The Bellflower House was one of my cleaner holdings—professionally discreet, tastefully warded, and staffed with people who didn't ask questions they weren't paid to answer. Nestled between a shuttered café and a flowerless florist, the building wore respectability like a shawl. Unassuming. Quiet. Exactly how I liked it.
I stepped through the front doors without knocking. The wards recognized my bloodprint immediately; the brass sigil above the lintel pulsed once, then stilled.
Inside, the lights were low. Music murmured from somewhere in the back—strings, soft and slow. The reception desk was empty. The air smelled of salt, cotton, and faintly of aged magic.
Too faint.
I made my way toward the back with smooth, unhurried steps, trailing a fingertip along the banister. The place was clean—but not freshly so. I could always tell.
I found Luken downstairs, leaning over an inventory scroll and muttering to himself. Human, mid-40s, dependable as stone, if not particularly imaginative. His head jerked up the moment he saw me, panic flaring behind his eyes before he could school it into something respectful.
"Mr. Graveblood," he said quickly, standing. "Didn't know you were—"
"Good." I smiled faintly. "Spontaneity keeps people honest."
He fumbled with the scroll. "Everything's in order, I swear. Shipments came on time, temperature wards held steady, no break-ins, no—"
"I'm not here for a speech, Luken." I walked past him into the storage hall. "I'm here for answers."
He hesitated, then followed.
The blood was kept in reinforced crystal canisters, stacked neatly on rune shelves glowing faint blue with stasis. I examined a few without speaking—turning each gently, checking clarity, viscosity, hue. Most were fine.
Two were not.
"This one's separating," I said, holding up a pale vial. "You see it?"
Luken blinked. "I—no, I mean, I didn't notice. That batch came in sealed from the East House. Certified."
I handed it back to him without comment.
"What's the intake protocol?" I asked, stepping farther into the cellar.
He followed, flipping nervously through his logsheet. "ID scans. Signature imprint. Tier-two scent wards. Standard questioning."
"And?"
"And no one's failed anything," he said. "Except..."
I stopped. "Except?"
"There was a woman," he said, hesitant. "A few nights ago. Beautiful. Strange aura. Said she was renewing a supply contract for her employer. But her paperwork was old, and the house name she gave doesn't exist anymore."
"Did you serve her?"
He swallowed. "No. I told her I'd have to verify it first. She left."
"Did she?"
His silence answered for him.
I walked over to the corner shelf and touched the sigil seal on the wall—one I'd etched myself last year. It was slightly... smudged. Not broken. Just touched.
"Who else was on shift?" I asked.
"Just me and Anya."
"Where's she now?"
"Off-duty. Went home two nights ago. Didn't come back yesterday."
My fingers tapped once against the warded stone.
Interesting.
The door upstairs chimed.
Luken looked up.
"Let her in," I said. "But don't follow."
He hesitated, then nodded and climbed the stairs.
I stood by the wall, still as the dead. Let the presence move through the building like perfume. She didn't creep. She glided.
When she entered, I was already leaning against the stone column near the shelf—relaxed, half-posed, like a painting caught mid-thought.
She was stunning.
Tall. Copper-brown skin that caught the low light like bronze. Long black hair wrapped in silk cords that shimmered purple when she moved. She wore a high-collared coat the color of blood roses, slit down the sides over tailored pants and flat boots. Casual. Controlled. Intentional.
Her eyes landed on me.
"Oh," she said. "I was hoping I'd find someone useful."
I arched a brow. "Useful? Gods, I hope not. What a terribly dull reputation to carry."
She smiled, slow and warm and deliberately unaware.
"I didn't catch your name," she said, stepping closer.
"I didn't throw it," I replied. "I like to let people wonder."
"Is that what you're doing? Making me wonder?"
I tilted my head. "Depends. Is it working?"
She laughed. A soft, rich sound—measured. I noted the way her fingers brushed the side of a canister. No hesitation. No curiosity. Too familiar.
"Looking for something?" I asked lightly.
"I could ask you the same," she said. "You don't exactly look like staff."
"Oh, I own the staff," I said gently. "Among other things."
Her expression didn't flicker.
Interesting.
She moved to another canister, examined the seal without touching. "Nice craftsmanship. Old magic."
"Older," I corrected. "I just reminded it how to sing."
She turned to face me fully now.
"And you are?" she asked, voice honey-smooth.
I stepped forward once, the air between us electric and silent.
"Veylen Graveblood," I said. "The one who keeps the city from bleeding itself dry."
She paused—just a fraction too long. Then:
"Ah," she said. "The Blood Keeper."
I smiled.
She hadn't flinched.
But she knew the name.
And she wasn't here by chance.
She stood closer now—maybe two strides away. Enough for a dagger, enough for a kiss. The space between us pulsed with all the things not being said.
Veylen, I reminded myself, be charming.
But also… be sure.
I took a long, unhurried inhale through my nose.
To her credit, she didn't flinch. But blood never lies.
There it was—not human.
I could tell immediately. No iron-rich tang, no sun-burned sweat notes, no city-smoke in the marrow. Instead, her blood carried sharpness and cold flora—hawthorn, stormsalt, dried cherry leaf. Magic had touched her. Wrapped itself around her bones.
Not a vampire. Not a wolf. Not a troll.
Fae? No… too sharp.
My brows furrowed slightly. I'd smelled many kinds of creatures in my time—some masked, some proud. But hers didn't fit. It wasn't wild enough for fae, wasn't feral enough for lycanthrope, and had none of the iron corruption of the dead.
Her blood scent was… muted. Controlled. A blend meant to mislead.
That alone was interesting.
"You smell like the forest after a funeral," I said smoothly.
She blinked. Then smiled, slightly tilted.
"Is that a compliment where you're from?"
I tilted my head. "It's a compliment anywhere I'm standing."
She laughed again, but this time I caught the flicker beneath it—just the edge of calculation in the curve of her lips.
So, I leaned forward, just a little, and let a drop of my blood form beneath my thumb. It hovered against my skin—dark, gleaming, held by will alone. I didn't touch her. Just let the pressure build in the air, as if the blood itself were aware.
She glanced at it.
And for a heartbeat—just one—her breath caught.
She knew what it was.
I pulled it back into my thumb and let it reabsorb into my skin.
Didn't mark her.
Not yet.
"You don't seem surprised to see me here," I said, walking slowly around her, hands behind my back like I was admiring artwork.
"I'm not," she said.
"Curious," I murmured. "Because most people try not to end up in my company unless they're bleeding or bargaining."
"I'm not most people."
"That," I said, stopping in front of her again, "is the first honest thing you've said."
She smirked. "Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Sharp. Pretty. Slightly dangerous."
"I'd be offended," I said, "if it weren't all true."
We stood there in silence for a moment longer. I watched her eyes scan the shelves again. Not greedily—just passively. Like someone confirming what they already knew.
"I should go," she said suddenly.
"Of course." I stepped aside, gesturing with mock grace. "The door's that way. The suspicion stays here."
She moved toward the exit, then paused.
"Veylen?"
"Yes?"
"You should be careful."
I smiled, slow and deliberate. "Darling… I've spent the last fifteen years learning how not to die."
She dipped her chin; an elegant departing gesture, before slipping out without another word.
The air still held her scent: the air of a cyclone, sea salt and hawthorn, woven with something I didn't recognize. I turned back to the vial she'd hovered near, checking it again.
The seal was intact.
But no blood. No residue. She hadn't fed. Hadn't stolen.
She hadn't left anything behind.
Which meant I couldn't follow her.
Not yet. Her scent wasn't the only thing that was sharp... and it still hung in the air. Lingering. Clinging to the low ceilings and the stone like a half-forgotten song.
She was nearby once.
And next time?
I'd have to make sure she left something more behind.
Even a single drop would do.