Part of The Hunt collaborative fiction project. Prompt: Response to Chairman Kyng’s first letter and the Bureau of Barbarity’s reopening.
In 1962, when the Bureau of Barbarity closed its doors, Cordelia and Damocles didn’t mourn its passing. They’d rejected the organization’s invitation two years prior—they had no interest in joining a hunter collective, no matter how well-intentioned.
Sixty-three years later, the Bureau has reopened. Under new management. With old files.
And apparently, someone’s been watching.
Find out more about Cordelia & Damocles || Find out more about the Bureau
MEMENTO MORI
The letter arrived on expensive stationery, hand-delivered to Memento’s private office by a courier who couldn’t quite meet Cordelia’s eyes.
She read it twice. Then placed it carefully on her desk, fingers perfectly still.
“Damo.”
He was already in the doorway. Of course he was.
Cordelia gestured at the letter without looking up. “We have a problem.”
Damocles crossed the office in three strides, his eyes scanning the ornate script. She watched his expression shift—not quite alarm, but something close. Something she rarely saw.
“The Bureau of Barbarity,” he said finally. “I’d thought that particular farce died properly in ‘62.”
“Apparently not.” Cordelia’s voice was glacial. “And apparently, we’ve been on their radar. Long enough for this Charlemagne Kyng to have compiled a file.”
She stood, moving to the window overlooking Edinburgh’s Old Town. November rain streaked the glass, blurring the streetlights below into amber smears. She could see her own reflection superimposed over the scene—perfectly composed, jaw tight, shoulders carrying tension she refused to name. Below, early evening crowds hurried past, oblivious. Someone laughed, high and bright. A bus hissed to a stop. Normal people living normal lives.
“I don’t appreciate being watched, Damo.”
“I know.”
“I don’t appreciate being catalogued.”
“I know that too.”
He moved closer, his reflection appearing in the glass beside hers—close enough she could lean back against him if she chose. She didn’t. But the solidity of him was there, steadying, as the rain intensified and their reflections wavered, reformed.
“We’ve been careful,” she said. “We’ve always been careful. No patterns, no trails, nothing that connects Cordelia Lionel to Cordelia Ashworth or any of the names between. So how does he know?”
Damocles picked up the letter again, studying it with the patience of stone. “The original Bureau knew of us. We turned down their invitation then too.”
“That was 1960. Different leadership, different name.” She turned from the window. “Those files should have been destroyed when the Bureau closed.”
“Should have been.” His dark eyes met hers. “Clearly weren’t.”
Outside, a car alarm wailed. Someone swore in Scots. The ordinary chaos of the city, unaware of the predators in their midst.
Cordelia moved back to her desk, fingers drumming once against the polished wood. A tell. She was calculating.
“What does he actually know?” she asked, more to herself than to him. “Does he know what we hunt? Does he know what you are?” Her hand moved between them, a brief gesture encompassing all that they were. “Does he know about us?”
“The letter suggests merely observation, not understanding.” Damocles set the paper down. “He seems to think we’re hunters. Vigilantes, perhaps. Nothing in it about souls or bargains.”
“Small mercies.” She pulled her laptop closer, already typing. “Charlemagne Kyng. That’s almost certainly not his real name. Too theatrical. Too—”
“French?”
She huffed, “Too everything.” Her fingers flew across the keys. “But if he’s reopened the Bureau, he’ll have left traces. Property records, business filings, something.”
Damocles watched her work. “You’re not considering his invitation.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I’m considering,” Cordelia said coolly, “whether this is a threat that needs eliminating or merely monitoring.” She looked up. “We work alone, Damo. We’ve always worked alone. I’m not about to start reporting to some self-appointed chairman with delusions of grandeur.”
“Agreed.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Though if we’re being thorough in our threat assessment...”
She waited.
“There is something that might be relevant.”
Cordelia’s hands stilled on the keyboard. “Go on.”
Damocles moved to the window she’d vacated, looking down at the street below, zeroing on a couple arguing near the bus stop. He spoke slowly, weighting his next words carefully. “The last few months. Our usual clientele at Memento—the ones we’d normally consider. They’ve been different.”
“Different how?”
“Cautious. More aware… Nosy” He tilted his head slightly. “That hedge fund manager last week. Cornering his assistant in the stock room for months. When you approached him, he left immediately. Didn’t even finish his drink.”
Cordelia frowned. “You think he knew?”
“I think someone warned him. And the property developer in October—the one with harassment complaints buried in NDAs. He took one look at me and started asking about security cameras.”
“We don’t have cameras.”
“No. But he asked anyway. Like he’d been told to be careful in places like this.”
The implication settled between them like smoke over the Cowgate at 3 AM—acrid, clinging, the kind that meant something was burning.
“Someone’s warned them,” Cordelia said slowly. “Someone’s told the predators that they’re being hunted.”
“Or the predators are organising,” Damocles offered. “Which is what Kyng’s letter suggests is happening with the supernatural community.” He paused. “Perhaps it’s not just those monsters who are evolving.”
Cordelia was quiet for a long moment, her mind working through the angles. If human predators were becoming aware, becoming cautious, coordinating... that changed everything. Their methods relied on these men feeling invincible, secure in their power. If that was shifting—
“Fuck,” she said, with feeling.
Damocles’ mouth twitched. She so rarely swore.
“Right then.” Cordelia closed the laptop with a decisive click. “We find Charlemagne Kyng. We determine what he knows, how he knows it, and whether he’s a threat to our operation. We do not accept his invitation, we do not join his little hunting club, and we certainly don’t share information with him.”
“But?”
She met his eyes. “But if something is genuinely changing—if our targets are becoming organised—we need to know about it. And the Bureau might be useful for information gathering, even if we have no intention of becoming members.”
“So we investigate.”
“We investigate.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt with the kind of precision that suggested she was smoothing her thoughts into order at the same time. “Discreetly. At distance. Without revealing anything about ourselves that we don’t have to.”
“Naturally.”
Cordelia picked up the letter, reading it once more. Her expression was unreadable—that perfect mask she’d worn so long it had become her face.
“’I’m always watching,’” she quoted softly. “How terribly ominous.” She looked up at Damocles, and there was something dangerous in her smile. “Someone should perhaps inform Mr. Kyng that we’ve been watching longer. And we’re significantly better at it.”
“Shall I draft a response?”
“God, no. We don’t confirm anything.” She dropped the letter into her desk drawer. “We’ll observe the Bureau as carefully as they’ve apparently been observing us. See who else responds to this invitation, see what Kyng is actually building.”
“And if he becomes a problem?”
The question hung in the air between them. Outside, the rain battered the windows harder. The street below had emptied, everyone fled to warmth and light.
“Then we’ll handle it,” Cordelia said simply. “The same way we handle all problems.”
Damocles nodded once. It was the answer he’d expected. It was always the answer, really.
“I’ll start monitoring for any other Bureau communications,” he said. “See if I can trace the courier.”
“And I’ll reach out to Siobhan in Paris, and perhaps also Esther in Berlin.” She tapped her fingers once against the desk. “And Ravi’s in Auckland now—if Kyng’s gone that far afield, we need to know.” She glanced at the clock on her wall. “The club opens in two hours. We should observe tonight’s crowd. See if your instinct about their behaviour is accurate or just paranoia.”
“It’s not paranoia if they actually are becoming more careful.”
“No,” Cordelia agreed. “Then it’s just war.”
She said it lightly, but they both knew she wasn’t joking. When someone threatens your survival, you don’t wait for them to strike first.
You just make sure you strike better.
Damocles moved toward the door, then paused. “Nessa?”
She looked up, and for just a moment, her expression softened. Just barely. Just enough.
“We’ve survived worse than an overeager chairman with a flair for dramatic correspondence.”
“We have,” she agreed. “Though I can’t recall the last time someone managed to genuinely surprise me. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or insulted.”
“Both, probably.”
“Probably.”
He left her there, already turning back to her laptop, her mind clearly cataloguing threats and calculating responses. Damocles descended the stairs toward Memento’s main floor, where staff were already preparing for the evening rush. The scent of expensive whisky rose from below. Ice clinked against crystal. Low conversation, the kind that happened in shadows.
The Bureau of Barbarity. Charlemagne Kyng. Hunters gathering, monsters evolving, their careful anonymity potentially compromised.
Something had shifted. Damocles wasn’t sure yet if that was a threat or an opportunity.
But he knew Cordelia. She’d turn it into the latter, even if she had to burn down half of Europe to do it.
And he’d be right there beside her, as always.
After all, what was a sword without someone to wield it?
Find out more about Cordelia & Damocles || Find out more about the Bureau
© 2025 E.M.V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake. All rights reserved.
I LOVE this duo - and the direction they're going in. I don't think Charlemagne is going to be happy with any of us!
AAAAAAH what a perfect intro for Damo and Cordelia (and he even called her by the nickname!)!!! I love these two. They're going to be such a problem for Charlemagne, and I cannot wait to see how poorly he reacts.