Chapter 6

A vampire's existence isn't exactly conductive to a normal nine to five job. However, some sort of income is of course necessary.

I might have been undead, but I still had to pay the rent.

I needed to find a way to support myself. Even if I began regularly selling articles, my finances would still be stretched to their limits. Until I could find some sort of well paying night job, preferably one that didn't have obligatory blood/urine testing, I would simply have to content myself with various other ... well, let's call them "unconventional revenue streams".

I found myself moving at a quick walk as I left the Outdoorsman instead of the full-out run that I had used getting there. I wasn't in any way tired, I just didn't feel like sticking to darkened streets and back alleys to move around any longer. Seeing as I wasn't in any rush, I could take it easy, immersing myself back into the sea of humanity.

As I casually walked through the streets towards the closest subway station, I once again started testing and practicing with my new abilities – this time, my heightened senses.

Closing my eyes and focusing solely on listening to my surroundings, I was amazed by what I could hear. Not only could I perfectly make out whispered conversions some distance away, even with the everyday, inescapable urban noises and the rumbling subway sounds, but as people approached I could actually hear the ruffling of their clothing as they moved, their keys and lose change tinkling in their pockets, and their rhythmic and steady breathing. I could even pick out individual's heartbeats as they passed by.

I wondered if, with some training, I could eventually identify specific individuals or make out if they are lying, solely by listening to the rhythm of their pulses.

Just like Daredevil!

No, not like that Affleck abomination! I'm a purist.

My sense of smell was similarly enhanced, so much so, that it seemed almost ... alien. Humans take in the world around them visually, first and foremost, with their sense of smell down on the list. I imagined that it was like a visually impaired man finally being able to see the world around him in perfect, colorful clarity. Wonderful, but also a bit confusing and maybe even overwhelming.

I could easily identify people, matching them to their own individual body odors. And underneath that was something else I couldn't identify or sort through ... pheromones maybe? With a little extra deductive reasoning and practice, I bet that I could eventually learn to figure out where a person had been that day, what they had been doing and with whom, how they were feeling.

Though, I seriously doubted if I could ever actually track someone or something by scent alone, like some sort of supernaturally enhanced bloodhound. The vast and varied amount of smells quickly faded and mixed together, becoming impossible to sort through and identify far from their sources. Only in more or less close proximity could I make any sense of the scents around me, natural and artificial, identifiable and unfamiliar, good and bad.

There was a good deal of stink wafting around. I was taking public transportation after all. What I could now smell really disturbed me and I couldn't keep from shuddering. I made sure not to touch anything at the station or in the subway car, not even bothering to sit down.

No matter what sense I was using, it was surprisingly - and thankfully - easy to focus on some stimuli while blocking out others. Being constantly overwhelmed by unpleasant and distracting sensory input would really suck otherwise.

On the down side of the equation, whenever I focused too deeply on any one sense, I tended to suffer from some sort of "tunnel vision", leaving my perception of the rest of my surroundings increasingly ... hazy. I had to work at not becoming too concentrated and holding on to my situational awareness.

It's a good thing I did, too.

I was simply standing there, out of the way in a quarter filled subway car, when my peaceful experimentation and contemplation was interrupted. I didn't notice it at first, being too absorbed in trying to make out what a couple of nice looking young ladies were talking and giggling about, from the other end of the car and over the sound of the moving train.

Apparently, women still have a distracting effect on me, despite the lack of a pulse. I'd seriously have to work on my situational awareness.

But when I did notice it, I reacted with lightening speed and with zero hesitation.

Some asshole was brushing past me, uncomfortably close, considering that we were far from crowded. But that was a minor distraction, until I felt him dipping his hand into my jacket pocket, reaching for my cellphone. I reflexively grabbed onto the wrist of the offending hand hard enough for its fragile bones to painfully grate against each other and tugged the bastard towards me. I did it so violently and forcibly, that I heard something pop in his shoulder.

More or less face to face, I now got a good, close up look at the offender. A rather nondescript man, a bit shaggy and unkempt perhaps, dressed in oversized track pants, sneakers and hoodie. Though shorter and more slightly built than I, he was at least a few years older. His eyes were wide and his mouth open in shock and building panic, but he didn't make a sound, the pain not yet having enough time to fully register.

Before it had a chance to and he started making an inevitable scene, I head butted him, my forehead solidly impacting high up on the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes. There was a solid thunk and I felt a brief flash of pain, but nothing else. The pickpocket, on the other hand, sagged limply against me, like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. I then seamlessly levered his unconscious body not too gently onto a conveniently close and empty seat.

Luckily, this all happened so quickly and quietly, that none of the other half dozen passengers had noticed what had happened.

I was a bit surprised at that, but only at first. I'd lived in the city long enough to know that almost everyone walked around with blinders on, carefully focused solely on their own lives and concerns.

I sat down beside the thief and assured myself that he was still breathing. Oh, he'd wake up in pain, with one hell of a headache and a pair of raccoon eyes. Maybe he had a concussion, but that was the least that the rat bastard deserved.

'Who does the fucker think he is trying to steal from me!' I mentally snarled.

But then, an idea entered my mind which promptly lifted my mood and quenched my anger.

I had a classmate in high school whose parents emigrated from Portugal. Once in a while, he'd give some of us little language lessons, teaching us a few choice phrases and expressions in Portuguese.

Actually, he taught us mostly swearwords and dirty limericks, but I digress.

They apparently have a saying that goes something like, "a thief who steals from a thief, receives one hundred years of forgiveness".

I hope that it's true. I could need any forgiveness that I could get my hands on.

With a smile on my face, I swiftly and surreptitiously rifled through the would-be thief's bulky pockets.

I got off at Saint Patrick Station, at the corner of Dundas and University Avenue. It's fair to say that I had a spring in my step as I returned to street level, satisfied at being a bit richer than when I had descended.

The pickpocket hadn't had a wallet or ID, just a few loose bundles of cash – a few hundred dollars total, I guessed. He had two cellphones, but they were both cheap burners (especially compared to my smartphone) and soon found themselves in the nearest trashcan. Lastly, there was about a handful of assorted pieces of jewelry squirreled away in several pockets and folds of his clothing – one expensive looking watch, a couple of rings, a string of pearls, a few pairs of earrings, and at least one gold chain.

Understandably, I had just given my haul a fleeting superficial glance. I'd wait until I got safely home to give it a detailed evaluation.

Whistling to myself, I headed towards the nearest Tim Horton's, ordered myself a large coffee and a chocolate donut, liberally sprinkled with coconut and then sat down, making myself comfortable.

After five minutes, I got up to get myself a second donut; one filled with strawberry jelly this time. I wasn't actually hungry, they were just damn good. The mouthwatering smell of fresh baked goods - which I was able to pick up some distance away - was impossible to ignore.

Being undead clearly hadn't affected my sweet tooth any.

I took my time, savoring the sweet and sticky treat and stretching out the experience to a full ten minutes. It was almost as good and satisfying as drinking warm human blood, straight from the neck. No, no ... I was deluding myself. Nothing could come close to matching the experience of drinking fresh blood.

A somewhat disturbing thought, I freely admit, but it was the truth nonetheless.

Finally, just as I was licking my fingers clean, Rob Holdstock's detective friend walked in.

I'm not entirely sure what I had been expecting. For some reason, I kept picturing someone akin to Clint Eastwood. You know the popular stereotype – an older man, with graying hair, weathered skin and flint hard eyes. A stoic man, somewhat jaded by the pitfalls of life and the hardships of his job, but still fiercely dedicated to the spirit, if not the exact letter of the law.

Or maybe he was the classic Columbo – an affable, trench coat wearing detective. One who, on the surface, comes across as a relatively harmless or even bumbling investigator, but actually possesses an incredibly perceptive and analytical mind.

Instead, before my very eyes, Santa Claus strode in, right through the door.

No, this isn't the set-up for some sort of lame joke.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I nonchalantly sipped my coffee. He was big, a few inches taller than me and stoutly built. Unlike many overweight people I had seen before though, he seemed to move like a much younger and slimmer person. No waddling shuffle and labored breathing for him – I suspected that beneath his extra rolls of fat, there lurked a surprisingly strong and healthy man. He might have been older, attested by his snow white, close cropped haircut and beard, as well as his weathered skin, but there was also a youthful vigor about him, making it impossible to nail down an approximate age.

He was wearing a well-tailored dark blue three piece business suit, with the chain of what I took to be a gold pocket watch visible, leading into his vest pocket. Over all a classy and expensive outfit, but it looked like it had more than a couple of years on it.

With a seemingly perpetual smile on his face, liberally highlighted by laugh lines, he came off as the upbeat grandfatherly type. The gun he had holstered at his substantial waist told differently though, as well as the way his hard, but clearly intelligent eyes, quickly and professionally scanned the interior of the donut shop, sizing up and evaluating the half dozen clients and the couple of employees he could see.

I could just make out his eyes pausing and narrowing, ever so slightly, as they passed over me.

Rob didn't tell him what I looked like, apart from the vague fact that I was young. Was I acting suspiciously or giving out some sort of vibe? Or were his cop instincts simply incredibly well-tuned?

"Here's your regular, Detective Killian." The cute teenage girl behind the counter said in a happy voice, handing him a previously prepared box of donuts.

Yup, Detective James Killian, I presume.

The girl, who had taken my order, rather uninterestedly I might add, had perked up and smiled widely as soon as she had seen him through the windows. He clearly visited this particular Tim Horton's regularly.

Dozens of "police love donuts" jokes flashed through my mind, but I quickly dismissed them. I was willing to bet that he had already heard them all and even knew some that I had never even thought of before. Besides, the last thing that I wanted was to come across as a smartass on our very first meeting. Reigning in the impulse to nervously run my mouth off would be difficult, but hopefully, I'd manage.

"Thanks sweetheart." He answered, in a surprisingly deep and rumbling voice. He then took the box and handed her a large travel mug. Without any further prompting necessary, she quickly and professionally filled it with coffee and took her payment.

"You are a treasure." He said giving her a wink as he turned away. She just smiled widely, while blushing slightly and stifling a girlish giggle.

Charming bastard, ain't he?

I raised my hand and nodded towards him. The detective nodded almost imperceptibly in response and started to casually amble his way towards me, but that was the only reaction that even my newly enhanced senses could spot. I knew that he wasn't just taking his time in order to carefully sample his hot coffee – I could see his eyes narrowing, studying me intently as he approached.

He was sizing me up, trying to determine just who the hell I was.

When Rob called him an hour or so ago, he had told him all about me. I know, seeing as I was there when he did. He explained how I was a good friend of his, a newbie reporter, interested in doing a small piece on gang violence in Southern Ontario and Toronto specifically, in light of his recent "experience".

Not a bad idea actually. Besides pumping him for information on the Winter Born, I could also work on an article or two about Canadian gangs and criminal organizations.

Even though Detective Killian owed Rob some big favor, for carefully unspecified reasons, it actually took several minutes in order to convince him to agree to the meeting.

Cops don't like talking to reporters, after all, no matter the circumstances. In their point-of-view, they're always getting blamed for something, having their screw ups pointed out to the general public, having their investigations fouled up, or being outright misquoted.