The woman vampire…I still didn't know her name (and I was starting to think that was intentional) led us through the underground lounge without a word. The other vampires watched us pass with the kind of lazy interest cats show mice. Some promising, some just curious to see what happens next.

  We walked down another corridor, this one lined with more of those expensive metal-cased torches, until we reached a set of double doors made of dark wood. Mahogany, maybe. The kind that was both super expensive and designed to take a hell of a beating. Last ditch effort to keep something out? Though something told me a Vampire Elder had little fear of such things.

  The woman knocked once. A voice from inside said something I couldn't make out.

  She pushed both doors open and stepped aside.

  "The Prince will see you now," she said, and there was something in her smile that made me think she was hoping we'd screw this up.

  I followed Garrick through the doors.

  Prince Samuel Bruzek's office was nothing like the decadent lounge we'd just left. No velvet cushions, no opium smoke, no bottles of vintage blood on display. Just clean lines, old wood, and the kind of austere efficiency that spoke to a mind that didn't waste time on unnecessary things. A subtle warning that we were dealing with someone with focus and intention.

  The desk was massive (also mahogany), dark and polished to a mirror shine. A large map of Prague covered most of one wall, marked with pins and notations in an alphabet that I didn’t recognize, but also had the style of something ancient and longer lived than our own. More torches burned along the walls, their flames dancing behind metal cages. No electric lights. No candles. Just fire, the thing that could kill him faster than almost anything else, burning openly in his private office.

  A power move if I'd ever seen one. And frankly? It worked. I immediately categorized Samuel as someone I did not want to piss off.

  And notably, we were alone. No assistant taking notes. No guards standing at attention. Just Samuel, sitting behind his desk, watching us with the kind of patient focus that made me understand why this man had ruled a vampire territory for three hundred years.

  He was handsome in that way some vampires were. Almost a living painting, like someone had taken the concept of "aristocrat" and refined it until only the essentials remained. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled but knew how when it needed to. He wore a charcoal suit that was personally tailored (based on the fit) and no doubt obscenely expensive, and his hands…resting on the desk, fingers steepled…were pale and perfectly still. Some leaders were the kind that let others get their hands dirty. Samuel looked like he had no problem being a lot more “hands on.”

  If things went bad in here I realized quickly that Samuel wouldn't need guards. He'd handle it himself. And he probably wouldn’t even break a sweat.

  "Garrick the Gallant," Samuel said. His voice was smooth, cultured, with an accent I couldn't quite place. Eastern European, definitely, but softened by centuries of travel. "I appreciate you coming on such short notice."

  His gaze immediately went to me, “And who are you?”

  "Prince Samuel." Garrick stepped forward, and I could see him shifting into what I was starting to think of as his Hero Mode: shoulders back, chin up, voice confident. "I brought my—"

  "I wasn't speaking to you," Samuel said, and though his tone didn't change, Garrick's mouth snapped shut. Samuel's gaze slid to me. "I was addressing your companion. The one you failed to mention when you accepted my summons."

  I felt the weight of that stare. It wasn't hostile, at least, not quite hostile. More like Samuel was reading me the way I read customers at The Crossroads: looking past the surface and taking in the details.

  "Mac Sullivan," I said, since it seemed like the thing to do. "I'm Garrick's partner," I said. "Logistics coordinator. I'm here to help however I can."

  "Partner." Samuel turned the word over like he was tasting wine. "Interesting. And you're American, yes? This little affair brings you all the way across the sea?" He tilted his head slightly. "What power do you bring to the table, Mr. Sullivan? You're amongst immortals, after all."

  I shrugged, trying not to let his intensity rattle me. "No power. I'm a cook. Bartender. I can make a damn good Old Fashioned, and I know my way around a kitchen. That's about it."

  Something flickered in Samuel's eyes. Amusement, maybe. "How modest. I have a personal chef who has earned two Michelin stars in their career. Do you believe you could compete with that level of quality?"

  I caught Garrick's look out of the corner of my eye. His glare was a silent, desperate plea that said shut up, Mac, this is dangerous territory. But I'd spent three years serving supernatural beings who could kill me with a thought. I'd learned that showing fear just made them hungrier.

  "I can hold my own against anyone in a kitchen," I said.

  Samuel's expression didn't change, but the air in the room felt different. Colder. "Interesting. You imply that I would recruit someone who wasn't among the best at what they do."

  "I meant no offense, and implied nothing," I said quickly. "Just confident in my own abilities."

  "We shall see. I respect confidence, when it’s deserved," He leaned back in his chair, and I couldn't tell if I'd just passed a test or failed one spectacularly. "Tell me, Mr. Sullivan. What do you know of the supernatural world? You've clearly encountered vampires before. You didn't flinch when my people revealed themselves in the square."

  "I work at The Crossroads Tavern in Salem, Massachusetts," I said. "Neutral ground for settling disputes between supernatural communities. I'm the head bartender and chef."

  Samuel's eyebrows rose fractionally. "The Crossroads. Interesting. I know it well. Javier Rodriguez is the proprietor, yes? A man of considerable integrity." He studied me with new interest. "And you work for him. How long?"

  "Several years."

  "Have you done anything beyond cooking for supernaturals? Mediated any disputes yourself?"

  I hesitated. This felt like another test, though I couldn't figure out what answer he wanted. "I helped broker an agreement just a few hours ago. Between the Selkie Clans and the Storm Wraiths of Martha's Vineyard. We uh…we called it The Monomoy Accord."

  Samuel's posture changed again. Not much, just a slight lean forward, his fingers unlacing. "The Monomoy Accord. Yes. Word travels quickly in our circles." He regarded me with something that might have been respect. "You found a cooperative solution where others saw only conflict. Impressive."

  "Thank you," I said, relaxing slightly.

  "Though you did leave a vulnerability in your agreement," Samuel continued, and my stomach sank. "Human greed. Your plan assumes the weather patterns and natural barriers will keep mortal vessels away from the protected areas. But if there's profit to be made? If braving the storms means a larger catch, a faster route, more money? Nothing will stop them. Humans rarely let danger stand between them and wealth."

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. He was right. I hadn't thought about that at all.

  "You're young," Samuel said, and it didn't sound like an insult. "You'll learn to anticipate such things. Politics is about seeing three moves ahead. Four, if you can manage it." He smiled, and it was the expression of someone who routinely saw at least seven. "But that you got as far as you did with no formal training in supernatural diplomacy? That speaks well of your instincts."

  I tried to steer the conversation back on track. "With respect, Prince Samuel, meeting me isn't why you summoned Garrick. What can we help you with?"

  Samuel's smile widened slightly. "On the contrary, Mr. Sullivan. Meeting you may be the most important thing about this entire affair."

  I blinked. "I don't understand."

  "You will." He stood, moving to the map on the wall. His fingers traced the streets of Prague with the familiarity of someone who'd walked them for centuries. "A local ghost has gone missing. Princess Katrina ?ernín, leader of the Ghost Council, has accused me of being responsible for the disappearance. Or, failing that, of having knowledge of who did and choosing to aid them."

  "Do you?" I asked bluntly.

  Garrick made a strangled sound. Samuel turned to look at me, and for a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of the torches.

  Then Samuel laughed. Actually genuinely laughed, briefly and genuine. "Direct. I appreciate that. You could teach my subordinates a thing or two about getting to the point. No, Mr. Sullivan. I did not order a ghost to be abducted. I have absolutely no reason to do so. War with the ghosts would be bad for business, bad for the city, and especially bad for the ghosts themselves." He returned to his desk. "We have coexisted in Prague for generations. I have no motive, no desire to disturb that peace. War with the ghosts gains me nothing."

  "Then finding the missing ghost should settle everything," Garrick said, finally jumping back into the conversation. "We locate them, figure out what happened, clear your name. Simple."

  "Indeed," Samuel agreed. "I urge you to begin your investigation immediately."

  Something about this felt off. Too neat. Too simple. I tried another angle. "What are the chances someone in the vampire community is responsible? Maybe acting without your knowledge?"

  The mood in the room shifted slightly. For a brief moment, Samuel’s smile slipped into something cold and dangerous.

  For a moment, Samuel stared at me. Just stared. The silence stretched out until even Garrick looked uneasy.

  "Minuscule," Samuel said finally. Each syllable was precisely articulated. "If any vampire went behind my back and disrupted the peace—disrupted my business—the second death would be the least of their worries. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Sullivan?"

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good." The dangerous edge faded from his voice. "Now. I suggest you get started. Princess Katrina and the Ghost Council can be found at their headquarters. It’s a small building just off the square near the Old Town Hall. Red door. You can't miss it."

  He moved to sit back down, a clear dismissal.

  "Wait," I said. "What's the name of the missing ghost? And do you know anything else about how they disappeared?"

  Samuel's hand paused on the armrest of his chair. "Princess Katrina can provide you with those details. I don't involve myself in ghost affairs." He sat. "You may go."

  We were being dismissed, and I got the feeling that pushing further would be a mistake. I nodded and turned toward the door.

  Garrick followed, and as we reached for the handles, the doors swung open from the outside.

  The woman vampire stood there, teeth bared in a grin that was all predator.

  I jumped. Actually jumped, my heart slamming into overdrive for the third time tonight. Her grin widened.

  "I swear," I said, anger overriding common sense, "the next time you do that to me will be the last thing you—"

  "WE'LL BE GOING NOW," Garrick said loudly, grabbing my arm. "Please escort us back to the street. Thank you. We're leaving. Right now."

  The woman's eyes gleamed with something hungry. But she stepped back, gesturing for us to follow.

  We walked through the lounge in tense silence. My hands were shaking—partly from adrenaline, partly from anger. She'd been baiting me. Why?

  The stairs. The corridor. The hidden door grinding open to let us back into the alley. The night air of Prague felt warm compared to the underground chill.

  "I'll be here," the woman said, "when you find something. Don't keep the Prince waiting."

  Then she was gone, the door sealing itself behind her.

  We walked in silence until we were several blocks away, heading toward the Old Town. Garrick's hand was still on my elbow, steering me through the narrow streets like he was afraid I'd bolt back and finish my sentence.

  Finally, he stopped. Turned to face me.

  "Mac," he said quietly. "You almost made a fatal mistake back there."

  "I know. I shouldn't have—"

  "No. You don't know." He looked genuinely worried. "If you threaten a vampire on their own territory, you void guest right protections. You become fair game. Anyone in those catacombs could have killed you, and Samuel wouldn't have lifted a finger to stop it."

  The blood drained from my face. "She was testing me."

  "She was giving you rope to hang yourself with." Garrick ran a hand through his hair. "Most vampires will do anything to feed on humans if they can get away with it. It's harder in the modern age of course, with security cameras, forensics, too many questions when someone disappears. But in their own territory, with an excuse? You'd have been dinner."

  I thought about Samuel's careful neutrality when he'd dismissed us. The way he'd said nothing about the woman's baiting. "He would have let her kill me."

  "He would have lost nothing by it," Garrick agreed. "Which tells you something about how Samuel thinks. He wanted to see what you'd do. How you'd react under pressure."

  "And I almost failed spectacularly."

  "But you didn't. Because I was there." He squeezed my shoulder. "That's what partners do, Mac. We cover each other's blind spots."

  I took a shaky breath. "Thanks. And... I'll keep a cooler head from now on. I promise."

  "Good. Because we're about to walk into ghost territory, and they're not exactly friendly to vampires or their associates right now."

  We continued walking, the streets growing narrower, older. The buildings here looked like they'd been standing since the Middle Ages. They were all crooked half-timber construction, stone foundations, windows of leaded glass that caught the streetlights in strange ways. It really was beautiful. I wish we had more time to enjoy it.

  "Garrick," I said after a while. "Something Samuel said bothers me."

  "Just one thing?"

  "He said he has no use for a missing ghost. No reason to abduct one." I glanced at him. "But you told me at The Crossroads that this was about ghosts and vampires. What would a vampire want with a ghost in the first place?"

  Garrick was quiet for a moment. "There are old stories. Legends about vampires who learned to trap ghosts. Use them as... fuel, I guess you'd call it. Ghosts are essentially concentrated spiritual energy. If you could contain that energy, draw on it..." He shrugged. "Theoretically, it could grant temporary powers. Though I've never actually heard of it being done."

  "What kind of powers?"

  "The stories vary. Enhanced strength. Magical abilities vampires don't normally have. Some legends claim it lets them walk in daylight." He looked at me. "Why?"

  "Because if that's true, Samuel just lied to us. He'd have every reason to want a trapped ghost."

  We turned a corner and nearly walked into someone. Or something.

  The ghost stood in the middle of the narrow street, blocking our path. He looked young, he must have been in his early twenties when he died. He was transparent, tinted in shades of sepia like an old photograph, and when he moved, it was with the slow, dreamlike quality of things not quite bound by physics. It reminded me of those old phantasmagoria shows where stage magicians “summoned” the spirits of the dead.

  His eyes were sad. Deeply, profoundly sad.

  "Turn back," he whispered, and his voice was long and airy, like wind through empty rooms. "This place is cursed. Turn back, lest you be snatched too."

  Garrick stepped forward carefully. "We're here to help. Can you tell us what happened?"

  The ghost studied us. His gaze lingered on me, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. "You speak true," he said finally. "You are not lying." He drifted closer. "Fair Dorota. The kindest of us. She was taken. Stolen away."

  "Dorota," I repeated, committing the name to memory. "When did this happen?"

  "Three nights past. I heard her cry out. Felt the wrongness in the air." The ghost's form flickered. "I came too late. The door was broken. Her anchor disturbed. She was gone."

  "You lived near her?" Garrick asked.

  "My anchor is not far from here. We were neighbors, after a fashion." The ghost looked at the building beside us. It was an old shop with dark windows and a door hanging crooked on its hinges. "This was her place of unrest. Where she spent her days and nights. And now..."

  "We'd like to investigate," I said. "If that's all right with you. We're trying to find her."

  The ghost was silent for a long moment. Then: "You seek her truly? You wish to help?"

  "Yes," I said, “It’s why we’re here.”

  "Then enter. I will keep watch. If mortals come…the police or curious locals…I will turn them away." His form began to fade. "Find her soon. She is in great danger."

  "Wait," I called. "What's your name?"

  The ghost looked back, surprise flickering across his translucent features. "Petr," he said softly. "I am Petr."

  "Thank you, Petr. We'll do everything we can."

  He nodded once, then drifted away into the darkness.

  Garrick and I approached the building. Up close, I could see the damage. The door had been violently forced, and considering how thick and heavy the wood was, by one of great strength. The hinges were torn partially free, and the wood around the lock was splintered.

  With some difficulty, we shoved our way inside.

  The interior was a wreck. Furniture overturned, debris scattered across the floor, broken glass crunching under our feet. But underneath the destruction, I could see what this place had been.

  A workshop. A toy maker's shop. Wooden shelves lined the walls, most of them collapsed now. Scattered among the debris were hand-carved animals—horses, dogs, birds—in various stages of completion. A rocking horse lay on its side in one corner. Alphabet blocks spilled across the floor.

  Something twisted in my chest. I'd been in a place like this before. One of my better foster homes, back when I was seven or eight. The father had been a carpenter who made toys in his garage. I remembered the smell of sawdust, the patient way he'd shown me how to sand the rough edges smooth, the joy on the other kids' faces when they got to paint their own creations.

  Anyone who worked in a place like this truly loved children and loved bringing them joy.

  "Mac?" Garrick was watching me.

  "Just... memories." I cleared my throat. "Let's see what we can find."

  Garrick moved toward the back of the shop, to what looked like it had once been the main carving station. The desk there was destroyed. The wood had split, drawers pulled out and emptied.

  He held his hand just above the ruined surface and spoke words in a language I'd never heard before. Ancient, guttural, with sounds that didn't quite fit in a human throat. The kind of language that I imagined predated Latin, that came from when gods walked the earth and borders between worlds were thinner. This was the first time I’d ever actually seen Garrick use his power…and I could sense an immensity behind it. He too, was his own force to be reckoned with.

  The desk began to glow. Soft blue light seeped up from the wood, outlining the grain, highlighting the damage.

  "Just as I thought," Garrick muttered. "This was her anchor. Something about this place. This building…this work. It was important to Dorota. Important enough that her spirit couldn't leave."

  He pointed to where a section of the desk had been broken off recently. The wood was splintered, and the damage was fresh compared to the aged surface around it. "Someone took a piece of the anchor. That's critical for moving a ghost from their haunting ground."

  I watched the blue light pulse and fade. "What magic is that? How are you seeing this?"

  "I'm looking for traces of magical residue or ectoplasm. Ectoplasm is a substance left behind by ghosts and other undead. Nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, but it responds to certain incantations." He moved his hand in a slow circle. "Dorota spent a long time here so the concentration of ectoplasm is strong."

  "Can we use it to track her?" I wondered, as it would make things much easier.

  "No. Ectoplasm disperses too quickly once a ghost is removed from their anchor. The only reason I can detect this much is because she was here for years. Decades." He frowned. "But finding any at all proves she was forcibly removed. Ghosts don't just abandon their anchors."

  I scanned the room, looking for anything else that might be useful. That's when I saw it—a faint blue glow coming from beneath a pile of broken shelving.

  "Garrick. Over here."

  We cleared the debris carefully. Underneath, half-buried in sawdust and wood chips, was a small cork. The kind you'd use to seal a bottle. The blue glow was coming from it. Concentrated ectoplasm, bright enough that even I could see it without Garrick's spell.

  "That's strange," Garrick said, kneeling beside me. "I've never seen ectoplasm cling to an object like that. It usually—"

  I picked up the cork, turning it slowly in the blue light.

  That's when I saw them. Letters. Tiny, precise characters carved into the wood, so small I'd missed them at first. They weren't in any alphabet I recognized—angular, sharp, with hooks and lines that seemed to shift slightly when I wasn't looking directly at them.

  "Garrick," I said quietly. "What does this mean?"

  He leaned closer, his expression shifting from curiosity to recognition to something darker. “It’s the old germanic runic alphabet. You see these on standing stones throughout this area of Europe. Look,” he said, pointing at the grouping, “The runes form a circle around a single runic letter in the center. You could substitute it for our letter ‘D’.”

  Garrick looked closer, his eyes seeming to lose focus, before he snapped back to attention, "Those are binding runes," he said. "Containment magic. And that letter means…"

  "YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO DOROTA!"

  The voice hit like a physical blow. I actually felt a wave of cold air and rage and power that made my ears ring like I'd been standing too close to speakers at a concert.

  We both spun around, my heart slamming hard in my chest, every intuition in my body screaming, “DANGER!”

  A woman stood in the doorway. Stood wasn't quite the way to put it. She floated, her feet surrounded by spectral orange flames that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Her dress was massive, red and elaborate, the kind of gown royalty wore centuries ago. It pooled around her like she was drowning in fabric. Her dark hair whipped around her shoulders as if caught in a wind that only she could feel.

  But her eyes. Her eyes were pits of pure white flame that lit up the entire room.

  This wasn't like Petr. This ghost was powerful. Ancient. Furious. And worse? Seemingly completely substantial.

  "Princess Katrina," Garrick breathed.

  "And you," she said, her voice resonating with barely contained wrath, "will pay the price for what has been done to her!"

  She started coming towards us. Her hand stretched out, fingers spread, and I could see the air around them shimmer with cold and hunger. The cork fell from my fingers.

  We were in serious trouble.