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The Killer shifted slowly in the couch, he had read the same article in the newspaper nearly a dozen times. He had expected to get a little attention for the stabbing, it was the point afterall. If he was really going to make his point to the Italians and the rest of this city that he was here he would have to draw a little attention. So what if Smithy had to take a blade, it would at least put the ones that needed to know on alert, but Drew still couldn't shake that small bit of ire from his belly. The writer of the article, this Deagan fellow, needed to know he was venturing into some dangerous waters. Though Drew had no intent to end the mortal’s life, hell, if he had it his way he'd give the guy a full page article along with a picture and his home address, but the man needed to know to at least be alert if not outright paranoid. For everything the Lionelli were, the top of that list would be dangerous and Drew was certain his eyes weren't the only ones to make note of this man’s name.

Finding this mortal wouldn't be too difficult, he knew where the papers hq was, what better place to scare the **** out of someone than grabbing them on the way to their car. Drew grabbed his black peacoat and a matching fedora from the closet before heading down to the club to let his wife know what he would be doing. Stepping out of the elevator his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the silken black hair of Satine before walking over to the bar “she in the back?” the bartender nodded, careful not to miss any of the rapid fire orders being thrown his way. Approaching her from behind his arm slid around her waist as he kissed her neck “going to pay a little visit to that Deagan guy, from the paper” answering the expression on her face that the name was not instantly recognizable. “Juice is still tweaking some **** on your bike so he'll be here if you need him.” he gave her a quick kiss before sliding through the doors and down to the garage.

The night couldn't have fit the mood more perfectly; the clouds were thick enough to mask the moonlight, giving everything a pale glow, the rain falling gently as the fog slowly crept across the streets. It wasn't long before the black and gold Crown Victoria was pulling into the parking lot of the Harper Rock News. Giving his watch a quick glance he found the car owned by Deagan and simply waited. It wouldn't be long before the few that remained should be leaving and as soon as he saw the man’s face his plan would be in motion.

Deagan sat at his desk, chewing on the end of his pencil thoughtfully. Most of the other staffers had called it a night. Even Tom Wilcox had headed home, and Deagan would have sworn that that old fart slept under his desk. So Deagan was mildly surprised when he saw the older reporter wave a hearty farewell to him as he walked hat in hand past the door to Deagan and Abelle's office.

And yet, even as the lights dimmed all around him until the office glowed like a beacon in the darkened building, Deagan continued to sit, deep in thought.

So much had happened in the past couple weeks. Deagan's life had gone topsy turvy, but not in a whimsical, Gilbert & Sullivan kind of way.. Ghosts, zombies, vampires. Things that had only existed in the realm of imagination had all become a real part of his life. Where did it all lead? Deagan could only hope the answer was that it lead eventually to justice, to vengeance for the death of his wife. It was why he had taken the job at the newspaper in the first place, so that he could clandestinely investigate the strange goings on in Harper Rock, even as he reported the "news." News my ***, he thought. If people knew half of what actually went on in this town. Take the rumor he had been hearing of a vampire running gangs in the slums. For most reporters, a story like that would be relegated to the National Enquirer, or something even less reputable. Deagan suspected if he dug deep enough, he would discover this particular rumor was true. It actually made a lot of sense, knowing what he knew now about vampires in Harper Rock. But the truth of that story would never make it to the light of day. It would have to be white washed for public consumption. Deagan had gotten quite good at that. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson, "Harper Rock couldn't handle the truth."

With a sigh, Deagan put down the pencil, closed his laptop, and grabbed his coat from the coat rack. Any Pulitzer winning story ideas he had been formulating that evening had long since slipped out the back door of his mind, possibly in search of a good stiff drink. Deagan wished he himself could go on such a quest right now, but with the depression he had been suffering since Emily's death, and his family's own history of alcoholism, he knew that would be a really bad idea. He would have to be satisfied once again with a cup of Earl Grey when he got home. Deagan looked around and then headed to the back door, making sure the door locked behind him as he passed through it. There was supposed to be a security guard that came around occasionally, but Deagan had never seen him.

As he walked to his white Ford Mustang, reaching for his keys, Deagan suddenly stopped. There were a few other cars left in the lot, reporters burning the midnight oil on some story or other, but Deagan had never seen the gold Crown Vic before, the one that was currently pointing in his direction. The one behind the wheel of which a stranger silently sat observing him. Deagan put the key back in the pocket of his coat and turned to face mystery driver of the Crown Victoria. There was no sense playing games. If the man wanted him dead, there would be little Deagan could do about it. If the man wanted something else, it was best to find out what that was, so Deagan could once again be on his way home to his cup of hot tea. Besides, his reporter's instincts had kicked in. He had deep urge to get to the bottom of this particular mystery

"Can I help you with something?" Deagan called to the man behind the wheel, and waited patiently for his response.

Finally the man of the hour had made his appearance. Drew flicked the butt of his cigarette as he slowly stepped out of the car, tilting his hat down just a little as his full six foot three frame emerged in the dimly lit parking lot. He was not quick to respond to the mortal as he made his first steps towards the man, Drew needed to make an impression and he did not intend to disappoint. In a blur he stood just a few inches from Deagan, close enough to make out every fine detail in his wearied face. Though his fangs were always a prominent feature of the Killer, Drew made it a point to flash the reporter a toothy, menacing grin. His voice little more than a growling whisper “I believe we can do something for one another Mr. McNamara. I'm going to give you the story of a lifetime and you're going to deliver a message for me.”

Removing another cigarette from his pack of Newports, flicking the lighter to life as he leaned casually against the white Mustang. “You're treading in waters that you may just find yourself way over your head. That article you published, the one about Smithy Johnson and his little belly ache” he chuckled “it's going to get you some attention that you're really not going to want.” The gangsters icy blue eyes locked on to those of his companion, taking a long, slow drag from the cigarette “in fact, if I was you, I'd be scared. You do not publish anything and I mean anything about one of the Lionelli boys and not expect a visit from someone.” Dropping the cigarette to the dampened pavement he crushed it underfoot. “But this exactly where our deal comes into play.”

“What exactly do you know about them, the Lionelli?” There was really no point in beating around the bush, he had come here to make a point “I want you to get something published saying you know exactly who attacked the Smithy and that the Lionelli are being targeted. One by one they're associates are going to end up in the hospital or better yet, the morgue. Their businesses are going to be burned to the ground.” Drew gave a quick glance around the parking lot to make sure the two were still completely alone “think you can manage that?” though his words were obviously not a question.

Deagan stared hard at the man, evaluating him. A vampire running gangs in the slums eh? It appeared the rumor mill had been right on that account, and possibly more than one vampire to boot. The way this man had flashed his needle sharp teeth at Deagan had left no question that he wanted the reporter to know exactly what he was, and though there was always the possibility it was some form of cosmetic surgery, in this town you were better off going with the odds that someone like that was the real deal. It was not Deagan's first face to face with a vampire, but it was the first time he had faced one who seemed to care so little about maintaining what Dhara had referred to as "the masquerade." Deagan wondered if it made this gangster more, or less, dangerous.

Deagan was puzzled by the man's references to "Smithy" Johnson. Though he had not revealed it to the public, Deagan knew exactly who had stabbed Smithy. He also knew for a fact that the incident had not been gang related. Deagan had kept the attacker's identity private for the sake of his employer, Abelle Broussard. Though he supposed that probably violated some sort of reporter code of ethics, Deagan was motivated by more than just a need to share the truth when it came to his articles. It would not necessarily be in the public good to share all he truly knew about the goings on in Harper Rock, not to mention that he would very quickly lose his job and possibly find himself confined to a mental ward. So the job of head reporter for the Harper Rock News remained for him what it had always been, a cover that allowed him to continue investigating his wife's murder.

Because he did not subscribe to all of the ethical tenets of the 5th Estate, Deagan was not immediately put off by the suggestion that he might publish something that was intentionally misleading or incomplete. He did, however, bristle at the idea of this man telling him what to write. Deagan knew he had a penchant for stubbornness, and he realized that at this moment it could potentially get him in quite a bit of trouble. He would have to be very careful about what he said next.

"I can manage it, but I'm not going to do it. At least not the way you're describing. You obviously have some vested interest in seeing the demise of the Lionellis. I personally have no problem with that. The last thing Harper Rock needs is two bit goons from New York throwing their weight around, especially when we have enough," Deagan eyed the vampire's prominent fangs, "problems of our own." Deagan knew that this creature could just be looking to create a power vacuum, and that he would replace the Lionellis with something equally terrible. But for now, Deagan would have to pick a side. Especially if he hoped to make it through the night alive.

"You want me to report on other incidents like Smithy's stabbing. That's fine. But a reporter needs a source. You feed me the info, and I report on it. That's how this works. You'd be anonymous of course." Not difficult to accomplish, considering he still didn't know the stranger's name. "It sounds like I'd be doing you favor with all this. You can threaten me if you want, but the fact is I died a year ago, when my wife was murdered. And it's pretty hard to threaten a dead man. So I propose a trade," Deagan couldn't believe what he was saying. He was absolutely terrified. But outwardly the reporter remained stoic. "I want an interview. If I publish your stories, I want you to tell me about how you became a vampire." Suddenly Deagan really wanted one of the man's cigarettes. Or a nice stiff drink. He stared at the gangster coolly and waited for his response.

“Goons from New York” he chuckled slightly “seems you at least know a little about me then” the Killer’s words almost sounding playful. Drew couldn't help but feel a little impressed by the man, it wasn't a common thing to find a human that could stand face to face with a vampire and show the courage this man displayed. Deagan had obviously seen more than the average denizen, that was apparent even before he mentioned his wife's untimely demise.

He hopped onto the trunk of the Mustang, setting his hat and coat beside him, pondering all the words he had just heard. “You want an interview? I'll give you an interview, you ask questions and I give you answers, how this **** normally works right?” Lighting another cigarette he extended the pack to the man in offering “but I don't want the anonymity, **** that, you don't have to throw my name around exactly” he smirked, realizing he was yet to even give his name “I don't think it's in my best interest to have Andrew Krepsi plastered all over the place, but I want you to use the name Shedim, for those that I want my words to go to, they'll know it.”

The gangster almost felt a rush at the prospect, he wanted his former employers to know exactly what he intended to do but a vampire speaking so openly could garner even more attention than he originally intended. There were countless amounts of the Undead that held fast to the archaic notion of “the masquerade” not something Drew had ever felt a need to abide by. It wasn't that he particularly wanted a world where vampires dominated the humans or sought some kind of harmony between the two, leave that to the philosophers. The fear that usually came when mortals realized they were not alone had always been a handy card to play when it was needed and when one had the permanently displayed fangs he possessed, hiding what you are could be a little tricky.

Drew made himself as comfortable as he could sitting on the trunk of a car “so you wanna know how I became a vampire eh?” he paused to inhale deeply from the cigarette. “I suppose that's as a good a spot as any to start with.” a curious look coming across his face “but I'm not the first one you've seen am I? I'll tell you my story Mr. McNamara but I want a juicy story about you too, how about you tell me about your wife's murder. That has to be what makes you the man that stands here now, talking with a vampire that could just stand up and kill you” he snapped “like that. I'm not trying to be a dick, but I'll be telling you about my death, I want to know about yours.”

“My story starts on the streets of New York, Queens to be exact. I was always a street kid, from the age of nine I was on my own, running with gangs, doing what it took just to survive but don't worry, I'll spare you the extended version. When I was thirteen a man caught me trying to pick his pockets, that man was Carlo Fachiano. Let's leave his name out of things though” he grinned his mischievous grin “and he changed my life forever. See he's one of the Lionelli bosses, but a good man, at least as far as a ruthless killer can be a good man. He saw some potential in me, ya see, I'm very good at what I do, and he knew I could be useful.”

“Old Carlo took me under his wing, taught me how to get better at stealing, taught me some hacking skills, and taught me how to be as ruthless of a killer as he was. But when I was about sixteen he got permission from the Italians to make me something...better. You ever heard of Blood Thieves Mr. McNamara? That **** was some training” he laughed to himself “the first time I had vampire blood I thought I was gonna ******* die! But when the death feeling passed it was crazy, I wasn't quite a vampire but I had new strengths, my perception, my strength, I could move faster, it just made everything better. And it was like a drug, but better than any dope I'd ever had and right away I was hooked. So as the years passed the blood that I had become so dependant on made me better and better and they started giving me more jobs. I could go on and on about the vampires and humans I killed for them” he shook his head laughing, his next words carrying a hint of bitterness “but never quite good enough to be a part of their club, no, little Jewish kid good enough to be a blood thief killer but not good enough to join the Lionelli.”

“So a few months ago Carlo sends me a train ticket to come up here. More work that I was more than happy to do but the old man did something for me that he probably didn't have full permission to do but one night he called me down to the docks, I figured we were getting a shipment of coke or something that needed to get to the slums. I show up, find him just staring out into the water and without warning he just grabs me by the throat, tells me he has a gift for me and just tears into my throat. Death was on me man” again he paused, the memory of that night rushing over him like ice cold water “a feeling I'd never felt before, weak and helpless.” his free hand balling into a fist. “Then his blood rushed into my mouth, that hot syrupy liquid was everything! After, hell I don't even know how long, I had no concept of time then, I was just layin there on that cold concrete.” he let the cigarette butt fall to the ground with a small smile “and I emerged a vampire. Still need the blood of other vampires to survive, but a vampire nonetheless.”

Drew put his hands together as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes staring at the man's face for any reaction “so there ya go, my story in a nutshell. Now I've told you mine, tell me yours. I get there's a little monster somewhere behind that weary little face of yours.” it was not an insult but he was definitely curious what made this man able to do what he did now.