Kallen Makris extinguished his cigarette in front of the crime scene as sirens wailed somewhere in the city.

​

Kallen turned to his apprentice, Mateo, as the newly-made detective lit a cigarette between his fangs. “The city didn’t quiet down after you left, to say the least,” said Mateo. The lighter’s flames illuminated Mateo’s crimson eyes and made his sickly pale skin look almost alive under the rosy light.

​

Almost.

​

Kallen’s deep sigh was laced with irritation as he lazily ran a hand through his curly mess of salt and pepper hair. It was damp with sweat in the humid summer night. He shifted on his feet and rested his aching back on the door of the cruiser parked in front of the run-down bungalow. Red and blue lights reflected off his stern golden gaze. “Run it by me again. What’re we dealing with here?”

​

“Hell if I know, sir,” Mateo responded, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke. “We tailed this guy all the way from the Canarsie Pier. The bastard had us running from one borough to the next.” Mateo ashed his cigarette. “A half-hour car chase later with me and Byrne on his ass and —” with a flourish, he gestured to the bungalow shrouded in a scarlet and ruby haze, “here we are!”

​

Kallen turned away from Mateo, who happily took the time to finish his cigarette, and moved to the bungalow before them. A low chain link fence that ran along the edge of the sidewalk encased the house. Heaps of abandoned rain-kissed garbage littered the lawn. Kallen’s brow furrowed. It looked like the home had been left to rot. The white paint had already begun to peel off the home’s exterior, and grass in the front garden was growing on the gravel path leading to the house. The sole semblance of beauty was Byrne’s Ward, a shimmering scarlet and ruby haze that covered the home.

 

“Shit… look at this place,” Kallen huffed under his breath. He scanned the area before staring at the slowly accumulating crowd filing out onto the street. The hairs on his arms began to rise as Kallen sensed fear from nearby humans and Mythos as they peered out from their homes.

​

Leaving Mateo to finish his smoke, Kallen stepped over the caution tape that lined the property and nodded to a female officer. Her bright red hair was pulled back into a low braid. She shot Kallen a smile that pinched her green eyes shut and scrunched up the crescent moon markings on her cheeks—markings that branded her a Sorceress. “Detective Makris,” she said.

​

“Byrne.” Kallen glanced over his shoulder at the crowd of onlookers. “Didn’t feel like putting up a Vision Ward to hide this place?”

​

“I opted for a Scent Ward instead. If you think the outside of this place looks bad, you should see the inside. I’m doing these people a service. The stench in there will leave you sick.”

​

A weight dropped on Kallen’s exhausted shoulders. “That bad?”

​

“That bad.”

​

There was a stagnant silence for a few heartbeats before Kallen let out a low, sickly growl. “Keep it up, Byrne.”

​

“You got it, sir.”

​

Kallen begrudgingly made his way to the front door and climbed onto the porch, wood creaking beneath his black shoes. He gently pressed his palm into the barrier, warping the ward so it formed around his hand, and entered the crime scene.

​

And he regretted entering immediately.

​

Being a Lycan certainly had its perks. Sure, Kallen was graced with strength and stamina that let him chase someone all around Manhattan if necessary, and being able to see in the dark sure had its perks, too, but sometimes his canine senses were just as much of a curse as they were a blessing.

​

In this case, they were a curse.

​

As soon as he passed the threshold, he lifted the cuff of his jacket over his nose as the smell of rot, iron, and something sweet and sickly conquered his senses. The unbearable stench caused Kallen’s throat to burn and his golden eyes to water. “Holy hell,” he grumbled. He respected Byrne for applying a Scent Ward around the home to save the community from the stench, but keeping the smell contained in such a tight space made Kallen’s head spin. This was going to be more of a pain than he thought.

 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Mateo drawled as he walked over to Kallen, the faint scent of smoke a pleasant distraction from the smell of rot.

​

Kallen only managed a grimace. 

“I pity you with your sense of smell.” Mateo reached for a clipboard containing all the evidence so far and passed it to Kallen.

​

Kallen skimmed the data, noting the address, gender, and supposed age of the corpse —

 

Corpse?

​

Kallen looked to Mateo, and the vampire threw his hands in the air. “Came as a surprise to us, too. Byrne and I infiltrated the house while tracking the guy down, and instead we met this.” He gestured to the grime-stained home. “A nightmare, really.”

​

“Sure seems like one.” Kallen handed the board back to his companion.

​

“Yeah, and that’s putting it lightly,” the younger detective said as he spun on his heel and entered the living room, his face contorting in disgust. “Christ.”

​

Kallen’s face mimicked the same expression as a subtle sickness bubbled in his stomach. “What of the culprit?”

​

“We lost him. But the peculiar thing was that he was human.”

​

“How is that peculiar?”

​

“Because he was faster than me.”

 

Kallen's brows furrowed in disbelief. “That’s… How?” A human outrunning a vampire was new to Kallen, even after being on the force for over thirty years. Vampires were valued for their speed and reflexes, just as Kallen and other Lycans specialized in tracking down hidden culprits and drugs. Kallen was lucky to have Mateo in the first place—Mateo was one of the fastest Vampires in the force and a good investigator. Considering Mateo’s natural charm and abilities, Kallen had to admit he was one of the best cops he had worked with. 

​

Not that Kallen would ever say that to his egotistical face.

​

But having a human best a Mythos, and that Mythos being Mateo of all people, was damn near unheard of.

​

Mateo shrugged. “Something was wrong with the guy. He was crazed, manic almost.” 

Kallen stepped farther into the home. The bungalow hardly felt lived in, which aroused suspicion. A torn sofa lined the wall and faced an old, mid-2000s box television that had seen better days, and a sapphire-hued recliner was upturned within the vicinity. There was clear evidence of a struggle. Kallen scanned the disheveled room before landing on the corpse that leaned against the wall in a pool of blood.

​

“Noah Birch,” Mateo said as Kallen slowly approached the body. “Worked at Canarsie Pier, supposedly. Lycan, lived here in Queens.”

​

Noah was a large Lycan in weight more than muscle, with more coarse, wiry black hair on his face than his head. Kallen crouched down next to the body, avoiding the pool of congealed blood. A member of the New York Crime Scene Investigation unit at his side offered him a face mask and gloves. Kallen took the items and slipped them on, thanking the investigator.

 

“Do we know anything about Birch?” Kallen asked.

​

“Not much.  He does have a record for theft and aggravated assault.”

​

Kallen hummed as he leaned over the body, inspecting the bloodstained shirt. He attempted to lift the fabric, but the hardened blood stopped him from doing so. A wound ran from the victim’s sternum to his paunchy belly button. It was a deep gash, the kind that prevented Lycan genes from healing at the normal rate. Either that, or a silver blade produced the incision. The victim’s brown eyes were glazed and his mouth was ajar, showing yellowed canine teeth, rotting gums, and bloated skin. The skin around his mouth caught Kallen’s attention—specifically the slightly greenish hue and dried spit that caked the corners of his lips.

​

Kallen poked around the pockets of Noah’s jeans and removed a tiny pouch filled with neon green crystals the same texture as salt. The smell of burnt sugar overcame the rot and coated his senses. Kallen rose to his feet and wiggled the bag in front of Mateo. “Anything in his record about drug dealing?”

​

Mateo looked through a sheaf of papers. “Nothing.”

 

“Was it a break-in?” Kallen nodded back towards the front door whose wood was splintered and chipped, revealing layers of old paint—its lock had clearly been changed many times.

​

Mateo shook his head. “The neighbours haven’t heard anything from this house in about a week, save the commotion from today.”

​

“And the murder weapon?”

​

“Left it at the back door.”

​

The expression that bloomed on Kallen’s face must have been amusing considering the violent snort that ripped from Mateo’s throat. “Yeah, trust me, I had the same reaction. Back door is in the kitchen,” said Mateo.

​

Kallen glanced back at the body as he removed his gloves and dropped them on top of one of the many garbage bags nearby. The human with superspeed that got away, which led the NYPD to this house, which revealed a dead body with drugs I’ve never seen before…

​

Mateo looked like he was about to vomit. “I’m gonna get some air and fetch Byrne to collect some of these blood samples, considering we have that to deal with now,” he said, pointing a slim, accusatory finger at the neon green drug.

​

Kallen nodded and removed his mask. Kallen paced around the bungalow with knitted brows as his shoes crushed abandoned beer cans and wrappers of every kind. He breathed in deeply, and the scent of burnt candy brushed his senses. He inhaled slowly again and spun on his heel to face the bookshelf. The aroma intensified.

​

Drip. The sound of water echoed somewhere in the house.

​

He slipped on a new pair of gloves and walked over to the dusty bookshelf stacked with knickknacks and trivia books about sports teams. Kallen made quick work of pulling them out and flipping through the pages. The scent of sugar was so strong it tickled his throat.

 

Drip. A faucet leaked once again. Kallen suppressed an irritated growl as he tried to block out the annoyance.

​

It wasn’t long before two small bags slipped out from a book. One of the bags held a mysterious green drug, the other a prismatic, silver powder.

​

He knew right away what the powder was. Silver Valium. The small, silver crystals were split into tiny doses. Kallen clenched his jaw, grinding his sharp canine teeth together. 

 

Silver Valium—the very drug that ruined countless lives and devasted New York for decades, the very drug that left users catatonic with pleasure or exhausted with fear.  

 

Kallen's experience was the latter. Even after thirty years on the force and countless raids to try and rid New York City of the drug, it kept coming back. It was the very drug that inspired Kallen to become a cop in the first place after he lost his brother to it many years ago, leaving the legacy of the Makris name to Kallen alone. 

 

Drip.

​

His heart raced. He cautiously held the Silver Valium; its strong scent made him want to vomit.

​

Drip.

​

His patience snapped.

 

“Byrne!”

​

“Sir?”

 

Her voice was quiet compared to the cacophony in his head. “Find whatever damn tap is dripping, and for the love of God, turn it off.”

​

The Sorceress nodded and disappeared to investigate.

​

Kallen rubbed his eyes. He cleared his throat as his mind churned. If Silver Valium was involved, that would mean that Noah probably succumbed to violent tendencies, which most likely led to a confrontation with the attacker.

​

Kallen walked to the dining room. It was pinched between the kitchen and that poor excuse of a living room. Kallen stepped over the puddle of dried blood and glanced about the room as his stomach settled. There wasn’t much to note except the fliers that littered the chipped, wooden dining table and the four overdue bills that spread across its surface.

​

Leaving the papers as they were, Kallen made two quick strides into the kitchen and spotted the weapon that was abandoned on the cracked tiles. The size of an average steak knife, Kallen took a knee next to it to get a better look. The slight bend to the precious and lethal metal immediately indicated to Kallen this was silver. The knife was custom made—it was modified and ground down to have serrated edges. Kallen ran his finger across the metal and was surprised when no traces of blood appeared on the glove.

​

Kallen squinted, sighed, then pulled himself to his feet. A lead, at least, he mused as he surveyed the foul kitchen. Chipped plates and dirty cutlery were thrown haphazardly in the sink, flies feasted on the remnants of rotten food, and cracked cups and shards of glass speckled the countertop, occasionally reflecting light from the cruisers outside.

​

“Sir,” Byrne hailed him from the kitchen doorway. “No faucets or water is running. Maybe it’s from next door?”

​

Drip.

​

The hair on Kallen’s arms stood at attention. “Byrne,” he called out quietly.

​

“Sir?”

​

“Get out and stay on the street with Mateo.”

​

“May I ask why?”

​

 Drip.

​

Kallen glanced up. The sound came from above. “Because whoever they are, they’re still here.”

​

Without hesitation, Byrne backed away before jogging out of the house. If there was a fight, Kallen didn't want either of them getting hurt, and having backup outside would prevent the culprit from escaping again.

​

Kallen walked about the bungalow as quietly as possible, following the faint drip. It was loudest behind an old oak door, which Kallen slowly opened. A double bed took up most of the room, and the carpet was covered by dirty clothes and abandoned laundry. Scanning the room, he noticed the tiles on the ceiling, simple ones made of plaster that could be shifted around to store things up in an attic.

​

Taking another cautious step into the bedroom, he surveyed the ceiling for disturbances. One tile was chipped and misaligned, and then, above the double bed and tucked into the far corner of the room, he saw a sliver of darkness poke out against the cream-coloured roofing. A shifted tile.

​

He inhaled deeply, the scent of burning sugar lingering amongst the rot as he took a cautious step onto the bed, its squeaky springs collapsing under his weight. Kallen carefully popped the tile off the roof and laid it on the bed.

​

Taking a deep breath, Kallen poked his head up into the attic. It didn’t take his eyes long to adjust to the darkness, and he was surprised when he saw how spacious the attic was. Bracing his hands on a sturdy beam, Kallen pulled himself up, minding not to break any of the fragile tiles that surrounded him.

​

He hunched forward to avoid smacking his head on the ceiling and surveyed the room. Boxes of all kinds littered the attic, creating small, makeshift walls and hiding spots. He stepped forward, and the wooden beam creaked beneath him.

​

As he stared down at the beam to steady himself, the sound of a cocking gun echoed throughout the attic. Kallen looked up and saw a small, shaking figure pointing a gun at him.

​

“Stay back,” a quiet voice called out.