Half an hour later, Brown pulled the Ford SUV up in front of the apartment building Locke rented on the Upper West Side. The engine idled low, headlights cutting pale cones across the quiet street. It was the dead of night. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings were dark, the city finally catching its breath.
Locke opened the passenger door and stepped out. Brown lowered the window as the cold air drifted in. "Good night, Brown."
Brown shook his head, already shifting back into work mode. "No night for me. I'm heading straight to the bureau to dump the data. When you get in tomorrow morning, we move."
Locke considered that for a moment, then nodded. Brown was wired on momentum. Trying to slow him down would only make things worse. "Okay. See you tomorrow."
Brown grinned, rolled the window up, and pulled away from the curb. The SUV turned the corner and disappeared toward the Sentinel Special Service Building downtown.
Locke stood there a second longer, hands in his coat pockets, watching the empty street. Then he turned and walked inside.
Eighteenth floor.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft metallic sigh. Locke stepped into the hallway, took his key from his pocket, and unlocked his apartment. As he pushed the door open, he checked the time on his phone.
Three a.m.
On any normal day, he would have been unconscious hours ago. But tonight there was no trace of fatigue. No heaviness behind the eyes. No dull ache in the spine.
He felt sharp.
After merging with the vampire gene and climbing from E-level to B-level, becoming what the system called "the darling of the night," something fundamental had shifted. Sleep no longer pressed down on him. His body operated on a different rhythm.
Not bad.
No need to sleep meant eight more usable hours every day. If you rounded it off, he was living one-third longer than everyone else.
Standing at the bar in his living room, he poured himself a glass of bourbon and knocked it back in one smooth motion. The alcohol slid down his throat, burning faintly.
He paused.
"Huh?"
He looked at the empty glass in his hand and blinked.
That was strange.
He turned, opened the wine cabinet, and took out a bottle of mid-range bourbon he'd picked up from a supermarket a few weeks ago. He uncorked it, poured a generous amount, and drank it straight.
Nothing.
The taste was there. The burn was there. But something was missing.
He frowned slightly and glanced toward the bottle of Thunder Bourbon resting deeper in the cabinet.
There was bourbon.
And then there was Thunder Bourbon.
Among American whiskey enthusiasts, Thunder Bourbon had an almost mythic reputation. Small-batch, limited release, aged under tightly controlled conditions. Even a bottle produced just last month could cost as much as two years' rent for this apartment.
Locke couldn't afford it.
The bottle in his cabinet had come from his father's private collection in Washington. He'd slipped it into his luggage last Christmas when he visited home. His father never noticed. Or pretended not to.
Locke pulled the Thunder Bourbon out and uncorked it.
He poured.
He drank.
Instantly, warmth bloomed in his chest.
It wasn't just the standard heat of alcohol. It was deeper. A spreading current, like a small furnace igniting beneath his ribs.
"Sure enough."
So it wasn't his imagination.
He poured another glass and swallowed it. The liquid went down smoother than silk. The warmth followed again, more pronounced this time.
Ever since the vampire gene fusion, his body temperature had run unnaturally cool. Skin colder than average. Blood sluggish unless stimulated. Now, for the first time in days, he could feel genuine heat circulating through him.
He inhaled slowly.
"Does Thunder Bourbon really do this?"
After confirming the effect wasn't a fluke, he let out a quiet breath and stared at the bottle thoughtfully. Back in Washington, there were two unopened cases of the same brand sitting in his family's cellar.
Maybe he should call his mother tomorrow and have her ship them over.
He poured a third glass and drank.
By the time it went down, he could feel his temperature stabilizing. The cold undertone was fading. Muscles felt looser. More… alive.
Then came a knock at the door.
Three sharp raps.
Locke capped the bottle and returned it to the cabinet. He set out a fresh glass opposite his own at the bar, then walked calmly to the door.
He opened it.
Standing in the hallway was a woman in a fitted black bodysuit that clung to every curve with deliberate precision. Her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders like liquid flame.
Natasha Romanoff smiled at him.
"Long time no see, Locke."
"Not that long," he replied easily, stepping aside to let her in. "If we're not counting today, it's been ninety-three days."
She arched an eyebrow as she entered.
Months ago, when he'd first started hunting for signs of supernatural anomalies in New York, he'd tried leveraging S.H.I.E.L.D. channels. That was how he'd crossed paths with Natasha Romanoff — the infamous Black Widow of S.H.I.E.L.D. At the time, he'd hoped she could provide leads on rumored vampire activity.
She couldn't.
But they'd remained… friendly.
Natasha frequently passed through New York on assignments, and when she did, they met. Drinks. Conversation. Chemistry.
Then six months ago, Locke had gotten married.
After Natasha learned about it, communication had gone silent.
Until tonight.
He closed the door behind her and moved back toward the bar. "Want a drink?"
"Sure."
She took in the apartment with a slow glance before sitting on the high stool. "Feels like nothing's changed here."
"It's a rental," he said, handing her a glass. "How much can really change?"
"I don't know." She lifted the bourbon, studying him over the rim. "Where are the wedding photos? I still haven't seen what your new wife looks like."
They clinked glasses.
After finishing his drink, Locke looked at her with a faint smile. "Are you sure you haven't?"
He didn't believe that for a second. Natasha Romanoff didn't operate without background checks. The moment she heard he was married, she would have pulled every available file on Esme.
Natasha met his gaze and smiled, offering neither confirmation nor denial.
"Didn't you once say you'd never get married?" she asked.
"My father insisted."
It was the same explanation he'd given Brown. Technically true. In Washington, the Underwood name carried weight. Political gravity. Expectations.
Natasha nodded slightly. "I've heard."
In New York, the surname Underwood was just another name on a mailbox. In Washington, it opened doors.
After a few more rounds, Natasha brushed her red hair back behind her ear. She turned her face slightly, amber eyes locking onto his.
"That's not a mutant," she said quietly. "It's a vampire. One of our informants."
Locke shrugged.
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Five of my people died," he interrupted calmly. "If I walk away now, morale collapses. Confidence disappears."
"Just because of that?"
"Of course." He smiled faintly. "What else would it be?"
She held his gaze a moment longer, then shifted the subject. "It's late. I should go."
She didn't move.
Locke noticed. A corner of his mouth lifted. "You sure you don't want to stay?"
Her eyes glinted. "You're married."
"I know."
He didn't look away.
Then he added evenly, "She's a flight attendant."
Natasha's brow rose.
He smiled.
There was a beat of silence.
Then both of them moved at the same time.
The thunder and fire from the sky!
Thunder and fire refine real gold!
...
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