CHAPTER 6

"You're too quiet, Kan," Gideon said, using the name Kan only allowed in private. Gideon was pacing, his fingers tunneling through his blond hair. "You should've told me he was watching."

"Why?" Kan pulled a black cotton shirt over his head, his face emerging with a lethal grin. He settled his top hat, the brim casting a sharp shadow over his silver eyes. "You would've hunted him down too fast. Now? Now he knows exactly what he’s missing. I smelled it on him, Gid. He was drowning in it."

"I caught it too," Gideon muttered, leaning against the doorframe. "I just thought it was some random in the crowd."

"No. It was him." Kan stepped close, his presence a heavy, cold weight. "He’s thinking about us right now. Wondering which one of us owns his soul. Convincing him he belongs to both? That’s going to be the fun part." Kan’s jaw tightened, his hunger a physical ache behind his ribs. "My hands are itching to mark him. I need to bleed someone before I lose my head."

Gideon caught his arm, a firm, grounding grip. "You think he’s the third? For real?"

"I don't think. I know." Kan’s eyes flashed a toxic, glowing green. "We’ll bring him home. And when we do, we won't be gentle. He’s built for it. He’s a Blackwell ghost, a shadow of the Nash Rebellion. He can take everything we give."

Kan walked out the door, the hunt already singing in his veins.

Timothy trailed the tall man in the top hat through the thick sludge of Saati Town. Kan Nelblack moved with a predatory grace, his black leather pants catching the strobe lights of the bars. He was a fine-tuned machine of death, and Timothy was fascinated.

He stayed in the deep shadows, moving with a silence that had kept him alive for a decade. Kan hooked a left onto St. Louis Street, the crowds thinning out as the neon glare faded into the gloom of the cemetery district.

"Don't be a spectator all night," Kan whispered, his British lilt cutting through the humidity. He didn't turn around. He just kept walking, a swagger in his stride that screamed confidence.

Timothy froze. He didn't breathe. How?

"I can hear the rhythm of your heart, little ghost," Kan said, stopping in his tracks. He turned, his silver-blue eyes scanning the darkness until they landed directly on Timothy's position. "We’ll play it your way for now."

Timothy didn't step out. He watched as Kan approached a balding, grease-stained man exiting an alley with a cigarette dangling from his lips. With a movement too fast for a human to track, Kan’s hand clamped onto the man’s neck. The victim didn't even scream; he just went limp, guided like a puppet toward the locked gates of St. Louis Cemetery.

"Be a doll and break the lock for me," Kan said, pinning the shadows with his gaze.

Timothy stepped out of the dark, his black tactical gear making him nearly invisible against the whitewashed brick. "How do you know my name?"

Kan’s eyes bled into that vibrant, terrifying green. He didn't answer. He simply gripped the heavy iron lock and pulverized the metal with a sickening crunch. He kicked the gate open. "I knew my little voyeur was still with me."

Timothy followed him inside the city of the dead. He shut the gate, the iron latch clicking into place. The rows of mausoleums stood like silent witnesses.

"Watch this," Kan commanded. He slammed the grease-stained man against the cold stone of a tomb.

The man struggled, eyes wide with a sudden, sharp terror. Kan didn't hesitate. He sank his teeth into the man’s throat. Timothy’s breath hitched. There was no supernatural fluff here—just the raw, visceral sight of a man feeding on the life of another. Kan lifted his head, blood staining his lips, his eyes locked on Timothy.

"You're not going to kill him?" Timothy asked, his voice low.

"He’ll die tonight. But not yet." Kan adjusted his grip on the sobbing man. "Come closer. Experience this with me."

Timothy stepped forward, drawn in by a morbid, pulsing curiosity. "Why him?"

Kan’s lip curled. "He’s a predator of children. A parasite."

"Then he should die in agony," Timothy said, his voice turning cold as ice. "I can make that happen while you finish."

A slow, dark smile spread across Kan’s face. He repositioned the victim. "Put your fingers here," he directed, pointing to the man’s jugular. "Right below the mark."

Timothy placed the pads of his index and middle fingers against the man's hot, sweaty skin. He felt the frantic, fluttering pulse. Kan lunged again, his teeth tearing into the flesh. The victim jerked, a muffled scream dying in his throat as Timothy applied a specialized pressure point to the man's nerves, amplifying the pain ten-fold.

The man’s eyes rolled back. Tears streamed down his face, his body racking with silent, violent tremors.

Timothy grew bolder. As Kan drank, Timothy slid his middle finger upward, grazing the sharp edge of Kan’s teeth where they disappeared into the man's skin.

Kan let out a guttural, ragged groan. His grip on the victim tightened until the man’s ribs groaned. Kan’s eyes were blown wide, silver and green swirling together as he stared at Timothy. The air between them was thick with the scent of copper and the heavy, intoxicating weight of the kill. The man in Kan's arms let out one last, rattling breath and went still.

Timothy didn't pull his hand away. He felt the heat of Kan's mouth against his fingertips, the vibration of the man's throat as he swallowed.

"You're a monster," Timothy whispered, his thumb now tracing the line of Kan’s blood-stained jaw.

"And you're the one holding the monster’s hand," Kan rasped, dropping the corpse like a piece of trash. He stepped into Timothy’s space, the literal weight of his presence pinning Timothy against the tomb. "What does that make you?"