The English accent is interrupted by a choked retch and a much more American, “What the hell is that smell?”
The two white men in suits and hats stand by a stone railing, on a wide landing a few steps up a graceful staircase that spans half the block. A light snow is falling on the lounging stone lion looming behind them. More stairs lead to up to giant columns and a roof with carved figures, the building glowing ghostly white under a night sky. The stars are shining oddly bright—and then abruptly dim to darkness.
The thin American, blond hair just visible beneath his hat, is bent at the waist and still gagging. A briefcase is at his feet.
The Englishman, a brunette perhaps in his mid-thirties, huffs impatiently. He’s holding a small open box, and nestled in the silk is an orb about the size of an orange, made of bright gold-and-silver filigreed like lace. At the top of the orb, a delicate linked chain leads to a ring. “It’s four-hundred-year-old musk, Mr. Barnes. Of course it’s wretched.”
“A pomander.” The American, Barnes, groans. “Why hasn’t it been cleaned?”
“Would you like to be the one to faff about with a fifteenth-century supernatural totem?”
“I would like to be the one who turns the clock back two weeks and forgets this blasted supernatural garbage exists.” Barnes straightens up, still looking green under the lamplight.
“Hmph.” The Englishman eyes him. “You said you were Luther Mansfield’s lawyer? Rumor was he was orchestrating a sale of his own, but he’s dead and gone. Why are you suddenly in the market?”
“I have my reasons.” Barnes sounds haunted. “How do I know this is what you claim it is, Mr. Chester?”
“Does that smell counterfeit?” Chester snaps. “Do you think I’d cross an entire ocean pretending to be the valet of an idiot lord for a fake?” He shrugs dramatically. “But if you don’t want it, I can find another buyer—”
“No!” The terror in Barnes’s voice is real. “I must have it. I need it.” He snatches up the briefcase. “Here’s your money. You can seal up that foul-smelling—did you hear that?”
Heavy footsteps echo on stone. A new voice, also English, far deeper than either Barnes’ or Chester’s, says, “Well done, Barnes. You’ve got us a relic after all.”
The man steps into the faint light. He’s broad and tall and dwarfs the other two, with close-cropped, white-blond hair, small eyes, and a heavy coat dotted with snowflakes. A woman is just a step behind him, a cloche hat over her neat blond bob and a cool smirk on her lips. She has a choker around her neck, and the stone at her throat catches the light; small, gray, and far more attention-catching than such an unremarkable stone should be.
“And quite the relic, I’d wager.” The woman inhales the rotting musk like she’s scenting perfume. “Can you taste that, Mr. Hyde? That’s no ordinary power.”
Chester takes a step back as Barnes draws in a sharp breath. “You’re wearing the lodestone,” Barnes says to the woman, then turns to the giant man. “Why wasn’t that enough?” he demands. “It’s clearly got some sort of power if Miss Shelley is wearing it. Why put me through this?”
“Because Baron Zeppler paid for a relic, not a trinket.” Hyde’s expression darkens. “And failing the baron is not an option.”
Shelley touches the stone at her neck with reverence. “You should close the relic up. There could be other subordinate paranormals in the city. They must be drowning in magic.”
Chester looks between Barnes and Hyde. “Are you the actual buyers?” he says brusquely. “Because we can cut Barnes here out of the deal completely.”
Barnes holds up both his hands. “The less I’m involved, the better,” he starts to say.
“Don’t move.” Hyde’s eyes are on Chester as he holds out a hand covered in a black leather glove. “The relic.”
But Chester pulls the open relic box to his chest. “Sounds to me like the price of this relic just increased.”
“Mr. Chester, no.” Barnes has gone pale. “They’re not human.”
“Of course we’re human.” Shelley is still playing with the stone at her neck, a smirk on her lips. “We’re just special.”
Hyde holds up one gloved hand. “Very special,” he says dryly, as he pulls off the glove to reveal fingers tipped with curved claws instead of nails, tips sharp as knifepoints.
“Oh Christ.” Barnes looks like he’s going to be sick. “Just give it to him, Chester.”
“The hell I will.” Chester holds the relic to his chest with his left hand, and suddenly there’s a pistol in his right. “I’m done waiting on lords. This thing is my ticket to riches. I don’t care what magic you have; a paranormal can be killed by a bullet, same as anyone else.”
A slow, twisted smile crosses Hyde’s face. “Then we’ll see who’s faster, won’t we?”
Chester’s eyes widen and he raises the gun.
But Hyde snarls, a sickening crunch of bone cracking as his face transforms into something monstrous and misshapen, teeth to fangs, jaw big enough to close on a man’s throat—
The pistol fires, the bullet going wide and lost to the night. Chester’s scream echoes off the stone as the orb-shaped pomander relic tumbles to the ground and rolls down the stairs. It comes to a stop on the stately wide sidewalk just as Barnes’s scream joins Chester’s.
