And Holland did. Ros Vortalis. He was a legend in the Kosik, a story in the streets and the shadows, a man who used his words as much as his weapons, and one who always seemed to get his way. A man known across the city as the Hunter, named for tracking down whoever and whatever he wanted, and for never leaving without his quarry. A man who had been hunting Holland for years.

“You have a reputation,” said Holland.

“Oh,” said Vortalis, exhaling, “we both have those. How many men and women walk the streets of London without weapons at hand? How many end fights without lifting a finger? How many refuse to join the gangs or the guard—”

“I’m not a thug.”

Vortalis cocked his head. His smile vanished. “What are you, then? What’s the point of you? All the magic in that little black eye, and what do you use it for? Emptying your veins into a frozen river? Dreaming of a nicer world? Surely there are better uses.”

“My power has never brought me anything but pain.”

“Then you’re using it wrong.” With that he stood and put the end of his taper out against the nearest tree.

Holland frowned. “This is a sacred—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish the admonition, for that was when Vortalis moved, so fast it had to be a spell, something scrawled somewhere beneath his clothes—but then again, spells only amplified power. They didn’t make it from scratch.

His fist was inches from Holland’s face when Holland’s will ground against flesh and bone, forcing Vortalis to a stop. But it wasn’t enough. The man’s fist trembled in the air, warring with the hold, and then it came crashing through, like a brick through glass, and slammed into Holland’s jaw. The pain was sudden, bright, Vortalis beaming as he danced backward out of Holland’s range. Or tried to. The stream shot up behind him and surged forward. But just before it caught Vortalis in the back, he moved again, sidestepping a blow he couldn’t have seen before Holland finally lost patience and sent two spears of ice careening toward the man from opposite sides.

He dodged the first, but the second took him in the stomach, the spear spinning on its axis so it shattered broadside across the man’s ribs instead of running him through.

Vortalis fell backward with a groan.

Holland stood, waiting to see if the man would get back up. He did, chuckling softly as he rocked forward to his knees.

“They told me you were good,” said Vortalis, rubbing his ribs. “I’ve a feeling you’re even better than they know.”

Holland’s fingers curled around his drying blood. Vortalis picked up a shard of ice, handling it less like a weapon than an artifact. “As it is, you could have killed me.”

And Holland could have. Easily. If he hadn’t turned the spear, it would have gone straight through flesh and muscle, broken against bone, but there was Alox in his head, stone body shattering against the floor, and Talya, slumping lifeless against her own knife.

Vortalis got to his feet, holding his side. “Why didn’t you do it?”

“You weren’t trying to kill me.”

“The men I sent were. But you didn’t kill them, either.”

Holland held his gaze.

“You got something against killing?” pressed Vortalis.

“I’ve taken lives,” answered Holland.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Holland fell silent. He clenched his fists, focused on the line of pain along his palm. At last, he said, “It’s too easy.”

“Killing? Of course it is,” said Vortalis. “Living with it, that’s the hard part. But sometimes, it’s worth it. Sometimes, it’s necessary.”

“It wasn’t necessary for me to kill your men.”

Vortalis raised a brow. “They could have come after you again.”

“They didn’t,” said Holland. “You just kept sending new ones.”

“And you kept letting them live.” Vortalis stretched, wincing faintly at his injured ribs. “I’d say you have a death wish, but you don’t seem all that keen to die.” He walked to the edge of the grove, his back to Holland as he looked out over the pale expanse of the city. He lit another taper, stuck the end between his teeth. “You know what I think?”

“I don’t care—”

“I think you’re a romantic. One of those fools waiting for the someday king to come. Waiting for the magic to return, for the world to wake up. But it doesn’t work like that, Holland. If you want change, you have to make it.” Vortalis waved dismissively at the stream. “You can empty your veins into that water, but it won’t change a thing.” He held out his hand. “If you really want to save this city, help me put that blood to better use.”

Holland stared at the man’s spell-covered hand. “And what use would that be?”

Vortalis smiled. “You can help me kill a king.”

I

The coffee tasted like muck, but it kept Alucard’s hands warm.

He hadn’t slept, nerves sharpened to knife points by the foreign ship and the traitor magician and the fact that every time he closed his eyes, he saw Anisa burning, saw Jinnar crumbling to ash, saw himself reaching out as if there were a damned thing he could do to save his sister, his friend. Anisa had always been so bright, Jinnar had always been so strong, and it had meant nothing in the end.

They were still dead.

Alucard climbed the steps to the deck and took another swig, forgetting how bad the brew really was. He spit the brown sludge over the rail and wiped his mouth.