[IC] Amongst the Lonesome- A return to Santa Somabra [Fantasy Noir]

[RedDusk]

(More collab posts @Drinky )





They rounded the corner, then Sander whipped out his gun, pointing it at a random Rat. Except it might not be so random. The smoke was drawing a target on her face. Quite literally. He gulped down air and let Valorie talk to them. His hands shook again, but he wasn’t afraid. He knew the coiling anticipation in the pit of his guts; he was looking forward for this. He just needed the first step. A provocation. An excuse to shoot. Then again, why?

Why wait? They were clearly a threat. He had to do it now. Kill them before they kill him. Voices turned into whitenoise as smoke rolled in.

The trigger caved inward, slowly. Then he stopped. Things just, sort of, happened. A scream tore through the air, an odd weight was pushed against his side and his target got a blade in her stomach. He watched as it tore her apart and decorated the street with her guts. Then he saw the light again. It was just like Valore’s, bright and warm and full of promises. But they snuffed it out. They just snuffed it out like that, like it was nothing; a worthless, dying cigarette destined for the trash, while he wanted nothing more than a puff. It was more vibrant, more alive than any of them combined, and they dared snuffing it out like it was nothing. How could they? One after another, he stood and watched the massacre. Darkness claimed their light one by one, and he was helpless. A blind man denied his salvation. He wanted to see, but they were not his.

A foreign rage bubbled up his chest, star-bright and white-hot, and it burnt through his reasons like lava. A part of him was alarmed as he pointed the gun at the newly arrived figure. And yet, he didn’t shoot. This one had no light. It almost felt pointless, just shooting it down like this. A waste of bullet. For a moment, he faltered, his feet stumbling backward. Then he bumped into something. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the green figure standing just behind him.

Oh. Gish.

It felt as if he just woke up from an especially vivid dream, and had just now regained a sense of his surroundings. He turned, just in time to see the masked figure dropped the last body. The smoke retreated as she drew near. His instincts finally kicked in, and he dashed off. He shouldn't stay, not now. That masked thing would kill them all. If the goblin and Valorie had any sense, they would have done the same. These parts were unfamiliar territory for him; he rarely had a reason to travel down here. People in Chinatown preferred to bury their own dead, it seemed. So he just kept running, rounding corners when he could and half-expecting a bullet to find its way to his back the whole time. It didn’t, but he stopped after a while. Dead end.

He stared at the brick wall in front of him, breaths labored from the exertion. His mind was in overdrive, memories bled into thoughts and for a moment there, he could still see the taunting lights behind the wall. He raked shaky fingers to his hair, pulling until it hurt.

“Did you see it?”- It took him a few seconds to realize it was his own voice speaking. He turned around, only to realize Gish had followed him. –“The light? Hers?”

Seeing Sander turn tail and run, Gish followed. Between the thugs, the one in the mask, the gunfire, and the slashing, all he wanted was to be as far away from it all as possible. He always did his best to plan for the worst. Escape routes, holdout weapons, stashes of his best guns in corners of the city, he had even planted a few bombs in his apartment should the place ever get broken into while he was away. But when the shouting and shooting started, it all came apart in his mind. His mind was in panic mode, no thought to where they were running, what alleys would wind and bend to elude attackers, what buildings were abandoned or what bars he could weave through to throw people off. He just kept his head down and ran.

Before long he heard the footsteps ahead of him stop. He looked up, Sander had caught them at a dead end. His breathing quickened and he began swiveling his head around trying to get his bearings. His surrounding felt alien to him, which only served to heighten his panic.

"Wot light son!?!, Don't we ave' us a getaway drivah or somefin?!?"

“You can’t see. Hah. You really can’t.”- Sander mumbled under his breath, brown eyes widened in disbelief, as if the goblin had just sprouted wings and claimed to be Satan. Metal dug into his palm, hot and uncomfortably slippery because of sweaty hand. He glanced down, finally loosened the white-knuckle grip on his weapon. But he didn’t put it away yet, instead just flipped the safety back on and straightened himself up.

“Sorry Gish. No ride.” –He seemed calm enough, but that was just the outside. A façade he put up for his sake, nothing else. He still barely knew what he was doing. On any other day, he would have ditched the goblin, walked out of here and grabbed a cab home. No, he wouldn’t have showed up here in the first place. But after this morning incident, coped with the brutal deaths he had just witnessed a few minutes prior, his rational mind had decided to go on strike. His own thoughts felt muddled and groggy, something akin to a bad hangover, and he did things just because. Whenever he hesitated, his mind just supplied a reason, and he clung to it as he pressed on. Maybe he had finally lost it.

Now he had to go back for Valorie. Why? Because she was his contact in the Rat. Also one of his regular. He couldn’t let her die. Yeah, that sounded about right. He dug into his pocket for the wallet, then tossed it over to Gish. –“Get a cab. Go. I have to…find her.”- He paused for a moment, locking eyes with the goblin –“Why, you have no light yourself.”-He remarked, almost surprised, before turning and backtracking to the alley where it all started.

He never found the original site of the murders, of course. It bothered him more than it should, and he didn’t understand why. It didn’t stop him from trying though. He pressed on, pushing his stamina to its limits on the maze-like alleys of Chinatown. Then, he saw the smoke. Not his tainted, blackened version, but the white, wisp-like type you get when you burnt things. He turned, hesitated for a split second, before breaking into a sprint.

[JulienJaden]

Collab with @Atrophy

"Vigilance!"

It wasn't particularly difficult to find them. By the time he had reached the restaurant where the girl was supposed to be - and where he never actually expected her to stay, they never did - the screams and gunshots had started, sending the pedestrians running in panic and luring Cain into an alley with three Rat bodies in pretty bad shape. He groaned when he saw them, already suspecting that things just got a whole lot more complicated for him. He hardly even registered the unusual couple, a young man and a goblin, he saw somewhere in the alley, couldn't have even said where he saw them, because at that point, Cain heard more racket up ahead, coming from the wide-open door of a warehouse.

Inside, he found his suspicions confirmed: Not only was there the girl he was tasked to keep alive but she somehow found herself mixed up with one of the most dangerous enforcers in Santa Somabra, one of the most feared members of the Bloodbloom Syndicate and perhaps the only person in the city he didn't want to fight.
And it seemed that she was already halfway to unleashing her might on his target. But maybe, just maybe, he could still talk her down and save the hide of an informer tonight.

"She's one of Kennedy's girls", he said, calm but firm, entering the scene perpendicular to the two with his hands raised in gesture of peace. Cain's eyes shot quickly to the blonde's face and any lingering doubt vaporized. He definitely knew her.

"You don't know me, old man. I am nobody's fucking girl," barked Valorie. She didn't recognize him yet. The Demon Blood mixing through her veins and destroying the chemicals in her brain told her that he was an insignificant being of no importance, much like this Vigilance. He shouldn't be standing there with his hands above his head. He should be bending the fucking knee, asking for forgiveness for implying that somebody like Richard Kennedy owned her. She licked her lips, her eyes dancing between Cain and Vigilance.

The blue flames around Vigilance pulled closer to her body. Her mind fought with her emotions as she gave cautious glances towards the intruder. No, not an intruder, it was her drinking buddy, it was Cain.Calm down, calm down, you can't do this again, she thought. The sword was an heirloom. It was irreplaceable. But it could be fixed. She took a deep breath from behind her mask, racking her mind for the significance of this Rat belonging to Kennedy. The fires around her body began to smoke. Kennedy, Kennedy, Ken... Vigilance sighed. Her shoulders dropped slightly. She turned towards Cain, making sure to keep the Rat in her peripherals.

"Kennedy's girl? You mean she works for the f--"

"And I fucking loved that jacket!"

Vigilance saw a shadow blur at the edge of her vision; she moved just fast enough to avoid Valorie's kick. The Rat twisted landed on all fours and launched herself at Vigilance again. The she-elf couldn't react in time; Valorie bowled the bounty killer over. Before she could come back at her, Vigilance sent a few lashes of flames towards Valorie with the remaining draconic flames she had dancing around her. One of the flames caught struck on Valorie's hoodie; the elf could see the jacket launch through the air as Valorie bolted behind some cover.

"Cain, do you really think this bitch needs protection?" yelled Vigilance as she got back up to her feet, scanning the warehouse for any signs of the Rat.

"From herself, by the looks of it", he muttered, his hands now lowered and all pretense of peacefulness gone. For just a moment, things had looked like they were going well, but of course Kennedy wouldn't send him after somebody who would act smart. No, it had to be somebody who would mess with Demon Blood. But as powerful as it made her and as ruinous as it was for her body, the effect probably wouldn't last much longer, not if she had already spent the last several minutes wrecking this warehouse.

But he had an idea on how to end this dispute a little quicker. The question wasn't whether the girl would keep trying to get herself killed but if she would push her luck too much and he'd have to step in before the drug wore off.

"No killing or maiming, that's all I'm asking for", he called to the elf as he knelt down and drew a generously wide circle and runes into the dust, whispering a singsong of archaic words to breathe magical life into this spell. At the rate the girl was moving around, she was bound to get herself caught in this magical trap. He only hoped that she wouldn't piss off Vigilance too much before that happened.

"You're buying the drinks the next time we go out," said Vigilance. "Assuming I ever forgive you for this shit."

She recognized the runes. Cain had set the Rat a trap, only this one wouldn't snap her little fucking neck like it deserved to be. Vigilance knew what that meant: she would be the bait. The blue flames wrapped around her body as she ducked through the warehouse. Her ears focused on the slightest sounds she could hear. The beating of Cain's heart. The thumping of feet outside of the warehouse. Somewhere in the distance sirens had begun to whirl. They only had a few minutes. Finally, she heard what she had been listening for; she hooked a bolt of fire around a large industrial machine. The Rat came scurrying around the other side, smoke billowing from the bottom of her singed ponytail. She had a long pipe in between her hands. Vigilance deftly doubled-back, keeping Valorie at bay by having flames lick at her body but never quite touch her. She could see the runes behind her.

Valorie stumbled out after Vigilance, wildly swinging the pole in a large arc. The Demon's Blood urged her to keep fighting, to keep going, but Demon's Blood couldn't fight the realities of blood loss from the injury on her leg and shoulder or the lack of oxygen she was getting in her lungs. She was exhausted, but she would keep pushing herself. She grinned a slasher's smile and swung again at the she-elf; Vigilance barely had to flinch to avoid it. From behind her mask, the elf smirked.

"What? Aren't so tough without you drugs, Rat?" said Vigilance, her heel almost touching Cain's Circle. "Go ahead, take another hit, junkie. I heard Kennedy loves it when his girl's turn into deadbeats."

"I. Am not. His girl," yelled Valorie, launching herself at Vigilance. She was fast, but the elf had planned on her attack. Valorie did not hit the ljosalfr; her knees banged against the ground right in the middle of Cain's trap.

And it sprung, just like it was supposed to: The lines in the dust glowed with an otherworldly blue light and the air above them seemed to shimmer and flicker, like it had turned into liquid glass. Demon's Blood or not, this kind of ritualistic spell could have even kept a powerful wizard in check, at least for a while, and it would have had no trouble holding a bleeding, weakened girl in place practically forever, but Cain knew it was only a matter of time until either a local gang or the SSPD would show up - even the most corrupt cops had to do their jobs eventually. That was why he had added a rune or two of his own, and Valorie must have been feeling the effect because inside that little circle, the oxygen was very quickly running out. With how exhausted she was, it probably wouldn't take long until she fell unconscious.

The wizard stared at the surprised and perhaps even scared looking girl, blue eyes meeting brown, as it dawned on her that the fight was over.
"Don't struggle. It'll only make you feel worse when you wake up."

"Yes, please don't, we wouldn't want that," said Vigilance, smothering the flames around them as she scoured the warehouse for her equipment. She flicked on her radio, barking a command or two at her crew to see if they had found Gish.

"Yeah right," said Valorie as she took a few final gasps of the remaining oxygen. Her head was going light as she stared down Cain. She struggled up to her feet, throwing a punch that bounced off of the runic prison. The confidence in her eyes drained out as she thrashed against the barrier again and again. She had to find a way to interrupt the runes. She could maybe scribe out a counterspell. She dug in her purse as the vision around the edge of her eyes blurred, her hand gripping on the edge of her knife. Blood was a more powerful reagent than whatever this old man had used. The Demon's Blood told her that she could easily annul this barrier; her body suggested otherwise. Her head began to swim, the knife clattered against the runes, and her vision went black as she collapsed to the ground.

One final, defiant kick against the prison and the girl was out.

"I see you have almost as little concern for her brain cells as she does," said Vigilance, staring down at the passed out girl. "Cain, I've seen plenty of these types before. You'd be doing her a favor if you just let her asphyxiate."

"Maybe", he responded pensively, but nonetheless swiping his hands through the air and speaking a few more words of power in Hebrew to release the spell. The air filled the vacuum around Valorie's body with a hiss as the wall came down and the girl audibly sucked in the oxygen, even though she wouldn't regain consciousness for quite some time, or so Cain hoped.

"But you didn't see me in my wildest years, Narcissa. A little Demon's Blood and a failed stint with some Rats?"
He grinned. "I'm lucky I didn't run into somebody like you back then. That is, stunningly attractive, smart and deadly."

He knelt down and picked up the unconscious girl. It was scary how light she was, more like a doll than an actual woman. It wiped all semblance of a smile off his face.

"She's only a kid. A runaway maybe, I don't know. Look at her: Drugged up to her eyes and half-starved." Cain sighed. "I've done a lot of things in my - what did you call it? - 'short' life but I'm not at the point where I won't at least try to give a girl like her a chance. Not yet."

"How heroic. Kennedy must be paying you well," said Vigilance, lifting the mask from her face. A wisp of snow white hair fell over her pale face. She gave Cain a slight smile and then turned to go; she still had to reunite with her crew and keep an eye on Gish. "As always, it was a pleasure seeing you, although I wish we'd been sharing a bottle of scotch instead of saving some rebelling child. Take care, Cain."

"It was all mine, Lady Veclis." He smiled back. "We'll see about that bottle, next week."

He watched as the Wyrmblood left the warehouse and hung back for a moment, as long as he dared, to give her just the slightest headstart, in case somebody was waiting for the elf - he wouldn't put it past the Faerie to have somebody watch the elf and see if she did anything that wasn't exactly as she had ordered. But the sirens drew ever closer and it was high time he and his involuntary charge left as well. And so he stepped outside and, as discretely as possible with an unconscious women in his arms, he crept down the alley.

[Kingfisher]

Despite having grown up amongst ripe green trees and enchanted flora, Nyxvira Bloodbloom felt much more at home amidst the grit and grime of Santa Somabra’s sprawling stone streets and blocky apartment complexes. Glass and plastic and metal were the building blocks of her urban grove, awash with decadence and sin.

No place captivated this dreary transformation better than Lucille’s Saloon.

The stench of booze and sex were ripe in the air, wafting up into the nostrils of anyone who wandered through the club’s swinging wooden doors. It was watched over by a small army of square-jawed ex-cons and beefy henchmen, ensuring that none of the horney patrons got within three feet of the dancers and waitresses, without paying first,

Lucille’s name might have been on the sign, but all the cash which flowed through here ended up in Nyxie’s pocket; a testament to the Queenpin’s complete and utter authority.

Nyxvira sat in a booth on the top floor, above the thumping music and grinding dancers, chewing away at a plate of sauce-slathered ribs.

Her phone buzzed.

How’s my bootylicious Faerie, today? xoxox

Nyxie grinned to herself, her fat fingers dancing over the keypad as she typed her response.

hoooold on, Since when was I yours? :P ;) xoxox

Buzz

Oh come oooooon, don’t play hard to get with me grrrrl! :O ;) xoxox

I’m sorry sweetie. My butt is yours, and yours alone :P ;) xoxox

Buzz

Wait, does that mean your boobs belong to someone else?! :P Cuz I’m pretty fond of those! ;) xoxox

Ehrmagerd, yer like so ungrateful! Youz gone take my butt and be happy about it ! -_- ;) xoxox

Buzz

Honey, I’m always happy about taking your butt :P ;) xoxox

You’re such a man O.o ;) xoxoxo

Buzz

But the bus stop is coooold and I need your big squishy booty to warm me up :( xoxoxo

Urgh, fine! I’ll send a car down. Gawd, you’re such a little princess XD ;) xoxoxxo

Buzz

Thaaaank you your grace :D :P ;) <3 xoxoxox

Sighing lightly, with a warm smile playing at the corner of her mouth, Nyxie pressed the number 3 key, speed dialing Grezbill’s number.

“Yo, greenskin!” She barked once he’d picked up “Have a limo swing by and pick up Mister Sharakov.”

“At once, madam.” the goblin snivelled.

She hung up.

Grezbill would be able to find Sharakov no problem. There was a tracker on his phone, after all.

Nyxvira smiled as thoughts of her latest squeeze danced through her head, but there was a pang of sadness in her heart. She could never stay with one lover for too long, or else the risk of one of the up-and-coming mob bosses using them against her became too real a threat. Her relationships were kept strictly on the down low, but she could only keep them hidden for so long.

By the end of the fortnight, she’d have to ditch Sharakov, like all the others before him. Her life was a lonely one, but it taught her to appreciate what she had, whilst she had it.

Besides, she wasn’t about to give up her empire just to be with some man. No matter how good he was with his tongue.

Nyxie polished off her ribs, the taste of sticky marinated sauce sweet in her mouth, just as a fight broke out downstairs.

One of the spectators, a muscular bloke in a red jacket, with a mouthful of Jack Daniels, had leapt up on to the stage, and was grabbing away at a scrawny little waif of a girl, touching her where he had no business touching.

A bouncer swept through the stinking, sweaty rabble of customers, yanking red jacket down off of the catwalk, and slamming him into a nearby table. Red jacket crashed straight through it, knocking glasses to the floor, as the bouncer proceeded to smash his face in.

“Go back to your drinks!” The bouncer commanded in a gruff voice, his fists dripping with dark blood and broken teeth.

The music picked back up again, whilst two men tossed the now unconscious red jacket out the front door, and it was as though nothing had happened.

Nyxvira let out a long, drawn out sigh, her enormous stomach, hard from her meal, rising and falling as she laid back in her booth, propping herself up against its smooth leather.

“Miss Bloodbloom.”

Marius, Nyxvira’s personal Ogre bodyguard, emerged from the shadows, his ginormous body squeezed into a crisp black suit. His form was a mish-mash of scars and burns, crumpling and creasing his already leathery grey skin. The flesh around his mouth was bruised and battered, with stumpy yellow teeth sticking out of his tar black gums. His powerful forearms jutted out from beneath his sleeves, and a mess of poorly-combed yellow hair sprung up from his head.

Marius was slow to embrace new ideas, and hadn't taken to calling Nyxvira “madam” yet. When it came to her favorite Ogre, the queenpin was considerably more lenient.

“Good evening, Mary.” She greeted him with a smile teasing at her full lips.

“The Car is ready and waiting, whenever it's convenient for you to depart.” His voice was coarse and gruff, like there was sandpaper grating away at the back of his throat.

Nyxvira began the laborious task of sliding out of the booth, made difficult by her vast obeseness , before standing up with a loud popping of knee joints.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

[Drinky]

Gish couldn't help but crack a small smile as Sander tossed him his wallet and doubled back down the alley.

"Cheers son." he hissed

As he stared at the black leather wallet clutched in his hands, a manhole cover caught his eye in the alley they had been standing in. With the sound of sirens growing ever louder Gish didn't like his chances of standing curbside for a cab. They probably wouldn't stop for him anyways, the racists. He pocketed the wallet all the same though, as was his nature.

He scurried to the edge of the manhole and produced a thin bar from his coat for prying it off. Gish was no stranger to the sewers, he knew the rats frequented them for moving goods, but he also knew what tunnels they frequented most. If he could get inside and find an access point sign, he could likely pinpoint his location and steer clear of the major tunnels. Lucky for him he could fit into the smaller connecting pipes over the large main tunnels.

With the cover off he ducked his down into the tunnel. The air had a disgusting warmth to it, not to mention the putrid smell. But one gets used to it over time. The coast was clear, he descended down into the muck, pulling to cover back over to cover his escape. He spotted a marking sign on the tunnel wall. Access point 33B. From his knowledge of the system that would place him vaguely a few blocks south of his workshop. His old workshop.

He knew he wouldn't be going back there ever again. Place was probably surround by cops or had been half torched from his bombs going off. No matter, he was out of the thug's grasp and alive. This would be the first time he'd have to start totally fresh, but as his surrounding became more familiar to him his mind began to clear and his old plans began to play through his mind.

He crept slowly through the tunnel, listening for any sound of commotion. The rats were never stealthy when the used the sewers, always made a lot of noise and thought they were immune down there. May as well have been true, most people wouldn't be caught dead dragging their feet through sewage to disrupt some small time contraband smuggling ring.

Gish got low and crouched through a small connecting tunnel that branched off from the main one he had been creeping through. He remembered stashing one of his specialty weapons in the area years ago. Gish never kept his most expensive items at the workshop. On top of him not wanting people to ask about buying them, he knew better than to trust they would be safe should anyone kick his door down and raid the place while he was out.

As he sucked a few more drags from his cigar the dark tunnel glowed a hint of red. He could make out a glossy texture further down the tunnel. As he inched closer he could almost feel the walls of the tunnel collapsing in on his shoulders.

'Gotta be her' he thought.

He reached out at the glossy object and felt the texture of plastic. He knew he had found it, a long rifle of his own design wrapped in layers of garbage bags to protect it from rust and all the other foreign materials that lurked down there. He had a few others stashed throughout the sewers but his idea was he could use this one as a bartering tool. He needed a place to lay low and plan his next move.

Gish's Custom Rifle

The cramped tunnel came to a T junction. Gish peered down the right tunnel which led to the heart of downtown. It seemed almost endless.

"Fack." he muttered to himself.

Anything was better than Chinatown at this point. Gish hunkered down and began the long slog of shimmying down the tiny tunnel, dragging his prized rifle behind him.

[Kingfisher]

September 11th, 1996. Outskirts of Lisburn, Ireland.

“Lediyah’s completely out of control,” Frank Gorman grumbled to his wife, as he sat heavily down at the kitchen table “I think Doctor Accosi was right; she needs to be put in a secure facility.” He scratched away at the stubble on his pointed chin, letting out a slight grunt as his aching bones relaxed back into the shoddy wooden chair.

“But Frank, she’s our daughter!” Jenna Gorman pleaded, her face a quivering mess of sadness and worry “We don’t even know if she’s been suspended, yet.”

“Suspended?!” Frank laughed without the faintest trace of humour“Jenna, she’ll at least have been expelled! We’re fecking lucky that boy’s parents didn’t press charges!”

“I don’t want to lose our baby, Frank…” Jenna muttered softly, her eyes shimmering with a thin layer of water.

“We’re not losing her, my love,” Frank took his wife’s delicate hand, gently caressing her fingers “She’ll be getting help. Once everything's been sorted out she’ll come back and live with us, and things will be just like they used to.”

“Before her...before her powers?” as the words left Jenna Gorman’s lips she looked utterly terrified, as though uttering them would bring down the wrath of every god and demon upon her.

“Aye. Before her powers.”

A cold silence fell over the kitchen.

“I’ll go and wake Marcus, then.” Frank said eventually, heaving his bulky mass out of the chair “I’d suspect he’ll want to say goodbye to his sister.”

Frank Gorman gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek, calmly reassuring her that everything would be okay, before plodding out of the kitchen and making his way up the rickety wooden stairs to his children’s bedrooms.

Theirs was a small cottage, with a stretch of field running a dewy green ring around it on either side. It wasn’t the nicest of houses, but Frank had built himself a life here, and these battered stone walls were full of memories.

“Marcus?” Frank called out softly, as he gently tapped the wooden door.

No answer.

“Marcus..?” Once more, louder this time.

Still no answer.

Frank smirked to himself. The boy was probably fast asleep.

He took hold of the dull brass door knob, turning it carefully as he padded calmly into his son’s room.

“Marcus, I-”

Frank stopped dead in his tracks.

There was Marcus. His limp body hung from the ceiling, one of his father’s belts fastened around his neck. His milk pale corpse was covered in bites and scratches, swinging lifelessly from the celling light, but it was the eyes which were most terrifying of all.

His eyes had been gouged out, with only bony sockets, oozing dark worms of blood, left.

“My boy...” He was going to be sick.

Frank rushed forwards, tearing his son down from the ceiling, sending chunks of plaster crashing to the carpeted floor.

“My boy!” Frank wailed, tears streaming down his face, as he clutched tightly at the scarred corpse of his son.

“Frank?!” His wife’s voice called up from downstairs “What’s wrong?!”

“My boy…” he sobbed, his throat hoarse as he ran his hands over the bloodied body of his youngest child.

“My baby!” His wife was in the doorway, then she was beside him, screeching and crying and grabbing at the mangled corpse of Marcus Gorman.

“Mum? Dad?”

Frank turned, his face a mess of tears, to see his daughter standing out on the landing.

She had his pointed features, and her mother’s oval face. Her nose was short and stubby, and blonde hair, so pale that it looked white in the dim lights of the cottage, was swept across her round head.

“Lediyah,” Frank croaked, his voice little more than a whisper “don’t look, baby girl. Don’t look.”

“Do you like my sculpture?”

It was then that Frank saw them.

The eyes of his son, hanging from two pinky red stalks, dangling from his daughter’s hand.

“Oh God, Lediyah!” Jenna Gorman shrieked, recoiling backwards into the darkness of her son’s bedroom, one tear-soaked hand clasped over her mouth.

“You fecking monster!” Frank Gorman roared, bolting out of the room, and charging towards his daughter.

In all his blind fury, he’d forgotten about her powers.

There was a slash of dull white, then Frank stopped in his tracks, and tumbled forwards. Blood was seeping out of searing gash in his hard stomach, staining the carpet red as it poured through his fingers.

“Lediyah-” he gasped, clutching at his new wound as pain raked every cell in his body. His world became a blur, and all that he could think about was the twisting pain where his daughter’s claws hand torn through his flesh.

The blonde girl stood over him, regarding her father with a look of grim curiosity, a twinkle in her pale eyes and a sharp grin on her lips.Where her finger nails had been, was now a set of long, pointed claws, sharp and hooked, with a slight reddish hue, like those of a cat.

She smiled at him, flashing rows of elongated fangs. They were far too big for her mouth as they burst out of her small pink gums.

He felt another spasm of pain as she sunk her claws into his belly, wrenching it open in a splatter of dark red blood.

His was in that black, wet place beyond pain by now, but he could faintly hear his wife screaming as his eyes fluttered shut, and his daughter started biting through his side.

*

Present Day. Santa Somabra, West Coast of the United States of America.

"We are not your kind of people. Speak a different language. We see through your lies. We are not your kind of people. Won't be cast as demons. Creatures you despise."

Lediyah’s voice was soft and sweet as she sung smoothly from behind the old timey microphone stand, her lithe figure bound up in a shoulderless dress, red like freshly spilled blood.

The song ended. The music died. The Audience applauded.

The Irish girl made her way carefully down the stage steps, wearing a pristine pair of high heels.

She smiled politely as she made her way through the crowd, shooting the odd wink to the occasional customer.

Miller’s Jazz club was one of her favorite places to sing, with its authentic decor and lush red sofas. Soft lights, not too bright and not too dark, hung from the ceiling, and the smell of sizzling meat drifted in from the kitchen.

A saxophone player had set up on stage now, providing a mellow blues backing track.

“Evenin’, Welles.” Lediyah smiled as she strode over to the bar, nodding politely at the grey-bearded, suit vest-wearing, bartender who stood behind the counter.

“Evening, Lediyah.” Welles gave her a big warm grin, leaning in and resting his elbows on the counter, whilst the Irish girl swung her long legs over a bar stool.

“The usual, please.”

Welles frowned. “You know the boss don’t like me serving that stuff to non-vamps.”

Lediyah leant forwards, flashing a toothy grin.

“I bring in half the bosses revenue. I’m sure you can run the risk.”

She gently bit her lip, fluttering her soft eyelashes.

“I promise I won’t squeal.” She placed one long finger on her left breast, tracing an invisible cross.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Her light Irish accent laced her words, only adding to her charm.

Welles shook his head, laughing to himself.

“The usual, coming right up.”

He ducked down beneath the counter, and when he returned he placed a pint glass full of a thick, dark red liquid in front of her.

“Thank you, sweetie.” She took a long swig, necking a healthy guzzle of the sweet tasting concoction.

“Oh, the boss left this for you.” Welles reached into his suit trouser pocket, pulling out a thin white note, which he slid across to her.

Her interest piqued, Lediyah unfolded the crisp piece of paper with her delicate fingers.

“Dearest Lediyah.

I wish to hire your services. My little birds think there might be an informant tampering with our operations. I have nothing solid to go on, but it's worth investigating. I wouldn’t waste your time on something so trivial, but you’re the only agent I have who operates with such refined discretion.

The target’s name is Valorie Pierce.

Kind Regards.

The Alchemist.”

Lediyah carefully folded the note, grinning to herself.

“Looks like I’m clocking in early, Welles. Send the boss my love.”

[RedDusk]

((Collab with @JulienJaden ))

It was barely a minute into the sprint, and Sander stumbled. He caught himself on the grimy wall of an alley, one hand pressed against his temple. His head just throbbed, all of the sudden. It didn’t even hurt properly, just this odd kind of pressure between his eyes that made the world around him distort in the strangest way. The walls, the streets, everything just… bled out. Their color was stripped away like dry paint under a prying hand, and he found himself staring at shimmering shadows that were almost transparent. Somewhere behind him, he heard footsteps. They were loud. He didn’t even know it was humanly possible to make that much noise by just walking. He turned to look.

The light almost blinded him. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut, lances of pain shooting through his head. Then they were gone.

He took a few shuddering breaths, before forcing his eye lids to open again, only to find a stranger standing before him, an unconscious Valorie in his arms. And she was bleeding. That triggered quite a number of alarms in his head, and he was utterly confused. Memories of recent events slammed back into his brain, and he almost winced. What the hell was he thinking? It was a string of bad decisions; first getting himself involved with Valorie’s stupid ruse, then ended up giving a goblin his entire wallet, only to run back here for what? A woman he didn’t even care about. It was like he was drunk the whole time. Something was seriously wrong with him.

He straightened up from where he was leaning against wall, barely registered the gun still clutched in his left hand, sizing up the man before him. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke, voice still breathy from the sprint –“Who are you?”

Cain had only gone about half a block. The police sirens seemed to come from everywhere and a few firefighters seemed to have joined them. But these backstreets were empty and relatively quiet and it wasn't too far to his apartment and office. The girl hadn't stopped bleeding, despite his murmurs of healing charms - those had never been his strong suit, regular old gauze bandages seemed to do the job much better than anything he could conjure up. Everything he'd need would be waiting at least.

That was when he ran into what appeared to be a junkie cowering in the alley before him, a young man who seemed to have trouble breathing, out of fear, exertion or maybe coming down from a high, his eyes shut. Or at least they were until a second later, when he not only opened but focused them on him, then on the woman in his arms. Cain noticed a hint of recognition in the guy's mimic and saw his posture change, his grip tightening around a gun Francis hadn't registered until now. The question that hung between didn't help with the tension.

But that didn't mean he didn't respond with the same mustering gaze. Or remained silent.
"I'm just your friendly neighborhood doctor and this is my latest patient. She'd say 'hello', but..."
Cain shrugged casually, causing Valorie's head to sway.

"So, if you'd excuse us."
He half-turned away from him, towards the end of the alley.

The stranger’s answer was suspicious at best, and creepy at worst. You didn’t go around picking up strange wounded girls around here; doing so would be the equivalent of him gathering up unidentified corpses and pilling them up in his basement. Socially unacceptable, or so he was told. So Sander grabbed the stranger’s shoulder as he passed, his grip light but persistent.

“Hey, hold on!”- He furrowed his brow, only now noticing a trail of red behind the trenchcoat cladded man –“Wha- Valorie!?”- He called out to her first, but once realized her unconscious state, turning back to the stranger, his voice softened. –“She… isn’t dead, is she?”

He remembered. The masked figure, blades in its grip as it ran the Rats down before his very eyes. He ran, but Valorie, well, she did something else. It was her choice, and he wasn’t going to get killed for that. The thought of her dying, though, was rather disturbing, to put it mildly. He couldn’t put his fingers on it, but the memory of those Rats dying kept haunting him. He couldn’t let Valorie ended up the same way they did. Memories of the lights were still clear as crystal in his mind.

“Where are you taking her?”- He spoke again, this time with steel in his tone. The stranger was taller than him, and while Sander wouldn’t want to get into a fist fight with anyone, he was the one with the gun here.

The grip at his shoulder was not unexpected but it still tripped several alarms in Cain's mind.
Tonight was not as casual as he thought it would be, with a couple of drinks and a friendly Wyrmblood to share them with. Vigilance had still been part of the entertainment alright but by the looks of it, the only alcohol that was of any concern would be disinfectant. And given the soon-to-be high police presence in the area and the unknown element of threat to the woman he carried and to himself for carrying her, being touched by armed strangers was not something he took lightly. Somebody more vicious than him might have attacked outright; but old-fashioned as he was, Cain preferred to know he was facing an enemy before he struck.

Nonetheless, his eyes narrowed and the stranger's steely voice was met with a hard look that showed without fault how unimpressed he was by the gun.
"You better be careful, friend. It's dangerous to go around pawing at people you don't know."

He wasn't without options if it came to hostilities but it wasn't in anybody's best interest to let it come to that. Valorie could certainly do without more cuts and scrapes and while he had had no time to assess her wounds, wasting time could prove unfortunate if they were more serious than he knew. The main issue, however, was that he didn't know the stranger's motive:
Yes, of course the guy could have been a true, concerned friend of hers but the odds of running into somebody like that through pure chance, not far from where she had fought a most dangerous opponent were slim at best - either he hadn't been with her when Vigilance crossed her path or he had abandoned her the instant things got serious. The guy could have been a Rat; if any of the group she doublecrossed had survived, they would no longer be feeling cordial towards her. Or he could have been somebody else entirely, with unknown intentions, which made the possible outcome of this encounter all the more uncertain.

Cain only knew two things with absolute certainty: Since he was the only person here he trusted with absolute certainty, he would be the one taking care of the brave, stupid Demon's Blood user in his arms for now; and he would not allow somebody of unknown allegiance and intention to accompany him to or even enter his sanctuary (read: apartment).

Understandably, his other responses were a little vague but he would have to let on that he had saved her and see how the stranger reacted.
"She isn't dead, although she certainly tried her hardest to get herself killed, even after I stepped in. As to where I'm taking her... well, let's just say that after tonight's events, I don't think it's in her or my best interest to have anybody know that until she is back on her feet."

He mustered the young man again, head to feet. There was something strange about him. There was magic in the air, and not the kind that got you lucky. At first he thought it was just the girl, a residue of the Demon's Blood or maybe some power of her own, but the longer he stood here, the less likely that seemed to him. The problem with this instinct or sense was that you could never tell where it came from. Maybe a mage had died in this alley, or the gun was charmed in some way, or perhaps a wizard had thrown up over that trash can over there. Or it could be the guy himself.

"What is she to you? Who are you and what are you doing here?"

It took him far too long to notice the sound of sirens in the distance. Far, but they would be here soon enough. He had minutes at best. Well, they had. He didn’t think the cops would just let some guy carry a bloodied girl go without at least nagging a couple of bucks out of them. He didn’t think they would let him go either, since the gun he was carrying technically wasn’t his. So it seemed he would have to work fast. The older man was surprisingly calm, which unsettled Sander somewhat. He knew this type, all minced words and casual violence. He didn’t think threats would work in this situation, and neither would violence. Why did he think of those in the first place? This was wrong. Shooting a stranger in an alley just a short sprint away from a cop patrol was probably the fastest way of earning a ticket to prison. Or a bullet, if those officers weren’t too keen on paperwork.

Sander quickly let go of the man, seemingly surprised that he put his hand there in the first place. He regained his composure almost instantly though as he dropped his gaze to Valorie in order to confirm the man’s statement. She looked a bit worse for wear, battered and bruised and pale at dead, but the steady rise and fall of her chest suggested she was still among the living. For now. If there were any truth in this stranger’s words, that he indeed helped her and was taking her to safety, he couldn’t just leave her. Then again, why? He certainly didn’t have any trouble leaving her before, when the masked figure attacked.

The masked thing was armed and hostile, all it carried was darkness. Running was his best course of action then, seeing as how Valorie herself wanted him to, whatever her plan was then. This man was different. He could be talked to. Reasoned with. And for some reason, Sander thought he was weaker. Manageable, should something come up. And Valorie certainly couldn’t deal with this situation on her own now.

Sander considered the questions carefully. He knew the stranger was sizing him up again, so he didn’t take too long with preparing his answers. Hesitation often came with dishonesty, after all. Then again, he wasn’t really lying here.

“I’m one of her friends. Not from the Rats, mind, I work at the chapel downtown.”- He said without missing a beat, his eyes meeting the stranger’s.-“Look, you can check the message on her phone, probably saved as Sandy or corpse guy or something…”

He paused then, only noticed the absence of Valorie’s handbag just now. Females and their frustrating habit of keeping important things where they could easily get lost.

“-aand she doesn’t have it here. Of course.” –He let out a sigh then –“Alright, I suppose this is rather hard to believe, but I was with her when the, eh, masked thing, attacked. Valorie wanted me to get the goblin out of the way, which I did. Only to come back to this.”-He gestured at the bleeding girl-“So I hope you’d understand that I’m concerned. I can’t just let some strange guy carry her off. At least let me know where you are taking her, if you really wanna help.”

He stopped then, waiting for the stranger to make his next move. His fingers twitched slightly, and only then, did Sander realize he was still waving a gun around. Wordlessly, he held the weapon up, only to reveal that fact that the safety had been on the whole time. With that done, he took out the clip, slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket, then putting the now empty weapon back into its holster.

The guy's story didn't seem completely out of whack to Cain. There were many chapels downtown but now that the guy mentioned it, he seemed vaguely familiar somehow. Francis was certain that he had never spoken a word to him or even heard the young man talk before tonight but he could place the build and haircut in one of the corpse collection 'businesses' he had to visit every now and again.

You couldn't spit in Santa Somabra without wetting somebody you knew, somehow.

But that still left the issue of the magical presence. He could believe that there was some connection between the girl and him, friendly or otherwise, but he was now convinced that it came from him. It was strange, unlike anything he had ever sensed, but it clung to him like a hint of sweat - even between a million different smells, you could still notice it if you knew that it was there. He had no intention of taking him with them before and he saw nothing to convince him of the contrary. If anything, that seemed like an even worse idea now.

"You will not accompany us; I will not allow you to."
His voice was adamant; he had been calm before but now it was commanding in a way that was different from somebody of self-proclaimed authority: There was a hint of magic to it that bent reality just a little bit, made him look a little bit taller, a little bit stronger, absolutely capable of defending himself and the girl in his arms; but at the same time, it also made what little light shone into the alley more favorable, made him appear friendlier and more trustworthy.

"But you are right: I am a stranger to you, although not to her. Reach into my coat pocket."
The guy was surprised at first but he complied and found a business card with a splotch of blood on it - the coat was taking the brunt of Valorie's hemorrhage.

"Francis Cain, is who I am, and I will bring her someplace safe. If she wants to contact you after tonight, she will, in time. Speaking of which..." Some of the sirens had stopped, and not too far away. At least some cops were moving on foot. "Ours is running out... 'Sandy', was it?"

He gave the man a hint of a smile and turned away from him again, already taking his first few steps towards home.
"You'd do well to leave the scene while you can. The police are looking for a serial killer and getting desperate."

[Atrophy]

Collab featuring @JulienJaden

She wasn’t quite sure if she was awake or even alive. It was the same kind of state her body went in after snorting a line of Fairy Dust through a clipped straw, except there were no wonderful dreams or visions. There was a word for this state. Someone had warned her about it, once. The end result of using too much dust. Being sloppy. Was that it? A sloppy state. No, no, she did not think so. She didn’t get sloppy. She pretended that she didn’t get sloppy. She pretended that she cared enough to pretend that she didn’t get sloppy. Where was she? Oh. The word. She could almost picture it in her head. Who had warned her about it? Sander? No. No. Quinn? As if that woman would warn her about anything. Her solution for ODs was to inject someone with a little pick me up. Rich? Of course, it’d have to be that pig. Words began shuffling through her mind like flash cards. Addict. Withdrawals. Relapse. Broke. Criminal. Jail. Bail. Desperation. Whore. STDs. HIV. AIDS. Dying. Dead. It was like a grade school scared straight special. She began to add in her own: Runes. Blood. Ritual. Undead. Ascension. Lichdom. Power. Revolution. Peace. Eternal. Unaging.

She heard the quiet sound of breathing.

Oh. There it is. Coma.

There was a whimper. A groan.

Shit. Why me.

She heard something else. It was muffled.

I’ll get clean. If I wake up I’ll get clean. If I wake up I’ll say that I’ll get clean. If you’re there god, buddha, lucifer, whatever neopagan flavor of the week bullshit goddess people like me are supposed to be into, I swear that I’ll try really hard to say to the right people that I’ll try to get clean so that they feel better about themselves you mother—

“—fucking piece of shit.” It was her voice. Quiet, weak, barely audible, but she had heard it. It was followed by a soft chuckle.

Jesus, you’re gullible. Like I’d do that.

With that final blasphemous thought, the feeling came back to Valorie’s body in slow, rising waves. Everything hurt. Her feet throbbed, her legs ached, and there was a pressure on her left thigh. Her stomach was in a knot; her chest felt tight. Her arms were heavy; there was a sharp pain in her fingers. Her face felt hot. She couldn’t smell anything. No, no, not just that, she couldn’t breath. She was choking on smoke. No, no, not smoke. There was no air, no air at all. Something was grabbing her right shoulder. It hurt. It hurt. She couldn’t breath. Her heart hammered. What the fuck was touching her. Get the fuck off. She was trapped. Something was trapping her and it was making it so she couldn’t breath. She began thrashing about. Don’t struggle, it’ll only make you feel worse. Fuck that. She struggled. It felt worse. She was suffocating. She was dying. It was that trap. It wasn't a coma. They had put her in a fucking trap like a fucking rat to kill her. She had to get out of it. She had to get away. She had to get the fuck away. She had to get the fuck away. She had to—

“Get the fuck away!” she yelled, bolting upright and scrambling backwards on her heels and elbows from that trap that was not there. Plastic sheets shifted beneath her body as her back slammed against a headboard. She felt something rip from her body; warm blood slowly oozed from where she had ripped the half-finished stitches from the gunshot that had cut a deep line across the surface of her shoulder. The rising wave of pain that had been building over the last few minutes pulled back for the briefest of seconds before rushing back, crushing Valorie like a tsunami. The noise that exited her mouth was not unlike the horrific shrieks of a frightened rabbit caught in the crushing maw of a vicious predator. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

It was single handedly the most painful experience Valorie had felt in her twenty years on this planet. Iit worked wonders on pulling her out of the fugue state and returning her alertness to her, as if someone had shot her heart full of adrenaline. She looked around the room through her misty eyes. The floor was wooden, not unlike her apartment, and she could see a couch. That was where the similarity stopped; everything else was completely wrong. For starters, there was an actual bed, although it was covered with plastic sheets similar to the one Sander used when moving a corpse. A tasteful oil painting hung on a less tasteful wall. There were shelves of books, some of which had archaic spines covered in runes that would have, on another occasion, filled Valorie with curiosity instead of confusion. It all had a rather traditional feel to it; like the owner was the kind of person who was into antiques, if not an antique him or herself. She still could hardly smell, but she knew the apartment would not smell like slightly rotting dog. If she’d have to give it a smell solely judging by style, she’d say that it had the smokey oak scent found in a good bourbon.

She scanned her body; for some reason she was only wearing her dark camisole and panties. The reason quickly became apparent. Her body was a mess, and not in the usual ways that she observed every time she came across a mirror. It was actually messed up. Purple and yellow bruises blended with her pale skin, accented by reddish cuts and scraps. Her thigh had a tightly wrapped bandage around it that was soaked in a dark, deep crimson. Her knuckles were bloodied; her fingers were red with minor burns and sticky with ointment. The old scars on her bony arms were crisscrossed with new cuts. A bullet-sized canyon was carved out of her right shoulder; beyond it sat an older man, needle and thread in hand. If Valorie had guessed she’d put his age around forty, although young people are horrible at guessing ages. She didn’t care about guessing his age right now. The only thing she cared about was finding out why she was almost naked in a stranger’s bed while covered in blood and bruises.

This was the part in films where she’d say something that was supposed to be witty but was actually something fucking dumb, like “hell of a party” or “was it good for you, too?” The line would show up in the trailers. Hiveminded shitheads would turn to their friends and laugh or smile while pretentious assholes rolled their eyes and groaned. It was supposed to make people think that the person on film was brave, or smart, or sexy. Valorie did not feel like any of those people in the movies. She felt terrified, and confused, and exposed. She was still crying; her brown eyes were puffy and muddy and betrayed all of her fears. She opened her mouth to speak; her voice cracked. Only air came out. She choked back more tears and tried again:

All she said was, "Why?"

And that wasn't an easy question to answer. In fact, Cain wasn't sure the girl was all there yet. The first two things she said had been semi-coherent at best, not to mention her sudden recoil and scream that not only scared the shit out of him but also ripped her entire shoulder wide-open again, causing it to bleed even stronger than it had before his treatment.

It had to be well past midnight and Cain was feeling the exertion of a long day. Between carrying her a good three blocks - even a small, borderline-underweight woman got heavy after a while - chanting healing spells all the while that dried his throat and magically drained his energy reserves and actually tending to her wounds, he was feeling about ready for a big glass or two of bourbon, anything he could find in the fridge and a good night's sleep. His wardrobe had taken some casualties tonight: The trench coat had two big patches of drying blood on it and lay discarded halfway to the open kitchen, but its valiant sacrifice had protected his grey jacket from harm. The shirt he wore was beyond saving, though - between all her cuts and scrapes, the oozing wound on her thigh that just hadn't wanted to stop bleeding the first two times he tried to bandage it and was now going on failed attempt #3, and the flesh wound on her shoulder, it was covered in a number of small and large patches of blood, as were his face and arms; his hands could have passed for a butcher's right now - unfortunately, the first-aid gloves he had tore from age when he tried to put them on, so all he could do was douse his hands in clean water and disinfectant and hope that that was enough. All things considered, maybe Valorie had the right idea when she backed away; he definitely wasn't the most pleasant picture to wake up to.

Maybe he ought to get himself cleaned up before he tried to converse with her but that wasn't an option. In her confused state, she might have taken that opportunity to bail, even if that was the opposite of what would be in her best interest.

Cain opted to ignore the "Why?": It was too broad. She could have been asking about why she was here, or why she was alive, or why she was in her underwear, or why he had saved her, or why he had put her in a suffocation trap until she passed out - if she wanted to know about any of that, he figured that she would ask again when she was a little more lucid. Right now, his only real concern was to calm her down and have her let him resume, or rather start over, his work on her shoulder.

And for that, he lifted his hands before his chest in a defensive gesture and used the most gentle tone of voice he could muster, even though that still came out pretty gravelly.
"Easy. It's alright. I know you must be confused and scared right now but you're alive and safe. I took care of most of your wounds but your shoulder", he carefully gestured with the needle to her bullet hole, "is wide open now."

And your thigh doesn't look good either, he thought but kept to himself. Nothing to worry about right now, at least not until he knew whether she would settle down again. From his time as a detective, Cain knew that talking to somebody who was panicked, injured and confused could go either way, no matter how much effort you put into appearing friendly and trustworthy, and both his looks and his role in her going unconscious made things a little more difficult than usual. But there was no way around the obvious next step.

"If you allow me, I'll give you a small anesthetic and stitch it again. I'm not gonna lie, it's probably still going to hurt, but not nearly as much as anything else you've been through tonight."

He didn't move towards her or away from her but simply kept his hands where they were, his intense blue eyes meeting her puffy, teary brown ones for the second time tonight and asking the silent question: May I?

She broke his gaze and nodded as she looked down at her body, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip. The last thing she remembered was barging into that goblin's workshop. Everything else was a dark, angry haze. Still, it was obvious somebody had put in some effort to keep it together, and she had no other option but to trust this man's word. As he prepared to patch up her shoulder she found a few more words. Opening her dry mouth, she attempted to try them out.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice as quiet as a mouse. "Why am I like, like..." She didn't finish her sentence, wincing as she gestured at her body with her left hand.

"You really don't remember, do you", Cain said, the surprise not completely hidden from Valorie. "Lucky you", he murmured, more to himself than to the other person in the room. He remembered everything from the time he had the same great idea, when he thought that something to make you super-powerful would fix a potentially life-threatening problem; he had only been half-joking to Vigilance about that and the results had been catastrophic, forever burned into his memory. Maybe the girl hadn't been wrong in her assessment, since it seemed to have bought her the few precious minutes it took him to find them, but if she not only never got the chance to do any real damage but forgot about the entire thing, then that was the best thing to happen to her.

As Cain pondered what he should tell her and what to leave out, if anything, he washed his hands in a large bowl of now-lukewarm water, dried them off on a formerly white towel and then handed her a sealed bottle of water. It had surprised him how soon she woke up but he wasn't entirely unprepared for it - even the anesthetic was ready, sitting idly next to a spare needle; he picked it up and prepared the injection, careful to keep his movements slow and observable so she wouldn't feel threatened.

"Well, let me think", he said as he proceeded to numb the area around the wound. "From what I know, you were heading to a Goblin's workshop with a group of Rats; they wanted to fuck him up, and you didn't, so you got the Goblin and a guy named 'Sandy' or something out of there. That should be enough", he commented, setting aside the syringe in exchange for a fresh cotton ball soaked in disinfectant. She winced a little as he touched the wound, but much less than she would have without the anesthesia.

"Sorry. It should stop stinging in a minute", he apologized, an almost fatherly tone about him. "Well, somewhere along the line, I suppose the Rats caught wind of what you were pulling; I'm not entirely sure about that part but I definitely wouldn't bet my life on their ignorance - or yours, for that matter."

He dropped the cotton ball onto a small pile of its similarly stained siblings and picked up the threaded needle from before. With effortless, precise movements he removed the stained thread that had held together half of her wound, re-threaded the needle and tied a new knot. He doused his fingers, the needles and thread in disinfectant before leaning over her. "This is probably going to bite a little through the numbness but it'll be over before you know it... There, one down already. So, what you and the Rats didn't know or didn't count on was that the Goblin works for the Bloodbloom Syndicate and the Faerie found out about this stint, so she sent somebody to...", his eyes had shifted up for a moment and looked at her face, and he didn't know whether it was the drying tears or how young she looked from this angle but he couldn't bring himself to say 'wipe you out' or 'kill you'.

The pause was getting awkward but he finally overcame the blockade in his head and set the fourth of seven stitches.

"Halfway there. Anyway, the... enforcer probably backed you into a corner, so you injected yourself with Demon's Blood", he shifted uncomfortably while pronouncing it, "and fought. Must have fought like crazy. But by the time I showed up, you were on the losing end of the battle. Only one more stitch,", he interjected. "Luckily, I knew that particular enforcer and I got all of us out of there in one piece; but I have to say, you were really fucking stubborn. It's the blood, you see? Makes you think you're invincible, even when you're so exhausted you're about to drop dead. Dangerous stuff. There, that's it for the needlework", he announced with a proud smile, reaching for dressing material for the finishing touches.

"Stick out your arm a little. Yeah, just like that. Now hold it. ... After you passed out-", he paused for a second, then decided, for some reason, to go with honesty, "actually, after I put you out - like I said, you were stubborn - I got you out of there before the cops looked into all the noise, I ran into that Sandy guy who apparently came back looking for you, then I brought you here and three hours and a lot of blood later, here we are. And you. Are. Done."

With that, he withdrew his fingers and presented the finished bandage to her. Cain gave her the most comforting smile he could muster but his gaze wandered down to her leg again and he cursed silently - it was completely soaked, again, and he didn't understand what he was doing wrong. What had caused the wound? Had Narcissa have somebody imbue her equipment with bleeding curses? Francis was starting to think that he might have to give the healing magic a more serious attempt.

He washed and cleaned his hands again, tried to not let on any of his concern for now, not until he had time to look something up in one of the tomes, and rose to his feet.
"Are you hungry? The fridge doesn't leave a lot of room for choice but I'm sure what I can offer still beats hospital food."

“Anything’s fine. I’m not picky,” she said as she admired the dressing. Normally she would be very picky. Normally she’d ask for things she couldn’t afford to get herself just to see how far people were willing to bend for her. Normally she wouldn’t eat them, because she didn’t like the flavor and because she thought it was fun to see people get upset. Normally she was pretended to be somebody different. She didn’t have the energy to fake it tonight. “Water, too,” she added as Cain went to the fridge. As he fixed her something to eat Valorie shifted into a more comfortable position, or at least she tried. There was none to be found. With every shift in weight or turn of a joint came a new sensation. The worst came from her leg. It was like she was being jabbed with a hundred needles, except none of them filled her veins with the sweet relief of dangerous chemicals.

“I think you triggered some memories,” said Valorie. She talked because sitting in silence scared her. If she was silent, then she’d have to think. If she thought, then she’d have to worry about what the future held for her. In the future, she only saw herself dead—and not in the way she envisioned in her childish dreams of supremacy through necromancy.

“No, not memories, really, more like feelings, if that makes sense.” She didn’t care if it did; she didn’t care if he could even hear her from the kitchenette. She just had to distract herself. “I’m remember being terrified. No, that wasn’t quite it. Excited? It was like you’re riding a roller coaster and it slowly cranks its way to the top of the hill and then suddenly plummets. Like that, you know?” She smiled, the murky image of the reaper catching her on the street playing through her mind. “And there was something else, like a, like a, I can’t even express it. It was horrifying and awful but, but, but beautiful, too. Oh man, it was fucking intense,” she said, excitedly. Her voice was almost manic. The image of the dying girl played, rewinded, and repeated like a VHS tape. There was something in that girl’s dying moment, but she couldn’t grasp it. “Shit, what was it. Shit. Shit. It was, it was, it was…”

Gone. Whatever had been revealed was gone; it had been replaced with the feelings that had overcome her body when she shove the spike of Demon’s Blood into her veins. And it was great, she thought. That was the best I had ever felt in my life. No doubts. No fears. No pain. Demon’s Blood was dangerous indeed; it made Valorie realize how much everything else in her life absolutely sucked. She leaned back against the headboard. Her lips creased shut; her eyes slowly drifted downwards. She felt like shit. It wasn’t because of her body. Even before tonight she had felt like shit. She always had. A plate entering her vision drew her out of her navel. A sandwich.

“Thanks,” she said, grabbing the plate and the glass of water from the man. She drank greedily and set the glass on the nightstand. “For everything, I guess.” She picked the crust off of her sandwich before taking a small bite. It was better than hospital food, but only because the bar was set so low. She looked up at the man. Valorie hadn’t noticed it earlier, but he was kind of handsome in that salt-and-pepper sort of way. In the back of her head was a quiet, nagging sensation of familiarity. It had been there ever since his fingers had brushed over her skin. She almost said something, but something else was nagging her. There was a part in his story that he had omitted. A very, very important part.

“I’m new here, but not that new. You aren’t just some random good Samaritan or my guardian angel or whatever stupid shit you want to call it. People like that don’t come to this city,” said Valorie. “Why did you help me?” Her eyes narrowed, recalling the message from her police contact. She amended her question, “Who told you to help me?”

That question was bound to come up, so Cain wasn't exactly aback, but it still left a sour taste in his mouth. Up until this point, the atmosphere in the room had been 'clean', like a fresh mountain breeze; yes, Valorie was scared and injured but she trusted him - not that she had much of a choice - and he was so focused on helping her that most of the outside world and everyday concerns were blocked out. It didn't feel like an encounter like that was even possible in Santa Somabra, because this city was all about who you knew, who you were allied with or bound to, and what you had to do in order to stay alive.

The question broke that little reverie of a perfect world where you could help out of the kindness of your heart and polluted - worse: it forced Francis to pollute - the room with the name of his old friend:
"You already know the answer to that."

He was half-tempted to ask her to 'say it with me'.

"Richard fucking Kennedy. What was it he asked me to tell you? 'The professor sent me' or something."

His lips curled to a wry smile and he walked over to the bookshelves to look for... where did he see these spells again?

"He is a bastard who thinks he can be the 'police kingpin' and play other games on the side. If I had known what shadow of a man he'd turn out to, I wouldn't have partnered with him back in the day...", he trailed off, memories of fresh uniforms, pristine moral codes and those first few days of innocence and friendship seducing his conscious mind; but not for long, for they were quickly replaced by the harsh realities of murders and rape every day, orders from up the foodchain to 'drop the case' and a web of shady relations and conflicting loyalties that broke any illusions he had when he started.

Still... He interrupted his search and looked to the woman in his bed. He didn't smile anymore.

"I have to admit, though, he got it right this time. You were not doing well and, for once, I'm glad he asked me to help. Of course, you are right: I'm not an angel and he did offer me something in exchange for your safety, but..."

He went silent. A couple of minutes ago, Cain had felt tempted to ask her if she remembered him, but now that he thought about it, what was he going to say? 'Hey, do I look familiar? We got really drunk one night and had sex, remember?' Vigilance's words still echoed in the back of his head: "How heroic."

What absolutely didn't help was that he still felt somewhat attracted to her, despite all the blood, all the grime and the same thought that had crossed his mind that night: She would be gorgeous if she wasn't so damn thin. He saw himself in her, his younger self, full of doubts and anger and untapped potential, and he wasn't sure whether that added to the attraction or to the guilt over it.

But he decided not to mention it, not now anyway. Cain shook his head, as if he had lost his train of thought.

"Nevermind." He directed his eyes back to the books, to 'Pyromancy - The Hottest Thing, Period' and 'Djinns - How To Rub One Out', hoping that a bulb over his head would light up when he saw the right title.

Her head had turned downwards as he mentioned Rich's name, singed hair falling over her face and casting a shadow across her eyes. Valorie had known the answer to the question. It had been obvious. There could not have been any other reason. So why did she feel her stomach clench and taste acidic bile in her mouth? Her fingers gripped the plastic sheet below. That, too, was a question with an answer she had already known. Everything in this town, one way or another, led back to the fucking cops from who she worked with to where she lived at to what drugs she ingested. And, apparently, the strangers I slept with. One sharp, bitter laugh escaped from her mouth, sounding more like a pained sob than anything. She realized she was blaming others for her decisions. She knew it was a childish way of thinking. She didn't care.

"No," she said, a harshness in her voice. "No, let's hear it. You're probably thinking I'm just some fucking junkie whore anyway, and you're probably fucking right. So let's hear it. How much?" she asked. "How much is my fucking life worth to you assholes?" She was standing up now, her eyes burning at the old man with betrayal, anger, and regret. A splitting pain shooting through her thigh forced her to collapse back on the bed. The world turned dark.

She had no dreams that night as she slept.

[Kingfisher]

Opinions on the Diamond Den varied. Some would call it the modern day moulin rouge, others a den of hedonistic over-indulgence not seen since the days of Sodom and Gomorrah. Once upon a time the majestic stone dome had been the Chaerina Somabra Memorial Hall, with its stunning archways and pillars, but those days had long since passed. Under Ruzghul Elfchewer, the Memorial Hall had been morphed and shifted into a palace of decadent iniquity, stuffed full of drugs and hookers, and under Nyxvira Bloodbloom the Diamond Den had only grown darker and more lurid in nature.

Nyxie’s limo rolled slowly up to the front of the Diamond Den, with Marius sitting opposite her in that crisp black suit of his.

Tonight had been a long while in the making.

Concetto Nyctari, Andrei Robeldo, the Thugmaker, and Shiwaree Rahanna, some of Santa Somabra’s biggest crime bosses, were all in attendance. The Diamond Den was swarming with life, like an ant hill on a hot summer's day, and the events of the evening promised to be the stuff of legend.

Having changed on the ride over, Nyxvira emerged from her limo dressed in a sparkling black shoulderless rhinestone dress, with a sash of bright crimson woven around her neck, and her hair done up in a sprawling bun of diamond butterflies and clasps. She swaggered up to the Diamond Den, with Marius trailing behind her, and her mountain of jewelry jingling and jangling with each waddle-like step she took.

Nyxvira swaggered below the enormous marble archway, and was thrilled by the sights that greeted her.

The Diamond Den was thumping with an explosion of noise and festivities, as flamboyantly dressed figures danced and sauntered about the arena, beneath the brilliant halo of golden orange lights. The noise was incredible, as the laughter of staggering partygoers rocked the dome.

Statuesque dancers, dressed in less-than-little, slunk down poles and swung from trapeze, entwined in swathes of silk, and the greedy hands of bawdy onlookers. A huge glass counter swept across one side of the room, serving all manner of drugs and booze. A towering rum fountain stood sentinel in one corner, whilst a huge pile of glittering gold fairy dust dominated another.

Nyxvira was led up a sweeping flight of stairs, till she plopped down, rather sweaty and out-of-breath, in a large golden throne which over-looked the rest of the Den from a balcony on-high. A thousand sweet scents flooded her nose, as an army of chefs and waiters toiled away beneath her, bewitching dishes to the state of perfection.

Eventually, Marius leaned forwards to mutter something in her ear.

“Grezbill is bringing someone to meet you, Miss Bloodbloom.” He boomed in his throaty voice “He says it's a person of interest.”

Nyxie smirked to herself “Tell that scaly runt to get his shrivelled green arse down here, before he misses all the fun!”

[Drinky]

Gish breathed a sigh of relief when the small tunnel he had been scampering down finally opened up, though upon reflection he wish he hadn't. Even if one does get used to the smell down there, that still doesn't make it at all pleasant.

Gish peered at one of the access signs in the larger tunnel. One of them read 67A. That put him in the heart of downtown, just as he was hoping. He began ascending the rebar ladder up to street level, feeling a squish between his fingertips on every rung on the way up. As Gish reach the top, he took off his hat and pushed the cover over with his back, having his hands full with the rifle and ladder rungs.

As he emerged from the dank underground he heard a few quick shrieks from behind him. A few women, young, dressed as though they had just exited a nightclub caught him creeping out of the sewers.

"Oh my God!" "What is that!?"

Gish couldn't help but raise his hat slightly to the women as he dashed for a nearby alley. He decided to keep off the main streets as he figured a goblin running around with a large rifle shaped package would draw too much attention. He wasn't in Chinatown anymore, couldn't get away with that kind of stuff in downtown.

As he rushed around a corner he clipped a garbage can and sent bottles and other debris crashing to the ground. He cursed and shouted under his breath as he continued to haul ass to where he knew he could lay low.

Most goblins in Santa Sombara were all acquainted with one another. They often relied on each other for information and favors to aid one another in staying one step ahead of their enemies. Gish had one particular Goblin in mind to call on a favor for, and that Goblin was Grezbill.

Grezbill and Gish had been in contact many times over the years, feeding each other information on the big gangs in the city. Gish hoped he could count on Grezbill to help him out, at the very least he knew Grezbill had grown spineless and cowardly working for Nyxvira for so long and could probably be muscled into anything if pushed hard enough.

Gish rounded another corner and shouldered in the door of an apartment complex. He couldn't wait for the elevator and started winding the staircase up to the third floor. He began to wheeze and gasp having ascended only the first set.

'Damn git, must be nice to afford a 3rd floor flat.'

Once he finished with the stairs and made his way to Grezbill's door he took a moment to catch his breath, leaning on his still wrapped rifle. He glanced back down the hall and saw that his recently coated boots had left a nice trail of sewage stamped footprints down the hall. He paused for a moment thinking of the implications of his hurry from the Rat's underground highway.

'Fuck dat, I's not cleaning it up.'

With his breath half caught he proceeded to pound his fist against Grezbill's door.

"GREZBILL!!! Open up son it's me!"

"W-Who's me? Who's there?"

"It's me ya git! It's Gish!"

"N-No, don't know any Gish. G-Go away."

Gish rolled his eyes so hard he caught a glimpse of his own brain.

"It's Godric."

After a short pause the door slowly began to creak open. Gish gave it a helping heave and swung the door open, he heard a quick gasp from the other side as it obviously smacked into Grezbill. Gish closed the door behind him and started doing up the multiple locks Grezbill had installed. Grezbill stood quietly in the dining room of his small apartment that connected to the front door. Slouched with his hands at his chest the Goblin looked frightened as to the reason for Gish's surprise visit. With the locks engaged Gish moved over to the dining room table and lay his rifle on it. He turned to Grezbill with arms outstretched. "Ow' ya been mate!" he shouted as he wrapped his arms around Grezbill's shoulders. He could feel Grezbill's arms go ramrod stiff at his sides. A part of Gish only wanted to give Grezbill a hug because he knew it made him uncomfortable, that and he knew he reeked of shit.

Pulling back from the brotherly hug Gish removed his boots and coat, revealing his bony figure and white tank top. He tossed his boots and coat in Grezbill's bathtub and started the tap to give them a quick clean. Returning to the dining room Grezbill hadn't moved. Gish had a seat at the dining table facing Grezbill.

"Mate, I need a favor or two." he began

"Me place just been raided by some barmy Rats son. I need a place tah lay low for a bit till I find out if dese benders is still out for me."

"Um. O-Ok."

"Course it's ok son. Now, wot I be needin' from you is I need ta' have a chat with your boss Nyxvira. I wanna know for sure that I av' the all clear before I goes setting up shop again."

Grezbill bit his lip and looked towards the floor as he scratched his head. "I dunno Godric, I-I-" Gish rolled his eyes again, he hated it when Grezbill called him by his real name.

He cut Grezbill off before he got caught in an endless loop "Listen son I need to count on you for this, and I don't expect you to go to bat for me without a fine jersey now do I?"

He began unwrapping his rifle. As he held it in his hands he gave it one more look over. Despite Gish's reputation for intentionally shoddy work, gunsmithing was his passion and when he so desired he was an artist in the craft. He felt his special variety of firearms were too good for the common street rabble. He wanted the weapons to be appreciated for what they were, fine and elegant works of craftsmanship. He couldn't bear the though of this rifle being used to hold up a liquor store, he preferred to see it used either in a fancy gold-leaf display case, or in the company of a high-priced assassin who would take care of it. Although Grezbill didn't flaunt it, he knew the Goblin appreciated a well made gun, and would take care of and admire it.

Gish opened the action of the rifle with a loud *clank*. Plates shifted out and over to reveal the chamber. Gish extended the rifle out to Grezbill and saw his eyes widen as he reached out and gripped the rifle from Gish.

Grezbill looked over the gun for a few moments before finally speaking. "There's a big club event happening tomorrow night at the Diamond Den. I'll arrange an a-audience for you."

"Thank you son" Gish uttered slowly.

"Now, got any bleach?"

----------------------------------------------------------

Gish paced around in a dark stairwell as he waited for Grezbill to finish up on the phone. He could hear the sound of music and people penetrate the walls. He never cared much for the club life, Goblins often got squashed pretty quick by Ogre bouncers should they ever get any aspirations that they'd be welcome in such a place. He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand as Grezbill finished up on the phone.

"I s-s-still think this would go a lot s-smoother if you wore some of my clothes to an event like this."

Gish stopped his pacing and widened his eyes.

"Mate. This is my best suit! You know I only dress in the finest attire." he said as he waved his hands up and down his old coat.

Now came Grezbill's turn to roll his eyes.

"Wait here for a bit, I'm g-going to go up and I'll t-text you when Nyxvira is ready to see you."

As Grezbill ascended the stairs Gish called out to him. "They bettah' have some fancy cigars waiting for me son."

[JulienJaden]

Collab with @Atrophy

The noise outside was swelling. Between cars, yells and the tipper-tapper of rain against the windows, the city shook off its nightly robes and returned to the face it showed the world, industrious and clean, except for all the criminals. Cain woke up every now and again, trying to get comfortable enough in the chair by the bedside to fall asleep again while he watched the girl's chest steadily rise and fall under the blanket he had covered her with. It was halfway through the morning before he decided that he couldn't sleep anymore.

After Valorie fell unconscious again, he had spent another hour or two fixing her leg. The bleeding had been even worse than before and between finding the right ritual to break the curse responsible and keeping her alive long enough, he was left with no other choice but a life bond.
The back of his left hand itched where he had cut the runes into his skin, sacrificing a little of himself to make sure she didn't stop breathing and would recover quickly. The receiving symbols, with 'health' at their center, were drawn with his blood on the back of her right. He felt exhausted, even now, and he was sure that a few lines of grey had joined the rest. A bad headache was pounding against his temples and Cain knew that at least some of that discomfort were first signs of withdrawal.

The only reason he didn't grab a bottle and a cigarette for breakfast was that he needed a clear head, should she wake up and accidentally hurt herself again; he had barely dared to wash himself and change into something that wasn't soaked in her blood. His stomach was making his presence known, though, and whether it was that or the rain or just her internal alarm clock going off, Francis saw Valorie's eyelids flutter open.
And - he couldn't help himself - it caused him to breathe a sigh of relief.

"You're awake. Good. For a while, I wasn't sure if you would."

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and beard and stood up, the bloody coat he had covered himself with during the night piling up at his feet.

"I'll make us something to eat. I think be both need a FUCK", he exclaimed as he stumbled over something his coat had covered - The book he hadn't put away after using it; the book he had found the life bond, the curse and the counter-ritual in: 'Blood Magic - From Babylon to Tenochtitlan'.
For a moment, he thought he had ripped out a page, he was sure that he heard the paper rip, but as he knelt down to pick up the ancient, leather-bound tome, he cursed under his breath - The book was in better condition than ever, as was his coat; all the blood it had soaked in was gone.

With a look of disgust on his face, he picked up the book and put it back into its spot on one of the lower shelves. Blood magic, with all its sacrifices and books that usually had a life of their own, were something that always filled him with a sense of discomfort. It was undoubtedly one of the more powerful schools of magic but also unreliable and dangerous. It didn't escape his attention that Valorie had wanted to cut her hand in the trap, presumably to break it with her own blood. But was that the only magic she dabbled in? He could feel more in her, she unmistakeably had a magical gift, but he wasn't sure how that expressed itself.

His head swam with thoughts about magic as he proceeded to the kitchen and grabbed some eggs from the fridge. He called from the kitchen:
"There's water on the bedside table if you're thirsty. How do you feel? Any nausea or headaches?"

“I’m fine,” said Valorie, blinking the sleep away from her eyes. “This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in some dude’s bed after a rough night of trying to get myself killed,” she said, dryly. “Usually they don’t offer to make me breakfast.” Usually she was gone before the morning. She wondered if he remembered.

She did feel better than she ought to have. She felt sore and weak, but the bandages on her thigh and shoulder were fresh, comfortable, and white. The wounds below them were sealed, and she’d soon have more scars to pester her when she stood in front of the mirror. The bruises would go away as they always did. She could cut the burnt tips of her hair. All things considered, the man did any incredible job keeping her alive. Unnatural, even. Her eyes fell on the book he had put away, twinkling. Chugging the glass of water, she pulled herself to the edge of the bed and set her right foot down. Then, quietly so to not make the floor creak, she set her other foot down as she pushed herself up. The wound did not reopen. She did not pass out again. Good.

“You actually did a really good job at patching me up, you know,” she said loudly to mask her footsteps. “I you didn’t tell me that you worked with that asshole Rich I would’ve pegged you for some mob doctor. A shame, really. I could use someone who’s good with their hands.” She smirked as she slid the book out from the shelf, her eyes widening as she read the title and let out a soft, feminine giggle in excitement. “Not that I care, but has Rich called you yet? You should tell him I’m not here. Tell him I snuck out. Tell him I’m dead. He wouldn’t mind, really, I can tell.” She plopped down in the chair he’d been sitting in and opened a page at random. “Consider it another favor that I’ll have to make...up...to...y…”

She fell silent, her eyes fervently dancing from the left to right and back again as her lips twisted into a wicked smile.

"You know what's a really bad idea?", he asked, standing directly behind her. He knew the floorboards, each and every one of them; she had been quiet, true, but this apartment was his sanctuary, a place filled with his magic presence and energy, guarded by every protective ward and ritual in these books. Nothing moved or happened within these walls without his knowledge; nobody entered without his consent; even finding this place was a little more difficult than finding the address. He wouldn't have cared if she grabbed one of the other books, any of them, really, but this one... He didn't trust it. And he didn't trust her to use blood magic responsibly, not when her entire lifestyle seemed to be following the motto: 'Crash and burn.'

His voice was calm but he spoke with authority now, not with warmth. He stepped to the front and as he looked at her, his eyes were glowing like embers, a thread of his mind controlling the fire under the frying pan.
"Going through a mage's property without asking for permission. Especially when it concerns blood magic and the mage in question", he laid his left hand on the open page so she would see its back and the runes without obstruction, "used it to save your life. Isn't that what you asked me earlier? What your 'life is worth to me'? More than Rich could possibly offer me, is the answer to that. Or do you think I would go to such lengths for just anybody?"

Cain pulled the book from her hands. He wasn't gentle about it but the book wouldn't be damaged so soon after it fed. He weighed it in his hand. An idea formed in his head.
"What magic are you familiar with? Other than blood magic."

Valorie had snatched greedily at the book as he pulled it out of her reach. She was going to yell at him to give it back, but the sight of his eyes caught her voice. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Her hand fell down to her side.

"Just this and that. Look, I don't want..." Her eyes glanced away from his and glued themselves to the floor. The only other person she had told about herself being a necromancer was Sander, and he hadn't asked. It had just sort of come out in a fit of excitement coerced by a few pills she had sampled before going over to his place to just, at the time, look at the bodies. This guy was probably a cop, it'd be fucking stupid if she said anything to him. She frowned. All she did was stupid things these days. Why ruin her perfect streak?

"It might come as a shock, but I wasn't always this likable," she said, scowling, as she looked back at the old man. "Plus we moved around a lot. It's not like I was a pariah or anything, I was just shy so people thought I was fucking weird. Whatever. I only ever had one friend growing up. Sammy. My best friend," she said. She tilted her head down, took in a breath, and exhaled deeply. "I fucking killed him with a car when I was sixteen. It was an accident. I was dr—for fuck sake, really Val?" She wiped the dampness from her eyes. "I was drunk. I put his body in a goddamn box with some ice, stashed him in my basement, and I began reading. I taught myself all about runes, and rituals, and magic, and voodoo, and whatever other bullshit I could get my hands on. It took for fucking ever. His brain was rotted by the time I brought him back and I almost fucking bled out, but I brought him back."

She tilted her head up towards his. She knew he likely understood what she meant, but she stated it outright anyway: "I'm a necromancer. I'm not even good at it. Sammy's the only one I've ever been able to raise up permanently, and he doesn't even know how to fetch a ball anymore. In fact," she laughed, shaking her head at herself. "I'm getting worse at it! I'm the worst possible mage studying the worst possible school of magic. It's fucking hilarious if you think about it."

Despite what she said, Valorie had stopped laughing.

"So now what? You going to revile me like the rest of this fucking city? Go ahead. I don't really care. You going to kill me after all that effort you put in fucking saving me for whatever stupid reason you had? I'm not in much of a position to stop you, though I won't make it easy." She slouched in the chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fuck me, I need," A drink. A joint. A line. A bump. Bennies. Dust. A fix. A bullet to the fucking head, "a cigarette."

His heart clenched as he listened to her. Her story was sad enough as it is but her breaking out into tears made it difficult to listen. How could he have ever believed that tough appearance she had showed him before? The mask she wore was paperthin, even the cocky and somewhat stupid role she took on when she grabbed the book. All these layers were easy to peel away, and here she was, the core: Self-loathing, guilt, doubt, anger, sorrow... and love.
But his own face was unmoved, a mask of perfect equilibrium through most of it. That is, until she named what she was: A necromancer.
A soft smile curled his lips and when she finished and speculated what he would do, he started his own ringing laughter.

"The cigarette will have to wait until after breakfast."

He knew that his eyes had shocked her, so he willed the flame to be as small as possible and cut the connection, returning his eyes to their crystal blue.

"A necromancer...", he chuckled, shaking his head, "I haven't met one in many years. I'm honored." Despite the smile in his eyes, his last words weren't meant to mock her. "Do you really think that I would hate you for raising the dead? If anything, I'm impressed. My Akkadian is awful and I never tried to raise any creature more complex than a bird. You reviving your dog on your first try means you have talent. And no, you are not getting worse at it."

There it was again, that comforting tone, warm and full. That was who he was, or at least that was who he hoped he was. Were the powerful mage and the ruthless 'do-not-try-to-fuck-me-over' PI his masks or was he wearing one of his masks for her? Who could tell anymore.
To her, he appeared strong and certain, offering his right hand.

"How about this: We sit down at the table, we eat, I explain to you what's special about Sammy and, when we're done, we see about that cigarette and maybe another proposal. Sound good?"

"Yeah," she said, taking his hand and smiling as she pulled herself up. "Sounds good."

She followed the man into the kitchen. She'd been surprised by him when he had said that he found her impressive; she had assumed that he had been smart. All the books and the graying hair tricked me, she thought, smirking to herself. More than likely he was just trying to be nice, to cheer up some stupid girl so that she'd shut the hell up, dry her eyes, and eat her goddamn eggs. At least that was what Valorie thought. So she ate the goddamn eggs, wolfing them down in a few bites. There was more pressing matters than savoring her eggs, and she knew that neither of them would believe her if she tried to act like a proper lady.

"So," she said, working the last bite of food that was still in her mouth, "I believe you were telling me how amazing I am?"

"Cocky, is what you are", he smiled, his own mouth full of egg and bread, destroying any illusion of gentlemanliness. Oh, he could act like he was brought up in some rich home and be all 'madam' and bows around the Faerie but he never forgot that he grew up between Rats when they still called themselves 'Mafia', had connections all over the country and were one of the most powerful factions in the city.

He swallowed and ate his last forkful, taking his sweet time too. She was impatient, he could see that, and it hurt her more than it helped. When he had put down his cutlery and wiped his mouth and spoke again:
"When I was fifteen, my mother got beat up. I knew the guy's face, I knew where to find him and I had been practicing how to control fire for a while, so I went to that bar when it was as good as empty, made sure he was his usual passed-out drunk self and burned the entire fucking place to ground, with him in it. You see, I'm still as water now but back then, I was livid, so much so that I thought I would lose my mind... and when I unleashed the flames, they burned brighter and hotter than ever before."

Cain wasn't entirely calm; a hint of emotion colored his voice, distant memories of excitement beyond his wildest dreams.

"When I came home, I thought I knew exactly what I needed to do, that I had mastered pyromancy and I could move on to other things. But the next time I tried to use it, it was the same as before all that. You see where I'm going with this?"

He didn't give her time to even nod or shake her head.

"Sammy was - is - your best friend, your family, your everything. You felt guilty over killing him. You poured a lot of blood and time and effort into bringing him back and I am sure that, the whole time, you didn't even really think about what you were doing. You were driven and all your actions and magic were fueled by love."

He folded his hands against his chin.

"Emotions are a powerful catalyst, Valorie, and they enable us to do great and terrible things beyond our actual skill. Bringing back Sammy revealed your talent and dedication for necromancy but most of the power came from your emotions. That said, everything you've done after came from you."

As promised, he fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, gave Valorie one and put another in his mouth. With a snap of his fingers that wasn't actually necessary but satisfied him nonetheless, his eyes lit up again and his thumb was covered in flame. One drag later, his cigarette was lit and, after a bit of hesitation, Valorie let him do the same for her and the flame vanished.

"Handy, isn't it? It's a shame most women who want to know if I 'have a light' freak out when I do that", he smirked. Cain took a long drag from the smoldering roll. "So... You have potential, I can sense it. And, believe it or not, it's 'sensing' this magical presence in you, in others, that's the key you are looking for. My proposal is this: You become my student."

Ignoring the impact of what he had just said, he stood up, began transferring the items from the table to the sink, talking all the while:
"There is little I can teach you about the actual execution of necromantic rituals but I have done enough research to have encyclopedical knowledge on them, I know where to get what books I don't already own and, most importantly, I have a lot of experience with all forms of magic. I can teach you not only how to find that 'sweetspot' where the magic happens - literally - but I would also show you other schools of magic, some you may also have talent for, perhaps even more than for necromancy."

The table was as clean and empty as it was going to get and, offering a stunned and scantily cled Valorie his hand once more, he led her back to the bed.
"In exchange, I want two things: Number 1, no more hard drugs. I'm not without my vices", he meaningfully wiggled with the cigarette in his mouth, "but stuff like Fairy Dust messes with your head and makes focusing harder. It's not only one of the reasons why you're not progressing faster, it's also why you feel as bad about it as you do. You can party, if you want, but the hard stuff would have to go. Number 2... is that you let me help keep you safe. Yesterday probably didn't go unnoticed and there are dangerous people out there that even I wouldn't want to run into without backup, so no sneaking out in the morning while I pretend to be asleep. We can at least have a cup of coffee, next time."

There it was. Maybe she had thought that he forgot about that night and he had decided to be nonchalant about it and give her a crooked smile. The truth was that he wouldn't mind repeating that experience, without all the alcohol. It had been a while since he genuinely cared about somebody or felt more than a superficial attraction. He felt himself drawn to her and the vulnerability he had witnessed only added to that, but the nature of their first encounter made that harder instead of easier and he wasn't sure how she would respond. Then again, she was standing half-naked in front of his bed again, so maybe things weren't all bad.

"What do you say?"

He left it open to interpretation whether he meant the proposal or the more delicate subject and left the rest up to fate, at least until he had a better idea.

"Okay," she said after thinking about it for a minute. She could use someone to back her up. And drugs, well, she had always told herself how she could quit the drugs whenever she had wanted. How hard can that be? she thought, rubbing the back of her neck. The answers that she came up with were not ones that she was happy to see. She'd try, though. At least long enough for this man to show her something useful. She walked over to the nightstand and, with a piece of notepad paper and a pen, jotted down her phone number. And then, smiling to herself, she jotted down a few short words. "Here. If you can't get in touch with me with this number, then call Rich. Which reminds me, I kind of need to check up on him. He gets lonely without me. He'll be so mad if I tell him I have a new professor," she said, coyly looking at the man. "I guess we'll just have to keep this is a secret. It's more thrilling that way, hmm?"

She had seen the way the man had looked at her; she couldn't help herself from having a little fun. She grabbed what remained of her clothes, making a show out of it as she arched and dipped with excruciatingly and painfully slow movements. A moan slipped out that was half in jest, half in actual pain as her tired muscles stretched and snapped. "Find me a book you're willing to lend. I'm borrowing a shirt," she said, gently bumping in to the man as she walked past him and into his closet, her top already halfway off before she completely disappeared inside. Picking a large, dark gray shirt she put it on and buttoned it most of the way up, turning it into a makeshift dress as she took the ribbon from her hair and tied it around her waist. Pulling on her dark leggings and stepping into her boots, she tossed the shorts with her tank top into the corner of the closet, serving as evidence that she'd come back.

"Well, am I walking?" she said, flicking her hair out with her hands. A half-smile formed on her face as she leaned against the closet's doorjamb, "Or would you be able to give me a ride?"

It was easy to determine which book he'd give her. It wasn't exactly the oldest in his collection and it was in relatively bad condition due to constant use but its contents were worth a look, covering some simple protective spells and exercises to get a better feeling for magic. He was tempted to watch her change but that just wouldn't have been appropriate, so he occupied himself with picking out the book with the faded yellow binding and writing the apartment's address and his private number on the back of a business card.

When she reappeared, he smiled right back. It was a pity this encounter hadn't been as mutually pleasurable as the last one but seeing a woman in one of his shirts was its own reward, as would be seeing this one gain a few pounds if she stopped using drugs and ate a little more. She was teasing him, of course, but two could play at that game.

"Absolutely but it's gonna be a little longer before your leg and shoulder can take it. On a completely unrelated topic, I'm heading out and I can drop you off, if you want to share a cab." Cain held out the book - 'Magic For Dummies - All The Fun, None Of The Witchhunt'. "Don't let it fool you: It's a useful book, if you're willing to see past the binding. And this", he gave her the business card as well, "should make coming back here easier for you. You will be able to find the apartment again, I'll make sure of it."

He walked her to the door but stopped right in front of it and turned to her, his face serious once more.
"I don't know if somebody's after you after yesterday, but with that and your injuries in mind, I want you to call me later in the day and return here before midnight, so I can see how your wounds are healing and we have time to figure out how to go about this arrangement. Can you do that?"

"Sure, sure. But c'mon, give me a little credit, Frankie. Disregarding last night, I have done a pretty good job of not getting myself killed," said Valorie. She waved her hands in front of her, trying to dismiss his serious look. "Just because you see some potential in me doesn't mean anyone else does. They just think I'm some junkie loser. Nobody's coming after me." It looked like she actually believed it with her hands clasped behind her back. A little frown crossed her face.

"Seriously, man, how much trouble do you think I actually get in during one week? Last night was enough to fuel me for the year," she said, tempting fate. "I'm totally going to be fine."

He wasn't convinced at all. Francis knew how situations like this could turn out with the Rats: If one of her group lived to tell the tale, they'd be out looking for her before she knew it. And if she was the only one to live, somebody would eventually start wondering why she was the only one to live and some of them might get triggerhappy. And that only covered the possible fallout of yesterday; there was no telling what might happen if somebody found out she worked with Kennedy, which was bound to come out sooner or later. And if he had any say in this, they would not be caught with their pants down when that happened.

"Maybe I'm paranoid", he admitted but otherwise not responding to her dismissive talk, "but I'm also alive because I didn't take any chances. Until I've had a chance to listen around and see what's what, you need to keep your head down, and today, that means: Give me that phone call and come back by midnight. I'm not just asking for your safety but also because I need to see that you are disciplined and trust my judgement. Bring Sammy if you want, but come back here."

Cain turned around and put his hand on the doorknob but, after a moment of hesitation, looked right back at her again.
"Tell you what: If you're here before 11, I'll bring out a bottle of really good Scotch or Bourbon - your choice. You can sleep in my bed, alone or with company", he flashed her a charming smile that made him look ten years younger and held up her note for him - 'I prefer tea' was what she wrote -, "and we'll decide on the hot beverage in the morning. Deal?"

"Deal," said Valorie, as she clasped her hands over her mouth in a mocking expression of excitement. "Sammy's going to be so excited to have an actual bed to sleep on tonight! Oh don't worry. He doesn't leak too much. Let's go!"

[Kingfisher]

“Mary..” Nyxvira called over her shoulder at the Ogre, as she gazed down at the furious explosion of festivities from her golden throne “Do you prefer red or black leather?”

“More of a latex man, myself,” Marius grumbled “Why do you ask, Miss?”

“I’m thinking of getting some new furniture.” She said, simply, her eyes fixed on a scantily clad acrobat who was gracefully swinging across the arena on some trapeze “Wasn’t sure if I should go for red or black leather chairs.”

“Now, I’m no decorator, Miss Bloodbloom,” Marius grunted, adjusting his tie “But I’d have to suggest the black.”

Her curiosity was piqued

“Why?”

“The way I sees it,” he rumbled in his deep voice “Black creates an atmosphere of class and luxury, but also ‘olds suggestions of darkness and death; perfect for subtle intimidation, like.”

“I didn’t realize you had such an analytical mind.” Nyxvira laughed, a slither of a smirk slipping across her full lips.

“I read a book by this Doctah Simondis bloke,” He explained “called ‘The art of the negligible’; talks about subtle, mental manipulation.”

“Fascinating.” Nyxvira giggled playfully, sending ripples through her sprawling belly “I would never have pegged you as the intellectual type.”

“Folks dun think ogres can be smart, Miss Bloodbloom,” Marius gave a rolling shrug of his broad shoulders “appearances can be deceivin’, like. People wouldn’t think that an ogre can be smart, or a Goblin can be honest, or a junkie could be caring, or a monstah’ could be hidin’ inside a little pale man’s ‘ead. But just cause someone dun look dangerous, dun mean they aren’t dangerous, Miss Bloodbloom.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mary.” said the obese Faerie, who also happened to be the most powerful person in Santa Somabra, with a wicked grin.

Then Grezbill came wandering up the steps.

“Ehrmmm...Madam?” He squawked, from somewhere behind her throne.

Nyxie’s eyes narrowed into slits. She hadn't sent for Grezbill, and any information he could’ve had for her would have reached her through other channels long before he did, which meant he was here out of his own tuition. Interesting. The Goblin had never come to her without bringing matters of interest to her attention before.

“What is it, Grezbill?” She asked dryly, an irritated groan ebbing at her voice.

“The weaponsmith that Miss Vigilance was sent to watch over is on the premises. He’d like an audience.”

Nyxie frowned. “Grezbill, come here.”

The goblin padded slowly towards her throne, with Marius closing in behind him.

Once he was close enough, Nyxvira’s fat hand shot forwards, closing in around the goblin’s windpipe.

“Listen here, you little shit stain,” she hissed “you -DO NOT- bring curiosities to my -VERY IMPORTANT- gatherings, do you understand?”

Grezbill gasped and wheezed, as the Faerie’s grip tightened around his neck.

“This event has been -MONTHS- in preparation, and I don’t need you fucking it up by dragging in sewer trash. You are -VERY- lucky that the current situation prevents me from disciplining you without threatening the jovial atmosphere.”

She released her hold, letting the scrawny green creature tumble to his knees, coughing and spluttering as he gulped down huge mouthfuls of air.

“Show the weaponsmith in, then show yourself out.” She commanded the goblin, shooting him one last withering glance.

“And pick me up some black leather chairs for the penthouse!” She shouted back over her shoulder, as he scurried away.

[JulienJaden]

How much did Valorie know about life bonds?

That question kept Cain's mind occupied on the long ride to the outskirts of town; the cab driver didn't take the scenic route through those suburbs that looked like everybody cut the grass with nail scissors but the speedy one through the decrepit parts of town, navigating urban canyons of hopeless drug abuse and gang violence, dirty side alleys and abandoned shops with broken windows. But after a few decades in this city, you didn't see it anymore; no, you let your mind wander to the girl who shared the first part of the taxiride with you.

He felt better now, not as tired as before. Breakfast had done its thing and his magic was helping too, and yet he knew that he would have to do more about it if he wished to preserve his life and relative youth for longer. If there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was that ache in his joints that he got when his body wanted to remind him of his true age. Of course, Valorie didn't have to worry about these things yet. She had done what she could to destroy herself but, then again, so had Francis when he was only a little older and for much longer than her, before he found his purpose.

And now, here he was after dropping her off, wondering if she knew that he knew exactly where she was.

It wasn't a permanent life bond - an eternal bond - so the effect would fade after a day or two and he couldn't tell what she was thinking or doing, but he knew where she was and he would know if she got hurt, a side-effect that made his sacrifice even more worthwhile. It gave him options if she decided to go back on her words, if she got herself in trouble or trouble found her. He was probably too obsessed with her for his own good but he would have hated to watch her waste her potential and perhaps pass the point where she couldn't escape the drug abuse on her own. It was for her own good, really.

Or so he told himself as the taxi pulled up in front of an old church. Well, perhaps it had been a church once but some of the side buildings had collapsed and the tower looked like it was well on its way to the end of the line too, so the church had more or less been downgraded to an oversized, really unstable-looking chapel. Understandably, it looked like people only ever entered it when they had to during mass, and Cain couldn't imagine that anybody without at least half a mind to meet his maker got anywhere near this thing.

He paid the driver and made his way to the entrance, the cobblestone and overgrowth making him feel strangely calm in the face of such architectural danger. The door was half-open and as he entered, he saw a man in black robes kneeling and praying before the crucified Lamb of God. There were many religions in this world and many promised, not without merit, power or a longer life; but christianity didn't and yet it was one of the largest faiths in the world, even though it had its share of magic cult contenders. Here, in Santa Somabra, however, you could be lucky if you woke up in the morning and still had some faith, let alone a pulse.

"Excuse me, Father Karpenko?", Cain broke the silence as he took of his hat and approached the man who had obviously heard his footsteps but still finished his prayer before rising and turning.

The priest was a clean-shaved man with greying blonde hair, a little smaller than Cain and a little broader too, with metal-rimmed glasses and a good-natured look to him that was rare in Santa Somabra.
"Yes? What can I do for you, my Son?"

Cain respectfully bowed his head before entering 'detective mode', or so Vigilance had mockingly called it once - that state of mind you got into when you tried to be friendly but firm, tried to pay attention to every detail and would willingly rip any witness a new one if that could potentially lead to more information.
"My name is Francis Cain. I'm a private investigator looking into the Somabra Slayer case. My sources told me that the Slayer's most recent victims, Joanna Calhoun and Hugh Blackwood, both were part of your congregation. Would you mind answering me a few question?"

Karpenko looked surprised but that soon made room for sadness as he shook his head.
"Terrible thing, that; may they rest in peace. Well, if I can contribute to your investigation in any way, ask away."

"Thank you. What was the nature of the relationship between Miss Calhoun and Mister Blackwood?"

"I don't think there was any to begin with, to be honest. They were here for mass most every Sunday but they never spoke, as far as I could tell; not actively avoiding each other but just... strangers."

"And did you know the two?", Cain inquired.

"I can't say that I did. Of course, I offer every member of my parish to hear their confession and in these dark times, I am more of a shrink than a priest to some, but neither of them were particularly close to me."

Francis nodded. So far, this conversation was going as expected and leading nowhere, but that didn't mean it was pointless. Karpenko adjusted his glasses as Cain thought of his next question.
"Was anything different about them in the last weeks before their death? Did they seem nervous or frightened to you?"

"Hm... Let me think."
Karpenko seemed thoughtful but the way his eyes moved while he answered these questions was strange. The way he spoke suggested truthfulness but something was off; there was nothing to nail him down on, though.
"Not particularly, no... They were a little agitated, now that you mention it; left mass in a bigger hurry than usual. But I have several people in my community who couldn't deal with the pressure of being an aardvark in the local gangs and confessed, and compared to them, Miss Calhoun and Mister Blackwood were very calm, if they had any inkling as to what was going to happen."

And there it was. It stood out like a sore thumb and maybe a detached observer wouldn't have known what to make of it but it gave Cain at least an approach.

"Father Karpenko, does anybody in your family work in law enforcement?"

Suddenly, the priest seemed rather nervous himself.
"No, nobody. Why do you ask?"

Cain pressed on.
"Any friends who work in the SSPD? Acquaintances, anything?"

"N-no, I'm telling you", Karpenko stuttered. "What does that have to do with-"

"Aardvark. You see, 'mole' is what people usually say. The only people I know who would refer to police informants or undercover operatives as 'aardvarks' are SSPD cops."

"I-I don't-"

"What are you, really? Fresh meat from the academy or just some pen-pusher who got unlucky?", Cain pushed.

"I think you should go", the 'priest' decided, beads of sweat forming at the edge of his hair, and turned to leave himself.

"I doubt you'll have this position much longer, not after you got your operatives killed."

"I didn't get them killed! They weren't even my operatives!", Karpenko yelled, his words echoing back and forth in the church. There was enough guilt in his exclamation that Cain knew he had him, hook, line and sinker.

"You were their dead drop, their lifeline to the SSPD, right? Who are you working for? Richard Kennedy? Paul Lawson? Khadija Samat?"

"Lawson. But how do you-"

"Cain", he interrupted. "Does that name really not ring any bells? Detective, homicide, no?" Karpenko shook his head. "Well, guess I can't blame you. I don't know your face either. What matters, though, is that I still occasionally work for the SSPD and I have my connections; I could let Lawson know over what kind of stupid mistake you blew your cover and have him tell me what Calhoun and Blackwood were doing, exactly, or..."

He took a nice, long pause. Karpenko, or whatever his real name was, was a mess at this point, looking like he was about to start crying while Cain reached into his pocket and lit himself a cigarette before continuing.

"Or you could tell me what they were doing and I forget about this slip-up that could cost you your career."

Was Karpenko's mistake big enough to actually threaten his career? Probably not, not with how rampant the corruption ran in the SSPD. But that wasn't important. The only thing that mattered was that Karpenko believed it, and apparently he did because he sat down on one of the benches and, with a sigh of resignation, started spilling his guts.

"I don't know what they were doing. They didn't have anything to do with the Slayer, as far as I know; or maybe they did and they just didn't want to make it obvious. All I know is that their last message for Lawson was that they wanted to investigate the Nyctari and he gave his go-ahead. A few days later..."
He shrugged. Was he crying?

"Is that absolutely everything you can tell me?"

Karpenko nodded with a soft snivel.

"Jesus Christ, look at you: You really wanna cry in front of another man, right in the middle of a church? Get up."
Cain grabbed the man in robes by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet.
"I'm not gonna tell Lawson - I'm a man of my word. If you forgot about this encounter as well, nobody will ever know you blew your cover. What's your real name?"

"Walter Dixon", he responded without hesitation. Something told Cain that he hadn't really grasped to concept of undercover work yet.

"Alright, Walter, let me tell you something: Undercover work is really tough and I can tell you're not cut out for it, so as soon as you can, you should ask Lawson to give you your office job back, plain and simple. You wouldn't want to be here if the Slayer drew the same conclusions as I and shows up here one day, now, would you?"

Francis had never seen somebody's face switch from ignorance to insight to pure panic in under two second. Cain put his trilby back on.
"Good day, Father."

[Atrophy]

The sun was beginning to peek down at Valorie as she watched the cab drive off, the silhouette of—My what? Guardian? Mentor? Or..—disappearing behind a corner. The book he had given her was pressed close against her chest, his card serving as a bookmark for the parts she had already devoured while in the cab. His parting gift, a cigarette, burned slowly in her mouth as she backed up beneath an awning. A quick scan of the streets revealed to her that she was in a safe enough part of town, all things considered. Violent crimes still happened in the nice parts of Santa Somabra, but they always happened quietly behind closed doors and came only after astronomical exchanges of currency. She doubted she’d run into one of the Fifth Street Rats seeking retribution, assuming that masked monster from the night before had let any of them slip away. Somehow she doubted it, but she still felt uncomfortable. Anxious. Watched.

She looked at the reddish runes on her right hand. At a quick glance or to the untrained eye they looked like little more than overzealous scribblings of an aspiring art student working part-time as a bouncer who had, once again, failed to catch her fake ID. Valorie knew the markings would fade away, and she wouldn’t say that she was completely upset with having Francis be able to know where she was. Considering how she had almost become another statistic last night, she could even convince herself that it was a good thing.

The discomfort came from somewhere else then. She did feel out of place in this part of town. True, she was safe from any wandering Rats, because they knew not to shove their coked-up little noses into these more civilized parts of town—if the cartels and mafias didn’t beat them back into the sewers and slums, then the cops did. She knew she wasn’t safe from them. Valorie had seen her face in the rearview mirror of the cab. She didn’t know what made her uglier: her new busted lip or her bruised cheek that was plum purple. Valorie had ignored the questioning glances the cabbie threw between his two passengers—Who gave a fuck what a cab driver thought? But, as she slowly smoked her only cigarette, she could only think that the only way to make her stick out more as a Rat to cops and thugs would have been to throw on some Mickey Mouse ears, paint some whiskers around her nose, and stand on the corner of the street while shooting junk into her veins. It was only a matter of time before she would be hassled.

The feeling was made worse by the knowledge that she would still end up in a car with a goddamn cop regardless of what happened while she waited. Her phone had gone missing (as well as the rest of her stuff) but she knew it would be insane to try and find him at the station, so she had Francis text Rich to come pick her up in front of this fancy restaurant. And there the devil was, pulling up to the sidewalk in a stylish sports car that was well beyond the paygrade of a typical cop. Valorie walked up to the passenger door of the car. Instead of getting in immediately, she leaned forward as far as she could while resting her elbows on the frame of the rolled-down window.

“You seem so used to this,” she said, blowing smoke into the leather interior. “You used to picking up girls off the street corner?”

“Just get in,” said Rich, his expression unreadable behind his reflective sunglasses. Ray-bans, of fucking course, thought Valorie, as she added sunglasses to the increasing list of her personal possessions that were now missing. Maybe Rich would have them in a handy little bag of evidence for her. She straightened up and pulled at the handle. It caught on the lock and did not open. “No smoking.”

Sighing, she took one last giant drag and put her hands on her hips, cocking her head as if to ask if he was happy. She watched herself in the reflection of her glasses as the breath she was holding made the rest of her face match her bruise and then exhaled loudly, coughing as a cloud of smoke erupted from her mouth. Say what you will about Rich, but Valorie had to commend him on being able to avoid most of her bullshit. She jumped in the car. It was comfortable, roomy, light years nicer than the POS she had sold when she had first come to this city. After another staring match with her reflection, she buckled her seatbelt.

“You know how to suck all the cool out of a Lamborghini,” said Valorie, putting her feet on the dash.

“It’s a Ferrari.”

“It’s a Ferrari,” she echoed, mockingly. “The point remains. You still suck.”

“It’s good to see you too, Valorie.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my night?”

“What is there to ask?” said Rich, casting her a sideways glance as he put the car into drive and pulled out onto the street.

“Oh, I don’t fucking know man, maybe ask about how I almost died? Or how my cover is now probably fucking blown because you sent a goddamn cop after me? How about if I’m just okay? I did just see a bunch of my friends die, so yeah, why should we talk about that? Fuck!” While she had friends in the Rats, she didn’t really consider the Fifth Street Rats her friends. Still, she felt saying that drove home her point better. Which was this: “At least apologize to me. This was all your fucking fault!”

There was a stretch of silence as they drove, the expensive car tearing loudly through the mostly empty streets. She didn’t know where the hell they were going, but the silence was driving her mad as the car took a left, and then a right, and then another right. It bumped against the curb as Rich steered it into a parking garage, circling the floors until they were on the top level. Valorie looked out through the tinted windows; there were no cars up here at all despite the rest of the garage having been packed from the office crowd. It was eerie. She felt the car rock as Rich put it into park. Then Valorie heard something she hadn’t been expecting: a chuckle. Rich smirked at her from behind his glasses as he turned his body to hers. A small, scared little girl way in over her head stared back at her in the reflection of his glasses. She saw the girl jump as the thunk of the locks sliding into place hammered in her ears.

“All my fault?” he said, shaking his head while chuckling even more. “Little girl, do you ever think before you speak, or have the drugs completely rotted away whatever tiny amount of gray matter that was there in the first place?”

“You were the one who gave me the drugs,” she said, bitterly.

“Of course you forgot our little blood test on day one,” said Rich, a coy smile on his face. “I don’t send straight-edge squares to roll around in needle dens, just like I don’t send tainted gutter trash to be sucked on by the Nyctari or their clientele. It’s my job to put people in their place. And I am I good at my job.”

“You’re a—” He pulled a gun on her.

“Valorie, I’m sorry, but will you shut your fucking whore mouth for one goddamn second? I can’t stand the fucking sound of your voice,” he said. She did. He smiled. “That’s better. Thank you. It’s so annoying the way you always have to interrupt me.”

She saw her reflection in his glasses biting her lip, reopening the small cut. Rich continued:

“You broke procedure. You disobeyed my orders. You don’t involve yourself in any activities with the Rats unless you get my permission beforehand, not while it’s happening. And you do not ignore any messages I send you. If you had waited for Cain like I told you to, then you would not have been targeted by that woman, and you would not having almost killed yourself. The only reason you’re alive,” he pointed a finger at her and repeated, “the only goddamn reason you’re alive is because I sent someone to help you. So don’t blame me because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know to do what they are told. If anything, you should apologize to me.”

“Go f—”

“I told you,” said Rich, clicking off the safety. “Stop interrupting.”

“Whatever man,” said Valorie, finding her courage. “You wouldn’t go through all of the trouble of sending someone to protect me if you were just going to kill me.”

“You think I wouldn’t enjoy shooting another Rat?” said Rich.

“Not at all. I think pigs like you get their rocks off by gunning down stupid needle freaks that nobody will protest about,” she said. “But you wouldn’t have driven such a nice car if you had planned to blow my brains out all over the upholstery.”

“I can’t tell if you’re smarter or dumber than you look,” he said, revealing the missing magazine and the empty chamber on the gun. Valorie shrugged.

“So was this your attempt at scaring me straight or something?” said Valorie. “Because you blew it.”

Rich smiled. “I wasn’t finished.”

“And I’m the one who doesn’t know how to shut up,” she muttered under her breath.

“You got lucky, Valorie. You don’t really get how good it is that I’m the one handling you. The other guys? They would have dumped your body in the sewers the first time you fucked up, but me, I’m different. I take care of my girls, and I can see that you actually have some potential. I’m not going to let one bump in the road sour our friendship.” The word sounded artificial coming from his mouth. He ignored her eyeroll. “Fortunately there was no evidence that you were involved in that botch job.” So he didn’t have her stuff. Had Sander grabbed it? “Which is good, because my superiors have a need for someone in the Rats for something major they have been planning. Consider this job to be your apology. Do good enough on it and I’ll forget this little screw up ever happened.”

“What is it?” asked Valorie.

“I’ll let you know soon enough. Until then I need you to lay low. Keep your nose clean,” said Rich. “Seriously. Layoff the drugs. You’ll need a clear mind for this job.”

“Easy enough,” said Valorie. Rich shot her a look and then laughed again. She frowned.

“If you say so, Valorie. Now get the fuck out of my car,” he said, unlocking the door. “You smell like a meth lab.”

She was about to protest that it hadn’t been her fault that she had not been able to shower in several days, but realized that Rich would just turn it around on her again. She stepped out of the car, double checking to make sure that Cain’s book was still securely hidden under her shirt. The engine roared to life, the Ferrari whipping out of its parking spot and circling around the empty rooftop lot before he stopped once again alongside Valorie. She briefly hoped that perhaps he was going to actually drive her to where she needed to go, or at least to the bottom of the damn parking garage. The window rolled down, revealing Rich’s face. He had taken off his sunglasses; an intense stare locked her eyes on his. The hope she had dashed from her skull, streaked across the rooftop, leapt from the ledge, and splattered messily onto the pavement below.

“Remember Valorie, I am here to help you. I take care of my girls, okay?” he said, smirking. “So if you fuck up again, I’ll pick you up in a plastic-lined Pinto. Am I clear?”

“As day,” she said as the man drove off.

[Kingfisher]

Collab with @Drinky

Gish felt his phone rumble from within his coat. He pulled it out and flipped the screen open. Though cracked and smudged he could make out Grezbill's text. 'Start heading up, she'll see you now.' With that Gish began ascending the stairwell. It was dimmer than he expected for such a fancy club, probably built as an emergency exit to keep to code. 'The road less traveled' he thought. He saw Grezbill approaching quickly from above him. The goblin whizzed past him without a word as though he was being pursued. Gish simply shook his head and kept climbing. He figured Grezbill probably took a fair bit of flak arranging this for him. One didn't often get an audience with Nyxvira less she directly called on you, or he he had heard

As he reached the top he was greeted by a bodyguard. As the thug raised his hand Gish had already begun reaching into his coat. From it he produced his shotgun and popped the action open, extending it towards the bodyguard. It was quickly snatched from his grasp and he was given a pat down for good measure, though the bodyguard seemed awfully gentle with him. Gish got the feeling the guy wasn't too pleased about about having to lay his hands on him, he didn't even check inside his hat. With the pat down concluded the man opened the door to Gish revealing a new world of sound and sights.

This was easily the most posh place Gish had ever step foot in, though that wasn't a particularly great feat in his case. He took a quick moment to take in his surroundings. The people felt almost alien to him, dressed in what he could only assume were the latest fashions. Everything looked so clean, shiny, and expensive. He wondered how Grezbill could be such an emotional mess working in luxurious environments like this. Nyxvira must have rode him hard. He caught the eyes of a few people who began to stare and whisper. Another guard approached him and pointed up another flight of stairs. "Cheers mate." Gish said, though he doubted the guard could hear him. He straightened his coat and began climbing the stairs. He walked with confidence and swung his arms. Might as well act posh while he was there.

As he reached the upper balcony he saw Nyxvira. As fitting as it was he couldn't help but awe over how much she looked like royalty. Sat atop a proper throne, jewels and a fancy dress, he felt it looked a bit gotti but damned if he was going to say anything aloud. He saw a large ogre standing by Nyxvira, the type that looked like he'd shot put goblins over the balcony just for fun. Gish wavered for a moment just at the sight of him but continued his stride, there was no place to run now.

He raised his hat to Nyxvira as he approached.

"'ello love, 'ow are we this fine evening."

Nyxvira smirked as the goblin approached her, her twinkling golden eyes falling on his top hat. Whereas she'd looked upon Grezbill with disapproving disdain, Gish seemed to stir something...different within the Faerie. Respect? Interest? It was difficult to say.


"Terrible; I don't have access to the mini-bar from up here," she shot him a quick wink "I love the hat, by the way."

One fat hand coiled around a glass of what looked like...milk? Nyxie took a draw-out sip, before turning her attention back to Godric.

"Now, I had planned to contact you sooner or later about a mutually beneficial munitions arrangement, but it seems that a third party most rudely intervened before anything could be decided upon."

Nyxie let out a snorty little laugh.

"I love talking like Al Pacino. Best part of the job, hands-fucking-down."

She leant back on her throne, slinging one enormous leg over the other, causing her pale flesh to jiggle and wobble.

"But tell me; What can Nyxie do for you this evening, my little apple kube?"

Gish couldn't help but pop a small grin at the compliment to his hat. Shows what Grezbill knows, a lady always appreciates a gentleman in a fine dapper hat. He raised an eyebrow at Nyxie mentioning her intention to contact him regarding business though decided to get the information he came for first and foremost.

Gish placed his hands at the lapels of his coat and leaned back slightly.

"Well, well, color me impressed. So you've already 'eard of my predicament then."

He began to pace side to side, thought he should keep moving should anyone decide to throw something at him. Just a precaution.

"My reason for being 'ere is I came to ask if you knew anything 'bout the gits that hit my shop. Dunno what you've heard but I was 'aving a chat with a customer when it 'appened, young bloke, named Sander. Then this thin bird pops in yelling about some thugs on their way to smash the place. The three of us flash outta' there and outside, and just as we get surrounded outside some masked...thing shows up and starts cutting down the thugs. Me an' the chap split, the thin bird stayed back with the masked one, probably dead, and then I came here lookin' for info. What I wanna know is ooh's really after me and are they're still after me."

“Rats, I’m fairly sure.” Nyxvira gave a little smirk “By which I mean ‘definitely sure’.”

She took another sip of her drink.

“Can’t say I’m familiar with this ‘Sander’, or the Skinny chick for that matter, but masked thing was one of mine.” The faerie chuckled lightly, causing her gut to shake “Don’t worry about running into her again, though. I have her on a tight leash. You managed to piss off one of the Rats, so there’s no guarantee that they won’t keep throwing sewer gunk at you until they catch you off guard.One think I can garuntee though, is that if you work under me you’ll be completely and utterly safe. No one fucks with the queen. And you’ll probably get a lamborghini.”

Gish halted his pacing and clenched his teeth at the mention of Rats. Of all the cliques, gangs, and organizations in the city he detested them above all simply due to the fact that any thug could claim they were a member and one could never be sure if it was a bluff. Additionally the effect could be played out in reverse, which was likely in his case, wherein one stabs a rat member in the back unknowingly only to have a platoon of their friends out for blood.

Gish's eyes narrowed. He turned to the balcony, overlooking the party as he deliberated over Nyxvira's offer. Considering the relative size of 'The Rats' as a gang and their often renowned lack of organization there was enough reason to believe that this attack would blow over. Even given the deaths involved Gish thought it a strong possibility that these members that attacked him would lie forgotten by their comrades, or in the best case scenario 'The Rats' would think it wise not to challenge him again for fear that the masked assassin would reappear. However, he also had to consider how things would play out if something like this did happen again. Thinking back to the night of the attack, he recalled how helpless he felt. Most of his planning had given way to panic and he laid his trust in two complete strangers when faced with a coordinated, albeit sloppy, attack. For all he knew his two companions could have been in on the whole scheme, though he doubted it given the gruesome ending to that night. In the interest of achieving protection unobtainable by even the wealthiest tycoon, perhaps it was time he did sign on with a proper gang.

Though what could be said for Nyxvira? Without question she was considered the most powerful person in the city. Gish was missing a few pages in his knowledge of Nyxvira's rise to power, though he knew that despite her distended appearance she was a woman skilled in the application of force and rightfully feared. He also questioned his predicted treatment under her employ given the inescapable racial stigma his kind carried. Nyxvira did employ goblins, the obvious case being Grezbill, which was more than could be said about most outfits in the city. However, closely examining Grezbill's case proved detrimental in some aspects, and Gish would sooner turn to window washing lest he end up in a mental state that mirrored Grezbill's. What could Nyxvira see in Gish that would prompt such as offer?

Gish knew full well that his only marketable trait was his weapon crafting. If Nyxvira only wanted a smith, she could hire any prissy elf for the job. Given Nyxvira's almost omnipotent knowledge of people in the city it was not a far cry to assume she knew of his finer works, despite Gish's stipulations of secrecy on the matter. If he was to be expected to produce weapons for the queenpin he had to be certain.

He turned his gaze from overlooking the crowds back to Nyxvira.

"Will miss, can't say I'm very fond of cars. Often 'ave trouble reaching the pedals."

He took a few steps closer to Nyxvira, watching her bodyguard for any signs of agitation.

"Wot, may I ask, would be the terms of my...employment."

Nyxie's face darkened slightly; a faint, almost unnoticeable transformation, but a transformation none-the-less. It seemed unlikely that she was used to being said 'no' to, or even having to consider the eventuality where someone turned her down. Her nonchalant manner was renowned, but so was her fluctuating temper. Ruzghul Elfchewer had been a brute of a kingpin, no one would dispute that, but at-least one of his heads had been a rational thinker. What went on inside Nyxvira's mind? That was difficult to say.

"To get the important shit out of the way; we'd obviously set you up with a new workshop. You'll have your own warehouse, in one of the nicer parts of town, of course. I'd ask that you help educate some of my other craftsmen, in return for which I'll only expect you to work limited hours. I can assure you that the job pays well, and the Bloodbloom name is always a good way to get into the cities more refined venues. Once you've met shipment deadlines, the rest of the weeks is yours to do with as you wish. Although, we'd have to agree that you'd be working exclusively for me. We couldn't have blood-tweakers and dustheads running around with your high quality munitions"

Nyxie clasped her fat hands together.

"Can I get you something whilst you mull the decision over? A cigar, perhaps?"

Gish saw what he assumed was a servant step forward as Nyxvira gave her gesture. Coming forward the man arched downwards, opening a box lined with cigars. The aroma was intoxicating, and Gish found difficulty fighting the urge to relax his posture. As he reached forward and clasped a cigar between his fingers the servant, almost through an act of reflex, held a flame near to Gish's face. The finely packed tobacco lit effortlessly, and Gish took a long savory breath once an ember had formed.

Gish always inhaled his cigars. Despite the toll it took on his throat, he found he could enjoy the taste more and it forced him to take his time lest he suffer a fit a coughing. He gave special care to direct his exhales upwards into the brim of his hat rather than soak Nyxie's fine clothes with cigar smells.

Pondering more on her offer, he thought of how things would be different not being his own boss for a change. Consideration had to be given to what he'd be able to achieve with Nyxie's sponsorship. With finer tools and seemingly endless finances for acquiring rare and illusive materials he'd have much more opportunity to further his designs and refine older projects he had begun but never had deep enough pockets to complete. Gone would be the need to entertain customers with time consuming and mundane repairs in order to keep a roof over his head. He gave little thought to what 'orders' he'd be required to fill as part of the agreement. Even if his service meant his work on finer weapons had to wait till he was off the clock, that would be more than enough time to dedicate towards furthering his masterwork designs.

Gish took another long drag of his cigar before cracking a smile aimed at Nyxvira, brandishing his bleached white teeth.

"Throw in a box of these, and you've got a deal miss."

[Kingfisher]

The Alchemist had been very specific is his instructions; for the time being, no harm was to come to Valorie Pierce. Above all else, Lediyah was a professional, and she wouldn’t harm a hair on her pale head until she had solid proof that the rat was infact a rat.

Seriously, what kind of idea-starved morons name these gangs..?

Lediyah sat calmly in the diner booth, dressed in a bright multi-coloured pvc dress, worn under a studded black jacket, with huge bug-like sunglasses covering her maroon eyes.

Special Investigator Kormos appeared some time later, trying his best to look inconspicuous in his plain clothed attired, sweating buckets as he smiled nervously at a waitress, before slumping down in Lediyah’s booth.

“Special Investigator.” Lediyah gave the man a playful military nod.

“Keep it down!” Kormos hissed “I’m supposed to be undercover!”

“Mate, you couldn’t look less subtle if you were up in fuckin’ flames.” She laughed, a sharp cackle at the back of her throat.

“Coming from the new age hippie in plastic tie dye.” Kormos scowled.

Lediyah leaned in close, so that the Special Investigator could feel the icy chill of her stone cold breath.

“The difference between me and you, is that I don’t lose my fuckin’ job if I get found out.”

Kormos muttered something sour, before producing a sheet of paper, and placing it down on the table.

“If I give you this…” The Special Investigator stammered “The phone calls, the texts, the messages...the people watching me...all that stops.”

“Brownie’s honour.” Lediyah cooed, poking her tongue of the side of her mouth. “You can go now, Special Investigator .”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Kormos was quick to scurry out of the place.

Lediyah started making her way down the list.

SSPD Informants

Under Special Investigator Kormos:
Brian Estrada

Katie Moser

Richard ‘Dick’ Phaze

Under Detective Amelio:

Hector Vogel

Walter Redmond

Sally Heathcliffe

Under Officer Kennedy

Amanda LaCroix

Rachel Geller

Mia Duqette

Lediyah grinned.

Valorie Price

She waved one painted hand over at the waitress.

“I’ll have the bill!”

[Flagg]

KILLER STRIKES AGAIN

Kurtz sat at the lone table in the center of the breakfast room, reading the Tribune.

It was, as one would expect, tastefully and simply appointed. The walls were colored a rich cream, and contrasted nicely with the royal blue and gold of the carpets.

Armand emerged from a side door, a tray of coffee and breakfast meats balanced in one manicured hand. His employer was obscured behind the paper, his silhouette made visible by the bright sunlight streaming in from the large window behind him.

At first glance the silhouette did not look entirely human- suggestive rather of something equine, with traces of antlers above it. But when Kurtz put down the paper and greeted his manservant with a pleasant smile, his face was thoroughly normal.

"Armand, good morning."

"Good morning sir," replied the butler, placing his tray on the table.

"We're to have a busy day, my friend, busy busy busy."

"Oh?" asked Armand, "Last night was a success, I take it?"

"Yes. Very much so."

"What do you require, sir?"

Kurtz took a sip of his coffee and closed his eyes, savoring it.

"We need to track down several vampires, Armand. Rather powerful ones, unfortunately, but it's important we fulfill our end of the bargain."

"I shall contact Mssr. Garange, then, sir."

"No," said Kurtz with a sigh, "Not Garange, nor any of our usual contractors, I'm afraid. They work with too many others, and the Firm cannot risk appearing to have broken our customary neutrality."

"What do you suggest, sir?"

"We need a nobody- a back-alley warlock or voodunsi. Someone talented enough to read the augurs, but no one good enough to be used by the Nyctari or the Syndicate."

"I'll put the word out then, sir, along the appropriate channels. Necromancer needed."

-The Night Previous-

Silk threads and velvet curtains fell over slender arms, swathes of fabric pooling against pale skin and gathering into coils of rich expense and luxury. Decision laced tight across the void countenance of Maharet, pursing her lips as she debated over her wardrobe for the night, entertaining the notion of creating something from the bare-bone spools of fabrics she had waiting to be plucked from in her deep recess of a closet. Her taste was refined into elegance, of course, no less could be found among the lady's domicile and preference and the company she received every night witnessed her constant interchanges of fashion and beauty. She'd be accepting her hirelings and a long withstanding friend that had bequeathed her many favours, always paid in bodies, pleasures, or whichever was his current desire, but the relationship was entirely business and beneficial to the both of them. Maman might scold her for allowing herself to be so deeply intertwined with another individual, a man no less, but the Lady in Red had taken to lacing her name and influence into the city to reflect the empire she had awaiting her back in France, Italy and Spain. She missed the splendors across the seas and sighed wistfully as she plucked a loose sheaf of a dress from her wardrobe, like an oil slick it glimmered, sliding over the bend of her wrist as she settled it over the back of a chaise piled high in thick pillows and various spins of silken drapes and fur-lined throws.

She insisted on appearing in her near best, for no one had ever viewed Maharet in lesser beauty or glamour, and she knew that Kurtz always appreciated her efforts to receive him - even if she had summoned him like some commonly thwarted lackey, she assumed her down payment was enough to whet his particular appetite. She laughed quietly at that notion and immediately slid into her dress for the evening, slender nails and gestures palmed over ebony-clad hips, spending the fabric against her frame in a slick appearance as one of the thin straps fell from one of her thin shoulders. Elegant and embellished in a purposeful flaw, Maharet settled to preening her threads of red hair and piling the curls over her spine, letting the threads fall into artful disarray before a soft knock broke the peaceful assemblage of her sprucing.

"Yes," she called through the space, voice purring into her inquiry as she admired herself through twists and turns, dipping her spine to view the entire dress that fit to her frame in near perfection.

"We received a call from the.. representative of Mr. Kurtz. Armand?" It was a small mouse of a voice that spoke to her, probably one of her newly sworn in thralls, she could practically taste the perfume of nervousness that flamed through the threshold, blooming wide on her pallet as she parted her lips, inhaling the girl's scent. She was of innocence, an obvious sweetness that had yet been dipped into, a rare little thing. Maharet hummed, sealing her lips into a grin.

"Ah yes, what did he have to say, little lamb?"

"He said he'll be over tonight to discuss terms and details with you, and to thank you for the... meal?"

Maharet laughed, a gay little tune that shimmered into a wonderful bought of laughter as she clapped her hands together. "Marvelous, he's such a charmer, wouldn't you agree? When he arrives, send him to me my little lamb, oh and send up a few girls from the Rouge, I'm sure he'll be hungry too when he arrives."

-

Kurtz gave the thrall who greeted him at the Rouge's discrete entrance a pleasant smile, and followed her into the incense-tinged halls of Maharet's lair. His bright eyes glittered in the sanctuary's crimson haze; the vassals who crossed his path shrank back instinctively from his alien presence, a chilly psychic void so different from the smothering, sensuous, omnipresent Power of their master.

The thrall made some timid gesture at a half open door, where human and vampires alike awaited, sprawled in various states of undress across cushions and couches.

"She is very generous," said Kurtz, "But business before pleasure. And, as you'll learn, your master's generosity is far more dangerous than her wrath. Take me to her."

The thrall led him deeper into the house of sin and pleasure, where the paintings and furnishings grew increasingly lascivious and strange. A mural of a lone woman before a darkened cave, torch held aloft, mouth open in horror at whatever she sees within. A brazen statue on an end table, depicting an ancient queen seated on a throne held aloft by screaming men.

"Through there," said the thrall, nodding at a doorway at the end of the hall.

"Thank you, dear," said Kurtz, straightening his tie, and brushing invisible dust from the sleeve of his jacket. Smiling, he pushed passed his guide and entered the sanctum of the beast.

"Maharet," he said, "A pleasure."

"Bienvenue, mon amour." Maharet whispered, busily admiring one of her many treasures: a macabre piece illustrating a sculpture of a woman ravaged and twisted by her malicious lover festooned with fur and antlers, his face a skull of a terrifying creature gaped wide to devour her whole - body and soul lost to his throes. "Lovely, isn't it?" She presented the furnishing of her art before setting it aside one a table of polished ebony that gleamed, suspiciously, with a scarlet sheen that was purposely stained into the woodwork.

Carefully studying him as she put the work aside, Maharet often pondered on who, and what, Kurtz exactly was. For the man hardly felt inclined to express himself personally, he was professionalism swathed in a barrier of mystery and tangible tastes, and her vast knowledge probed various hypothesizes about his nature. However, nothing inclined her to the truth of his origins or those who employed him, leaving her fixated on his usual state of self and pleasures. She wanted to break him, mold him almost, burn away the exterior to reveal to her the interior of himself that, she hedged, tasted unique. Her predatory gaze sharpened, honing into steelish pools, she felt the pooling of light into her gaze, amplifying Kurt'z attire and impression before she exhaled, deadened tissue of lungs flattening to blackened sacs and retracting her stare.

"I thank you for your prompt visit, I trust my messenger was satisfactory, by what your own message detailed." She began, lounging over the plush luxury of her bench stationed before one of her chaises. Pale legs slid over one another, bare feet adorned in jewels of glimmering garnet that were cinched tight around thin ankles winked in dim light and she gestured elegantly for him to sit himself.

"Down to business, I know you must be curious to taste some of my latest editions. They're quite eager to please." Maharet purred, a small smile gracing her features, suggesting the barest gleam of her particular fangs as she awaited for Kurtz to adjust himself properly.

"You've helped me in the past, and I'm beyond grateful and pleased with all your deliveries." She praised lightly, coating her voice in mild suggestion. "However I must request your services once more, and so soon since we last saw one another. Which, I trust my painting will arrive soon? I cannot wait to put it with my collection." Maharet proudly heralded her private pieces adorned into the parlour, each beholding a story within the strokes, various mediums depicting controversial works by artists deemed manic and demented by their minds plagued with creative vision.

"But, that's another matter. What I need from you, mon cher, is to locate a few.. particular vampires of interest."

"The Firm does not usually take sides in...internecine conflicts between potential clients," said Kurtz, steepling his fingers, "Particularly between vampires of quite substantial power. However...in this instance, given recent events, we may be able to help each other, Maharet."

Kurtz leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, green eyes meeting the vampire's intoxicating stare.

"It so happens that the price of the Firm's aid in dealing with your wayward kin is also very much in your interest. I am only authorized to propose this to you thanks to your reputation for taste and discretion, two attributes valued very highly indeed by my employers. Sadly, not everyone in this city shares your admirable virtues."

Kurtz paused, drumming his fingers together and frowning. "Did you know Santa Somabra is importing nearly as much demon blood as the next three major cities in this country combined? The same, or nearly the same, is true for the other occult narcotics popular these days, not to mention the cursed weaponry, the cheap amulets and charms. All of this is beginning to attract attention to Santa Somabra. Attention from the FBI's Arcane Bureau, from corporate interests displeased by the unregulated and untaxed arcane economy here, and... from the agents of the Holy Office in Rome. This sort of attention...we do not need. It can too easily turn from the criminal element here to my Firm's operations. Or for that matter, to the Rouge. The Martovanni cartel could be managed, influenced, even punished when it stepped out of bounds. The Bloodbloom Syndicate...commands considerably more resources, and its leader is a uniquely gifted operator. Ambitious and cannier than she appears. My employers propose an alliance between our organizations, to teach the lower orders their rightful place, and reduce the risk of unwanted attention from the FBI and the Vatican."

Kurtz leaned back in his chair, head tilted to one side. "You can count on the Firm to help you consolidate power over the lesser vampires, if you help us to rid Santa Somabra of Nyxvira Bloodbloom."

[collab with @Rockette]

[JulienJaden]

Collab with @Kingfisher

After her business with Godric had concluded, the evening broke away into a blurry whirlwind of drugs and booze. Nyxie descended from on-high, mingling with the other awestruck partygoers, and began chugging down vodka, snorting fairy dust, and stuffing herself full of rich food.

Nyxvira was brushing some flecks of golden power off of her upper lip, a bottle of bacardi clenched tightly in one hand, when the lights dimmed, and a tall, lithe figure in a silvery grey suit slipped up onto the catwalk.

“Greetings from the Nyctari family,” He began, his powerful voice carrying across the room, as the boisterous roaring of the partygoers ceased almost instantly “and our most humble thanks to our gracious host.”

One would have expected rowdy cheering to follow, but the Nyctari family’s presence demanded grace and presentability, so the mention of Nyxvira was instead met with a round of well-comprised applause, even if those clapping had been doing shots and fondling prostitutes mere seconds ago.

“I shall not keep you from your festivities much longer,” the man’s voice was like silk “Nor do I have any great announcement to make. I merely wished to introduce Lord Concetto’s addition to the revelry…”

A playful grin teased at the speaker’s lips, as a look of flirtaious mischief crossed his features.

The men and women who appeared next, striding down the Catwalk behind him were truly something to behold. Nyxie’s girls had been beautiful, but the statuesque figures that the Nyctari family brought to the table looked like they could put Helen of Troy to shame.

Nyxie scowled into her bottle. Concetto didn’t fool her; he was trying to show her up. She could feel hot anger bubbling at the back of her throat.

I need another drink.

She passed the next few hours with copious amounts of liquor, which lost all taste after so many ounces of dust. Faeries were pretty much inherently party animals, so Nyxvira could hold her alcohol better than almost any human.

Nyx wasn’t sure what hour it was when she got the phone call from Francis Cain.

“Hello Luvie…” She slurred, as she answer on her Samsung Galaxy.

"Good evening, Lady Bloodbloom."

Cain furrowed his brows at the other end of the line. To speak to Nyxvira directly was strange in and of itself. Usually, Grezbill would pick up - it seemed that most all business calls were first directed to his phone before being passed to hers - and give him several minutes of bullshit about how terribly busy his mistress was and loudly wondering if a simple private eye could be deemed important enough to take up her time, even when Cain knew for a fact that Bloodbloom was eagerly awaiting his call. He was familiar enough with the Faerie to know that she was haughty but it annoyed him to no end that her Goblin servant with nothing to back up his pride considered himself above the pyromancer too.

That made it all the more peculiar that the queenpin herself would pick up, and in a state of inebriation no less. He could hear the pounding of bass and noise of many people in the background, contrasting the quiet of his office he sat in, the police network wide open to his whims on the computer screen in front of him. He had spent most of the day after his trip to meet the priest dealing with odds and ends around the city and he'd have to return to his apartment soon-ish if he wanted to make good on his offer to Valorie. But he'd have to deal with this phone call first.

"I talked to the priest you directed me to. According to him, the Slayer's two latest victims worked for the SSPD and were investigating the Nyctari shortly before their death, though he couldn't say whom, for what reason or if that was in any way relevant to the Slayer case."

"Then I do infact have some good news for you, sweetiepie!" Nyxie giggled, struggling to be heard over the guttural thumping of the basy dance music. "It just so happens that the leader of the Nyctari parade of stupid cunts is currently in attendance at my most splendid-ist of party-fun-times, if you fancy popping down and saying 'hiiiiiii' to the bloodsucking bastard."

Her response semi-blindsided Cain: On one hand, he had been "Schroedinger's Dick", both prepared for her to tell him that his job was done AND for her to tell him to follow up on this lead. On the other, he hadn't expected her to present such an opportunity right away. The Nyctari, and their leader most of all, didn't exactly treat regular humans with care, and when it came to mages, they usually presented them with two options: Join or die - which, incidentally, had been the first and only conversation he ever had with Concetto Nyctari. If it wasn't for his promise to remain neutral and his bluff that the other gangs, the Bloodbloom Syndicate in particular, were guaranteeing his life as long as he followed their agreement, Cain would have either been dead - probably along with Concetto and a couple other vampires - or undead. And neither option was particularly appealing.

Francis tried to tell himself that he was pondering her offer but one look at the police's digital file on the Somabra Slayer revealed that they offered no information that the newspapers hadn't already shared with the general population, with one exception: The newspapers had mentioned that Calhoun had a daughter who, officially, was in protective custody. The police file, however, spoke of her as 'missing'.
No surprises there.
No matter how he looked at it, an opportunity to speak with the head of the Nyctari and not only finding out what Calhoun and Blackwood were investigating but perhaps also what the vampires knew about the Slayer could not be passed up, even if that meant he would be late for his 'date' with Valorie.

"Then I will most graciously accept your invitation, Milady", he spoke in his usual calm bariton. "If you'd be so kind as to give me the address and a 'password' to get past the guards?"

---

'Splendid-ist' indeed, Cain thought, only half-mocking, as he descended the few steps into the illustrious crowd of partygoers the Faerie had assembled. He had to leave his gun behind and took a detour to unlock the apartment as well as leave a message for the necromancer in case she was on time - if she showed up at all - but he didn't feel any less safe or unsafe for it. Sure, he was surrounded by whores and glamour, by vampires and thugs, by the richest and most powerful people in the city who would dare to show their face in the vicinity of Nyxvira Bloodbloom, which meant virtually all of them, but that didn't phase him.

His eyes only briefly lingered on a pair of beautiful, exposed breasts here and a public display of fellatio there, scanning the depraved and beautiful masses for one particular face, the cigarette between his lips glowing and turning to ash slowly but surely, the thin smoke joining the haze of the room. In one of the boxes - or was it a gallery? A loge? Surely, he wasn't the only person here who didn't know what to call it - he finally found that face, the eyes he had been looking for. Not only that but he was sure that he his gaze had been met. As he walked towards the stairs, Cain could feel that he was being observed, like a gerbal who had roused the attention of a falcon.

The Nyctari guard at the bottom of the stairs patted him down but didn't really ask any questions, didn't even want to know what reason he'd have to disturb his boss - as always, the bloodsuckers seemed to be one step ahead of him. Cain wouldn't have been surprised if one of them had listened to his exchange with Nyxvira; they certainly seemed to be expecting him.
At the top of the stairs, he found his suspicions confirmed: Concetto Nyctari, a man with a youthful face but eyes that spoke of knowledge and intellect only elves could rival and an unscrupulousness that Cain only knew from those beings who fed on humans, sat on a magnificent leather couch, two stunningly beautiful Nyctari women to his left and right, a slightly-less beautiful woman lying lifeless on a coffee table in front of them, blood streaming from several wounds and dripping from the three vampires' bared teeth.

Some might have thought that they came at an inconvenient time but the detective was certain it was no mistake that the guard had let him pass when he did. Concetto had met his eyes as soon as the steps allowed it and this whole display was meant to shake him, scare him, set the tone for the conversation, make it unmistakeably clear who was superior and who was nothing more than prey.
But all it did was rouse Cain's disgust. Not that he let it show.

On the outside, his face and body language was the epitome of neutral. Respectfully, he inclined his head.
"Concetto Nyctari - it has been a while. I'm honored you would grant me this audience."

He desired nothing more than to burn these leeches to a crisp.

One might have suspected the Lord of all Western Vampires to be a creature of grace and beauty, but whilst Concetto Nyctari appeared young, he was by no means handsome. His face was squat and round, with a pointed chin and a flat nose. His ears were too large, his eyes too small, and his coy grin too hooked and crooked. His skin was a mottled greyish black, like a corpse that was just starting to rot. His teeth were something else entirely; sharp, needle-like fangs that sat twisted and jagged in the pit of his mouth.

"I don't remember seeing your name on the guest list...detective," Concetto tittered, a sly smirk oozing across his face "This little slice of paradise is bloodsuckers only...so a former SSPD operative is always welcome here, ya little parasite."

Concetto ran his long, dirt grey tongue over his lips, hissing like a serpent, whilst ruffling the hair of one of the women who sat next to him.

He pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket, before snapping the fingers on his free hand. A dark, purple flame erupted from his slender thumb, which he used to light the cigar. He took a long drag, a fat trail of smoke billowing out into the air, before dowsing the cigar on the hand of the girl to his left, grinding its searing edge into her pale flesh. She didn't so much as flinch.

"But tell me; what can old Concetto do for you, detective?" The vampire's voice was wet and and rattling, like he had something permanently lodged at the back of his throat, or a mouthful of water.

The display of violence towards his... concubine? Slave? Subordinate? Partner? Whatever it was, it made Francis wonder if he couldn't light his own thumb and lodge it in the Nyctari's eye socket before he could react.
But on the surface, Cain was as still as water, despite the deafening bass.

"I picked up some very vague information from an unreliable source and I was hoping that the Nyctari could help me put that into perspective."

Without a gesture or verbal offer from the three, the private detective sat down in a leather chair across from the trio, his eyes coolly regarding the corpse between them. Maybe he was a parasite of the city, just like everybody else, but at least he didn't kill without reason.
Then again, that didn't mean the reason was always good. And he was painfully aware of how the Nyctari did business: If Concetto plain didn't want to help him, the only way to get information was the risky one, which was probably what those undercover operatives had been trying; and if Concetto agreed to be forthcoming, it would almost certainly come at a high price.
Either way, playing with most of his cards open was the only way to get anywhere in this situation.

"Joanna Calhoun and Hugh Blackwood, the Somabra Slayer's latest victims, appear to have been working for the SSPD; it seems that they were investigating the Nyctari shortly before their death. Since I am conducting my own investigation of this case, I would appreciate any assistance the Nyctari could lend me."

Concetto's face seemed to suddenly lose its playful edge.

"Leave us." He muttered dryly, and his subordinates obeyed. In a flutter of silk and the clanking of expensive shoes, the other vampires quickly scampered from the room, leaving only Cain and Concetto, with the lifeless corpse sprawled out between them.

"I'm playing a dangerous game by having this conversation with you, Detective," he hissed "but while I'm not known to be the trusting sort, you're a lot less likely to stab me in the back then my usual agents. Which is why I need your help with a...personal matter."

Concetto took a moment to compose himself, clearly not having been in a situation of this nature for quite some time.

"I'll give you my files on the brute and the whore, but I need something from you in return. I need you to locate and retrieve a girl. Goes by the name of Korah . Last known whereabouts was the Pale Veil restaurant in Dawn Peak Heights."

The vampire reached into his coat pocket and fished out a polariod photo, which he placed in the table before Cain.

The girl in the photograph was a lean, skinny young woman, with milky white skin and shortly-cut hair, dyed dark purple. She had dullish grey eyes, and wore a beanie hat and a sleeveless white vest.

"No questions asked. At all." Concetto snapped "Do we have a deal, detective?"

A girl... Another girl... My life revolves around nothing but girls these days...

Cain's eyes examined the young woman's face, her skin, her figure, her vestments. Her skin was so light she could very well have been a vampire but there was no way to be sure. Who was she to Nyctari? A whore, a former lover, an agent?
He hoped that she was, that the person on the photo wore a mask of innocence, that Concetto wasn't asking him to lead a lamb to the slaughter, but who was he kidding? Cain had sold his soul a long time ago; whoever she was, she would just be another face to haunt him in his dreams.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't bargain for what little integrity he had left. And even if there was none, 'no questions asked' was a dangerous condition. It could very well mean that she was under the protection of another crime family; if she was, pursuing her could prove very dangerous to Cain, if anybody found out.
He looked at the vampire again, his gaze as cold as the man's dead skin, and leaned forward.

"Not quite."

Whoever this woman was, whatever the reason he wanted her, Concetto Nyctari was, for once, in a position where he couldn't dictate the conditions of the agreement.

"I want everything the Nyctari know about the Slayer and victims - original files and data with no copies or backups, anything in your clan's possession that isn't ingrained in your people's brains, sealed and guaranteed with blood."

If the Nyctari had more accurate information to offer than the SSPD, and that was highly probable, taking all this information and having them magically guarantee that no copies existed made it a very valuable commodity, if Cain chose to sell it. Concetto had to know that, so the question was how interested he was in the Slayer. Or maybe... Maybe it was more of a question of how important this woman was to him.

"In return", the detective took the photo between two of his fingers and showed the face to the crime lord, "you will have her, discreet as always and no questions asked."

As macabre as it was, Cain offered his hand to the vampire, his arm hovering over the girl's corpse. The smoke from his cigarette had a strange bite to it when some of it wafted into his eyes, stinging and itching. Or maybe he wasn't so stonecold yet that he could shake hands over a dead woman's body without feeling his conscience.

Concetto paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"Very well then."

He extended one hand to Cain.

"We have ourselves a deal."

[Atrophy]

Collab featuring @JulienJaden

Sander hadn't been home, but his assistant had been there and had returned her items to her. Her phone was erupted with messages from Quinn and others Rats; messages she decided to ignore for her own sanity. The walk to her apartment consisted of half a pack of cigarettes. She made it to her front porch before her sense of smell finally drifted back. At first she thought she was smelling the mildewing corpse of a wino someone had gutted in the alley nearby before realizing that the putrid stench actually came from her. It didn't seem to bother Sammy very much, for the undead dog still pelted her with puppy kisses as she threw open the door to her sad, pathetic apartment. She tossed her bag containing Cain's book on her one and only piece of furniture, disregarding the plastic crate used as a table. After an uncomfortable shower consisting of struggling with keeping her bandages dry, she flopped down onto the couch. Grabbing the book from the bag, Valorie shifted herself into the most comfortable position she could find on that moth-eaten curbside pickup and popped a few pills into her mouth. Cain had said no hard drugs. They give these shit to preschoolers, she thought as she stuck her nose into the book.

She didn't remove it from the book for several hours.

---

It was well past midnight when Cain opened the door to his apartment. At first, he had tried to be quiet; after all, maybe there was a girl sleeping in his bed. But the twilight of the dark room was enough to see that both the bed and couch were empty. Valorie had not come back. His mood had already been fowl but this not entirely unexpected disappointment weighed almost as heavily on him as the deal he had shaken hands on and it tipped him over the edge. The door fell into the lock behind him as he flicked on the light and, with heavy steps, grabbed a bottle and a glass from a cabinet before slumping down on the couch. Tomorrow would be a long day, another one, but that could wait. He hadn't had a drink since yesterday morning and he felt like celebrating.

"Here's to doing the vampire's dirty work", he murmured bitterly as he downed the bourbon in one big gulp.

He could have checked where Valorie was - if he focused on the life bond, nothing would be able to hide her from him, not for another day or two - but he would have felt it if she was hurt and if she had decided not to come back, he wouldn't force her. On any other day, he might have been restless enough to go out and look for her but not tonight.

Tonight, he drank another glass in one and filled yet another with the golden liquid as his mind wandered to the terrible deals, acts of cruelty and depths of hell this whole 'Slayer' affair had led him to and had yet in store for him. He had been following leads since before Nyxvira Bloodbloom called but to find out what the Nyctari knew and take it from them... that was an offer he couldn't refuse, even if Concetto had asked him for much more.

With another hearty sip, the first tendrils began to ensnare his brain, wrapping it in cotton as he lazily stared at the note he had previously left on the doorstep for Valorie: 'Have to work late - Eat/drink/read what you want but don't touch the Blood Magic books. I'll know if you did.'

So what if he had to deliver a stranger to the fangs of the Nyctari. Hadn't he done worse already?

Yes, I have. But only to those I knew deserved it...

---

An alarm went off on her phone and pulled Valorie out of her zone. Grabbing her cell, she winced as she saw how late it was; she had been so focused on reading that she had almost missed her plans with Cain. The book in front of her was shoved full of bookmarks for clarification she wanted from her new teacher. Surely, he couldn't be upset at her if she had spent the time actually being productive? Throwing on some pants and zipping a hoodie up around her top, she twisted her hair into a quick and sloppy bun before grabbing Sammy and tucking him into her hoodie. Walking out the door, the silent dog shifted around wildly with excitement as she tried to cradle him. It would be his first time outside in a long time, and although it was dark the poor creature was still too obviously ghoulish for her to just walk him like a normal dog. He rose too many probing questions. Just because Cain was okay with her necromancy did not mean the city was.

It was well after midnight when she made it to his apartment. So much for that drink, she thought. Sammy's head poked out of the top of the zipper, resting beneath her chin and making her appear to be some kind of horrific late night monster movie experiment gone wrong. Testing the handle and finding the door locked, she rapped her knuckles lightly to the tune of shave and a haircut. As the door opened, Valorie pulled Sammy up so that the dog was blocking her face.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "This one is kind of a handful. He kept getting distracted."

What looked at Francis from where Valorie's face was supposed to be was... hideous: It had unmistakeably been a beagle but its eyes were milky white and dead. One of its ears had been half torn off and probably stapled back in place - Cain could see where the staple had torn through the skin when it was ripped off - and now hung at a weird angle. Its colors were a mix of brown, white, black, along with green and red where the fur was missing and the toughened skin had begun to rot. It was these naked patches of him where the stitches and staples were the most visibly. The dog looked like a teddy bear after a moody kid had had its way with it...

... and then put it back together, crying, hands shaking, apologizing over and over. It was hideous, but it was also visible at first glance that Valorie had loved this animal so much she did what she could as quickly as she could to bring it back to life, and that made the old mage look upon it with kinder eyes. It lolled its tongue, breathed excitedly - even though that was no longer nessary - and probably even wagged its tail inside her sweater; if not for its visible flaws, Cain couldn't have told it from a normal dog at this time, and for a first attempt at magic, that was impressive indeed. He was no necromancer and had never had a particular talent for this school of magic but he knew that most creatures that were revived barely did anything besides breathing to prove that they were animate again; to revert even a mouse back to its original behavior was challenging.

Its soul, at least, seemed intact. There wasn't much that could be done to physically restore it - not without asking a vampire for help - but perhaps some of the damage could be hidden.

Valorie said something that was muffled by a mouthful of fur - did she complain about the dog's weight? - and it shook him from his reverie; he stepped aside.

"Right, come on in."

As she passed, they could both make out the smell of the other: He the scent of rotting dogmeat, she the one of alcohol on his breath. While she set the dog down who seemed to take a keen interest in the leg of the coffee table, Cain closed the door and locked it once more. Without a word, he grabbed another glass from the cabinet and set it on the table. Somewhere in his inebriated mind, a smart little voice suggested they should eat dinner, but his talk with Concetto had robbed him of all appetite. Instead, he filled her glass with the hard liquor and refilled his glass for the fourth time before sitting down.

"I had to work late, so I wasn't on time either", he explained, his words coming out so clearly as if he was completely sober; there was something in his tone, though, that was different from this morning, something that made him sound and look older. "I wasn't sure you'd come back."

"Come on, what kind of girl do you think I am?" she said, pretending to be offended as she slumped into a couch near the table and pressed the glass against her lips. "I'm not that unreliable—I'd never turn down a free drink."

Winking, she tipped the glass back of bourbon back. It turned out to be stronger than she had guessed. Bad idea, bad idea, she thought as the liquor burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. Her wink had turned into more of a grimace as she forced herself to finish the drink, turning her head and giving one heavy cough in her fist in an attempt to not appear like a complete chump. Perhaps she could mix it with some soda or something to take the edge off. She knew not to ask. For starters, the bottle looked expensive, and people who drank bourbon were always so precious about the purity of their liquor. Although, really, when most of the liquor she drank came out of giant, bulk-sized plastic bottles found below the bottom shelf, anything in a bottle looked expensive. Maybe she just wanted to impress Cain. Regardless of the reason, she gave a satisfied "ah", set the glass down on the table, and expectantly looked towards the bottle.

"Delicious," she said, leaning towards the table so she could prop her head up with her hand. Her finger idly ran around the rim of her empty cup as she looked at Cain. Compared to this morning, he seemed exhausted, beat. It made her curious. "I imagine running around town rescuing damsels in distress would be pretty tough. Wanna talk about it, or...?"

He leaned back into the couch and the leather groaned under his weight. His eyes were glued to the dog as it continued to very slowly explore the apartment; it couldn't be easy to take in unfamiliar smells when you smelled like dead animal and your nose was rotting off.

"Let's just say that I had to meet somebody I'm not fond off and, in order to get something I need, I have to do something without knowing how it's gonna turn out", he explained cryptically. Cain may have despised the vampires but he was a man of his word nonetheless. "When I left the police, I thought I was freeing myself from having to watch whose toes I'm stepping on and that I could just do jobs for whom I pleased. But that's not how this city works. No matter what you do for a living, everybody's a whore: We all have to do things we hate ourselves for to stay afloat. My mother had it right though - at least a prostitute only has to sell her body, not her soul."

Francis rose the glass to his lips and let more liquid fire run down his throat, savoring the burn.

"Smart woman, my mother. And she had a good heart, despite everything this city had her do. If she hadn't tried to make things better for other prostitutes, she might have lived out her days in peace. Kindness gets you killed here."

He looked at the girl next to him who listened attentively. He had it all wrong: His life didn't start revolving around women a day, a week, a month ago. It had always been that way. That's what happened when you saw women getting punished every day.

"It's not too late for you to get out of Santa Somabra, you know. There's nothing here you wouldn't find anywhere else except for the Somabra Slayer - hopelessness and catchy names, that's all this town is good for."

"No, it is too late," she said, her voice soured as she thought of her predicament. She grabbed the bottle and poured herself a double. So what if it was hard to drink; she felt like she deserved it. God knows she needed it. "I'm sorry about your mother," she added with a tinge of guilt. When was the last time the girl had talked to her parents? They weren't the best folks, but they certainly tried to be. She hadn't even returned a single text message to them in months, let alone give them an actual phone call. Valorie sighed and took a sip of her drink. Still gross.

"But I think you're wrong," she said, trying to sound hopeful. "The whole world's fucked up, not just this city. I would've turned out to be a fuck up anywhere I went. At least here I can find it, whatever the hell it is anyway." She tucked her legs under her, her feet brushing against Cain's thigh. She gave him a sideways glance and a half-smile. "Besides, you're here, old man. You didn't forget your promise, did you?"

"No, I didn't. And that should tell you one thing: You are not a fuck-up", he said a little more forcefully than he would have if he was sober. "I wouldn't have offered a talentless junkie to become my apprentice. I am not a good person, Valorie. I have done things that should keep me up at night... but most of them don't."

As if to drown the images these words had evoked, Cain raised his glass once more, drowning them in hard liquor. This gulp, however, wasn't savored in any way; he drank it with thirst, with the need of bad habit, only one or two steps short of full-blown addiction.

"I was kinda like you when I was your age: Angry at pretty much everything for no particular reason, tired of people avoiding me and every semblance of success crumbling under my touch, feeling oppressed by the environment I grew up in, but most of all, I was disappointed in myself for not being able to do something about it. I left the city, drifted from place to place and let myself spiral out of control in a way that makes what you got involved in yesterday look like something to write home about."

His eyes were glued to her frame, an intensity in his voice that spoke of the kind of memories you'd rather forget. His empty hand sat right next to her knee, brushing against it as if looking for something to hold on to.

"It got bad, really bad, and I crossed a lot of thresholds I shouldn't have. If my mother hadn't died when she did, I would have either ended up dead in a ditch, in a hail of bullets, with a needle in my arm or burning myself up in some failed demonic ritual. And if I can, I'll make sure you never do anything worse than drugs, so you don't become a fuck-up like me."

Valorie shifted uncomfortably, staring into her drink as Cain talked to her. When she was older would she one day find herself confiding in someone much younger with the hope to...what, exactly? Redeem herself for her past transgressions? She frowned. The thought that someone who was little more than a stranger seemed to be convinced that he knew and understood everything about her irked her. She had come over here to learn, to study, to better herself as a necromancer—and perhaps she had found the man a little charming, as well. Now she found herself annoyed with Cain and, perhaps even more so, angered at herself for being annoyed with the man. Yet she refused to let herself become some morality pet, some little Rat locked up in a cage because he was afraid she'd be eaten by a cat. She sipped her drink to cover up her silence.

"How kind of you," she said in a deadpan voice. Her eyes drifted to the book in her bag. She doubted tonight would turn into a study session at this point; Cain seemed too moody (or perhaps less sober than he appeared) to answer any questions. She had really been curious to see if he could confirm some of her ideas on using reversed runes to turn the wards into jinxes or adding various components to a wax seal would give certain charms a stronger seal. Valorie would be lying if she said she wasn't disappointed, but she'd also be lying if she said her disappointment didn't fill her with guilt. Cain had saved her after all; the least she could do was lend a sympathetic ear and a few kind words. She drained her drink and poured herself another one.

"What I mean is, well, look, man, I think I get what you're trying to say, but...that stuff doesn't really work on me, you know?" she said, feeling the heat from the liquor in her face. Grabbing an ashtray from the table and setting it in the gap between the two, she stuck two cigarettes in her mouth and lit them before handing one to Cain. "I mean, like, I'm sure you've seen a movie before, right? I think they were called talkies in your day," she said, smirking. "Because this is the part where I'm supposed to be a shitty young adult and yell how I'm nothing like you, or how you don't know me, or how you can't control me and then storm out, and to be honest I kind of want to do those things. Really, I don't feel good about it, but I do. This heavy shit, I'm...I'm just not mature enough yet for it, I guess."

Valorie took a big drag and huffed out a cloud of smoke.

"But I know I'm immature, and I'm not going to do anything like that," she said, giving Francis an uncertain smile. "But if you start calling yourself a fuck up I might have to hit you. You're the one person in this town who has helped me out without really asking for much of anything in return. And who gives a shit if you're not a good person? At least you're trying to do good things," she said. "That's gotta be worth something, right?"

Cain gave her a tired smile but didn't answer. It was okay, really. He didn't think she'd be remorseful or break into tears or grow up in an instant. That wasn't how youth worked. Talking never changed you that much, only something that hit you really hard could do that.

Why had he spoken so freely to her then? Because he was selfish. He felt reminded of a fight with one of the many girlfriends he had had in his lifetime, where the pressure on his head and weight on his chest were so great, where thoughts kept repeating in his head so unbearably that he had to get out. Of course you always regret them once the other heard them but it was still a relief to not carry them around with you anymore. That's how Francis felt right now. This evening had put him into turmoil over losing a bit more of himself, but it wasn't just this evening - it was the culmination of the past weeks and years even. Vigilance was a friend but there were things he didn't want her to see in him. God only knew why he decided to confide in Valorie, of all people. Well, not just God. Cain knew. He saw himself in her and that made him stupid. That and an attraction to her that didn't exactly seem to contribute to a good learning environment.

The silence became awkward very quickly as both nursed on their cigarettes and Cain emptied his glass. At that rate, the bottle was not long for this world.

"Being like me is not entirely bad", he finally spoke with a wry smile. "It means you'll become a former cop and badass wizard one day, when movies are called 'talkies' again."

"Better than being like me," she muttered, replacing her thoughts and words with a deep, heavy drink. She couldn't help but hear Kennedy's threat ringing in her ears. She had been trying to ignore thinking about it all day, but then Cain had to implant her with the horrific thought that she would one day be sharing the same occupation as that slime ball. Of course, Valorie knew that would never happen. She might have been a dirty, rotten snitch, but she still had some self-respect. She took another drink in hopes of finding refuge in its warmth, but thoughts of Kennedy had ruined it. She set the glass down on the table, a heavy pout on her lips as her face sunk into her hands.

"Not to bring down this chipper mood, but I, Kennedy's, shit, man, I think he's going to..." she said, unable to finish her sentence before a new idea formed and shut her up. It was a disgusting, horrible thing to think, but she thought of it anyway. Perhaps the drink had reacted with her negative mood (or the study drugs) and opened the gate for the dark parts of her brain to creep out. Whatever the reason, she couldn't let the thought go. It was a possible solution to her police problem, and if it wouldn't really help her in the end at least she would have the gratification of knowing that she had gotten the last laugh when it came to dealing with Kennedy. She glanced deviously towards Cain. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong, but she could use him. No, call it like it is: manipulate him, she thought, looking away from the man. She had caught his sideways glances. He had said he would do whatever he could to make sure she did nothing terrible. He seemed to have a checkered and violent past. She believed she could convince him to do it.

"Francis, I know you and Kennedy are associates or whatever, but if I—" Or she could just completely ruin whatever it was that the two had between them. "—never mind. I don't want to think about that asshole, it's just—" Maybe she could just hint at it; make it seem like it was his idea. "—I sometimes can't help myself but think how better my life would be if Officer Dick wasn't in it.

He could have seen that glance, should have seen it, should have realized that she was trying to implant an idea in his head, but he didn't. The alcohol made Francis blind and his strange attraction to her added stupid to the mix. And yet she didn't succeed in the way she hoped she would.

Her words and what she was clearly hinting made Cain wonder: How much could he press this issue with Kennedy?

As dysfunctional as their private relationship had become, their work association was both stable and mutually benefitial, that much was clear. When it came to influential underworld contacts and pure deadliness, Richard Kennedy couldn't play in the same league as the mage; but likewise, Cain had none of the friends in high places Kennedy could boast, he would have far less insight into what the SSPD were up to or knew without him and he was a valuable source of income.

The truth of the matter was that Cain was convinced he could get Kennedy to back off and concede Valorie to him but he wasn't sure he could do so without damaging their 'partnership', if one could call it that. And Rich tended to do stupid things when he was feeling angry or betrayed, the kind of things that raised attention; last time he did something of the sort, he almost got himself caught with incriminating evidence, enough to put him in jail, and if Kennedy was ever faced with a trial, there was no doubt he would sell out everybody he could, including Cain.

No matter how he looked at it, there were only two ways to make sure that Kennedy didn't get himself in trouble: By making him scared or making him dead, and as strong as Cain was, he alone was not influential enough to scare Richard into submission; it was easy enough when they were face to face but through the phone, that was more difficult.

And that raised one final question: If all else failed, was he ready to kill somebody who was so valuable to him and who he had so much history with to help one girl out, to maybe not even save her but just make her life a little easier?

He didn't know. Now really didn't seem to be the time to think about it. But he would put her mind at ease, and if he had to go back on his word later... Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

"I will talk to Kennedy", he announced.

He lifted his hand from besides her knee to her shoulder and stroked it reassuringly. Then he grinned and added:

"And I'll make sure he knows not to mess with my girl."

A dissonant voice rang through Valorie's head as Francis tried to reassure her. It sounded like her own voice, but in that surreal, almost unrecognizable way that your voice sometimes sounds when you play it back through a recording. "You don't know me, old man,' said the voice. "I am nobody's fucking girl." Although she could not remember ever saying those words, she knew that she had uttered them fairly recently. Perhaps it was just deja vu. Regardless, the words filled her with confidence. In her mind, her little ploy had worked without a hitch. Talk was clearly a euphemism used by the old man because he was afraid of harming the sensibilities of "his girl" with such violent words, or at least that was what she assumed. Through the growing haze of liquor, she could feel her face numbly forming into a devilish grin. She knew she should feel bad about what she was trying to do. Deep down inside, she truly believed she felt bad about what she was trying to do.

But she was going to do it anyway.

She looked down, biting her lip to prevent her toothy grin from giving her motives away, and then turned her eyes hungrily up at Cain. Perking up in her seat so that they were closer to eye level, she took his hand from her shoulder and clasped her fingers between his as she inched slowly forward. She didn't quite understand how she felt about the man, but she knew this didn't feel good. She was leaning on the couch on her good knee now, her free hand wrapping itself behind Cain's head. This is the part where she should've stopped, should've realized she was doing these things for the wrong reasons. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the wrinkles around his eyes. This was just some way to try to control him; this wasn't right. She stared into his eyes of what she assumed to be a sad, lonely old man, but all she could see was the reflection of a scared, stupid little girl. She hesitated for a second, and only a second.

"Can I tell you a secret, Francis?" she said, smirking, as she pulled her lips up to his ear to whisper. "I'm not a good person, either."

Before he could respond, she closed her eyes and kissed him. Now the only voice she could hear was Francis's echo: "But that's not how this city works. No matter what you do for a living, everybody's a whore: we all have to do things we hate ourselves for to stay afloat."

Thanks for the advice.

[DJAtomika]

Chris Hurk
Little Lupine

Another day. Another look into the past.

It'd been, what, three years?

Three years since Dagmar Hahn'd bit the bullet.

No one knew who'd offed him. Andy found him dead, and that was that. After all, everyone knew he dealt with some dirty people. Death was gonna find him sooner or later.

That fact bothered me. Hahn had been...a friend. Knew him. Enough. He was quiet, a little quirky but absolutely devious. Probably grudgingly tolerated by everyone in town. The fact that someone had him surrounded and gunned down was...disconcerting.

After Hahn died, the store had sat vacant for a while. Then someone else picked it up for a steal. Wasn't long before he found Hahn's mantle and wore it too. Louie Stockholm was his name. The new info broker in town. Connections everywhere. Word was that he'd found Hahn's stash of secrets and took to it like a fish to water. Hadn't stopped since.

It was early evening when I approached the café. He was the only one inside, of course. Cleaning the bar counter.

Everyone in Little Lupine knew Stockholm. Served the best coffee in Santa Somabra and had his fair share of secrets. Today I was here for a bit of both.

"Louie."

"My man Christopher! Long time no see, pal! The usual?"

He greeted me with his usual grin while I sat at the counter.

"You know me, Louie."

"Comin' right up!"

He began making a cuppa coffee as I draped my jacket on the chair.

"So, Louie. Everyone says you're the new man in town when you need something found."

"Pff, don't know where you heard that from. All manner of sayings about me are greatly exaggerated!"

"You know what I mean. Plus you ain't got any customers now. We can talk, and you know me. I've got a lot to talk about."

Louie gave me a look as if to say "you got me there", finished the mug of coffee and walked around the counter. He flipped the sign on the café door to "Closed" and motioned for me to follow him.

I did so.

He took the mug and led me upstairs, past the "Employees Only" door that opened into his apartment. The loft was a lucky addition; he'd gotten it cheap because of the blood in its history. I was privy to its secrets. The whole place was decked out with information; papers, faxes, files and filing cabinets. Shelves full of ring folders and hard disks for his little antique laptop. Most of it part of Hahn's original collection, some of it new material previously unseen before Louie.

I took the mug of coffee from him as he sat in his office chair, swiveling around to look at me.

"So, what does the implacable Chris Hurk want from me?"

"Specifics. I need you to look into an incident that happened a while ago. It's for your sake, trust me."

"Okay, shoot. I might have something."

I sat on a nearby stool.

"I need you to look into two things. The first is a hospital report from 2002. Would've been filed under Accident and Emergency or something like that. Teenager. Reportedly mauled by a rabid animal."

"Alright. Easy! Should be online, a quick tap into Santa Somabra General's database should do it."

He turned in his chair, flipped open his laptop and began typing. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder at me.

"You said two. What's the other one?"

I gathered what I had. All or nothing.

"I need you to look into Dagmar Hahn's murder."

The frenzied typing stopped almost immediately. Louie turned back around as he cocked an eyebrow.

"Seriously? The guy's been dead for three years, Chris. Least you could do is give it a break. No one knows who gave the order, no one will. You know that."

"This is different. I don't want to know who was at the top. I want to know who pulled the trigger."

"Well alright, but I don't see how this is gonna help you with your solo vendetta. You didn't even know the guy, why are you so interested to learn about him?"

"I knew him enough, and I've told you before: it's personal."

"Well fine then. Gimme a bit, this'll take a while."

I left him to his devices as I returned to the café downstairs. Sat in one of the big plush chairs and enjoyed my coffee.

Outside, it began to rain.

Eventually I settled on reading a magazine to pass the time. Other people passed by, staring into the café at the weird man who was having a drink inside a closed shop. I paid no mind. Was used to being treated like an animal in a cage.

I didn't know how much time had passed, or when I'd fallen asleep. But when I awoke it was dark out, still raining. The streetlights illuminated the sidewalk outside as I stood and stretched the kinks out. I heard footsteps above me and I looked up as Louie beckoned me upstairs.

"Perfect timing. Come up. I've got what you need."

-----

"This isn't much."

"But it's what you wanted, right?"

I had to agree. It was.

In his hand, he held a manilla envelope. Just from the look alone, it wasn't much. But I trusted Louie. I took it from him as he sat back down and sighed.

"You wanna know what was harder? Finding out about that dumb kid. His records went poof after 2001, had to really dig before I found archived surgical reports in their databases. All you need is in there, along with the shit you wanted about Dagmar's killers."

"Thanks Louie. I owe you."

"You already owe me a lot. Now scram, Hurky boy. Café's closed."

I took the hint, gathered my stuff and left. It was only a few minutes after that I reached my apartment. The walk was cooling. Refreshing.

But I had work to do.

My living room wall was lined with pictures. Threaded with string and pins and marker. Like an old detective film. They were separated into two sections. One was for Hahn's case.

The other? Me.

The thing I'd struggled with most in my life. The reason why I lived in Little Lupine. My curse.

I was only seventeen when life decided to throw me into the ugly pit. Threw a curveball so wide it took me out the field and into the gutter. Since then, I'd dedicated my time to finding out who did it. Werewolves were human ninety-nine percent of the month anyway. If it were anyone, I guess the best start would've been here.

But so far, I'd come up with jack squat. Maybe I'd been looking in the wrong places. Talking to the wrong people. Searching the wrong cesspits in this god damn city. Whatever. No one wanted to help me. Who liked werewolves in this city anyway?

I hoped what was in this envelope would change things around. Help me solve a friend's murder. Maybe settle my aching heart and body. Find out who cursed me. Make 'em pay.

I sat on my couch and opened it. I found several bits of paper. Lots of printed photographs. I spilled everything out on the coffee table and sorted through the mess. Separated everything into two piles. One for Hahn. One for me.

The incident that had cursed me was recorded on file, initially. My dad had rushed me to Santa Somabra General, from what he'd told me after I'd regained consciousness. A&E. The docs there fixed me right up. Records were made and kept, of course, but once I'd enlisted into the military, the records had been purged. No one wanted a soldier with a history of having a werewolf curse, it seemed. I didn't know who did the purging either. Saved me a lot of headache though. Now I had the surgery notes. Maybe some others. They wouldn't lead to the one who cursed me, but it was nice to have some closure.

I set the surgery records and ICU notes aside. Dad never told me how he'd broached the subject to the nurses and doctors. From what I'd heard, he'd told them something about a wild animal attack. I guess the smarter ones would've guessed by then. I had nothing else to go on, on my end.

So I moved on to Dag's stuff. The printouts here were from the SSPD database, initial records of the incident. After Andy'd found Dag dead in his apartment, he'd called the cops. Anonymous, of course. They'd processed the scene as normal. Witnesses, DNA, material evidence, the whole nine yards. What they'd come up with was nothing to laugh at. He'd been executed, almost. Gone on a roaring rampage first before someone'd filled him full of silver. Bloodied his whole room. From what was found, it was sudden. He'd gone bezerk immediately before he was shot. Eviscerated several men in the span of a blink. Then he was filled with enough silver to make a whole dinner cutlery set. Traces had been done on the spent rounds, casings, whatever the SSPD techs could find.

It all led to a man: George Chin. Hitman. Hailed out of Chinatown. Did the dirty work for many mob bosses for a pretty penny. His employer list was endless. Nyctari. Martovanni. Bloodbloom. Rats. An infinite list of independents, Somabra rich folks and the other bottom-dragging filth in this city. He was professional. Smart. Cunning. Everything he used could be traced somewhere, anywhere except him. Except...this time he'd slipped up. Used traceable bullets. Firearms too.

Maybe it was because he was paid to end a werewolf? Special precautions that had foregone his usual safeties?

Whatever it was, now he was on the run. Been missing ever since the case. Impossible to find.

Maybe.

If I wanted to find the Chin, I had to dig deep. Dive into the shitholes that little other people dared to venture into.

I found my phone and dialed a number. A few minutes later the man on the other end picked up.

"Yeah it's Andy."

"Andy? It's Hurk. I need your help."

_{I'm gonna make a} change, _{for once in my life.
It's gonna feel real} good, _{gonna make a} difference.
_{Gonna make it} right.

<sub>As I turn up the collar on my favourite winter coat,
this wind is blowin' my mind.

I see the kids in the street, with not enough to eat.

Who am I?
To be</sub> blind?
_{Pretending not to see their} needs?
_{A summer's disregard, a broken bottle top.
And one man's} soul.

<sub>They follow each other on the wind, ya' know.
'Cause they got no place to go...

That's why I want you to know:
I'm starting with the</sub> Man in the Mirror.
_{I'm asking him to} change his ways.

_{And no message could have been any} clearer;
_{If you wanna make the world a better place,
take a look at yourself, and make that} change.

_{I've been a victim of a} selfish <sub>kind of love.

It's time that I realize:
That there are some with no</sub> home, _{not a nickel to loan.
Could it be really} me?
_{Pretending that they're not} alone?

_{A widow deeply} scarred,
_somebody's broken heart,
_{and a} washed-out dream.

_{They follow the pattern of the wind, ya' see.
'Cause they got} no place <sub>to be.

That's why I'm starting with</sub> me.

_{I'm starting with} The Man In The Mirror

_{I'm asking him to}
change his ways.

_{And no message could have}
been any clearer:

_{If you wanna make the world a} better place,
_{Take a look at yourself and then}
make that change.

-+-

Amongst the Lonesome
The Tale of the Lone Wolf

-+-

[Kingfisher]

“The boss is busy, Lediyah,” Salvador croaked in his guttural drawl “you can wait your turn, just like everybody else.”

The Irish woman sat delicately down on one of the sofas which ran outside of the boss’s office, gently folding her jean-clad legs.

“What’s your deal?” Her eyes narrowed into slits.

“Excuse me?” Salvador snorted, crossing his powerful arms as he stood sentinel in front of the office door.

“You’ve got an issue with me.” She stated bluntly “Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grumbled.

“Sure ya do. Don’t play dumb with me; it won’t work. We’re both smarter than that.”

The grunt cleared his throat , shooting a quick glance to the back of the room.

“Frank Buckholtz. That name mean anything to you?”

“Should it?” Lediyah asked, notching an eyebrow.

“Figured as much.” Salvador laughed dryly “Young kid, with a bright future ahead of him. He needed some extra cash to put him through law school, so I suggested he get a job working for us. When he lost the boss’s shipment you painted Somabra Bridge with his insides.”

The grunt’s voice cracked slightly.

“He was my nephew. My brother don’t talk to me no more.”

From behind her sunglasses, Ledyiah’s eyes dilated ever-so-slightly.

“I’m surprised you didn’t pay someone to take a stab at me.”

“Oh believe me, I’ve tried,” Salvador snorted “you try finding a Rat whose willing to go up against Lediyah -fuckin’- Gorman.”

“I’m flattered that you think so highly of me.” She couldn’t help but smirk.

“I think you’re a piece of shit who deserves to be gunned down in the streets like a rabid fuckin’ animal.” Salvador croaked. For a split second, it looked as though he was tearing up, but then it passed.
“The boss ain’t busy anymore.” Salvador muttered, moving to one side.

“Did he fax you that just now?” she shot him a seething glare, slowly rising to her feet.

“I’m telepathic.” he said in a dry, deadpan voice.

---

“Stephanie! If you drop that plate, I swear by all the gods and demons; I will shove this spatula up your snatch! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Chef!” Stephanie called back over her shoulder, bargaining the kitchen door open, as the sweltering heat and noisy clamouring slowly drifted away behind her.

The young blonde made her way carefully out into the restaurant, delicately balancing some rich ponce’s meal in either hand. Once upon a time, Stephanie had been a woman of principle and values. She was the head of the feminist committee at her high school, and she’d created countless petitions against police corruption in the Santa Somabra area. She’d even attended a rally to help end workplace discrimination against goblins. But at the end of the day, she’d needed a job and the Pale Veil had an opening for a new waitress. So Stephanie Brie had swallowed her pride, taken out her piercings, and handed in her application.

Stephanie carefully padded past the pristine white tables, and the many customers they held, and made her way over to the Brownie and the man in the purple tie.

“You know how much the classy ones charge these days?” the Brownie was squeaking, his fur-coated body propped up on a booster seat, so that he was level with the table “and that’s just the ones that’ll go near fae types.”

“Mushroom spinach risotto and a medium rare steak.” Stephanie announced in her sweetest voice as declared her presence to the two men.

“The steak for me,” The purple-tie wearer smiled warmly “and the risotto for Mister Sprekler.”

“Cheers, sugar tits.” The Brownie grinned, showing off rows of gap-ridden teeth.

Fighting the overwhelming urge to pick up the Brownie and drop-kick across the restaurant, Stephanie faked a ditzy giggle, before placing the respective meals down in front of the two men, and heading back to the kitchen as quickly as she could.

“Stephanie!” The chef barked at her, as soon as she slipped back through the door “forget your next order. The owner wants a talk.”

Stephanie repressed a gulp. How badly had she fucked up?

“I thought we weren’t supposed to disturb the owner?” Stephanie wondered aloud.

“If they’ve asked to see you then you’re not disturbing them, shithead,” The chef scowled “now get your boney white arse upstairs.”

The walk to the owner's lair was a quick one, through a few doorways, and up a few flights of stairs, until she arrived at the fancy dining room that was exclusively off-limits to lowly kitchen staff.

The dining room itself was a vast, ballroom-like expanse of polished glass and sweeping mahogany tables. It epitomised the upper-class aura of the rest of the Pale Viel; oozing class and pristine decor.

“Good evening, Stephanie.” A chocolatey voice called over from the far end of the room. Sat at the end of one of the tables, was a pale, lithe figure with curls so black they seemed to be wrought from the night itself.

“Please, have a seat.” the woman smiled “My name is Nichole Vielsiti, and you look most appetizing.”