No Risk, No Reward (Enzo Dragomir)

[Xerxes (DELETED 8819)]

Xerxes sat propped against a wall of clear glass. Behind him, gleaming columns stretched out like monoliths that captured the white and yellow city light on razor edges and spires that thrust into the dark emptiness above. Light twinkled from within silhouettes that faded into the black beyond the horizon and speckled the room with little spotlights that flashed over the pool of blood spilled out before him.

As much as it felt like the contribution was all his, it was a collaborative effort. Bodies littered the floor, collapsed in careless shapes as they lay, broken mannequins in bespoke suits stained red. Some had faces of slack, open wonder and Xerxes could only imagine it was the immensity of death that put that look on their faces. Everyone dies sooner or later, but it makes death no less of a shock upon its arrival. It's the sudden and clear realization that there would never be another breath, another day, another chance. It was the most finite of all feelings, stronger even than fear -- anticipation.

Xerxes had yet to succumb to it. He floated in the blood, thick like ink, cooling the fabric stuck to his legs and warming the fabric stretched over his belly. He could feel it seep into his crotch with every desperate beat of his heart. Only the cool glass at his back kept him from floating away and he focused only on what he would do next, forcing his will to be louder than the creeping anticipation of the curtain call. No, the show wasn't over just yet. He refused to let it end here and now. He'd only just begun.

"No risk, no reward," he uttered from lips as pale as his face and growing just as numb. These words were gospel -- the universal law of life itself. They formed an axiom of which Xerxes knew to be truer even than God. It was, of course, perfectly packaged into a generalization with the definite rhythm of a mantra. It was one thing to be reckless and risk everything on a whim with little cause or responsibility, but another to take a chance on something great because the conviction was too great to be ignored or not taken for the sign of possible glory and truth that it was. Life, after all, was one huge gamble. If one didn't play to win, he was going to lose. If one didn't play smart, he would surely lose. If one didn't play at all, he would never win.

Now, he could say all that, but it wasn't exactly pithy, was it? And Xerxes always had a knack for being both pithy and risky when it suited him. Even back at the age of ten, sitting on the floor of his mother's studio, legs bent and folded next to her's with knees touching between them. Large canvases loomed around them, gathered and clustered against the walls with faces of spring light through tree branches, deep and overlapping wrinkles where wisdom was held, the flight of the earthbound, and the endless stretch of civilization and sky that met as earth and heaven at the horizon.

"What do you think?" She asked about the large photograph sitting before them. It was her work, one of many pieces by Adeline Wakefield. Xerxes stared at New York from, what he could only assume to be, atop a building with the city spread out beneath him in the light of day. Skyscrapers stood boldly against the blue sky, skirted by streets where tiny people walked next to tiny cars caught in the act of living, like a mechanism that couldn't be stopped, because it was innate to go out to act and to be.

"I want to be there," he said, turning his sharp blue gaze to the woman when she laughed, pale hair cascading down her back by the tilt of her head. He saw light and an unrestrained merriment in her eyes as if his own restrained enthusiasm amused her most of all in the world.

"We were just there."

"I want to go back."

"What for? Broadway? The little cafe with the homemade brew? The pizza? The subway? The lights? The buildings? Lady Liberty?"

"All of it," he said, even for the things she didn't yet name.

Adeline nudged her son's thin shoulder with her own and asked, "What would you say if I asked you if you'd like to move there?" She always had this habit of shoving her questions into hypotheticals. It was almost teasing, but Xerxes knew when to take her seriously. So, he said:

"Yes."

That very day, they packed up their life in Toronto and crossed the Falls to the Big Apple. Xerxes took to the city like a fish to water. He went to a public school Adeline insisted on over a private school that was comfortably within their budget, because she believed variety gave life greater authenticity than silos that were little more than gilded echo-chambers. Xerxes would have preferred the award-winning professors and curriculum carefully crafted for success, but the chosen public school wasn't bad. He made friends with the staff before he managed to befriend anyone his own age because, for a while, he had become known as Xerx the Jerk. He assumed it had something to do with the number of times he'd brought another kid to tears for not doing what he instructed in group projects, or the time he told Olivia Sparks that she could only aspire to be married to someone smarter than her (if she was lucky), or maybe it was the time he dislocated Stanley Atcomb's shoulder on the monkey bars when he and his pack of goons tried to bully him. Whatever the case may be, the other kids avoided him and the adults seemed to understand him, or indulge his preferred grown-up disposition, at the very least. One thing they all learned fairly quickly upon meeting Xerxes was that he didn't like to be treated with kid gloves. He didn't like to be shoved into the child-locked box that denoted there were things he couldn't do because he wasn't of legal age yet. He didn't want to be buckled into the child's seat, he wanted to drive the car.

"My little man," Adeline called him with amusement and a pride that was understated, as if it were rude to brag about her child's appetite for achievement, success, and victory. Xerxes always found it strange that these things were desired and celebrated in society, and yet still considered bad form to personally take pride in. Just as quickly as Xerxes took another of life's trophies for his own, whether it be top marks in his class, landing his first job as the personal assistant for the first Assistant Director of a blockbuster film when he was seventeen, or buying his first designer suit with the cash, Adeline told him, "It isn't polite to brag."

What he does, he wouldn't exactly call 'bragging' per se. Whenever he openly stated his accomplishments and Adeline reprimanded him for it, he would tell her, "It's the truth. I did those things and I can do more." Most wrinkled their noses and dubbed him arrogant because of it, but he knew it for what it was: confidence. He never saw the logic in hiding it or apologizing for it. Why should he when things needed done and he knew he was the one to do them? Why wait around for someone to grant him the privilege of showing what he could do when he could just do it knowing full and well that he could?

The few people his age who understood that became his friends, one of which he met in middle school and would become his closest friend. His name was Marlowe Grimes. He was there the day Xerxes dislocated Stanley Atcomb's shoulder, and when staff asked him what happened, he said, with an all too casual air, "Stanley was gonna bust his teeth in. He said so. He 'n the rest of 'em were gonna beat him bloody. It's what they do, ya'know? So, he popped his shoulder clean out. You should'a seen their faces when Stanley was on the ground screamin' 'n cryin' like that. Don't think they'll try to beat him bloody ever again."

He told Xerxes, "Good job on sending those douchebags runnin'," and they've been friends ever since. They even attended the same high school. During that time of their lives, Marlowe grew large, which added an intimidating aspect to his otherwise laid-back demeanor, and Xerxes grew long and stayed relatively slim and intimidating in personality. They worked like a good recipe and built a network of diverse friends around them as they took on venture after venture in Xerxes' restless plight for accomplishment. When things got crazy, it was Marlowe who managed to drag Xerxes down into the grass from time to time to make him stop and smell the roses.

"Gotta learn to appreciate the little things in life, Xerx."

Just because Marlowe liked to kick back and watch the clouds go by didn't mean he wasn't up for knocking a few heads when needed. He took on the role of 'the muscle' in Xerxes' group of friends out of a sense of respect for the guy. It wasn't that Xerxes couldn't protect himself, but having an extra pair of eyes, arms, and legs was helpful when a deal went bad or someone got cocky, and in the early years, that happened too much for comfort. It started with small things, like dealing narcotics and stolen goods. Then, right when senior year of university began, the news broke:

VAMPIRES ARE REAL!

After getting his hands on twenty gallons of blood, Xerxes headed home to Canada -- apparent vampire capital of the world. He set up a meeting with a vampire by the name of Émile with Marlowe and Rebecca at his side. Rebecca was a plump redhead with a keen eye for detail and a near eidetic memory. Really, there was no better person to keep up with all the information thrown their way. In fact, she was the one who recognized that only half of Émile's posse were vampires. That bit of info, however, didn't make the fact that they were about to deal with a real life Penny Dreadful tale any less unnerving.

Xerxes stood at the head of a long, polished oval of dark wood surrounded by black, leather chairs. The rest of the decor was spars: a screen mounted on the opposite wall, a chair in the corner, framed photos of Harper Rock's cultural and industrial districts hanging on the walls on either side to remind the inhabitants of the conference room what mattered in life: industry and success. At the opposite end of the table sat the vampire Émile. He had a face made of sharp edges and gaunt indentations as if his skin was stretched tight over bone. His lips were thin slats of pale flesh that formed a line of contempt, his eyes were colorless half circles beneath heavy lids, and his ash blond hair swept over his skull in weightless waves. Xerxes felt that the slightest breeze would leave him bald. The men and women sitting at the table with him either didn't notice, or didn't care. They all had similar looks of contempt on their faces, and why shouldn't they? Up until recently, entertaining the whims of some strange human was preparation for a meal, not a serious endeavor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Xerxes said to the room at large. His eyes, however, were anchored on the vampire of the hour. "Émile. Friends. We're on the edge of the biggest change in history. Bigger than anything that has come before it. Vampires have been introduced to the world, now out of hiding and on the global stage. I don't have to tell you that this changes everything. One thing in particular: feeding."

And just like that, there was a sudden tension in the air as keen eyes pinned Xerxes where he stood. He tipped his head forward and leveled them all with a gaze as hard and piercing as shards of ice before continuing.

"For as long as mankind has existed, vampires have moved like shadows in the night, maiming and murdering like ghosts. Human laws meant nothing because the dead could not be judged. But now, the dawn has come and the truth has been revealed in the light of day. How long before vampires are dragged to court for their crimes? How long before there are maximum security prisons built to keep vampires inside? How long before every citizen on the street is armed with UV weapons to protect themselves? How long before blood is regulated and there's a blood tax?"

A chorus of hisses rippled around the table and was silenced when Marlowe dropped a long, black box onto the surface. Xerxes placed his hand onto it and smiled, though it was a cold, impersonal thing sitting on his face like a door sign rather than crafted from any emotion like joy or pleasure. Instead, it was simply polite.

"Once blood is distributed by major corporations that cater to your kind, there will be a price for life with a sales tax included. The government regulations alone will make it difficult for easy dining. Your Golden Age has come to an end. But that doesn't mean you have to empty your coffers into registered blood distributors."

He pressed a series of numbers on the keypad over the center front split of the box. It beeped, then hissed as he lifted the lid. A soft, cool, white mist drifted over the edge and onto the table and inside were vacuumed-sealed packs of blood stacked like bricks of cocaine.

"There's more," he said as the vampires leaned forward for a better look. "Twenty gallons, in fact."

"And your price?" Émile's soft French voice still managed to crack like a whip through the conference room and his people sat back in their chairs to resumed their act of staring Xerxes down.

"Three hundred and twenty thousand."

A rat faced woman sneered at him from Émile's left. "That's two thousand per pint."

Xerxes looked at her, but he addressed the entire room. "Do you really think human blood will be cheap when there are slaughter houses on every corner of the planet pouring reserves down the drain? When those shops open, you'll have your pick of cow, pig, and chicken just like the rest of us. If you're planning to take human blood away from hospital patients who need it more, you'd better be ready to cough up enough for a Lamborghini just for a single pint. Shifting the vampire population's appetite from human blood to animal blood will be the first step in domesticating you. If you have no qualms with sucking down a nice cold glass of goat blood, then I can take these twenty gallons of pure, human blood to someone with a more refined pallet."

In that moment, Xerxes had them. They knew, just as well as he did, that he was right. Everything about the existence of vampires had changed the moment the world became aware of them. They were looking at mass assimilation, possible detainment, and a fleet of government regulation the likes of which they've never seen before. The days of pleasantly plucking a meal off the street without notice or repercussion were over.

He had them. And then they got greedy. One moment, Xerxes had a blood deal in his pocket, and the next, Rebecca was on the floor with her neck torn open, her single word a shrill echo in the air, "Abort!"

The seats around the conference room were suddenly empty, vampires blurs in the periphery and humans having shot up with guns drawn. Marlowe stepped in front of Xerxes and took a bullet to the chest, catching it on teflon as he drew his gun and fired. Each shot exploded in a burst of searing light upon impact, dropping mortals and blowing immortals to a crumbling pile of ash, burning them from the inside out. Xerxes pulled his weapon from the waist of his trousers and cursed himself for not wearing a vest himself in a vain attempt to show a bit of trust. He should've known better to trust anyone, least of all a vampire.

And so, he sat propped against the glass after the echos of gunshots, hissing, and screams had dissipated into the cold and uncaring night. What was left of Émile and his goons lay in piles of ash covered with suits. The case of blood lay at the foot of the table, the packets littered with holes and emptied out onto the floor. And Xerxes was trying to keep pressure on the hole in his stomach while his eyes were pinned on Marlowe who lay next to him, staring up at the ceiling with slack, open wonder and a hole in the center of his forehead.

Life was a gamble, and sometimes one came up short. It hurt to lose, but Xerxes wasn't out of the game just yet. So, when he heard hinges whine from the weighty swing of the door, he wrapped his finger around the trigger of the gun propped on his knee and tried to focus his bleary eyes on the person standing in the doorway. The line of his mouth was grim, and his voice was low, but steady as he said, "This is loaded with UV rounds. Take another step and you're dust."

[Enzo Dragomir]

"Bertram, change of plan. Take us to the sound lot."

The quiet, cultured London accent seemed to fill the Rolls with authority even as the words were softly dictated. The statement brooked no conversation or question, though the speaker would be hard pressed to remember a time his manservant had ever thought to do so.

True to form, Bertram merely glanced in the rear view mirror before a perfunctory "Yes Master Lorenzo." and a slight sway in the luxury vehicle as it made a new route in the cities early evening traffic. A blue tooth ear piece continued to hum into the exquisitely dressed businessman, the words no longer being processed first as his mind had already grasped a solution and was five steps beyond what was being relayed. Gray eyes skimmed the 3D holographic image being played before him from the tablet set on his lap. Images of what had to be advertisements spun in a dazzling array of sex and lies... as the voice droned on, not stopping until the news had been spilt and then the conversation quickly over.

Being the bearer of bad news was never a healthy thing in the marketing world, and Lorenzo Dragomir was more ruthless than most... the word cutthroat would bring many a hand to neck when in his presence. Not that he was outwardly violent. There was just something that came from his powerful gaze that made a person feel in imminent danger of becoming 'missing'. Another clip in the evening, forgotten as the parade of homeless dogs were tossed up in hopes for forever homes, news at 10.

Lorenzo enjoyed a world where a mutt got more air time than murder. It meant his job would be easier than hoped...

Convincing the world that vampire were nothing more than oxygen challenged humans. A fitting use of words as half of his kind were moronic enough to be glaring examples of what happened if you held your breath to long.

Lorenzo himself would not be coming out of the coffin so to speak. No, he had carefully cultivated a human look, mannerisms, affectations... complexion... he ate, he drank and even had a private loo that he 'used' just enough to warrant cleaning in his top floor office at Dragonal. It was not just for his own privacy he would stay hidden, it was for the greater good of his family. He knew there were those Dragon that would not hold up under inspection and if no one knew of them, then no scrutiny. The Allurist was under no illusion that the worst was yet to come, that there would be mass fear response and the usual circling of wagons as humans fought to become the top of the food chain once again... and he was going to help them feel that way. But not at the expense of his blood. That was why they were now circling back to where he was in the process of filming commercials, products designed to appeal to his kind, placed in key television slots until humans began to relax as the word vampire was bandied about. How monstrous could they be when they too used toothpaste? Bought cars? Needed therapy? It was a trick as old as businesses... take it out, press it up until it fit the public and they began to happily wear, eat, drink, think what they were told.


There had been some problems at the set. Something about shooting and his little asshole liaison with the largest of the mafia families being involved. Of course. The French ******** was shrewd and hard as nails, but not always as polite as Enzo demanded.

Frogs... always a little smelly, a little unkempt and unfailingly rude.

Enzo hoped the ******** had been shot, he'd been meaning to fire him. A good time out in the fade might take the arrogant prick down a notch. As the thought crossed his mind he felt inside the Armani suit to assure himself his piece was at the ready. Once he felt the safety off and just a quick move to slip free of the jacket he lowered his hand, turned off the tablet and called security at the lot. He could see it from here as Bertram excellently navigated the large vehicle back where they had just come from.

"Tell me." he said simply as the phone was picked up on the other side. He listened as the report of several shots, and a standoff with guards in the back offices was efficiently given. "Do not move in on them. I am here." it was almost barked out as his anger mounted. If he didn't get this cleaned up soon the ******* police would be called, he had a lot full of God Damned starlets who would **** a hillbilly on tape if it got them another three seconds of name mention.

The car came to a stop after easing into his parking spot and he forced himself to wait for Bertram to step out and open his door. Image was everything, and he counted to ten as he regained his usual unflappable demeanor and stepped from the sexiest ride in sight. Nodding his dark head at his manservant, he made his way toward the back lot, security appearing and flowing into place in front and behind him. He yanked the bluetooth from his ear, pocketing it and shoved open the door that led to yet another crisis waiting to happen.

Blood. Blood scent filled the lobby, and his jaw clenched from both desire and anger. He could see a massive man wearing the usual black suit of his security team standing at the open door of his conference room... and inside... a ******* blood bath.

"... UV rounds" was just being said as he rounded behind the behemoth of a man and waited for him to immediately move to the side still holding the door. Enzo carefully scrutinized the room as best he could from this angle... well at least the little ***** frog was tossed into the fade... perhaps he'd reward whatever ******** did this.

After tearing his throat out.

"We seem to have a conundrum here." he said just loud enough to carry the authority in his voice, but not loud enough to give the impression he ever needed to try at power. "You're an American terrorist in Canada, and I am obviously not Canadian enough to turn the other cheek." pausing for a moment to let that set the pace, he stepped in, Italian leather sinking into deep pile carpet soaked in blood. Not an unpleasant experience in and of itself, but a pleasure he could not afford to be seen taking. "I am Lorenzo Dragomir... it seems you wished an audience."

******* Yanks.

[Xerxes (DELETED 8819)]

A figure stepped from behind the one in the doorway and took a step into the pool of blood. Xerxes squeezed the trigger of his gun and the hammer hit the chamber with a muted click. His jaw clenched. The clip was empty. The last bullet was buried in the pile of ash near the door.

"Canadian-American," Xerxes said as evenly as he could manage after a moment. He still gripped the gun, kept it propped on his bent knee as his entire body became aware of the extra clip peeking out from beneath the flap of Marlowe's jacket. "Actually. And 'terrorist' is such a strong word. Think of me more as a door-to-door salesman."

He tipped his chin up, head back and slightly to the side to better see the man who introduced himself as Lorenzo Dragomir. Xerxes knew power when he saw it. Because of the nature of power, it couldn't be contained in a weak, fragile frame -- physical or mental. Power could only be properly wielded by those strong enough to do so, and Xerxes could tell Lorenzo could by his voice alone.

"Oh, good," he smiled like how one tossed down a dollar at the register. "Maybe you can help me out here. I came to offer your kind blood." He said it simply and it wasn't an implication at all. As far as Xerxes was concerned, Lorenzo Dragomir, now presenting himself as the grand audience of this endeavor, the ultimate contact, was in fact a vampire. "Tax free. Your friend Émile decided to settle on just the 'free' part of that deal. He's scattered across the table if you'd like ask him about it." He clenched his teeth against the sharp stab of pain in his gut. "Otherwise, my offer still stands. You get..." He glanced at the empty packets on the floor. "Eighteen gallons of pure human blood. No substitutes. And we both walk out of here happy men. I trust you've got more integrity than your dearly departed friend."