The memory of the broken bone still lingered deep in his left arm. Seven days had passed at Velvet Thorn. The blade, the glass, the chair—nothing had reached Blackwood Damon. That fact accumulated in a place separate from the pain, silently, in an invisible space. On such a morning, Blackwood Damon said something unusual. "[cold]Go to the Lower East Side. There's a delivery at the pawnshop on Orchard Street." Frank handed him an envelope. The address was Morgenstern Pawnshop—the old woman's shop where Rosenberg Eliya went when he was short on cash. For the first time in three days, he could breathe outside air. That much, at least, didn't seem entirely bad. The subway headed toward the Lower East Side. The moment it emerged from the underground tunnel to the surface, the scenery changed. From the neon and ebony and deep crimson of Midtown to brick and Hebrew graffiti and the smell of dried fish. This is my street, Eliya thought. He thought it without any particular feeling. Walking down Orchard Street. The market before noon was crowded with people. Voices selling vegetables, the sound of children running, a radio playing somewhere. The sensation of shoe soles on old cobblestones. He'd walked this road every day until three days ago, yet it felt like a different place now. He tried to pass in front of Barney's Taproom when his feet stopped. Against the wall beside the entrance, a white-haired man stood. Seventy... no, fifty-five years old, it should be. Short hair mixed with white, calm brown eyes, fine wrinkles gathered at his forehead. A simple but clean black jacket, and a small kippah casually visible at his chest. The man noticed Eliya and slowly straightened his body. Goldman Samuel. Rabbi of Synagogue Beit Shalom—the stone chapel in the Upper West Side. The man who once taught Eliya Divrei Kedosha—the spiritual power wielded through Hebrew prayer. The teacher who first taught Eliya faith. Something sank to the bottom of his stomach. Why was he here. "[gentle]Eliya." His voice was calm. Not angry, not reproachful. Just quiet, calling his name. That quietness stirred something within Eliya in return. Goldman Samuel's eyes were looking at Eliya's face. The dark circles under his eyes, the yellowing bruises on his cheeks, the exhaustion more clearly visible in the street light he hadn't seen in three days—seeing all this, the corners of Goldman Samuel's eyes trembled slightly. The face of someone trying not to cry, holding it back. Eliya immediately looked away. "[cold]Why did you come." "[gentle]Someone from the community told me. A man who used to come to Barney's hasn't been seen recently. I heard he was working at a club in Midtown." The congregation network of Beit Shalom. The Jewish community of the Lower East Side was small. Who knew whom, where everyone worked—it was all connected somewhere. "[cold]How troublesome for you." Goldman Samuel took a step closer. Eliya didn't move. "[gentle]Come back, Eliya. It's not too late yet. You don't need to come to Beit Shalom. Just leave that place." As he spoke, Goldman Samuel's hand slowly extended. Toward Eliya's shoulder. The same gesture he'd made to young Eliya long ago. Eliya brushed the hand away. Not forcefully. Just blocking it before it could touch. Goldman Samuel's hand stopped. "[cold]Go back." "[gentle]Eliya——" "[angry]I said go back." The words came out. Louder than he'd intended. A woman walking nearby turned around and hurried past. Goldman Samuel didn't retreat. His calm eyes looked straight at Eliya. Those eyes made him angrier. Eyes that didn't blame. Eyes that didn't abandon. Those were the eyes he least wanted to see right now. Because he felt his former self reflected in them. "[angry]I don't have a place to go back to. There was never a place where God existed." Once the words started, he couldn't stop them. "[angry]I prayed at Auschwitz. I prayed at Warsaw. Every single day, before the sun set, I bowed my head and chanted in Hebrew. God never came. Not once. And worse, your God just silently watched while they killed everyone." The voice was pushed out low. Not shouting. But heavier than that. "[angry]Only I couldn't die. I survived. I saw it all in this body. Is that God's grace? Is that the reward for faith? What are you talking about." Goldman Samuel didn't move. He listened. Without looking away, he heard it all. That made him angrier still. It would have been easier if he'd argued back. If he'd gotten angry, Eliya could have gotten angry in return. But Goldman Samuel just listened. His eyes trembled at the edges, but he made no sound. "[angry]I don't even know if I envy you for still being able to believe, or if I hate you for it. But I can't do it. I can never go back. So don't come here." He turned his back. He walked away. The hand holding the envelope had turned white. "[serious]Eliya." The voice at his departure was slightly harder for the first time. "[serious]Blackwood Damon is a demon who has preyed on humans since the seventeenth century. If you're caught in the Nocturnal Covenant he created—the trading network that buys and sells desires in exchange for human souls—you can never return." Eliya's feet stopped. He received the words on his back. He didn't turn around. "[serious]I don't know what state you're being held in. But Shevet HaShachar—the network of those who know of demons' existence and oppose them—has clues to breaking the contract. If you change your mind..." Footsteps faded away. The sound of Goldman Samuel leaving. Eliya stood there for a while. Alone in the market crowd. Demon. Seventeenth century. Nocturnal Covenant. He'd always known it in his head. But hearing those words from someone else's mouth was the first time. Hearing someone who saw his situation from the outside put it into words. It struck deeper than expected. Like a thorn. A thorn he couldn't brush away no matter how he tried. Eliya searched his coat pocket. Beneath the envelope, his fingertips touched something hard. A Star of David pendant. Tarnished silver. It had been in his pocket last night too. He didn't know if he'd picked it up somewhere or had always carried it. He gripped it, then let go. He finished the delivery at the pawnshop and returned to Midtown. --- That night, when Eliya returned to Velvet Thorn, Frank stopped him. "Upstairs." That was all. The VIP lounge. Black leather sofa, fireplace, amber lighting. Blackwood Damon stood in the center of the windowless room. His usual black three-piece suit. Lustrous black hair. Red eyes reflecting the fireplace flames, narrowed vertically. There was no smile. The thin smile that usually clung to him somewhere was absent tonight. Instead, there was quiet anger. Not the kind that suppresses emotion, but the kind that freezes it. "[cold]You met someone today." "[cold]..." "[cold]When I let you out, I had someone follow you. A report came in. You were talking to a white-haired old man in front of Barney's." Eliya remained silent. "[cold]I told you. No contact with outsiders." "[sarcastic]I don't remember you ordering anything." Blackwood Damon's expression moved slightly. "[cold]Is that so." He took a step closer. Eliya didn't back away. Blackwood Damon's fist came. To the face. A sound like bone ringing echoed inside his skull. Something broke in his nasal cavity. His vision flowed to the right, and the floor came up. The carpet pressed against his cheek. The taste of iron spread through his mouth. He tried to get up. He put force into his legs. Blackwood Damon's shoe sole came down on his back. Two ribs compressed and creaked. He was slammed to the floor. His breath caught. All the air in his lungs was forced out. For one second, two seconds, he couldn't breathe. When he finally got up, he was hit again. This time on the jaw. His head snapped backward, and the back of his skull hit the wall. Plaster caved in with a dull sound. His knees nearly buckled. He didn't let them. It hurt. It really hurt. Three days ago, the memory of the broken bone remained in his wrist. Now his entire face was burning. Nosebleed dripped down his chin onto the carpet. Minutes later, regeneration began. The broken parts of his nose pressed together from the inside. That pain was a different kind from the pain of being hit. Not impact from outside, but the sensation of being forcibly reshaped from within. There was a sense of being violated at something more fundamental. The moment regeneration finished, Blackwood Damon hit him again. "[laughing]It's amazing that you don't break." He was laughing. Laughing out loud. He showed no sign of fatigue. No sign of boredom. He must have laughed with the same voice a hundred years ago. This man had no end. Every time Eliya regenerated, it began anew. An endless loop. Eliya knelt on one knee on the floor, looking up at Blackwood Damon. His face was a mess. He could feel it was wet with blood. Tears were flowing. Tears from pain. Water that came out physiologically, independent of will. Yet he didn't look away. He glared at Blackwood Damon. The only resistance Eliya had left was that. He couldn't shout with his voice, couldn't fight back with his body, couldn't run. It all meant nothing. So he said it with his eyes alone. I will never forgive you. Blackwood Damon's hand stopped. "[cold]...You can still make that kind of expression." His voice was emotionless. Neither angry nor laughing, purely observational. The voice of someone looking at an insect through a magnifying glass. Blackwood Damon took a step back. He straightened his suit sleeve. "[cold]Change your clothes. I'm having the car brought around." --- Late at night, the car crossed the East River toward Brooklyn. Frank was in the driver's seat. In the back seat, Blackwood Damon and Eliya. Outside the window, warehouse clusters along the harbor flowed past. The night air of Red Hook smelled different from Manhattan. The smell of salt, machine oil, wet wood. A seabird cried somewhere. Eliya's face was nearly finished regenerating. The sensation in his skin was returning. He couldn't feel happy or sad about it. The car stopped. Pier 17's warehouse district. Six large buildings lined up along the harbor. Frank got out in front of one of them, a door with no visible number. He removed a padlock. Eliya got out of the car. Sea wind hit his face. "[cold]Go in." Inside the door was dim. A few bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling. A wide space. The smell of a warehouse—dust, wooden crates, rusted machinery. At first, he couldn't tell what was there. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. There were people. Scattered on the floor like cargo. Some sitting, some lying down. Twenty, thirty people. They had clothes. They were moving. They were breathing. But their eyes were dead. Their faces had no color. Their movements had no will. There was a man carrying a wooden crate, but his eyes weren't looking at the crate. He wasn't looking at anything. Like a hollow doll moving through its motions. A woman passed by Eliya. Their eyes met. They didn't meet. Eliya's existence wasn't visible to her. She might have recognized that something was there, but nothing beyond that. "[cold]Their souls have been more than half drained. They're alive. They feel pain. But they have no power to think. No will. They just perform the actions they're instructed to do." Blackwood Damon spoke matter-of-factly. Explaining. "[cold]If you resist or make contact with someone on the forbidden list, this is what happens. Well, in your case..." A slight pause. "[cold]There are more interesting uses for someone who's immortal." It wasn't a laugh. It was the voice of cold calculation. Eliya didn't move. He stood in the warehouse, looking at the scene before him. Something fell inside his head with a sound. It wasn't debt repayment. It wasn't employment as a bodyguard. The night