Contráth’s brothel was one of the more flashy looking establishments in the Red Light District, which was probably why the Nyctari family wanted it so badly. Nyxvira was making her way towards the regal stone arches at the front of the building, when a mob of wandering pissheads shouting over at her.

“Hey, darlin’! There’s nothing they can give you in there that I can’t give you out here!” One of them jeered.

“I’d be flattered if you weren’t such a miserable waste of sperm.” Nyxie called back, not bothering to look his way as she walked quickly up the steps to the brothel.

A small murmur of laughter rippled through the group, and the catcaller yelled something about her being a fat bitch who should be grateful that any man would ever go near her, which got drowned out by the door swinging shut behind her.

The brothel interior kept to the same style of decor as its exterior, with lush red curtains draping across smooth stone walls, and cut-crystal renaissance chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.

“Welcome to Contráth’s, Mademoiselle,” An overly-dressed moustached man in a suit welcomed Nyxie as she step inside, idley slipping his white gloved fingers through each other “would you like to take a look at what we have on offer, or do you know what you’re here for?”

“My name is Jacqueline Rousseau,” Nyxvira said with a soft smile, more for courtesy's sake than any attempt at being friendly “I have an appointment with Mister Contráth.”

“Ah, a thousand apologies, Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the doorman said with a slight bow of his head “Monsieur Contráth had mentioned an appointment. You’ll find him in his office, at the top of the establishment. Take the first two flights of stairs, then turn left and follow the corridor to its end. Monsieur Contráth is in the room with the silverbirch door.”

Nyxie nodded her thanks, and followed the man’s instructions up to the white wooden door. She wrapped her knuckles against it, and heard a smooth voice call out from beyond.

“Come in.”

Nyxie opened the door, and slipped inside.

A broad-shouldered man sat in a black leather chair, with a great glass window behind him that ran across the entire wall, giving a clear view of the bustling midnight streets below. The man himself was cleanly shaven, and had neatly combed black hair.
“A pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Rousseau,” He said with a smile, rising out of his seat and gently kissing her pale hand “it brings me much happiness to have you in my humble establishment.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mister Contráth,” she replied with a flutter of her eyelashes “and I’m not sure ‘humble’ is a fitting description.”

“A fair observation,” Contráth said, laughing gently “me and my associates have built the bordello into quite the marvel since the war.”

“That hasn't gone unnoticed by the world around you, Mister Contráth,” Nyxie grinned “the people I represent included.”

“Down to buisness, I suppose,” Contráth gave a little nod “could I get you anything from the wine bar, before we begin?”

“I don’t suppose you have any Grawsholan red?” Nyxie asked, a sweet laugh dancing off of her words.”

Contráth wandered over to the wooden shelves which lined one wall of his office, fishing out a black bottle with a bright red cork.

“It appears I do.”

He poured them both a glass, then they sat down in two lush leather chairs and began to talk business.

“The shipment you mentioned over the phone,” Contráth took a sip from his glass as he spoke “it was from Denmark, yes?”

“Fourteen Danish girls,” Nyxie said with a wide grin, sampling the bitter red Grawsholan wine “from Adrian Soreskal’s pleasure house.”

“I know of the Soreskal family through reputation, alone,” Contráth confessed with an element of uncertainty “but I’ve never had dealings with them directly. To be perfectly honest, I thought they were a different caliber of businessmen, all together. If you’ll allow me to be blunt, I’m curious as to what they could gain from investing in some whorehouse in Santa Somabra.”

“The Soreskal family cultivates a very specific image, Mister Contráth “Nyxie as Jacqueline Rousseau said in her most business-savvy tone “Mister Adrian is looking to expand into Santa Somabra, and thinks that your establishment would best fit the particular social circles he wishes to attract.”

“He means rich people.” Contráth chuckled.

“Quite,” Jacqueline/Nyxie smirked, gulping down some more wine “and -for a price- Mister Soreskal would like to help you expand both yours, and his own, business opportunities.”

“I’d be mad not to want Adrian Soreskal as an ally,” Contráth said plainly “but the price he’s asking for...it's a huge investment on my part. If, for whatever reason, the girls weren’t up to scratch, or didn’t draw in enough new clients...I’d be ruined.”

“The girls are trained in-”

Contráth waved her away with one hand.

“I’m well aware of their training, Miss Rousseau, you were very clear about that in our previous conversation, but if no one pays to spend the night with them, then their training isn’t going to reimburse me for everything I lose. I’m not a gambling man, Miss Rousseau, and I don’t like to take wild business ventures without assurances.”

“If I might speak plainly, Mister Contráth?” Nyxvira asked.

“Of course.”

“The Soreskal family has hands in practically every major business in Sweden and Denmark. They are heads of industry, not fair ground swindlers. Partnering with Adrian Soreskal comes with several, unspoken assurances.”

“Yes, but-”

“And should the worst come to the worst,” Nyxie quickly cut him off “the Soreskal family would compensate your for your losses.”

“But, how do I -KNOW- that for sure?” Contráth asked.

“Mister Soreskal wants to establish permanent links in Santa Somabra,” the Faerie explained, downing the rest of her wine, before placing the glass carefully on a nearby table “he can’t do that by making enemies and turning the locals against him. He needs to be seen as reliable, as someone you can do business with.”

“You make a fair point, Miss Rousseau…” Contráth trailed off, pausing to consider his options.

A cold silence swept over the room.

“Very well,” he said at last, offering Nyxie his hand “I do believe we can come to some form of agreement.”

“You’re making the right choice, Mister Contráth.” Nyxie said with a smile.

He wasn’t.

Nyxie had never met Adrian Soreskal, and the whores she was selling to Contráth definitely weren’t from any Scandinavian pleasure house. They were Norwegian sex slaves with the clap. Contráth had sunken too much money in this blind investment, and it would certainly blow up in his face when all of his high society clients started getting Gonorrhea. By that point, Contráth would have no option but to sell to Elkanah Nyctari, assuming that some angry socialite hadn’t paid someone to off him already.

Concetto, Elkanah’s nephew, would probably have been suspicious of his uncle's involvement, but when word got around that a Faerie had conned Contráth into buying damaged goods, his hatred for Nyxvira Bloodbloom would make him blind to logic.

Nyxie’s part of her deal with Elkanah was done.

Now I just need to worry about Concetto.

Del should have been there with him. She knew Luff was accustomed to working alone but to send her off on some silly errand instead of allowing her to have his back on this was sheer foolishness. It wasn’t even an important task. Luff had asked her to oversee the delivery of some sides of beef at the butcher shop. The delivery trucks would be coming around 2 am and apparently that was more important than his furtive mission to the docks.

So naturally, Del had followed him.

It had been easy enough to convince a number of Luff’s little ones to oversee the shipment. With luck, she could find out what Luff was up to and be back in time for the shipment. Even if she couldn’t, it’s just beef. Not much danger there.

Dressed in casual clothes with only a small fighting knife, she slithered from shadow to shadow, tailing her only friend, her curiosity was only piqued further. He seemed bothered, in a hurry. Luff never hurried. His almost compulsive need for control ensured that he never had to deal with unexpected consequences. To see him not at ease was worrisome indeed.

Once on the docks, Luff had paused around the corner from a pair who were engaged in conversation. Del was about 100 feet away from Luff. Her elven eyes could see clearly in the dark but she still struggled to make out what the pair was talking about. Hopefully Luff would be able to hear what he came for.

She had to muffle a shout of surprise when a cloaked figure appeared behind Luff and pressed a small handgun to the back of his head. Luff stiffened noticeably as the cold metal pressed against his skin. The small figure called out to the conversational duo and they quickly converged on Luff.

This was about to get messy.

One of them, a male, injected Luff with what could only be an extremely potent tranquilizer because he collapsed bonelessly a few seconds later. Del watched helplessly as a truck was pulled around and her only friend was loaded into it. The pair who had been talking, as well as the cloaked stranger, got into the truck and it slowly drove away.

“Shit,” Del cursed loudly. “Shit, shit shit!”

She waited until the truck had gone a fair way and then started off at a gentle trot. The truck seemed in no hurry and so neither was she. But she had to get Luff back. That stubborn old bastard and really fucked up this time. Though as she thought about the rescue, a sly grin crept onto her face. This was going to be fun.



Del’s elven stamina had allowed her to maintain a steady pace behind the truck until it left the city proper and began the winding trek to the hills on the outskirts of Santa Somabra. Cursing, Del slowed down and it wasn’t long before the truck was out of sight. Del had never stolen a car before but one of the bangers she had “serviced” in her days as a whore had drunkenly explained the process to her. How hard could it be?

She smashed the window of a nearby car and hopped in. The alarm began to chirp. Loudly.

“Shit,” Del grunted. She pried off the plastic covering revealing some colored wires. Thinking back to the slurred instructions she had received, she grabbed what she believed to be the correct wires and connected the exposed ends. There were sparks and the car sputtered to life. Mercifully, the alarm shut off, too.

“That’s more like it!” Del exclaimed. She pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and took off in the direction that the truck had been headed.

It wasn’t long before she caught up to the truck. She slowed down to avoid detection and cautiously followed Luff’s captors to a large estate. Del dumped the car two hundred yards away from the estate and began her approach.

When the grounds of the estate came into sight, she watched as Luff’s unconscious body was placed in the garage and the group of men, along with what appeared to be a faerie, went in through the front door.

Del waited a few minutes and then approached the garage. The door wasn’t locked, but it was damned heavy. As quietly as she could, she lifted the door up just enough to slip under and lowered it slowly back to the ground. There was a soft thud that she sincerely hoped was not heard by anyone.

Turning the face the interior of the garage, she saw Luff in a chair, partially tied to it, while a man in his 30’s gawped at her in surprise. Fortunately, she recovered faster than he did. Del closed the gap between them in two strides and opened his throat with a single swipe of her knife. She continued in her movement, spinning around once she was behind him and pressed on his carotid with two fingers. Hard. The added pressure increased the flow rate of his lifeblood and four seconds later he collapsed soundlessly to the ground.

That bit taken care of, she turned to face her unconscious friend. Getting in had been easy. Getting out? Now that was another story.

The Knife clattered to the ground, dancing off of the cold stone floor, with its blade outstretched like the wings of some twisted bird.

“Prove yourself,” Judas said to Daniel Trieu “Show us what you’ve got, little one.”

Daniel could feel his hands shaking, his heart racing, as he slowly edged forwards, and grabbed hold of the blade. The world around him was fuzzy, and the knife felt light in his hands.

“Give me the knife and I’ll cut him, myself.” Someone laughed.

“You’ll do no such fucking thing,” Judas barked to the rabble of hanged men behind him “the cutting is a privilege. You don’t force that sort of thing upon a man. He has to earn it.”

Judas bent down so that he was level with Daniel, placing one pale hand on the side of his head. His bright green eyes bore into him, hot like the flames of hell itself.

“Come on, kitten,” Judas cooed “if you wanna do business with made men, you need to start acting like a made man.”

Daniel nodded, his words abandoning him, and forced the blade of the knife into the flesh of his left arm.

He felt the force of the metal ripping through his skin, puncturing him like a ruptured tire, slicing down to the very bone. The world vanished, and all that was left was the searing, head-splitting pain of steel through flesh. Blood pooled out of the wound, spilling forth and splattering against the stones. A thick trail of dark carmine slipped through the cracks, staining the floor red.

“Keep going.” a voice instructed him.

He gritted his teeth and yanked backwards, sheathing through his skin like a scythe through corn. The blood kept coming, and his flesh gave way, a jagged tear slashing backwards across his arm. A deep ravine was gouged into his skin, drowned beneath a tsunami of gushing blood.

“Good job, doll face,” Judas said with a leering grin like that of a hungry shark, pulling Daniel back into the real world “Now let's get that nasty little boo boo bandaged up.”

---

A few days later, Daniel sat across from Judas at Napoleon’s Palace, an up-market cafe in the Silver Expanse, with his arm all wound up in bandages. It stung like two bitches and a bastard.

The pair were dressed smartly, garbed in damn expensive tuxedos, but even with his dark hair slicked back across his head, Judas still looked off; like a hyena in a suit. He had the sleeve of one arm rolled up, and Danny could see the necrotic tattoos that wound across his pale flesh.

“They do the most delicious crêpes, Danny boy,” the leader of the hanged men gushed, rolling the word ‘delicious’ off of his tongue “the kind you’d kill a man for.”

The way Judas said it, it sounded as though he had.

The cafe was a nice, quiet little establishment, with polished hardwood floors, and tables with crisp white cloths draped over them. There was a pleasant buzz to the place, as the customers chatted smoothly over their meals.

“I’ll have to give them a try.” Daniel nodded.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Judas snapped “that’s the beauty of being a free man.”

A waitress, pleasant to look upon with her bronze skin and coal black hair, made her way over to their table, a smile puckered on her lips.

“Heya! I’m Carmella, I’ll be your waitress today,” she greeted them warmly “can I take your order?”

“Two of your strawberry crêpes, and a glass of water,” Judas barked, without missing a beat “thanks, gorgeous.”

“I’ll get right on that, sirs.” Carmella said with an uncomfortable smile, before turning on her heel and vanishing back into the cafe.

“You like that sweet little piece, Danny boy?” Judas asked, once the black haired beauty had sauntered off.

“Give me a desk and a flogger, and I’ll show you how I like her.” Daniel grinned, winking at his boss.

Judas slid a folded up napkin across the table, gesturing for the younger man to pick it up. When he did, he found a swicthblade tucked away beneath it.

“That little piece is Carmella Santoni,” he explained darkly “get her alone, and do what Hanged Men do best.”

“I won’t disappoint you, boss man.” Daniel said with a nod.

“Make sure of it,” Judas snarled “I don’t do second chances.”

Fix grinned as he watched his reflection in the nearby window, his new sharp suit and hat were in his opinion damn delicious – he looked the picture of perfection and he resisted the urge to wink vainly at his smiling reflection as he ran his fingers down the lapels. Glancing to his right as he heard a short snigger he saw that Dom was watching him and obviously found his attraction to himself somewhat entertaining. As Fix was about to open his mouth and say something a pair of headlight beams emerged at the entrance to the new warehouse they had rented as a black snazzy sedan entered followed by a pair of large white trucks.

“Two trucks?” wondered Fix aloud as the trio of vehicles pulled up beside them and a number of Italians exited, one of them rushing to open the rear door before a rather pale corpse-looking man with a pencil-thin moustache and small goatee exited. He looked Fix up and down once before he gestured to his men to start unloading the trucks. As he did he approached Fix and greeted him “I am Marco Boccaccio. I represent the head of the Martovanni family, as I’m sure you can guess we have much to discuss with you, questions to ask and terms to finalise.”

His accent was thick and it was clear to Fix this was an Italian directly from their ‘homeland’, it seemed to fix that hopefully he wouldn’t need his men who were placed strategically around the warehouse and yard with their hands ready on guns. After all everyone was under the impression he had killed one of the family, something he’d been able to find out very little about why or how he did it – which left him somewhat at a disadvantage. It seemed to him though that the chips had fallen in his favour, as Marco continued speaking and explained the following.

“It pains Mr Martovanni that your actions were necessary, that Eddie would betray his family so wholly without thoughts for his actions. It also pleases Mr Martovanni that you did not follow Eddie’s request and attempt to kill him, instead exposing his treachery and serving as executioner in his case – though presumptuous your actions are welcomed and will be rewarded.” Marco paused as a pair of ogres hefted what appeared to be a very heavy crate from the back of one of the trucks and dumped it beside him panting slightly. Another goon came forwards with a crowbar and prised the lid off with a few grunts to reveal that the container was filled with a more than generous quantity of narcotics.

“We have provided you with thirty such crates, I do hope that you have the resources to distribute this quantity and ensure a healthy return for both of us on the investment” he coolly stated as he saw that Fix’s eyes began to practically bulge from him head at the quantity and quality of the merchandise.

The Gnoll cleared his throat and spoke as his mouth was suddenly becoming very dry “Of course of course! Marco my man, nothing gets my engine revved up more than a surplus of product. You have my assurances that I can and will do you proud.” Fix hesitated, his mind abuzz with questions. Who the hell had really killed Eddie and why on earth was he getting the credit for it. He’d half expected the Italians to be in the mood for vengeance, but it seemed whoever had puppeteered such events had done so with a practiced and guileful hand. His thoughts went to the Anansai as he was reminded of their deal together and he wondered if he was responsible.

“Oh and Marco” Fix added his face mirroring his glee “I’ve got a name for you, my boys have been busy and we’ve found out quite the nugget of information”.

“Oh?” responded Marco raising his eyebrows in pleased surprise.

“Khadba the orc, snuff supplier for the Hanged Men” announced Fix with a sly grin as he reached for his new flask.

“You are well informed for a Gnoll” simply stated Marco with his own smirk “It seems Mr Martovanni’s faith in you is well placed. I’ll pass the name along and I’m sure we will meet again soon. Here.” Marco handed him a matchbook for a club in Dawn Peak Heights. “If you need to speak to me then you’ll find me or one of my men here”
Fix watched as the Italian returned to his car, lifting his flask to his lips as he watched the man go. Seemed like fortune was his, for the moment at least.



Smoke was thick in the air and the jovial sound of Jazz surrounded them as a young elven waitress brought the trio of Gnoll’s their drinks. Fix waited for her to leave before he raised his glass and held it aloft, his eyes flashed and he glanced at Dom and Direo before he toasted “To us boys, to our new friend and of course, to the Italians and their contribution to our operation”.

The three of them clinked glasses before downing their drinks in one. It was new for any of them to be out enjoying themselves in an establishment such as this, but seeing how they were moving up in the world it made sense – or so Fix had explained. He’d rented a new warehouse to use as their new base of operations, an attempt to keep their old one hidden due to the new need to accept regular deliveries and have what could be called a more public base of operations if they were going to be stepping up business. Fix knew that the next few days would be key, he needed to recruit more dealers than they’d ever had in their employ due to the influx of product. Trust as always would be the key issue and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find so many bodies in a quick enough time frame without compromising his operation.

But for now he pushed the thoughts away, instead focusing on the celebration of tonight as he ordered another round of drinks and passed each of them a cigarette. Fix’s eyes went back to the young waitress, as she placed the glasses on the table her eyes met his. Instead of the usual look of revulsion or aggression she instead shot him a seductive wink, leaving him somewhat surprised and speechless – an event in itself. If he were not covered in fur the others would have seen him blushing. Before he could think further about her he heard Dom shout a greeting to someone who was approaching from behind. Twisting in his seat Fix looked back and was delighted to see Grizzo hobbling towards them. The goblin was covered in bandages and bruises but otherwise had a wicked grin on his face as he greeted them.

“This just ain’t right, Nyxie,” Joshua Cavalio said with a frown, his pleasant face contorting with poorly-repressed frustration “the big families are supposed to be sacred, untouchable like, but in just a few -fucking- days we’ve lost Eddie Martovanni and Carmella Santoni.”

Nyxvira nodded understandingly, nibbling on a spoonful of chocolatey Gwaed Gwartheg, all the while maintaining perfect eye contact.

“Things ain’t supposed to be this way,” Cavalio rambled on “and it's got everyone scared shitless.”

“This will all blow over, honey,” Nyxvira promised in her most nurturing tone, placing one hand softly on top of Joshua’s “there isn’t a man alive who could take on the italians and win. Everything will go back to the way it was, you’ll see.”

Joshua let out a sigh, allowing his body to relax ever-so-slightly, whilst he leant back in his cafe chair, drawing some small comfort from the pleasant cafe atmosphere.

“That shit you pulled with Andreas really fucked Mister Dante off,” Joshua gave a nervous little laugh, lowering his voice, just in case anyone sitting nearby was a secret italian spy “if anyone from the family knew I was talking to you...”

“They won’t.” She vowed, rubbing the back of his hands with her plump fingers.

“Its this Judas fella,” Joshua babbled “I’ve heard of crazies, but this guy's a complete section eight. There’s no rhyme or reason to him, Nyxie; he’s a fucking psychopath. He’s just as likely to waste one of his own as he is one of ours, but he’s still got people lining up to kiss his goddamn feet. They’re scared of him, Nyxie, and the more I hear about Judas, the more I understand why.”

“He’s a madman,” The Faerie nodded “but that’ll be his undoing. Once the fear wears off, the other Hanged Men will drop him like a bad habit.”

“I dunno, Nyxie…” Joshua muttered.

He paused, sweat beading down his forehead.

“But anyway, enough about my problems.” Joshua said with a forced smile.

Fucking finally. Nyxie thought. He’s lucky he’s cute.

“Are you sure you’re okay to talk about this, sweetheart?” She asked with false affection.

“Yeah,” the gangster said, seemingly in an attempt to assure himself as much as his companion “best to take my mind off of things, you know? It's good to focus on something that isn’t about this mental war.”

“Only if you’re sure, sweetie.”

“I am.”

“Alright, then. I know you’ve done well for yourself since you joined up with the Italians, but I also know you still keep up with some of your old contacts, from before.”

Joshua’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Excellent,” Nyxie grinned “What are the chances of you getting me a meeting with Ruzghul Elfchewer?”

The air of Santa Somabra may have smelled slightly polluted and unremarkable to some, but to Ibzan the air smelled like a bakery full of pies, and he intended to make himself the devourer of as much of the stock as he could.

It had been nearly a century since The Urbane Devil had graced this section of America, he couldn't even recall if the city's foundations had even been set when he was last here. But those particulars were irrelevant to him, as he had eternity and time for the most part becomes meaningless to eternal beings eventually.

What mattered now was what to do? Ibzan had rented an small, unassuming apartment in the Red Light District from a building that he was pretty sure was owned by one of the crime families of the city. The Red Light District was the pounding heart, the roasting meat, the churning oven that was bringing forth the greatest sensations which the Demon was sensing. He could realistically just stay in his room and take in all of the multitudes of energy off of the flurry of emotions about him, but then where would be the fun in that? He had rented the apartment under the alias Damien Delroy, where he'd taken the form of a young male Greaser-looking fellow with boyish features but well defined muscles with slicked back hair, a leather jacket, sunglasses, and blue jeans.

Ultimately, he decided to "ease" into his new surroundings, get a feel for the local scene, try some of the local drugs, and maybe grab a few easy picking to bring home and have fun with. For unlike some of his kin, Ibzan didn't really relish constantly taking souls left and right. He found it became monotonous fast and sucked all the enjoyment out of what he was doing. Plus, finding a bunch of soulless husks stumbling around tends to draw the attention of Hunters to one's true self really fast.

No, Ibzan loved the long games, the people who kept coming back and making his days interesting. If they became boring, then he'd forcibly take their souls, but whether it got to that point or where they actually willingly gave themselves over to him made little difference, he knew he'd always win once he had his prey hooked. He was the ultimate drug.

So, he decided to keep his current form, took a fresh bankroll of cash he had withdrawn on the way through town and put it into his pocket as he adjusted his shades and stepped out in the Red Light District. He didn't even have to walk past two alleys before he found a Drug Dealer selling a whole mix of very illegal and exotic narcotics. Ibzan wagered he was also gang-affiliated, no way a dealer would be hawking their wares so publicly if they weren't protected.

"What you got that's hot?"

The Dealer pulled out a set of three different drugs like a magician with cards.

"Got Fairy Dust, Runez, and Demon's Blood that hot as lava right now, man."

Ibzan's eyebrows shot up from under his glasses at the last one, even though he was unfamiliar with any of them. Demon's Blood? Was it made from real Demons, or was someone trying to sell some cheap knock-off? Either way, he had to see what it was like.

"Give me a taste of that blood."

The Dealer dabbed a drop out of the vial of blood red liquid into a eye-dropper before handing it to Ibzan to squeezed the drops of the narcotic onto his tongue and smacked his lips as he tasted it and tried to discern its effects. He felt a slight rush of testosterone and energy flow through him, but not much else. Had the makers developed an energy drink mixed with hormones? What the fuck was this stuff? It certainly wasn't anything close to his own or his kin's blood, though it was an admirable mimicry. But then, he wasn't the intended audience for this drug, was he? Thinking thoughtfully for a moment, Ibzan handed the dropper back and took his bankroll out, counting through the notes.

"How much for a gallon?"

This time it was the Dealer's turn to be shocked.

"Whoa ho! Man, I appreciate your offer, but you see me hauling around any gallon jugs in this coat?"

The disguised Demon sighed irritatedly, and looked up from his roll, taking his shades off, and imbuing a slight bit of his power into his voice, pouring some willful suggestion into it.

"How much, and how long to get it to me?"

The Dealer blinked as if he got dust flung in his eyes and rubbed the side of his head as if he got a small headache.

"Ummm. . . it'll be 10 grand, and an hour."

Ibzan bit his lip and counted out five thousand in c-notes, pouring suggestion into his voice again as he looked back up.

"Your stuff's not THAT good. Five grand, and you'll bring it to me in a gallon milk jug to that strip club just up the street there within the hour. I'll be waiting with the two most beautiful women in the house, name's Damien Delroy."

With the weak-willed Dealer rendered speechless from the mesmeric onslaught again, his nose dripping blood a bit this time, Ibzan simply slipped the selected wad of bills into the dealer's pocket, took a rag out of his jean pocket to wipe the man's nose quickly, and patted him on the back as the Dealer started to mumble incoherently his new instructions and walk off in what Ibzan assumed was the direction of his drug den. He'd stop babbling within a minute, and act more natural, but his brain wasn't used to being forcibly handled by a demon's power, so there was still some resistance mechanically.

Normally Ibzan didn't like forcing his will on people like that, but he was impatient and was irritated by how amateur the dealer was.

Meanwhile, with that plan set on the back-burner for now, Ibzan turned in search of his next plan for the night, to get some fresh new delightful playthings under his belt. He licked his lips, still tasting the drops of "Demon's blood" as he put his shades back on, and walked down towards the strip club he's seen out of the corner of his eye just down the block.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Corrado Tolavoil, Ruzghul’s half-elf subordinate, let a warm smile break out across his face, as Nyxie made her way up to the front of the beaten down apartment that served as the Elfchewer’s base of operations.

“You’re a hard man to find, Corrado,” Nyxvira grinned, as she pulled the sardinian into a tight embrace “I was starting to take it personally.”

“I wouldn’t have run out on you if it weren’t important, kitty kat,” Tolavoil pouted “boss’s orders, I promise.”

“Speaking of,” Nyxie gave her knuckles a sharp crack “any chance I could get a word with the big man?”

“He’s been in a foul fucking mood since Porfiro sent him packing, Nyxie,” Tolavoil laughed awkwardly “but I reckon I can make an exception for an old friend.”

“We’re friends now, are we?” Nyxie winked, giving the sardinian a quick peck on the cheek, before scampering up past him, and Ruzghul’s apartment.

A bleak wooden corridor led Nyxvira to Ruzghul. The enormous ogre was seated behind a giant wooden desk, his twin heads fixated on whatever document sat in front of him.

“Nyxie!” The second head perked up as she entered, its lizard-like eye snapping towards her.

“Ah, Miss Bloodbloom,” the first said in a cordial manner “what a pleasant surprise.”

“It's good to see again, Sir.” The Faerie smiled with just the right amount of politeness.

“And you, doll.” The second head grinned, giving her a good look at his fang-like teeth.

“How might I be of assistance?” asked the first head.

“I want to get back in the game,” she explained, in as straight-to-the-point tone as she could muster, without offending the ogre “and I want to jump in with both feet this time.”

“Well, it seems you’re in luck,” the first head gave a little smirk, whilst the second beamed like a hungry lion “I do believe I have something which might interest you.”

“You have my undivided attention, Mister Elfchewer.”

“Please, ‘Ruzghul’ is just fine, my dear.” The first head nodded graciously.

“Dante and Porfirio won’t be running things for much longer, sweet thing,” the second head beamed with confidence that bordered on arrogance “and, when I’m in charge, I want people I know that I can trust.”

“I know that you’re dependable, and a capable strategist, Miss Bloodbloom,” the first head picked up where its twin left off “and that’s why I want you to help me seize Chinatown from Old Feng.”

An hour later, and Ibzan/"Damien" had kept to his word, he was within the strip club Succubi Den, a name which amused him to no end, and had found two of the most beautiful performers in the place to amuse him as he waited for his dealer to arrive.

He was drinking a triple glass of Fireball whiskey and had bought his girls each a pint. To them, no doubt he was just some young adult with money and suave, though he was pouring over the place like a hawk looking for mice. Aside from him, dozens of patrons filled the club and bar, performers and patrons alike. The room was heavy with smoke, and not all of it was tobacco. Most of the people were young adults, this was definitely not a gentlemen's club of the older varieties. His plans would suit perfectly here, so long as he could pull it of.

Right around the hour mark, he saw his man walk in through a back door, he obviously must be working for whatever criminal interests likely owned this place, that'd be the only reason he could sneak such a quantity of narcotics right into the club. Made sense to use the club as a front to sell illicit goods, and so long as they also controlled the neighbourhood, nobody would ever rat on them.

His dealer had more stability in his step since he left him, the initial effects of the powerful mental suggestion must have worn off, leaving him merely with the instructions and the desire to fulfill them. He motioned over to the man as he looked around, and the dealer walked over, a milk jug in his right hand that he dropped by Ibzan's leg.

"Good, our business is done."

The dealer nodded numbly and walked off the way he came. The girls, Susan and Roxanne, looked over at the milk jug curiously. Susan was the one to speak up first.

"Are you going to make a bunch of caucasians, Damien? Why bring a gallon of milk into a club?"

Damien smiled in the dark lights, and rubbed the shoulders of the two women he had his hands around before standing up.

"No ladies, there's nobody who can drink that much White Russian. Just stick around here and wait for me, I got something to take care of and we'll get going for the night. That is, if you want to continue this party at my place, of course. There'll be more money in it for you two."

To this end, Ibzan flashed a set of c-notes at the girls whom both smiled greedily as they looked over at each other and nodded to themselves. Who wouldn't want to go home with a handsome young man who was offering them a good time and a substantial amount of cash? There were certainly far less savoury characters to have made the same offer, and this young man was admittedly a new man in town, they doubted he was a member of a rival criminal crew in the city. And his eyes just looked so inviting . . .

So, they sat back and enjoyed the atmosphere, while Ibzan took the jug and walked over towards the bar he was wondering where the staff kept any of their empty beer or wine bottles. A small bin off to the side with a couple empty wine bottles told the story, it hadn't been emptied out the back door by one of the staff yet. Keeping his eye on the bartender and any other employees, Ibzan snatched three bottles out of the bin with his left hand, the bottles clinking lightly as he took them by the necks, but impossible to hear over the loud music of the club. He then discreetly walked over to the men's room, and found a stall to get to work.

Carefully positioning the bottles, he poured the Demon's Blood into each of them, filling them up about to the amount of a normal bottle. The three bottles emptied roughly a third of the gallon jug, but that was fine by Ibzan. Taking the now full bottles out with him and the lighter jug, Ibzan found three parties of young adults in the room, mostly young men, and offered them bottles to share, on his tab. Most of the patrons were already intoxicated or high, and so didn't notice how off the "wine" was compared to what wine should be like.

After he found a home for the third bottle, Ibzan returned to his two dates, and told them it was time to leave, and taking one by each arm, they simply walked out the door back towards Ibzan's apartment. The old demon chuckled menacingly under his breath, he still had some work to do tonight, he couldn't wait to see what the newspapers would be saying tomorrow already . . .