If Thou Lies, Thou Deserve No Reverence

Clover debated whether he should applaud Horace's bizarre strategy or question if he had indulged in gambling since working his new job. Surely there was a more peaceful and effective approach to lure out the traitor.

To give him credit, it still somewhat worked. Those who chased after Dorothy were unaware of the whiskey poisoning, pursuing some profit from the reward or Horace himself, or simply joined out of boredom.

Of course, the traitor could have decided to join the chase, win the whiskey, and walk away with their failed assassination attempt. Or, they could wait until someone wins the reward and steal it from them. Except, he and Horace knew all too well that nobody besides Solomon could catch Dorothy at a game of tag.

Whether or not the traitor decided to pursue Dorothy didn’t matter as much. Calculating their moves would be as impossible as narrowing the suspect list. Thus, there was only one best solution: Instead of chasing after the traitor, they should bait them.

The plan was to have Dorothy attract as much attention as possible and lure the crowd far away from the office. He didn't expect her and Rouge Roulette to perform on stage, but it was a welcoming surprise, to say the least.

Now that Dorothy successfully lured eyes away from Horace’s office, the next step was to wait for the traitor to take this bait like a rat to a cage.

Of course, if the traitor was smarter than that, then it would be Clover’s job to quite literally sniff them out. Bloodlust, fear, anxiety, distress… It was fascinating how a person’s body could emit so much emotion from their body odor alone. 

If the suspect realized their plan was failing, then their sweat would betray them.

Clover glanced over his shoulders, narrowing his eyes when no one had taken the bait yet. With a sigh, he walked around the distant spectators—step by step—until his nose caught traces of lingering bloodlust and anxiety.

“You,” said Clover, grabbing a man’s shoulder.

The man jumped. “Wh-What?! Who—?!” His eyes widened. “W-Wait, a-aren’t you…?”

“Horace wants to see you.”

“Pardon? Me? Why?”

“Beats me. You best not make him wait. Now go.”

The man nervously looked at the distant office—its door already opened—and swallowed. He turned back to the Co-leader for a compromise, only to meet his threatening glare. He meekly nodded, stood up, and nervously walked.

✦☆✦

The man stepped inside, his gaze meeting Horace’s friendly smile as his chin leaned on his intertwined fingers. Beneath his hands was a bronze figurine, observing him intensely.

“Excuse me,” he nervously said.

“Ah, good evening,” said Horace. “Did Clover send you over?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

Ren snapped the door shut behind him, causing him to flinch.

Horace chuckled as he slid the figurine forward. “Allow me to be straight to the point. Do you plan on killing me?”

The man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just answer.”

“N-No? Of course not! Why would I ever think of such a thing?”

The figurine resembling Theodore raised its right arm straight forward and raised a middle finger at the liar.

Ren twirled his cane and smacked the man at the nape of his neck, knocking him out cold once he hit the floor. “Wow,” he said, whistling. “That was easy.”

Horace frowned, staring at the traitor. “You’re right,” he muttered. “This was way too easy.”

Ren kneeled before the suspect, checking his pockets. “Huh, besides his wallet and a few weapons, he doesn’t seem to carry any substances.”

Horace squinted and pondered to himself, yet before he could speak, a knock at the door interrupted him. Ren quickly dragged the suspect away from the lights and gave Horace a nod.

“Come in,” said Horace.

A woman stepped in and curtsied. “Excuse me,” she said. “Clover said you were calling for me.”

Horace and Ren raised their brows. “I see," said the boss. "Then, let me be brief—do you plan on killing me?”

She blinked, widening her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Just answer.”

“I-I do not, sir. Why do you ask?”

The figurine's middle finger grew slightly taller.

Ren raised his cane and knocked her out in the same manner as the prior liar. “Oh brother,” he said. “There’s more than one.”

Horace frowned as he inspected the figurine. “I had feared this was the case,” he muttered. “My only concern is that this lie-detecting figurine might die out before we can find them all. These figurines are only meant for display and games, not interrogations.”

Ren scratched his head. “Then, we’ll get as much as we can. If there’s more than one, who can say we’ll end up getting dozens?”

Horace pursed his lips. “I understand that a considerable amount of people want me dead, but goodness me. I almost feel flattered.”

“I was in the same boat as you, but believe me, you shouldn’t.” Ren shuddered and shook his head. “Well, whatever. Prepare yourself, Horace. This is going to be a long night.”

A knock at the door interrupted Horace, and the two winced, bracing themselves.

✦☆✦

Ortrone couldn’t help but chuckle in amusement as he watched Dorothy dodge all of Rouge Roulette’s flashy attacks on stage. To think these vampire hunters would enjoy such whimsical events! Was it perhaps Ren’s influence? Surely, that man’s mischief could spread like a plague.

He didn’t expect to linger for so long in the tavern after his talk with Horace. Maybe it was exhaustion from commissions and travels, the lively atmosphere of this place, or the high-quality services that encouraged him to always mingle with these vampire killers whenever he visited.

It was practically a routine at this point. He’d be invited by Horace or Ren for commission or leisure, fulfill their request, and spend the rest of the day simply relaxing in the tavern. With this honored guest badge, he didn’t have to be concerned with any inconvenient assaults or harassment. One could even say he took advantage of his immunity to flaunt his presence as a vampire in the heart of the Chevolaire’s social hall—his own method of defying them without ever lifting a finger against them.

Now, while sitting at a bar and sipping a glass of milk, he began to question why Solomon's daughter was involved with the Chevolaires. Clover once told him that his siblings were going through some sort of “trauma-focused therapy” at his mansion they rented, so what was little Miss Dorothy doing here, donning that peculiar mask, no less? If he remembered correctly, weren’t those masks from Ren? What was he and Clover doing?

As he pondered, he merely shrugged to himself, concluding it was none of his business.

His gaze trailed toward a fellow beside him, who chewed his fingernails as he glued his eyes to Horace’s office rather than Rouge’s performance. The man mumbled something under his breath, something about the people who entered the office never exiting it since. He glanced toward Clover, with quivering arms and legs and his eyes widening like a cornered prey.

Huh, how curious.

“Now, now, lad. What is concerning you?” Ortrone asked, patting the man’s back. “Why are you staring at that door rather than Rouge Roulette’s show?”

“Eek!” The man slapped his hand and jerked back, glaring at him distraughtly. “I-I didn’t do anything!” he blurted out.

Clover stopped in his tracks and glanced in their direction, squinting at the panicking suspect.

Ortrone raised a brow. “Do what, exactly?” he inquired. “You seem shaken up—I was merely asking for your well-being.”

The man hastily stood up, tossed a few copper coins onto the bar’s counter, and began to walk away before Ortrone snatched his shoulder. “I daresay, you ought not to run away,” he said. “I may not be aware of your situation, but your paranoid behavior is simply too—”

With a threatening growl, the man shoved his hand away and made a run for it.

“Hey!” Clover picked up his pace and chased after him. “Hold it right there!” He sprouted a vine and swung at him, ensnaring him by his ankles and wrists.

The suspect cursed and squirmed around, glaring at the approaching Co-leader. “Damn you—no, damn him! Damn him for screwing up his calculations! Why the hell did you come back to Loumont now of all—”

Clover struck him at the nape of his neck and knocked him out cold.

Ortrone tossed a glance at the Co-leader. “What is the meaning of this?” he curiously asked.

“Some group of people are plotting to kill Horace,” said Clover. “We’ve been trying to round them all up and get some answers from them.”

Ortrone blinked. “Truly? Why did you all not consider seeking me for aid?” he asked. “I would be more than happy to lend a hand.”

Clover frowned. “We didn’t want to drag anyone uninvolved into our business.”

“...Ah, I understand.” Ortrone looked down at the traitor. “But why must you silence him? We could have learned something.”

“He would’ve blabbered on to buy time for his comrades to escape. I know this trick all too well.” Clover raised him and swung him over his shoulder. “We appreciate the offer, but—”

A silhouette darted past the two, causing them to flinch as they whipped toward its direction. Clover instantly dropped the unconscious suspect with a concerning thud and nearly began his chase before Ortrone stood up from his seat. “Allow me,” he said with confidence. “Continue your search here. I shall pursue him.”

Clover raised his brows. “All by yourself? No, it’s too dangerous—”

Without wasting a second, Ortrone vanished into a red mist before Clover could finish. The Co-leader frowned and stared at the empty spot before shaking his head. “Don’t blame us if you run into some trouble out there,” he mumbled, dragging the suspect away by his ankle.