Vance's Gambit

The air in Silas Vance’s office was thick with the scent of old money and polished mahogany. It was a room designed to intimidate, to project an aura of unassailable power. Detective Miles Corbin, however, felt no such tremor. He’d seen enough of the world’s grimy underbelly to be immune to gilded cages. Vance, seated behind a desk that could have doubled as a sarcophagus lid, regarded him with an expression of mild, almost bored, amusement. It was the kind of look a predator might give a mouse that had wandered too close to its den.

“Detective Corbin,” Vance’s voice was a low purr, smooth as aged whiskey. “To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?” He gestured vaguely with a hand adorned with a signet ring that gleamed under the soft lamplight.

Corbin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Dr. Evelyn Reed. You know her.” It wasn’t a question. Vance’s organization, the Obsidian Hand, was as deeply entwined with the esoteric circles of academia and history as a parasite was to its host.