He must have been the progenitor to the younger one. Younglings usually weren’t allowed to wander without supervision. If an elder was out with them, it meant they were related by blood.

  A twinge of fear touched the pit of her stomach, but Clare covered it by ordering a beer.

  “Hey, uh...”

  “Aldonado,” he offered.

  “Right. Almost had it.” She smiled politely around the rim of her freshly poured mug. The name was familiar. Talk had already spread through New Houston of an elder vampire entering the city. A rare occurrence, considering most didn’t deign to leave the vamp cities in the south and west.

  Unless they were going to war. Thankfully, she hadn’t had to worry about that in her lifetime.

  “Naturally.” He smiled and flashed a set of sharp, impossibly white teeth. Nothing in New Houston had any right to be that clean. He leaned forward and winked before speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I know the pill you gave him will ease his suffering when he wakes. Next time, I’d ask you not to do that.”

  Clare couldn’t help leaning away from him. Something about having those fangs so close to her carotid didn’t sit right with her. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  Aldonado sensed her discomfort and eased back. Every movement he made was deliberate. From what she’d read about the fangs, the older they got, the faster and stronger they became. Which meant he needed to keep hold of himself to prevent damaging anything or anyone who got in his way.

  “Because pain is a great teacher. Mercy gentles the memory. I may have to send him back to you if he hasn’t learned his lesson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to care for the young one.”

  Clare watched him carefully. He didn’t look like he was about to head off and help someone. Then he was gone. No puff of smoke, no gust of wind to indicate he’d moved. Hell, there wasn’t an indication that he’d ever been on the barstool.

  She narrowed her eyes and looked around. Didn’t seem like anyone else had spotted anything out of the ordinary. A few of them clapped her on the back and shouted at the bartender that they had her next drink, but none spotted the vampire.

  Weird. Clare breathed deeply and sipped her beer. Maybe something was in the drink she’d been given as a peace offering.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The city was an experience. Anselm couldn’t claim he hadn’t been warned. The fact remained that it was terrible, and he saw why nobody would have chosen this assignment.

  If he performed well enough, it would give him his pick of assignments, a pay bump, and probably an office when he got back. Not that he didn’t enjoy working in the bullpen with the others, but having his own office offered a privacy he’d longed for while working.

  His time in New Houston wasn’t worth it. He would have preferred to remain a regular senior adjudicator until he was allowed to retire to coming down to the filth and mire. Figuratively and extremely literally. The whole city was covered in a thick cloud of smog from all the unmaintained vehicles and generators. It was what came from not having a centralized governing body.

  The place was filthy from top to bottom. He hadn’t seen a single wall that wasn’t covered in graffiti, both new and old. Filth accumulated on the streets, a light veneer of dust that turned to mud when it rained. He hadn’t read up on how often that happened in New Houston.

  He could handle filth. Anselm had learned to deal with it during his training. He’d started with phobias when it came to mud in particular, but those were drilled out of him in his first month as a candidate. What irked him was the indignity of the people who lived in the city. The neutral cities were supposed to be shining beacons of collaboration between humans and non-humans.

  Maybe New Houston wasn’t a good example. Watching the indignity of humans pretending to be fangs and allowing themselves to be fed on made it worse. Fangs had artificial options. Why would a human subject themselves to that?

  The worst part was the lack of intelligence on this Clairvoyant character. The connections he’d made thus far said they’d check back with him once they’d dug up more. Which begged the question of where the intel came from and how reliable it was.

  Anselm wasn’t sure what would happen if he had to send a report to his superiors explaining no Clairvoyant was in the city. They would either recall him and obfuscate the mission’s records or tell him to stay down there and find someone who could do what they thought the Clairvoyant could.

  The second option sent a chill down his spine. He had no wish to spend any more time in New Houston than he had to. Turning the mission down or failing it wasn’t an option, though. Not while he was on the ground. For all he knew, they would end up stranding him there.

  Unacceptable.

  Anselm steeled his nerves and shook his head. Barely a twitch, but it was there, indicating his current stress levels. He wasn’t an adjudicator here. He needed to stop acting like it and blend in. It would take a while to look like part of the generalized press of humanity. That was all in the details.

  In less than an hour, he’d gotten his coat and clothes to match the average person on the street. Not a beggar, but certainly not someone right off the shuttle. Not everyone was trained to be as observant as him. Then again, he considered the possibility someone would notice anyway. Just because the surface-dwellers weren’t burdened with an abundance of schooling didn’t mean they had no observational intelligence.

  At least they had places that served something resembling alcohol. He wouldn’t have touched the swill they served with a ten-foot baton in Summerland. He probably would have reported the establishment to the health and safety authorities, too. Booze was booze, though. It was a simple way to dull the edges of his keen senses.

  Other ways were possible, but those came with weighty penalties. Excessive alcoholism was met with an evaluation if it interfered with an adjudicator’s work.

  The Necropolis bar was about as good as it got, although it was clearly a fang joint. Hopefully, halfway through the bottle of “wine” he ordered, he would cease to notice the low quality of the drink and the company.

  Back in Summerland, it would be simple. He would have approached the person or persons who’d delivered the intelligence and interrogated them, squeezed them for all he could. Then he’d have injected them with a tracker to make sure they couldn’t leave the city if he needed more questions answered.

  He’d done it a thousand times before and would continue to do so if allowed. After he had the intelligence he needed, he would encounter the citizen that the council needed and impose the duty of saving the city on them. If they were honest, they would accept, especially if it came with a monetary reward.

  If they were of an unsavory nature, he would appeal to their greed. It didn’t take much effort to get to the bottom of what people wanted, and it wasn’t always money.

  Better yet, if he was up top, he wouldn’t have to worry about finding a way to get them back to Summerland after he captured them.

  He did now, though. He hadn’t made contact with the embed yet, so he didn’t know how to arrange a way back after he secured them.

  Anselm sipped his wine and winced again. The more he drank, the more annoying the taste became. This wasn’t how the situation was supposed to play out, but he was currently out of options. He needed to cool his heels. Rash action would only get him noticed. Word that an adjudicator was there would spread through the city like wildfire, and that would end in a recall and a demotion.

  Assuming he made it out of the city. The authorities of New Houston, or whatever they had here instead, wouldn’t take kindly to an agent from the sky cities operating in their jurisdiction.

  The situation was serious, but good work meant taking his time when he had to. Anselm definitely needed to. He had to find a way to deal with his visceral disgust at every sight of the furries, fangs, and other nameless monsters that infested the city, living among humans who seemed more or less comfortable sharing their world.

  He sighed and assumed calm once more. It had been difficult as a teenager but was considerably easier now. Practically automatic. He left the bottle of wine half-full but paid the entire amount. The barkeep would sell what remained anyway. He simply didn’t want any attention drawn to him or his presence in the place.

  The next bar looked more promising. The name wasn’t an obvious draw for humans who wanted to mingle with the monstrous dregs. It catered to the working class, the salt of the earth. That didn’t mean they would have any intelligence to share, but he could get a decent drink while he figured out his next move.

  One step into the place told him he was right about the clientele. His people, or at least he liked to think that. Plenty of mutes mixed in too, but regular old vanilla humans were present.

  A mute wrestling match played on the links across the bar, which meant no heads turned when he entered. The place looked like it had seen a handful of fights already that night, and the brawlers were still in the bar.

  Furries liked to fight. It was in their nature, but they didn’t appear to make it personal. He’d read the studies on them. Their incredible durability allowed them to partake in violent bouts over their pack’s pecking order without sustaining any long-term injuries.

  For all their failings, he wondered if that wasn’t a better way to conduct politics in the elevated cities. Or sky cities, as they were called by the people on the ground.

  He could delve into the locals for information, but he wanted to take a breather and get a drink. The fight looked like fun, too. They didn’t seem to be allowed the use of claws or fangs, so it would go on for a while.

  Anselm settled on the nearest barstool to watch and wait for a bartender. His knuckle itched from where the brass ring nanites sank in, but he knew better than to scratch it. The last thing he needed was a scar to identify him to the many people who knew what the brass ring was and wished it ill.

  The bombardment of information continued, and the half bottle of shitty wine hadn’t done much to dull his senses. Someone to his left had cancer they weren’t treating. By choice, since it smelled like it was months in. At this point, they’d need nanite treatment in the New Houston hospitals.

  A were behind him wasn’t drinking alcohol. The three who’d taken up the corner seats on the other side of the bar were in cahoots with the bartender, sneaking money from the register. They were comfortable doing it, saying it had been going on for a while, and they weren’t worried about the owner catching them in the act.

  Odd. Anselm closed his eyes and focused on his calm for a few more seconds before the thud of glass on wood told him his drink had arrived.

  “You all right?” To his credit, the young man on the other side of the bar seemed genuinely concerned.

  “A headache.” Anselm forced a smile and raised his drink. “Thanks, though.”

  Just because the bartender was a werewolf didn’t mean Anselm had a right to be rude to him. Even if that was his first impulse. He needed to get that under control.

  A young woman seated four stools to his left drew his attention. Nothing much to see about her compared to the sheer number of people he’d seen. Young, scrappy, raised to be as hard as she could, or she wouldn’t have survived for long. She was armed, although he couldn’t pick out exactly what her weapons were.

  Concerning but once again common in New Houston. In the absence of firearms, which were all but banned, they’d been forced to get creative with how they killed each other.

  A vampire was seated next to her, and he leaned in closer. She was uncomfortable with the proximity, as most humans were, but not necessarily threatened.

  “I picked up something to help with the headache, if you’re interested.”

  Anselm blinked and returned his attention to the bartender. He’d pushed over a couple of tablets with official-looking markings on the label.

  “Looks like you’re out of it. Naxim will aid with the headache and help you sleep. Don’t take it if you plan on doing any of the fun drugs out by the Gorge, though. You never know what weird interactions the drugs will have when they get thrown together, right?”

  Anselm inspected the pills. It didn’t seem polite to turn them down, but he wouldn’t take them, either. If they were from a proper factory, he couldn’t see an expiration date.

  “Thanks.” He smiled again and reached for his bill.

  “Don’t worry about it. Headaches are the worst, and drinking doesn’t help. Believe me.”

  Once again, the kid seemed genuinely concerned. Kid was probably not the best description since he was only three or four years younger than Anselm. The bartender didn’t stick around to ensure Anselm accepted the pills. Another patron called, and he was off to help them.

  Anselm shook his head and tucked the tablets in his pocket before returning his attention to the fang and the girl.

  The fang was gone. He couldn’t have looked away for more than ten seconds, but the creature wasn’t in the room anymore. Or if it was, it had gone invisible. The girl seemed similarly perplexed by the disappearance but not enough to part her from her drink.

  A few weres approached her like they knew her and shouted that they wanted to buy her next few rounds over a contest he’d been too late to watch.

  Vampires irked the fuck out of him. More than werewolves, although he could never figure out why. One wanted to suck him dry of blood. The other wanted to chew on his intestines. Both ended with him dead.

  He needed to focus. He sipped his beer and grunted when he found its taste less offensive than the wine. Beer seemed the better option while he was on the ground, even though it was watered down.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” Anselm asked as the bartender passed him again. Not the best start to a conversation since his name was displayed on a tag across the right side of his chest. It was personable, though.

  “Fransua. Yours?”

  “Shak.” Anselm pushed a small credit chit across the bar top to cover the obvious lie. Shak was one of the most common names in the city. “I’m new here in town—”

  “No shit.” Fransua grinned.

  That stung, but he moved on. “I’m not here for a drink. I’m looking for someone. I’ve got a job in the works for a particular client with particular demands.”

  Fransua tucked the chit into his apron pocket before nodding. “Sure. Get those around here sometimes. You looking for someone specific or recommendations?”

  “Specific. Got a recommendation for a guy called Clairvoyant. They’re supposed to be the best, but I have to meet and vet them first.”

  “You’re here to find this fucker, then?” Fransua paused to dry a glass from the washer. “There’s a booth over in the corner. Sit over there, and I’ll get back to you with what I know.”

  The bartender knew something. He’d been squirrely since the moment he heard the name, but he was intent on keeping it to himself. No point in pressing him without an adjudicator’s authority.

  Anselm decided to do what he’d been told. The booth Fransua directed him to had a clear shot at the exit. If problems arose, he could drop an area stunner and disappear before the monsters closed on him.

  It would be disastrous for his work but not the biggest disaster he’d ever run into.

  “Hey, Clare?”

  She finished her beer and set the mug down before turning on her stool. People were paying for her drinks, and she was notoriously difficult to get drunk. Time to take advantage of their goodwill until they developed bad moods and the money stopped flowing.

  Elene, one of the bussers, had come up next to her. Her tray was packed with glasses, plates, and utensils, but she somehow managed to keep the rowdy weres around her from bumping into it.

  “What’s going on?” Clare waved to another pair of weres, who bought her the next round.

  “Fran wants to see you in the kitchen. Said it was urgent but didn’t tell me what the sitch is.”

  Urgent was right. She didn’t often drink at the Foundry, but she’d been around long enough to know nobody was allowed in the kitchen. If Fran wanted her back there, something was wrong.

  She didn’t let that erase her good mood, though. She was a human, and she’d drunk a lot of fluids. Cause and effect directed her to the bathroom.

  After a quick stop there, she slipped through the door leading to the kitchen. She’d never been in the back. All the machines flipping sliders around, frying taters, and pumping drinks into the bar kegs were fascinating enough to justify the trip.

  She’d had few opportunities to watch cooking and washing devices in action. They were usually the first to be claimed at the dumps, for one thing, and people were careful not to let anyone know their trade secrets.

  “Clare! Clare, over here!” Fran raised a hand to direct her through the mess of continuous motion that was the mostly automated kitchen. He’d taken his break and was in the back, having something to eat while waiting for her. Clearly, she should have come back sooner. “Thanks for meeting me,” he told her.

  “Yeah, long as you don’t expect me to do any cooking. You know that fryer is working on an iffy fuse, right?”

  “Really?” He said it like that made sense to him, but he didn’t care. It was a problem for the owner to figure out. “No, no cooking. There’s an out-of-towner here looking for a guy by the name of Clairvoyant. Says he needs the person for a hush-hush job.”

  Clare tilted her head. “Huh. Got any eyes on the outer in question?”

  “Sure.” He pulled a small screen from his pocket. It was tapped into the place’s questionable security feeds, and it turned one of the cameras toward a corner booth.

  “Shit.” She rubbed her mouth. “I spotted that fucker following me earlier today. What do you make of him?”

  “Too clean to be a local, but didn’t seem like any law enforcement or militia I’ve seen. Sounded desperate, too. Weird, though. If he was following you already, why would he think you were a guy?”

  She shrugged and tucked a few strands of rust-red hair back into her hoodie. She was nowhere near drunk enough to make a flippant comment. The man following her had spooked her.