(Side Story: Exposed!) Aliens

[Whit]

The stripper pressed closer in a way that might have made another man growl with anticipation. Had his preferences aligned in that way to begin with, Whitaker would probably never have found the predatory sexuality attractive. He didn't have to be a mind reader to see into her skull. In fact, it was the thoughts he could see rolling behind her eyes which would have made another man recoil in disgust. A dichotomy of responses created by the same person at differing levels of their being. She was not the first to think Whit's pronounced emaciation meant he was an easy target. The assumption was that he was some sort of stereotypical nerd (which he was). Or that he was sick. Or unattractive. Those were the types who paid the most for attention, after all, weren't they? The Necromancer was only tangentially aware of his appearance. He could not see himself in the mirror, and he put more care into selecting his clothing than he did maintaining his corpse visage. Young Mr. Concord looked the part of beast, next to the over-sensualized beauty.

Except on the inside, they were both monsters.

"Gross. I would rather not have to clean sexually transmitted diseases off of my suit. I am certain the charge would be extra, and as you might imagine, the cost to maintain my wardrobe is already exorbitant." Of course she didn't hear any of it, due likely to the music, or her own willfull desire to wring some cash out of him. Maybe she was on autopilot, the way some people drove from home to work without thinking about it. The thought was amusing to Whit. Someone who was so fundamentally broken that partial nudity and the promise of sex was almost nothing to them. Just another day on the job. He made a silent note to himself to capture one of the creatures for psychological evaluation and experimentation. However, not from a club which he was confirmed as having been at.

He was ready to shove the woman away from him when he tracked the approach of Levi. It seemed the man wanted to be his savior and Whit was intrigued enough by the idea and seeing how Levi handled the situation, that he allowed its commencement without interruption. He did however quietly offer up a commentary whilst the other man worked.

“Scusi, bella donna,”

You are being awfully gracious there. Pretty sure that is the fanciest sentence this woman has ever heard in her life.

“I’ve got a hundred dollars for you right now if you let the guy go. Kinda need him in one piece. And not traumatised.”

I get the distinct impression you could have gotten away with giving her half that. A quarter? A tenth. I am loathe to pay back the cost, but I suppose I can toss you fifty later and we shall call it even.

He then watched as the woman wandered off. On a technical level, he understood that the way in which talk of money had caused such an instantaneous reaction was both comedic and a symbolic commentary on the status of wealth in the modern world. People were caricatures of reality existing in reality themselves, infinitely recreating the loop of art imitating life imitating art. People existed and in doing so, they turned everything into a joke, because conversation had been replaced by text and the only ones who took things seriously or who made things sacred were extremists. Blasé was the new normal because a person could boot up their computer and see people killed in front of them. Or see a million naked men or women. Or do anything really.

Not that Whit disliked technology. On the contrary, he appreciated the advances that were made every year, he just also knew that it was the nature of the beast that the constant access to information and stories, the constant withdrawal from reality crafted a simultaneously false reality. Look at the SJWs who assaulted people in real life, thinking that it was somehow acceptable? Thinking that because they claimed a fabricated high road, that they were somehow exempt from the rules governing society. Indeed, people were caricatures because the world didn't have time for depth or character. The world needed a person delivered in a few short lines with an image. The stripper was a product of her environment. That was all she would ever be.

"You need only ever ask." He said. In a very real sense, Whitaker considered The Midnight Court one of his jobs. Secret society. They were meant to help each other. Meant to share information and resources with each other. By scratching each other's backs, they ensured that all of them mutually came out on top. So Whit was always available. He let a hand slide to ensure the package was still on his person and then his gaze drifted to the man sitting a short distance away. The one Levi had been speaking to. He let the other man lead the way though, and waited until he was in ear shot of both of them, finding himself a seating arrangement – more for the sake of normalcy as opposed to comfort – before he said anything. "What is the pressing matter?"

[Levi DAmico]

“Grazie.”

The word was uttered with a sombre resonance, and yet managed to sound no less sincere. Levi appreciated the fact that Whitaker would spare his time to assist them tonight. Fortunately, the night was so young that the trio could catch up quickly enough to get that brainstorming session done, and decisions made. The Italian led Whitaker back to the table he had so rudely vacated, insisting that the Necromancer sit himself down beside Grant – all for his convenience. Levi was certainly more content to sit opposite the two of them rather than next to one or the other. Aside from the fact that he didn’t remotely like being too close to other people, he could keep those discerning umber eyes on their reactions that way too. Levi had probably interacted with Grant more than Whitaker, as it happened, and although he didn’t really trust either one of them the fraction of the extent he could throw them, he still preferred to keep a subtle, watchful eye on the pair. It would probably be a little unsettling for Whitaker to take a seat next to the other Shadow in the group seeing as how they were complete strangers to one another, but Grant was far more likeable than the Italian knew himself to be, so he figured that was probably a safe bet. So, with everyone seated uncomfortably, Levi decided that he would at least break the ice and make the introductions before he got on with unveiling the pressing matter.

“First of all, I think it best that you two know each other’s names,” Levi said, looking to one man and then the other. “Grant, this is an associate of mine, Whitaker. And, vice versa.”

An annoying thing about the Italian: he didn’t shorten people’s names without express permission or without the intent to mock. Whitaker hadn’t given him any reason to do either of those things to his knowledge, so, Levi was obliged to keep the man’s name pure. If Whitaker wanted to correct him, Levi was happy to wait a few moments for an exchange to be made, but he was definitely more concerned with getting to the point. That was why all three Vampires were gathered, after all.

“As for the problem we got, it concerns the recent subject of the news.” Levi ensured that his gaze was divided evenly between the two men as he continued. “Grant and I were just talking about how we thought this whole mess had happened and what we were going to do about it.”

Well, that was putting it bluntly. In actuality, Grant and Levi hadn’t discussed much at all. Not really. The Englishman had done all the talking and the Italian had listened, occasionally making the effort to mumble something back or nod his head. Levi wasn’t one to talk much, but, he did want to demonstrate here to Grant, at least, that he was one to pay attention.

“One tends to affect the other, causality and all that,” Levi explained casually as he shifted into the corner of the seat. “While I appreciate there’s no going back now, not unless someone’s got some uncanny ability or knowledge of time travel…” He paused so that those umber eyes could inspect them seriously, despite sounding like he was joking. “I think what happened to make the bomb go off in all our faces matters when it comes to creating a contingency plan.”

And this was when their theory about the Hebigumo Foundation was supposed to come in, but instead of just laying out the threads and leaving Whitaker to tie them together himself, the Italian simply stopped talking. Umber eyes turned to Grant expectantly, either because he expected the Englishman to carry on the tale or because he was waiting for approval to carry on himself. It wasn’t entirely clear which it was, but Levi wouldn’t carry on until one of those things happened.

[Stonehouse]

“Somebody in this camp ain’t what he appears to be. Right now that may be one or two of us. By spring, it could be all of us.”
~ R.J. MacReady – The Thing ~

Whenever people utter the phrase “two’s company, three’s a crowd”, they tend to be suggesting that a cosy couple is somehow perfect, and that once an additional person is added to the mix, the whole scenario becomes a cluttered mess, like adding too many chillies to a curry and turning it into a volcanic bowl of molten lava. Although there were clearly times when two was indeed the magic number, Stonehouse was generally a fan of crowds. Whether it be bouncing about in a sea of sweaty bodies at the front of a music festival, or jumping around like an escaped lunatic on a full moon night at a football stadium when his favourite team had just scored a last minute winning goal, there was usually something more communal about a mass of people. Even a drink or two with the boys was greatly enhanced when the number of participants began to increase.

Humans were inherently social animals, and the old adage that there was strength in numbers often rang true. But Stonehouse was no longer a human. His community-based activities were greatly reduced nowadays, the life of a vampire having diverted his partying yacht into a much quieter harbour. However, it was fair to say that he still believed that a united group could achieve far more than a few scattered individuals. Despite being depicted as the bad guys, Stonehouse couldn’t help but admire the Borg from Star Trek, with their collective hive mentality. The sum was definitely greater than the parts.

The addition of a third member to the soirée, a young and currently unknown man named Whitaker, seemed like a reasonable idea to the open-minded Stonehouse. The Englishman trusted Levi’s judgement, so if this Whitaker bloke was good enough in the Italian’s mind to join the discussion, then why not bring him on board. Another viewpoint on the whole debacle could only add to the intensity of the debate.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Whitaker,” said Stonehouse, stretching out the customary hand of friendship, “and in such wonderful surroundings.”

The tall businessman smiled cheekily as he offered to partake in a handshake, his dark, shining eyes openly scanning the strip bar once again, as if he were a tourist on a sightseeing trip of Rome or Paris. Maybe three would actually be the magic number later on in the evening, thought Stonehouse as he assimilated the physical talents on display from a busty shorthaired blonde and a slender brunette. Pleasure would have to wait, as business needed to take precedence on this occasion.

“As Levi just mentioned,” continued Stonehouse, his attention now firmly back on matters at hand, “the proverbial **** really has hit the fan, and it has to be in all our interests to come up with a plan of action.”

Pausing, casting a wry grin in Levi’s direction before focussing on the new recruit, Stonehouse added more words to the discussion.

“Sadly, none of us are Dr Who, so time travel is, indeed, out of the question, and I don’t think we possess a Men In Black style mind zapper to erase memories either, so like it or not, we need to deal with this situation. I figure that it’s better to be proactive and take the bull by the horns, rather than be reactive and wait for the bull to maul us to pieces.”

Although Men In Black was just a movie, Stonehouse would have bet his bottom dollar that Harper Rock was about to be swarming with government agents. The city would become infested with secret service personnel, like a plague of intelligence gathering locusts had descended upon the streets. Maybe some kind of vampiric Passover was required to stop the snooping noses of the humans from unearthing more sensitive details? Why not smear the blood of a slaughtered lamb across the doors of crypts and apartments in the hope that the officials would wander along without any further interrogation? Perhaps blood would be an ironically terrible choice of prying eye prophylaxis!

Just how much information was already at the disposal of the authorities? Had someone spilled all the beans, or was the can still fairly full, in which case, could a lid be put on it before everything was extracted? Stonehouse was half expecting a plethora of newspaper and magazine articles from “victims” of vampire attacks to hit the newsstands and bookshops. Kiss and tell, or rather bite and tell stories from humans who had encountered their undead counterparts. Alien abduction was so yesterday; vampires were the new aliens.

“We need to know how much the humans really know,” said Stonehouse, tapping out his points on the table with authority, “who told them that vampires exist, whether or not they fear us, and what they plan to do about their new supernatural neighbours.”

In Stonehouse’s methodical mind, the fear factor was key. Panic and paranoia could very easily dig into the thoughts of the confused humans, like infectious parasites. Mass hysteria was potentially only a clumsy public display of vampire power away. How many of the humans were now routinely checking out each and every stranger who walked passed them, wondering if they were a vampire? Each time they walked into the local grocery store to get their weekly shopping, would they carefully examine the checkout girl to see if they noticed anything different? Would kids at high-school be weighing up each member of the baseball team to see if anyone had suddenly become far more coordinated and powerful than the other players? Was there a genuine concern that the indigenous population was being picked off one by one, slowly turning Harper Rock into a vampire super-city?

“So, Whitaker,” added Stonehouse, “what have you been hearing? What’s the word on the street? Oh, and what do you know about the Hebigumo Foundation?”

[Whit]

His own hand moved to clasp Grant's so he could return a thin-fingered, but firm shake. "Greetings." He offered. On the whole, Whitaker disliked 'touch'. He found affection intrusive – which likely came from his having spent his formative years in an orphanage. He had been adopted by loving parents, but by that point, his ability to form normal attachments had been lacking. A common misconception was that those who disliked being touched avoided all forms of human contact. On the contrary, or at least in Whitaker's case, as long as there was no implication of vulnerability, he didn't much care. And there was nothing more empowering than successful men meeting in the heart of a den of iniquity to discuss 'business' for the night. He decided against tacking on a smile, because it would have been fake anyway. In his dealings, he was always suspicious of people who went out of their way to seem cheerful. Especially if they had no reason to be. He was a creature who prized authenticity, so that's what he offered. Even if it wasn't particularly enjoyable or fun.

Seated a moment later, his fingers wove together and then flipped upside down, so that his cupped palms could lay in his lap, his forearms resting against thighs. A position of comfort. His back remained ram-rod straight, though that may just have been posture. His gaze had its own weight, and it swung like a wrecking ball between the two other men before he moved the chair a little, angling it enough for him to comfortably look into the eyes of both Grant and Levi. Classic Western theme. If someone couldn't match his stare, he had difficulty trusting them. Or at least respecting them.

The subject finally came to the surface only a moment later, and Whitaker's mind immediately began to move. Was he ready to have this dicussion? Generally, he preferred to gather information prior to comitting himself to a plan of action. However, there were several common sense issues raised by humans with knowledge of vampirism. Thus he listened first to Levi's introduction of the topic, and then Grant's further explanation. To their credit, the two of them were right. Something had to be done. The sooner the better. They had unknowingly stumbled onto an issue which had plagued the vampiric community for years. For as long as Whitaker had been one of the undead, the collective society known as 'vampires' had been unable to do so much as agree to be civil on CrowNet, much less on a larger issue. The persistent fighting and unwillingness of people to work together (I. E. Be willing to take orders rather than bark them), had led to a completely ineffective community.

Whitaker had assumed he would eventually have to bite the bullet and move out of Canada. The way he saw it, even if vampires and humans got along for a short time, vampires always needed to feed. And they were immortal now. That meant eventually some idiot was going to **** it up for the rest of them. There just needed to be one 'Hitler' turned; some megalomaniac who got off on hurting other people, and that would be it.

So yes, the prospect of forming a plan was one that intrigued Whitaker. Especially if it meant he didn't need to go the road alone. A normally solitary creature, he was very aware that his chances for survival were increased with every alliance he made. Yes, it opened him to the danger of betrayal, but there was risk associated with any good business decision. He was open to the idea of both discussion and planning, but he would need to learn more about Grant before he completely threw in.

And so he let the men speak, choosing not to interrupt. The Doctor Who reference caused his gaze to briefly drop to his own feet. He was, for once, not wearing his T.A.R.D.I.S. mid-calf socks. He had a wide range of interests, and he frequently accented his clothing or décor accordingly. His humor might have been dry, but he wasn't entirely wrapped up in the world of finance and power. "I agree." He began. "The very first step we need to take is in finding out exactly how much the human population knows, and find a way to control the spread of information. If we find someone who is willing to spill everything, that could be an issue. For very topical example, if humans were to find out that our immortality is essentially confined to Harper Rock, they could decide to wipe out the entire city. Or drag us out to slaughter us, leaving us permanently dead. Humans may know about Vampires, but humans also have many ideas romantic and otherwise, as to what that means. I believe we should play into that whilst simultaneously keeping as much of the real specifics from them as possible. However, we need an accurate summary of exactly what is known." He assumed the government had picked up more information than the regular population, however that was potentially a dead end.

The capture of a Lionelli had been the final nail in the coffin for secrecy. Presumably, the most anyone knew were the physical traits of a Vampire, and how they responded to certain stimulus, such as sunlight. Those were the only things most experiments would show. "Allow me to make the assumption, Grant, that you are a man of means. I believe if we were to pool our resources and efforts, we could create a diverse plan to intentionally spread missinformation, hype, good will, as well as suppress legitimate information from staying on the internet or reaching the media. While this is a stop gap, and not a real plan, I believe it would give us time to come up with something more long term, and that's really what we need most of. Time."

His eyes lazily drew their way back to Levi. The whole situation really was a ticking time bomb. "I run a publishing firm, multi-faceted telecommunications company, and a software development group. I can't pretend my ear is to the ground, but I can set up certain monitoring systems to find out what sort of information is being discussed, as well as work to project a certain type of image." A pause. "That will take time though." He tacked onto the end. Though again, that was just part of the plan to give them all more time. Whitaker was the sort of man who believed in coming up with realistic solutions. Brainstorming, and theories were great, but he liked concrete, easily scheduled plans which had the ability to show results.

So he cut straight to the point.

"I believe we're talking about something else though, aren't we? Lets not tip-toe around the subject. What exactly do you men want to do about the inevitability of human popular opinion turning against us?." And then, almost as an after thought. "I've heard of the Hebigumo Foundation. I know they aren't what they appear." Specifically, their corporate owned buildings seemed to be frequently teeming with demifae. However, they were enigmatic. "Why?"

[Levi DAmico]

In all his years of being alive and undead, it seemed like the Italian just had a habit of either surrounding himself with people who agreed with him, or morons. Fortunately in this case, Levi had managed to acquire the company of two keen-eyed and wise members of the Vampiric community – and just when he was starting to believe that there were probably none left, too. While the three around the table seemed to be in agreement, their perspectives on the matter weren’t necessarily the same. Levi understood that each man had his own background, his own history and experiences that had reflected themselves in his own perception. Where Grant seemed to be the smooth-talking salesman who both achieved and broke the stereotype of selling snow to Eskimos with his flamboyant nature, silver tongue, and steely wit; Whitaker was the equivocal quiet type, the one who went under the radar, the gatherer of profane knowledge and unexpected power whom was born to understand the aristocracy, but couldn’t be smothered by it. What the three shared was a sense of business and succeeding at all they considered worthy, which was a tell-tale sign of their methodical and dominating personalities. They were naturally strong leaders, fast paced rational thinkers, and risk takers; with their iron wills and limited patience exacerbating a competitive streak. Their shared no-nonsense disposition was also likely to be the cause as to why the discussion between all three was fairly fluid and straight to the heart of the matter.

Whether it was strategizing a new revenue making campaign or stopping the world from imploding, it appeared as though the three had similar opinions regarding how to challenge the problem. First, they knew they needed more information on the subject – the finer the details the better. Second, they would have to analyse the information and grade its threat or opportunity parameters. From there they could finally talk about how they were going to move forward to achieve their goal – it was all very basic stuff, but easily forgone due to urgency. Sometimes a business is so eager, or pressured, to appease its shareholders that one had to skip a few steps or slack on the thoroughness of each job in order to achieve anything. Many companies would operate on the assumption that getting something done now was better than achieving nothing at all by the deadline. Levi preferred to be thorough, he preferred having the threads and fibres of every cloth of evidence under his nose before he could move forward with a decision. But they weren’t feeling the pressure of any shareholders that could pull the plug on their business, they were under threat from the world classing them as monsters or ******* science experiments and removing their life and freedom for good.

The subject of time was at the centre of the issue. Whatever the three decided, they ultimately had to surrender to the idea that going back was not an option. Levi could concede to the fact that he should have done something about this problem sooner – it wasn’t like he hadn’t suspected this type of **** had a good possibility of becoming their future – but he hadn’t cared about it when it had mattered. Instead, he’d wanted to hide away and pretend it didn’t affect him because he wasn’t looking to affect the community he had been thrown into. So if there was blame to be thrown around, he definitely felt like a portion of it belonged in his corner. And while they were there to discuss how this **** had happened in the first place, it seemed like that was an unspoken agreement amongst them all: no one had done enough collectively to prevent the issue in the first place. With that embarrassment in place, they could move onto discussing more important matters, such as acquiring more knowledge on what Humans were aware of, and putting in place some bait and switch strategies, all while they pulled the plug on whatever schemes were being hatched to **** them over next.

There was a lot to get done, which invariably presented the issue of whether the three of them had enough time and resources to get it all done. Whitaker was already offering up his assets for the “greater good” and Levi and Grant could do no less but to offer up the same, or a viable substitution. As far as Levi could tell, there were at least three factors to address; the relationship between Vampires and Humans, stemming the opposition to their kind’s survival, and ensuring that their kind (or maybe even just the three of them) were prepared if the first two factors couldn’t be addressed. The Italian would bring these matters up, of course, but not right away. Whitaker had addressed the pair with a direct question and Levi felt obliged to answer it. Ordinarily he might squirrel his intel away to save it for a more desperate moment, but he actually didn’t feel the need to have one over on these two. Levi wasn’t one to trust people, because to him, humanity was invariably selfish and each man was looking to take care of himself over anybody else. It was possible that, having learned what they could from the Italian, that Grant and Whitaker could betray him, but he didn’t really see a purpose for it. They could either work together and prosper together, or they could waste their time trying to be the king of the castle and die together. For once, Levi decided that he was going to be a team player.

“Grant and I have had some trouble with the Hebigumo Foundation just recently,” Levi began in a cool tone, addressing Whitaker’s question. “It turned out they were digging up part of Swansdale looking for a way to end us. Permanently. This leads me to think that, whatever we decide, we need to consider three key aspects here. Number one; keeping the general population on our side with positive reinforcement. Number two; preventing enemies from being able to damage both our reputation in the eyes of the public and our overall safety. And number three; having a back-up plan that we can go to if all else fails. In the end, we’ll need to guarantee that we survive against whatever enemy presents itself.”

He paused then because that was a lot of talking for the laconic Italian, plus it gave him some time to look to both parties rather than directly focusing on the Necromancer. Levi already had a few ideas as to how he could personally contribute to all three aspects, especially items two and three on the list. Whitaker, fortunately enough, seemed to be quite adequate in helping with the first item, and Grant definitely had enough skills, charm, and intellect to help on all three accounts. It was just a question on what they wanted to agree to do.

“Grant and I already reckon that the Hebigumo Foundation are a viable target. They are a threat, but, I dunno what level yet. I mean, when we found them at Swansdale they weren’t that much trouble, and their plan kinda just fucked itself in the ***. It wouldn’t bother me to wipe them off the face of the planet either way,” he said and casually shrugged a shoulder. “The less opposition, the better.”

And while he hoped that was all he would have to say for a while, there was one more thing he felt like he had to share with his companions. It wasn’t a subject that Levi felt very familiar with because he was used to privacy just kinda being expected and dealt with in the harshest manner should it be betrayed. Vampiri were pretty much immune to such threats, however, so he would probably have to swing it in a way that encouraged his fair team mates to comply. Maybe it was better to wait until later to get this message across, but he really felt like it was important to address now so they each understood the terms and conditions of their coalition.

“And one more thing before I finally shut it for a while,” Levi added with a soft smirk. “If you get the chance to find more people like us who can help out with this massive task, I reckon we should probably discuss their worth and reliability together before we bring them on board fully. I’m not used to carrying dead-weight and I don’t appreciate doing it either. Our resources are going to be stretched a lot as it is and, while it might be harsh, I don’t advise we waste what we have for the sake of being nice.”

[Stonehouse]

“I keep seeing these people, all recognizing each other. Something is passing between them all, some secret. It’s a conspiracy, I know it.”
~ Elizabeth Driscoll - Invasion of the Body Snatchers ~

Stonehouse was an incredibly organized and methodical man; the kind of person who actually makes plans to be spontaneous. He was constantly drawing up mental lists, filing away information into his brain’s cupboards and cabinets in a very scientific and practical manner. The intelligent Englishman’s current project was to shuffle around the various details of the vampire exposure saga like a deck of playing cards, while trying to work out which aspects of the Masquerade’s sudden collapse were the most frustrating, and potentially damaging.

Was it the fact that the entrepreneur’s thriving businesses had possibly been thrown into jeopardy the main reason why he was so angry? The four ventures in question were doing extremely well, mostly down to the hard work and dedication of their dutiful owner. The thought of having the windows smashed in, or graffiti sprayed across the walls due to Stonehouse being labelled “one of them” was a bitter pill to swallow. Who’s to say that a pumped up vigilante mob, fuelled by tabloid headlines spewing hatred and paranoia, wouldn’t go on the rampage, dishing out its own form of justice like a medieval lynch mob hunting witches? Arson, looting, goodness knows what kind of physical violence, could be the slip of a loose tongue away. People wouldn’t trust their neighbours any more in case they happened to be a vampire, so imagine the uproar that may occur if it was confirmed that your local business partner was a bloodsucking monster. Utter chaos.

Could it be that the insider medical knowledge that Stonehouse possessed was making him twitch like he had a spark plug shoved up his arse? He’d already raised the topic of scientific experimentation with Levi, knowing full well that the world’s governments would be aching to deploy their experts, and that laboratory testing and autopsies would be their top priority. Stonehouse was rather vain, and enjoyed all his body parts in their existing positions. In addition, he was exceedingly picky about whose hands were allowed to wander over those parts. Rubber gloves and scalpels just weren’t his thing.

Perhaps it was simply a case of the complete uncertainty that now lay around the corner that irritated the control freak so much? It nagged at him like a demented mother-in-law, teasing him because his destiny was suddenly up in the air like a helium-filled party balloon that had escaped the clutches of a young child’s careless hands. How would the general population take this cataclysmic revelation about the existence of supposedly mythical creatures? Would the self-sufficient survivor be forced to slide back into the shadows of the sewers, away from the prying eyes and gun-sights of the authorities? Although Stonehouse had never voluntarily chosen the immortal life of a vampire, he had learned to cope and adapt to the consequent, monumental changes. One could almost say that he was revelling in his new reality. Despite the fact that Stonehouse sometimes missed his old lifestyle, and occasionally craved the company of his long lost friends, his nostalgic whims were becoming more infrequent. The powers that he now had at his disposal, the strengths and abilities that he could have only dreamed of in the past, were all now part of his fantastical new world. He was his own master, no longer a slave to the corporate system that he’d left behind. If he wanted to wear a suit and tie, he would, but because he chose to do so, not because some unwritten convention told him that he should. The thought of losing this exquisite freedom was mortifying. It would be like being killed all over again, but without the glorious resurrection.

Although each of these points merited much debate, as clearly their potential collective impact was damning and destructive, the one thing that was infuriating Stonehouse the most was his lack of knowledge about who was to blame for the almighty clusterfuck. Stonehouse was definitely not a busybody, or some kind of office gossip columnist who spoke freely by the water cooler to anyone who was willing to listen, but he did like to know what was happening. He insisted on having his finger on the pulse, as ironic as that may sound for a vampire, and had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. The natural leader wanted to be the hub of the social wheel, at the centre of all activity so that he never missed a trick.

The charismatic entrepreneur had essentially managed to become a walking focal point, a social chameleon blending into each and every situation that popped up in front of him. At least that was the case in his old world, his human world. No matter how many amazing new skills the businessman had acquired during his time as an immortal, he was still playing a frustrating game of catch up when it came to a full understanding of the seedy underworld of Harper Rock. He knew about the rival factions of vampires who roamed the backstreets, and the bizarre demi-fae that inhabited various areas of the city and its outskirts, but he hadn’t quite pieced all the blocks of the puzzle together yet. It was the equivalent of attempting to complete a huge jigsaw puzzle without knowing what the picture was in the first place. Urban philosophers would always harp on about knowing your enemy, but the problem at the moment was that it wasn’t quite certain who that enemy really was.

“If I may address the subject of the Hebigumo Foundation first,” said Stonehouse, “as I firmly believe that we cannot fully deal with this situation properly until we actually know who’s to blame or who we are dealing with.”

For Stonehouse, that was the crux of the matter. How could you plan to deal with a situation when you weren’t exactly sure of the parameters, if you didn’t know which team to support? Sure, the humans were the group who would need appeasing immediately to prevent the possibility of total carnage, but who threw the grenade into the room in the first place? Stonehouse turned to Whitaker, then to Levi, trying to share his attention equally between the two men.

“I hear all the talk of this Lionelli character spilling the beans,” continued Stonehouse, “but how was he captured, who sold him out before he sold us out? As Levi just mentioned, those charlatans at the Hebigumo Foundation are scheming fuckers, pardon my language, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they are fuelling the flames of this whole situation.”

Stonehouse paused, placing his palms flat down on the table in front of him, and leaned forward slightly. The thought had crossed his alert mind several times already that maybe not just one group was entirely to blame, and that some kind of secret network was behind the whole show; a conspiracy of sorts, pulling the strings from behind the scenes. The hapless member of the Lionelli family was potentially just a puppet, manipulated by a greater force hidden behind the curtain.

“However,” he added, “we must not count out the possibility that some of these rogue vampire gangs, you know the type I mean, the clueless fuckwits who go around attempting to murder their own brethren, aren’t also in on the act. What better way to rid the streets of your vampire rivals than to expose them to the humans, and let them do your dirty work.”

This particular scenario had been vexing Stonehouse since the fateful news of the great exposure broke. It would be so easy for a few fiendish fanged felons to stir up some trouble, to violate the secrecy of the Masquerade in a clumsy enough way such that the city would reach a high state of alert and panic. Inciting a riot, rather than participating in the fighting, was a devious plan; a cunning way to fan the flames of paranoia without getting blood on your own hands. Yes indeed, what better way to dispose of one’s enemies than to let someone else, say a bunch of rowdy humans, do it for you while one relaxes in front of the TV watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Maybe the sci-fi fan had simply seen too many episodes of The X-Files, but the idea of a giant conspiracy continued to linger in Stonehouse’s thoughts.

“So to that end,” said Stonehouse, glancing across to his new acquaintance, “I’m happy to offer any financial support that I can, Whitaker. I’d class it as an investment, an insurance policy to safeguard my future, and the future of my business enterprises. As immortals, we should have all the time in the world, but you’re clearly right, the reality is that we don’t. Let’s get the hype wheels into motion, spread some propaganda.”

Turning to face his Italian friend, Stonehouse concluded his response, nodding slowly to display his approval of Levi’s suggestion.

“I also completely agree with Levi that we should try to strengthen our numbers and work closely together on this, perhaps make an official alliance? I fear that there is a rocky road ahead, so let’s hope that those hype wheels have got chunky tyres and a great set of shock absorbers.”

[Whit]

Past. Present. Future.

Whitaker could clearly define each problem presented by the three men, and then classify them into one of three categories. Past. Present. Future. Though his features did little to betray his feelings, there were thoughts constantly scurrying through his mind. Not with the random skittering of little insect feet, but the booted march of men going to war. His mind processed the information and immediately began to filter through various potential solutions. He would create a hypothesis, and then use his real world experience, information, and theory to decipher if the plan would ultimately benefit him in the long run. In this fashion, he was able to discard the less efficient options with surprising reliability, despite the large margin for 'human' error which manifested most often in the form of bias, and lack of raw data.

The subject of the Hebigumo Foundation continued to come up, an example of the way in which incomplete information could be detrimental in not only formulating a plan of action, but in evaluating the essential support or pillars for that scheme. Only a fool took offense to making assumptions based on being shortchanged on facts department. Whitaker was more than happy to concede that if both of the men were worried about the enigmatic corporate entity, chances were there was something to their argument. After all, he knew directly that Levi's was a critical and skeptical mind. With his suspicions of Grant's wealth confirmed, he guessed that Stonehouse was self-made, or at least had the business acumen to support his lifestyle. Frankly what it came down to though, was that Whitaker didn't think Levi would waste his time with the opinion of someone who didn't have enough brain cells to rub together. As such, with two men of admitted intelligence giving him the same warning, he was more than happy to listen and consider.

"What exactly were they digging up? Or attempting to dig up?" He asked, in response to Levi. That was the moment at which a few things began to click into place. "Allow me a moment of conjecture, but the only way to permanently eradicate our kind is to seal the rift between our world and the Shadow Realm. If this is the case, then I would enthusiastically..." If he was enthusiastic, it wasn't evident in the way he spoke or carried himself, nor in his near still features or expressions. "...suggest we get our hands on as much of their research or work as possible, and reverse engineer their logic to substantially increase the size of the rift." He realized what he was talking about was almost entirely theoretical, but there was some evidence based in empirical data. He had been around when the fade fractures had begun to punch their way into Harper Rock. He knew from that experience that the size of the sundering could be modified. He just didn't know exactly how.

There was also the matter of just how crazy his plan was. But to Whitaker's mind, it made plenty of sense. It just took one secret getting out to expose a major vulnerability in the vampiric community. Outside of Harper Rock, they were not immortal. Not really. The way to ensure true immortality? Enlarge the area until it was almost impossible to exploit that weakness. Then, even if mortals and vampires became bitter enemies, it would be nearly impossible to totally wipe out the undead species. Not without setting off a chain of events that could lead to the total annihilation of everyone. And everything. At the end of the day, Whitaker was exactly the sort of man to blackmail the entire planet into letting him survive.

Perhaps the Hebigumo Foundation was the source of the current problem. Perhaps not. If Whitaker was right, then they certainly were the key to being the ultimate and final solution. Irony, he supposed. But wasn't that always the way of things. Men made weapons of mass destruction and used them to enforce peace.

However, as his companions were quick to point out, there was more to the grand scheme than just the end result. This meant he needed to weigh in on the other matters even though his mind was set on the resolution. "I suppose we could kill two birds with one stone. Get their research as well as see if they had anything to do with the release of vampire information. If it turns out they did, then we act accordingly. If not, we can focus our attentions elsewhere. After all, it could just be that a weak Lionelli was caught due to neglect and oversight. Mind you, if that's the case, I believe the whole of the Lionelli bloodline should be forced into accountability, but that's a discussion for a future time." He said, his hands slipping from the arms of his chair so they could fold inwards and lay together against his lap. His gaze moved fluidly between the two men. He probably never would have won an award for public speaking, but there was a subdued intensity behind his eyes that could be convincing in its own right.

"I believe we all agree that a strong information suppression and public image campaign are in order. If we can all agree to my suggestion about delving into the motivations, methods, and information relating to the Hebigumo Foundation, I think we have a solid basis not only for a plan, but an alliance protracted beyond the scope of our initial investment in time. In fact, we've already set up the groundwork for the long term goals I mentioned before. I don't know you. Grant. Normally I prefer to be acquainted with someone before entering into any form of bond with them, but I appreciate both the need and the timeline. I think your suggestion may be the best move we can make." He then slid his hand into a pocket, long, slender digits dragging a cell phone from his jacket so he could begin to tap words across a screen. "I also happen to have the perfect adjunct to this venture, if you don't mind someone coming to join in planning the specifics. He has a good idea of how to make certain things 'on the ground' happen without error."

He glanced up from his phone to confirm.

[Levi DAmico]

They say that if you’re the smartest person in the room then you’re in the wrong room and you need to get the **** out of the room as soon as possible. For most of Levi’s life, being the smartest person in the room and having no place better to be was just a sad and frustrating fact of his existence. That’s just what happens when you’re surrounded by small-thinking, weak-perspectives, and short-term tacklers, but have no way to escape them or move on. It wasn’t like he could just hand his resignation in and **** off to pastures new, or, file for some kind of promotion. Cosa Nostra didn’t run that way and least of all with people like Carlos Nicoletti at the head. Granted, it wasn’t Nicoletti’s operation anymore, what with the man having suffered an accident recently, somehow managing to sever that special life-supplying artery when he’d hit the bottom of the stairs in his Manor home. Yet, the man had been in power long enough to instil some bad habits into the Patriarca, habits that were like toxins in the system and were only just starting to work their way out and be cleansed completely. And while Levi appreciated the fact that things were finally changing for the better, it was a bitter pill to swallow knowing that those were changes were being implemented by his own damn father.

Suffice it to say, Levi and William had never really shared that typical father-son bond. They never went fishing, took the dogs out to the park, played football or baseball, or talked about education and careers and life goals. As a matter of fact, Levi and William very rarely spoke to one another in the 30 plus years that Levi had been alive, and when they did, it wasn’t pleasant. Each man seemed to have fostered a special kind of hatred for the other, possibly resulting out of spite and hurt feelings for something that hadn’t happened the way it was meant to happen. And yet, they weren’t terribly unreasonable men, people who wouldn’t be able to accept that their nemesis had talent. Levi appreciated that while William was a shitty father and a shitty husband, he was a good businessman. He knew how to make tough decisions, knew how to time his actions for the best effect, and understood how to dominate a field of play with his meticulous observations and plans. It had only been a handful of months since William had replaced Nicoletti as don of the Boston Crime Family, and already they were bringing in the goods and wealth more lavishly than ever before. And the Patriarca veterans were actually celebrating the man’s arrival now, even those who had worked to put William in prison in the first place; though likely because they understood that the D’Amico family were particularly adamant when it came to getting revenge. Vendettas could last for ******* centuries in their family.

It should have happened back in 1999, William’s ascension to the throne, but now it seemed like order was finally being restored – right when everything else was going to ****. Levi decided to keep his cynicisms to himself, knowing what it would do to his already degrading relationships in the Family, and especially because backing William was easier than going against him. But that wasn’t cowardice talking or even laziness; it was just a good business decision. Levi hated his father, but, having William in power was beneficial to him. It meant more to him to have that freedom he’d been given to run his operations out in Harper Rock than it meant to get one over on the old man. Frankly, the only reason Levi ever had to refute William was out of his own bitterness. Besides, working with his father didn’t mean he had to stop hating the ********. Effectively, if Levi did nothing to ruin things, he could be having his cake and eating it too. Being away from Boston meant that Levi could not only focus on ensuring the success of his own empire, but it allowed him to pick up other tasks too, such as forming a coalition to protect himself now that the Masquerade was done.

Sitting with Grant and Whitaker, and hearing each man’s ideas and suggestions on how to progress, finally gave the Italian that sense that he wasn’t the smartest person in the room. Though, arrogance would naturally have him believe that he still wasn’t the dumbest either. He didn’t know his companions well enough to determine a hierarchy of intellectual fortitude, but he was willing to concede that right now, all three of them were standing on equal footing. That was a rare moment indeed and highly generous for the man who hardly ever accepted people as his equals. Maybe he was finally learning to turn a corner then, becoming softer and perhaps more open with the fact that people weren’t as useless as he’d always assumed. Or, maybe this was a spectacular circumstance and Levi had managed to find two people that were cut from a very similar cloth. After all, it was obvious that they were all in this for themselves. Whitaker and Grant had gone so far as to confess that they were willing to contribute to a coalition based entirely on the fact that they wanted to save their own hides. Levi hadn’t been quite so forthcoming, mostly because he wasn’t used to having such an expression being taken in a positive light, but he’d certainly agreed with the standing.

In his experience, it seemed that most people were vexed by this idea of being self-serving, like it was somehow a bad thing to want to ensure your own survival and success. Levi had come to this conclusion because those people were quick to hide their deeds behind veils and lies, pretend like they were doing the noble thing. They deleted evidence hacks ‘for the sake of the community’ and insisted that it was a bi-product that their own survival was protected in the process. People fought for the lives of their loved ones on this moral errand of ‘doing the right thing’, but couldn’t admit to the fact that they were doing so out of this selfish need to keep their loved ones close, to protect their own narcissistic generation of love. It was, perhaps, seen as cold and calculating just to admit to things as they were, and Humans – Vampiri included – didn’t want to suggest in any manner that they were somehow flawed. Yet, Levi was the type to appreciate the cold, hard facts of life: people were inherently self-regarding. It honestly didn’t bother him that Whitaker and Grant were agreeing to this movement simply because they were looking to cement their own survival. ****, so was he. So should they all be. And perhaps it was these three’s unflinching honesty about their motivations that made it so easy for Levi to set aside his trust issues just this once and agree to actions that would inevitably shake the foundations of their world.

“If you need to call in associates to help things along, I ain’t got a problem with it,” Levi told Whitaker, his umber eyes squarely fixed on those enigmatic blue orbs.

There didn’t seem to be any point in reinforcing his argument from earlier, even if it had been a worry for him at the time. Levi glanced over to Grant then, seeking confirmation from the Englishman, but it was just a formality. They honestly didn’t seem like the type of men who would accumulate dead-weight out of sheer sentimentality. Besides, they knew what was at stake if they failed.

“But obviously those three articles I mentioned earlier come with a ****-load of sub-sections that we’re agreeing on at the moment,” he added. “There’s plenty we’ve gotta address, particularly in figuring out how this whole thing started and what that says about how we tackle things from now on. I would suggest we work on fire-fighting, prevention strategies, and fall-out solutions simultaneously. You know, what with time being our greatest limitation and the items we have to work on all being linked.”

Levi paused to gauge the reactions, unsure of whether his idea of giving a gist of the situation was thorough enough – it rarely was clear to him if people were following his train of thought and vice versa. But since Levi was a very curt-speaking individual with neutral tones and a lack of enthusiasm, the pause was a very much just an audible one. He didn’t use his hands to exaggerate his words or regulate his pitch all that much, the most he did was adjust the intensity of his eyes and their direction.

“As it happens, items two and three lead into one another,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat. “Digging into the Hebigumo Foundation might uncover some more knowledge about how we can go about making that rift larger, and therefore, give us more territory from which to fight. Meanwhile, digging into the Lionelli might tell us something about how that organisation has managed to rise so suddenly and with such force, and yet, failed to keep one little straggler from spilling the beans to a government that actually gave a **** and took it seriously. To which, I reckon gives us two more leads to work with. One: if the Lionelli fucked up, they should probably pay some kind of reparations. And two: we should be asking if there are any ties between the government and our community.”

It was certainly worth considering. After all, hadn’t Harper Rock recently elected a Major that was, for all intents and purposes, some unknown’s thrall? Who was to say that the person pulling the strings behind Bancroft wasn’t helping information get leaked to the wider populace, never mind Grant’s suggestion that other infamous members of the Vampire community were doing the same to re-enact a holocaust they’d been pining about for years. It made a certain kind of morbid sense; preach about the end of days, play the victim card when no one listens, and then force that prophecy into being fulfilled so you could play the saviour. Levi was pretty certain that religions were started on such conspiracies.

“Also,” Levi offered, feeling like he was getting tired of his own voice by now and was in dire need of a drink and/or cigarette. “With item number one offering to uncover enemies too by making a lot of noise and seeing who lifts their head above the parapets… You can see how it all connects quite neatly.”

The Italian had had no reason to disagree with anything that had been said so far, and he’d even nodded along in silent compliance as each man had taken their time to express their insights and subsequent opinions. His speech now was in no way meant to be condescending, if anything Levi was reporting back a summary of their discussion and demonstrating that yes, that dullard from Boston did have a ******* clue what his companions were talking about, as well as its numerous implications. Plus, it also worked quite nicely into his next speech, which was designed to put a few of his own cards flat on the table, even if he wasn’t as eloquent a speaker as his companions.

“I’ve got access to funds if we need it. Just how I’ve got access to the sorts of people who are good at extracting and relocating resources, intelligence, and uh… other people.” That was probably the most subtle suggestion that he had ever given in regards to him being a member of an international crime organisation. “So, I’m suggesting that I would be better at the latter items on the list rather than the first. I probably got about as much charisma as a dead fish, so, I’m happy to leave that kind of thing to yous two, depending on how you wanna go about this whole thing.”

Not that he believed that schmoozing was the best and only way to get people to behave in a favourable manner. Money spoke louder more often than kindness ever did, just like how he’d demonstrated with the stripper who’d been far too interested in their Necromancer up until money had been tossed in her face. Whitaker might have thought it generous to hand over that much cash to a lowly whore, but, there was a method to his madness. There always was. Splashing the cash was just another method of garnering interest and loyalties. If people think you’ve got money to spare, they will quickly come for it. Case in point: every single person who has ever won the lottery soon found themselves under the scope from various charities and organisations looking for funding. Greed happened to go hand-in-hand with self-servitude and it was easy enough to capitalise on that – Levi had found – just by throwing a few hundred dollars at things. Everyone had their price, everyone could be bought, and Levi wasn’t worried about being taken advantage of because he could deal with thieves effortlessly enough.

“So while we’re waiting for companions to arrive,” Levi said rising from his seat, but sharing his focus evenly. “Do you gentleman want a drink? It’s on me.”

[Fynn (DELETED 8395)]

Priceless he thought to himself. Gilt edgings in perfect condition, vellum so thin you can see through it, ink... ox blood based... at least three artists providing illustration, just as it should be, not one... His gloved hand smoothed gently down the leather binding, tooled with the typical whorls and swirls the auld celtic scholars had embossed upon anything of import. Bindings and rituals that most in this modern time thought meaningless if not sentimentally quaint and beautiful. He knew better than that. This tome fair crackled with magic waiting to be unleashed once more. Dormant in hands not magically inclined for so long, it seemed to recognize a kindred spirit and leapt to life eagerly under the Irishman's fingers. Aye m'love, yer to home with me, d'nae fret. One last touch of his cloth covered index finger and the book was closed once more and green eyes the colour of a murderous sea looked up to once more give attention to the auction house master.

The shadow was in no hurry to let the man know his pleasure, that would simply up the price, and though he had full reign from his sire to get this tome at all costs, he was twice damned if he would pay its value... or anywhere close to it. Not that this idiot's staff of antiquators knew a thing about what they had, just that this book was old, celt and in near mint condition. The Kings of Éire had been opened back up, their tombs found not far from Belfast, in mounds of honoured dead, and the British government had been slowly raping them of their secrets almost as fast as the blood mages had been thieving them right back. This book had been noted as gone up for auction by his underworld contacts via the dark net.. that devious place of murder and forgotten lore... a place you couldn't be found unless you wanted found... and Fynn had seized upon the information, telling Whit immediately their good fortune. The why of it, how this book had made its way here to Harper's Rock would have been a mystery to most, but the Irishman knew that like drew to like and these items of power were drawn to the magic that fair pulsed in this city. It was beyond his ken how the place was flooded with vampires rather than Warlocks and Sorcerers... not that he was sorry for the lack of competition.

"It's hardly the pillow book from India ye promised. A bit tame." the shadow let the sneer in his voice sink in, made more palpable by his cultured Irish accent. "Where would that one be as that's why I'm even in this..." he looked around himself, his face devoid of any emotion other than disdain as if there was a smell to the place that was ill favoured "fine establishment..."

He did not move, did not back away from the table, avert the directness of his gaze even as the room seemed to dim and pulse, as if shadows were beginning to gather and have game with the light. His suit was impeccable, well tailored to fit his braw width, giving him the streamline appearance he often lacked when in more casual clothes and his well corded arms and shoulders were on display. Tonight was a show night however, and Fynn was more chameleon than most would guess. This attire was his actual comfort zone, the tough was natural to him yes, but it was more of a costume to don when needed... his father had taught he and his brother well in all aspects of society. Too bad it hadn't helped relieve him from the stake they poked him on and set a'fire. Societal trappings only went so far when humans felt threatened by the unknown, and his warlocking family had been caught rebel rousing...

The former blood mage allowed his anger to harden his gaze, used it, juiced it to almost swell his aura into intrusive sizings, pushing against the now shrinking gentleman who was trying to bilk him of too much money. The shadow knew well how the humans would react to all this fall of mask business if left to their own devices. They were little more than cows in a field, placid until a sudden movement had them fleeing in all directions to storm and stomp over anything in their path. It was almost cannibalistic how the fuckers ate cows.

The man swallowed once before stepping back to recompose himself, which was a wise thing in Fynns opinion. One should never speak without thought, even if giving the appearance you were. He loved that shite. Making folk believe he was out of turn and thoughtless with his words... they began to talk around you and say things they wouldn't normally if they thought you were simple or impulsive.

Fynn was neither of those things.

"We of course have the pillow book as well sir... we believed this book would be of interest to you, knowing your predilection for ancient books from your country..." he trailed off, clearly uncomfortable. It seemed he had some preconceived notions about how the Irish were a brash and unruly, temperamental lot. Good.

Fynn pulled out his fountain pen from his inside coat pocket and that was when he felt his cellphone vibrate. Retrieving that as well, he wrote down the amount he would pay for both books, and not a penny more. Looking at his screen and not bothering to see the auctioneers response, he read his Sire's text. Dammit, he hated when Whit had meetings with new people without him. Or someone. Fynns wraith preferably. Asmoday was a right prick, but did what needed done. He sent back the quick text "I'll be right there. Not far away from you now." and then looked back to the man standing on the other side of the table.

"Have them both wrapped an' sent to the Manse. Mind they best be there a'fore midnight or we'll be speakin' again, only not so polite like." One more pointed look, Hyde prancing about his expression like a murdering exhibitionist, he turned and made his way out. A club with naked women... he hoped that his sire had brought enough antibacterial to ease his inner OCD. Fynn on the other hand was no stranger to the needy things and felt a faint quirk of his lips before smoothing back into an expressionless facade.

Of all the places he would never have looked to find Whit's business meeting... and he'd best find his sire intact and in good way or there was going to be some gangland style BOOM BOOM, and not the kind attached to ***.

[Stonehouse]

“I think we should try to make them understand we mean them no harm. They are living creatures out there.”
~ Pastor Dr Matthew Collins - The War of the Worlds ~

There was a time when Stonehouse, the energetic entrepreneur, would have classed himself as the life and soul of the party. This was not simply his inner ego blurring reality; people who knew him would agree in a single beat of their human hearts. His hypnotic charm and infectious enthusiasm could captivate a crowd, leaving them eating out of the palm of his hand like a pride of ravenous lions feasting on a fresh kill of deliciously succulent wildebeest. Call it social salesmanship or mental marketing, but Stonehouse was somehow able to tap into the psyche of his clients, guests, colleagues, and general acquaintances like an oilrig engineer drilling into their subconscious reserves of feel-good fuel. The businessman’s boyish banter and charming chit-chat was able to make his counterparts feel relaxed and at ease, allowing the intellectual interrogator an opportunity to cement friendships while pumping out valuable information from their wells of knowledge.

In many ways, the mental manipulator was providing a win-win situation to all his affiliates. They felt appreciated, like they were all somehow special, the “chosen one” in the shining eyes of their host. Whether they were a high-flying business associate in the middle of striking up a lucrative deal, or an attractive blonde in a bar who was being subliminally seduced into a night of unbridled lust, Stonehouse knew how to pull the correct strings like a master puppeteer. He had his skilled fingers firmly on the exact buttons to push, but unlike a crazed dictator in charge of nuclear weapons, when Stonehouse pressed down he would deliver a mutually beneficial result, rather than mutually assured destruction.

But that was then. It was a time when Stonehouse had a beating human heart of his own, rather than the cold lump of fossilised coal that now inhabited his ribcage. It was a time when the sound of Champagne corks popping was as common and repetitive as the ticking of an office clock, a time when wild parties were as frequent and as crammed as the trams that trundled along the streets of Manchester city centre where the socialite lived; a time when Stonehouse was… alive.

As much as he hated to admit it, Stonehouse had noticed that his personality had slowly changed, not necessarily for the better, since his transformation into a vampire. Was it surprising that such a cataclysmic event as discovering that you were neither dead nor alive but somewhere in between, dwelling in an undead limbo, would leave you feeling a little different? He may well have been in a state of semi-denial, but deep down the pragmatic Englishman knew that he had lost some of his sparkle.

With his thick, black mane of hair, Stonehouse was an archetypal alpha male, a natural leader of the hunting pack, surrounded by able-bodied assistants to complete his pride. He had always mingled with the antelopes and zebras, getting up close and personal with them in order to select the perfect prey. Nowadays, though, he found himself occupying a more distant position, like a solitary soaring eagle, picking off quarry from afar. He was more like a crocodile, lurking in the shallows waiting for the hapless wildebeest to stumble into his domain, rather than the lordly lion, chasing down his trophy with majestic flair and panache. His flamboyance, although still clearly in existence, had been subdued, and his dashing, occasionally reckless courage, had been toned down. Stonehouse’s dark, glistening eyes still retained their ability to captivate and mesmerize, but occasionally they could be mistaken for being hollow like the steely jet black orbs of a tiger shark. The symbolic lion had not exactly been tamed, but the ringmaster didn’t quite have the same command over his audience that he once possessed.

Maybe the gregarious bon vivant had foolishly consumed an excess of Champagne, and the millions of tiny oxygen bubbles had started to rust his personality, corroding his charisma? Did a person’s animal magnetism have a half-life? Would it decay over time, especially if the person in question was now a vampire, fuelling the oxidation process with copious amounts of iron-rich haemoglobin found in blood? How ironic that he appeared to be less magnetic, despite ingesting all those iron atoms.

Stonehouse turned to face Whitaker. A charm offensive was clearly a great idea. A positive publicity mission to conquer any fears that the human population may harbour about the potentially threatening intentions of their vampire neighbours could help to relieve the underlying tension. As painful as it may be to accept, Stonehouse knew that perhaps he was not going to be the best option to play the poster boy in this particular campaign. The shadows seemed somehow more satisfyingly secure than a public parade. His vanity and ultra-high levels of self-confidence had regularly lead Stonehouse to conceptualize his chiselled face gracing the cover of a best selling book or glossy magazine, or maybe being plastered across the streets of London on the advertising posters that wrapped around the sides of the iconic red buses. Were the neon billboards of Time Square in New York within his reach? Could the sophisticated gent end up looking at images of himself while he strolled through shopping malls, because he had just been named as the next James Bond? Dream big, or don’t dream at all.

“Tell us more about your colleague, Whitaker,” asked Stonehouse. “What skillset can they bring to the table? Another helping hand with the right attitude and abilities could be very useful indeed.”

In many ways, Stonehouse the control freak was going to have to take a giant leap of faith by accepting a second stranger into the fold. Although he had enough acquaintances to publish his own who’s who phone book, Stonehouse was extremely careful and increasingly more cautious about those people he classed as his friends, confidents who were given the password to enter his inner circle. Stonehouse was scientifically minded and based such decisions on his own personal experiences. Facts beat rumours any day. The Englishman had spent enough time with Levi to formulate a solid opinion about the Italian, and to bestow upon him the title of friend. If Levi thought that Whitaker was a decent bloke, a sound addition to the team, then Stonehouse would happily accept his judgement call. One of the key areas in the art of good management was delegation. If a general trusts his lieutenants, then he doesn’t have to partake in all the battles himself.

However, Whitaker was about to introduce yet another new member to the group, a person that was a further degree of separation away from Stonehouse’s friendship keep. Initially at least, the vigilant businessman would need to cast a watchful gaze over any newcomer until he was able to size them up properly. Stonehouse had erected psychological fortifications to prevent any unwanted intruders getting too cosy without first having a thorough vetting. There was nothing wrong with being a little bit guarded when there was clearly a lot to guard against.

Drawing his strong, well-manicured fingers through the thick locks of his onyx hair, Stonehouse flicked his attentive eyes between his two colleagues.

“If this newbie is any good,” he said, “then maybe they can help you with your PR exercise, Whitaker? That would give Levi and me an opportunity to dig up some more dirt on the Hebigumo Foundation, and also ruffle a few Lionelli feathers.”

D’Amico had already proven himself to be a formidable ally when the pair had joined forces successfully against the sinister and suspicious Sirens. Stonehouse would have no hesitation in getting his hands dirty again if it meant shedding more light on this precarious situation. All leads would need to be followed up, no stone left unturned.

“I’d kill for a single malt whisky,” added Stonehouse, offering a subtle nod of approval towards Levi. “Oh, and maybe the phone number of the slender blonde over there with the butterfly tattoo on her arse cheek.”