It's in the Blood [Open]

[Adley Reed]

Adley had a few contacts who lived on the bad side of town. That little cluster of buildings just North East of Newborough aptly dubbed the ‘slums’. Of course, as soon as one steps foot into the slums, they become a target. If they keep to themselves and lay low, they can blend into the background. God forbid doing anything proactive, though. God forbid actually fraternizing with the criminal element. Worse yet, get into a fray with them. If the latter, one became the target not only of the gangsters, but of the cops as well. Because, to the cops, everyone in the slums was a bad element. There was no distinction.

Adley knew all this going in, though. Normally, he was in and out without a hitch. Tonight, however, while trying to cover a drug bust – to get as many pictures as possible – he got in the face of someone who didn’t appreciate it. A thug, dubbed ‘Smithy’. Probably angry, Adley assumed, because his dealer had just been arrested and his flow of cocaine had been put to a stop. The flash caused Smithy’s pupils to stretch; the shock and surprise on the larger man’s features reduced him, for a moment, to a two year old. At least, it erased his scowl which made him look far more normal than usual.

The scowl returned with a vengeance, however. Stubby fingers shoved at Adley’s shoulders, and the photographer stumbled backward. He laughed, though, keeping a tight grip on his beloved camera. Adrenaline surged to the surface, and all that power he still had thrumming through his veins from Abelle’s blood. Fear? **** fear. He could handle this.

“What the **** d’you think you’re doin’? What makes you think y’ can take photos here, man?” Smithy growled.

“Free country. This is my job. People like to know that their city is being cleaned up and your mug is the perfect shot. Like… you’re the kind of criminal element they want to get rid of, right?” Adley said. He probably shouldn’t rile the guy up more, but could he help himself? No.

Smithy surged forward, lifting a meaty fist. Intending to smash Adley’s jaw, no doubt. Adley, however, saw it coming. He had the added dexterity to duck the strike; to reach into his boot to retrieve the small knife he carried. Without knowing what he was doing, without even thinking, he’d dodged the attack and had made an attack of his own. The hot scent of copper blood filled the air as a huge gash opened up across Smithy’s gut.

The cops were lingering, of course. Adley should have just continued to back up; should have put himself in their line of sight and played the defensive, so Smithy was the one who’d get shot. But instead, there was a shout and the sound of a cocked gun; a boom split the air, followed soon by a searing, burning pain in Adley’s thigh. He hissed and dropped his knife; instinct kicked in – and Adley’s instinct was all kinds of fucked up, given the blood that he ingested – and he ran for it. An ordinary man might have pleaded self-defence and tried to sue the police force for wrongful punishment. But instead, Adley ran.

And he didn’t just run, he jumped. Even with the bullet lodged in his leg, he felt that energy pool in his legs and he scaled the buildings, affording himself a quick and easy escape.

Luckily, he had walked. Luckily, his car wasn’t nearby. But it was to his car that he stumbled, leaving a trail of blood behind him, a string of muttered curses berating the air. He’d blame Abelle for this. Was she psychotic? Did her ruthless and spontaneously violent tendencies transfer to him, somehow, in her blood? He’d have killed that thug with absolute relish, were he given the chance. He’d have been able to lift that knife and thrust it down into Smithy’s spine. He couldn’t remember being so merciless in the past. He couldn’t figure out whether he liked it or not; whether the power he felt was just a farce that would soon fade.

The goal, now, was to get to his car and get home, where he could patch up the wound himself, to the best of his abilities. Could he get away with going to the hospital? Surely Abelle’s blood would help him heal without much trouble, right? He cursed again, and continued to limp down the street, headed in the direction of Newborough. He’d decide when he got to the car.

[Deagan (DELETED 7215)]

Deagan was working the night shift. Again. It had been harder and harder to get up in the morning. The depression that had plagued him since the death of his wife seemed to have grown increasingly vicious in the last week. Deagan hoped that by working nights, he would be able to at least nab some juicy news stories. He was not to be disappointed tonight.

"We got a live one, Mac. Stabbing in the slums." The voice belonged to Tom Wicox, veteran staffer for the Harper Rock News. Mac was the nickname Tom had given to Deagan. Deagan tolerated it because, all things considered, Tom was pretty good at what he did, and Deagan respected the quality of the man's work, even if his sense of humor left something to be desired.

Deagan looked up from the workstation he had set up in the office he shared with Abelle Broussard, the owner of the Harper Rock News, to see Tom standing in the open doorway. Tom's glasses had slid halfway down his somewhat bulbous nose, and he looked like he might have been running to bring Deagan the news. Which, for a man of Tom's age and physical condition, was probably not a good idea. A stabbing in the slums is hardly news, Deagan thought to himself. It was an unfortunate attitude to have, but since having become a reporter, Deagan had learned more than he wanted to know about the seedy underbelly of his hometown.

Tom must have noticed Deagan's doubtful expression. "Oh, there's more! The call came in right about the same time as a drug bust. From the same location. Oh, yessir," he continued, seeing Deagan perk up, "This one's got some legs." Deagan closed his laptop and rose from the desk, grabbing his coat. "Anyone on the scene yet?" he asked Tom as he headed towards the back door that lead to employee parking. "Just Barry," Tom replied.

Deagan groaned inwardly. Barry Robinson was one of the younger reporters on staff. He was also, what was Tom's phrase? Oh yes, "a complete douchebag." Deagan tolerated him primarily because they were already short-staffed at the paper these days. Besides, it was Abelle's call to fire him, not Deagan's. He needed to remember who was really in charge, even if Abelle was hardly ever there.

"Let's hold the printing on the morning edition a little while longer," Deagan told Tom as he climbed into his white Ford Mustang, or, as Emily always called it, his "mid-life crisis mobile." "If this is as juicy as it sounds, it's probably going above the fold. We'll see if we can slip it in under the wire." Tom nodded his assent, and Deagan pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards the slums.

One of the advantages of the Harper Rock News offices being in Newborough of course, was that the slums were less than five minutes away. Ten minutes if you were walking, but nobody in their right mind would do that unless they wanted to become a news story themselves. Deagan could see the flash of the police lights from around the corner before he even got to the address Tom had given him. He pulled up a a block and a half away, and walked towards the scene. A grim looking police officer eyed him warily as he approached the crowd of milling cops an emergency personnel. Deagan flashed his press pass. "Harper Rock News." The cop gave a grim nod in the direction of Barry, who was standing on the outside of the police tape, shouting questions into the air, it seemed, at no one in particular. Deagan rolled his eyes and moved over to the younger reporter.

When Barry saw him coming, he shot Deagan a sour look. He wore a brown suit (the only one he owned, Deagan suspected), and had short cropped brown hair, and brown eyes. It seemed that brown was his favorite color. "Ah come on! You here to try to scoop me on this McNamara?" We work for the same paper, asshole, Deagan thought to himself. Out loud he simply said, "It's a team effort Barry. This is HRN's story, and we're going to make sure we've got something for the morning edition. Now what have you got so far?"

Barry grimaced, but proceeded to spill the details he had accumulated. "The guy in the back of the police cruiser is "Crazy Legs" Faro. Anthony to his friends, of which he may have one fewer after tonight." Barry grinned at his own macabre joke, but seeing Deagan was having none of it, shrugged and proceeded with the story. "He was busted by an undercover for dealing meth. Which is pretty odd, because he's supposed to be a well-ranked player with the Lionellis, so why the hell would he be doing hand to hands in the ghetto? Anyway, after the cops were on the scene, all hell broke loose, and that guy," Barry gestured towards a large, ugly man being loaded into an ambulance, "Got himself stabbed in the gut. At that point the lines of communication shut down, if you get my drift. I haven't been able to get a word out of these guys since, and the rest of the onlookers scattered like rats." Barry gave Deagan a defiant look, as if daring him to try to do a better job squeezing information out of the situation. Deagan hardly noticed. As Barry had been speaking, he had been scanning the crowd, until he saw what he was looking for. "Good job Barry," he said offhandedly, and walked over to a constable standing near the ambulance.

"Evening Constable Mackey," Deagan smiled at the policeman as he approached. Ezekiel Mackey looked at Deagan approaching and grinned. "Shoulda known you'd be here, now that you're one of them vultures of the press." Tom Wilcox had introduced Deagan to his best source on the HRPD, Zeke Mackey, within days of Deagan joining to paper, only to be dumbfounded to discover that the two already knew each other. Zeke had been one of the officers on the scene the night of Emily's murder. Despite the tragic circumstances of their meeting, and the anger Deagan still harbored toward the HRPD for dropping Emily's case six months later due to lack of evidence, Deagan and the constable had formed a friendly relationship. Deagan believed Zeke was one of the good ones on the force, and that Zeke had done his best to do right by Deagan in the course of the investigation into his wife's murder.

"I suppose you gon' ask about the stabbing." Constable Mackey's Jamaican heritage came through as he pronounced his "the"s as "de"s. Zeke Mackey had been a Constable on the Toronto Police Department for years before requesting a transfer to Harper Rock, because he wanted a quieter duty, not realizing that Harper Rock came with its own set of problems.

Deagan did indeed want to hear about the stabbing. "What have you got, Zeke?" he asked. "We haven't identified the fella in the ambulance," Mackey said, nodding towards the emergency vehicle who was now pulling away from the curb, probably headed towards Harper Rock General Hospital. "Seems he and another fella started arguing at the scene. One witness said it was because they was taking his picture. Then the big one shoves him, and the little brother pulls out a knife and guts him real proper, like a fish,"
Little brother? "He was black? The other guy?" Didn't sound gang related. For years, the gangs in Harper Rock had been mainly French Canadian. That is, until the Lionelli's moved in. Either way, unlike bigger cities like Toronto, ethnic groups like the Jamaicans had never established a strong criminal presence in the little town on the Algonquin River.

"Yea, he was black, or at least mulatto, according to a witness. Which of course means Charlie over there took a shot at him. Claimed it was protecting the peace, but you know the drill." Deagan did. The Harper Rock Police had a well-earned reputation for over reacting in the face of the the crime that plagued the city. Police brutality was quickly becoming the norm, and the number of wrongful death and injury suits against the department were piling up. None of it seemed to slow down the HRPD in being especially trigger happy when it came to any suspected wrong-doers.

"Where is he now?" Deagan asked. "Got away clean. Must run like Usain Bolt. Couldn't find no sign of him." Zeke must have noticed the incredulous look Deagan was giving him. "Don't give me no ****, Deagan. You know how thin we're spread trying to clean up the gangs in this city. We couldn't spare no more than two constables to go looking for the little ******, and they both came back empty handed." Zeke looked up as another officer called him over. "I gotta go. Good luck with the story, mon." Degan watched him walk over to a huddle of other police who were giving Deagan the stink eye. It made no difference. He had what he needed. He noted that Barry was already gone, probably headed back the the HRN offices. Deagan decided it was time he do the same.

Deagan trudged back to his car, mulling over the strange situation of the stabbing in his head. The shadows grew long as he walked further into the darkness and away from the flashing lights of the police cars. As he stepped up his Mustang, a pale white shape on the darkened street, Deagan reached for his keys, and then stopped. What was that noise?

[Adley Reed]

Hearing the sound of footsteps behind him, coming down one of the side streets, Adley had to think quick. He ducked into a nearby doorway, quietly opening it and slipping inside. A quiet, barely intrusive voice started to tell him that they were closed – he looked up to see that he had landed inside some kind of apothecary. There were a couple of them, scattered around the city. People liked to call them magic shops – Adley had always laughed at them, until he had learned the ways of the blood thief. Now it wasn’t all so unbelievable. There were things in this shop that could actually do harm. Not by themselves, of course, but in the right combinations…

…Adley looked up to see a kindly woman; she was older, Mulatto like himself. Except her eyes were a deep and caring brown, and the accent she spoke with was almost of an Orleans persuasion. It added gravitas. Like she was a true voodoo queen of old, and Adley was immediately comforted. He slipped further into the corner by the door and nodded.

”I know, m’am. I won’t bother you more than a few minutes. I just gotta stay here and…” there were voices outside. The older woman peered out onto the street and clucked her tongue, her hands on her hips as she gave Adley a disapproving look. He responded to it with a lopsided grin. ”I never caused no trouble. They’re after the wrong man, but I’d rather not go through the hassle of interrogation,” he said. The woman nodded, understandingly, and ushered Adley further inside.

”Take off your pants, boy. Let Mamma have a look,” she said. Adley had no idea why he felt the need to blush, but he did – and he did as he was told. Blood dripped onto the hardwood floor. The woman waved away his apology, and Adley let her go about her work. The bullet hadn’t lodged in his skin, as he had thought, but had passed right through the fleshy bit at the edge. It didn’t take much for the woman – who told him to call her Carlotta, after a while – had bandaged him up. She gave him a few mixtures, tinctures to keep the wound clean and to help with the pain, before she ushered him out of the shop. He thanked her, profusely, and knew that he would be back to see if she needed any help with anything. For now, however, he just wanted to get the pictures back to HRN and go home. Sleep.

By now, the cops had long gone. By now, Adley was calmer, less wary. He walked back to his car like his pants weren’t covered in blood. When he reached the jeep, however, he swore. Not under his breath, but out loud.

”****! **** ******* assholes!” he shouted. The window was smashed in. The door was ajar. The stereo had been wrenched from the console, and the speakers from the doors. Every compartment had been rifled through, and glancing into the back he noticed the majority of his spare equipment was gone, too. At least he had his camera on him, and the more expensive stuff was still at home. But still – that was a lot of money down the drain. He kicked at the tire, forgetting about his leg – and shouted again as the wound was disrupted. As he felt the warm gush of freshly spilled blood being absorbed by the bandage.

He leaned against the car and just breathed. Could this night get any worse?

[Deagan (DELETED 7215)]

It only took a moment for Deagan to realize what he was hearing. First cursing, and then screaming. Deagan realized that considering where he was, what he was doing next was close to insane, but that might not have been a unfair assessment of Deagan's mental state most days. Instead of getting in his car and driving away, Deagan began walking towards the sounds.

If someone was in trouble, they deserved some help. And there could be a story for the paper in it. These were the rationalizations Deagan repeated to himself as he crept cautiously along the darkened street. However, they were both covers for what was burning deep inside. In the back of his mind, Deagan was wondering if what he was hearing was the sound of a vampire attack. If that was the case, then he had to see. He had to know.

Though the corridors of city blocks could play tricks with echos, Deagan knew he was closing in on the noises when he suddenly turned corner and saw a man leaning against a Jeep. His Jeep? Deagan suspected that was the case. The car's windows had been broken out. Simple deduction was that that man was upset about the break-in to his vehicle. He was about to speak up when two other observations clicked in his brain. The man was mulatto. His leg was bleeding. Though Deagan supposed one could accuse him of racial profiling at that moment, too many things were clicking into place, and Deagan's reporter instincts were telling him what he already knew to be the case. This was the man from the crime scene, the man accused of the stabbing.

Deagan wondered if he should retreat quickly and quietly and call the police. But only for a second. Though he wanted to believe in law and order and justice and all of that, the fact was, Zeke was one of the few decent cops he knew in this town. The rest were mostly trigger happy assholes like that guy Charlie. He'd rather not get them involved, especially if he wanted to know more about what was going on here. The police in Harper Rock seemed to have a nasty habit of hiding evidence and suppressing the truth.

Deagan decided to play an angle. He walked casually out from the corner and towards the down-trodden looking man and his vehicle. "Hi there. It looks like you could use a little help. Anything I can do?" Deagan knew he could be walking into a very sticky situation at that moment, but he supposed if the man had had a gun, that would have been what he would have used back at the drug bust, and with his leg looking like that, Deagan thought he could probably out run him if worse came to worse. He decided to roll the dice and see what happened next.

[Adley Reed]

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Adley stiffened. Already tonight he’d been shot, and his car had been broken into. Although he felt the strength surge through his veins, although he assumed he might be able to take on whoever decided to attack him, it still felt like a fifty fifty chance. What if the approaching steps belonged to a much stronger, much older vampire? One stronger than Abelle, and the blood that helped to strengthen him?

The first thing he did was shift his camera behind him; he laid protective hands over the device and pushed the strap around, so that it lay comfortably against the small of his back. The camera was like a living thing to him; it was as if the poor baby was now missing its toys. Its toys had been stolen, and now it was all alone. And Adley would protect it at all costs.

When Adley finally focused on the man, however, he told himself to relax. An older male who offered help rather than hindrance. Though Adley still remained on his guard – one never knew, in these parts, who might turn out to be the adder in the grass. Adley shook his head.

”Unless you know who the ******* pricks were who smashed in my window and stole my ****, I don’t think there’s much you can do, no,” he said. Frustration coloured his tone, bled through with anger and weariness. He opened the door as far as it would go and started to sweep the shattered glass from the driver’s seat. It clinked as it bounced off the asphalt; it might have been melodic, if Adley weren’t so pissed off to notice it.

This wasn’t the first time his car had been broken into. It had happened twice before, actually, and the last time his alarm had been wrecked. He didn’t have the money to fix it completely. And now he would have to fork out the dough for a new window. A new stereo.

****,” he said again. This car was his livelihood. All the scanners had been attached to the stereo, and they were gone too. They were his priority – he’d have to get those replaced as soon as possible, if he was going to earn any money or get to the crime scenes on time. Maybe he’d have to ask Abelle for more money than these pictures were worth.

[Deagan (DELETED 7215)]

Deagan nodded sympathetically as the man turned to sort through the debris of his life. The reporter knew there was little he could do to help at this point. Even as beneficent as he was feeling, Deagan wasn't going to pay to repair the man's Jeep. Deagan wondered briefly if he would be returning to his own car only to find it in a similar state.

When the man turned his back to Deagan and began sweeping broken glass out of his car seat, Deagan noticed the camera swinging on a strap. Though an amateur photographer himself, it wasn't hard that this was an expensive model. Something gnawed at the back of Deagan's brain. Once again, his instincts were putting two and two together. The camera combined with the man's presence at the crime scene was bugging Deagan. He decided to play a hunch.

"That's a very nice camera you've got. Are you a professional photographer? I only ask because I'm a reporter for the Harper Rock News, and we're always looking for some decent looking art for our stories. Maybe with the rest of your misfortune here, the least I can do is offer you a chance to make some money. The name's Deagan, by the way. Deagan McNamara. What's yours?"

This was what Deagan's life had started to become. A series of angles to be played. But when you learned that a masquerade was being carefully orchestrated all around you, and had been for years, your general level of trust in the world went downhill rapidly. Ever since Dhara had showed him some of Harper Rock's darkest secrets, Deagan had begun viewing the world through a new lense, one dripping with cynicism and paranoia. He knew that he had no hope of surviving in a world of vampires, not unless he was cunning and kept his wits about him. It was about all he had going for him.

And even then, the occasional visit from his dead wife's ghost had cast doubt upon those wits at a time when Deagan needed them more than ever. Deagan moved to stand next to the man as he gauged his reaction to the inquiry, and the offer.

[Adley Reed]

As soon as the guy gestured to Adley’s camera, Adley clutched at it, fingers closing over the solid metal of the contraption as if he were both protecting the item itself, and the things within. As soon as the guy continued, introducing himself and the company he worked for, Adley laughed.

”I’m good for money, thanks,” he said, brushing his free hand off on the clean part of his jeans so he could hold it out. May as well shake hands if introductions were being made. He was a proud man, and he wasn’t about to bow down and admit that he was going to be in a bit of a scrape to get all of this fixed up – it was a problem he’d focus on later, and he’d figure it out on his own terms. But he wouldn’t accept charity.

”Adley Reed. I’m freelance – I’ve just recently started selling my wares to your boss. Abelle Broussard,” he said. Adley was equally as curious – even as he continued to hold his hand to the other male, he had to wonder. What did he know? Did Abelle keep her employees in the loop, or were they all in the dark about who and what their boss was? It was an odd game that Abelle played, Adley thought – a vampire selling news, uncaring whether or not the stories revealed the existence of vampires or not. But, he supposed there must be a level of scrutiny that the paper kept to – a level of dubious disbelief in the writing of its reporters. The last thing she’d want is to lose her readership because they thought the Harper Rock News had turned into some kind of woo-woo publication. What would be next, UFOs?

”I suppose that’s my next port of call. I’ve got some photos she might like – was going to go see if she was in,” he said. That, or some secretary or other that he could deal with, if anyone was around at this time of night. Maybe he’d have to wait until the next day.