly and turn away from me as if I made a rude gesture at them.

“No respect for one as distinguished as me?” Charlemagne splutters.

“Master, oh Master, I should have warned you!” the thrall exclaims.

I consider walking out and abandoning this quest, but what’s waiting for me out there is likely the Order, ready to arrest me again.

“...Sorry,” I say, my terse voice ignored as they carry on.

Eventually they calm down and Charlemagne looks at me expectantly. I don’t know if he’s waiting for my name or why I’m here at this point. I’m not even sure if I actually offended him. I would really love to deal with someone easy to read at some point during this case. But where Castillo was stoic, akin to looking at a statue, Charlemagne just looked like he was plotting something, a joke he couldn’t wait to tell.

“I’m Riley Av—”

“Splendid!”

“...erline.”

“And I, dear sir, am Lord Leither Charlemagne,” he replies with a flourishing bow.

Well, I give him points for the ‘sir’ and he winks knowingly. Shit, can he read my thoughts? I look at him more intently, but he still has that cheeky look that is quickly getting on my nerves.

“So, can we discuss impending doom now?” I ask.

“Poppycock! Impending doom,” he says with a mockingly gloomy note that has me frown. “Try living through the Bubonic Plague and then talk to me about impending doom.”

I could bring up recent pandemics and causes for concern, but I decide I don’t want to spend more time here than necessary. “Right. Okay. About Elena…”

“The wispy little thing? Incantator?”

“Yes. I think that…”

“Lovely skin.”

“Sure. But also, she may be our murderous mage.”

“Riley,” Charlemagne’s tone is way too familiar and my smile is tight as I try to fight down any semblance of hostility. “Are you so ignorant? We vampires have a sense of magic, you know. A bit unfair, really, when you think about it…sensing that which we can never use? Anyway. Miss Elena was powerful, yes, but not very much more so than her burly companion, what was his name…ah! Ulysses, yes.”

“Is there no way she could hide her magic somehow? In a way that you or our Senior operatives would miss?”

Charlemagne hums and haws for a little while, but the twinkle in his eye suggests he’s had his answer the moment I asked the question. I cross my arms, impatience winning out over my decision to remain blithely calm.

“I suppose there could be a way,” the vampire replies.

I wait, but he doesn’t expand and I am in no mood to play these games. “Stop dicking around and tell me! People have died and way more are going to follow!”

Charlemagne looks appalled that I yelled at him, and he scoffs. “Werewolves,” he says. “Not people. Castillo’s mongrels are worse than a cockroach infestation.”

I want to hit him, but Chiaki took my weapons and I didn’t have the foresight to make a trip to my basement and grab anything. Pretty stupid, in hindsight, because I’m dealing with someone who could probably kill me with a single finger if he wanted to. “For being as old as you are, you’re incredibly short-sighted,” I seethe. “The mage succeeds, the werewolves are forced to change, they slaughter a bunch of mundanes in the city and suddenly the whole world is on a hunt for supernatural creatures. You won’t be safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” Charlemagne replies, waving a dismissive hand. “But…perhaps tit for tat? Quid pro quo? Answer me on some inquiries and I shall do the same for yours.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“An odd choice for the first question…yes, I am serious. Now then, your presence here isn’t sanctioned by the Order, is it?”

I glower at him, but there’s no point lying. We never send someone to the Moliere, or any of the vampire covens, alone. It’s pairs at the least, and there’s almost always an Incantator as part of the pair.

“No, it isn’t,” I reply, deciding that if he’s going to be obtuse, then I will be too. “Is there a way for a mage to hide their actual power?”

Charlemagne smiles again. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s see…”

“You didn’t answer!”

“I did, I said yes.”

“That doesn’t help, dammit!”

“You should think about asking better questions. My turn. My senses tell me female, but my eyes tell me male. Do you not intend to medically transition?”

I splutter, not expecting the wholly personal question that is absolutely none of his business. “This has nothing to do with the case,” I snarl. “I don’t have to answer you about my personal business!”

“No, you don’t have to, but if you don’t wish to play anymore, I must ask you to leave,” Charlemagne sighs. “I didn’t set time aside for this meeting, you see, and I have other things I really must attend.”

I almost want to send him on his way, with a couple of choice curses, but his smugness makes me pause. He’s doing this intentionally, trying to piss me off into leaving and that begs the question why. What does he have to gain by refusing to help me? Or does he really believe that the consequences won’t reach him and the coven? I take a few, slow breaths, my stomach churning as I delve into details I haven’t shared with anyone, not even Henry or Billy.

“I don't know if I’m chasing an identity to ignore my grief, or if this is really me,” I say stiffly. I have to be sure. Part of me is sure, the other part is still despairing in the dark. “How would a mage hide their power from the likes of you or Senior Order members?”

“The clever use of conduits,” Charlemagne says easily, and I know he’s not going to say more until I ask him to elaborate. Prick. “Why do you think your identity is forged from grief?”

“Because I only labeled myself as trans after my daughter was stillborn. Because I don’t know if I just needed something else to cling to other than her death, because I wanted to chase away my husband so I didn’t have to feel guilty every time I looked at him about killing his child too. There, are you fucking happy? Can we move on from the subject already?”

“Curious,” Charlemagne is entirely unmoved, but he does look genuinely interested and that pisses me off even more. “I’m surprised someone of your psychological instability was allowed to join the Order.”

“I joined before all that happened,” I snap.

“Yet they allowed you to remain…thank you, for playing the game and telling me. It’s useful to ‘stay with the times’ as they say. I think we can move on. The conduits, yes, a powerful mage could channel their magic continually into a conduit to elude detection, but it is a very fine balance you know. Give too much and they risk destroying themself, give too little and the likes of me or your superiors will sense something is amiss.”

I’m incensed enough that it takes effort to listen to what he’s saying. I want to rip into him, pull out some of his pain to put on display, only to treat it as a social lesson. Inconsequential, only data. As much as I want to voice all this, I bottle it up, and force my mind to focus. The ultimate balm to all the shit I’ve been through would be solving this case. A conduit. Conduits were mentioned before already, as a means to assist the mage in casting the powerful spells necessary to force the change and open Paradise. From my studies, I know that an Incantator may carry an item – such as a crystal pendant – that holds some of their magic. This way, if they engage in a confrontation that depletes their magic, they have an extra boost if needed. As I understand it, however, it’s a one and done deal. They give some of their magic, their magic replenishes after a bit, so it would be impossible for them to disguise their true capabilities for long. Unless…as Charlemagne hinted, the mage continually fed their magic into a conduit.

“But what could hold that much power?” I ask. “I thought conduits were limited.”

“What powers magic?” Charlemagne asks.

“The…” I’m about to say the Source, but I don’t know how much this vampire knows about it, and I don’t want to be the one to tell him. So, I think of other means. The werewolves, they were all found completely exsanguinated. “Blood,” I finish.

“Precisely,” Charlemagne says brightly. “Blood is life and life is a cycle. Your mage could continuously channel their power into the stolen blood without overwhelming it as a conduit, until such time they are ready to cast their wicked plot.”

There’s the solution to that part of my accusation. Elena may not register as exceptionally powerful, but if she’s channeling into a conduit, that could be why. There are two questions I still must answer. One, where is the conduit? Elena has barely left headquarters since this case started, but I can’t believe she would risk hiding it there. I have no idea where she lives, and frankly, I don’t think she would store it at her home either. Especially after my accusations. I may not be able to track it, but maybe a werewolf could. Or a vampire. My options are Henry or Brianna, and neither of them may jump to help me.

The second question is how Castillo is involved in this. He may not be, but I can’t ignore what Brianna said about the term Morra. I thought it was a name, I thought Maura, and that may be the case. If it isn’t though…I could perhaps find more evidence during another talk with the boss man. Regardless of what path I choose to follow first, I need to make amends with Henry.

“May I use your phone?”

Charlemagne looks at me suspiciously. “Who do you intend to call?” he asks.

“No one from the Order,” I reply. When that doesn’t prompt him to agree, I sigh. “Henry Stone. He’s another vampire.”

“If you say so,” Charlemagne shrugs and digs into his pocket to pull out a bedazzled phone and hands it to me.

I’m glad Henry’s is one of the phone numbers I’ve memorized, but the other one is Billy’s and I feel my heart tighten painfully as the line rings. I’m worried it’s going to go to voicemail, but then it clicks and Henry’s voice sounds on the other end, curious but polite as always with his soft “hello?”

“Henry, it’s Riley.”

“Riley?” am I imagining it or did his voice get colder? I can’t lose him too, not today.

“Borrowed phone. Look, I’m sorry about what I said, but…I need to meet you again, or at least ask you to contact Castillo and set up another meeting.”

Charlemagne bristles and I realize I made an error having this discussion in front of him. Too late now.

“At least,” Henry sighs. “Do you understand how dangerous that ‘at least’ is, Riley? Do you realize the position you continue to put me in?”

“I know,” I say, feeling desperate. “Henry, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, but please. I really need your help.”

There’s a long pause and I think for a horrific moment that he’s going to hang up. I think he must be contemplating it, and I can’t say I would really blame him, but I’m flooded with relief when he exhales heavily.

“All right. Come to my place.”

He does hang up then, with no farewell which is unlike him. I’m on thin ice there, and I need to fix it. I know I do, but I don’t think I’ll be able to until this threat is handled. I hand the phone back to Charlemagne, who looks suddenly serious.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he huffs. “I must ask you to leave now, Centurion.”

“...Okay. I was going anyway. Thanks for…all that.”

He doesn’t answer, and I feel like the general attitude shifted to something sinister and hostile. I assume it has to do with Castillo, Charlemagne has done nothing to hide his scorn for werewolves. Maybe he’s hoping that the mage will succeed, at least in forcing the turn. It would call for a hunt, I’m sure, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about the ‘infestation’ of wolves in the area anymore.

I let myself out, suddenly glad I made it out of the house without any sort of confrontation. When I look back over my shoulder, I see Charlemagne standing at an ornate bay window on the second floor, watching me.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Getting to Henry’s apartment in Roslindale from Weston takes about 2 hours. By now evening is upon the city, and I’m feeling the effects of my lack of caffeine for the day. I’ve got a terrible headache, and I feel shaky. Still, I press on, and I knock on the door of his apartment and attempt a smile when he opens the door. I can’t put to words how happy I am when he smiles in return, although I can see there’s still distance in his gaze. He lets me in and I realize he’s redecorated the place a bit. I’ve been here a few times before, but not since he was turned. The windows are sporting blackout curtains now, and the walls are a darker color to, I assume, avoid shining bright any time the sun peaked in.

“Can I get you anything?” Henry asks.

Something about being here, or being near him, makes me break. All the grief I’m holding for Billy floods out of me, and while I promised myself on the way over that I wouldn’t put it on Henry, I can’t help but throw my arms around him as I start to cry again. He stands there stationary for just a second before he hugs me tight. I don’t know how long we stood there like this, but Henry doesn’t once prompt me to move or speak. He just holds me while I wail and shake, as I become nothing but my misery.

When it passes enough for me to pull away, Henry leads me to his living room and sits me down on the couch. He leaves me there for just a moment, fetching me tissues and the homemade blanket that my mom made for him when we were still married. He assures me he’ll be back soon, and I hear him go to the nearby kitchen and start coffee. Considering he can’t drink it, I can only assume he’s left the coffee pot in place for visitors who can. It makes me curious as to who else comes here, but it’s not my business and I’m just grateful to be one of them. He returns with a steaming mug of coffee that I accept, my eyes stinging and my throat constricted as he sits on the other side of the couch.

“Talk to me,” he insists again.

“Billy’s dead,” I begin. His shock makes him rigid as a board before the dismay shadows his features. “I asked him to use the Whiteworm to concentrate on Elena and…he died. Sheldon says it was a Whiteworm overdose, but I think Elena realized what was happening and killed him from afar.”

“Oh Riley, I’m so sorry,” Henry reaches out to touch my shoulder.

“The Order wants me arrested,” I continue, staring at my coffee. “I wish I could say without merit, but maybe I have fucked up enough to warrant it. But I just saw Charlemagne, and he says there is a way that Elena could be hiding her potential to make herself seem like she can’t be the one behind this.”

Henry’s shock returns, and there’s some anger mixed in with his sadness, likely for my going to the Moliere Coven by myself. I’m thankful that he doesn’t berate me for it though, and I tell him what I learned while there. “I saw Brianna recently too,” I add. “I…fuck, this is going to take me a while.”

“Take your time.”

I nod, and get my thoughts in order before I recount everything he’s missed. I tell him about what Billy said while he was in his trance, about what Brianna mentioned with the term morra and how that was the reason I wanted Henry to arrange another meeting between me and Castillo. I tell him about going to see Charlemagne and how Elena could be channeling her power continuously into a conduit to hide right under the Order’s nose. And when I’ve told him everything important, I finally break my gaze away from the mug to look at him.

“I don’t deserve to ask you for anything,” I say. “I treated you like shit back there, at the Common. I’m sorry. I made it all about me, again. And I hope you know that no matter what you may be technically, you’re more human than most. I’m sorry, Henry. I should have never taken out my anger on you.”

Henry lets these words sink in before he seeks my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I accept your apology,” he replies. “And I forgive you.”

I smile wanly. “I think Castillo’s nickname for you is totally accurate, Saint Henry.”

Henry shakes his head. “Please don’t put me on that sort of pedestal,” he says. “Now then. You need to meet with Castillo again, yes? Sooner rather than later, I assume.”

“You assume correctly,” I reply. “I hate to ask you to keep in touch with a mobster, but…desperate times.”

“Well, if we’re lucky you’ll get a good meal out of it anyway.”