Chapter 7 The City's Underbelly

Chapter 7 The City's Underbelly


POV: Multiple Characters

Location: Various Rookeries Locations, East End

Time: Same Week

SILAS

I catalog bodies in my warehouse at three AM. Twenty-three corpses this week. Supernatural deaths the Veil keeps humans from noticing. Werewolves, vampires, fae, all ending up on my tables eventually.

The Rookeries provide steady inventory. Packless wolves going feral get put down. Vampire disputes end bloody. Fae bargains go wrong. Everyone dies eventually. I profit from the dying.

My warehouse is in Shadwell, near the docks. Far enough from human traffic that bodies coming and going don't raise questions. Close enough to supernatural activity that I'm convenient.

The newest arrival is werewolf. Male, maybe thirty, dead two days. Silver poisoning from the smell. Someone stabbed him with a silver blade and left him to die slow. Packless, judging by the lack of pack scent. No one to avenge him, no one to claim the body.

Perfect for my purposes.

I photograph the corpse from every angle. Document wounds, estimated time of death, cause. Then I check my client list. Three necromancers need fresh werewolf parts. Two medical students want supernatural anatomy samples. One vampire collector pays premium for rare specimens.

The werewolf's worth more in pieces than whole.

I start with the heart. Necromancers pay best for hearts. Still-warm preferred, but recently dead works. I cut through the ribs with practiced efficiency. The heart comes out clean, goes into preservative solution.

Next are the eyes. Vampire collector wants werewolf eyes. Something about the way they reflect light. I don't ask questions. Clients pay, I provide.

I'm extracting the second eye when my assistant Tom arrives. Tom's not actually my assistant. Tom's a thief who uses my warehouse to fence stolen goods. But Tom helps with bodies sometimes, so I tolerate the arrangement.

"Busy night?" Tom asks.

"Twenty-three bodies this week. Rookeries are productive." I drop the eye into solution. "You're here late."

"Job ran long. Cracked a vampire's safe in Mayfair. Took hours." Tom shows me a bag of jewelry. "Need to move these quick. Vampire'll notice by morning."

"Usual rate?"

"Twenty percent."

"Thirty. Vampire jewelry's hard to fence. Lots of magical protections to strip."

Tom considers. "Twenty-five and I help with the bodies."

"Deal."

Tom starts photographing the next corpse while I finish harvesting the werewolf. We work in comfortable silence. Tom and I have an understanding. Tom steals, I document. We both profit from London's supernatural underworld.

"Heard the Brennan Alpha died," Tom says eventually.

"Two weeks ago. Heart attack."

"Sudden."

"Very. Creates instability. Pack's got twin sons fighting over succession." I package the werewolf heart for delivery. "Heard one twin's traditional, other's progressive. Pack's splitting."

"Splitting packs mean what?"

"Exiles. Challenges. Wolves getting kicked out or killed. More bodies." I smile. Not pleasantly. "Power struggles are good for business."

"You're a ghoul, Silas."

"I'm a realist. Wolves die, I profit. That's how this works." I check my ledger. "Speaking of which, got a new client. Dragon wants supernatural corpses for magical experimentation. Pays triple necromancer rates."

"Dragons experimenting on dead supernaturals? That's disturbing."

"That's profitable. Don't care about disturbing." I mark the werewolf for dragon delivery. "How's the fae situation?"

Tom's half-fae. Touched by the Seelie Court as a child, returned with abilities but still mortal. Tom can open any lock, magical or mundane. Makes Tom the best thief in London.

Also makes Tom vulnerable. Fae want Tom back. They always want their touched ones back.

"Seelie Court's pressuring me," Tom admits. "Sent another messenger last week. Wants me to return, serve out my 'destiny.' Threatened consequences if I refuse."

"What kind of consequences?"

"The vague kind. Which means bad." Tom finishes photographing. "I'm not going back. I like mortality. I like freedom. I like being able to lie."

Fae can't lie. It's built into them. Tom being able to lie is proof Tom's still partially human. If Tom goes back to Arcadia, that humanity fades. Tom becomes full fae. Immortal, bound by fae law, unable to deceive.

Tom values deception too much to lose it.

"Need help with the fae?" I ask.

"What kind of help can you provide against the Seelie Court?"

"Information. Documentation. I know things about fae that fae don't want known. Blackmail material." I pull a file. "Got records of Court dealings that violate their own laws. Could make things uncomfortable if revealed."

"You'd blackmail the fae for me?"

"I'd trade information for services. You help me, I help you. That's business." I hand Tom the file. "Consider it insurance. If the Court pushes too hard, you've got leverage."

Tom reads through the file. Eyes widening. "This is enough to start a scandal in both Courts. Where did you get this?"

"I've been collecting information for two hundred years. You accumulate knowledge." I return to the werewolf corpse. "Keep it. Use it if needed. Just remember you owe me."

"I already owe you for fencing the jewelry."

"Now you owe me more. That's how debt works."

Tom laughs. Not happily. "You're worse than the fae, Silas. At least they're honest about enslaving people."

"I prefer 'mutually beneficial relationships.'" I start on the next body. "Now help me harvest these organs. Dragon client wants delivery by dawn."

We work until sunrise. Twenty-three bodies processed, parts cataloged, deliveries scheduled. Another productive night in the Rookeries.

Business is good. And if the Brennan pack keeps fragmenting, business will get better.

BILL BOLTER

The fighting pit in my warehouse is fifty feet across, dirt floor, chain-link fence. Thirty wolves watching from the edges. Betting, drinking, waiting for blood.

Two packless wolves circle each other in the center. Both desperate, both starving, both willing to fight for the two hundred pounds I'm offering the winner.

One's female, turned maybe six months ago. Still got some human softness. Hesitant. The other's male, been packless longer. Going feral around the edges. I can see it in the eyes. Not quite human anymore.

"Fight!" I shout.

They lunge. The crowd roars.

The male's faster, meaner. Gets the female down in thirty seconds. Jaws around her throat. She's struggling, trying to buck him off. Not strong enough.

I wait to see if she'll submit or die fighting. Submission's allowed. Means you lose but live. Fighting means you might die but you might win.

She keeps fighting. Stubborn.

The male rips out her throat.

Blood sprays across the dirt. The female convulses, trying to heal, but werewolf bites don't heal quick. Especially not throat wounds. She dies in ninety seconds.

The crowd's going wild. Half won money, half lost. The male's standing over the corpse, bloodied, victorious. Looking at me for payment.

"Winner," I announce. "Two hundred pounds. Collect at the cage."

The male shifts back to human form. Male, maybe twenty-five, scars covering his torso. Packless brands burned into his shoulder. He's shaking from adrenaline and bloodlust.

I hand him the cash through the cage bars. "Good fight."

"She was weak." Male's voice is rough. Damaged from years of screaming during transformations. "Easy kill."

"You want to fight again next week?"

"If the pay's good."

"Pay's always good for winners." I mark him in my ledger. "What's your name?"

"Doesn't matter."

Most packless wolves don't give names. Names are pack things. When you lose your pack, you lose your identity. Become just another fighter, another body, another desperate wolf selling violence for survival.

"You're noted as Scarred Male," I say. "Show up Tuesday if you want another fight."

The male leaves. I direct workers to remove the corpse. Silas will want it. Fresh werewolf body, died violently. Good price.

The next fight's already forming. Two males this time. Both young, both stupid enough to think they can win their way out of the Rookeries.

They can't. Fighters either die in the pit or go so feral from violence they get hunted down. No one escapes the Rookeries through my fights.

But they keep trying. And I keep profiting.

Tom appears at my elbow. "Bill. Need a word."

"I'm busy."

"Silas sent me. About the Brennan situation."

I gesture to my second to handle the next fight. Lead Tom to my office. Small room above the warehouse floor, soundproofed enough that screaming fighters don't interrupt business.

"What about the Brennans?" I ask.

"Pack's unstable. Twin sons, succession dispute. Silas thinks it means more packless wolves coming here soon."

"More fighters?"

"More desperate wolves. Exiles, failures, refugees from pack politics." Tom sits. "Could be good for business. Could be dangerous. Depends who gets exiled."

"Why would it be dangerous?"

"If the wolves who get exiled are high-ranking, they'll have combat training. They'll dominate your fights, kill your regular fighters, upset the ecosystem." Tom pulls out notes. "Silas wants us coordinating. He gets the bodies, you get the fighters, I get the theft opportunities when wolves are distracted."

"Theft opportunities?"

"Pack instability means territory's vulnerable. Guards are watching internal threats instead of external. Good time for a thief." Tom grins. Not nicely. "Brennan pack's got valuable things. Magical artifacts, vampire contracts, information. I want access."

"And what do I get from this coordination?"

"First pick of fighters. Silas will send you the packless wolves who are still combat-viable before they go full feral. You get better fights, higher betting, more profit."

I consider. Tom and Silas are criminals but they're useful criminals. They've never screwed me yet.

"Fine. Coordinate. But I get sixty percent of any theft profits from the Brennan territory."

"Forty percent. I'm taking all the risk."

"Fifty percent or I don't provide the distraction you need."

Tom extends a hand. "Fifty percent. Deal."

We shake. Another business arrangement in the Rookeries. Everyone profiting from everyone else's misery.

That's how the underworld works.

The fight below ends. Another corpse. I make a note to call Silas.

Business is very good.

TOM

I leave Bill's warehouse and head deeper into the Rookeries. Whitechapel, Shadwell, Limehouse. The areas where packless wolves cluster, where vampires don't patrol, where humans know not to go after dark.

My destination is a abandoned council estate in Bethnal Green. Fifteen floors, half the flats occupied by supernatural outcasts. Fae exiles, vampire fledglings, werewolves without packs. Everyone living in the cracks of supernatural society.

I'm here to see a client. Vampire who wants me to crack a safety deposit box at a supernatural bank. High-risk job, high payment. Exactly my specialty.

The vampire's in a fourth-floor flat that smells like blood and decay. Female, maybe two hundred years old. Fledgling by vampire standards but ancient compared to humans.

"Tom the Cracksman." The vampire smiles. Fangs showing. "Punctual as always."

"You're paying by the hour. I'm motivated." I sit without invitation. "What's the job?"

"Safety deposit box at the Bank of Shadows. Vault seven, box 342. I need the contents retrieved without anyone knowing I accessed it."

The Bank of Shadows is the supernatural equivalent of a Swiss bank. Magical security, dragon-run, completely neutral. They don't ask questions about what you store. They just guarantee it stays safe.

Breaking into the Bank of Shadows is suicide.

"That's a difficult job," I say carefully. "Bank's security is legendary. Multiple wards, dragon guards, magical alarms. Most thieves who try end up dead or enslaved."

"Most thieves aren't you."

"Flattery doesn't reduce the risk."

"Neither does honesty. But money does." The vampire slides a briefcase across the table. "Half now. Half on completion. Fifty thousand pounds total."

I open the briefcase. Cash. Actual cash, not vampire scrip or fae favors. Fifty thousand pounds is enough to disappear for a year. Enough to buy safety from the Seelie Court. Enough to matter.

"What's in the box?" I ask.

"Information I need. That's all you need to know."

"If I'm risking dragon wrath, I need to know what I'm stealing."

The vampire considers. "Documents. Proof of certain vampires' crimes. I need them to protect myself from retaliation."

"Blackmail material."

"Insurance."

"Same thing." I close the briefcase. "I'll need two weeks to plan. Bank security changes daily. I need to learn the patterns."

"You have one week."

"Then the price doubles. Rushing increases risk exponentially."

The vampire's smile fades. "One week. Original price. Or I find another thief."

"Good luck finding one stupid enough to try this." I stand. "Two weeks or I walk."

We stare at each other. She's vampire, I'm half-fae. She can kill me easily. I can make her vault break impossible.

"Fine. Two weeks." The vampire waves dismissively. "But if you take longer, the payment decreases. I need those documents before the Crimson Parliament's next session."

"Understood." I take the briefcase. "I'll contact you when I'm ready."

I leave the council estate and head back to Silas's warehouse. I need his information network. Need to know the Bank of Shadows' security rotation, guard schedules, ward patterns.

Silas is finishing packaging bodies when I arrive.

"Vampire job?" Silas asks without looking up.

"How did you know?"

"You only look that nervous when you're planning something suicidal." Silas tapes a box shut. "What is it this time?"

"Bank of Shadows. Safety deposit box. Two weeks to plan."

Silas whistles. "That's ambitious. Dragons don't forgive theft."

"Fifty thousand pounds."

"That's very ambitious." Silas pulls files from a cabinet. "I've got some information on the Bank. Security's tightest during the day, looser at night. They rotate wards every seventy-two hours. Guard shifts change at dawn and dusk."

"I need more than that."

"Then you need to pay more than usual fencing rates." Silas shows me a price list. "Bank of Shadows intelligence costs premium. I'm risking dragon retaliation by helping you."

"Twenty percent of the job."

"Thirty percent or figure it out yourself."

I agree. Another debt, another arrangement, another piece of my soul sold to the Rookeries economy.

We work until morning planning the theft. By sunrise, I've got a rough plan. It's insane. It'll probably get me killed.

But fifty thousand pounds buys a lot of safety from the Seelie Court.

Worth the risk.

SILAS

Tom leaves at dawn. I'm alone in the warehouse with twenty-three processed corpses and my ledgers.

Bill Bolter enters an hour later.

"Morning, Silas."

"Bill. Here for the fighting pit corpse?"

"And to discuss the Brennan situation." Bill sits across from my desk. "Tom said you're expecting more packless wolves soon."

"Power struggle means exiles. Exiles mean more bodies, more fighters, more desperate wolves selling anything for survival." I open my Brennan file. "I've been tracking the family for decades. This succession dispute's going to get bloody."

"How bloody?"

"Two twins, both born wolves, both legitimate claimants. One's going to win, one's going to lose. Loser either dies or gets exiled. Plus, any wolves who supported the wrong twin will face consequences. Expect ten to twenty exiles minimum."

"That many?"

"Conservative estimate. If the pack actually fractures, could be fifty wolves displaced. All of them combat-trained, most of them desperate." I show Bill my notes. "I've already got buyers lined up for werewolf parts. Necromancers are pre-ordering hearts, eyes, organs. Dragon client wants live captures for experimentation."

"Live captures?"

"Packless wolves, feral or near-feral, delivered alive to dragon research facilities. They pay triple corpse rates." I mark the relevant entries. "If you can capture fighters instead of killing them, I can broker the sales."

Bill considers. "How much per live capture?"

"Ten thousand pounds for combat-viable werewolves. Five thousand for feral ones."

"That's significantly more than fight winnings."

"It's also significantly harder. Capturing a werewolf alive without killing them or getting killed yourself requires skill." I lean back. "But your fighters are desperate enough to try. Offer them a cut. Say five hundred pounds to help capture a feral wolf. They'll do it."

"And I get nine thousand five hundred pounds."

"Minus my twenty percent brokerage fee."

"Of course." Bill stands. "I'll talk to my fighters. See who's interested in capture work."

Bill leaves. I'm alone again with my corpses and ledgers.

The Brennan succession dispute hasn't even gotten properly bloody yet. Still in the political maneuvering phase. But it will escalate. Power struggles always do.

And when it does, the Rookeries will profit.

Bodies, fighters, captured wolves, stolen territory. Everyone in the underworld's positioning themselves to benefit from the Brennans' collapse.

That's how London's supernatural economy works. The powerful fight, the desperate die, and the scavengers profit from both.

I've been profiting for two hundred years.

This is just another opportunity.