I was running when I caught the scent of it—the crimson copper mist—and I knew
I was too late.
My borrowed whalebone corset was grinding into my ribs as I raced up the
staircase. Scarlet-lipped Madame Woolf, the proprietor of The Jupiter Drawing Room,
had designed the interior of the building with such style and attention to detail that
anyone visiting was instantly transported to a Victorian-era brothel, with lush swathes of
fabric and glittering stones… and working girls in impossible outfits, a wardrobe decision
that I now thoroughly regretted.
Being undercover in the most luxurious neo-gothic bordello in Johannesburg in
2018 was one thing, but a full silk skirt and a marine-ivory exoskeleton that seriously
hindered me in doing my job was quite another. I stopped halfway up the cast-iron spiral
stairs and ripped off the ridiculous costume. My utility belt, still snug on my hips, was
now easier to reach, and I immediately felt more mobile. I sped to the top, out of breath
and out of time. I refused to give up; maybe there was still a life I could spare. More
importantly: maybe there was still a particular life I could snuff out.
I arrived at the top, glancing left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of my target.
The cream brocade wallpapered corridor was bare, but I knew she was there. I could
smell her; could sense her burgeoning evil behind the wall. In my mind’s eye I saw black
mist spilling out from underneath the numbered doors.
I reached for the crossbow on my back and eased off the safety catch. I prowled
down the passage, hoping to be able to sense which room she was in, but the dealings of
the people inside threw up a screen of emotion that I couldn’t get past. I changed my
mind about the crossbow and hitched it onto the clasp on my hip, and from the same belt
I unclipped my silver wand and pointed it at the first door.
Door number one: let’s have some fun.
Usually when I’m breaking in—especially when the mechanisms locking me out
are quaint bronze doorknobs—I’ll use a gentle fire spell to just melt the metal enough to
force entrance. It’s an easy, quiet way to gain access; an elegant way to smash and grab.
But right then I didn’t have time for elegance.
I narrowed my eyes and focused my attention on the bronze handle, and I thought
of the victims I had witnessed in my line of work so far. The reckless slaughtering of
good, innocent people; loving fathers and brothers and wives and friends, and small
children orphaned by careless violence. I had experienced the soul-aching loss myself,
had felt—and still feel—the endless grief circling me like a hungry vulture. Thinking of
lost fathers, I clutched the pentacle ring that hung on a chain around my neck, and I felt
fortified. I gathered the roiling storm in my chest and launched my emotion at the door:
eyes unblinking, arm straight, cool wand clutched in my hot palm.
My name is Jacquelyn Denna Knight, and I turn my pain into magic.
“Fiat Fulgur!” I yelled, and a bolt of white lightning surged within me, bypassing
my heart and shooting out of my hand, hurtling through the wand, and exploding a hole
in the door, sending a billowing cloud of golden sparking smoke into the air.
Goodbye, quaint bronze doorknob.
Some wizards like to use wooden staffs, but I prefer the antique wand I stole from
my mother. It acts like a conductor: it narrows my focus to a white-hot point, and
concentrates the power I pull from the Void. The door flew open under the heel of my
boot, and shouts of shock burst from within.
Through the haze of smoking wood and screaming I saw that the couple in the first
room was not who I was looking for. I blasted open the next door, and the next, counting
the precious seconds I was losing while someone was dying. He may as well have been
right there, lips to my ear, taking his last gasping breath. I shuddered, then steeled myself;
tightening my grip on the wand. Loud shrieking and angry protestations bowled down the
passage, but I paid them no mind. I didn’t give a damn about their interrupted passion. I
could smell the copper crimson again, and this time I welcomed it, breathed it in deeply.
It was like a red ribbon of scent, leading me to room number six.
Room number six, show me your tricks.
I ran to the doorway, stood before it, and raised my wand. The smell was pungent,
then, and I knew for certain I was too late.
“Fiat Fulgur!” Arm outstretched, the bright current of electricity jolted through my
body and shot out of my wand once more. Knowing I was close, my fear intensified the
spell, exploding not just the handle but the whole door, and the shards and burning
splinters gusted back into the room; a hurricane of sparks. Inside my chest, I felt my heart
was in a similar state.
There, on the luxuriously oversized bed, lay a middle-aged man, naked apart from a
pair of pink silk boxers. The pillow beneath his lolling head was turning slowly from
white to red. I quickly swapped my wand for my crossbow, and entered the velvet- and
vanilla-striped room. Two distinct sounds hit me at the same time: a wet gurgle from the
man, hinting that he was still alive, and a neat click and slide on the other side of the
vintage paneled dressing screen that divided the space. Cool city air crept toward me, and
I could hear the traffic beyond; the sound had been the window being opened. Making the
decision between saving the bleeding man on the bed and killing the perpetrator before
she escaped was impossible, so I relied on my gut instinct instead, which pushed my
limbs toward the window behind the screen. My body felt like it was on fire from the
spells it had cast in getting there—my wrist was singing with pain—and the foreboding I
felt for what I’d find on the other side of the divider. I lifted my crossbow and
approached.
I may as well have been walking in quicksand, the time it took me to cross the
room. My instinct was pushing me forward, and my sense of self-preservation was
holding me back. I didn’t want to die, and I especially didn’t want to die in this room, in
this building, at the hands of this hateful creature. I took another step forward, hands
perspiring and weakening my grip on the weapon. There was a soft noise, a ruffle of
fabric, and a slight movement of shadow beyond the partition. My heart was on high
alert, bashing into my ribcage. I swallowed hard, and took another step.
It often feels like this. All brave and ballsy during the chase, bolstered by the sure
knowledge that I’m the best in the city at what I do. A flash memory of the sensation of
running my hands over the hundreds of notches I’ve made on my bedpost at home: not of
lovers, but of successful kills. But then when you’re right there in the room and there’s a
man dying with his throat opened and leaking, and you’re so close to the attacker that you
can smell her stale perfume and sour breath… that’s when bravery falters and your breath
catches. And you don’t get used to it, no matter how many times you do it.
The fear sucks the air out of the room.
Then, just as the panic mounts and you think it’s too much, your body’s primal
instincts are screaming fight or flight, and, by god, you want to hightail it out of there, a
different feeling comes crashing over you and your fear. A hot wave that holds you up,
lets you breathe, and with that breath your uncertainty evaporates and you realize that no-
one can do this like you can—that you were born for this—and it lights up your body and
sets your jaw.
Gripping the crossbow with the new burst of courage, I marched over to the screen
and kicked it over.
The satin-skirted vampire was waiting for me.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KBGK7JN/
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