Page 41 of Curiosity Killed The Vampire

We moved like ghosts through the black spine of trees, following the trail the hunters had left in the snow with the kind of focus that turned sound into a map. Night wrapped the mountain in a thick velvet hush, and the only lights were the moonlight and the distant orange lights of Quebec far below. Footfalls, breath, the way snow settled differently where boots turned sharp—a language I could read by feel now, when the body was too tired to think.

Con led, of course. His steps were shorter in the dark, economy carved into each movement. He scouted wider arcs, pausing at intervals to survey his surroundings. The way he tracked wasn’t loud or showy, there was no dramatic pointing, no grand gestures, only the precise tilt of his head or the ghost of air blown in a particular direction as if sniffing for a scent. I matched him, as silent as a shadow, sensing the thrum of his vigilance. Every time he checked our flank, some stubborn, traitorous part of me registered that it wasn’t just the enemy he was measuring distance from—it was me. How far I was. Whether I was close enough to reach.

The prints widened as we descended toward the industrial sector, truck treads, heavier boot prints, the drag of a wheeled cart. Tracks that had once been crisp now carried a smear of oil and the darker stain of something metallic. Con paused beside a snowbank and crouched. He brushed his fingers across a boot mark and then up the slope where a shallow slide marked the point the men had moved through brush to the left, toward the river warehouses below.

“They pushed into the lower lots,” he murmured. “Two men on recon.” His voice was low, clinical—no bravado, only the observation of a man cataloging facts. “They expected us to follow.”

“Smart,” I said, tasting the word. “Cowardly, but smart.” I rose, scanning the dark horizon, letting the city lights bleed into the sky like the glow of embers. The river below reflected them in a black ribbon and we picked our path down the slope through broken scrub and old logging tracks, the weight of the descent pulling at tired calves. Con fell into step just half a pace ahead of me, close enough that my shoulder brushed his arm when the ground dipped. He didn’t pull away; his presence was a steady line guiding me through the dark.

The warehouses sat like a row of sleeping beasts, long, low structures of corrugated metal and old brick, rooflines dented from years of snow and wind. We took the line of broken fencing that shadowed the river, skirts of reeds whispering against our knees. The place smelled of oil, wet wood, and old rope; there was a metallic tang in the air that hooked into me like a promise of danger. One building was darker than the rest, its side door patched and taped, security cameras turned aside like blind eyes. A single loader sat idle in the yard, fresh tire tracks leading up to its bed and then away again. The quiet here felt different from the mountain—manufactured, coiled. Con’s hand dropped briefly to the small of my back as we slipped past a jagged post, guiding me clear of the rusted edge. The touch was gone in an instant, but my skin remembered it.

We watched first. Con found a high concrete barrier and climbed it with the ease of a man who spent lifetimes in the kind of motion that kept him alive. From that vantage, the warehouse yard resolved into entry points. A security light on a sensor, the gap in the fencing with the bent post where a truck had been shoved through. Two shadows moved near a loading door, guarding it with their posture more than with conversation. A third figure, heavier and moving as if he were carrying something, ducked out and then back in, gone in a blink.

“Three on the east side,” Con said, breath fogging. “Two guards near the dock. One goes in and out like a runner. They’re confident.” He tapped his temple where a map of the site had already taken shape in his head. “We’ll need entry from the roof or through the river access—less traffic, fewer sight lines. If the runner has the artifact, he will be discreet. He’ll stow it—probably inside a metal crate lined with insulation. They’ll move it, but not where the cameras can see.”

I crouched beside him, studying the pattern of men and light. Our shoulders pressed together, the heat of him bleeding through layers of fabric. For a heartbeat, we might have been alone on some rooftop centuries ago, planning a raid instead of chasing the future of a war. “Roof,” I said after a breath. “The loading door will be watched. If we go river-side, the scent of us will carry. If we go high, we get the cameras but it’s safer.” My voice was filtered through the cold, but the decision settled between us like a pact. The warehouse roof held the only blind spot—an older panel that, when you crept in from the north ridge, couldn’t be seen from the guard posts without stepping into the glow of the dock lights.

Con’s thumb brushed the pommel of his knife with one practiced, automatic motion. “We split,” he suggested. “You take the roof and cut the loop on the cameras. I come in loud if they make a move, pull their attention. When they go searching, you and I isolate the runner, secure the crate, and vanish. If the runner bolts with the piece, we go after him together. No heroics.”

“No solos,” I added. He gave a single, narrow nod. Rules always mattered, even in chaos. The look he gave me then—fierce, intent—said more than the words. He wasn’t just warning me; he was begging me not to make him watch me die tonight.

We moved into position as shadows already in shadow. Con slid along the shadow of the high wall and then dropped to a service stair with lean, silent motion. I took the north ravine, finding the ancient ladder that climbed toward the roof’s lip. It was cold metal and rattled in the dark, but it held my weight. The stars above were a cold scatter while below, the yard pulsed with the minimal electricity of small-time industry—the hum of a generator, the periodic hiss of heat escaping an exhaust pipe, the clunk of something being secured inside a crate. The runner moved faster now, nervous, the silhouette of his shoulders tense as he checked the dock doors before ducking inside. I heard Con’s gentle tread somewhere below—a rhythm my body had learned long before my mind admitted it liked having him there.

From the roof I could see the camera poles, their domes black like eyes. Con’s plan depended on timing—seconds, breaths, a misstep would mean exposure. I gave a low, single whistle, and watched the guard by the dock shift, looking up toward the sound, curiosity drawn like a moth. Predictable. Con used the moment, choosing that heartbeat to bring thunder to the yard.

He moved silently. No announcement, only a sudden impact—Con dropped from the stair cover into the light of the south yard, as if the night itself opened to pour him out. Two guards reacted too slow, and he met them like a living blade; steel flashed against reinforced fabric, and the world erupted in a fight. The cameras swiveled, catching the strike, but by then I was already halfway down the roof, black against the tar, slipping toward the gap where the camera loop feed would be taped. My fingers found the junction box, the wire, the patch that let nights be lied about and recorded as routine. I worked with practiced fingers, cutting and rerouting the feed while the sound below was a wash of shouts and impacts. The looped video needed only a tiny breath of tampering for an efficient lie. I timed each cut with the rhythm of Con’s blows, trusting that he would hold the chaos just long enough for me to erase it. We had done this dance so many times it felt less like strategy and more like muscle memory shared between two bodies.

Inside, Con’s advantage was kinetic and immediate. He moved from man to man with precise brutality—crippling blows, twisting holds, the muffled sounds of combat swallowed by the warehouse walls. The runner froze, then bolted for the interior, jumping a crate as if the world were suddenly on fire. He carried a clumsy insulated case held to his chest, shoulders hunched against cold and the weight of what he bore.

I finished the camera work and slid through the roof hatch, dropping into the dim rafters. The smell of oil and wet cardboard filled the bay. My boots found wood, then the skylight’s frame. The view down was a bow of men and motion, a choreography that was starting to wobble. Con’s vanguard had drawn attention; one guard had already moved to the walkway to cut him off. I picked a line before the runner cleared the interior loading ramp—a shadow run to intercept at the far aisle where crates shadowed the light. Con’s gaze snapped up once, as if he could feel me above him. The fractional hitch in his movement when he saw I’d made it through alive sent a curl of heat through my chest.

We had chosen the quietest approach—no loud breaching, no wide gunfire, just shadow and edged steel. Con’s hand brushed mine as he crossed under me, a quick check and a silent synchronization of the moment. We both knew the cost of hesitation. I dropped, landing beside him with the soft impact of a cat. He angled a nod toward the crate aisle; I moved like breath toward the runner. For a heartbeat, the warmth of his fingers on mine lingered, a silent promise—he had my back, whatever hell we were about to walk into.

The runner’s shoulders were narrower than I’d expected, but desperation made the man fit the role of a freight athlete. He ducked another pallet, then jarred to a stop as Con’s blade kissed the air at his ear. The insulated case tilted. For a heart-thump second he wrestled—then he pushed off with a shove that sent Con stumbling into a pallet, and the runner vaulted toward the open service door. I was on him before he saw me—dagger into the meat of his forearm, a twist that left a shattered man on the floor. The case skidded, its latch pinging as it burst open, and for a beat the artifact’s dull surface pulsed.

Con punched him, effectively knocking him unconscious but I knew he would recover quickly.

I took it.

The artifact still hummed over my skin as I sealed it inside the satchel, its glow muted but alive. I straightened, listening for any new movement in the warehouse. The quiet had returned—unnaturally so, as if the building itself was holding its breath. The only sound I trusted was Con’s breathing as he crossed the floor toward me—steady, controlled, a metronome that meant we were both still standing.

Con wiped his blade on a rag from the floor.

“We should move,” he murmured.

But something caught my eye—a flicker of light from the far end of the bay, near the service corridor. It wasn’t the stark white of fluorescents or the harsh strobe of alarms. It was warmer, a steady amber glow leaking through a partially open door.

“Wait,” I said, already moving toward it.

Con turned, catching the direction of my gaze. He didn’t argue, he never did when I used that tone, but his posture shifted instantly, blade up, shoulders squared, ready. He closed the distance between us with two long strides, close enough that when I stopped at the door, I could feel the residual heat from his body at my back—silent protection he didn’t have to voice.

The door creaked as I pushed it open. The light spilled across the floor in a pool of gold, revealing a narrow hallway that sloped downward into the warehouse’s lower level. A hum filled the air, not mechanical, exactly, but rhythmic, alive.

We descended in silence, the echo of our boots muffled by the concrete walls. At the bottom of the short flight of stairs, the hallway opened into a wide room that looked nothing like the crude storage area above.

It was a lab.

A makeshift one, but advanced—scavenged from medical-grade tech and repurposed industrial equipment. Tables were pushed together, lined with trays of vials and syringes. Monitors blinked softly, their screens filled with lines of data and DNA sequences scrolling endlessly across black backgrounds. The metallic scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air.