Jack stood before his desk, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, mate, but I lost that cartridge back in oh-four.”

The detective slapped himself in the forehead. “I don’t care about the bloody game, and I’m not Dylan! Why even invite me up if you don’t have it?”

“You said you wanted to hire me to find your Cario car—”

“I said no such thing!” he said, reaching into his inside pocket.

He produced a leather wallet, which he shoved in Jack’s face.

“Oh yeah,” said Jack, “DC Pullman. You’re the guy who wrote Southern Lig—”

“No I’m not!”

“Do you prefer I call it The Silver Comp—”

“I’d prefer you take that compass and use it to find the point! I’m here to hire you, dumbass; listen when people are talking to you!”

“Can I cut him?”

He eyed Pullman, considering. No.

“But he just seems so… sliceable.”

With a sigh, he shook his head, picking Razor up from where she leaned on the desk.

“Sorry,” he said, drawing her, “just need a sec. My sword insists on cutting something.”

Pullman’s eyes bugged from their sockets. “I’m sorry, what?”

Ignoring him, Jack narrowed his focus, pulling Razor into a stance and counting his heartbeats.

Between beats, he sliced down. Crumbs flew astray as a tiny sliver of Swiss roll separated from the main piece.

Pullman stood stunned.

Razor made a noise like the clicking of a tongue. “Did you just use me to cut your cake?”

Well, he thought, sheathing her, you wanted to cut something.

“That’s not how it works—and you could at least wipe the cream off!”

Replacing the scabbard, he reached down and grabbed the big piece, popping it in his mouth.

“What was the point of cutting off that crumb if you’re going to eat the thing whole?”

He picked up the plate, offering it to Pullman. “Swiss roll?”

“Don’t ignore me, you buffoon!”

The detective wrinkled his brow, staring at the confection—which was roughly the size of a penny—with befuddlement.

“I’m all right, thanks,” he said, turning his gaze to Jack. “More importantly, can we talk about the job?”

Jack swallowed, a warm shiver running through him. “I don’t see why you need my help.” He rounded the desk, dropping back into his chair. “Even if they’re rare, you’ll be able to find another copy somewhere.”

“How long do you plan to keep riffing on that? This is serious; people are dying.” He pulled a folded packet of papers from inside his jacket. It sprung unfurled, clear plastic masking pictures and lines of tiny text.

“Yeah,” said Jack, “people tend to do that.”

Opening the packet, Pullman slid a photograph in front of Jack. “These ones are being helped along.”

He grimaced as he took in the picture: it was a little blurry, like the resolution was too high for the printer. But that didn’t obscure the contents. A head-and-shoulders shot of a young man took up the frame, grey concrete dyed red around him. His eyes were empty, a once-shining crimson now dull, and his mouth was twisted between a smirk and a horrified frown.

There was a hole where his forehead should have been. Blood and gore decorated shards of bone that had somehow remained, squelchy pink bulging out of the wound.

“What happened to him?” said Jack, gagging.

“Jacob Meltzer,” said Pullman, “vampire, a hundred and fifty-nine. Affiliated with Nightcorp and the Church of Dragula. He got shot.”

“With what, a cannon?”

“Desert Eagle, hollow point. Nasty little bastards.”

Peering at the detective, Jack couldn’t help feeling something was off. “Should you really be showing me this? Why come to me instead of getting more coppers to help?”

Pullman cleared his throat, eyes shifting away. “Meltzer was previously one of the New Bloods.” He pulled out another photo. It was of a man obscured by shadows, wearing a leather duster and a wide-brimmed hat. “Our one suspect is this guy: Edwin van Hellsong, calls himself a monster hunter. Got into the city two days ago.”

“Can I cut that one?”

“And?” said Jack. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Pretty please?”

“Before they were monster hunters, van Hellsong’s family were plain old vampire hunters. And they’ve been enemies of Lawrence Crispley for generations. You know, that vampire extremist leader you killed?”

He swallowed, his stomach fluttering. “How did you know that?”

“I’m a detective. I detected.”

“That was self-defense, you know.”

“Storming the enemy’s base armed with a magic sword? You’re lucky the Blackwells took the credit.”

Something flared in his abdomen. “She did what now?”

“Well, you don’t exactly have great marketing, you know.”

I can’t tell if that’s a meta joke or not.

“That aside,” said Pullman, “I have reason to believe van Hellsong is targeting former members of the New Bloods, so your expertise would be welcome. And the pay handsome.”

Jack regarded him, narrowing his eyes at the man’s shifting posture. He was still hiding something. “Don’t detectives usually come in pairs?”

“Does it matter? If he’s a vampire hunter, then couldn’t Hannah be in danger? You should just let me slice him.”

“My department has an odd number.”

Chewing his lip, he stared into space. Pullman was lying about something, but the details were probably true—which meant Razor was right. As a vampire, converted by the New Bloods, it seemed Hannah would end up in van Hellsong’s crosshairs eventually.

“What can you tell me about van Hellsong?” he said.

Pullman withdrew another sheet. “Suspected of murdering vampires in twenty-one different countries, but with no proof. Witness statements tied him to the crime scenes, but everything else was circumstantial.”

“Any pattern?”

“As far as I can tell, he’s relatively indiscriminate.”

“Any witnesses this time?”

“One, but she was too traumatised to speak.”

What if this ‘hunter’ decided he needed to clean up the city after getting rid of the New Blood remnants?

For a moment, he was glad Hannah had taken the day off. Everything he’d ever tried to protect had slipped through his fingers, but things were different now. He was different.

No more would he let hatred claim the lives in front of him.

“I get to cut him, right?”

He looked up at Pullman. “Alright, I’ll do it.” Razor cheered inside him. “You got any leads?”

Pullman nodded, gathering up his papers. “I know of a couple who joined The Outcasts; we can start there.”

He groaned. Unless he entered waving a fistful of twenties, he’d be mauled on sight.

Still, needs must. “Let’s go to the pub, then,” he said.

***

Hannah licked her ice cream, savouring the sweet vanilla flavour. She giggled when she glanced over at Derren, who sported a creamy moustache as he devoured his own cone.

They were on the sea defence—a massive concrete block separating the beach from the promenade above, ridged into steps that were big enough to sit on. Their hands brushed as they pointedly tried not to notice each other. After depositing the books in her house, he’d insisted on bringing her here.

The crash of roaring waves filled their ears, the smell of salty spray forcing its way up their nostrils. Before them was a long expanse of sand, devoid of other people and decorated by swirling patterns of pebbles, the sea stretching out beyond in a mosaic of blue and orange. The sun kissed the horizon, its colours painting the clouds.

Finishing their cones in silence, they finally regarded each other; a twinkle found its way to Derren’s eye.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but do you mind if I ask a personal question?”

She smiled. “Go right ahead.”

“What’s with the colour scheme?”

Her chest dropped, and she sucked her teeth—painful memories were resurfacing. Isolation. Dissociation. Derren’s eyes widened and he started to speak, but she cut him off.

“I was born like this,” she said. “It’s a sign of my chronic blandness.”

“Blandness?” He furrowed his brow. “But I’ve never seen anyone else remotely similar, so surely it’s just uniqueness, right?”

Glancing at her feet, she sighed. It was natural he wouldn’t understand. “You say that, but—”

“Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything bland about you.”

For the second time that day, her heart melted. What was this boy doing to her? He’d cut her off mid-sentence—she shouldn’t feel like this. She should be annoyed or aggrieved, surely?

But then again, what had she even planned on saying? She couldn’t remember. Probably some insistence she was a nobody born to be a side character. Yet she’d saved several vampires from the grip of the New Bloods. It had been her intervention that solved the Bakeneko crisis. And she’d been the one to decipher the prophecy that helped them end Armageddon.

When she thought about it like that, she was pretty awesome, wasn’t she? Grey might have been a dull colour, but in the right light she supposed it might shine silver.

She beamed at Derren. “Thank you,” she said. “Weirdly, I…I think I needed to hear that.”

Smiling back, he rose to his feet, offering her a hand. “No problem. I think everything about you is beautiful, Hannah.”

Everything about her? She started. How could he say that when he hadn’t seen most of it yet?

Grabbing his hand, she brushed it off and levered herself up.

“Thanks,” she said. “So why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Until then, they had only chatted about books and her experience as a vampire, and he’d asked a personal question. It was only fair.

He winced, gazing at the setting sun. “I’d love to, but I have some things to do tonight. We could meet tomorrow?” His eyes flicked over, hopeful.

“Of course!” she said, warmth spreading from her chest.

They exchanged phone numbers, and Derren strolled off.

She kept a demure smile as he did, but inside was different. She was full of fluff and fuzz. She felt like she could have bounced her way home.

***

DI Arthur Wickham studied the room.

It was an office in a warehouse, cubic and decorated with reds and blacks, harsh electric light overcoming the lack of windows. A desk stood in the centre, heavy and wooden and cluttered; behind it sat a bald man with an eyepatch and a denim jacket.

His face was gnarled, though not old, with a vicious scar running underneath his patch. It was like a leatherworker hadn’t quite done a good enough job.

This man steepled his fingers, noting the dark-haired boy on the other side of the desk.

Wickham was just supposed to watch.

“Ol’ Lancey-boy’s been skimming off the top,” he said, voice rough and harsh. He was Terry Briggs, leader of Blackpool’s Firm—a nebulous organisation with fingers in every criminal pie the city had ever baked.

His drugs had addicted a generation of disadvantaged kids. His violence terrified the population into silence. His business dealings flooded the streets with weapons.

Yet he’d been untouchable through the years; no matter how much evidence they gathered, it disappeared. Witnesses removed their testimony. So he’d taken the ultimate risk, giving up his name and his life for a single chance to take him down.

Arthur Wickham had become Warren Allsop, a petty thief with a knack for sniffing trouble.

He hadn’t considered what he’d have to do. Or, more specifically, not do.

“Gonna need you to send a message,” said Terry. The boy across from him gulped.

Maybe five feet nine, lithe, with the characteristic red irises of a vampire—Wickham saw them waver, as though he was having second thoughts.

He wore jeans and a black coat, all dark and generic, but high quality. More than Wickham would be able to afford, certainly.

Age was difficult to guess with vampires, but he looked young, and that always rubbed Wickham the wrong way. What was the boy’s story? Why was he working for a bunch of gangsters instead of Nightcorp?

“Yes, sir,” said the vampire, nodding as he pivoted to leave.

“And Derren,” called Terry, “don’t let me down.”