Chapter 2

What Could Go Wrong When a Vampire Gets Bored?

The acid-yellow taxi screeched up against the high kerb, splashing a fan of icy slush across the pavement. Nika jumped out, tugging up the collar of her leather jacket and giving a sharp shiver, not even glancing at the frozen driver, whose eyes stayed fixed straight ahead.

Glasgow tonight looked like a badly washed grey bedsheet—prickling drizzle mixed with industrial smog clung to her face, making her skin itch with damp. By the entrance to the “Iron Fang,” leaning against the heavy stonework, loomed Duncan’s broad figure. He followed the taxi with a lazy look and arched a thick brow, amused.

— Taxi, eh, Ni? Whit, yer wings at the dry cleaners, halo needs charged, an’ the broom’s beneath ye now? Whit d’ye dae tae the poor cabbie, then? An’ mair importantly—whit for?

He smirked, the streetlamp catching the silver gleam of his inquisitor’s badge. Nika stopped a couple of steps away, casually ignoring the heavy “holy” aura rolling off him—any other vampire would’ve felt it like a jolt of electricity, but her? If anything, it gave her a wee boost.

— Duncan, I’m a vampire, no some oversized bat, — she snorted, shoving her hands into her pockets. — I like a bit o’ comfort. An’ speakin’ o’—ye’ve been promisin’ tae check ma bike for ages, but naw, ye just keep showin’ up, riskin’ yer neck in front o’ a very pissed-off me. I’d happily tear it open wi’ ma fangs an’ use ye as fuel. With the amount o’ booze in yer blood, I wouldnae be surprised if the engine actually started.

Duncan pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, right where a holster hid beneath his heavy coat.

— Och, is that an invitation for a date, then?

— Duncan, — Nika rolled her eyes, — we’ve been through this. At least three times. Or are ye suggestin’ we go full cheap-movie mode again? Whit was it—

— “Oh hi, by the way, I’m a bloodsucker ... fancy watchin’ the sunrise, fangs locked an’ all?”

She snorted. — And then—

— ” ... Actually sounds kinda romantic.”

Duncan chuckled, clearly remembering it—the film, the scene, and how they’d absolutely lost it laughing, calling it the best comedy they’d seen in ages.

— Sounds temptin’, — he shot back, though for a brief second something real flickered in his eyes—something tired, almost sad. — But about dates ... ye were still human back then, Ni. Wee wild thing, screamin’ into a mic in that smoky dive on Sauchiehall Street like the whole world depended on it.

Nika froze for a split second. The memory hit sharp—cheap beer, hot stage lights, and Duncan ... back then just some grim lad in the front row, lookin’ at her like she was something divine, not just another body.

And then that night—when her turning went completely sideways. How Duncan, Sol, Rednas, and Kamanche had spent three days straight dragging her back from the brink, helping her survive the stabilisation ritual.

They’d made her into an “energetic”—a rare strain, feeding on emotion and power instead of just blood. Her only shot at not turning into a beast. Or ending up with a stake through the heart. Though really ... the heart doesnae care much what punches through it—wood or a .45, same result.

— All the more reason! — she snapped, shaking the thought away. — Now I’m a vampire. An’ trust me, I’ve no grown any more sentimental about lads in heavy boots. So, ye lettin’ me into yer wee lair that reeks o’ incense, sweat, holy water an’ splinters? I’m freezin’, Duncaaaaan!

— Then get under ma wing, I’ll warm ye up, — he grinned, slinging an arm around her shoulders, trying to pull her close.

— In yer dreams! — she twisted free easily, giving him a playful smack on the back of the head. — I’m a respectable lass, I dinnae understand yer filthy inquisitor hints. An’ I’m here on business, no for yer cuddles.

— Ye’re a menace, Ni. Top-class menace! — Duncan laughed, and there was more warmth in it than in all of Glasgow that night.

— Aye, that’s why ye love me! — she winked, feeling that familiar, easy warmth settle in her chest.

She preferred this lot—these so-called brutes, reeking of leather, rock, blood, and the thunder of heavy metal riffs—over anyone else. Always had.

Duncan sighed, grabbed the heavy handle, and hauled the thick oak door open with a groan. A wave of smells rolled out—hops, old copper, and someone’s truly foul mood.

Beyond the threshold, a steep, dim stairway dropped down into the heart of the Fang.

The descent always felt like going down a mine. Worn stone steps, smoothed by thousands of heavy boots, vanished into half-darkness. Weak yellow light from caged lamps threw trembling shadows over soot-stained walls marked with strange symbols—graffiti, maybe ... or protective runes.

The air grew thicker—hops, old metal, gun oil, and a faint tang of ozone, like after a storm.

Nika moved down effortlessly, silent even on the creaking boards at the bottom.

Inside, the usual dim chaos reigned. The bar was packed—inquisitors, mercs, a few werewolves keeping to themselves in the darkest corner. The moment she stepped in, a sharp chord rang out from a tiny makeshift stage.

— Toss a coooin tae yer vampire ... O valley o’ pleeenty!

Kamanche bellowed in a rough but surprisingly strong baritone, cutting through the noise. Nika rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

Tall, wiry, always a mess, tattoos creeping up his neck—Kamanche was one of the few who didn’t flinch at her. Didn’t reach for silver out of reflex. Most here kept their distance from the “bloodsucker,” energetic or not.

Kamanche? He treated her the same way he treated the Order’s rules—with total, unapologetic indifference.

And annoyingly enough, he’d guessed her mood.

She hadn’t come for anything important. Just ... Glasgow had been that bleak tonight. Even sitting alone with the telly felt like torture. Here, at least, there was always something resembling entertainment.

Sometimes very specific entertainment.

Her mind flicked back to a night a year ago. Same miserable weather. She’d ducked into the Fang to escape the rain—and walked straight into a full-blown celebration after some big job.

Some drunk idiot—probably Brodie—had suggested a game: “Catch the vampire and snog her senseless.”

And of course, she’d been the only vampire for miles.

She’d played along. Slipped out the door.

The next two hours? Absolute madness—rooftops, alleys, fire escapes, drunk shouting, smashing glass, heavy boots pounding behind her.

Duncan had won.

Cornered her on an abandoned site, pinned her to a brick wall, and claimed his prize so fiercely her lips had buzzed for two days. She’d returned the favour with a proper mark on his neck.

Fair’s fair.

Nika shook the memory off, the ghost of that adrenaline still tingling in her fingers.

Kamanche waved her over from the bar.

Aye ... he was right. She was thinking about asking Sol for some small job. Something to shake things up. Feel the hunt again.

And with inquisitors, there was always work they couldn’t be bothered with.

Her gaze swept the room—and landed on Sol, tucked into a booth at the back.

He was standing, looming over the table, face red with rage.

Across from him—Marta. Four centuries old, usually all arrogance and ice ... now looking like a scolded kitten. Pale, shaken, fingers twisting a lace handkerchief.

Nika sharpened her hearing—but no luck.

A Reflection Sphere shimmered faintly around the booth, swallowing every sound.

All she could see was Sol’s furious gestures ... and Marta’s desperate attempts to explain.

Now that was interesting.

Whatever she’d done, it had to be spectacularly stupid.

Nika strolled to the bar, nodded to the bartender, and ordered a Bloody Mary—no actual blood, just the synthetic stuff they kept for her kind, with the usual vodka and tomato mix.

Glass in hand, she turned toward Kamanche, already bracing for the inevitable grabby greeting.

Vampire or not—slim brunette, five foot four? That made her “fair game” in their book.

That’s just how they were.

And, truth be told ... so was she.

She settled in, planning to wait out the silent drama—and find out exactly what mess Marta had landed herself in ... and whether there was a place in it for one very bored energetic.

Nika marched up to Kamanche and fixed him with a stern, narrowed gaze. A second passed, then another ... she wasn’t fast enough.

Kamanche’s move was a blur of practiced, messy violence. Before she could blink, his arm locked around her neck and his knuckles ground into her scalp, turning her hair into a proper crow’s nest to the roar of laughter from the bar and her own indignant shrieks.

— Kamanche! Ye two-meter beast! Let me go! I’ll rip yer arms aff an’ shove ‘em where the sun disnae shine! I’ll shave ye personally wi’ a broken bottle! I’ll mak’ ye drink kefir instead o’ whisky, ye hear me? Kamaaaaanche!!!

Wriggling free from his grip, Nika turned on the smirking Inquisitor like an enraged cat. Baring her fangs and unsheathing her claws, she hissed and lunged at him—only to end up plopping down onto his lap and started twisting his ears while his fingers found her ribs in a ruthless tickle attack.

This was their ritual. Nika never minded playing the fool in their company, a tribute not just to their shared jokes, but to how quickly they could flip the switch to deadly serious when the job called for it.

— Bastard! — she huffed, finally letting go of his beet-red ears. — Killin’ ye would be too easy. Got a comb?

Kamanche calmly produced a simple-looking bone comb and held it out. She snatched it and began taming her mane, making no move to get off his lap. She nodded toward the back of the room—toward Sol and Marta.

— Whit’s the crack? Ye ken?

Kamanche nodded—he knew what was going on—but his face stayed unreadable.

— There’s somethin’ brewin’, but I cannae say a word yet. Wait till they’re done.

Suddenly, the air in the bar seemed to snap.

The Reflection Sphere vanished with a sharp crack, and the silence shattered under Sol’s thunderous roar, making even the grizzled veterans at the bar flinch.

— GET OOT! — Sol slammed his fist onto the table so hard the wood let out a pained groan. — Get oot o’ ma city, Marta! If I see yer pale face in the Fang, or even a mile from the city center again—I swear by all the saints, yer head’s comin’ aff! I’ll personally feed whit’s left o’ ye tae the rats!

Marta bolted from the booth as if all the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels. She blurred past Nika—a grey streak of desperation, not even trying to salvage a shred of her four-hundred-year-old dignity. The heavy door slammed behind her with such force that a century’s worth of dust rained down from the rafters.

Sol stepped out from the shadows, chest heaving. His face was still a dark crimson, sparks of raw fury dancing in his eyes. Without a word, he vaulted over the bar, snatched a brutal island single malt, ripped the cork out with his teeth, and began to chug it straight from the neck.

The bar went dead silent.

Glasses stopped clinking. Kamanche went still. Everyone watched as the Head of the Glasgow Inquisition demolished half a bottle in one go, burning away his rage with pure alcohol.

Finally, Sol slammed the bottle down and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. He swept a heavy, brooding gaze across the room and suddenly locked onto Nika. She was still leaning against Kamanche, his arm slung over her shoulder to keep the street’s chill at bay.

Sol froze. He slowly shook his head at the cosy little scene, and then his expression shifted. The rage didn’t vanish—it curdled into that sharp, “teacherly” smirk that usually made his subordinates’ palms sweat.

He raised a hand and slowly, with agonizing deliberation, beckoned her over with a single finger.

Nika felt her stomach do a nervous flip. She sighed and began to stand, catching Kamanche’s sympathetic look. A strange feeling—she was walking toward him like a puppy that had just left a “surprise” on the master’s rug.

One stupid thought kept looping in her head: “I haven’t even done anything ... Probably ... alright, definitely not this month!”

Nika approached the bar, trying to keep her stride steady and casual, though that familiar, nagging sense of guilt Sol always inspired was still churning in her chest. Sol didn’t look up; he sat hunched over, broodingly studying the label of a nearly empty whisky bottle as if it might answer something important. The air around him still hummed with the aftershocks of his fury—Nika could feel the residual static prickling her skin.

Finally, he raised his eyes. They were bloodshot with exhaustion, a faint glow of lingering anger still smouldering deep in his pupils. Nika stood before him, a glass in one hand and Kamanche’s bone comb in the other.

— Stop hoverin’ like I’m about tae tan yer hide right in front of the lads, — he rumbled. His voice was low and raspy, making the glasses on the shelves rattle ever so slightly. — Grab yer Bloody Mary and let’s go. I’ve got a job suited for a bored lass like yerself. That’s why ye came crawlin’ back tonight, isn’t it? Smelled somethin’ burnin’ in the Fang?

She gave a curt nod. Snatching a fresh glass that the bartender slid toward her as if it were rigged with dynamite, Nika followed Sol to the furthest, darkest booth in the back. She slid into the worn leather seat and put on her best mask of indifference.

— Judgin’ by the way Marta bolted out of here, you’re in full-on Inquisitor lawnmower mode today, Sol, — she remarked, watching him activate the Reflection Sphere with a practiced flick of his finger. — I’m just keepin’ a safe distance. Dinnae want to get caught under the blade when ye decide to trim someone’s ego.

The world shifted instantly. The noise of the bar, Kamanche’s off-key crooning, and the clinking of dishes vanished, replaced by a heavy, almost suffocating silence.

— Marta is an old, stupid cow, — Sol spat, each word hitting the table like a lead bullet. — Four centuries on this earth, and she’s got the wits of a dead mackerel in the Glasgow docks. She sired a fledgling, Ni. Quietly. No Council sanction, no training, no common sense. And the little shite ran away from her. Right now, there’s a hungry, mindless newborn roamin’ the city, and he doesn’t even understand why his veins are on fire. His name’s Victor. And he’s already left two bodies in the West End. Not just corpses, Ni. A bloody mess.