"How much is my life worth?"
Wade Winston was drenched in cold sweat.
He had a sinking feeling this entire job was going to cost him—literally. Forget making money. He'd be lucky if he didn't end up bankrupt.
"Two thousand pounds," Wade offered after a half-second pause.
Lowball first, always. He knew how this went—start with your max, and they'd bleed you dry. Two grand was around half of what he'd actually be willing to pay.
"Too low." Loren shook his head slowly, voice calm but resolute. "With your skill set... let me think... minimum, five thousand pounds."
A "sorcerer" of this caliber wasn't some low-tier freelancer like Herman. This was someone who could handle himself in a real fight, and clearly had some coin stashed away. Five thousand wasn't just a fair price—it was a bargain.
Wade gritted his teeth. "Fine. Deal."
"When will I get paid?" Loren asked casually.
"One hour," Wade replied, wiping his brow. "You can send someone to follow me. Or I can bring the money here, whichever you prefer."
"Good. You're free now, Mister Cleanser."
Loren gave a satisfied nod. Then smiled, almost too pleasantly. "Now… let's talk compensation."
"…What compensation?" Wade blinked. "Didn't we just agree on five grand?"
Loren raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by the question.
"The five thousand pounds were for your freedom, not compensation. You wasted my time. You injured my people. Don't you think there should be reparations for that?"
"Wait, hold on…" Wade stared at him, jaw slack. "Isn't that all part of the same price? You're separating the two now?"
This guy was unreal. London's underworld really was crawling with vampires—sucked blood, sucked money, and then sucked some more.
"I don't have that kind of cash," Wade groaned, then flopped onto the scorched floor like a dying fish. "That was literally my entire savings. I don't even have a spare quid left. If you're gonna bleed me for more, just kill me now and get it over with."
He didn't look like he was bluffing.
Loren considered for a moment, then offered a compromise.
"Fine. You give me the five thousand, and we'll settle the rest... in kind."
Wade squinted suspiciously. "In kind?"
"I don't want relics or ritual ingredients," Loren waved off. "I want information."
If he'd asked for materials, Wade would've bolted—or lied. But knowledge? That was something even a broke sorcerer could spare.
Besides, Loren didn't need more trinkets. What he lacked was knowledge of the supernatural world.
Herman had been useful—for about five minutes. Beyond the basics, he'd had nothing. Loren had bigger problems now: Scotland Yard was watching him. Oliver Winston's mess still hadn't been cleaned up. The information gap was a liability.
"Alright," Wade said after a moment of thought. "Deal."
Loren reached down and offered his hand.
"Pleasure doing business."
Zanoni's luxurious bedroom had been reduced to a war zone—burned walls, shattered windows, furniture reduced to ash. The only thing still intact was the suffocating smell of charred blood and scorched silk.
At least the model girl had been evacuated early. Jack Arnold had made sure of that before things got messy.
Zanoni, though… hadn't been so lucky.
The once-smug politician lay on the floor, unconscious, eyes rolled back, mouth foaming, blood streaking down his face. He was breathing—barely.
Loren gave him a glance, then shrugged.
"You can decide how to handle it," he said to Mary.
She nodded quietly, her expression unreadable as she bent down and dragged Zanoni's limp body out of the room.
Wade watched her go, then spat to the side.
"Damn bastard cost me five thousand pounds and nearly got me turned into a vampire chew toy. I oughta stab him myself."
"You can start making up for it by going to get my money," Loren said, cutting off Wade's grumbling. He motioned to Jack. "Go with him. If anything goes sideways, call me."
Wade raised both hands in surrender, still wearing his red mask and now a borrowed jacket. "Relax. I'm not the kind of guy who tries to scam a debt collector that can punch through walls. I'm reckless, not stupid."
Implied subtext: if Loren hadn't been stronger, he'd be halfway to Paris by now.
Loren's gaze flicked to Wade's left arm.
The injuries from earlier—burns from spirit fire, lacerations from blood shards—were gone. Not healing. Gone. The skin was smooth and pink, freshly grown.
Definitely a regeneration ability. Maybe a separate spell. Or even a relic.
Add that to the list: spirit fire, thunder skin, shadow binding, invisibility curse…
Four different spells. Minimum.
Herman had said most low-tier sorcerers—"Energy-Rank" was the term—could only pull off one to three spells. If Wade had this many, and they weren't all basic, it meant he was likely a level above that.
Loren said nothing. He kept his poker face sharp, playing the role of a veteran supernaturally empowered being who'd seen it all.
"Life is just one dumb mistake after another," Wade muttered. "Who the hell knows what's coming next? I'm keeping my head down from now on."
Loren smirked. "You do that."
"I'll be back soon," Wade said, stepping over some smoldering wood. "Don't worry—I'm fast."
He turned toward the front hallway with Jack following like a silent reaper in a bloodstained coat.
As they vanished into the corridor, Loren stood alone in the wrecked bedroom, watching the flames die down in the corners of the room.
There was still much to do.
But first, he'd earned a few thousand pounds and a handful of secrets.
Not bad for a night's work.