Chapter 37 Parallel Lives
POV: Alternating - Valentina, Sibyl, Tom
Location: Various, Rookeries
Time: Same Week
VALENTINA CORVINO
I'm running messages through the Rookeries when I smell the blood club vampire following me. Not the first time. Won't be the last. Being dhampir makes me valuable target for vampire recruitment.
Dhampir means half-vampire. One parent vampire, one human. We're rare. Daywalkers. Stronger than humans, faster than full vampires in sunlight. Parliament wants us controlled or eliminated.
I choose neither. I run messages, stay independent, survive.
The vampire's been following for three blocks. Time to lose him.
I duck into an alley, climb the fire escape, cross rooftops. The vampire tries keeping pace but sunlight weakens him. I'm faster in daylight. Always have been.
I lose him near Bethnal Green. Drop down into another alley and catch my breath.
My name is Valentina Corvino. I'm twenty-four years old. My mother was killed by the Crimson Parliament when I was twelve. Her crime? Falling in love with a vampire and having his child.
Parliament doesn't like dhampir. We're complications. Evidence that vampires and humans can create something new. Something they can't fully control.
So they execute dhampir mothers. Send hunters after dhampir children. Try to eliminate the problem.
I've been running since I was twelve. Twelve years of staying ahead of Parliament hunters. Twelve years of survival through cunning and speed.
The Rookeries are good hiding place. Parliament doesn't monitor here closely. Too many desperate supernaturals. Too much chaos. Easy to disappear.
I make money running messages. Supernatural creatures need communication that can't be intercepted. I provide that. Fast delivery, no questions, complete discretion.
It pays well. Keeps me independent. Keeps me alive.
I deliver my current message to a fae merchant in Shadwell. He pays me fifty pounds cash. Good job. Quick delivery.
"You're Corvino's daughter," the fae observes. "Your mother was good woman. Parliament's wrong for killing her."
"They kill anyone who threatens their control. My mother just wanted to love someone." I pocket the money. "You have more messages for me?"
"Not today. But I'll remember you're reliable. Good contacts matter in the Rookeries."
I leave and head toward my next pickup. A vampire lord needs a message delivered to dragon in the City. Pays a hundred pounds. Dangerous job but worth it.
I'm collecting the message when I sense something. Another dhampir. Close by. In the Rookeries.
That's unusual. Most dhampir are hunted by Parliament. Finding another one alive is rare.
I follow the scent. Leads me to a fighting pit. Inside, wolves are tearing each other apart for vampire entertainment.
The dhampir is watching from the shadows. Male, older than me. Maybe late thirties. He's got the look of someone who's survived Parliament attention for decades.
I approach carefully. "You're dhampir. Like me."
He turns. Evaluates me in seconds. "Valentina Corvino. I've heard about you. They say you're fastest runner in the Rookeries."
"Who's 'they'?"
"People who notice things. People who track unusual supernaturals." He extends his hand. "I'm Dante. Been hiding from Parliament for forty years."
"Forty years? How?"
"By being useful to people who can protect me. By making myself valuable enough that killing me costs more than tolerating me." Dante watches the fighting pit. "You should do the same. Parliament's hunting dhampir more aggressively. Runners without protection end up dead."
"I don't want protection. I want independence."
"Independence is luxury. Survival is necessity. Choose which matters more." Dante starts walking away. "When you're ready for protection, find Silas. The body trader. He protects useful people."
Dante disappears into the crowd. I'm left thinking about what he said.
Forty years running from Parliament. That's longer than I've been alive. And he survived by being useful.
Maybe independence isn't sustainable. Maybe I need to consider protection.
But not yet. Not while I'm still fast enough to stay ahead.
SIBYL RAYNE
The vision hits me while I'm trying to eat. One second I'm sitting in my room. Next second I'm somewhere else. Some when else. Seeing future that might happen.
Wolf with silver scars. Standing in front of Parliament building. Blood on his hands. Rage in his eyes.
"Everything changes because of him. He's the fulcrum. If he survives."
The vision releases me. I'm back in my room, gasping, blood dripping from my nose. The visions always cost blood. Sometimes they cost more.
My name is Sibyl Rayne. I'm a psychic. Born with the gift of seeing futures. The Sight, some call it.
I call it a curse.
Because the visions are killing me. Each one takes life force. Each one costs blood and years and sanity.
I'm twenty-eight but I look forty. The Sight ages you. Burns through your life to show you futures.
And I can't stop seeing. The visions come whether I want them or not. Three, four times a day. Showing me possible futures. Probable outcomes. Events that might happen if certain people make certain choices.
Most visions are useless. Mundane futures. Someone buying bread. Someone dying of old age. Boring outcomes that don't matter.
But some visions matter. Some show pivotal moments. Fulcrums. Points where one person's choice changes everything.
The wolf with silver scars is fulcrum. I've seen him three times now. Each vision showing different future depending on his choices.
In one future, he's dead. Killed by vampires. His death changes nothing.
In another future, he's king. Alpha of alphas. Leading revolution against Parliament. His success changes everything.
In the third future, he's broken. Feral. Lost to madness. His failure destroys hope for thousands.
All three futures are possible. All depend on choices he hasn't made yet.
And I can't tell him. Can't warn him. Because the Sight doesn't work that way. If I interfere, the visions change. The futures shift. Sometimes interference makes things worse.
So I just watch. Document. Prepare.
I write down the vision in my journal. Page after page of predictions and possibilities. When I die, someone will find these journals. Maybe they'll understand. Maybe they'll learn to identify fulcrums before it's too late.
Maybe not. Maybe I'm just writing for myself. Trying to make sense of curse that's killing me.
The blood from my nose won't stop. I press cloth against it. The visions are getting worse. Taking more each time.
I've got maybe two years left. That's what the medical psychic told me. Two years before the Sight burns through all my life force and I die.
Two years to document as many futures as possible. Two years to identify fulcrums and pivots and critical choices.
Two years to figure out if the wolf with silver scars survives or dies.
Because his survival matters. I don't know why yet. Don't know what he'll do. But the Sight is clear.
He's the fulcrum. Everything changes because of him.
If he survives.
TOM THE CRACKSMAN
I'm breaking into a vampire warehouse when I sense the alarm spell. Too late. Already triggered it.
Guards arrive within thirty seconds. Three vampires. Armed. Looking for intruder.
I hide in the shadows. My fae blood gives me advantage here. I can go still enough that eyes slide past me. Can blend into darkness like I'm part of it.
The guards search for five minutes. Don't find me. Eventually give up and leave.
I wait another ten minutes to be safe. Then I finish the job. Open the safe, take what I came for, disappear before anyone notices.
My name is Tom. Some call me Tom the Cracksman. Others call me the fae-touched thief. I'm half-fae, half-human. My father was Seelie Court assassin. My mother was human locksmith.
I inherited lock-picking from mother. Stealth from father. And the curse of being half-breed who belongs nowhere.
Seelie Court wants me back. Thinks I should serve them because of my father's blood. I refuse. Because Court service means immortality. Means never dying. And I value mortality.
Humans die. That's what makes life precious. Take away death and life becomes endless obligation.
I choose humanity over immortality. Choose theft over servitude. Choose independence over court politics.
Mordaunt wants me dead. I stole from him five years ago. Took something valuable. He's been hunting me since.
But I'm good at hiding. Good at moving. Good at staying ahead of vampire hunters.
The Rookeries are good hunting ground. Lots of opportunities. Lots of desperate people needing things stolen or delivered or retrieved.
I work for Silas sometimes. He pays well for information about vampire activities. Pays better for items stolen from their warehouses.
Tonight's job was for Silas. Steal records from vampire shipping warehouse. Documents proving Parliament's involved in human trafficking.
I deliver the documents to Silas's warehouse. He pays me five hundred pounds.
"Good work," Silas says. "These documents prove Parliament corruption. Could be valuable insurance someday."
"What are you planning?"
"Nothing immediately. Just collecting evidence. Waiting for right moment to use it." Silas files the documents carefully. "You ever think about what you're going to do long-term? Can't run from Mordaunt forever."
"Why not? Been doing it successfully for five years."
"Mordaunt's patient. Immortal patient. He'll keep hunting until he catches you or you die of old age." Silas looks at me seriously. "You need allies. Protection. Network."
"I work alone."
"That's why you'll eventually die alone. Mordaunt doesn't." Silas hands me another job. "Think about it. When you're ready for protection instead of independence, let me know."
I take the job and leave. Don't need Silas's advice. Don't need anyone's protection.
I've survived this long by being smart and fast. That's enough.
But Silas's words stick with me. Can't run forever. Eventually, Mordaunt catches everyone.
Maybe I do need allies. Maybe independence is luxury I can't afford.
Not yet though. Not while I'm still fast enough to stay ahead.