The sun still hides shyly beneath the horizon when I step onto my balcony, tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie warding off the chill. My hair is still damp from the shower when I run my fingers through it while balancing a mug of tea in my other hand. The air is cool against my skin as I look across the wetlands. The traffic is only a faint hum beneath me, muffled by the mist clinging to the water. It hangs like a veil, dividing our world from the next. Even the honking of distant geese and the whisper of reeds along the reservoir reach me only as echoes from another realm.

My elbows brush the cold railing, and I watch the steam rising from my brew, swirling into the air and vanishing into the void. It’s funny. As much as I love a good coffee, whenever I’m home, back in England, I need to have a cuppa. You can take the Yorkshire boy out of England, but… well, you know the rest.

I’ve been back home for a few days now. Well, at least this is my home away from home. I’m in my East London flat that I bought with the bonus cheque I received after Dubai. It’s close enough to the city to be convenient but quiet with parks and greenery. It’s almost peaceful. I wouldn’t mind spending more time here, but work is what it is.

I won’t be here for long this time either. Tonight I have a meeting with David Talbot, Jesse Reeves and a few other Talamasca higher-ups to give my report about the New Orleans incident in person and hand in my written file. Forty-two pages of detailed description of everything I witnessed, every shred of information I gathered about the night of the attack and everyone involved. There are still some minor questions unanswered, but I wasn’t authorised to contact Louis, the person who could have filled in the blanks. And they weren’t relevant for the big picture anyway.

Tomorrow, I’ll take an early train to Hull to see Charlie, Isla, Michael and the kids. There will be time for long walks through the countryside, sitting around a fire in the evening, time to talk and time to just be. It’s been way too long. I don’t have a new assignment yet, so unless David springs something on me spontaneously tonight, I can spend a while with my friends, my adoptive family. They adopted me into their family when I had no-one else. Charlie and I have been best friends since our sandbox days. Then we realised life was better when we faced it together. Charlie has always been my rock, my anchor and my safe place. The person I could turn to, no matter what.

I take a sip from my tea and wrinkle my nose. It’s cooled down quickly, but it’s still drinkable. I better start the day, pack my bag, prepare for tonight, and go over my notes again. Not that it’s necessary. I remember everything.

In the days after I watched the video of the attack, I slipped into a steady rhythm. I started working on my report, either in my hotel room at the Maidstone – where it was quieter – or at our New Orleans office – where I had access to the archives. The case was solved; there was only a bit of cleanup to do. The local team handled most of it with their contacts within the NOPD, so there wasn’t that much left for me to do. Plenty of time to go for extended runs, which mostly had me beeline towards the Mississippi. A small detour usually took me down Joliet Street and past a magnolia tree, with its branches spilling shadows across the cracked sidewalk.

The house behind it was a typical shotgun, narrow with two storeys. The teal paint and peach-coloured trim could use a fresh coat, but otherwise it looked well-kept. Tidy. A few steps led up to the front porch that was decorated with a rocking chair and a small potted plant. It was a family home. It was the address on Wendell’s file. His family’s home.

I called off observation of the house. There was nothing further to be gained from it, and Leonidas is a close-knit neighbourhood. Any stranger lurking around the same corner all day without any purpose would have stood out like beads left hanging in a tree long after Mardi Gras – obvious and out of season. But there was no harm in jogging past it. Stopping for a few minutes on the walkway opposite for some stretches and a gulp of water.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Something run down, maybe. Smashed-in, boarded-up windows, graffiti sprayed all over the walls, trash littering the front yard. Some kind of drug den. But it was anything but. It was cosy. Warm. Welcoming. With just that little bit of quirky charm that is so perfectly New Orleans. I wondered what happened that drove Wendell away from this place. Why he prefers to live on the streets, offer sex for money and become a walking blood bag for two vampires.

I was tempted to pull his school records. Maybe I would have found answers there. But it would have only satisfied my personal curiosity. Why he ended up as a sex worker on the streets of New Orleans wasn’t a question that had anything to do with my case. Actually, not even his occupation had any bearing. He was an associate of the vampires, and when he became the victim of a hate crime, the vampires had acted out their revenge in the only way they knew how: with an outburst of brutal, barbaric violence. End of story.

I could have made enquiries about any police records. Working for the Talamasca gives me some clout, and even if it’s not always official channels, I could have obtained both files easily. But then they would have ended up in Wendell’s Talamasca dossier.

The Talamasca is like a black hole for information, pulling in every scrap of data it can reach. Ordinarily, I’m quite content to play my part in the process – the Hungry Caterpillar of the occult world, nibbling away at details until the bigger picture emerges. But with him caught in the pull, it feels less like a quest for knowledge and more like feeding on something that should be left in peace. He’s only human. He doesn’t need the Talamasca tangled up in his life.

I only wanted to see the house, but seeing it gave me more questions than answers. He still remained an enigma wrapped in a riddle which was now wrapped in mystery. I didn’t expect to see him.

I was still looking at the house, lost in my thoughts, luckily half-hidden by a parked van on the opposite side of the street when I heard laughter. A male voice, mellow and smooth, mixed with the high-pitched squeak of a child. I’d never even heard his voice before, and maybe it was only because he had just been so present in my mind, but I instantly knew it was him. I turned around and saw him walking down the street, bouncing a little girl on his shoulders. She was maybe three or four years old, her hair pulled into two round puffs that crowned either side of her head like twin halos.

I couldn’t make out the words, but Wendell was talking to the girl, who was animatedly chatting back at him, wiggling her tiny tush on his shoulders and trying to pull her skirt over his eyes, effectively blindfolding him. He smiled as he shoved the fabric back up before he reached up to lift her off and pretended to drop her. She shrieked and laughed at the same time. They were obviously close, and she trusted him.

I wondered who she was. His daughter? He would have been very young when she was born, but that’s not unheard of. His file says he’s gay, but again… not unheard of. Wendell put the little girl down on her feet and crouched down in front of her. He held both of her hands in his and gave her a stern talk. She nodded enthusiastically, bopping her head. They hooked their little fingers together and gave them a quick shake as a small red car huffed and puffed up the street and pulled into a parking space next to the house. The little girl bounced up and down, let go of Wendell’s hands and ran towards the car. A young woman got out, and the little girl flew into her arms.

“Mama, Mama! Da ice cream truck came an’ Unkie Lell got me a biiig ice cream!” The little girl yelled in a voice that easily carried all the way down the street and gestured with her hands to demonstrate just how big the ice cream had been. Amused, my gaze trailed back to Wendell, who was left standing on the walkway, rubbing a palm down his face.

“Jay-zuhs, princess, do pinky swears mean nothing to you? You promised not to tell your Mama!” Despite the exasperation, his voice was full of warmth and affection, each word rising and falling with a quiet, magnetic lilt – the easy New Orleans sway he probably doesn’t even notice himself.

The rest of their conversation drifted away from me. The young woman shifted the child onto her hip, wagged a finger at Wendell, and tapped his cheek in mock-scolding as she passed. He groaned, staggering like he’d been felled, and she only laughed, shaking her head before brushing him off with a flick of her hand. But when she turned toward the house, the playfulness drained. Wendell straightened, shoulders drawn tight, raking a hand through his already unruly curls. She paused, watching him with a look he never saw, then stepped back to him, cupped his cheek, and pressed a kiss to the other. The little girl followed, planting her own kiss on Wendell’s cheek, and he smiled for them – though even from the distance I could see it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

So the little girl was his niece, not his daughter, and when I saw Wendell and the young woman standing side by side, I could see the resemblance between them. Same almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones and lips that could easily curl into a smile or press together in concern as his sister’s did. If I had to guess, I’d say she didn’t know what had happened to him, but she suspected something had. There was no doubt that she cared for him, which added another question mark to my own internal Wendell file. He isn’t without a home, yet he lives homeless.

His sister and niece made their way into the house, but Wendell stayed outside, sitting down on the steps leading up to the house and pulling out a pack from the back pocket of his jeans. That was when I saw it. The tremor in his hands as he lit his cigarette and the way he buried his face in his hands after taking a drag. He still suffered and only put on a brave face for his family. And there was nothing I could do. I stretched, dropped my water bottle back into its pouch and jogged towards the Maidstone.

As my eyes sweep over the grey London sky, I finish my tea. It looks like it’s going to rain soon, but it’s a welcome change in temperature from the eternal sweltering heat and humidity of New Orleans. I deposit my empty mug in the dishwasher in the kitchen and then head to the guest room, which also doubles as my study. My fingers swipe across my desk and the open laptop on it. It shows my report, forty-two pages that will be added to Wendell’s existing dossier.

On my last day in New Orleans, I made a quick stop at the office to thank everyone for their efforts and support. It was maybe unnecessary; everyone was only doing the job they’re being paid for, but I won’t have it said my parents raised a son without manners. So I treated the entire crew to the ‘original New York sandwiches with an Indian twist’ from ‘Deli Chai’, a small shop that I discovered on one of my morning and evening runs through Leonidas.

Hotchkiss was suspiciously absent, and just as I was about to get into the car to leave for the airport, he came stumbling down the street, waving a sheet of paper frantically.

“Agent Chaudhury! Wait!” He called after me.

I suppressed my usual reaction to him – a big eye roll – and waited patiently with a hand on the open car door for him to catch up. When I sensed my driver, a twenty-something freckled redhead named Ronnie, getting a little impatient, I assured him it wouldn’t take long.

Hotchkiss finally stopped in front of me, panting and shoving the paper into my hands. It was a form filled out in neat and tidy handwriting. Big, sprawling letters on top said ‘Big Mal’s Market’ while underneath it claimed to be a ‘Personnel File’. The first line caught my attention, and I read on:

Name: Wendell Dupree
Address: 2299 Joliet Street, New Orleans, LA 70118
Phone number: 504-555-0178
E-mail: wakandafan2010@gmail.com
DOB: 06/16/2010
SSN: 078-05-1120

Hotchkiss looked at me like a big overgrown puppy who fetched his first stick and was breathlessly awaiting his owner’s praise.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, and my voice sounded harsh and biting. A little more so than I had meant to.

“I know you didn’t want to bother us with surveillance of that boy, but it really wasn’t any trouble to make a few discreet enquiries.” The thought alone of Hotchkiss’ idea of “discreet enquiries” makes me wince. “I noticed the woman he lives with works at some grocery on Carrollton, so I went in and took a chance. I told the guy there I work for a bigger warehouse company, and we’re always looking for young men – strong, good with their hands and ready to get physical. The kind who can handle long hours, break a sweat, and not be shy about getting dirty. The owner perked right up and handed me this. Said this is the brother of a new employee, always looking to make a few bucks on the side.”

I groaned internally. With everyone else, I’d be hoping the innuendo was deliberate. With Hotchkiss I was sure he had no idea what he said. The irritating part is, I didn’t know if the store owner picked up on it. But handing out Wendell’s social security number while pimping him out felt a bit weird, especially in a state where prostitution was illegal. Let’s assume he really only meant to help. It seemed to be the thing that people around there did.

I looked down at the sheet, the edges wrinkling under my clenched fingers.

“Have you already taken this in?” I asked Hotchkiss, trying to find out who had seen the information.

“No, boss, I came straight to you. It’s good, isn’t it?” His big eyes pleaded for my approval.

“Yes… yes, it’s good. Good job.” I forced myself to say.

“I’ll get right to it and add the info to the database.” Hotchkiss said eagerly and tried to take the paper from me. My grip tightened around it.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Hotchkiss blinked at me slowly, completely perplexed.

“I said I’ll take it.” I laced my voice with all the authority of a Level 6 agent, and he took a step back. “I’ll add it to the report and make sure you receive the credit you deserve.” Which wasn’t much, but I needed him to be quiet about this.

Before I could change my mind, I got into the car and let Ronnie drive me to the airport.

I scroll through my report on my laptop. It’s all there. The last pages are filled with a summary and my personal assessment of the situation that the event was situational in nature. No evidence suggests a pattern of recurrence or continued violent activity on a heightened level by the vampires.

I sigh, push the laptop aside and retrieve my bag from its place beside my desk. I clear out the side pockets of any trash that gathered there on my flight home so I can repack it for my trip to Yorkshire. My fingers brush against something smooth and round attached to thin and rugged material. I frown and pull it out of the side pouch. I’m surprised to find a small bracelet in my hand. The cord is black and slightly rough under my fingers. Three beads are knotted onto it: two sea-glass ones, the colour of seafoam and aqua, with a single round silver one between them. The knots are uneven and handmade, and the beads imperfect, but there’s something in the weight of it, the way it fits in my hand, that makes it feel quietly important – even if I can’t remember why.

I rack my brain to recall where I got the bracelet from. I turn it over and over in my hands until the sea glass warms up from my touch, and suddenly the face of a middle-aged man swims before my inner eye. South Asian, brown skin and brown eyes, a soft smile on his lips, the scents of my childhood swirling around us and Bollywood music jingling in the background. His hand on my shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

My memory takes me back to Iqbal’s car in New York, the night he picked me up from the Talamasca safehouse in Gramercy Park and took me to La Guardia. I’d fallen asleep on the drive, lulled by the music and memories, so he gently shook me awake when we arrived. When I came to my senses, he had already placed my suitcase and bag on the kerb next to his car. I thanked him and tried to give him a generous tip for waiting outside the townhouse while I packed, but he waved his hands in polite but determined refusal.

“No, bhai, no!”

“Buy your wife a bunch of flowers and treat her to a nice dinner, please.” I insisted, and he finally relented. Before I could gather my things to make my way to departures, he held up a hand.

“Arrey, wait, Rashid. I want you to take something from me also.”

He opened the glove compartment of his car, and an assortment of things tumbled out onto the footwell, most of which looked to be receipts, parking tickets, and tissues in various states of cleanliness. He rummaged around in it for a moment before he found what he was looking for and pressed it into my palm.

“My daughter, she makes these. Sells them at school fairs, you know? She says they bring luck. Maybe this one bring you luck also, haan? Help you find what you are looking for. Maybe nice girl…” He ducks his head sheepishly. “… or maybe nice boy?”

I uncurled my fingers and looked at the bracelet resting in my palm: black string, three beads, one silver, one green, one blue.

“Thank you, but… I’m not looking for a nice girl, Iqbal.”

I gave him a half-smile. I felt bad for making the wrong assumptions earlier. Fearing my parents’ reactions if I had ever revealed my true nature to them still stung my heart, but I couldn’t help thinking that everyone sharing their heritage and beliefs would react the way I expected them to. I was too afraid to test it, and now I would never know. “Married to the job, remember?”

I tried to return the bracelet to Iqbal, but this time he insisted.

“No, no, bhai, keep it. Maybe one day you tell my Zara if it worked, hmm?”

“Your daughter’s name is Zara? Zahra is my…” I stopped myself in time and cleared my throat. “Zahra was my nanu’s name.”

Iqbal’s grin widened. “Then this is fate, haan. From Zara… to Zahra’s grandson.”

Since one couldn’t argue with fate, I stuffed the bracelet into the side pouch of my bag.

“Shukriya, Iqbal. Thank you.”

“Koi baat nahi, bhai. Allah aap ko khush rakhe. You’re welcome, Rashid, and may God keep you happy.”

To my surprise he wrapped his arms around me for a moment, and – even more startling – I hugged him back before leaving New York behind in the early hours of September 23.

I forgot all about this encounter, lost in the haze of sleep deprivation and the events that followed. I’d ‘found’ Wendell, although I doubt he was the ‘nice boy’ Iqbal had in mind. He couldn’t be. I roll the bracelet between my fingers one last time, then drop it into the top drawer of my desk and push it closed.

My gaze pauses on the final paragraph of my report. The Talamasca aren’t only a black hole for information; they also ‘collect’ people, people with extraordinary abilities, like Callum Levy, or people in unique positions. People like Wendell, who formed such a strong bond with the vampires that they went to extreme lengths for him.

Recruitment Assessment
“The subject’s unusually close and possibly intimate relationship with the vampires positions him as a potential asset of considerable value. His acceptance of recruitment would likely provide the Talamasca with unique access and insight.”

I run my index finger along the edges of my laptop screen. I know how the Talamasca will take my assessment. Someone once wrote something similar about me. Then one foggy autumn evening, Min-Jin Paik sat down next to me in ‘The Woolsack’ in Oxford, while I waited for Luke’s shift to end. She was a tiny person, with her dark hair styled in a geometric bob, oversized round black-framed glasses, and a dismissive way of flapping her hands. She didn’t look at me, just pushed an expensive-looking business card towards me when she said, “I work for an international organisation, and we would like to make you an offer.”

Would I accept her offer again, now that I know what it involves and what it cost me? I would, one hundred per cent. I love getting lost in the vast and ancient Talamasca archives, piecing information together, looking for clues. Nothing is more satisfying than when finally the puzzle pieces click and form a complete picture.

Going undercover as a field agent, like I did in Dubai? That was dancing on the edge, and I can still feel the adrenaline tickling in my blood. It took me away from my found family for too long, but the thrill and the unhinged, intoxicating rush made me feel so alive.

But would I wish this on someone else?

I sit down at my desk and start scrolling through my report again. It contains screenshots from Callum’s video, now neatly cleaned up and crisp. Wendell before the attack. His assailants. Photos documenting his injuries. The images blend into my own memory of Wendell. Unable to light a cigarette because his hands were shaking so badly. Controlled and businesslike in the park with his client. Sweet and warm with his little niece. Maybe his life is complicated enough without the Talamasca’s interference.

My finger hovers over the touchpad of my laptop, hesitating. I can hear Min-Ji’s warning as I accepted the offer: “The Talamasca demand complete obedience, loyalty and devotion from their members. They will not tolerate anything less.”

I stare down at the keyboard. I breathe and close my eyes. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Continue. My mind starts to clear, and a blank, white room appears in my thoughts. Walls, a chair and a single window opening onto nothing. Home comes to me. Surf over pebbles, gulls sharp above the wind, faint church bells. Salt, wet stone, heather, smoke from a peat fire. I breathe it in. Yorkshire anchors me.

Then another air seeps in. Heavy, humid. Cicadas buzzing in the dark. The faint sweetness of flowers that only open at night. The shape of a magnolia tree, leaves glinting in sunlight.

I open my eyes. A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s not too late. I can’t erase his memory. But this I can do. I press Ctrl and A. Then with another exhale of air, I hit delete.

Before I close the lid of my laptop to stow it in its sleeve four hours later, my eyes fall on the last paragraph. It sounds cruel, but maybe it’ll keep him safe.

Recruitment Assessment
“While the subject appears to maintain a unique proximity to the vampires, his unstable personal circumstances – including homelessness and indications of possible substance dependency – render him unreliable and unsuitable for recruitment. Any potential advantage is outweighed by the significant risks.”