The Angaran Chronicles: Hamar Noir by Benjamin Agar (ebooks online reader TXT) 📖

dossier. Nothing was found on the victims but their clothes. At the time of the report, the Rule Enforcers hadn't identified the latest victim. Just male, white, mid-twenties. The others had already identified and buried, Anargrin even had the details of the families, but that wouldn't help him. If he came to them asking questions and showing his sigil, it might blow his cover.

 

Anargrin had read through the dossier numerous times now, trying to find anything connecting the victims, but there was nothing. Their only commonalities were their approximate ages, living in the far northeast of the city and coming from poor families. Height and build varied, especially among the humans.

 

'Hello, there,' said a voice behind Anargrin. He didn't move, having already sensed the five auras entering the alley. He'd known about them the second they'd started tailing him, five blocks ago. They were good for simple street thugs but no match for Anargrin's senses.

 

'What's a little elfy like you doin' here?'

 

Anargrin clenched his teeth; crime was rife all through the slums of Valtagan, but the odds of being accosted was still smaller than most claim.

 

Anargrin turned to them, hands raised in supplication. There were five thugs total; four were big, brutish humans and one: an intimating looking dwarf. The humans towered over the short, slender Anargrin, their scowls almost apeish in aspect. Their stink hit Anargrin's sensitive nose, and he fought the urge to recoil.

 

'I-I am not looking for trouble,' he said. 'P-please. I haven't much. You are welcome to take it. Just, please don't hurt me.'

 

They laughed, then the one in the lead, their leader Anargrin assumed- punched at the elf's face. To Anargrin's enhanced mind, the man's fist seemed to arc in slow motion, and he fought the urge to dodge and counter. He had to wait for it to hit for what seemed like seconds before it finally connected his cheek.

 

Pain blossomed through Anargrin's face, and he stumbled, exaggerating the power of the blow.

 

'Gah!' cried Anargrin, clutching at his cheek.

 

The thug then grabbed Anargrin by the shirt and shoved him against the wall; making more pain erupt through his back.

 

'Now. We know you ain't local,' said the thug, his spittle hit Anargrin's face, and the stench of his breath made the Hunter's eyes water. 'We don't care who ya are. But we care you know us. We own this place; this is our territory. Ya got that, pretty boy?'

 

'O-of course, just please don't hurt me again.'

 

The thug's answer was a fist bashing into Anargrin's stomach. It knocked the wind from his lungs and bent him double forward.

 

He let go, and Anargrin sagged onto his arse, gasping.

 

'Take everything,' snarled the thug.

 

They took all of Anargrin's gold. Luckily he'd the foresight to only take a little from the Hunter funds, just in case this happened.

 

'Nice doin' business with ya,' said one of the thugs as they turned and walked away. Their laughter echoed through the alley.

 

Anargrin climbed to his feet and quickly regained his breath.

 

'The things I do for my job,' he growled through clenched teeth.

 

Anargrin sighed. At least he got something from this. The vampire seemed to be able to hide his tracks fucking well. That meant it was, at the very least, experienced.

 

He just hoped the gang didn't hold ties to this vampire, or that word of the strange elf hanging about in an alley that not long ago had contained a corpse, would spread too fast.

 

It wouldn't spread as fast as news of him taking down a bunch of brigands, though and Anargrin didn't want to kill them. They did what they did in the name of survival.

 

He wasn't going to find anything here. He didn't have a choice. He had to sneak into the Rule Enforcer precinct.

 

As he started to leave, a thought occurred to him. What if there was a connection between the victims?

 

It was a hunch, mere conjecture, but Anargrin trusted his instincts.

 

If he was right, that meant there might be more than one vampire. That meant, after centuries, the Cult had resurfaced.

 

Chapter 3

Anargrin knelt on the roof of a ten-story habitat building, watching the Rule Enforcer precinct across the street. It was almost midnight, and most of the Enforcers had gone home. Only five auras moved through the structure.

 

The precinct was six stories tall, with orange tile roofing and small, wooden windows painted the same colour. The walls were yellow sandstone. It was the architecture of the day, warm and comforting. With soft corners and rough surfaces. Ironic: being a Rule Enforcer precinct.

 

Anargrin shivered and pulled the blanket around him tighter, his breath exhaling as steam. The cavern was a sauna compared to the desert, but not even the thick mountain walls could hold back the sub-zero temperature outside.

 

He didn't know the building's layout, but he knew the official protocol of the Hamarian Enforcers. After midnight they always had a skeleton crew of four, including one of the morticians. From studying the auras, the way they moved, Anargrin guessed the mortician was in the north-west wing on the fifth floor. He also knew they kept the bodies of murder victims for a minimum of two days in the chiller, so the victim was still there.

 

The large, oak doors of the precinct's main entrance opened, and a man stepped out. He descended the short marble staircase onto the sidewalk and started north.

 

Anargrin looked at his wrist timepiece; it was five minutes past midnight.

 

Again, he checked the position of the auras. It was all clear, and Anargrin sidled back and launched into a sprint. He jumped. His guts dropped as he fell. He allowed himself to fall as far as the fifth floor.

 

Then he blinked.

 

Anargrin found he was in a room made up of large offices, each cordoned off by short varnished wooden walls and windows. The stink of tobacco smoke assailed his eyes and nose.

 

The 'blink' ability was exclusive to Hunters. It's exact origins and why only Hunters could do it was a mystery. What was known was that it allowed Hunters instantaneous teleportation over short distances. Five metres to be exact, but there was a 'cool down' of ten minutes before it can be used again. Anargrin had mastered blink beyond any other Hunter. During his decades of retirement, he'd practised and practised it. This constant repetition led him to be able to blink a maximum of ten metres and reduced the cooldown to five minutes. He could also blink with pinpoint accuracy and timing.

 

Anargrin extended his senses again, finding the auras of the remaining inhabitants.

 

Moving in instinctive silence, Anargrin worked his way through the building. Even without his aura sense, he would've been unmolested.

 

It took him about six minutes to find the room with the lone aura, and Anargrin couldn't help grin, his prediction proved correct. The sign on the door said: 'Mortician' in bold letters.

 

Anargrin pushed his back against the wall, racking his brains on how he should handle this. At times like this, he wished he could use magic. All Hunters were born with magical potential; they needed it to be able to go through the Ritual to become a Hunter. But ever since he was young, Anargrin had struggled with magic; he couldn't use even the most simple of spells. So he'd focused on the arts of swordplay, hand to hand combat and infiltration so he could outperform most other neophytes.

 

His blink had cooled down, but what would he do once he blinked inside? And even then he didn't know the layout of the room beyond. He grimaced and decided he could no longer be a ghost. He had to take a risk.

 

Anargrin knocked on the door.

 

'Hello?' called a voice, and Anargrin clenched his teeth. He'd hoped the mortician would just open the door.

 

Anargrin knocked again.

 

'Hello?' it said.

 

On a whim, Anargrin grabbed the doorknob and twisted it as if it was locked.

 

'I don't remember locking it. Hold on; I'll be there in a second.'

 

The aura seemed to stand and start toward the entrance.

 

Anargrin waited until the mortician was right behind the door, then blinked inside, behind the man.

 

He was much taller than Anargrin, so the elf struggled somewhat to wrap his arm around his neck. The man didn't have time to jump or cry out before Anargrin dragged him to the floor, and chocked him into unconsciousness.

 

'I'm sorry,' Anargrin hissed countless times as the mortician struggled, but he was weak, his hands as soft as cotton balls as he tried to prise Anargrin's arm from his throat.

 

While wiping the sweat off his brow, Anargrin got to his feet. He looked down at the man. He didn't deserve this, he was just doing his job, but what choice did Anargrin have? Let him trigger the alarm klaxons?

 

He had four minutes before the mortician regained consciousness. Anargrin had made sure the man's unconsciousness wouldn't last a second longer, as any longer it could cause brain damage due to lack of oxygen.

 

Anargrin turned and found the big, thick lead-lined door into the chiller.

 

He pulled it open and stepped inside. There were six bodies set on steel gurneys in the large, un-lit room — each hidden underneath a white sheet.

 

Shivering in the cold, he began pulling back the cloths from the faces of the cadavers.

 

The third was who he was looking for, according to the clipboard at the end of the gurney; his name was Danvel Kylt. He was a plain young human, with long blond hair and the typical pale complexion of Hamar's people. Two small black holes punched into his neck.

 

Anargrin slipped out his multi-tool pocket knife and flicked out the smallest blade. He took out a small sample flask, slipped the sheet off the corpse's feet and with careful precision, took a skin scraping off the back of the heel.

 

He placed the sample into the flask, screwed it closed then darted for the door.

 

Chapter 4

 

The old grandfather clock's ticks seemed explosions in the silence. After some minutes, Sammil looked up from the paperwork scattered on his desk. They were in Sammil's large, well adorned and ornate office.

 

'The Devanworth Cult?' said the Head Hunter.

 

Anargrin nodded. 'There are very few connections between each victim but their ages, ages which usually are in line with when magical potential emerges.'

 

'Not usually, rarely,' said Sammil.

 

Anargrin shrugged. 'Yeah, a fifth of the time, but it explains much. Even if they weren't, they could've gone undetected due to their isolation and the church's disinterest of Hamar.'

 

'The Devanworth Cult was wiped out a century ago,' sighed Sammil. 'By you know who.'

 

Anargrin flinched and clenched