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https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Forty: One More Thing
With a soft breath and a whisper no human ear could catch, I sealed the hidden door behind us. The illusion shimmered briefly, like heat rising off summer pavement, before settling back into seamless stillness. To the untrained eye, it was just another stretch of drywall—smooth, unremarkable, and devoid of any hint that it could fold away like a curtain to reveal something far older, far more dangerous.
I turned toward Emily, meaning to speak, but something snagged my senses before I could say a word. It hit me like a subtle spark—sharp and acrid, threading through the air with a metallic tang.
Human, yes, but wrapped in something else. Something unnatural. Familiar in its way, but also wrong. New. Alarming.
I froze, every nerve suddenly on high alert.
"We're not alone," I said, lowering my voice as my brow furrowed. "Someone just entered the building. He's a hunter. I can smell the Mark on him."
Emily didn't react immediately. She just raised one carefully arched eyebrow and tilted her head slightly, like she was recalibrating a theory. "You're sure?" she asked, skeptical but not dismissive. "The Hunter's Mark masks the hunter's scent almost completely once it's activated."
"I know," I said, keeping my tone quiet and even. "That's what's strange. I've never smelled the Mark itself before. Usually I could tell someone was a hunter by what they carried—enchanted silver weapons, mountain ash, bits of sigil residue. Now… now it's like I can smell the Mark itself. Like it's burning in the air—like ink, smoldering on parchment."
Emily's eyes narrowed, her curiosity sharpening. "Interesting," she murmured, not quite to me. "I've never heard of creature being able to sense the Mark. This True Alpha thing is becoming more and more... fascinating."
There was something else behind her voice—a thread of something she didn't name. Fascination, yes, but maybe also fear. Or awe. Or both. Whatever it was, I didn't have time to dig into it.
"He's heading for the door," I said, already moving.
"That would be the man from the Association," Emily replied. "He called earlier—said he was coming to execute Richard's will. I told him we'd be here."
I nodded once in silent acknowledgment and stepped toward the apartment entrance. My hand was just touching the doorknob when the knock came—a polite, precise rapping.
And immediately, every assumption I'd made collapsed.
The man standing on the other side of the threshold wasn't what I expected—not in the slightest. No weapons. No air of threat. Just a neatly pressed black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie that looked like it had been knotted with surgical precision. His dark hair was combed with such exactness it might have been lacquered in place. Thin, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked more like a banker or a tax attorney than a man who carried death in his veins.
But the Mark was there.
Hidden just beneath the fabric of his left sleeve, I could sense it pulsing. Not visually—not yet—but the scent confirmed it. It buzzed faintly under the surface like static. It was powerful, unmistakable. Like ozone. Like iron. Like old, dried blood.
"Lucas," he said with a calm, affable smile. "You look just like Richard said you would. It's good to finally meet you in person. I've heard quite a few stories."
I shook his hand, firm but cautious. "Hi. And you are?"
"Jerry," he replied. "Just Jerry."
That was all he gave me.
The words lit up every alarm bell in my mind, a hundred silent warnings flashing red. Nobody in this world was ever just anything. Not in our world, not anymore. But Emily didn't blink. She didn't even twitch. So I kept my thoughts to myself and followed her lead.
He stepped inside smoothly, like he belonged there, and set down a large suitcase with a soft, deliberate thud. It was matte black, industrial-looking, reinforced at the corners and secured with a triple-lock mechanism.
"Richard's will was simple," Jerry said, brushing invisible lint from his jacket. "He left everything to you—his car, this apartment, his accounts and stored funds, and the contents of this case."
He carefully nudged the suitcase toward me with his hands.
I stepped forward, resting my hand on the surface. It was cold—too cold for the room's temperature. Heavy, too, not just with weight but with intention. I could feel it in my bones. Whatever was inside this suitcase wasn't just valuable. It was meaningful.
Jerry adjusted his sleeves and gave a small nod. "Richard trusted you, Lucas. That wasn't something he did lightly."
I tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere behind the sudden tightness in my throat. I settled for a small nod.
He turned to Emily next, gave her a subtle, respectful incline of his head, then faced me again. His expression shifted slightly—just enough to make my spine go rigid.
"And there's one more thing," he said softly, slipping one hand inside his coat with the kind of measured care that kept me just shy of defensive.
I didn't move. Not yet. But every instinct in me snapped into focus. My muscles coiled, ready. My hearing zeroed in on the rhythm of his pulse, the scrape of parchment.
He drew out a sealed envelope—thick, yellowed slightly with age, and closed with a dark red wax seal stamped with Richard's personal sigil.
"This is for you," Jerry said, holding it out. "And you alone. Richard left strict instructions. No witnesses. No copies. Your eyes only."
I took it slowly, my fingers brushing the worn edges. The seal was intact, pressed by a hand I would never see again. My breath hitched slightly.
Jerry gave me one last nod, stepped back toward the door, and paused just long enough to glance back once.
"I'll show myself out," he said, and disappeared down the hall with barely a sound.
When the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the apartment like a shroud.
I stood there, staring down at the suitcase by my feet.
The envelope felt heavier than its weight should've allowed. It pressed against my palm like it had a heartbeat of its own.
And for the first time since Richard died, I felt him again. Not just in memory, not just in grief—but here. In the room. Like he was waiting for me.