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There were a handful of sounds that would always bring a broad smile to Stonehouse’s chiselled face: the popping of a Champagne cork, and the subsequent hiss of the effervescent bubbles as the golden nectar was poured into a thirsty glass; the quivering moan of a woman as the delicate skin of her neck was punctured by the vampire’s greedy fangs; the roar of a partisan crowd when their footballing hero had drilled in a last minute 25-yard goal to seal a victory over their local rivals. The growl of a powerful car engine bursting into life like a rampaging lion would definitely be a resident on that shortlist.

“I’ll happily accept your offer of a ride,” said Stonehouse, nodding towards the feisty female, and winking at the henchman who was holding open the car door. “And I’m happy to be in the front or the rear.”

The mischievous vampire slid onto the passenger, a smirk creeping across his face. He tilted his neck to address the second goon who was getting into the back.

“Buckled up and blindfolded?” said Stonehouse. “You should charge extra for that.”

The businessman duly obliged with the seat belt, clicking the buckle. Immortal or not, an unexpected excursion through a car windscreen would still hurt like hell. The way that the bloody woman had handled her fearsome axe lead Stonehouse to believe that she may well throw caution to the wind while driving, and race through the streets like a Formula 1 champion. Getting into a car with three strangers was already a bit of a gamble for the usually meticulous entrepreneur, so the additional risk of an impromptu flying lesson was one that he cared not to take.

A slight adjustment of the seat to accommodate his long, athletics legs, and Stonehouse was good to go. He briefly caught another glimpse of the head wound that one of the “boys” was sporting in the wing mirror. The Shadow hadn’t seen his own reflection in years, relying instead upon modern technology such as his iPhone to take a look at his features. For a brief second, it reminded the vampire of what he actually was: undead, neither living nor deceased, but in some strange place in between. At first, Stonehouse had struggled to comprehend what had happened, had grappled with what was real and what was fantasy. Now, however, he loved his mystical existence. He was thriving; he had never felt more… alive.

The sight of blood was also rather enticing. Not the crusty blood that was still decorating the woman’s face like ancient tribal war paint, not the rotten blood liberally splattered across the floor of the abandoned chemical plant, but the fresh, rich human blood that was trickling gently from the beefcake’s injury. Stonehouse had ignored it when he first laid eyes on the man because the matter of the trade was still of paramount importance, but the thought of a sumptuous feast was now creeping its way into the vampire’s thoughts. Perhaps once this deal was finalized, and the assault rifles had been delivered, Stonehouse would treat himself to a celebratory banquet of blood? Not the human in the back seat, of course, that would simply be both rude and highly inappropriate. There were always suitable snacks just aching to be sampled. Stonehouse would just follow his nose.

“Ok,” announced Stonehouse, “let’s get out of here.”

It was both a sensible and a practical suggestion. The arms deal couldn’t be concluded here, and there was always the possibility that the Helheim guards might spill out into the streets, pummelling the car with a hailstorm of bullets.

“Do you know where to go,” added Stonehouse, “or shall I give you directions as we drive?”

Flakes of dry blood floated from her fingers as she reached forward and adjusted the rearview mirror. Silver orbs shifted just enough to pin the suit sliding into the passenger's side of the vehicle she was taking command of. The sharp tongue and it’s snappy dresser was accepting the ride offered with more enthusiasm that most would or should when she was at the wheel. Not only had she accumulated enough driving citations to wallpaper the club’s employee locker room, she failed every attempt at teaching her the rules of the road once they were paid up.

“I am pretty sure when this little trip is over you will be even more happy to be standing on a curb in one piece.” The sound of a plastic top popping free from a prescription bottle received a shift of her eyes back to the rear view mirror. In her sights were the rear riding dynamic duo who seemed to be tossing back the last second precautions before take off. “Ready Boss Lady!”

The verbal announcement was jumbled with the noticeable clicking of tablets bouncing between moving teeth. What was difficult to make out was credited to enough benzodiazepines being actively consumed to sedate a puddle jumper full of those facing their aviophobia. A brief squeak of latex riding over the seat beneath it chimed in. An empty orange bottle bounced off the dash and sank without interference into a small leather pouch that dangled from a knob to the radio. The clicking of more plastic said that it served it's purpose several times before.

“Just remember that Marvin is on vacation this week. He can’t work his magic if you run anything over.” A deep wet hack needed to pull up a stray tablet echoed from the back seat. A snort of amusement followed. “It is your last chance to ask for landing gear.”
“Boys, quiet.” Satine didn’t bother to offer any reassurance to her passenger. It would only confuse him when the ride would clearly speak for itself. “I don’t take directions but I am happy to give them. Just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. I know where it is. Been there more than a few times.”

The gas pedal beneath the stained shoe on her right foot went flat to the floorboard of the car sending the vehicle racing off like a bat out of hell. It was the force of increasing speed sinking her into the seat behind her that had her relaxing enough to take her eyes off the ever changing road or those currently on it. Now she had some time to figure out his motivation for climbing into her rolling deathtrap.

“You have a small army tucked away somewhere you need to arm?” The crown victoria shot through a changing lane, over a median managing to narrowly miss a smart car trying to merge. A sharp blast of compact horn erupted in protest. “If so how many you got under your thumb?”

The rocking of the boat size vehicle and the rough thud of the tires dropping down to the wrong side of the street announced what the two in the back expected of her. She was taking her usual short cut. The beams of glowing lights ahead seemed to instantly multiply at an alarming rate while targeting the windshield. While the brightness was eye blistering the necromancer seemed if there nothing to be concerned about. She continued to look over at him expecting an answer while her petite wrist made no effort to steer the car out of the impending head on collision just waiting to happen.

Like most young boys, Stonehouse spent a disproportionate amount of his childhood playing with toy cars. Initially, they were chunky monstrosities made of wooden blocks, driven by equally rigid figurines with permanent smiles printed across their spherical faces. The sole purpose of these destructive vehicles appeared to be to smash into the freshly painted skirting boards of Stonehouse’s living room and bedroom, chipping away at the pristine white sheen until they were snatched, rather unceremoniously, from the small hands of the boy racer by his irate parents. In fairness, they had bought him the damn things in the first place, so what did they expect?

The next stage of vehicular evolution was a collection of more realistic, scaled-down metal cars that would whizz around the carpets, accompanied by extravagant sounds that vaguely resembled car engines blurting from Stonehouse’s mouth. He had a multi-story car park, a petrol station, and a repair garage to complete the motoring landscape, complete with a few plastic figures: men hard at work changing a tyre, or pumping fuel, even a petite woman to serve at the checkout counter. Ah, the good old days of sexual stereotyping.

The remote control car was a true game changer. The ability to slam an Audi Quattro rally car model into a new, vulnerable set of skirting boards at reasonably high speed was an accident waiting to happen. Playing with the car out on the streets, chasing the neighbour’s cat, or attempting to knock over the milk bottles that had been neatly arranged like bowling pins, added a whole new dimension to Stonehouse’s budding driving skills.

Then came the computer games. There had always been driving simulators in the arcades that littered seaside towns or the backstreets of most major cities, but they ate money like greedy mechanical vultures. Gaming consoles brought that thrill to one’s home, without the need to carry around a sack full of coins. When Stonehouse first played Wipeout in the mid 90’s, he was blown away. The speed, the dazzling graphics, the banging soundtrack – it was a feast for the senses. Other titles such as Gran Turismo added that extra dash of realism. Suddenly, the player really felt like the driver, immersed in the competition, consumed by the gameplay.

Maybe a lot of teenage boys dream of being a racing driver, becoming a Formula 1 champion. The glamour of the lifestyle was certainly appealing to Stonehouse. Who didn’t want to stand on the podium in Monte Carlo, spraying Champagne over an adoring crowd, flanked by gorgeous women before heading off for an all-night party on board a luxury yacht? There were certainly worse ways to earn a living.

As the blood-stained woman threw the car around the streets of Harper Rock, as if it were a rag doll with a steering wheel as a head, Stonehouse momentarily wondered if he was hurtling around the hairpin corners at the Silverstone racetrack, or flying around the winding roads of a rally course in the Scottish Highlands, acting as the navigator. The businessman felt like he’d been transported onto a movie set, midway through an exhilarating action scene. Stonehouse was Steve McQueen in the legendary car chase from Bullitt, thrashing through the streets in a Ford Mustang GT trying to evade the Dodge Charger. He chuckled to himself while gripping the door handle. Technically, his new business partner was McQueen, so did that make him Jacqueline Bisset? Maybe the bloody female axe killer also had a sexy Porsche 356? Now that really would be cool.

Still grinning, Stonehouse twisted his neck, peering back along the hazy streets just in case there really was another car in hot pursuit. His keen eyes caught a glimpse of one of the woman’s henchmen guzzling down a handful of tablets.

“I see that you like travel sweets,” said Stonehouse cheekily. “Don’t eat them all at once. You might be sick.”

His focus returned to the driver as she raised the issue of directions. Her choice of words was intriguing. Apparently, the lethal lady didn’t take directions, but happily gave them. Stonehouse’s grin widened, internally at least. It looked like both driver and passenger enjoyed being in control, being the one to dish out the commands. Stonehouse sucked in his chiselled cheeks, narrowing his dark eyes in a state of amused annoyance. He really was going to have to sit back and enjoy the ride, as his hands were definitely not on the wheel right now.

“I have no army,” replied Stonehouse, addressing the woman’s question. “Well, not a particularly big one anyway. I won’t be taking over Harper Rock… just yet.”

A far more visible smile swept across the businessman’s face. He did indeed have no army, no band of thugs under his dominion to either cause havoc or come to his rescue should a sticky situation arise. Sure, there were a few select people upon whom Stonehouse could rely, but he was, generally speaking, exceptionally self-sufficient, content to count upon his own skills and wit in times of crisis. The resourceful entrepreneur had managed to hold his own more than adequately in the murky shadows of Harper Rock. Having said that, a new ally would never go amiss.

Stonehouse bounced on his seat as the car took another sharp turn. Was he on a road or a rollercoaster? It was quite difficult to tell as the journey continued across town. Blinding lights suddenly caused the businessman to squint. Was that another car directly in front of them? Were they on the wrong side of the road? Instinctively, Stonehouse’s arm shot towards the steering wheel like a cobra striking at its prey, in an attempt to avert a potentially catastrophic collision.

Satine glanced up into the rear view mirror and found the duo in the back were following their usual routine prescribed by the woman herself. There were worse habits on the planet and it wasn’t like they wouldn’t recover fully ready to stand on their own two feet. Later. Much later. The necromancer hands down was the world’s worst babysitter. She was pushed through the creation process with a kiss of death to be placed on all of humanity around her. She was one of those that lost her warning labels before her eyelids turned up for her first cold look at what was waiting for her. Her healing path had a warped sense of humor and a whole lot of sadistic added to it when it yanked her out of hell and spit her onto the streets. A little shot of keeping it within the family had her shooting up beneath the one line known for more shitstorms and damage done than any other. The very one that had no issue sending all the golden pussyfooting storm chasers heading for the hills and disappearing under the nearest cover. There was something to be said for what was in the woman's blood.

For better and worse she was right where she belonged. Pretty much running on her own left a whole lot of room for destruction and she had no intentions of stopping. Her tattered guide book left with her had her holding a portion of a single page that clearly was missing a whole lot of handy blend for survival information. It didn’t help that what was there she read as if it listed what she wanted to see instead of the universally advised ‘Stay under the radar at all costs.’ So what did she get from it? Something like this...

Play with fire. Watch them bleed. If they complain cut them again. If roadblocks present themselves on your chosen foot path then skip right through any head on traffic, jack the nearest set of wheels and head back and flatten every single one that delayed you. Eat the weak, the brave and the strong. When you fail then declare war with what is left. Laugh in the face of peace and savor the dischord. Fair play is a ruse. Use it to your full advantage. If the odds are against you then go down swinging and screaming. And last but not least...If it doesn’t hurt you must try again because you aren’t doing it right.

Safe to say that more than a few of Satine’s favorite things would have Julie Andrews spinning off a cliff with nothing more than that hideous frock to save her ‘practically perfect in every way’ *** from a bone shattering landing instead of staying in one spot twirling in circles.

The city lights bleeding through the small spaces available despite the heavily tinted windows added enough light that she could catch sight of the sharp dressed passenger and newly acquired business associate. The mention of “Not yet…” brought on a smirk that had her silver orbs drifting to the driver's side window. The rise of high beams flashing in warning on the windshield did nothing to shake her. The fucked up Fräulein seemed relaxed as her face was washed in the power of the moment. The energy within the front seat beside her and whatever was coming at her fed something and produced a rush. The moving mass coming at her threatening her vehicular companions at the rate of a metal stampede of however many horses the other driver was applying beneath their feet offered no deterrent.

“That is a damn shame, Mr. Bond.”

She was about to follow through with giving her on the fly speech filling him in on the errors of not striking while the iron was hot in case he missed the memos when her control was challenged. The blur of a hand was the only warning that the one beside her moved faster than she would have ever given him credit for. Well, now that was changing the game she had going on.

“Look what you made me do!” Her hands shot up freeing the wheel for his personal use while her foot stomped the gas pedal beneath to the floorboard. Now she was in the position to witness the vehicle under his power of direction forced to take on the asserted speed thanks to the cement strong placement of her petite foot. “Watch where you are going!” Her face lit up like she was being shot out of a cannon. Did she just squeal with delight? Yes. Yes she did.

Grant Stonehouse hailed from the UK, a country with some peculiar age-related laws. A person can join the army at the age of sixteen, potentially firing weapons that kill or maim, but they can’t legally buy a violent shoot ‘em up computer game until they reach the ripe old age of eighteen. Similarly, it’s perfectly legal to have actual, physical sex aged sixteen, but the same virile youth can’t legitimately purchase pornographic material until they are eighteen years old. Whether as a quirky comprise to the ongoing sixteen versus eighteen debate, or simply as a way to rest comfortably between two posts, the official age that a wannabe racing driving can hold a full driving licence is seventeen. How annoyingly British.

Like many other young men, Stonehouse was given a set of driving lessons for his seventeenth birthday. It was the ideal gift, the only gift that any self-respecting teenage “man” who wanted to impress the ladies would want. The only thing mildly surprising about his present was the choice of driving instructor: a woman in her late thirties called Pam. Schoolyard banter was not dissimilar to that found regularly in the adult workplace. Jokes about women drivers, and their general inability to reverse park (usually perpetrated by men who were used to exaggerating what six inches in length really meant) were rife, and sniggering about girls grabbing “gear sticks” was commonplace. However, Pam’s advertising slogan, “Pass with Pam”, was based on her excellent ability teach, and backed up by her amazing success rate. Needless to say, Stonehouse passed his test first time.

Perhaps the fact that Stonehouse’s initiation into the world of driving was dealt to him by a woman ensured that the cosmopolitan male never had any qualms about being a passenger when a member of the opposite sex held the wheel, a position that many men lacking their vehicular emancipation still secretly feared. However, that mindset was potentially about to change.

Having almost allowed her car to career headlong into an onrushing SUV, the bloodstained woman’s hands jumped up from the steering wheel like a pair of jack-in-the-boxes, leaving Stonehouse’s rogue left hand to guide the vehicle. A beaming grin that would match that of the Cheshire Cat erupted across the killer’s gleeful face, cracking a few crispy flakes of dried blood that were still clinging to her cheeks. She squealed like a young girl on Christmas morning who had just been given the keys to the Disney castle, clearly delighting in this crazy twist of fate. The giggling echoed throughout the car as Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the backseat - seemingly accustomed to this kind of outlandish behaviour - followed the lead of their cackling boss.

Was she actually insane, or simply a thrill-seeking adrenaline junkie? Either way, this was turning into one hell of a joyride.

“Are you ******* nuts!” yelled Stonehouse, yanking at the wheel.

The car swerved just in the nick of time, almost clattering into a fire hydrant that was innocently minding its own business at the side of the road. The piercing shriek of the SUV’s horn sliced through the air, dying into the distance as the two vehicles raced apart in opposite directions. The Englishman tried to steady the automobile, focussing his gaze on the road ahead, rather than scowling at his new acquaintance. Finally, he thought as he wrestled with the wheel to get the car under control, the fact that the Canadians drove on the “wrong” side of the road was suddenly a blessing, as his spot in the right-hand front seat was replicating his familiar driving position from back home in the UK. Granted, he hadn’t normally needed to stretch across to the steering wheel in order to orientate his car before.

Stonehouse’s shoulder brushed up against the woman’s arm as he leant over even further, allowing a second hand to clamp around the leather trim of the wheel. The swiftest of glances downwards into the car’s footwell was enough to show the vexed driver that the woman’s foot had become firmly planted onto the accelerator pedal like an oak tree attempting to take root. She wanted to go faster, to increase the excitement, to maximise the risk.

Returning his attention to the brightly illuminated road, Stonehouse estimated that he had a window of six or maybe seven seconds before the next onrushing set of headlights was on top of them like a glistening tiger, pouncing on its prey. Muttering a few profanities under his breath, the reluctant chauffeur’s left palm slipped from the steering wheel, diving down at the woman’s petite foot on its rescue mission. Stonehouse’s hawk-like hand grabbed her slender ankle in an attempt to free up the imprisoned pedal, and release the car from its speeding slavery.

“Shift your foot, you bloody idiot!”

In that second the dome light inside the car flickered in warning. As if in tune with the brief light show the warm blooded bodies stored in the back. The sudden squeak of latex and a waking grumble gave signs that it was much like a bugle call for the rear seated troops to rise and somewhat shine. Seconds could be everything. A second could amount to a lifetime of intensity, lesson and revelation that was gone in the blink of an set of eyes. This was such a moment for the necromancer with more on board than two drugged up goons in the back seat of her car, or the shocked passenger taking a hold of her ankle while a set of oncoming headlights are coming straight for her.

Just then when all seemed less than promising the raven haired female in the driver’s seat allowed her hands to drop from the air above her and slap into a white knuckling lock on the oversized steering wheel in front of her. The muscles beneath the grip on her ankle flexed with the motion of her foot as it released the gas pedal flattened beneath its previous position and slammed down like there was a fire to be put out on the brake pedal. The response was coupled with the eardrum piercing squeal of tires gripping to the road beneath them as the boat of a vehicle relying on their performance skid sharply out of the route of the oncoming car at the last possible second. Again, it all came down to a second left to work with and everything that was going on changed completely.

“B-o-s-s-s-s-s-s-s….” The shrill cry coming from the back for awareness at the near death event was a little too late. The sharp swerve was instantly chased by the subsequent dull skull rattling thuds of heads bouncing off their neighboring windows.
“J-e-e…” Another sudden protest sounded that was interrupted by the loss of a breath from the body shaking shift beneath the manufacturer belts that managed to stay in place and save two lives. “B-u-s-s-s-s!”

“It’s not nice to call people names, Mr. Bond!” As if she had never been guilty of such a thing she corrected her co-pilot with the firm tone of expectation in her voice. A steely stare shot his direction meant to and succeeded to connect with his face while ignoring the blur of glow skating over the windshield in front of her. The execution, the handling and most importantly the response of the powerful cruiser beneath her control proved one thing. This wasn’t the woman’s first time on this kind of rollercoaster. “*****, please. I prefer the term.” Her foot shifted back to the gas pedal and sent the ride flying once again surprisingly on the appropriate side of the road with accompanying traffic honking in surprise at their appearance. “I got this, thank you.”

The entire evening had snowballed into one hell of a rollercoaster ride of thrills and spills. From its embryonic beginning as a monumentally successful bonanza of brilliant business deals, the night had evolved into a full-on frantic firefight with a horde of heavily armed Helheim henchmen. The excitement had been flowing like a mighty river, stimulating an endless supply of energy as bullets bounced back and forth around the bloody bunker. As if that wasn’t enough fun to quench the thirst of the greediest of adrenaline junkies, the biggest transaction of the evening, the arms trade, seemed to cement the day as being truly magnificent. Could it get any more amazing? Apparently so.

The joyride had taken on a more literal meaning as the next chapter in the enthralling escapade rapidly unfolded, one tight bend after the next. Stonehouse’s impromptu stint as a stunt driving chauffer came to an abrupt end as the crazy woman behind the wheel finally loosened the pressure under her foot, freeing the gas pedal that had been crushed to the floor like a cigarette stub being scrunched out. She slammed down hard on the brake, and grabbed hold of the wheel, regaining control of the speeding car.

The woman’s decision to claim back her vehicle had a couple of unfortunate and painful repercussions for the contorted passenger. Jolting from side to side, it was as if Stonehouse’s neck had instantly turned to jelly, flopping first to the right, cracking his temple on the frame of the footwell, then springing to the left, smacking his other temple onto the unforgiving kneecap of the feisty woman. Meanwhile, in the backseat of the thundering car, the two goons conducted a miniature physics experiment, creating a Newton’s Cradle with their thick heads, the bony spheres banging off each other in quick succession.

As the axe murder was explaining that she preferred the term “*****” to “idiot”, Stonehouse found himself readily agreeing with her sentiments, the dull aches on either side of his skull justifying his rather impolite thoughts. Strangely enough, he admired her frank honesty, and made a mental note to remind her of her words at an appropriate time in the future.

The usually eloquent Englishman almost immediately uttered the petite woman’s nickname of choice as the car burst back into life, the eager foot of the racing girl pounding down onto the accelerator once more, narrowly missing Stonehouse’s fingers in the process. The pair of bobbling bodies in the backseat buffeted around, creating more mayhem, each of them shrieking as random arms were flung around like the sails of a windmill in a storm, slapping each other in the face. Once again, Stonehouse found his head darting towards an angled knee, bumping on the woman’s leg as he struggled to regain his composure.

“I’ve always wondered what it felt like to be a crash test dummy,” scowled Stonehouse, rubbing his forehead as the pain radiated throughout his bouncing brain.

He cast an ironic smile across to his new business partner while adjusting his seatbelt, attempting to slide back into his chair as gracefully as possible, despite resembling a fledging giraffe on roller skates.

“When I tap the dashboard, I’d like you to make an emergency stop, please. We’ll try parallel parking on your next driving lesson.”

It a split second of twisted irony, Stonehouse caught sight of a silhouetted figure in his peripheral vision. There was no time to yell stop, never mind bang the palm of his hand upon the dashboard to signal the impending disaster. Some poor soul was about to have an unexpected flying lesson.

The thud was surprisingly gentle, a subtle collision amongst the chaos of the last few minutes.

“Don’t tell me,” said Stonehouse, “we’re playing a game of Death Race 2000… and you’ve just scored ten points!”

Her silver orbs shifted from the road ahead and froze when they finally set on him. The body impacting the windshield and the tell tale thuds of flesh rolling off the car would appear to have done next to nothing to phase her. Her hand gripped the wheel just enough that she had the control needed to use it in any means she wanted.

“Are you sure about that, Mr. Bond?” Her face wore little expression and for the most part could be taken as giving zero fucks that whatever had been on two feet was currently airborne and missing a set of wings to fly away with. “Let’s see how fast your reflexes really are. A physical prompting for an emergency stop requires just as much from the instructor as it does the student.” She explained as if she was filling him in on something that perhaps never registered before and only now she was divulging the finer points of being in charge.

Death Race whatever was lost on her. A game? Satine hardly could have been found playing games growing up. She was the product of a world that was far from the one the sharp dressed man likely came from. As soon as she was able to she was climbing up on stools talking to her reflection in broken mirrors behind a locked door and keeping her junkie teen mom alive. When she was not occupied with the former she was trying to hide from her Mom’s live in pimp Chester who had hands that were cruel and stained with sins untold.

“What the hell was…” The silver portly fox piped up and managed to look back until the movement reminded him he was in some pain that was coming back for another tour of duty. A few fading signs of movement seen in the distance that grew between the car and the hit and run were noted. “Must be one of your kind, Boss.”
“Do it!” Percy chimed in enthusiastic with the prospects that his boss was in one of those moods.
“Shut up.” FG growled.

The intersection ahead had a light in her favor which she cruised through with increasing speed. A sharp left turn had two cars coming to a screeching halt. Another trying to merge into the scene only had the time to quickly surrender their right of way and bank up on the neighboring sidewalk. The chorus of vehicle horns honking was a minor distraction for the time it took the restored Crown Victoria to travel up two blocks then tear another rubber burning turn left. Percy shot Furious George a doped up grin as if he was the one getting his way. In no time at all thanks to the increased speed they were all headed back once more on the same stretch of road and the same direction where the recent event had unfolded.

“How am I doing so far?” Her eyes darted to the hands that she expected to give the signal by moving to the dashboard. Her foot pressed down on the gas pedal and the front of the car felt as if it was subtly lifting while the weight of her petite body sank back deeper into the driver’s seat. “I like even numbers. I think we are going for twenty, Gentlemen.Check your seat belts.”