Cattleya ascended the iron ladder without making a sound, her boots whisper-soft against the rusted rungs. She paused just below the hatch, her spatial awareness mapping the figure standing above in the cold, wet alleyway.
One target. Unusually low core temperature. Heart rate steady at twenty-two beats per minute”far too slow for a living human, yet entirely devoid of the erratic, high-frequency bio-resonance characteristic of Vasili”s blood-bound thralls.
She reached up with her left hand, slowly lifting the heavy iron hatch three inches.
Rain lashed down through the gap, carrying the heavy stink of coal smoke, wet wool, and the unmistakable, sharp odor of high-grade antiseptic.
Standing on the drenched cobblestones above was a figure wrapped in a dark, double-breasted oiled leather
