Chapter 17 · Bloodhound Sweep

"Hold your breath, Lucian. Don't even blink," Vesper whispered, her voice a jagged edge against the silence.

She had her back pressed against the peeling wallpaper of the safehouse, her hand gripping the hilt of her blade so hard her knuckles were white. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the frantic rhythm of her heart. Or maybe it was mine.

Then came the sound. A low, wet huffing.

Something heavy stepped into the room. The floorboards didn't just creak; they groaned under a weight that didn't belong to a human. I sat frozen in the wheelchair, the cold metal of the armrests biting into my palms.

In the dim light, the Bloodhound appeared. It wasn't a dog—not really. It was a mass of stitched muscle and necrotic skin, a divine abomination bred by the Inquisition to smell out heresy. Its eyes were milky cataracts, but its nose—a raw, twitching slab of meat—was working overtime.

"Stay still," Vesper hissed, her body shielding mine. She was trembling. I could feel the heat radiating off her, the scent of gunpowder and cheap leather clinging to her skin.

The beast lunged forward, its movements erratic and twitchy. It didn't bark.