Page 8 of Kazimir

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Felt like something new. Wanted something new for summer, ya know?”

“Yeah,” I said, but I didn’t believe it.

Walking home that night felt different. Every light I passed seemed sharper, colder, as if the city were lit from within by something angry and searching. The puddles reflected the streetlights in warped, sickly halos. I walked fast, hands jammed deep into my jacket, the pepper spray hidden but ready.

I usually stopped at the corner store for milk or a candy bar, or just the feeling of being around other people for a few seconds. Tonight I didn’t even slow down. I hugged the edge of the sidewalk, eyes flicking to every alley mouth, every car parked with its windows fogged. The only sound was my own shoes squelching against the sidewalk.

When I hit the turn for my street, I risked a glance behind me. Nothing but empty asphalt, slick and shining. I let my breath out, forced myself to slow, to look less like prey.

That’s when he stepped out.

He’d been waiting, or maybe he’d followed me the whole way and I’d just been too rattled to notice. The man from the diner—windbreaker, sallow skin, hair plastered flat from the rain. He stood perfectly still at the mouth of the alley, eyes fixed on me, lips moving but no sound coming out.

I froze. My brain scrambled for options. Run? Scream? I looked up and down the block—no one, not a single window lit, the universe having politely excused itself from this scene.

He took a step toward me, then another. His feet made no sound on the wet concrete.

“Hey,” he called, too loud and too cheerful, the kind of voice someone would use to call over a dog.

I took a step back, then another. The distance between us shrank, even though I was sure I wasn’t moving toward him.

“Wait up,” he said, and his voice was different now, slower, as if he were savoring each word.

“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant.

He grinned, wide and lazy. “Or what?”

I backed into the pool of a streetlight, letting it paint me in sickly yellow. “Just leave me alone,” I said.

He kept coming. “You’re not so tough,” he said. “I bet you taste sweet.”

The words made my skin crawl. Then he lunged, all at once, and I did what any sane person would do—I turned and ran.

I heard him behind me, feet slapping the pavement, a high, wet panting that sounded more animal than human. My lungs burned, but fear made me run faster than I ever had. I cut down a side street I didn’t know, then another, hoping to double back to the avenue or lose him in the maze of alleys. But he was always just behind, always closing the gap.

My legs pumped. My breath shredded my chest. The buildings closed in, brick and fire escapes and windows covered with corrugated steel. I saw a single light ahead, a weird splash of violet and black, glowing like a bruise in the air. It didn’t belong—nothing in this neighborhood should look like that. But it was my only shot.

I sprinted for it. The man was only a dozen steps behind.

The building was squat, old, but the doors were new: painted black, trimmed with purple and silver, clean and untouched by the graffiti that scarred everything else. I grabbed the handle and yanked, half-expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. The door swung open, and I threw myself inside.

The air hit me—warm, perfumed, so clean it made my eyes water. I slammed the door behind me and stumbled into the lobby. It was like nothing I’d ever seen: marble floors, tall mirrors, everything glowing under violet light. For a second, all I could do was blink.

I looked down at myself: hands raw from running, shirt soaked, heart hammering. The street outside was silent now. I saw the man’s shadow pass the window, then disappear.

Inside, I heard the thrum of music and the sound of my own breath. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen stood behind an ornate desk, tapping on some kind of screen and speaking frantically into a headset. She moved quickly towards me, her resonant accented voice filled my ears.

“You cannot be here.”

Chapter 4

Kazimir

To an untrained eye, Obsidian was little more than a well-concealed vice palace, floating above the old slaughterhouse district on a haze of rumors and neon. To me, it was home—the only home I’d ever permitted myself since the winter I clawed my way out of a mass grave and made Philadelphia my sovereign domain. I’d built it with a purpose, and like all things with purpose, it asked for payment in blood.

I arrived just after sunset, as was my custom. The eastern sky still held its last bruise of daylight, that indigo hesitation before the real night. The club’s facade would not draw a second glance from a city inspector: charmless brick, metal gratings, signage half-burned out on purpose. The glamour did the rest, throwing a veil over human senses so that only those who truly belonged could find their way to my door. I could have dispensed with the illusion, but I enjoyed the way it sorted the hopeful from the inevitable.

The wards greeted me first—a shiver in the bones, pressure at the base of the skull. I’d worked with witches both loyal and utterly without principle to tune the effect. Most supernaturals felt it as a gentle throttling, the sensation of power being pressed flat beneath a glass dome. I’d exempted only a select few: myself, my sons, and those whose suffering amused me. The wards were my peacekeepers. They taught humility better than any speech could.