The Grand Gilded Salon of the neutral city of Oakhaven was a cathedral of excess, a place where the scent of expensive tobacco mingled with the floral perfume of courtesans and the sharp, metallic tang of cold gold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings like frozen explosions of light, casting a brilliant shimmer over the velvet-topped tables where fortunes were made and unmade with the flick of a wrist. The air was thick and stagnant, vibrating with the low murmur of desperate men and the rhythmic, rhythmic clicking of ivory chips. This was a city where no flags flew, only the banner of greed, making it the perfect shadow in which to hunt a man whose appetites exceeded his wisdom.
Constantine moved through the crowd with the effortless grace of a shark gliding through shallo
