Black static snapped two inches from Clara’s throat.
The cold sparks hissed in the damp air, smelling of scorched ozone and harbor brine. Clara did not flinch. She leaned back against the wheelchair, her bandaged fingers tightening on the wool scarf Julian had wrapped around her shoulders.
Harker’s mouth curled into an ugly, triumphant sneer.
He expected the clerk to break. Every junior night clerk faced with Syndicate muscle did the same two things. Either the clerk panicked and grabbed the wet silver coins off the felt, violating Rule Four, or he backed away from the desk, abandoning his post and violating Rule One.
Julian did neither.
He stayed planted on the black rubber anti-fatigue mat behind the counter. His work boots did not budge half an inch. His hands rested flat against the mahogany blotter, positioned precisely two inches behind the inlaid brass bell-rail.
“You are trespassing across the threshold, Sub-Inspector,” Julian said. His voice was level and dry, the exact tone he used for midnight shoplifters trying to pass expired coupons. “Rule One forbids any guest from reaching over the bell-rail unless handed a room key.”
“I am not a guest, counter boy,” Harker snarled. His yellowed fingernails hooked into claws, hovering over Clara’s collarbone.
