Chapter 68 The Whippers-In
VALENTINA
The Whipper's office is in Whitechapel, tucked between a butcher shop and a pawn broker. Perfect cover. Blood smells from the butcher mask vampire scents. Desperation from the pawn shop masks everything else.
I'm crouched on the roof across the street, watching through a scope I borrowed from Tom. Borrowed meaning stole, but he'll steal it back later so we're even.
Three vampires went in forty minutes ago. Parliamentary Whippers, the enforcement arm nobody talks about. They're the ones who make sure supernaturals stay in line. Blackmail, threats, occasional disappearances. Democracy requires enforcement, after all.
My phone buzzes silently. Text from Tom.
How long you planning to watch? Getting boring.
I don't respond. Tom thinks this is reconnaissance. Simple intelligence gathering, in and out, nothing risky.
He's wrong.
I'm here because Sibyl had a vision three days ago. Said I'd die in the Whippers' office in five months, two weeks, three days. Bled out on cheap carpet while vampires watched and laughed.
Most people would avoid the place. Change fate by changing location.
I'm not most people.
I need to know why I'll be there. What brings me back to this office in five months. What's worth dying for.
The door opens below. Two of the vampires exit, heading toward a black sedan with Parliamentary plates. The third stays inside.
Good. Three is too many. One I can handle.
I wait until the sedan disappears around the corner, then move.
The building's old, Victorian era, with enough architectural detail to make climbing easy. I scale the side wall using window ledges and decorative molding, reaching the third floor in under a minute.
The Whipper's office window is locked. Obviously. But Tom's lockpicks work on windows same as doors, and I've had plenty of practice.
The window slides open silently.
I slip inside, landing soft in an empty hallway. The building houses three businesses. Ground floor: butcher. Second floor: pawn shop. Third floor: Parliamentary enforcement office disguised as an accounting firm.
The accountant cover is clever. Explains the weird hours, the private meetings, the soundproofed walls. Who questions accountants?
I move down the hall, following the scent of vampire and old paper.
The main office door is slightly ajar. I peer through the gap.
One vampire sits at a desk, reviewing files. He looks young, maybe turned in his twenties, wearing a suit that probably costs more than everything I own. Angular face, dark hair, the kind of pretty that vampires specialize in.
Dangerous pretty. The kind that makes you forget they're apex predators until they're draining you dry.
His desk is covered in folders. I can see names on the tabs from here. Supernatural names. Pack members, blood club operators, rogue vampires, unaffiliated wolves.
Files on everyone who might need keeping in line.
The vampire picks up his phone. "Yes, the Ashford election went perfectly. Vincent Cross is ours completely." Pause. "No complications. Helena Ashford accepted defeat quietly. Her supporters will fall in line or face consequences."
He's talking about tonight's election. The rigged vote that gave Parliament another puppet Alpha.
"What about the Rookeries situation?" he continues. Pause. "Sixty-three wolves now. Yes, I'm aware. Brennan's building faster than projected."
My breath catches. They're tracking Callum's numbers exactly. Not just aware of the Rookeries organizing but actively monitoring it.
"Lord Mordaunt wants to wait." The vampire sounds frustrated. "Let it grow, he says. See what happens. I disagree. We should eliminate the problem now before it metastasizes."
Eliminate. Clean Parliamentary word for murder.
"The extermination order is in place," the vampire continues. "Two months until hunters arrive in force. Plenty of time to document violations and justify the purge."
Purge. Another clean word for massacre.
I should leave. Got the intelligence I came for. Parliament's tracking the Rookeries closely, planning extermination, just waiting for the right moment.
But I don't leave.
Because there's a filing cabinet behind the vampire's desk labeled "Active Targets" and I need to know if Callum's in there. Need to know if the man I'm working with is marked for death.
The vampire ends his call, returns to his files.
I wait.
Patience is survival. Move too soon, you're dead. Wait too long, opportunity passes.
I count his breathing. Vampires don't need to breathe but old ones do it from habit. This one breathes every thirty seconds, regular as clockwork.
On the fourth breath, his phone rings again.
He answers, distracted.
I move.
Across the threshold, around the desk, reaching the filing cabinet in three silent steps. My hand closes on the drawer labeled "M-Z."
The vampire's still talking. "No, the Southwark pack won't be a problem. Their Alpha's cooperative."
I ease the drawer open. It doesn't squeak. Thank you, expensive Parliamentary furniture.
Files on dozens of supernaturals. I scan quickly. Marcellus (blood club owner, leverage: gambling debts). Natasha (rogue vampire, leverage: illegal sire). Pemberton (Ashford's Beta candidate, leverage: none needed, already compliant).
Then I find it.
A file thicker than the others.
Tab reads: "Brennan, Callum - Priority Target."
My heart stops.
Priority Target. Not just surveillance. Active threat.
I pull the file out carefully, flip it open.
Photos of Callum. Surveillance shots from the Rookeries. Fighting pits, shelter locations, meeting with Isla. Every movement documented.
Intelligence reports: "Subject organizing packless wolves. Current count: 63. Rate of growth: 5-7 per week. Estimated ceiling: 100-120 before plateau."
Assessment: "Significant threat to Parliamentary authority. Demonstrates packless wolves can organize effectively without pack structure or Parliamentary oversight. Success of Rookeries community undermines established power dynamics."
Recommendation: "Immediate elimination versus waiting. Debate ongoing. Lord Mordaunt advocates waiting to gather more information on organizational methods. Other council members advocate immediate action."
Timeline: "If elimination approved, extermination order activates in 8 weeks. Hunters deployed to Rookeries under guise of feral wolf containment. Collateral acceptable."
Collateral acceptable.
They're planning to kill everyone. Not just Callum. All sixty-three wolves. Isla, Tom, Silas, everyone.
My hands shake.
The vampire's call ends.
I freeze.
He stands, stretches, walks toward the filing cabinet. Toward me.
No time to run. No time to hide.
I do the only thing I can.
I shift into the space between the cabinet and the wall, pressing flat against cold metal, holding my breath.
The vampire reaches the cabinet. His hand lands on the drawer I just closed.
He pauses.
Opens it.
Looks directly at the spot where Brennan's file should be.
The file currently in my jacket.
"Odd," he murmurs.
His head turns. Scanning the room. Nostrils flaring.
Dhampir blood smells different from human. Not appetizing to vampires but distinctive. If he catches my scent, I'm dead.
I don't breathe. Don't move. Don't exist.
He stands there for an eternity measured in heartbeats.
Then his phone rings again.
He answers, distracted. "What now?"
He walks back to his desk, arguing with whoever's calling.
I move.
Out from behind the cabinet, across the office, through the door, down the hall. Three steps, four, five.
Behind me, the vampire says, "Hold on," and I hear his chair scrape.
I run.
Down the hall, through the window, onto the fire escape. Taking stairs three at a time, jumping the last six feet to the alley below.
Landing hurts but I don't stop.
Behind me, the window crashes open.
"Intruder!" The vampire's voice carries preternatural volume. "Dhampir, female, heading south!"
I sprint through the alley, vault a fence, cut through a narrow passage between buildings. London at night is a maze and I know every twist.
Footsteps behind me. Fast. Vampire fast.
I risk a glance back.
He's fifty feet away, closing the distance.
Dhampirs are faster than humans but slower than vampires. In a straight chase, I lose.
So I don't run straight.
Left turn into a market alley. Kick over a fruit stand behind me, oranges rolling everywhere. The vampire leaps over it gracefully.
Right turn through a construction site. Grab a board with nails, throw it behind me. He dodges.
Straight through a pub's back door, out the front, patrons shouting as we blur past.
The vampire's gaining.
I need an advantage.
There. Construction scaffolding climbing five stories.
I grab the frame and climb, using vampire speed against itself. He's faster running but climbing equalizes us.
Up, up, up. Fourth floor, fifth floor, roof access.
I hit the rooftop and keep running. Building to building, jumping gaps, using elevation.
The vampire follows but he's not a jumper. Vampires are strong and fast but they're not climbers. Wrong muscle memory from when they were human.
I gain distance. One building, two, three.
Finally I risk stopping, crouched behind a ventilation unit.
Silence.
I wait. Count to a hundred. Keep waiting.
Nothing.
I lost him.
My hands shake as I pull out Callum's file, make sure it survived the chase.
It did. Every page intact. Every damning word.
Priority Target. Extermination order. Eight weeks.
I need to get this to Callum. Tonight.
But first I need to catch my breath, stop shaking, process what I just learned.
Parliament's not just watching the Rookeries. They're planning genocide.
And I just stole the evidence.
My phone buzzes. Tom.
Where are you? Lost visual twenty minutes ago.
I text back: Heading back. Got what we needed.
Everything okay?
No. Everything's not okay. But I'm alive.
For now.
Sibyl's vision echoes in my head. Five months, two weeks, three days. Dead in the Whipper's office.
I just broke into that office and escaped.
Did I change fate? Or just delay it?
I don't know.
What I do know: Callum has eight weeks before Parliament sends hunters to exterminate everyone in the Rookeries.
Eight weeks to build an army or build an escape plan or build a miracle.
I tuck the file into my jacket and start running again.
Not away from the vampire this time.
Toward the Rookeries. Toward Callum. Toward whatever comes next.
Because if we're all dying in eight weeks anyway, we might as well die fighting.