Chapter 42

~~Jack~~

“Barry was on the Mirrden job,” Jack said, “monitoring the construction and expansion. So, my best guess is the Carthians killed him. But that doesn’t seem likely, so my best guess is a shit guess.”

Hella nodded, put another kiss on Isabella’s neck, and came around the bed to sit on its edge again, beside her lover. “Garry doesn’t like the way the Invictus run the city, sure. But killing Kindred? Been a long time since anyone’s done that. Not since the purge, and, well, that incident with Viktor, and then Lucas and his little army.”

Jack nodded, not a flinch or wince to speak of. He’d gotten a lot better at hiding his facial ticks whenever someone brought up those events. Much as the memory of riding Damien’s mind and body, and butchering a bunch of Kindred with his sword was never going away, he was getting better at suppressing it. Time heals all wounds, and more crap like that that turned out to be truer than he could have ever appreciated before he needed it.

“And,” Jack continued, “Barry was the only one to die in the fire. And I knew he didn’t sleep there, so the fire catching him seemed unlikely.”

Everyone in the room nodded. Those who’d been kissing stopped, and either moved to the edge of their beds, or grabbed nearby chairs. The ghouls about continued with their wandering, cleaning, and fixing blankets and clothes that were scattered about. Cozy setup the vamps had here.

Isabella sighed and brushed off one of her shoulders. “Poor Barry.”

“So I’m thinking,” Hella said, “that either someone killed Barry, and then burned down his apartment building to make it look like he died in the fire, or he’s still alive, and someone is just trying to make it look like he’s dead.”

“Sounds a bit extreme for Barry.” Jack shook his head, and put the info into his smartphone. Not that it was much to input. “Unless there’s something more going on than the Mirrden business.”

One of the others raised a hand. A man, a young Daeva, with short black hair and a lean build. Made for the stage, considering his smile. Apparently, he was waiting for Isabella to give him permission to speak. Leauvion’s childe, maybe? Fuck his bad memory.

“Yes my childe?”

Welp, that settled it.

“Barry had spoken to me about some unusual people hanging around the Mirrden district. Just kine, but he had approached them, and later he told me they seemed rather ... organized?”

Hella shrugged and waved a dismissing hand. “Protesters from the Carthian half of South Side, Zack. They don’t like Xnomia tearing down their old, crummy buildings and shit for our expansion efforts anymore than the Carthians themselves do.”

Zack nodded, but frowned as he dug through his memories. “Maybe, Madam Vendram. Just ... Barry seemed a little more insistent about it. And, I do believe he ... decided to follow them.”

The room went silent, and everyone stared at Zack.

“You tell us this now, boy?” Isabella almost got up, but instead, folded one leg over the other, and gave the man the coldest ice stare Jack had ever seen.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think it was important. Barry told me later he came back, after not being able to track these people down. Whoever they were, they just blended into the night, the other kine, and ... yeah. He lost them.”

Isabella didn’t get up, but Hella did, and she started to pace around. “Well Zack, I’ll break your arm later for only bringing this up now. But at least that’s something to go on. Barry wouldn’t lose track of a kine he set his eyes on.”

“ ... who is Barry’s sire?” Jack said, eyebrow raised and eyes on Hella. But she shook her head, dismissing his suggestion.

“Not me,” she said. He should know that, but it wasn’t on any info he dug through. Who sired who was information the Kindred seemed reluctant to record. “Mia, Carthian, Gangrel too, left the city maybe five years ago. Barry was a Gangrel, and if he wanted to hunt a kine, a specific kine, he wasn’t going to just up and lose them.” She cradled her forehead in one palm, and then walked over to Zack to give him a rather harsh punch in the shoulder. “A Daeva wouldn’t understand.”

Gangrels were a step closer to their beast than anyone, no denying that. Tracking prey was second nature to them. And Zack, realizing his mistake, winced and lowered his head.

“Sorry. But, Barry did say it was probably nothing.”

“Probably nothing is a better lead than actually nothing.” Hella paced some more, chin in her right hand’s fingers, eyes down and analyzing. “Anyone else know what people he’s talking about? Anymore details you’ve left out, Zack?”

“Um, he said it was two men, two women, couple wearing trench coats, couple wearing leather jackets. They were just standing, and watching the construction crew from a distance. He said the strange part was they stuck around to watch for a few hours.”

Jack nodded and put the notes into his smartphone. The clothes weren’t unusual, but the watching for a few hours was. “He say when?”

“Bit after midnight, a couple days before he disappeared.”

Yeah, that was weird. Dolareido had a very active nightlife, but that was in the Invictus half of South Side, where the vices congregated. Closer to the Carthian side, people were rarely out that late, and those that were were not walking around in trench coats. Course it could have all been a coincidence or strange circumstance that just led to the suspicious arrangement. But Hella was right, it was a better lead than nothing.

Another one of the young Kindred raised a hand, a woman, short dark hair and a dainty figure. A bit shy too. Mekhet, if Jack ever saw one. “Um, I’ve seen people like that too.”

“Where?” Jack said.

“Outside the club Bloodlust. Same thing, two trench coats, two leather jackets, two men, two women. I thought ... thought they were just observing the club, you know? It is a pretty crazy place for tourists to see, even from the outside.”

“And they probably were merely tourists, observing.” Isabella nodded, held out a hand for Hella, and squeezed it once the Gangrel returned to her side. “But, keep an eye out for these people, my students. Invictus Kindred often group at Bloodlust, and naturally at the Mirrden district until this expansion effort is complete. Two sightings hardly makes for proof, but it is enough to warrant concern.”

Jack nodded. Hang out in areas often enough and you eventually notice the same people, or people with the exact same dress code as others. And a group of four individuals with trench coats or leather jackets was common. And two men and two women, also common. Two sets of clothes, two genders, two of each, two locations. One too many twos to just chalk up to coincidence though, so it was worth exploring.

“You don’t think it’s hunters?” the Mekhet said.

There was a collective, hushed gasp from the other Kindred except for Vendram, Leauvion, and Jack. It was easy to forget that most young Dolareido Kindred had never really been involved in serious violence, or had their second life truly threatened. Getting into scraps with the Carthians, maybe breaking a few bones, getting a few of their own bones broken, was the extent of their Kindred-on-Kindred combat experience. What sort of violence they engaged in with kine, he did not know, but that wasn’t true violence, considering how one-sided it was. The idea of a kine being able to kill a Kindred was a level of violence his fellow neonates never considered.

So, as he glanced around at the Kindred, particularly the ones only a few years old, he winced. Other than the typical hardships a fledgling went through, learning to feed and hunt, and maybe an accidental frenzy like Jack had gone through, they were all green, soft. He could see the fear on their face at the mention of hunters, like it was some sort of mythic concept they’d never have to deal with, under the safety and protection of Dolareido’s utopian world.

Maybe Jacob was right. The city was soft. Was that a bad thing? It was, if hunters came to their dens and nests, looking to burn them out or stake them in their sleep.

Isabella sighed, but she didn’t say no. “It has been many years since hunters have made themselves known in Dolareido. All Kindred deaths have been accounted for in that time, and none have been to hunters.”

“ ... something has changed in that time,” Hella said. “Something recent has happened. Hell a lot of shit has changed as of late. Viktor’s dead, Tony’s dead. Azamel’s back, and Avery’s back. The status quo is so fucked right now.”

Everyone nodded, and exchanged a few grunts at the mention of Azamel and Avery specifically. Racism. Speciesism? Whatever, it was shitty seeing how quick the Kindred were to judge the Uratha and Begotten for their current, wildly hypothetical problems. He did not like it.

And he knew, in the past, when he was fresh to the fold, he wouldn’t say anything. But now, his mouth was opening, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

“The Uratha showed up because a monster was under our streets, not the other way around. They helped us deal with a problem before it became too large to handle. One of them died in that pursuit. And the Begotten haven’t caused any trouble yet.” Except for maybe Fiona’s rather large appetite. He had to visit her again, see how she was doing, if Azamel was treating her well. “Have any of you spoken with any of them? At all? A single word?”

Each of them glanced between each other and Hella, before all eyes settled on Isabella. The Daeva ancilla was not happy, and she frowned at him with some grit to her teeth.

He gave her license to ignore his relationship with Julias and the Prince. He didn’t give her license to ignore his role as intermediary with the Uratha. No doubt the wheels were spinning in her head, juggling that information, wondering how she could dance the Danse and put him in his place without offending that position.

“You were not even alive when Avery was here the first time, Master Terry. I was but a young neonate when those wolves were here last, and I remember the fear and carnage those creatures spread.”

He’d put himself in a weird spot, getting on this girl’s bad side. But at the same time, the Uratha and Begotten didn’t deserve this bullshit reputation following them around.

“Apologies Madam Leauvion, but I’ve had the fortune of being thrust into the center of our disagreements with them. I can assure you that Avery is not the violent person she was when she was younger. Age changes many things.” Ugh, talking like an Invictus. He could feel the silver growing on his tongue. Julias would have been proud. “And the Begotten only wish to find a safe place they can satisfy their appetites. If anything, they will be the first to extend invitation to us for friendship.”

He didn’t mention that he wasn’t exactly sure about Azamel’s motivations. Athalia, Fiona, they just wanted to eat and live their lives, according to them, but he had as much chance of understanding Azamel’s intentions as he did a goddess’s. And not a nice, loving, tender goddess, but some ancient deity of destruction, ruling with odd laws and an iron claw.

“The Begotten want to be our friends?” Hella said, one eyebrow raised especially high.

Jack nodded. “From what I can gather, and from what Fiona has told me, Begotten are...” How to word this, how to word this. He put his smartphone into the pocket of his suit jacket, and leaned forward. These people were theater lovers, theatrical types, who thrived on overdramatic presentations and flowery prose. People who thought purple prose were good prose. Gross.

Well, he could get a little flowery, a little poetic. Being around Antoinette was rubbing off on him.

“Begotten are monsters,” he said. The crowd blinked at him, obviously confused. “Vampires, werewolves, and other scary shit that’s out there, bumping in the night, are monsters. Cause as much as we’re Kindred, and we’ve gotten used to thinking of ourselves in that way, it doesn’t change that we’re monsters. We’re the thing humanity fears when it’s dark, and their imaginations run wild. They think they see movement in the shadows, and tell themselves there’s nothing there, don’t be stupid, monsters don’t exist.” He nodded to himself, and leaned in a little more, elbows on his knees. Everyone was listening, wide-eyed. “We’ve all embraced that role as normal for us. We’re Kindred. We’re the thing that traps people in dark alleys.”

Everyone nodded, understanding on their faces. It was easy to forget sometimes that vampires were, in fact, monsters.

“Werewolves, they’re a different kind of monster. These animal hybrids that are ... absurdly, ridiculously, massively strong.” He shuddered as the memory of the fight with the Azlu hit him. The screaming and blood and shredded rock. “And I’m sure there are more monsters, like Kindred, other races of beast that defy science and hide in shadows.

“But Begotten are ... more...” Wow, this was a difficult concept to get across, to word in a way that made sense. “Fiona says, she believes vampires are simply a type of Begotten, that for some reason, reproduced or spread in ways normal Begotten can’t. Same with the werewolves. We’ve integrated with the living, with cultures, with societies big and small. But for monsters, classic, true, real monsters, ancient and unknown, joining society is not so easy. They are the stuff of nightmares, literally.”

“Literally?” Three of the younger Kindred said, at the same time.

“Literally. Imagine if nightmares could be something you could literally touch, literally see while awake, literally have rip you to shreds. According to her, dreams, nightmares, they’re real things in some weird existence outside of this one. And monsters? They come from there, from the nightmares, from this dark place where all of kine’s fears manifest, in some sort of aether. Now, imagine ... movies like The Thing, or IT, or storytellers like Clive Barker and H.P. Lovecraft’s works, or ancient cultural beliefs like wendigo or dullahan or jorogumo, or what have you.” After a couple conversations with Fiona, he did his research into ancient, mythological monsters. Fucking scary shit, knowing they probably existed in reality. “These creatures, these nightmares given form, they see us and ... it would seem they only wish to find coexistence among their brethren who’ve managed to integrate with the sheep far better than they have. Than they ever could.

“So while we think they’re strange, and alien, and dangerous, they just want to ... fit in with us.” A gross oversimplification, he was sure, but it served for the conversation, and the listening Kindred nodded a few times as they glanced between each other.

Isabella didn’t look so sure, but after a few seconds of her own contemplation, she shrugged and nodded. “Unfortunately, none of that dismisses the danger these monsters bring. And as for the werewolves? If you believe age has changed Avery, I must insist on proof.”

Step in the right direction, at least.

“Then I will make sure to ask her about Barry. They’re nesting near, and I know they’re already looking into the fire. I’ll find out what they know, and you’ll see, they only want to help.” Because tomorrow, he had a date with a pack of werewolves.

~~Eric~~

Eric watched the sun set, and sighed.

He was too young to be a taxi driver, way too young. Thirty wasn’t young, but at the same time it was. Money versus health. In the modern age you got to live longer, and had less money to do it on, leading to a generation of men and women who were stuck between the glorious days of being a child, oblivious to the future, and the glorious days of being old, riding the economy of the baby boomer generation and their total obliviousness to the economic struggles of people his age.

So, he became a taxi driver. Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do now?

He sat parked at the corner of Fifth Vonta Street and Marian Street, a corner between North and South Side. He sat there, and watched the sun go down as the night shift started. It was nice to see, nice to remind himself something existed beyond the night, beyond the fake light and fake personalities and fake tits of the city life.

He took a moment to check himself in the mirror. He was a good looking man he thought, a black man with a shaved head, average height, and a stern face. The face was a problem; people didn’t tip as well to someone with a stern face. He practiced a few smiles in the mirror, slid his fingers along his clean-shaven cheeks and jawline, and tried a few more. Nope, smiles never got out as anything more than a sneer.

Sighing, he put the car into drive, and headed back into South Side. Around this time of night, there was a drastic shift on what people wore, and what sort of personalities pedestrians had. People had less energy in the day, and wore normal business clothes. Come the night, people started to act differently, possessed by demons of greed, glutton, and lust.

As he drove by the ruins of the burned apartment building, he glanced out his window. Some suits were standing around it, taking pictures, couple of youngsters. Weird. But, not his business, and he put his eyes back on the road as the traffic of cabs, limousines, and expensive cars with nowhere to drive started to greet him.

But something was different. Something in the air maybe. Something he could taste but couldn’t see.

As a couple hailed his cab and he pulled up to let them in, he eyed them closely. The man’s build, the woman’s build, the thickness of their arms and shoulders and back, whether they could pose a danger. He glanced at the man’s sides, and the woman’s as well, for any potential firearms. Did they have knives hidden anywhere? Were they a threat?

Could he kill them?

He shook the thoughts loose. Random, to suddenly want to kill the first fare of the night. “Where too?”

“You know the club Bloodlust?” the woman said, brushing the blond locks from her eyes and smiling at him in the rear view mirror. Flirtatious, but not blatantly or with intent, far as Eric could tell, especially considering the man next to her was pressed against her and leaning in to plant a few kisses on her neck.

He could smell the cigarette smoke on them, a hundred times worse than usual. He could smell the sex on them too, and that was not something he wanted to last in his taxi.

“I do.” With a small salute, he got moving.

Driving in a packed city wasn’t fun. Stupid to even let his mind go in that direction, to look for fun in his job; just, holy fuck, driving in a huge, dense city was hell. A hell he’d been driving people around in for almost a year now. Not that Dolareido was the worst place, at least outside of Devil’s Corner, but the stop-and-go of city streets was torture.

He looked in the mirror again. The couple were kissing each other, rubbing against each other, and as the man caressed the insides of the woman’s thigh underneath her dress’s skirt, the woman smiled at Eric again.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just ... you know.”

He smirked — a smirk practiced to handle all manner of social interactions — and nodded, before he eased into the front of the club. “Here you are. That’s eight fifty.”

Giggling and laughing, the couple started slipping out of the cab, and the man pulled out some cash before passing it to Eric.

“Thanks,” Eric said, and gave the man another casual salute as the tipsy, high-as-fuck fellow waved back before walking into the club.

He found himself watching the man and his girl walk away, and again, he kept an eye on spots they might be hiding weapons, their posture to see if there was any aggressive intent, to see—

What the fuck was wrong with him? Man and his woman were just a couple of horny people with some alcohol in them, and cocaine. He could smell that too. And as the odor of other people came in through the opening and closing door of his cab, he took stock of each one. He could smell the bouncer at the door. He could smell one of the people by the street, smoking; their cologne too. He could smell one of the women come bouncing out of the club, giggling and squealing, her dress barely containing her breasts. He could smell cocaine on her too.

What the fuck. He could smell so many things, like each and every one of them was shoving a body part under his nose.

He squeezed the steering wheel until he felt his knuckles fight to circulate blood. The thump thump of the music of the club filled his ears, resonated in his skull, matched his heart rate. He growled at no one as he stirred in his seat and felt his muscles tense, felt his teeth bite down, felt his blood kick into high gear and fill his muscles.

Calm. The fuck. Down.

He moved on, forcing his breathing to settle and his eyes to focus on the street. Lot of people, lot of pedestrians with no respect for the road, lot of people drunk or high stumbling onto the streets. Much as he wanted to run them over, that’d mean the end of his career. But maybe jail would better than this job and a shitty apartment.

He got maybe forty feet before someone jogged up to him from behind. Him specifically, not any of the other cabs. Some guy in a suit, with a suit that probably cost as much as Eric’s apartment. He had a shaved head too, a white guy, with some scars on his cheek and a thickness to his shoulders. And a big, bright smile.

Eric squeeze his steering wheel harder as he felt his arm hair stand up on edge. Dangerous. Man probably had a pistol inside his suit jacket. And from the way he carried himself, the man knew how to fight. Someone Eric would have approached carefully in the ring.

Eric pulled over, but the man didn’t get into the taxi. Instead he came up to the window, and knocked on it twice with a knuckle. Going to be one of those nights.

With a sigh, Eric rolled down the window. “Yeah?”

“Eric Tanverson?”

“ ... do I know you?” He looked the man up and down again. Nothing about the stranger suggested aggression, except for maybe the snake smile he had. A liar, or a lawyer; same thing.

“No. I’m John Ganders, work at Bloodlust. I recognized you from the local MMA matches.”

Eric sighed, again, for the millionth time, and looked back to the windshield. “And?” Fuck this guy. His fighting career was over, and even if it wasn’t, not like he or any fighter would appreciate getting their life interrupted like this.

“And, saw what happened to your knee. Wife nearly passed out in the seat.”

Yeah, having your knee dislocated and its ligaments ripped apart often meant the shin got to move in a direction it was very much not meant to move. It also meant his knee was ruined.

“Yeah. And?”

“Heh, knew you were an asshole Mr. Tanverson.”

“Excuse me?” He glared at the man, checked him up and down again for any movement, or for a gun, before he put an elbow on the window trim, and turned in his seat to face the man. No need to check the mirror for what his face looked like, he knew he was carrying his ‘I’m going to rip your head off’ face. Local news used to love to bring that up.

“Had to see if your ring persona was real, or just bullshit. But luckily an asshole like you is exactly what I want in a new bouncer.” Mr. Gandra — or whatever his name was — leaned toward the taxi, rested his hand on the roof, and grinned at him. “I’m offering you a job.”

“ ... in case you haven’t noticed, I have a job, and you’re getting in—”

“Without cab drivers, the city would die. Far be it from me to judge you your choice of vocation, Mr. Tanverson. But, work for me, bouncing for Bloodlust, and you’ll be making triple what you make now. Better benefits too.”

Triple. Triple. He could wipe his debts, he could settle his divorce, he could—no. He’d tried public work before. Never worked out, for good reasons.

“You don’t want me bouncing for you, Gandra.”

“Ganders.”

“Whatever. Not going to bite my tongue for stupid customers. So—”

“And that’s exactly what I’m looking for, Mr. Tanverson. An attractive man with a sharp tongue and a rough history. Bloodlust attracts certain types, and I need someone good with their words and a good looking jaw to go with it. You’ll draw in a certain clientele, and get rid of others with a conversation. Only need to use your fists if absolutely necessary, but those situations do occasionally happen.”

Attractive? Was the man gay? Maybe that was the unusual vibe Eric was picking up from him; which made sense, given the amount of times Ganders looked him up and down. He wasn’t getting any aggression from him.

Or he was just the friendly sort. Not many of those in your life, Eric. Man said he had a wife anyway.

“Good with my words? You can’t be serious.”

“So you’re telling me you didn’t go on that five minute long, uninterrupted, flawless, not a single stutter rant about your Crowley match, a few years ago? A perfect stream of unending insults? It was like a scene out of Full Metal Jacket, fucking beautiful.”

Crowley had pissed him off with some pre-match dissing. Man just needed to be put in his place. That had been a fun night though.

“ ... this some kind of trick? You offer jobs to strangers all the time?”

Laughing, the man reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a card. “My business card. Think it over, give me a call. You’re already working nights, so you might as well make decent money while doing it.”

The grimace in Eric’s lips refused to leave, but he took the card anyway. That was enough for Ganders, and the man offered him a salute before he walked back to his club. Not his club, according to the card, but a club he worked for as a manager.

Eric set the card on the dash, and resumed his route.

Back in his apartment. His shit apartment, the cheapest one-bedroom he could find that didn’t put him in Devil’s Corner. He growled at no one and tossed his keys onto the kitchen table before he stepped into the bathroom. More like a closet that just happened to have a small tub and a toilet. But it was enough for him to stand in, and look at himself in the mirror.

Mom always said if he didn’t stop frowning his face would get stuck that way. She was always right.

Eric sighed and looked down at the sink as he set his hands on the outside edges of the counter. He squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until his arms started to shake, until his fingers turned brighter at the knuckles, and he heard the tile on the counter top begin to crack.

Calm. The fuck. Down.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. He stared at himself in the mirror, the sweat that was beading on his forehead, and at his brown eyes. There was a spec of amber in there that almost made his eyes look like gold; his wife had loved it.

The night ran through his mind, with each cab fare planting a specific memory. There’d been a couple covered in tattoos, and he knew they had knives in their boots. There’d been a couple of women who smelled of cocaine, and one of them looked comfortable with her purse, like she might have had a gun in there. There’d been more than few guys who looked ready to fight with their bare hands. And there’d been a few dozen men and women so fat they had trouble getting into the cab, let alone pose a threat. Prey. They were just prey. Meat. Lambs for the slaughter.

He stared at the sink and watched it vibrate. His arms were still shaking, and his fingers were starting to sink into the counter, through the tile. He wasn’t gripping the counter like something you’d squeeze in the palm either; instead, he was pressing his fingertips down on it like claws.

He let go of the counter, and stared at the indentations of his fingers. He was a strong guy, but not that strong. The fuck was eating at him so much? Handed an opportunity to get out of this hole and he couldn’t even think about it, could only think about all the irritants in his life.

The smell of blood was in the air. Was it? There was no blood in his apartment. But, he could smell it, smell the life of it drifting through the air. An odor so thick he could almost swim in it, run his hand through it. Once his fingers let go of the counter, he raised one and stared at it, at how it flexed and squeezed and curled like there should have been claws there. Only way to describe it, only way it made sense. There should have been claws on his hand.

He slammed the bathroom door, and collapsed against it. Ass to the tile of his bathroom, head hanging, he gripped the back of his neck and squeezed on it. The muscles fought back, and pulsed. They felt bigger. His head jerked up with painful neck snap, and he raised his hands again to look at them.

Claws. There were claws.

He stared at the colossal hand, at the nigh black hair that was growing from the back of his knuckles, far longer than his normal hair. Hands big enough to crush. Hands strong enough to tear people apart. Hands fit for pinning down prey as he bit into them and ripped out their throat.

No air. No air! Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get air, couldn’t get above the blood. He stood up and turned around, but his hands couldn’t grip the doorknob right. Drowning! Couldn’t get out, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—