Dawn Walker

---

Raka almost smiled. There it was. It was not an honor. It was not loyalty. Not principle either.

It was the proper language of the lower world. He named a number.

The cutpurse’s eyes widened.

Another man at the wall said, "For one run."

"For joining," Raka said. "More if you’re useful."

A woman with burn scars across both wrists folded her arms. "And if Iron House offers more."

Raka looked at her. "Then take it and die richer."

That got a few ugly laughs.

Laughter loosened fear enough that greed could start doing the rest of the work.

He moved through them after that, not like a speaker on a platform, but like a predator among possible tools. He named names. Called out old cowards. Reminded certain men exactly who had ruled the underground market for years. He offered money to one. Threatened another. Made one little gang leader kneel by the simple act of describing, in calm detail, what would happen if he sold even one route to Iron House.

By the end of it, he had more volunteers than he needed and enough frightened fence-sitters that none of them would dare breathe toward Iron House without thinking of their own necks first.

That was all he needed.

At the edge of the hall, one of the lesser vampires leaned in once the crowd began breaking into smaller knots of bargaining.

"They fear you more than before."

Raka looked at the men taking his money and the ones backing away from his attention with very careful expressions.

"They should."

Then, quieter and more to himself than to the subordinate, he added, "And they should fear him more than me."

Sekhmet.

Always the center. Always the shadow above the room, even when not physically there.

Raka liked that too.

Night settled over the city by slow degrees.

At Dawn House, the evening had grown quieter, but not softer. The work done through the day had settled into place. Supplies hidden. Messages sent. Duty lines redrawn.

Bat Bat had asked to go into the Void Land six times since morning.

Sekhmet counted.

Not because he enjoyed counting them.

Because Bat Bat made forgetting impossible.

The first time she had asked while Elena was trying to force proper foot placement into her legs and patience into her mouth.

The second time she had asked while Vera was correcting her posture and Vela was correcting her attitude.

The third time she had asked during breakfast, with bread in one hand and righteous outrage in the other, claiming that if Mira was transforming into something rare, then as a scholar of bloodline evolution she had a sacred duty to witness it.

The fourth time she had asked in the hall outside Sekhmet’s room and added that keeping her away from important things was delaying the advancement of civilization.

The fifth time she had asked while Elena was giving house orders, which earned her a stare so cold that even Bat Bat had gone quiet for nearly twelve seconds.

The sixth time she had asked at dusk, much more carefully than the others.

"Master," she had said, hovering just far enough away to suggest she understood the danger of immediate refusal, "if Mira wakes and becomes something beautiful and terrifying and important, and I am not there, history will suffer."

Sekhmet had looked at her.

Bat Bat had added quickly, "I will not touch anything. I will not scream. I will not start a philosophical debate with the transforming woman. I will stand to one side with dignity."

That promise had been so ambitious that it almost became funny.

Almost.

He had not let her go then. He had said the same thing he had said five times before.

"You need to complete your training."

Bat Bat had folded her arms and declared, with immense sadness, that genius was always punished first by its own era.

Midnight came slowly to Dawn House.

By then, the estate had gone quiet on the surface, but it was not the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of people resting before pressure. The maids had finished the last movements of the day. Elena had checked the house twice. Vera and Vela had finally stopped drilling Bat Bat only because Elena declared that if they broke her legs the day before war, then they would be the ones carrying her through the corridors tomorrow.

Bat Bat had still not forgiven anyone for that.

She had stayed near Sekhmet since evening.

Not clinging to him, because even she understood there were limits before a man started looking at doors instead of people. But close enough that every servant in the house could tell she was waiting for something.

The seventh time she asked was after supper.

"When are you going?"

Sekhmet did not look up from the table where he was studying route marks and supply notes. "Nowhere."

Bat Bat narrowed her eyes. "That was not the truth. That was a delay in sentence form."

The eighth time she asked was a little later, when he changed rooms.

"You are going to the Void Land. Later?"

"Yes."

"I should come."

"No."

Bat Bat put both hands on her hips. "You are making a grave academic mistake."

"You still need training."

"That answer is becoming personal."

The ninth time came near the outer hall lamp.

"Master."

He kept walking.

"Master."

He stopped this time and looked at her.

She drew herself up, ready to argue again, but he spoke first.

"You still need training."

Bat Bat closed her eyes as if absorbing a tragic blow from the heavens themselves. "You keep using that against me because it is true."

"Yes."

That nearly ended it.

Because Bat Bat did eventually learn when not to push directly. Not often. Not gracefully. But sometimes.

So instead of asking a tenth time in the same obvious way, she simply remained with him through the rest of the evening. She sat near the window while he worked. She followed when he moved to another room.