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I was inspecting under the vehicle for any trace of that damned hyena as Theodore Maxwell’s unmarked car pulled up, the small screech of tyres echoing through the quiet underground car park.

“Salazar.” His face was grim as he jumped out. “You alright? You look—”

“Like I’ve had a bath in blood? Yes.”

Maxwell stepped towards the car.

“Greaves was already dead when I arrived,” I said, repeating exactly what I’d already told him on the phone. I tensed, a part of me prepared for him not to believe me. To suspect this could be a cover-up for a murder I’d committed in bloodlust.

But Maxwell only hummed, rounding the vehicle and using his torch to illuminate the carnage within. “You weren’t exaggerating. This is… excessive. And certainly personal, what with the circumstances, I agree. But any id ea—”

The roar of a motorcycle cut him off. Kit’s massive black bike rolled in with Rory—a surprise addition—clinging to his back. I resisted pinching the bridge of my nose by a hair’s breadth. Perfect. Just perfect.

Rory yanked off his helmet, golden hair sticking up in all directions. His eyes landed on Maxwell and narrowed. “Oh brilliant. Detective Dickface is here.”

“Rory,” Kit warned, but Maxwell was already straightening up.

“That’s Detective Inspector Dickface to you, pup.”

“Both of you, shut it,” I snapped. “We have a dead body and a potential crisis. Your petty feud can wait.”

Kit stepped between them, the perpetual peacekeeper. “What’s our next move?”

“There’s an unfortunate angle to consider, Kit.” I shifted, the blood-soaked tissues heavy in my pocket. “I’ve… compromised the scene.”

Maxwell’s torch beam swung towards me, intensifying the moment.

Kit frowned at me. “What?”

“I… licked the blood. From his clothes.”

“You what ?” Kit’s face twisted.

“I couldn’t help it.” The admission tasted bitter. Kit had developed an enormous amount of respect for me over the years, and I couldn’t bear to see that faith crumble. “There was so much of it, and I haven’t fed properly in—”

“Oh, brilliant.” Rory bounced on his heels. “Easy fix then. We torch the car.”

“We are not setting fire to evidence.” Maxwell scowled at him. “This is a crime scene.”

“A crime scene with vampire DNA all over it.” Rory rolled his eyes. “Unless you fancy explaining to your forensics team why there’s hundreds-year-old Spanish nobleman mixed in with the vic’s blood?”

“I’ll have to erase Sebastián from the data after we’ve processed the scene,” said Maxwell.

Kit placed a steadying hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t realised I was swaying.

“What? Why risk anything?” Rory threw up his hands. “Why don’t we drive the car somewhere else? Have a proper look at it all.”

Maxwell’s voice grew sharper. “That’s still tampering with evidence. Which, need I remind you, is also a crime?”

“Everything we do is technically a crime, mate.” Rory grinned. “It’s kind of our thing.”

“I am not your mate .” Maxwell jabbed a finger at him. “We’re following some semblance of procedure here. This dead man has a family.”

“Procedure?” Rory’s laugh held no humour. “Funny how that’s your favourite word—”

“Rory, shut up.” Kit’s voice carried a hint of a growl. “I mean it.”

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to focus through the hunger still clawing at my insides. Maxwell’s mention of the family Greaves had left behind twisted something dark and familiar in my chest. No, I might not have directly killed Greaves—but he was dead through association.

Another family destroyed. Another set of lives shattered because they’d wandered too close to my orbit.

The faces blurred together across the centuries—widows, orphans, parents burying children.

Always my fault, my presence that brought destruction.

And at the heart of it all, Magdalena’s face, eternally young, eternally accusing.

Five centuries later, and I was still the same monster who’d condemned his own sister.

It wouldn’t matter how many lives Killigrew Street saved, in the end the ledger would always run red. Centuries of blood that could never be washed clean.

“Seb?”

Kit grabbed my arm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“We need to decide our plan of action, quickly,” I said to Maxwell.

An internal struggle played across Maxwell’s face as he stared at the car.

His shoulders sagged, his torch beam wavering.

“I think we’ll avoid this going through official channels because of the unique circumstances of the crime.

We’ll drive the car to a secure location.

I’ll take some samples, run some tests off the record.

See what we can find.” He pressed his lips into a grim line.

“After a week, we’ll find the body in the Thames.

I’m not having his family wonder why he’s not coming home for any longer than that. ”

For once, Rory kept his mouth shut. Perhaps even he recognised the weight of Maxwell’s compromise.

“We’ll work together, Maxwell.” I said. “Find who did this, and why.” The words felt hollow in my mouth, tasting of copper and guilt.

Kit’s hand hadn’t left my shoulder. His fingers tightened. “Rory, you go with Maxwell. Take the car to the location. Seb and I will head back to Killigrew Street, run a full assessment.”

I knew what he was doing. Kit had seen me like this before, in my darker moments. He wouldn’t leave me alone, not with the taste of blood still fresh on my tongue and centuries of ghosts crowding my thoughts.

Maxwell tossed his keys to Rory, who caught them with a surprised blink. “You’re driving my car. I’ll take this one.”

“Seriously?” Rory’s face lit up.

“Touch anything except the steering wheel and gear stick, and I’ll arrest you myself.”

“Aw, handcuffs and all?” Rory twirled the keys around his finger, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I guessed you’d be into all that.”

Maxwell’s face darkened, jaw clenching as he stepped into Rory’s space. “There’s a fucking dead body ten feet away from us. Show some goddamn respect, or I swear to god I’ll—”

“Alright!” snapped Kit. “We’re moving out! Rory, assist Maxwell with body extraction. You follow his orders to the letter, or there’ll be consequences.”

Kit pulled on his motorcycle helmet, tossing me the spare one. I slipped onto the back, and as we sped away, I didn’t ask him where he was taking us—if I wanted blood immediately, there was only one option remaining.

Kit’s bike roared through the empty streets of London, the wind whipping past us. Thirty long minutes later, we pulled up outside Undertone as predicted. My stomach clenched. The last time I’d been here, it hadn’t ended well.

We tugged our helmets off, stowing them within the vehicle. “You know this is going to be unpleasant, right?” I said to Kit.

“Do you have any other choice? Unless you fancy another drink from me?”

He said it with a twisted smile. He knew I’d rather not.

The “By Appointment Only” sign glowed dimly in Undertone’s window. A bell tinkled as we entered, and the familiar scent of aged vinyl and leather hit my nostrils, barely masking what lay beneath. Jazz music played softly through hidden speakers.

Marlene looked up from behind the counter, their perfect victory rolls and red lipstick unchanged since the 1950s. The vampire’s eyes widened. “Sebastián Salazar.” They adjusted their cat-eye glasses.

“Marley.” I inclined my head.

Their gaze flicked to Kit, then back to me, taking in the blood still staining my clothes. “Are you both… here for a listening appointment?”

“Yes. If possible.”

They reached for their rotary phone. “I’ll need to check if we have any booths available.” Marley’s voice remained carefully neutral, but I could sense their curiosity. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Salazar. I was under the impression you wished never to set foot in here again.”

“Circumstances change.”

They set down the phone. “I’ll take you straight to Dominic.”

Marley’s boots stomped across the worn floorboards, weaving between towering shelves of vinyl. They led us past countless rare pressings and limited editions that would make any collector weep—the shop’s carefully curated facade had fooled many over the decades.

At the back of the shop, three listening booths lined the wall. Marley unlocked booth three, ushering us inside. Kit’s shoulders tensed as we squeezed into the tight space, his breathing becoming deliberately measured.

The leather-padded walls still held their original 1960s charm, though the turntable gleamed suspiciously newer. Marley selected a record from a hidden shelf, the needle dropped with practiced precision, and the first notes filled the tiny booth.

The wall behind us slid away with a soft whisper, revealing a steep spiral staircase descending into darkness. LED strips embedded in the steps pulsed in time with the bass from below. The deeper we went, the louder the music became until the staircase opened into a vast underground space.

Kit and I followed Marley straight past the bar constructed from stacked speakers, threading our way through the crowd towards a quieter area.

Dominic’s office lay behind a door marked “Master Control Room” in gold lettering. A massive table dominated the space, crafted from hundreds of cassette tapes sealed in resin.

Dominic himself lounged in an elaborate throne-like chair, his platinum hair catching the light.

“Well, well.” His long nails drummed against the arm. “He returns. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, darling?”

Dominic’s lips curled into a smile that made my skin crawl. Despite being nearly three centuries my junior, he’d always acted as though our positions were reversed.

“I require blood,” I said, the words scraping my throat. “To purchase.”

“The bar’s open.” He gestured lazily towards the door with one ring-laden hand.

“To take away.” The bastard was being deliberately obtuse, as always.