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“Interesting…” The Righteous rubbed his chin. “And wasn’t there a third murder attempt? Some kid? Is it true his head hangs to one side ever since?”
“The boy recovered completely. If you’re at all interested in anything beyond the gossip that’s been spreading around.”
“Hmm… According to that same gossip, the Tribunal hasn’t figured out who murdered Kaliope Gazis and attempted to off the boy. Nor have they caught the alleged chambermaid killers.”
“The Tribunal hasn’t,” Constantine said.
Because Mikhail Korovin had made sure to confuse them, throwing bogus leads their way while he’d tried to catch the perpetrator himself and deal with them. His ploy wasn’t without its risks, given the Tribunal was the institution that upheld the order and confidentiality of the immortal world.
The Righteous pursed his lips. “But you have, haven’t you?”
Constantine sighed. “I just told you who did it. Or are your brain cells as stunted as your hands?”
“You just confessed to me that you withheld crucial information from the Tribunal, which is grounds for locking you and that pompous fool Korovin up. All I have to do is make the call.”
The necromancer smiled. “You could try. But you’re a businessman who knows when to pick a fight – and when to back off.”
Nikolay gave him a long look before extinguishing his cigar in the ashtray. “And you claim these murders were committed by someone who has taken the habit of hanging around The Seven Horses?”
“I claim that the creatures behind these murders have a cure for the slowed regeneration. It’s how they got the vampire to help them. And they’ve been hanging inside your club.”
“Right.” The Righteous’ voice dripped with sarcasm. “So, these dudes conveniently have a cure for a problem that has plagued the entire fucking immortal world for over three hundred years?”
Constantine himself had been more than sceptical when he had first heard of Diana’s cure. “Do you remember when immortals could regenerate instantly? When blood loss or infection didn’t threaten us, and cancer was a mortal’s problem?”
The Righteous squinted. “Cancer? In an immortal? You’re serious?”
“I thought your gossip-spies tell you everything. We found colon cancer in an immortal individual. A vampire. Looks like aside from ageing, infections and blood loss, we’re also threatened by malignant diseases.”
Now Constantine knew he had the man’s attention. His eyes had practically flared with interest at the mention of a cure for regeneration – a cure that would mean his hands would revert to their normal size, and fast.
Nikolay waved his hand. “I heard something of the sort, butI thought it was just rumours.”
“Regeneration hasn’t just slowed since 1744 – it’s deteriorating.
Some species might be on the brink of complete extinction.
” Constantine gave Nikolay some time to ponder the bomb he’d just dropped.
It wouldn’t take him long to get it – they needed to be on the same side if they wanted the same results.
The Righteous sighed, rubbing his temples as if the weight of Constantine’s words had settled there. “All right,” he finally muttered. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I believe you. Who are these men in my bar?”
“They have a means for unlocking the secondary form in New Generation creatures.”
“Ah, the New Generation – those poor souls, born too late to unlock their immortal form because their regeneration is too weak. It’s tragic, really.
And the women… they’ve got this inferiority complex that makes them…
quite accommodating. If you ask me, it’s better they don’t unlock their secondary form… ”
“That substance could support an immortal body through any extreme condition, not just the first transformation.”
The Righteous laughed. “Sounds great, but there’s no such thing.”
“Apparently, there is. They have it.”
The Righteous stared at Constantine with a glint in his eyes. “And who are ‘they’, exactly?”
“Reptilians. The eighth species.”
“What eighth species, necromancer?”
Constantine paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. “An eighth type of immortal creature. Aside from the six you know, and humans.”
The Righteous’ eyes narrowed, a mix of scepticism and curiosity in his gaze. “Is that supposed to be a joke? Because if it is, you’ve got my attention.”
Constantine’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Take it as you wish. What I need from you is the security footage from November 11th. And keep an eye out for anything – or anyone – unusual, especially matching the description I’m about to give you.”
The Righteous took the champagne bottle out from the bucket and filled his cup.
“As interesting as your tale sounds, why should I help you? Because of you, I lost my good hand and was forced to relocate my entire organ trade. As far as I’m aware, all I got in return was a promise that you will no longer interfere with my business. ”
“That promise still stands. But as I already mentioned, these creatures are likely the ones causing the regeneration problems. If we capture them, we might find a cure to restoring our full healing abilities.” Constantine lowered his gaze to the Righteous’ hands.
“And you, my friend, are in dire need of such a cure.”
Nikolay squirmed in his seat. “And what, exactly, does this eighth species look like?”
“Men. Suits. I hear they like their sunglasses, and wear them in the evenings and indoors.”
“Sunglasses are a dime a dozen here! Sure, suits are rarer, but still, not exactly a dead giveaway.” The Righteous nodded to the overcrowded dancefloor, rich with bobbing, tossing, turning, jumping and, on rare occasions, dancing creatures.
In the sea of writhing bodies, Constantine’s eyes landed on the leather-clad brunette from earlier.
As if sensing his gaze, she stared up at him, sending an unexpected jolt of heat through his groin.
He glanced away. “I will provide more details as I get them. In the meantime, ask your trusted staff to be on the lookout for strange offers. You know what I mean – anything beyond the regular shit that’s being offered around here. ”
The Righteous narrowed his eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke. “I have one condition.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Tell me more about this thing you claim speeds up regeneration.”
Constantine couldn’t count on Babyhand to keep his mouth shut, but desperate times required desperate measures.
And anyway, the Righteous wasn’t exactly a trusted source of the Tribunal either, so even if he went blabbing to them, his word was as good as non-existent.
“We’ve only seen a small sample of it, but it’s a liquid.
Potent enough to act almost instantly,” the necromancer explained, remembering Diana’s transformation.
“It gives a boost to any New Gen creature, allowing their body to survive that first transformation and access their secondary form. The regeneration effects aren’t permanent after – our research shows they revert, and the creature can get injured and not regenerate as fast – but the unlocking of the secondary form is permanent. ”
“All right, then. My condition is this: if you do find a way to speed up regeneration – be it with a cure or whatever else you find with this eight species – I want to be among the first to try it.”
“Deal.” Constantine nodded.
Nikolay took a sip from his champagne. “You said you wanted the security footage from November 11th. What are we looking for?”
“Give me everything you have and let me worry about that.”
“And here I thought there would be no more secrets between us.” The Righteous chuckled. “We have a deal, necromancer. Just don’t take this as a green light to traipse through my bar with your soil-stinking skeleton.”
Constantine placed a hand over his chest. “I would never.”
The Righteous called over one of his guards with his baby hand. “Take him to Johnny. Let him see the tapes he wants.”
Another dismissive gesture – with the same tiny hand – let Constantine know it was time to scram.
Gladly. He followed the guard to the security room.
Two other guards were watching the entire place on enormous screens.
As one of them, the so-called Johnny, loaded up the tapes from November 11th, Constantine snuck a peek at the cameras, scanning for the woman in the leather clothes.
When he couldn’t find her on any of the monitors, an unexpected wave of disappointment rushed across his body.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Johnny asked, smacking his gum.
“A woman,” Constantine replied.
“We got many women here, dude.”
“Around 23:30, sitting at one of the bars. She’d be wearing dark hair, jeans, reading a book—”
“Reading a book ? You must have it all wrong, pal. This ain’t no library.” Johnny and the other guard shared a mocking glance.
Constantine had thought the same when Alex Volk told him about the stranger sitting on a barstool beside her, reading a book.
“Wait!” Johnny exclaimed. “I’ll be damned. There she is! A chick reading a book.”
Constantine leaned in. The woman had not only mistaken the nightclub for a library, but on top of that, she’d resembled a librarian with her conservative jeans and polo shirt, enormous prescription glasses, and hair pulled back in a tight bun.
She was sipping wine from a thin, tall glass, pretending to read because there was no way she could see anything under the club’s blinking lights.
Next to her, Constantine could make out Alex’s grainy, albeit familiar, outline.
“Have you seen her here before?” Constantine asked.
“No! Definitely not. We get many freak shows here, but I’d have noticed one reading a book.”
In the footage, the woman closed her book and placed it on the bar counter, took another sip from her wine, and left. The footage wasn’t good enough to discern her face.
Alex Volk was left alone in the frame, all dressed up in a miniskirt that would infuriate her overly protective stepfather if he ever saw this.
She glanced left and right a few times, as if she felt uncomfortable, until she reached out, took the abandoned book and placed it in her handbag.
And that was how the mysterious Journal of C.
– thanks to which they had learnt the existence of the reptilians – had ended up in their possession.
“Could we check if the woman was here alone?” Constantine asked.
Johnny immediately engaged himself in tracking the woman on the other cameras. “There she is. Enters alone, exits alone. You’re in luck, dude. Your chick is single.”
The chick made her way through the crowd with intent that suggested she was there, neither for the party nor for sex.
At one point, she stopped to look around and, as if spotting her target, headed straight to the bar where Alex was sitting.
Her pace on the way out was even more resolved, like someone who had done their job here and had no intent of coming back ever again.
Who the hell are you?
Half an hour later, on his way out of The Seven Horses, Constantine crossed paths with the leather-clothed brunette.
Up close, her features were more mediocre than beautiful, and she feigned timid behaviour.
That didn’t matter to him, for when he leaned her against the side of his car, he found her more than eager for him, her moans merging with those of all the nameless women he’d taken in his life.