Alive At Crepusculum ✓ [TPL Book One]

I

Slave traders of United Arcan kidnapped young, able-bodied men and women from their own families to sell to rich immoral mongrels. They took happiness from children. They broke hearts and bruised bodies. Sometimes, they even raped or killed.

What filthy imbeciles! What dark and greedy minds! Why would anyone want to use a living, breathing, intelligent being as a household tool? A mop, a broom, a bucket, or a rag—attaching enslaved hands or a poor old hag—clean the homes that would remain filthy because the hearts of their master would never be pure again.

"As close as I can," whispered the voice slowly, "Enough to test her."

Unaware of being watched, Anastasia shuddered as she remembered the day she and her husband's lives were changed forever. She was beaten over and over but not her soul. Only a small twinkle of hope kept her going—that her husband, Kostya, was alive.

Even just the thought that he was out there somewhere, maybe even searching for her, kept her hopes up, and she could keep moving forward. Anastasia and Kostya were together but on the coast of U.A., she went south, and he went north. What little information she had was not enough to search for him on her own. She needed a detective.

"I am here," whispered the voice, barely audible even to itself. "Do you feel my presence?"

Anastasia knew of a legendary detective who lived in U.A. He solved many a crime and could track down a person following the thinnest thread, but there was a problem—he left the scene fifteen years ago and had not been in the news since.

"Find you, I will," she muttered, "B-Beagle. Detective Mallord—"

Her hair stood on end.

With a start, Anastasia shot up. Someone, she knew, was watching her. They were close and maybe breathing down her neck. Eyes wide, ears alert, she stared at the shadow held in the dark of the alley. 

Did it move? She wasn't sure. Superstitious beliefs she'd heard other slaves whisper about after dark flooded her mind. Demons walked amongst the living, hidden in plain sight. Beware, the old nanny had said, of the shadows in alleys.

She licked dry, cracked lips, wincing as they stung. Her heart beat so hard she thought she would faint.

"Who's there?" she whispered but no response. "Not, of course, silly," she gave a weak laugh. She wouldn't risk a louder voice. If slave snatchers found her, she wouldn't be able to escape them unlike her master. They would take her on a ship and sell her even further away. Though her heart was strong, her body was weakened, she knew she might not make the journey.

* * * * *

"Richard, she is the one."

Richard, tending to his horse, was as far away from his demon as physically possible. There was no way even in hell he was going to be seen by another hero-waiting slave woman. 

He was dressed in a black silk hat, long black coat with out-of-fashion coattails, and a white shirt with a black bowtie. He had a cane for statement of wealth he didn't exactly have. It all looked like he might be on his way back from a house party or a wedding, or perhaps the theater. None were the case. He always dressed to impress.

Richard gave a long, unimpressed side glare at his demon who rippled with uncontainable excitement.

"She is looking for him and—"

"Everyone looks for him, Charcoal," Richard scoffed. He twisted his well-groomed handlebar mustache like the snobbish gentleman he was, and kicked at the gravel like a child cooking up a tantrum. A disapproving snarl curled at his lips because this wasn't the first time he heard those words.