The auction house had been a bank in a previous incarnation.
Marble floors worn smooth by a century of footsteps. Vaulted ceilings that turned whispered conversations into ambient music. Security that combined modern technology with something older—I could feel wards humming at the edges of my perception, protective magic that would trigger if certain threats crossed the threshold.
I passed through without incident. Whatever the wards screened for, I didn't qualify.
[ENVIRONMENT ASSESSMENT: AUCTION VENUE] [SUPERNATURAL SECURITY: ACTIVE — WARD SYSTEM DETECTED] [CLIENTELE: APPROXIMATELY 60 ATTENDEES — 23% SUPERNATURAL SIGNATURES] [PRIMARY TARGET: BELA TALBOT — POSITION CONFIRMED, NORTHWEST QUADRANT]
Champagne circulated on silver trays. Display cases lined the walls, showcasing items that ranged from mundane antiques to objects that pulsed with residual power. I accepted a glass I wouldn't drink and began my circuit of the room, cataloguing threats and opportunities.
A vampire I didn't recognize—old, European blood, wearing a glamour that wouldn't fool anyone with proper senses. Something that smelled like Djinn standing near the occult artifacts display. Three humans who moved like hunters but dressed like academics, the same type I'd observed on my reconnaissance evening. Wealthy collectors examining objects they didn't truly understand.
And Bela, stationed near the back where she could observe the entire room while remaining accessible to interested parties.
She noticed me noticing her. Professional assessment without acknowledgment—the kind of look that catalogued threats and dismissed them in the same instant.
I continued my circuit.
The items on display told stories about their sources. Genuine artifacts mixed with exceptional forgeries—the kind of market where expertise mattered more than money. A dagger caught my attention: Victorian-era blade, silver with engraved symbols that the System identified as corrupted protection wards. Someone had turned defensive magic into something offensive.
The dagger was also, according to the discrete placard, consigned by B. Talbot.
[ARTIFACT: WARD-BREAKING BLADE] [CONSIGNOR: BELA TALBOT] [ESTIMATED VALUE: $12,000-15,000] [TACTICAL VALUE: MODERATE — USEFUL AGAINST CERTAIN PROTECTIONS]
The auction began at eight-thirty. I positioned myself where I could observe both the proceedings and Bela's reactions to various bids. She watched each item with the calculating attention of someone tracking commissions—pleased when prices rose, neutral when they didn't.
The dagger came up after ninety minutes.
"Lot forty-seven," the auctioneer announced. "Victorian-era ceremonial blade, silver, excellent condition. Unique provenance. Opening at eight thousand."
I waited. Let two other bidders establish their interest. Then raised my paddle.
"Nine thousand to the gentleman in grey."
The competing bidders pushed back. Nine-five. Ten. I countered at eleven, then twelve when they persisted. At fourteen thousand, one dropped out. At sixteen, the other followed.
"Sixteen thousand to the gentleman in grey. Going once. Going twice." The gavel fell. "Sold."
I'd overpaid significantly. The dagger was worth maybe twelve at market value. But Bela had been watching the entire exchange, and her expression shifted from professional neutrality to active interest.
Target acquired.
I collected my paddle's purchase receipt and made my way toward her position. Casual approach. Nothing aggressive. The kind of movement that suggested coincidence rather than intention.
"Sebastian Morrow," I said, extending my hand. "New to the scene."
Her handshake was firm, grip calibrated to project confidence without aggression. "Bela Talbot. You overpaid for that dagger."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I wanted to meet the woman who consigned it."
Her expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes recalculated. "That's either very flattering or very concerning, Mr. Morrow. I haven't decided which."
"Flattering, I hope." I gestured at the room around us. "I'm building a collection. Serious items with serious provenance. Your reputation suggests you're someone worth knowing."
"My reputation?"
"Excellent eye for authentic pieces. Reliable delivery on contracts. Connections that extend into circles most dealers can't access." I let Sebastian's charm emerge—the practiced ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wanted. "I'm looking for a supplier. Someone who can source specific items on commission."
"And you thought introducing yourself by overpaying for one of my consignments would impress me?"
"I thought it would get your attention. Impressing you comes later."
She almost smiled. Almost. "Bold. I'll give you that."
We talked for twenty minutes while the auction continued around us. Professional questions that doubled as investigation—where I collected, what interested me, how I'd heard about these events. I deflected smoothly, providing answers that revealed nothing important while projecting the image of wealthy amateur with more money than expertise.
She wasn't fooled. Not entirely.
"You don't blink enough, Mr. Morrow."
The observation landed with surgical precision. I'd been controlling my physiological responses, suppressing tells that might reveal my non-human nature. But I'd over-controlled—humans blinked regularly, unconsciously, and my stillness had registered on her threat assessment.
"Occupational hazard," I said. "Poker player in my youth."
"Mmm." Her tone suggested she didn't believe me. "What do you really want, Mr. Morrow? Because wealthy collectors looking for suppliers don't usually conduct surveillance from coffee shops before making contact."
She'd spotted me. During my reconnaissance. I'd thought I'd been careful enough—but Bela Talbot hadn't survived this long by missing details.
"I wanted to know who I was approaching," I admitted. "Your reputation includes certain... complications."
"You mean the nest in Portland."
"Among other things."
"That was business." Her expression hardened slightly. "The vampires were hunting in my territory. I provided information to parties who could address the problem. Everyone got what they wanted."
"Except the vampires."
"They weren't paying me."
I absorbed that. Pure transactionalism. No loyalty except to the highest bidder. Catherine's assessment had been accurate—Bela Talbot would work with anyone, sell to anyone, betray anyone if the price was right.
That made her useful. And dangerous.
"I'm not looking for loyalty," I said. "I'm looking for capability. Items sourced on commission, delivered discretely, no questions about the buyer's purposes."
"That's expensive."
"I have resources."
"Everyone says that." She studied me with the calculating attention of someone deciding whether to take a risk. "You're not human, Mr. Morrow. I'm not sure what you are, but you're not human. The question is whether that matters."
No point denying what she'd already deduced. "Does it?"
"That depends on what you want."
"Partnership. Revenue sharing. A business relationship that benefits both parties." I held her gaze. "I represent interests that need access to certain markets. You have that access. Together, we could accomplish things neither of us could manage alone."
She was quiet for a long moment. The auction continued around us—bids and purchases, the routine commerce of a world most humans never glimpsed.
"Partnership is a significant word," she said finally. "It implies trust."
"It implies mutual benefit. Trust is optional."
That got a genuine smile—brief, quickly suppressed, but real. "You're more interesting than I expected, Mr. Morrow."
"Sebastian, please."
"Sebastian." She produced a card—cream-colored, nothing but "Bela" and a phone number in elegant script. "If you're serious about partnership, we should discuss terms. Somewhere more private."
"Name the time and place."
"Tomorrow. Eight PM. There's a restaurant in Tribeca—I'll text you the address." She tucked the card into my jacket pocket with the practiced intimacy of someone accustomed to creating connections. "Come alone. And Sebastian?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you are, be honest about it. I don't work with people who lie to me about fundamental things." Her eyes held mine. "I'll find out eventually. Better we start with clarity."
She walked away before I could respond, disappearing into the crowd with the fluid grace of someone who'd mastered the art of strategic exit.
The card sat in my pocket like a loaded weapon.
Tomorrow. Private discussion. Full disclosure—or at least, enough disclosure to satisfy her requirements without compromising coalition security.
She knew I wasn't human. She didn't know what I was, and the uncertainty was working in my favor. But that advantage would evaporate the moment she decided to dig deeper.
I collected my purchased dagger from the auction staff and left.
The walk back to the hotel gave me time to process. Bela Talbot was everything Catherine had warned—clever, ruthless, completely untrustworthy. She'd figured out more in twenty minutes of conversation than most humans learned in months of observation.
She was also exactly what the coalition needed. Access to markets. Connections to buyers. The capability to source items that could fund expansion for years.
The question was how much to reveal. What she already knew: I wasn't human. What she suspected: something powerful enough to warrant surveillance, wealthy enough to overpay for strategic purposes, organized enough to conduct professional reconnaissance.
What she didn't know: the coalition, the System, my true nature, the apocalypse preparation that drove every decision I made.
Tomorrow's conversation would determine how much of that gap remained.
[OPERATION STATUS: CONTACT ESTABLISHED] [ASSESSMENT: BELA TALBOT — HIGHLY CAPABLE, HIGHLY DANGEROUS] [OPPORTUNITY: SIGNIFICANT — ARTIFACT TRADE ACCESS CONFIRMED] [RISK: MODERATE — SUBJECT HAS DEDUCED NON-HUMAN NATURE] [RECOMMENDATION: PROCEED WITH CAUTION — REVEAL MINIMUM NECESSARY]
The System's recommendations aligned with my own instincts. Reveal enough to satisfy her requirements. Keep enough hidden to maintain advantage. Build the relationship slowly, testing trust before extending it.
Tomorrow. Eight PM. Tribeca.
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