The morning sun did not dare to shine directly into the Sorcière family mansion; it merely bled through the heavy velvet drapes in bruised shades of violet and grey.
Mihael Keehl—known as Mello to the few people back in 2020 who gave a damn about him—woke up with a crick in his neck that felt violently permanent. He was twenty-five years old. He had survived working as a late-night diner dishwasher, a bouncer at a dive bar in Queens, and a day laborer hauling concrete. He possessed the hardened, cynical street smarts of a man who had scrapped for every single meal since childhood. Yet, as he peeled his face off the stiff, antique chaise lounge he had commandeered for the night, he realized none of that had prepared him for Victorian-era babysitting.
If she dies, I die, Mello thought, rubbing the grit from his eyes. I have no ID, no money, and I'm wearing a frog hoodie in 1888. If they kill her, they'll either hang me for murder or throw me in a madhouse. My survival is entirely tethered to this terrifying, red-eyed teenager.
"Your restorative trance has concluded," a cold, soprano voice announced.
Mello jumped. Rosaleah was sitting in the exact same spot on her stool, her endless crimson hair pooling around her. She still wore the oversized white t-shirt, her pale, freckled face completely devoid of exhaustion.
"Trance? Yeah, sure. Let's call it that," Mello groaned, cracking his back. "Listen, Lady Sorcière, if I'm going to be your... Guardian... I need a shower and clothes that don't smell like fear and cheap ramen."
Rosaleah gestured gracefully to a heavy mahogany wardrobe. "I anticipated your need to shed your outer garments. The fabric of your realm is durable, but inconspicuousness is our greatest weapon. Open the chest at the base."
Mello trudged over, wary of the creaking floorboards. Inside the cedar-lined chest lay a pristine, charcoal-grey three-piece suit. The wool was shockingly soft, woven with a faint, imperceptible pinstripe.
"They belonged to my late father," Rosaleah said, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave. It was the first time Mello heard anything resembling human emotion from her. "He was a man of substantial build. I calculate the dimensions will align."
Mello took the garments behind a dressing screen. Ten minutes later, he stepped out. The suit fit him flawlessly. The broad shoulders accommodated his laborer's physique, and the vest tapered perfectly at his waist. He looked sharp. Dangerous, even. He tugged at the starched collar, feeling like a kid playing dress-up, totally unaware of the picture he painted.
Rosaleah stared, unblinking.
He shifts his skin to match the armor of the era, she thought, a spark of genuine awe warming her chest. He looks so much like Father... No. He is a weapon. Do not project your grief onto the Guardian, Rosaleah. Still, his adaptability is terrifying.
"Not bad," Mello muttered, checking his reflection in a tarnished mirror. "Feels like I'm about to get bounced from a high-end casino, but it'll do."
"A casino," she murmured, committing the word to memory. A fortress of high-stakes warfare. He is battle-ready. A sharp knock at the chamber door interrupted them. "My Lady? Your morning sustenance," called a muffled, reedy voice.
Mello's survival instincts flared. Food. The easiest way to kill someone without making a mess. He held up a hand, silencing Rosaleah, and strode to the door. He swung it open, looming over a trembling, frail-looking servant holding a silver tray.
"I'll take that, pal," Mello said, snatching the tray smoothly. He kicked the door shut with a solid thud and set the silver platter on the vanity table. Under the silver dome sat a spread of eggs, a thick slab of ham, and a steaming cup of tea.
"You must consume your portion first, Guardian," Rosaleah instructed from her stool. "Your caloric needs far exceed mine."
Mello leaned over the tray. Years of working in sketchy, health-code-violating kitchens kicked in. He knew the smell of meat that had turned. He knew the scent of a fridge left open too long. He sniffed the ham. It smelled fine. Then, he picked up the teacup.
He took a short, sharp sniff. A faint, overly sweet aroma hit his nose. Bitter almonds.
Almond extract? In breakfast tea? Mello frowned. Wait. Doesn't cyanide smell like almonds? I saw that on a true-crime documentary. Or was it arsenic? Whatever it is, I ain't risking it.
"Don't touch this," Mello said flatly, pouring the tea directly into a potted fern by the window. "Smells like cheap amaretto. And the eggs are runny. Cross-contamination waiting to happen."
Rosaleah's breath hitched. She watched the fern. Within seconds, the leaves began to wither and curl inward, turning a sickly black.
He didn't even use a chemical reagent, Rosaleah thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. He detected the nightshade variant with a mere inhalation. His olfactory senses are honed to a microscopic level. "Guardian," she whispered, her voice laced with profound respect. "You have thwarted a morning assassination. The kitchen is compromised."
Mello blinked at the dead plant, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Holy crap. I was right. This place is a literal death trap. Okay, Mihael, focus. You are the cook now. You are the only one making her food, or you're both dead.
"Yeah, well," Mello cleared his throat, trying to sound confident. "Health and safety violation. From now on, I source the food. I cook it. Nobody hands you a glass of water unless I clear it. Understand?"
"Implicitly," she replied, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She had lived in total isolation for months, trusting no one. Now, this strange, towering entity from the year 2020 was shielding her with absolute authority. For the first time since her father died, she felt a microscopic sliver of safety.
"Right," Mello sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Now, let's go have a chat with our friend from last night. We need to know who ordered the poison."
The hitman was tied precisely where Mello had left him, bound to a heavy radiator with thick velvet curtain cords. The man was awake now, his eyes darting frantically around the dim, dusty storage room they had dragged him into.
Mello stepped into the light, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. He needed this guy to talk, and he needed him to talk fast. Mello thought back to his days bouncing at the dive bar in Queens—how he had to project absolute, unhinged confidence to scare off guys twice his size.
"Look at me, buddy," Mello growled, leaning down and resting his elbows on his knees. He kept his voice low, gravelly. "I've survived shifts behind the grease traps that would make a man like you weep. I've dealt with rats scurrying through alleyways darker than this whole mansion. So, you're going to tell me who signed your paycheck, or I'm going to cancel your subscription to living."
The hitman's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror.
Grease traps? Subscriptions to living? The assassin's mind raced. What dark, industrial hellscape does this demon hail from? He speaks of canceling my life as if it were a mere parcel of paper!
"I—I'll tell you!" the hitman sobbed, straining against the velvet cords. "It was Lord Edmund! Her uncle! He paid me half upfront, the rest when the girl was cold! Please, keep me away from the grease traps!"
Mello blinked, slightly taken aback by how quickly the guy folded. Huh. Guess the tough-guy act works better without the frog hoodie. "Lord Edmund," Rosaleah repeated from the shadows, her red eyes narrowing. "My father's younger brother. Predictable. He lacks imagination."
"Okay," Mello stood up, brushing off his knees. "Edmund is on the blacklist. Now, I need a layout of this place. Show me the perimeter. If I'm going to keep you breathing, Lady Sorcière, I need to know where the blind spots are."
The Sorcière estate was less of a mansion and more of a gothic labyrinth. The corridors were choked with marble statues, suits of armor, and threadbare carpets that looked intentionally designed to snap a person's ankle.
As they walked, Rosaleah pointed out the various wings, her voice monotone and analytical. Mello trailed half a step behind, his eyes darting everywhere. His blue-collar instincts were screaming.
Look at that chandelier, Mello thought, eyeing a massive crystal fixture hanging by a rusted chain. One stiff breeze and that's crushing somebody. And these stairs? No grip tape, totally uneven. OSHA would shut this place down in five minutes.
As they approached the grand staircase, Mello noticed a raised, loose floorboard right at the edge of the landing. Without thinking—relying purely on reflexes honed by years of avoiding open trenches on construction sites—he sidestepped smoothly, reached out, and guided Rosaleah's shoulder to steer her around the hazard.
"Watch the lip," he muttered automatically. "Tripping hazard."
Rosaleah looked down at the floorboard. If stepped upon, it would have sent her tumbling down three flights of marble stairs.
Incredible, Rosaleah thought, her pale cheeks flushing slightly with awe. He performs tactical evasions without conscious thought. He perceives structural weaknesses as easily as a hound smells blood. "Your vigilance is unparalleled, Guardian," she said softly.
"Just trying not to break a leg," Mello replied honestly, though he didn't mind the compliment.
"Well, well, well. Look who decided to emerge from her crypt."
The sneering voice echoed from the bottom of the grand staircase. Mello and Rosaleah stopped. Standing in the foyer below was a man in his late forties, draped in an opulent, fur-lined coat. He possessed the same pale skin as Rosaleah, but his eyes were a watery, cruel blue.
"Uncle Edmund," Rosaleah said, her voice dropping twenty degrees. Her posture instantly stiffened, the brief vulnerability she had shown Mello vanishing behind a wall of pure ice.
"I heard a rumor you were still breathing, my dear niece," Edmund mocked, ascending the first few steps. "And who is this? A new lapdog? He wears my brother's clothes like a beggar playing king."
Mello felt Rosaleah tense beside him. He looked at Edmund. This was the man who had paid to have an eighteen-year-old girl murdered in her sleep. A surge of protective, street-level anger flared in Mello's chest. He didn't care about Victorian etiquette. He cared about drawing a line in the sand.
Mello stepped in front of Rosaleah, blocking Edmund's view of her entirely. He looked down at the wealthy aristocrat with the dead-eyed stare of a bartender who had just cut someone off for the night.
"Listen, pal," Mello said, his voice flat and devoid of any Victorian formality. "Take two steps back, or you're gonna catch hands."
Silence slammed into the foyer.
Uncle Edmund froze, his smug smile dissolving into utter confusion, followed rapidly by horror. Catch hands? Edmund's mind scrambled. Is it a curse? A localized plague of disembodied limbs? The way he speaks... it is archaic, brutal, utterly devoid of civility!
Edmund took a stumbling step backward down the stairs, his face paling. "You... you insolent brute! I am Lord Sorcière! You will rue this dark magic!"
Edmund turned and practically sprinted toward the drawing room, his fur coat billowing behind him.
Mello exhaled slowly, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Dark magic? I literally just threatened to punch him."
Rosaleah stared at Mello's broad back. He had not drawn a weapon. He had not raised his voice. He had simply spoken a bizarre, terrifying incantation, and her greatest tormentor had fled in terror.
She stepped up beside him, her deep red eyes looking up into his tired, brown ones.
"You are exactly what the prophecies foretold, Mello," she said with total, unwavering sincerity.
Mello looked at her. He saw the utter delusion in her eyes, but beneath that, he saw something else. He saw a lonely, traumatized kid who was desperate for someone to stand between her and the monsters.
I am in way over my head, Mello thought. But he didn't correct her. He just adjusted the lapels of his borrowed suit.
"Yeah, well," Mello said softly. "Let's just get you to the library without getting poisoned again."