Night hung over the city like a thick shroud, dense and heavy, swallowing sound and light alike. The shattered ruins of the Statesmen's once-mighty headquarters still smoldered beneath a moonless sky. The charred remains of its great spires jutted upward like broken bones, their jagged forms black against the deeper black of the heavens.
Mason stood at the edge of the wreckage, silent. His coat, dark as the night itself, bore the scorch marks and rents from the battle that had laid this place low. His pale skin reflected what little starlight the clouds allowed through. His eyes, sharp and cold, scanned the ruins once more before he turned his back on the destruction he had caused.
There was no more to be gained here. The trail had gone cold. The machines, spells, and networks of the Statesmen had failed him, and so he set his path toward the one place left that might offer hope — though at a cost no sane man would wish to pay.
Call House
The Call House of the Night Finder rose on the outskirts of the city, beyond even the reach of the Statesmen's jurisdiction. No lights marked its windows. No smoke rose from its chimneys. The house itself seemed carved from the night, its walls a deep, endless black that absorbed the weak glow of the few lanterns along the empty road.
A high gate, fashioned from old iron, stood between Mason and the house. Its bars twisted into patterns of serpents and thorns. The air here felt colder, heavier, as though the land itself recognized the power that slept beyond the gate.
Mason approached on foot, his boots striking the stone with measured steps. When he reached the gate, he drew a breath that tasted of ash and old magic. He lifted his head and let his voice carry into the darkness.
"I seek you, Night Finder! I seek you, Olivia Ego Parker! A house is lost — something has gone wrong!"
The words echoed between the barren trees, but the house beyond remained silent. No light stirred. No answer came.
Mason clenched his fists, his sharp nails biting into his palms. He called again, louder this time, the ritual words chosen with care.
"I seek you, Night Finder! The bonds of oath have frayed. A soul pledged is missing. The night calls for your step!"
Still, the Call House offered nothing in reply.
He called a third time, his voice cutting the air like a blade.
"I seek you, Olivia Ego Parker, daughter of the Igbo blood, breaker of shadows, keeper of the unseen. Come forth — answer, for I call in truth!"
The silence deepened, as if the world itself waited. Mason could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon him — the house listening, judging.
A fourth time, he cried out, his voice raw with frustration and urgency.
"I seek you, Night Finder! A shadow has fallen where light once stood. Help me find Kandra, and I will offer what matches her worth!"
The wind stirred at last, rustling dead leaves along the ground. And then — a voice.
"What will you offer?"
It was a woman's voice, low and steady, neither welcoming nor harsh, but heavy with the gravity of a hundred unspoken bargains.
Mason exhaled, a breath he had not realized he held. His gaze swept the house, but no figure appeared at its windows or threshold. The voice had come from nowhere, and from everywhere.
"What do you need?" he asked, his tone stripped bare of pretense.
For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of the wind and the creak of the gate. Then the voice answered — slow, deliberate, as if savoring the weight of the words.
"The entire Statesmen organization. Can you give me that?"
Mason's lips parted, but no sound emerged at first. His mind raced — considering, measuring. He thought of what was left of the Statesmen: fractured, broken, its power scattered by his own hand. Could he give her what she asked? Did it matter?
And then, from his throat, rose a strange sound — a quiet, almost mirthless laugh, low and rough, like the grind of stone on stone.
"Interesting," Mason said at last, the word lingering in the air like the taste of blood.
The gate shuddered once, the serpents and thorns seeming to writhe in the moonless dark. Mason knew better than to approach further. Vampires could not cross the threshold of Olivia's domain without invitation — not without inviting ruin upon themselves. That rule did not bind her dealings with mortals or other finders, but for his kind, the law was absolute.
The silence stretched long between them. Mason stood motionless, waiting, knowing that impatience would cost him dearly.
Finally, the voice spoke again, closer this time, as though the house itself had drawn nearer.
"You come to me with empty hands," Olivia said. "You seek what others have failed to find. You bargain with a price you have no right to offer. Tell me, Mason of the broken Statesmen — why should I hear you?"
Mason raised his head, his gaze hard as steel.
"Because no one else will search where you can search. Because no one else can follow where you walk. Because if Kandra is beyond your reach — she is truly gone."
The quiet that followed was so complete it pressed against his ears like the depths of the sea.
Then, faintly, a light kindled in one of the Call House's upper windows — a pale glow, cold and steady.
"You will wait," the voice said. "Night must fall fully. I will come when I choose."
The hours dragged on. The cold deepened. Mason remained at the gate, unmoving, as the stars wheeled overhead. He could feel the eyes of things unseen, drawn by the power gathered here — spirits that circled but dared not approach.
When the night was at its darkest, the gate unlocked with a slow, grinding groan. The iron swung inward.
Mason stepped forward, cautious, as the voice called to him one last time — no longer from the house, but from the shadows beneath the ancient trees.
"Come, vampire. Let us see if your offer is worth the price."