"Good, let's get the fuck out of here, this is a goddamn mess..."
That was Tony's summary of the action, and it felt appropriate -- there was a lot of mess left behind to clean up in the form of vampire bodies, ripped apart in various ways, reforming. It was a problem with fighting vampires that if you didn't bring lots of fire or cut off their heads, they'd be back, and while he'd tried to rip off heads for a reason, you could only do so much of it in one go when fighting vampires -- they were not as fast as a werecreature, or as strong, but far more durable in the long term and not nearly as vulnerable to something like silver. A lycanthrope's powers could be pulled like a plug, which was why Tony was always, prior to this anyway, very careful about not getting into jams in the supernatural world where he had to rely on the man-beast form. It was a thing from the old days, before silver was everywhere and before hunters discovered silver, like the guy their van driver had -- the dude was running around with a bunch of it like the Punisher meets Underworld or something.
In any case, the protocol was the same -- dispose of the van, in this case just abandoning it somewhere and hike the rest of the way -- and eventually make it back to the damn bunker, while trying to avoid anything that might be trailing. Here, the acute senses of a werecreature were useful, because the sense of smell and the sight at night made him a good guy to bring up the rear, especially since he blended in. Black man in the ghetto? No problem. Vampires were still human minds with an inhuman thirst, they overlooked things that didn't stick out or move in unusual ways against the backdrop like any other predator on Earth...
--
Hours after the attack, Billy Rikker was still trying to figure out what he'd say when Neil Gordon, of all men, came into the Rusty Steak Knife; it was far closer to dawn than it was a few hours ago, but there was night enough left and a lot of work to do. The thralls started to raise their weapons, and Gordon, counting down as the thralls, to his perception, moved oh-so-sluggishly to raise their weapons, calculated when he'd actually have to draw his revolver and gun them, down.
"Hold!" came the command from Rikker to his thugs, recognizing the Major; he wouldn't have put good odds on two thralls surviving an encounter with an older vampire that had a very nasty reputation, even in the vampiric circles, for his accomplishments of duels. Duels were not necessarily fatal among vampires, but they were embarrassing, which was why good duelists were noted and giving insult to them was avoided.
"Mister Rikker," Gordon intoned in that Tennessee accent of his, "A good evening to you. I trust you've had a pleasant one?"
"Major Gordon, it's a pleasure to see you," Billy's best Italian Duke manners were on display as he managed a courtly gesture of apology, "My thralls are overzealous and no insult was intended. Might you overlook their lapse?" Rikker liked Gordon little and the disdain was very much mutual, but Billy was a political animal so he hid it quite well. His courtesy was a little more contrived than Gordon, who was raised to be a gentleman rather than affecting it in undeath.
"Certainly," Gordon replied, unperturbed; he still wore his hair long-ish in the style of his day, though it was combed and tied back in a concession to modern fashion, though he also wore a hat, a wider-brimmed Stetson that wouldn't draw notice for a man in a suit -- people assumed 'country gentleman' and while that concept was nebulous in the minds of people, Gordon managed to add the odd occasional stylistic touch of authenticity to any outfit he wore these days, "Though if it is not too much of an imposition, I would beg of you a moment of your time in private, as I bear a message from our lord."
"Of course, I have an office upstairs. It managed to survive most of the damage."
"I'm glad for that, and I am sorry to hear of the misfortunes of the night."
"If you will follow me, please, Major," Billy said as he gestured for Gordon to come with him alongside and explained, "I lost something on the order of fourteen of our own dead and a number of thralls and kine as well," though the mortals didn't really count.
"I see, well the Lord Nemsemet is quite interested in the affair, most particularly any information to be had on what attacked you."
Billy grimaced, "It's hard to say, but there are tales of at least one were-cat of some sort, and a couple different sword wielders -- one woman and the other with wings and a sword, both cutting a swath, and there was one that definitely matched the description of Flint White, who was an enforcer of the court. You were one yourself, did you ever run into him?"
Gordon shook his head, "I'm afraid not. We were in two very different lines of work for the court, you see, but I am familiar with the man's reputation -- he's a magic user."
"Those are the descriptions I have for now."
"And this comes not long after the strike on the daycare center," he noted, while managing not to imply just how bungled an attack that really was. As an experienced Indian-fighter, which was to say that he'd fought braves when he wasn't shooting the women and children, he knew to try to cover the escape routes. Billy clearly didn't.
"Of course," Billy said as he gestured Gordon into the office, which was plushly appointed in that Italian merchant-prince theme, complete with a number of expensive antiques and wood furniture, tastefully done and draped with a bit of silk here and there -- because it wasn't fancy Italian without silk. But what drew the eye was a sword sitting on the desk, no computer because Billy was like so many vampires in how old-fashioned he was, "There were a number of things in the place, but this sword was among them," Billy said, "Though I haven't had time to do anything with it, I was thinking to mount it up a plaque and send it along to our Lord as a trophy."
Fool, he thought of Billy, as he examined it, noting the writing all over the short blade, "It's quite interesting, but I'm not sure what to make of it. What of this man that was the target of the attack, Parael?"
"A fuckin' fag that runs a daycare, prances around in Prada and gave an amulet to Augustus before he was snuffed out. Not a serious player, just a small time magic user," Billy said contemptuously, "I wanted to send a message to anyone else thinking they can defy our Lord in such a way and I figured he wouldn't be missed. Why, Major, I thought you'd appreciate the method, after all..." Billy allowed the thought to trail off, as he tried to butter Gordon up. Gordon smiled tolerantly, though he found himself ever-so-amused that Rikker suddenly fancied himself any sort of expert in scorched earth strategy.
Rikker, to Gordon's mind, was an amateur at that sort of thing; after all. It was a nice thought, but so out of Billy's previous methodology that it occurred to Gordon that Billy was still playing the politician -- he knew Nemsemet was uncompromising, so he took a stab at that sort of thing to please the boss, and thought such a half-hearted effort that let the enemy escape would be laudable.
"Of course, Mr. Rikker, of course," Gordon said, while keeping the facade calm. What Billy did was turn the situation desperate, "How goes your work here, if I might presume to ask?"
"Quite well," Billy said smugly, "Until tonight. I think I have a number of the covens on our side now. It takes time to negotiate, you see." Negotiate, he meant, his cut of their action in the name of Nemsemet. The old Mummy didn't care about tribute, but Billy didn't see the reason to bother Nemsemet about trifles like that or to enlighten the other vampires to Nemsemet's lack of desire for worldly wealth.
"So, what is the message from Nemsemet?"
"This," Gordon told him, as one hand pulled back his coat on the left side, because he favored the cross-draw, and the other reached into it.
The thralls charged up the stairs when the gunshot rang out, and were met with the sight of the older vampire standing in Billy's office, bloody sword in hand and a smoking gun- two shots later, the weapon cycled as quickly as a vampire, fast even among his kind, could cock the hammer, line up the shot and squeeze, not yank, the trigger, and the two thralls sprouted .45 diameter holes in their heads. Gordon wasn't entirely a traditionalist -- they were hollowpoints that left a hell of a gaping hole on exit, in this case the back of the Thralls' heads. More vampires rushed upstairs to see what the uproar was and were met with the sight of the thralls crumpled on the floor and bleeding from messy headwounds onto Billy's wonderful Persian rug.
Major Charles Niall Gordon stood there without a care in the world despite the fact that he was a vampire and had three bodies on that prized Persian rug. That's how they knew Billy had to be dead -- he never allowed blood on that particular rug. It was worth your life to muddy it even.
"Good evening my colleagues," he drawled, "The Lord Nemsemet has placed me in charge of future operations for our little vampire community. I do not care about a percentage of your businesses and I am supremely unconcerned by the economics of the situation, unlike the late, unfortunate and hopefully unlamented Billy Rikker. This is no longer a crime syndicate. This is a war," he announced, "And I am in command. Thralls will be created, armed and housed at locations around the vicinity of Parael's former daycare and we will be combing the Dorset area for further intelligence. We will watch and we will wait. I will have more orders for you in the coming days. For your needs, feel free to use Billy Rikker's funds freely, for he shall not be needing them anymore. If any of you have thralls or are yourselves skilled in computers and surveillance, I will require someone who can tap into the city's camera system. That will be all for the evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a polite but dismissive tone, the sort of thing he'd adopt when dealing with fellow officers in a different era -- men you commanded militarily but who were your social equals.
The message was clear. New management.
"Oh, and make sure to burn this place. We won't need it any longer."
Billy Rikker had been Gordon's enemy for a long time. And he'd learned an even longer time ago that you won a war by breaking the enemy psychologically, which often meant burning his things. Rikker had allies and subordinates, ambitious little things that thought they'd take over the organization or intrigue against Gordon.
Burning Rikker's place down around Billy's corpse was meant to warn them of the consequences. And it invigorated him; to Gordon, a war simply wasn't won until you were burning down the enemy's home.
--
Meanwhile, in the Bunker, Tony was changed into another sweatsuit and disgruntled as the others brought in the vampire -- the idea was to subtly gather information, but now things were hot and he expected reprisals. That was his old neighborhood up there, the one he grew up in, and it made him queasy to think about what a bunch of coked up thralls were going to do to it.
But here was the loaded question, in that grimy old bunker, with its rusting chairs and dusty shelves, its slightly moldy smelling cots, "So, what now?"
