Chapter 92 92
Chapter 92 92
Facing the shadow that almost completely engulfed him and breathing in the intense heat radiating from the coarse fur, the young attendant finally realized that his opponent was far from the pathetic failures dragged out by the order's knights as mere training materials during clerical meetings. Clayton Belloc was leagues above those poor, broken souls.
While the attendant possessed a few subtle tricks up his sleeve, he intuitively knew they would be utterly useless against a werewolf of this terrifying, raw power.
"If my previous proposition offended you, I sincerely apologize," the attendant said, his voice laced with genuine regret. He had never before engaged with a "dark-born" who had transitioned from humanity in this new era, leading him to tragically misjudge the creature's temperament. His reliance on rigid, stereotypical views of the dark-born had pushed him toward a solution that defied common morality, completely overlooking the possibility that his target still clung to his own humanity.
Had it been anyone other than Clayton standing there—perhaps some cursed, wretched believer—the attendant’s callous words would have inflicted deep, lasting psychological trauma.
Clayton remained unmoved by the young man's sudden sincerity. He simply ignored the implication for the sake of the Bishop, cast a lingering, disdainful look at the youth, and allowed his massive, lupine form to shrink back into the frame of a normal man. He calmly began re-fastening the buttons of his shirt, which had been burst open by his transformation.
"Are you truly a man of the clergy?" Clayton asked, his voice weary as he adjusted his collar. His current experience with the church’s disciples was proving dismal; if the Bishop were to invite him again, he certainly wouldn't bother showing up.
"I am, in every sense of the word," the attendant replied firmly. "I simply hold the firm conviction that the lady's soul has already ascended to the kingdom of heaven; thus, I believed this decaying vessel should be put to its most productive use."
Clayton now understood that the young man was not driven by malice, but by a profoundly distorted, alien logic. The Lieutenant had heard of such philosophies in the past—referred to in books as materialism or something similar, though the exact term escaped him.
"Regardless," Clayton said coldly, "find another way." He glanced at his pocket watch—the mainspring had been wound just before he left. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and he was running out of time.
Meanwhile, Cicero, a detective of the Hook agency, pressed his hat tightly against his chest, as if attempting to physically soothe his erratic, anxious heartbeat.
He had just scoured the second floor of the Copper Horse Hotel looking for his companions. He needed to inform them that Cooper had fallen at the Bruno Detective Agency, but he found nothing—not even a trace of their luggage. This contradicted every agreement they had established. To Cicero, anything outside the norm—the unknown, the impulsive—signaled one thing: lethal danger. After all, Cooper was dead precisely because he had ignored orders and rushed into the room.
His palpable agitation failed to move the owner of the Copper Horse Hotel. The sturdy, short-statured man was entirely preoccupied with a painful review of repair budgets for walls and door locks, cursing the perpetually late repairmen. It was as if his ears functioned only as a machine tuned to hear the words "booking" or "check-out." Unless those specific words were uttered, he remained deaf to the world.
Cicero was forced to lean over the counter, placing a firm palm over the owner’s invoices to command his attention. "Check out?" the owner finally looked up, blinking in confusion. "Those three guests never checked out."
"But they took all their belongings!" Cicero insisted.
"Who knows what goes through their minds?" the owner grumbled, reaching out a hand. "They cleared out in a single night, though they did leave payment for a full week. Furthermore, they broke the property before leaving, and the repair costs weren't covered—a total of fourteen shillings and nine pence. I should have billed them, but the person they sent to deliver the message couldn't afford it. Pay the debt, and I’ll tell you what they said."
Cicero cursed under his breath, compelled to retrieve his wallet. After the owner meticulously counted every coin, he finally spoke. "They mentioned running into trouble that threatened their safety, so they moved their gear elsewhere. They relocated to the 'Traveler's Flute Inn' in St. Mored Parish. I imagine that’s an invitation for you to join them."
The reasoning aligned perfectly with Cicero’s expectations. Safety concerns explained their movements. Still, suspicion gnawed at him. "How exactly did they damage your property?"
"They operated the doors with such force that they snapped the lock tongues," the owner muttered, conveniently omitting the bullet holes in the walls—damage he’d easily conceal with wallpaper to protect the hotel’s reputation for security.
"Who did they send to relay this message?" Cicero asked.
"A striking woman. Long blonde hair, emerald green eyes," the owner replied, leaning back on the counter. "You might have crossed paths with her."
Cicero’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
"She walked out of that door less than three minutes ago. She headed in that direction." The owner gestured toward the left.
The Hook detective didn't waste a second. He turned and bolted into the street, his mind racing as he pursued the woman.
High above in a small third-floor room, Julius let out a frustrated click of her tongue.
"I hear you—what’s happened?" Voluntin asked from the comfort of a lounge chair, though her tone remained detached. Light filtered through the curtains, illuminating dancing dust motes in the air.
Julius irritably lowered her telescope, her dark green ponytail swaying as she turned. "Clayton predicted this perfectly; they arrived faster than expected. Get up, we’re bringing him in."
From the very night of the operation, Clayton had orchestrated a comprehensive analysis of the remaining Hook detectives in Sasha City. He anticipated that if they discovered their comrades were missing, they would become hyper-vigilant and take unpredictable defensive measures.
The strategy was simple: take the initiative. Following Clayton's plan, they had leveraged the Copper Horse Hotel owner by posing as officers cleaning up local gangs, promising informant fees to guide the detectives toward their trap.
Voluntin struggled to rise from her chair, offering a dry, half-hearted prayer: "I only hope Barbara hasn't killed him before we get there."
That vampire, despite her lowly origins, possessed an uncanny ability to adapt to this world, and she already possessed the ruthless resolve required to command non-human power.
Cicero sprinted through the streets, navigating past throngs of pedestrians and groups of homeless men huddled around fires. His eyes remained fixed ahead; he didn't glance into the dark, narrow alleys once. A woman of such beauty would never venture into the lightless crevices of the city unless she was a streetwalker—or something far more dangerous. And even the latter wouldn't risk open-air violence in broad daylight.
He didn't truly believe the woman was a messenger for his team; it defied their tactical discipline. Furthermore, one wouldn't dispatch an eye-catching individual for such private, sensitive communication. Beauty was an anomaly, and anomalies were the natural enemy of well-laid plans.
As his pace began to slacken, Cicero began to question whether the pursuit was worth the risk. But then, as he stood on the verge of turning back, the woman the hotel owner had described suddenly appeared directly in his path.