VALENTINA
The Whipper's office is in Whitechapel, tucked between a butcher shop and a pawn broker. Perfect cover. Blood smells from the butcher mask vampire scents. Desperation from the pawn shop masks everything else.
I'm crouched on the roof across the street, watching through a scope I borrowed from Tom. Borrowed meaning stole, but he'll steal it back later so we're even.
Three vampires went in forty minutes ago. Parliamentary Whippers, the enforcement arm nobody talks about. They're the ones who make sure supernaturals stay in line. Blackmail, threats, occasional disappearances. Democracy requires enforcement, after all.
My phone buzzes silently. Text from Tom.
How long you planning to watch? Getting boring.
I don't respond. Tom thinks this is reconnaissance. Simple intelligence
