Northwest Bolton City, Back Bay District, Federal Avenue.
This neighborhood, home to Bolton City's newly ascendant elite, was a world away from Gooding Street.
A broad, tree-lined avenue ran straight to Central Park. Detached and semi-detached villas lined both sides.
Their brownstone walls had cast-iron railings, and neatly trimmed ivy climbed the porch columns.
The streetlights were electric, bright and steady, illuminating every paving stone on the sidewalks.
The air held no coal smoke or horse manure, only the fresh scent of mown lawns and the occasional sound of a piano drifting through a window.
Most residents worked in finance, law, medicine, or education.
Their households earned between four and ten thousand dollars a year.
On the brass plaque outside one semi-detached brownstone villa, a surname was engraved in flowing script: Lebon.
Ah!
A piercing scream burst from a second-floor bedroom. It cut through the closed windows, echoed for an instant along the quiet street, then scattered on the night wind.
The father, reading a newspaper in the living room downstairs, sprang to his feet. Pages spilled across the floor.
The mother rushed out of the dressing room in her house clothes, still clutching a red shirt.
They charged up the stairs almost together and pushed open the bedroom door.
A blond young man knelt on the floor, his body trembling uncontrollably.
Filthy water had somehow soaked his back, eating his skin beyond recognition.
His left eyeball had fallen from its socket and hung against his cheekbone by a thin optic nerve, swaying with every tremor.
A deep crater had been smashed into the left side of his skull. Blood covered half his face.
A fist-sized hole gaped in the right side of his neck, its edges blackened as though seared by something intensely hot.
Blood gushed from it, pooling dark red on the floor.
"Jimmy! Jimmy! What happened to you?"
His father rushed over and gripped his son's shoulders. Blood immediately soaked his hands.
His voice shook, and the color visibly drained from his face.
He turned and raced downstairs to make a call, shouting the family doctor's name through tears as he dialed.
The mother, who had some nursing experience, forced down her fear and knelt beside her son. She pressed gauze hard against the wound in his neck. It soaked through at once, turning deep red.
Lebon knelt in the pool of blood, his eyes wide with terror.
He tried to speak. His lips moved, but only a wet gurgle came from his throat.
Bloody foam spilled from the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin.
His vision began to blur. The colors of the world faded bit by bit, from color to gray, then from gray to black.
He regretted it.
He should never have listened to that senior member of the Brotherhood and sought out the Witch to curse that damned Stray Dog.
The man had made it sound so trivial. "Just a little bad luck. Make him embarrass himself, that's all."
Lebon had believed him.
He had paid ten dollars and used his own anger as the medium to buy a curse.
He should have had a brilliant future.
His father's business was thriving. His grades were good enough for him to become a lawyer, open a practice in the Back Bay District after graduation, and marry a daughter from a respectable family.
He and someone like Evan Arkham should never have crossed paths.
He should have...
"Jimmy!"
His mother's anguished cry echoed through the villa, down the hall and stairwell, then out a half-open window, where it faded into the quiet, respectable night on Federal Avenue.
A young life ended just like that.
The curse had rebounded.
Pay Back Double.
The price paid by the caster was always greater than the price paid by the target.
Elsewhere.
Central Bolton City, south of Copley Square, Clarendon Street.
A six-story luxury apartment building stood on the corner. Its exterior was pale-gray limestone, its window frames dark oak, and a uniformed doorman stood watch at the ground-floor entrance.
One month's rent here could support a family on Gooding Street for half a year.
In a spacious fifth-floor suite, Pulis sat in a dark leather armchair, holding a stemmed glass.
The liquid inside was dark red and viscous, gleaming faintly in the firelight.
He listened to the young man's report and gave a brief hum.
"This isn't your fault. Go."
The young man, who had come away from his encounter with Hill empty-handed, bowed respectfully and left the room without a word.
After the door closed, the Female Assistant stepped out of the shadows beside the fireplace.
"I think Arkham is lying."
Her voice was low and even, as though she were stating the result of an experiment.
"Adolf's Demon Hunter Faction only moved here from Germany ten years ago, and they haven't fared well."
"They're short on funds, and their numbers have dwindled. They have no more than five active members in Bolton City now."
"Given their current situation, it's unlikely they planted a prospective recruit at Sage University ahead of time."
Pulis gently swirled his glass. The dark-red wine coated its sides, then slowly slid back down.
"True. But I underestimated how perceptive that fellow is."
He took a sip, leaving a thin sheen of red on his lips.
"Unless I'm mistaken, she's set her sights on Arkham too. She hopes to bolster her ranks."
"Should we counter her?" the Female Assistant asked.
Pulis shook his head. "The Demon Hunters aren't our enemies."
"Since she's being so reckless, she'll make a useful scout."
He took out a letter. "Nighthawk sent word. There is indeed something wrong with the Arkham Family."
"This year's Homecoming invitation went to him."
The Female Assistant pressed her pale lips together. "Master, what do we do next?"
He set his glass on the armrest and tapped its rim lightly, making a faint, ringing sound.
"We just need to keep getting his blood."
"Have Eldin make contact with him."
"These lowlife Demon Hunters are paupers, every last one. Give them a few incentives."
"Best of all, she might uncover every secret hidden in Arkham's body."
The Female Assistant nodded in understanding.
"Understood."
She paused, and her tone shifted slightly.
"Master, Mr. Sapp sent word. He says he's short-handed."
Pulis stopped tapping.
His brow furrowed, and undisguised revulsion flashed in the pale-blue eyes behind his glasses.
Several seconds passed in silence.
"Send Leido and the others."
His voice was soft, but he seemed to force every word through clenched teeth.
He tightened his fist. His elbow bumped the glass on the armrest, making it wobble. The dark-red liquid nearly spilled over the rim.
"Just a little longer."
The fire crackled, casting orange light across his pale face and throwing it into deep shadow.
"Once we can withstand sunlight, we won't have to grovel before him anymore."