“So… what do we do next?”

  Inside the carriage, Joey, Shrike, and Lloyd exchanged glances. Then, as the investigation once again ground to a standstill, they each lifted a hand to their temples, as if the weight of the impasse pressed physically against their skulls.

  No one could answer Joey’s question.

  Lloyd remained silent. From what they had gathered, the demon’s vengeance could be aimed at any noble who had ever employed the displaced. If that were the case, the list of potential targets would be vast beyond reckoning. He could not possibly visit every noble household in Old Dunling—nor would time allow such a futile pilgrimage.

  He did not care whether those nobles lived or died. What he cared about was the source of that inferior secret blood. And now, that trail had dissolved into fog, leaving not even the faintest thread to grasp.

  “Can we find out who the Ed couple worked for?” Lloyd finally asked.

  “Hardly,” Shrike replied with a slow shake of his head. “They weren’t figures of importance like Hughes.”

  Though Shrike held sway over the Lower District, even he could not monitor the life of every soul who crawled through its streets.

  “But if we widen the scope,” he continued, voice lowering, “there is something interesting. Before Hughes died, he was attacked by a group.”

  Lloyd lifted his gaze slightly, a silent gesture urging him on.

  “Not all the displaced are as meek as they appear. Some of them banded together, tried to resist the injustice. A great many weren’t even willing migrants—they were lured here. Smugglers like Hughes promised them high wages. What they found instead was endless exploitation.”

  Shrike’s tone carried neither outrage nor surprise—only a weary familiarity.

  “You know how shrewd merchants can be. Many of those displaced may be free by law, but in truth they’re little different from slaves. They signed unjust contracts under deception and threat. Until those contracts are fulfilled, they can do nothing but labor.”

  “They wanted revenge?” Lloyd asked.

  “They only wanted to threaten Hughes. To force him to let them return home.”

  Shrike shook his head again, regret shadowing his expression.

  “But how could they ever hope to win against him? Profits layer upon profits. Even if Hughes had wanted to release them, the nobles behind him would never have allowed it. It’s a twisted ecosystem… just like this twisted city.”

  Lloyd fell silent. His thoughts churned, swift and relentless.

  “I’ve already spread news of their deaths,” Joey added from the other side. “If someone feels guilty, they’ll come to us.”

  Lloyd let out a faint, almost mocking breath.

  “They won’t. You saw Baron Ebel’s attitude. In their eyes, those deaths have nothing to do with them. They won’t even feel the faintest hint of guilt.”

  “This is what hatred and class division breed,” Shrike said quietly, watching Lloyd. “I know you despise them right now. But their behavior… is understandable.”

  He did not condone it. Yet he understood.

  “Our hatred for the Gaulnaro people has endured for too long. A century of the Glorious War has carved that hatred into the blood of every Ingervigian. Some know it was their fathers’ war. Others still cannot let it go.”

  “So the fathers’ hatred has fallen upon these displaced people instead. Is that it?” Lloyd said.

  Shrike nodded, then tapped his own chest.

  “That’s the curious part. We’re human. And yet some among our own kind possess no independent thought—only prejudice handed down to them. The hatred has nothing to do with them personally.”

  Lloyd understood. The world was often like this. All of them creatures of bone and flesh—yet some moved as though soulless, marching when others marched, hating when others hated.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “At least we’ve found something. Perhaps the demon isn’t avenging a specific individual. Perhaps it seeks vengeance for the displaced as a whole. That narrows the field. The demon is likely one of them. And no one would notice his traits…”

  He recalled the hospital—the corpse of Wall—and the man who had sealed the morgue in flame. The resemblance to the demon had been striking. An unnoticed profession. A man like a ladder—useful, stepped upon, forgotten.

  “His occupation must be commonplace,” Lloyd murmured. “Common enough that he never seems out of place.”

  “So we continue the search along those lines?” Joey asked.

  “It’s all we can do,” Lloyd replied calmly. “Time will reveal the truth. Even if we never solve the riddle, it won’t matter. He’s already at the brink. If your surveillance system hasn’t failed, he will eventually lose himself completely—become a true demon. And then we’ll find him.”

  He turned to Joey.

  “Take me home. I doubt we’ll gain anything more today.”

  …

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  In Old Dunling, one day differed little from the next. The sky remained eternally ash-gray, indistinct and heavy. Only at sunset did the horizon catch fire, faint crimson bleeding through the gloom and spreading overhead like a dying ember.

  When Lloyd pushed open the door to his residence, fatigue weighed upon him. The day’s conversations had been steeped in conflict and gravity.

  Such was this world—rife with contradiction, forever beyond reconciliation. Even the gods of the Gospel Church seemed to understand this, promising their paradise only after death.

  “Oh. He’s back.”

  The sudden voice shattered his thoughts.

  He looked up. Madame Vanrud sat cheerfully upon the parlor sofa. The hearth behind her roared with flame, casting flickering light across her face, warping her features into something almost witchlike.

  “What is it?” Lloyd asked, curiosity stirring. It sounded as though she had been waiting for him.

  “You have a temporary assignment.”

  The reply came from another direction.

  Lloyd turned sharply. Only then did he realize someone had been sitting near the door all along.

  “Celia?”

  The girl nodded.

  She was curled into the sofa, wrapped in a heavy coat. Beneath its folds, the hem of a pure white dress peeked out, edged with delicate lace. Apparently unaccustomed to high heels, she had removed them; the white shoes rested neatly to one side.

  “…And what is it this time?” Lloyd inhaled deeply, weariness threading through his voice. It felt like returning home after a day’s toil only to find a greater burden waiting at the threshold.

  “You have one hour to make yourself presentable,” came a voice from behind him—old, weighty, and resolute.

  It was Yavi.

  “Try not to disgrace the Stuart family.”

  The old steward wore a look of naked resentment, a bitterness so sharp that it seemed almost tangible. Lloyd felt an uneasy flicker of recognition—he had seen that expression before. Ah, yes. The Duke of Phoenix. The same cold hostility, the same undisguised malice.

  “Wait. What’s going on?”

  For once, Yawi had not greeted him with a gun pressed to his skull. Yet judging from the man’s face, Lloyd suspected he had wandered into something far more troublesome.

  His mind began to race. He must have overlooked something. His gaze shifted back to Selu. The icy young woman seemed subtly different today. There was color on her pale face—no, not color. Cosmetics.

  Her pale-gold hair, usually left in loose disarray, had been gathered and pinned. Delicate ornaments adorned it—pearls and silver chains intertwined like an offering laid upon a platter of precious metals.

  The unfortunate detective felt a realization forming, but before he could voice it, Yawi supplied the answer.

  “I hope the outfit fits. If it doesn’t, I trust you’ll endure it.”

  He tossed a bundle of clothing toward Lloyd. His tone was respectful, almost servile—but his eyes betrayed no kindness.

  It was an evening suit. The fabric flowed like water beneath Lloyd’s fingers, the stitching immaculate. By his estimation, it cost more than several months of his rent.

  “Now hold on—”

  He had never faced such an absurd spectacle. Words failed him. Before he could recover, more attendants streamed in, their hands brisk and efficient as they began patting him down. They were consummate professionals; even when their fingers brushed the Winchester hidden beneath his trench coat, their expressions did not flicker.

  Others pressed him into a chair. They combed out the hair crushed flat by his deer-stalker cap, sprayed fragrant tonics across his weathered face, striving to shave years from the man battered by the cold winds of Old Dunling.

  Selu said nothing. She merely watched with that faint, glacial smile of hers. Lloyd knew it was her ordinary expression of amusement—but at this moment, it felt like mockery.

  “Mr. Holmes,” Yawi began at last, observing Lloyd besieged on all sides, “if there had been another candidate, I truly would not have troubled you.”

  Another candidate? With that infernal smile of Selu’s in mind, Lloyd suspected the list had contained precisely one name.

  “So what exactly are you planning?”

  An unfamiliar perfume was misted over him. The scent was intoxicating, heavy, invasive. Lloyd disliked it. Fragrance clouded judgment.

  “A ball. I require a partner.”

  Selu spoke lazily, chin resting upon her hand, watching the transformation with open interest.

  This version of Lloyd was rare. Through their years of fleeing death together, she had seen him bloodied, furious, laughing on the brink of annihilation—but never cornered like this.

  “And you didn’t think to consult me?”

  A servant tugged his belt tighter. Apparently, the detective had put on a few pounds of late.

  “And what do you think, Mr. Holmes?” Yawi asked mildly.

  Lloyd turned his head and shot him a glare. A large-caliber revolver now rested against his temple. So much for consultation.

  “…Fine.”

  After a long, humiliating pause, he nodded.

  Yawi clapped his hands sharply. “You have one hour. Turn this stray dog into something fit to be led outdoors.”

  The attendants redoubled their efforts. Expensive creams were brushed across Lloyd’s face, skin long weathered by the relentless winds of Old Dunling.

  Truth be told, Lloyd was still young. The Secret Blood strengthened all demon hunters—not only in body, but in longevity. In theory, one might live beyond two centuries. In practice, few survived their endless battles long enough to test that claim.

  Brush after brush swept across his skin. In the mirror, the mangy stray was stripped of its grime, its rough fur shorn away, revealing the sharp lines beneath.

  Confronted by the reflection of a younger man, Lloyd was struck by a sudden realization: he stood in the very prime of youth.

  An orphan by birth, he had never known his true age. After the Church took him in, birthdays were assigned according to the day of adoption; ages estimated by physicians. He and the other children were raised as weapons from the outset. Weapons were not meant to think. Lloyd had not even possessed a name—only a string of numbers. At seventeen, when the Secret Blood was implanted within him, he received something resembling a name. A designation. A code.

  Counting backward, he realized eight years had passed since that day.

  Twenty-five.

  He stared at himself in the mirror, struck by an odd mixture of wistfulness and regret.

  From the moment he became a demon hunter, ordinary life had ceased to exist. The thought carried a faint sorrow—but Lloyd forced it away. There was no sense waging war against oneself.

  “So why me?” he asked, though the attendants’ ring around him made it sound like a soliloquy.

  “Because there is no suitable alternative,” Selu’s voice drifted through the gaps between bodies. “This is a periodic gathering among nobles. In truth, it is an arena for alliances between great houses. It concerns my coming-of-age.”

  “That’s still a month away.”

  “Yes. But on that day I inherit my title at the Platinum Palace. They wish to secure relations in advance.”

  Understanding dawned.

  “The banquet you skipped the other day—that was the same sort of affair?”

  Selu did not answer, but Lloyd could picture her cool nod.

  “Miss Selu represents the entirety of the Stuart faction,” Yawi explained evenly. “We do not wish to support any noble house in their disputes. Neutrality—at least for now—is our position. To show favor to one invites suspicion from another. Distance is the safest course.”

  So the nobles waged their wars in whispers as well.

  “Yet some will inevitably attempt an approach,” Yawi continued.

  “So you’d rather throw a scapegoat into the fire?” Lloyd snapped, finally grasping it.

  No matter whom Selu chose as her partner, it would signal allegiance. The Stuart stance, however subtle. Even sitting alone would invite suitors. Better, then, to shatter expectations entirely—arrive with a non-noble, disrupt the field. No noble blood, no political declaration. At worst, it would be seen as a gesture of approachability.

  An elegant calculation.

  Lloyd could already imagine the looks—those nobles tearing him apart with their eyes alone.