Mo’s was nearly empty: just me and the crooks at a table in the darkest corner, a moustachioed plainclothes copper, a sergeant, if I wasn’t mistaken, at the bar, and a pair of constables by the window. The plainclothes man was buried in a stack of papers and a pint, while the constables were wolfing down porridge and pork scratchings like they were running late. The coppers weren’t paying us any mind, but the crooks were nervous all the same. Or maybe it was the view of the police station across the road that had them on edge?

  Personally, I was perfectly comfortable, chewing on black pudding and listening closely to Ludwig’s account. The lad had decided to stick with that name, even though I already knew he was really called Bob. Bob Johnson and Tom Brown — far more pedestrian, and far less aristocratic, than Ludwig Sterling and Arthur Stone.

  At first, I’d thought about handing the boys over to Liza Logg to put them to work for the good of the clan. Gathering information was her domain, after all, and I couldn’t think of any better use for crooks. But our chief scout checked them out and convinced me that doing so would only lose the fragile trust we’d built. She wasn’t at all against giving them tasks, but insisted I act as a go-between. Liza had nothing specific for them at the time, and the crooks weren’t about to go chasing werewolves, so I asked them to look into the wave of disappearances, the kind no one reports. The kind no one misses. Street kids, vagrants, human rubbish — the ones the werewolves used both as recruits and target practice.

  I forgot about the boys for nearly two months: lessons, training, finishing work at the Anvil, and dates with Ellie kept me more than busy. The spring of 1937 had been full-on, and the first week of summer didn’t let up. The second week started with a call and a request for a meeting. I arranged it at Mo’s for mid-afternoon, and here I was, listening to a long, detailed report.

  At first, the lads hadn’t taken the assignment seriously. They admitted they'd thought I was having a laugh, so they didn’t try very hard. But the idea stuck with them, and now and again, they’d ask the right sort of people the right sort of questions. People were vanishing everywhere, but not in a way that raised suspicion. A street kid might run from a pickpocket ring, a burglar might get lucky robbing a broker’s flat and leg it out of town. People even envied them. The thing was — they never came back.

  In Farnell, the port gave locals a ready excuse: “Sailed off to America, Australia, Africa...” You name it. But even the cheapest tickets cost three hundred quid. Maybe a burglar could afford that after a big score, but a homeless child? Their only option was to stow away. When the lads did the maths, the scale surprised them. If the rumours were true, there were enough so-called runaways to fill a couple of liners every year. Whatever people said about port security, it couldn’t possibly be that bad. And when the boys looked deeper, they realised it was actually quite good.

  The days when stowaways were tossed overboard or sold into slavery had ended with the last century. In this more ‘civilised’ age, the rules said they were to be fed and returned to the authorities, to pay their dues to the nation in correctional facilities of various kinds. The shipping companies didn’t earn a penny from the trouble, so street kids got booted and cuffed, and dodgy types took batons to the back before they got two steps near a gangplank.

  My crooks even tried boarding a few ships themselves. All above board — they struck a deal with a company official to test security as a kind of inspection. Got paid for it, too. First attempt? Success. The ship’s captain was reprimanded, the boys got a bonus. The next two? Failures. More bruises than banknotes. And they had to admit that most of the ‘great escapes’ never happened at all.

  So where had all those people gone?

  The lads started asking. Hell, they even risked showing their faces at The Noose, the city’s biggest gangster den — far above their pay grade, as someone quickly pointed out.

  But in other shady corners of Smuggler’s Bay, they met younger lads who’d firmly set foot on the criminal path and dreamed of underworld glory. A bit of flattery, a naive look, and a sea of booze loosened tongues. One of these budding cutthroats, Jack Macy, let slip that there was easy work going, well paid. Once a week, you just had to nip into the slums and bring back a live, mostly intact body. A tenner for a kid, fifteen for an adult.

  Who wanted people, and what for? The thug didn’t know, and didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, he got paid. Whether they drained blood, chopped them for meat, or held dark rituals wasn’t his problem. With the number of abductions he’d pulled off, the lad had long since earned a spot on the gallows, and the lack of consequences had gone straight to his head.

  The chat with Macy had taken place on Saturday. On Sunday, the lads arranged to meet him for a pint, but Jack never showed. By Monday, the crooks were on the line to me.

  “Maybe we’re overreacting, Lord Loxlin,” Ludwig said, “but he never came home after that conversation.”

  “The barman was definitely eavesdropping,” added Arthur.

  Both lads fell silent, watching me expectantly. I finished chewing my last bite of sausage, took a slow sip of tea, drawing out the moment. They hadn’t told me anything concrete, but to be fair, I hadn’t exactly given them clear-cut instructions either. And they’d risked real danger to do what they had, which deserved a reward.

  The only question was: what kind?

  I didn’t bother guessing and asked directly.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Uhh…” The lads exchanged a disappointed glance.

  “You misunderstood,” I said, shaking my head. “As far as your assignment went, you delivered. So, what kind of reward are you asking for?”

  They seemed to grow a little bolder.

  “We’d rather not end up like Macy,” said Ludwig. “We’d rather disappear on our own terms than…”

  “We need the money,” Arthur added bluntly. “Tying up loose ends costs a lot.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand,” the crook said, and froze, watching my face.

  Now that, I didn’t quite know how to take. A decent working man would have to toil for months and months to earn that much. But these lads weren’t working men. They were specialists of a particular sort, and the clan had paid more than that for the right piece of gossip. So all things considered, the figure didn’t seem outrageous.

  “Where are you planning to run off to?”

  The boys shrugged.

  “South, maybe.”

  “When?”

  “Right after this chat. Our stuff’s in left luggage at the station.”

  I pulled out my notebook and scribbled down the name of the pub, The Lame Mare, where they’d met Macy. Then I tore out a clean sheet and wrote down Liza Logg’s work number. I added to it three hundred in cash from my wallet, and a Royal Bank cheque for seven hundred. Then slid the lot across the table to them.

  “Ring this number. Give your real names — they'll help you disappear.”

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Thank you, my lord!” Arthur exclaimed. He was clearly more interested in the money than my words. He reached out, but I pressed my finger down on the papers, keeping them on the table.

  “Your real names, Tom.”

  Arthur’s hand wavered, and the smile vanished from his face. I released the money.

  “Wherever you end up, the job stands, if you're still interested in working together. I’m also looking for information on the Blood Moon Clan.”

  “Werewolves?” Ludwig grimaced, shaking his head. “Too dangerous to tangle with.”

  “But we could dig up some whispers,” Arthur cut in, gathering the papers.

  “Let me rephrase,” I said. “We’ve already gathered plenty of whispers. What I need now is something more specific — a name, a location. Just like with the disappearances. The reward will depend on how well the person checks out. And if the questioning puts you in danger, if you need to change your name and vanish again, I’ll help. But only if it’s directly related to this work. I’m not pulling you out of prison for nicking someone’s wallet. Understood?”

  “Crystal clear, my lord.”

  “In that case, I won’t keep you. Do call the number. Don’t be shy.”

  The crooks flagged a cab outside the station and left for the train. I polished off the rest of my sausage, paid the waiter, and decided to pop over to the station across the road.

  In the car park, I waved to Knuckles, told him not to get distracted. The lad had been taking his studies seriously of late, and right now had a physics textbook propped on the steering wheel. Harry hadn’t quite knocked the rogue’s romanticism out of his head, but he had managed to plant the seed of engineering there, by exploiting the lad’s love of anything with wheels, and leading by personal example. If a poor village boy could become a powerful wizard, then Clint might just manage it too.

  Half the coppers I passed knew me and weren’t above giving me a nod. I exchanged a few words with some, like Prudy and Farmer, they’d been assigned to protect me after the first Archmaker attack. Not that they’d succeeded much, but we’d stayed on friendly terms. At the registration desk stood Constable Clarke — another familiar face. He was taking a report from a battered, half-sozzled gentleman, but paused when he saw me.

  “My lord,” he greeted me.

  “Hello, Quentin,” I replied. “Is John in?”

  The constable nodded.

  “Mind if I go in?”

  Clarke cast a doubtful glance at the detective’s office door, then at the man who’d started shouting again, waving his arms and swearing at the police.

  “I think you’ll be all right,” he said.

  I nodded gratefully, stepped past the desk, and headed for the detective inspector’s office. I knocked, then opened the door slightly and peeked in.

  “John? Got a minute?”

  “Eh?” The detective looked up from his paperwork, distracted, and I noticed the addition of a short, bristly moustache on his upper lip.

  “Come in.”

  “The moustache doesn’t suit you,” I said, helping myself to the visitor’s chair opposite his desk.

  “What are you on about?” Sunset waved me off. “Women like it!”

  “You mean your housekeeper?”

  “Cheeky bastard!” he shot back.

  “Ellie doesn’t like moustaches. So I have to shave.”

  “As if anything grows on your face. That fluff barely qualifies as facial hair. What brings you in?”

  “Mind if I use your phone?”

  “What, the phone box outside doesn’t cut it anymore? Have to come into the station now?”

  “Less chance of being overheard in here.”

  Sunset leaned back in his chair, rocked it twice on the rear legs while he made up his mind, then gestured at the phone in the corner of the desk.

  I pulled it closer, lifted the receiver, and started dialling: the Avoc code first, then Liza Logg’s number. The conversation was brief: I told her what the crooks had discovered and asked her to help the lads.

  “Why would Bremor be interested in missing vagrants and street rats?” Sunset asked after I’d put the phone down.

  “There’s a theory that werewolves are using them for recruits, and training meat.”

  “Blood Moon?” John asked. I’d brought him up to speed on some of the recent goings-on in Avoc, and he’d shared what rumours had reached him in return.

  I nodded.

  “Going to clean this up yourselves, or call in the secret slugs?”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “Secret Service,” he suggested again.

  “No,” I shook my head. “The clan handles its own enemies.”

  “A covert werewolf organisation isn’t just your problem. That’s a threat to the whole bloody state.”

  “We can’t ask for help,” I said, shaking my head again. John sat up straighter, ready with a sarcastic remark, but I cut him off. “It’s not about pride. Not just about pride. Hunting monsters is our bread and butter. Reputation is everything. Werewolves and bloodsuckers tremble at the clan’s name. Only the stupidest beasts dare show themselves in Avoc. The stronger we’re believed to be, the safer life is across the whole county. So long as there’s even a chance, Bremor won’t risk its reputation. Only if we’re on the brink of destruction will my uncle go begging to the Crown.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not too bloody late by then,” Sunset muttered. “Besides, you lot make too much noise. Too many smashed walls and scorched pavements. The slugs do it quieter.”

  “At least Smuggler’s Bay isn’t your concern.”

  “No, but I know Pumpkin. Who do you think he’s been complaining to?”

  “Why would he be complaining? We haven’t even started yet.”

  “Haven’t started?” John raised a brow. “Since your lot kicked off that construction project in the slums, the cells at Precinct Two haven’t been empty.”

  “And what’s wrong with that? Criminals belong behind bars.”

  “Nothing wrong at all, unless you count the fact that some bricklayers are doing the job faster and better than veteran constables.”

  “They’re hardly bringing in anyone now, are they?” I smiled.

  It had all started when a couple of local thugs, armed with clubs and rusty knives, decided to shake down a few of the builders for spare change and a decent pair of boots. The builders, mind you, weren’t clan members. Hired hands from Avoc. At first, they’d even tried explaining to the muggers just how big a mistake they were making.

  Unfortunately, the muggers mistook polite speech for weakness, made a few bold moves, and got beaten down and cursed out in fluent builder’s slang. Which, frankly, didn’t fall far short of the dockworker dialect in terms of colourful phrasing.

  One of the bricklayers had taken a knife wound in the scuffle — nothing fatal, thankfully. The foreman, a proper clansman, showed up with a satchel full of potions. The would-be muggers were loaded into a pickup and dropped off at the station.

  After that, incidents like it started happening with surprising regularity. The Bremor lot began hiring locals and sourcing building materials. The sharp noses of the slum dwellers, and Smuggler’s Bay in general, caught the scent of money, and they tried from time to time to ‘redistribute’ the wealth. One day it was a sack of cement, another day the foreman’s watch. And every time, they ended up beaten and locked up.

  There were other, more professional attempts too. A group of armed Gifted once tried to break into the newly built clan centre and rob the chief architect’s safe. Fancy that! The beatdown they got nearly killed them. Had to use potions just to keep them breathing. And since those cost good money, Peter Logg came up with the idea of using the criminal element as labour.

  There are jobs on a building site where Gifted workers are a real advantage, but hiring them’s expensive. This way, it was practically free.

  “Speaking of which!” John wagged a finger at me. “Unlawful imprisonment is still a crime, you know.”

  “What are you talking about, John? They agree to it willingly! In fact, just last week, a couple of lads who didn’t make it past the foreman’s vetting tried to get in by robbing the site.”

  “Were they hired?” the detective asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “They were,” I nodded. “Turnover’s high anyway. Most of the local lot don’t fancy actual work. A thief stays a thief and dreams of hitting the jackpot, lifting the foreman’s cash, the architect’s ring, the guard’s watch. The ones who try to make those dreams come true end up at the station. The rest do an honest shift.”

  “Not going to stay peaceful much longer, is it?” Sunset asked.

  “No idea,” I replied.

  “Well, I do!” John said firmly. “And I appreciate your honesty. I know you could’ve made that call from somewhere else. So tell me, who else should I be warning about the storm that’s coming?”

  “No one about the storm. I was thinking of speaking to Pumpkin about Macy and The Lame Mare, trying to get more info. But you’re saying he’s cross with us?”

  “Not exactly cross. But he’s not thrilled. That said, he’ll appreciate your honesty.”

  “He might appreciate it, but will he keep it to himself? I wasn’t planning on giving him the details. Just a few questions.”

  “Daniel’s a proper copper.”

  “Maybe he is. But you know what they say about Second Precinct,” I said, a little more sharply. Since moving to Farnell, I’d started to get the lay of the land. Precinct Two’s jurisdiction covered the Port, the Docks, the Heavies, and Smuggler’s Bay — the most lucrative, and the most criminal, areas in town outside the City itself.

  Sunset didn’t reply, just grimaced and looked away. However decent Pumpkin might be, he still headed up Precinct Two.

  “Don’t tell anyone yet,” I said. “Give it a bit of time. Let the clan council decide how to proceed. This isn’t our city. The head of the clan has to weigh whether it’s more important to keep up appearances or to strike fast and hard. Either way, I’ll make sure it’s clear what we’re preparing for, and who we can speak to.”

  I paused. “And if you hear anything about Macy or The Mare…”

  “I don’t like this, Duncan.”

  “I wouldn’t say I do either,” I said, rising from my chair. “But the monsters will have to pay. One way or another. Thanks for the time, and the phone.”

  “No trouble. Drop in again,” Sunset said darkly.

  I headed downstairs and slid into the back seat of my Cooper. Knuckles tossed aside an open textbook, right on top of the Thompson that was resting on the seat, and reached for the ignition.

  “Home?” he asked.

  “Bremor Quarter.”

  “Something happen?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But it will. And when it does, it’ll shake things hard.”