Path of the Vampire forum

“Say that again?”

HOPE held the phone tighter to the side of her head as if that would make what she was hearing a little more clear. Something had to help because she couldn’t believe what the voice on the other end of the call was saying. Dark eyes blinked slowly as the voice raised and she could only nod in agreement. This was not good. No, not at all. Her eyes looked to the steps and then to the front door of Twisted Sister. Was it wrong that she wanted to use either one? All she had to do was make her way across the shop and she could disappear. Either way she could easily be lost under a hood or grabbing a stool to set some ink on a body other than the one that was currently reading her the riot act.

“I understand completely and yes…Wait it is what color?”

Dominique’s bottom lip instantly was pinched between her teeth and her wide eyes narrowed down as she winced. The voice grew louder and LESS went to the ponytail at the back of her head. At first she fiddled with it to tighten it but soon gave up as the voice went on to divulge the details of what warranted this level of anger and disgust. Her healthy appearing fingers tugged out the hair tie and tossed it on the flat surface in front of her.

“If you would just…”

This was unbelievable. Not only unbelievable but possibly permanent. If what the woman on the other end of the call said was true it was not going to be good no matter what she did to smooth it over. Her eyes closed and her rose adorned bare feet left the small stool under the customer counter and slid into the shoes beneath. If she saw the woman responsible it would be too soon.

“Or not. Listen…” Dominique was done being nice. No one told her she was going to be shut down. “I don’t care if you know the chief of police. Tell him I said hi.” A hop out of the counter high shop stool had her body standing up straight as if she was eye to eye with this faceless yet mouthy female currently on the other end of the call. “Did his dick fall off? No, it didn’t. Perhaps you are the reason it nearly did. Ever think of that? Where was he sticking it? Think about that for a moment. He was told not to use it for how long? Read the fine print on the after care sheet for the Prince Albert piercing in your hand.” More yelling was expected and didn’t disappoint her in it’s loud delivery. “If it blew up to the size of a balloon maybe you should have taken that as a clue and not have been blowing it so hard.” More yelling went over her own voice and she waited and listened to the tirade on the other end. “Awww **** you too.”

Dominique growled and slammed the receiver down. This was exactly what she did not need to deal with. Unfortunately she was running a shop that said she had to because she was running it in such a way that this kind of issue could draw attention to her. Attention that could cost her a lot to divert elsewhere. HOPE brushed through her hair and pulled it from beneath the collar of her leather jacket. Just as she predicted the shop phone started ringing and she was tempted to answer it but refrained. It would only add the case against her and that is where she remembered something that could be of use.

LESS pulled the business card from her jacket pocket and gave it a look over. The tip of her index finger moved back and forth across the surface. Flipping it back and forth between her fingers her eyes looked at the phone that went silent on the customer counter. She counted down in her head and just like she expected the message light started blinking. Her eyes rolled while her body stepped away from the service area as if that would make it better.

Wilson. The guy was a lawyer and he was working for the club. Would it be so bad if she gave him a call and presented him with this and see what he could do? She was tired of this dance that she had done several times. If she was to pay enough it would go away. It always did. That was fine and well but it was costing her a fortune. Going legit at least on the necessary paperwork and whatever was involved was the one way she could think of to avoid losing more money than she already had. It was something she had been debating doing for quite some time.

HOPE pulled out her cell phone from her jacket pocket while she made use of the fadeportal hidden nearby. She sent off a couple texts to let a few know she would be out of the shop if needed and where they could find her. For those that knew her well enough it was that time that had her making her way up to Vita Bella to take care of the menagerie that resided on the spacious property. Currently it was an indoor deal thanks to the harsh winter season and so far all involved appeared to be doing well. Even Rufus who seemed to be self-weaning off leather shoes. All that came by and stayed for a while were grateful for that.

An hour later the shadow reappeared through Twisted Sister via another well hidden fadeportal. The toss of her keys to the shop landed the multi-ringed set on her Han Solo carbonite office desk. Her hips swung around the edge and landed her in the black leather chair. The message light was still blinking. That meant Nicolette had not checked in while she was up and doing whatever she usually did with herself at the odd hours of darkness that most had most humans sleeping. The business card in her jacket was once again in her hands as she watched the message light continue blinking. Yes or No? Should she call Wilson and make that step to save herself the money and future headaches? Yes. The answer was simple. She would ask him what would be involved.

The cell phone on the corner of her desk lit up as a text was coming in. It was Ven. That was odd since she was at the meeting earlier and business was dealt with. Her head cocked a little to the right as she lifted the phone up to make reading the screen an easier task. Kamikazi was at the club with a bag as big as she was. Ven wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was in it. That was odd. Ven liked surprises. Wilson would have to wait. Then again depending on what Kamikaze was toting into Mkvenner for inspection it could mean she would be calling Wilson sooner than later. She pocketed the business card while sending a text back to let Ven know she was on the way.

Ten minutes later the soft hum of the engine under the hood of the Porsche 911 went quiet. Dominique closed the driver's door and secured it with a remote alarm. There was no way the typical street punks that were always lurking for a flashy set of wheels were going to score this ride. It was going to be dropped off to the owner as soon as she got a look at what was in the mystery bag that Kamikazi was towing around. The fact Ven was nervous had her curiosity growing with each step that took her into the club.

A lot of things could be in a bag as big as the woman herself. The easiest guess was a body. Nothing about that should be unsettling. It was a possibility far more common than most gave credit to. Why else would they make body bags? The only mystery left then would be whose body was in that bag.

Dominique cleared the stairs quickly and knocked on the door. A head count to five gave all involved the time and consideration of being prepared for her to enter. She turned the knob and stepped in allowing the door to close behind her. She unzipped her jacket to allow her cool body to breathe as she made her way to the table where she had been sitting not that long ago. Ven was right. There in fact was a bag and it was fair to say that it was indeed as big as Kamikaze. She tilted her head slowly and eyed it with all the curiosity that brought her into the presence of the two who shared the room with her.

“Ven...Kamikaze.” She nodded and stepped around the bag. She grabbed her chair and settled into the seat. “So, what’s up?”

Night of the First Meeting: Day 1

One week.

Jameson had one week until the Night Lords were going to meet again, and there was part of him that wanted to spend that entire time sprawled over a warm body, with his lips flush to a neck and his fangs buried in a major blood vessel. Some people smoked their high, others injected it. He was a blood sucking, vein muncher. He'd found out, shortly after getting turned, that he was still susceptible to both the negative and more...enjoyable effects of drugs, poisons, and other dangerous toxins. Since then, he'd spent a lot of time doing everything he could to stay high 24/7. A noble pursuit if ever there was one. He'd done a little bit of experimentation along the way. He could get drunk, and get a hangover. He could be knocked out by the same bombs he used to cleanly put down security guards, which had necessitated the wearing of a specialized gas mask. Theoretically, he could probably be fed arsenic, and killed.

When he was particularly down, as in curled up in a bath tub with vomit in his hair, he considered what it might be like to test his theories. Could the Shadow Realm really be all that bad? Sources told him it was, and he was too much of a pussy at heart to spend a week or month or year without the ability to give into his vices. So there were holes in his 'experiments', which were fundamentally flawed by inexperience when it came to the scientific method anyway.

One week until everyone met together again, and Jameson's job was such that he could have given into his baser impulses and let it all pass in a blur. His skills wouldn't particularly be needed until the day or days when '**** got real' and they made their move on the Triads. However, jameson was trying to impress, and he wasn't going to do that by kicking back and being lazy. At least. That was what he told himself when he decided he was going to start stalking drug dealers on the street to try and find out more about them. It wasn't at all, he told himself, because he wanted to liberate them of their wares so he could take just enough to keep straight until it was time to do his real job. It wasn't so he could stockpile until after the 'big day', when he planned to make a holiday for himself. Except it was.

He'd caught sight of a transaction in an alleyway, and probably wouldn't have if not for preternatural senses. That was when the idea occurred to him. If the area belonged to the Triads, they probably had all their dealers on the streets. Even if the ones he ran into were little foot soldiers, they had to get their supply from somewhere, and they had to give their money from someone. A great big river with tributaries; that was how money and drugs flowed. He knew because his father had been a petty dealer for a gang, and Jameson had gotten into the business in middle school.

But he didn't want to draw attention to himself, so he returned home and carefully hung up his prospect cut - the only thing actually hung up in his closet (the rest was in piles in different places). If he was going to be a shady ******, he was going to have to blend in. His hoodie remained, and then he was on his way back in the direction he'd already come.

The first night didn't tell him much. The guy he tracked was packing a gun, and didn't report to anyone. Jameson couldn't get close enough to take a look at what he was doing with his phone. The only eventful thing that happened was a poorly executed blowjob for blow. The woman was sick and the dealer was too eager. He ended up with puke on his junk and she ended up with a gun-made gash on the side of her head where she'd been konked. But she got her drugs and she was happy, and the dealer had dirty pants so he went immediately home.

Maybe it was a dead end. There were enough dealers on the street Jameson had no clue who was going to get a drop from someone higher up on the food chain. He was trying to find a heroin needle in a haystack. Still. If he observed, he could watch and figure out something. Schedule maybe. Procedure maybe.

Tugging out his phone of the week, he swiped a screen and began to type out a text to Ven. When you talk to Johnny Boy's pet Triad, see if he knows where any Triad buildings are, or if you can get the info from Midas or wherever, let me know and I'll scope out the locations to look at security, etc.. He hit send.

And then he narrowed his gaze at his phone. Should he give an update? Was that something motor clubs did? P.S. I've been following dealers all night. If I get any info about how the Triads work, will let you know. Hit send again.

Then it occurred to him he hadn't told Ven who Midas was. Oh well. He'd probably figure it out.

He made his way back home. He had to get some rest. Day two was hopefully going to be more productive.

Day 2: 6 PM to 2 AM

He woke up with a golden retriever's tongue draped over his face, gross drool trickling from his forehead to pool in already occupied eye sockets. His lids popped open, and there was a brief sting, and confused look. He felt like he had a sticker plastered to his skull and then he felt the over-warm, too bushy fur of a dog pressed against his side. "God damnit, Bucket." Short for 'Bucket Knight', because at one point, Jameson had decided to put a bucket on the dog's head, and cart him around for Halloween. His favorite holiday. The only one he really ever put any effort into, and he could never actually buy a costume when he had the opportunity to 'craft' one. Craft, in this case, roughly translates to half-*** his way through sewing some fabric together and traipsing around looking like an insane hobo.

Back then, Bucket had been much smaller. He was adorable, but a pain in the ***.

The dog roused slowly when it realized its name had been called, and suddenly a feathered tail was flashing back and forth, thumping against the bed with growing tempo. A tongue was removed with an elastic snap as a the pink muscle disappeared back behind ivory canines, leaving Jameson to lift an arm to scrub away the ick from his eyes. "******." He muttered, which was returned with a loyal headbutt to the chest, as Jameson attempted to sit up, and was barrelled onto his back by the insistent pooch. Jay slept like he expected to wake up at the northern shores of Mother Russia. He liked pillows, and layers of blankets, stacked on layers of blankets, with warmth all around him; this had been true even when he'd been a human. His ex, the dead one, had called it the 'Rat's Nest'.

With a wheeze, Jameson slid feet onto the floor and stood, feeling like his bones were creaking under his skin and muscle. He ambled to the kitchen to put on some coffee, not that he needed it, but he liked the comfort of the burning familiarity. He scooped some food into Bucket's bowl, because the dog had trailed along after him. Next came an open fridge, which was devoid of food except for crackers (why were there crackers in the fridge?) and a partially empty can of wet dog food. He scooped a couple of spoonfulls into the bowl and stirred, because Bucket was fussy and wouldn't eat pure dry food. The coffee was almost ready by then, as Jameson replaced the can and tossed the spoon into the sink with a splat and clink.

Ten minutes later, he had a steaming cup on the counter, which he occasionally sipped from as he got ready, putting on one piece of clothing or another. His backpack was open on the couch, which one could see from the narrow galley kitchen. He was tossing supplies into it as he went, because night one had been a wash, and Jameson wanted something to hand to the rest of the Night Lords on Saturday. Which meant he had to be smarter. He downed the last of his coffee a second later, which scorched his tongue a little.

He was on the roof with a pair of binoculars. He was crouched against the side. The building itself was run down, dilapidated brick and one of the higher vantage points in the area. Probably abandoned, the wall rose by about two feet above where the ceiling was, which made it perfect for hiding against. It had been about three hours since he'd left home, giving Bucket a little stroke behind the ears on the way out. Since then, he'd set up 'camp' on the rooftop, and was watching the streets and alleyways. He had marked the obvious peddlers and set up specialized cameras (which he'd modified himself), trained on specific spots, zoomed in, with night vision filters in place. The cameras were all wirelessly connected to his laptop, which was open on the ground beside him. Jameson would watch the monitor and then use the binoculars to go between the different faces if he wanted to confirm details.

In the time it took him to glance up and make sure one guy was selling meth (an important detail, according to Jameson), and the time it took him to glance back to the monitor, there had been movement. "****." He hissed before darting across the rooftop, so he could try to figure out what direction the pusher had gone. He caught sight of her heading out of the alley onto the street. On foot, he could easily catch up to her, if he hurried. He slammed his laptop closed, shoved it in his bag, and made a running leap onto a rooftop significantly lower in height, but close enough that he was able to land on his feet with a hard crunch. There were spasms of pain, but he ignored those in favor of racing to the edge of the building so he could drop to a fire escape. Then quickly down to the ground.

For all Jameson knew, she was just going to get some food, or to find a bathroom. He was running on pure gut instinct and luck. Besides, the cameras were still up (though he'd have to nab them later before the batteries died), and feeding information to his computer. He stayed far enough away that he wouldn't arouse suspicion. The dealer turned onto another street, and the next thing Jameson knew, she was disappearing into what looked like a warehouse. Well ****. The place had no obvious windows, and the large sliding metal door was closed. He couldn't get a look inside, but something told him she was conducting business inside.

He pulled his gas mask from his bag and put it on - goggles built into the front so that he didn't have to sacrifice vision. He thumbed some of his handmade bombs, said a silent prayer, and let himself inside through a door on another side of the building. He was careful as he crept his way towards the sound of voices. There was a lone pop-up card table with the peddler on one side and a clearly Asian man (Jameson wasn't bright enough to tell what variety, but he assumed they were related to the Triads), along with a couple of burly bodyguards. Jameson was on a catwalk, and crouched low against a metal rail, watching the exchange. The dealer withdrew untidy stacks of cash in baggies from her backpack and tossed them onto the table, only to get baggies of what looked like rock candy in exchange. Well hello there, beautiful.

He found himself watching the bags, not listening closely to the exchange, and before he knew it, the pusher was leaving with her new stock. There was a sound like a whine that died in his throat. He couldn't follow the dealer, because that wouldn't tell him anything. But a fresh shipment of cash? That had to be going somewhere important. So Jameson high tailed it out of the warehouse, where he caught sight of a beat up, old chevy. It was the only car in the area, so he hurriedly ran to stamp a tracking receptor (simple satellite tech) into the back bumper, and then he darted off to safety.

Minutes later, the car came to life, and was leaving. Jameson tucked himself against a set of crates outside, and pulled out his phone to follow the progress on an app. Only when there was a sufficient lead did he begin on his way in...luke warm pursuit. It took about four more hours because the car kept stopping to pick up more money drops, and drove weirdly, circling blocks frequently, or driving into dead ends, before turning and going another direction. However, it finally came to a dead and final stop in front of a squat, wide, cement building. Jameson waited for confirmation, watching as the Asian guy and the brutes made their way inside with duffel bags filled with what was most likely cash. He pulled up another app, with the territory displayed on it, and tapped the bird-eye-view of the building in question, before marking down the address as well. He sent both to Ven along with a text.

Think I found one of the operations buildings, HQ or bank or something. Whatever it is, all the cash is coming here. It's getting late, but I'll return tomorrow and sketch-up some blueprints. Still don't know where distribution is though. Also there's a new rubble heap in town, passed it on the way here. Send my love to Johnny Boy. Even if it wasn't John. There was always the chance someone else was going after the Triads, Jameson just recalled Jane having brought it up at the meeting. That would have explained the driver's earlier caution at least. Hopefully they wouldn't tighten their security too much. Either way, Jameson was prepared.

He hit send, and began back towards the building with his cameras on it. Padding down the street, he hugged his jacket closer on his shoulders. He had a hoodie on underneath it, and had gotten rid of his gas mask ages before. There were wisps of dark hair around the edges of the hood, but from the most part, he was indistinguishable from everyone else. He turned into an alleyway silently. The homeless had been cleared out for business. He was on her in only a few seconds. His fingers slid over her mouth. He knocked a cigarette out of the way, catching the end on his hand. It burned. She tried to scream, but she couldn't. A concealed blade was bared and Jameson began to hammer the knife into her back. The first cut shoved through a ribcage and deflated a lung. The next sliced up a kidney. The next brushed a spine. There were five or six more, and they all bled profusely, pouring heat and redness out into the woman's thick coat. Some of it poured onto Jay's hand.

He kept stabbing until he felt her slump, either unconscious from blood loss or dead. He just wanted to make sure she didn't scream. He had to move fast so nobody looking for a fix could bother him. He wiped his blade on her and grabbed her bag. He didn't care if his prints were on the body or anywhere. He was deceased. His legal name did not match the name on his ID, which wasn't even real to begin with. He only needed papers to pursue the illusion of life. He dropped the bag once he got what he wanted, stuffing the baggies into his pockets before lifting his hand to suckle congealing blood from his fingers. Then he was gone. He had cameras to get, and another night to plan for.