Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Porcelain
The rhythmic tink-tink-tink of metal striking white ceramic was the loudest sound in the vast, shadowed dining room.
My hands shook so violently that the bottle of rubbing alcohol slipped from my fingers, spilling clear, pungent liquid across the dark mahogany table. On the floor, the shards of Vincent’s shattered water glass mirrored the amber glow of the chandelier above.
In the center of the bowl, half-submerged in dark red blood and clear antiseptic, the black thing writhed.
It wasn't an insect. It wasn't an organic parasite. It was roughly the size of a pumpkin seed, forged from matte black alloy, split into four segmented legs that curled and uncurled like dying spiders. At its center, beneath a coating of biological matter, a diode no larger than a grain of sand flashed a rhythmic, malevolent red.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Vincent didn't look at the bowl. He stared at the screen of my phone, his massive, calloused fingers trembling as they hovered above the keyboard. His broad chest heaved against his tailored white shirt, now soaked with sweat and stained down the collar with fresh blood leaking from his ear canal.
"Who knows you found it?" the screen read.
I took the phone from his hands with cold fingers. My throat felt like it was coated in ash.
No one. Only me. Just now.
Vincent read the words. His jaw tightened so hard I could hear the grinding of his teeth across the short distance between us. The vulnerability that had flashed across his carved, brutal features vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal instincts of an apex predator.
He didn't stand up like a sick man. He rose with terrifying, silent precision, crossed the dining room, and locked the heavy oak doors with two deadbolts.
I backed away until my hip hit the edge of the dining table. The creature in the bowl gave one last, frantic twitch before curling into a tight, metallic knot. The red diode stopped pulsing intermittently; it locked into a steady, solid glare.
Vincent returned to my side, his eyes scanning the ceiling, the baseboards, the antique grandfather clock ticking in the corner. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold-plated pen and a small leather notebook he always carried, and scribbled furiously:
It has a cellular transmitter. The moment you broke the neural contact with my auditory nerve, it sent an alert. We have less than ten minutes before whoever planted it realizes I'm free.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Who planted it? I scribbled beneath his handwriting.
Vincent stared at my question. For a fraction of a second, an expression of profound, bitter grief crossed his dark eyes. He wrote three words:
My own blood.
Before I could process what that meant, a muted chime vibrated from the handheld radio resting on the side credenza. A voice crackled through the speaker, distorted by static:
"Boss? Security feed on the east gate just went black. Marco said he saw headlights coming up the private drive without transponder clearance. Should we engage?"
Vincent couldn't hear the radio. He didn't need to. He saw my head snap toward the device, saw the terror painted across my face, and instantly understood.
He reached into the waistband of his trousers, pulled out a matte-black customized Glock, checked the chamber with a single, fluid flick of his wrist, and gripped my wrist with an iron hand.
May you like
He didn't write another word. He pulled me toward the service entrance behind the pantry, dragging me out of the blinding light of the dining room into the cold, predatory dark of the service corridors.
Behind us, resting on the mahogany table, the red light in the porcelain bowl began to beep—a high-pitched, microscopic frequency that signaled the beginning of a war.
