Path of the Vampire forum

Now that all of the cards were on the table, it was almost easy for Jerry to relax. Yes, it seemed he had a monster at his dining table, but she was a fairly agreeable creature and there was the chance of a deal being struck. "That was exactly what I was thinking Miss d'Artois, but before we begin," he pushed his chair away and retrieved a dishtowel from the sink area, offering it to her so she could better staunch the bleeding. Living in a trailer park for the last few years and growing up in an orphanage, he was not a stranger to violence and was not weak stomached when seeing the minor wound.

Returning to his seat, he took a moment to arrange his thoughts, idly brushing dust that was not there off of the table. "It is clear that you have something that I desire. In more ways than once. I believe you referred to it as 'changing me'. As to how I can benefit you," he looked up at her, "I'm an organizer and a planner, and it seems that you are in clear need of that."

He adjusted his position, trying to find a comfortable way to sit, and decided to make this more official. "In return for assistance that you voluntarily offer me, I will happily and willingly offer any services or abilities I possess to further your endeavours." His hand finally still, he reached it across the table and offered it to her, "Might this be acceptable to you?"

Yes, this was better.

It felt right, this discussion she was about to have. Standing she stripped off the outer shirt she wore, leaving her arms bared down to the tank top. Taking the towel he offered she swiped at the blood trailing down her arm. She craned her neck to look at the wound again and shrugged. Already the blood had gurgled to a gluggy stop. Her skin was torn and underneath her flesh pulsed a healthy pink. She had to admit she wasn’t entirely au fait with the specific biology of their kind. She wasn’t even sure if her body was a real body or if it was merely an animated corpse like those things she had taken to killing in the catacombs and Quarantine Zone. But she felt real. She bled like it was real, even if sometimes, she didn’t entirely feel 100% for real.

“I have a banker already. He was an accountant and he keeps our family… books..” She started and stopped just as quickly when she realised how it sounded. She inadvertently appeared, without intending it, like she was describing exactly what he had accused her of. Boss of a crime family. But she didn’t want to make it easy on him. She didn’t want to just shrug and let him into their life because he was so damn eager to be a part of it.

Of course he’d want to jump at it like a leech and start sucking the good out of the opportunity that he could. He was an old man living a sad life in a **** hole apartment. If she was in his shoes she’d be leaping off the edge of the cliff she’d shown him, if for nothing, but to save himself from the last drudgery his current existence offered. But she hadn’t come here to be his angel of mercy and she wasn’t the collector of men and their sad life stories.

“Yes, I have what you want. But you… need to convince me. You, have anything I need.”

She was, and would continue to be the head of a bloodline that she was determined would flourish. In the papers he had shown her she saw a way he could be a part of that. But he had to come by it on his own, he had to know his own worth and then, by god, he had to offer it up to her like a tithe on Sunday. She wanted her slice of this man, her 10% and she wanted him to offer it to her. Tied up with a neat little bow.

For the eternity she could give him she wanted, no, needed, the commitment of a large portion of his time, energy and life.

Laying her discarded shirt over her lap she sat down, relaxed back and crossed her legs. “So, tell me. These services oui? How can they possibly help me?”

As annoying as it was, a small amount of respect was beginning to develop based on Miss d'Artois' actions. Where he had intended to be in a position of power, leading her along by a leash to the result he wanted, it now seemed necessary for him to be the one almost begging and pleading to achieve something positive. The ends justified the means though.

He would do this in his own way though, and if she rejected him out of hand she had already made it apparent that he would be a dead man but that would still leave the other records able to be sent to the newspapers so his revenge would be possible. That was not the goal though, not anymore.

"I find it difficult to attempt to apply for a position when I don't know what is needed or even what is currently being done. You say you have a banker and a keeper of books already and I assume that you are in charge of providing your organization direction, what everyone should be doing and things such as that. Off the top of my head, I would ask if you have someone to organize inventories. Make sure that everyone has the proper and necessary equipment that they need to perform their duties."

He rocked a little in his chair, contemplating how else he might be able to sell himself. "Along with that, you already know that I'm an acquirer of needed information and items. That is generally a useufl tool that I will of course turn towards your benefit."

She wasn’t really listening to what he was saying. Okay, she was, but it wasn’t really the content of his words she considered but also the whole package of what he represented. Here was a man who had lived his life. Age had left its mark on his face and made it interesting. There were lines that curved from the edge of his eyes, crow lines they called them. Pi hadn’t aged enough to get them herself, she never would. Not many who had turned, ever would.

His life hadn’t been an easy one. She could tell that it hadn’t always been good but he had survived it, flourished in his way and on the cusp of forced retirement and the expectation of becoming a saggy skinned octogenarian, he had conceived of an audacious plan to improve his lot. She could really

“Inventories?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. Now, there was something she hadn’t considered for him. It hadn’t even registered on her richter scale he could come in handy facilitating a taste so mundane, yet so… important. Like a Quartermaster or. She hummed then, her expression moving to one of reluctant approval. He’d thought outside the box, and he didn’t have any damn idea what box he was working in. She nod. “Inventories… hrm.”

Traffic had calmed down outside. There is a plateau in a city like this. The hum of traffic at noon, building to a roaring crescendo from the time school let out to peak out traffic when parents crawled their way to their homes, in an ant trail of flickering indicators, low beam lights and sporadic brakes depressed in long lines of slow moving vehicles. She had arrived at the end of peak and now it had calmed. She could imagine most were tucked up in their respective homes. Work shoes toed off, showers taken and suits peeled off to make way for baggy shorts, t-shirts and a cold beer out on the deck. She couldn’t hear the hum of traffic and she figured that night, had well and truly settled.

Pi settled too, into the seat, into this conversation and into the idea that she might well have found herself someone who could be of use to her.

It was telling, how lacking in attention she was to the details of a thing that she’d forgotten his name and had fallen to using a generic misnomer like Mr Kleiner when talking to him. She’d come to this place knowing his name was Jerry Lawton. And it was a testament to her skill set (or lack of it) that what little she’d found out as Under Secretary so many months ago, had flown out the window as the present drama intruded and pushed aside pertinent details.

She’d bet her last dollar Kleiner (cause now that she’d used the title on him, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing to do so) wouldn’t forget details. She bet he was the kind of man who took details, like he’d just taken hers and molded them into things that could be used, dissected and ordered. Pi leaned forward in her eagerness and smiled a small, very secretive smile.

“Tell, me more about this… inventory.” She asked. “I am interested in this.”

Jerry's mind had shifted gears and it was going full speed, adapting the concept of customer accounts at the bank and generating new applications for it. "It would be quite simple really. Create and maintain a secure database of necessary items," he did not bother to try and define the items since he was unsure what Miss d'Artois would actually be using but he assumed that weapons of some sort would be a large part of it, "include the quantities and the contact."

His middle finger tapped of its own accord on the table as he mentally scrolled this imaginary databse. "Depending on the necessary access and the individuals you trust, you could even allow the contact points to edit the items themselves so that inventory could update in something close to real time. With that, they could even track who is receiving assistance to make sure that everything is turning out to your favor."

Turning the idea over and over in his mind, he looked it over from as many angles as he possibly could, an honest gleam in his eye now. He'd been presented with a problem and was working through it and that was a true joy for him. "Yes, it wouldn't have to be anything difficult or particulalry elegant either. Simple would likely be best. That is of course," he smiled and looked over the rim of his glasses, "assuming you agree that it would be beneficial."

She felt like she needed to sit back in her chair and steeple her fingers while she listened to him rattle off what he could do. What she did was smile, the smile widening to a grin as he spoke. She might not be the best strategist in the world but even she could recognize the kind of asset he could make for the family. It’s like he spoke exactly the right words for this conversation to change what was to be into something completely different.

“Hrmmm…” she hummed as he spoke.

The traits of a survivor was the ability to adapt and to think on your feet. This situation required that sort of switch hit. The question now wasn’t whether he would die because he wouldn’t be given a choice there. The question posed now, was whether he had convinced her enough, to bring him back again. She gave him an encouraging nod, although he didn’t need it. He was a man who seemed to realise that this moment was a pivot in his life and he was laying it out for her to peruse, to pick through his intention and measure it for its worth, sorting and discarding his words as he spoke and taking the good and putting it into place in their family.

Pi was first, a gun, a weapon that had been honed to a killing edge and set loose on the target of another person's choosing. She had not been the mind behind the act or the person who reduced the act to a rationale that would be the greater good. That was changing.

As he spoke she took the time to look him over. He would not be the norm in their world. It was a world populated by the blessed and the beautiful, by the artistic and the unusual. He was not their norm but Pi figured that their world could do with a change of pace and a world populated solely by 20 somethings whose frontal lobes hadn’t completely come into maturity when they had been turned. Very few, as far as she could see, had the sense only maturity gave them. A steady mind, a judicious methodical deliberation before they acted. No, he was not their norm, but he could be their exception, a very good, very useful, very able exception. Pi liked that thought. She liked it very much.

She wasn’t one of the types who had ever wished herself to be the person in charge of ultimatums but that was exactly where she sat. She would decide tonight if this man lived or died, or more aptly put, died to live again or just… passed on. The irony was, she had already made her decision.

There was no sense in waiting, so she didn’t. He wanted this and so did she and describing the process to him before hand seemed redundant. He would learn on the fly and she was just about to his *** off the first cliff.

With vampire speed she slid forward, a smooth move, palming his revolver off the table. Her movement was a fluid rise, sweep and steady progression as she moved with deadly economy. Pi flicked the safety in a smooth motion, raised the weapon, two hands coming to cup, steady and her slim finger found the trigger like the second home it was. Two shots reverberated through the small trailer. One left chest, heart dead centre and with a blank look she watched his body jerk back. Moving fast she slammed her foot onto the cushion of his chair her foot precious inches from his family jewels stopping the old lazy boy from throwing him backwards onto the floor behind him. Aiming the gun into his lap she shot once more, taking out the main artery in his leg.

Dropping her foot she placed the weapon back onto the table and leaned forward, her two hands resting on the arms of his chair, bringing her closer to him. Reaching forward she corrected the glasses that had come askew.

“Shhhh….” She whispered softly as his body jerked and he gurgled up at her. “That, is for shooting me Monsieur Kleiner, don’t ever do that again. Now… shhhhh… don’t fight it. I need you to bleed and then… I will give you what you need… to live, oui? Do you understand?”

How could he understand really. His leap of faith was so much more than her own but what choice did he have? He was already dead. Like the pious believed in the salvation of heaven and the ascension to sit on the right hand of God, and the absolution of their sins on nothing more than faith that it would be so upon their deaths. So too did this man have to believe that she would bring him back. She was his personal salvation, his hope for resurrection.

And she came with a soft smile, an accent that spoke of the streets of Paris and a cruel shift of her soft lips as she taught a lesson in her rough treatment.

So this was how it ended. Destitute, alone, and, apparently, with so little dignity that he was going to die on his back in an armchair. She would pay though, he knew that this was a possibility from the beginning. One did not dance with the devil without knowing there was a chance of getting burned. Really though, how was this any different than what he was already doing. Better to go out with a bang and a hurrah then to fade in to further obscurity.

As his descent was halted, a second shot rang out and pain blossomed in his leg. He was far enough removed from himself at this point that he could appreciate the beauty in the pain. It was like an ocean, coming in waves that were regular but not exactly similar. Blossoming like a flower in spring before fading in to fall and then coming back to life. Her hands were at his face and he tried to look at her but the tears made her swim in front of him.

She was saying something, that much he was sure, but what he had no idea. The shot was so close, his ears were still ringing, a fact he hadn't been aware of until this moment, his mind more concerned with the gun shot wounds. Now though, the fact that he couldn't hear her seemed extremely important. What was she telling him? Was she gloating perhaps? Telling him how he should not have believed her?

If that was the case, she would find out soon enough that, even in death, he would make sure the books balanced and she would get what was coming to her. The preparations he had made would do that perfectly.

Some small part of him that he had been beaten out of him in the orphanage thought that perhaps she was comforting him but he could not believe it. There was no reason for her to, nothing that she could gain at this point. Blinking the moisture from his eyes as best he could, he saw her smile and could do nothing but wait for one darkness or another to come over him.

He died much like she supposed he had lived, in angry silence.

Life bled out of his body and he drowned in his own blood, and still he had nothing to say. He didn’t ramble on in a venom inspired monologue of all the injustices of his life or rail at her for her duplicity as his life leaked out of his body like a slashed tire puncture wound. She couldn’t even say that he gave up to the inevitable and accepted his fate, his gaze told her otherwise. He might not have said a word but his expression spoke volumes of his feelings and in that gaze that was becoming unfocused by blood loss, she read a different story. The window to his soul opened up and showed her a part of him she had suspected but had not yet confirmed.

He was one, very angry, old man. He glared up at her like he was imprinting her image into his brain so his poltergeist could come back and kick her ***. The venom wasn’t verbal but a visual dart that took a focal point dead centre of her forehead.

She merely looked down at him with a neutral expression.

Pi wasn’t the talkative type. She didn’t have a whole lot of use for the extra syllables and adjectives people littered their conversations with in order to pad them up and make them look more substantial than they really were. She was a subtle thinker and small movement person. She had a narrow focus and unnecessary distraction irritated her. She looked down at him and carefully gauged when to intercede and casually bit her own wrist. Her canines elongated, and she half bent, her wrist raised to meet halfway in a fluid motion. Sharp teeth cut through skin, the edge a smooth efficient blade. She dug her bite deeper and slashed her own vein.

Blood spilled from her wrist and it was this she pressed against the old man’s lips.

By this time he was near insensate. His head was lolled back in the lazy boy, his lower lip hanging at a loose angle. Where drool would have flowed instead floor blood from his mouth and she only made it worse by adding hers to the mix. With super human strength she tilted his head back, his chin raised to an impossibly awkward angle. He would have felt the pain of her hold, or maybe not, he seemed completely disconnected. His arms had dropped to the side of the lazy boy like dead weight, his knees had fallen to the sides, spreading his legs in an unsightly way as his muscles gave up trying to sustain unnecessary postures instead redirecting to a failing heart that needed more attention.

It was a losing battle, but the body tried anyway. Like an efficient captain the brain shut down unnecessary functions in order to preserve the most important. Lungs, heart and brain, not necessarily in that order. Tonight the brain scrambled to save a heart that was beyond saving. There was a body equivalent to a all points alert and there was nothing the brain could do to stem the flow of blood out of the holes Pi had put into it.

So Pi fed him her own, as was needed. She held his chin tilted impossibly back and pressed her open wrist to his mouth firmly, creating a reluctant seal of his lips by using brute force. It wasn’t a pretty thing and she was taking no steps to soften the blow that was about to hit him. Becoming what they were was a messy business, and she did what was necessary to give him what he needed and no more. The rest was up to him.

He had to want it enough to accept the change. Have the strength enough to survive it. And after all was said and done, the intelligence enough to sustain it once it was all done.

Pulling her wrist away from his mouth when she felt him latch on himself, the sucking motion telling her that instinct, the one he needed to change, now guided him. Stepping away from him she walked the mere five steps needed to reach his kitchen and picked up a dish towel, absently wiping away the sluggish flow of blood from her self imposed wound.

She turned to watch, her gaze impartial. It was his turn now. She’d done all she could.

His mouth felt hot. And sticky. And metallic. His chest hurt. And his leg. And his neck. What was happening? Had he had a heart attack? A stroke. It was hard to move. Everything felt stiff.

Eyes still closed, the room spun and he tried to force enough strength in to his legs to close the foot rest, to get his feet to the ground, to get some balance. After an agonizingly long time, he succeeded in closing the extension but that forced his body out of the chair and he fell forward.

Snapping open, all he saw was the floor rushing up at him and he couldn't stop his hand from shooting out to try and catch himself. He knew it would hurt, his wrists would break, possibly his nose as well when it inevitably came in contact with the floor. It was with great shock that, despite a twinge of pain in his arms, he managed to catch himself with no real adverse effects.

The strength was fleeting though, and he fell forward on to his chest. Struggling, he rolled himself to his back and looked at Miss d'Artois and the events of the night came back to him. "You...shot me?" It was an obvious statement and one he might not have made otherwise but his mind was still catching up with current events. "What's happening?"