Path of the Vampire forum

He remembered a faint noise, muffled, somewhere in the background; a steady, soft, consistent noise of some kind of a thin liquid dripping onto a hard, flat surface. There was no trickle, no spill. It was like whatever it was, was pooling, growing slowly, spreading steadily. Sooner or later it would hit its peak and spill over. But for now, it was growing, gaining mass and volume. He was told it was the boiler. Sometimes he'd be told it was the pipes. Answers would change often but he never questioned it. It was none of his business anyway. It was made clear that it was none of his business anyway.

Yet it was that same steady, soft, consistent noise that, when he sat down to think, reverberated in his ears, getting louder each time and harder to ignore. Amplified decibels of plip... plip... plip... that seemed to not only collect on that hard, flat surface but in his head as well, growing, expanding until all he could think about, all he could think about, all he could follow along with was that plip... plip... plip... as it echoed in the space it had emptied out.

It was hard to grasp anything with just an echoing void where storage should have been. Like each time he read a word, or an equation, no matter how simple, it would fall into that void and disappear. He'd try again. And it'd be gone again. Frustration would mount until he'd scrawl in whatever he felt was the right answer, hoping that he'd be correct but knowing, deep down, there was a bigger chance he'd be wrong again. But content was better than a blank. Blank meant nothing. Blank meant he didn't know. Blank meant he was stupid or lazy. Content, at least, meant he'd tried.

"Why are your marks so low?"

He'd explain the plip... plip... plip...

"Stop being so selfish."

"This household isn't just about you."

Rita.

"Try harder."
Try harder.

He'd manage to find some cheap highlighters and tape from the shop closest to the Warehouse, and pinched toilet seat covers from the gas station. The map he'd been given during orientation was laid out flat on the concrete floor, one corner held down by his phone and the one diagonally across from it, held down by his Glock. On the surface of the map, he'd laid out pieces of ripped toilet seat covers, carefully creating one big sheet by taping the edges together, just enough to bind them together but not enough to obstruct any path he'd need to mark.

Interwebz Café. 11 & 23, Coastside.

Moon Lotus Cafe. 23 & 18, Wickbridge.

Riverview Café. 13 & 12, Gullsborough.

Station Net Café. 7 & 4, Honeymead.

The Corner Cafe. 26 & 30, Redwood.

Voodoo Cybercafe. 22 & 12, Gullsborough.

Six cafés. Or at least six that he could pinpoint on the map with "café" in the name. He marked each cafe down with a yellow highlighter on the makeshift tracing paper to check the distance between them. The ones in Honeymead and Redwood seemed to be the only ones that were further away from the four others so if all went as planned, he'd be able to check each location within two or three days.

Bullwood Station. 30 & 12, Bullwood.

Cherrydale Station. 7 & -6, Cherrydale.

Coastside Station. 9 & 19, Coastside.

Gullsborough Station. 21 & 9, Gullsborough.

Honeymead Station. 8 & 4, Honeymead.

Newborough Station. 8 & 36, Newborough.

River Rock Station. 35 & 21, River Rock.

Swansdale Station. 24 & 33, Swansdale.

Westwall Station. 8 & 12, Westwall.

Wickbridge Station. 21 & 24, Wickbridge.

Ten stations, each marked in fluorescent green. Station Net was right next to Honeymead Station but Coastside was the closest to where he'd be able to go so he marked "Interwebz Café" with a "1". Three blocks northwest was Coastside Station (2) To Westwall (3). Five blocks southeast to Riverview (4) and then east eight blocks to Voodoo Cybercafé from there (5). Gullsborough Station was two blocks northwest (6) from there. Three down. To Swansdale station (7), which seemed to be the furthest distance from the cluster, and then two blocks northeast to The Corner Cafe (8). Back to Swansdale (9) to go to Wickbridge Station (10) and then five blocks northeast to Moon Lotus (11). Back to Wickbridge Station (12), then all the way up to Honeymead Station (13) to Station Net (14). Because, he figured, it was the closest to a station and would be a smart place to rest while waiting for any information from the flyer he'd posted. Fourteen destinations.

Six cafés. Ten stations. Fourteen destinations.

The way each businesses were titled and distinct use of l'accent aigu on certain businesses in comparison to the others told him that there were at least three different owners. He had no other owner information but that would be a bridge he'd have to cross when he got there.

Hopefully he wouldn't have to cross that bridge. Hopefully he'd find what he was looking for before then.

He'd try harder.

"How do you feel, buddy?"

Flickers of light escaped through his jittery eyelids as they protested against being opened. He shut them again, tightly, not quite brave enough to let the pain from bright white through and the throbbing ache that followed, that ebbed over the shut lids only cemented the fear. The urge to lift his hands and press their heels into his eyelids was defeated by the way his arms were weighed down as if they were carved from lead instead of flesh and bone.

"Tired." He opened his mouth to speak and bits of his parched lips stuck together, slowly peeling away from one another to let out his rasped, tiny murmur. He felt tired to the bone even though he had just woken up. Even though, unbeknownst to him, he had just slept for twenty eight straight hours.

"Open your eyes."

The voice was different this time around. It was a woman that spoke to him this time. Her tone was sharp. He'd heard her before and he remembered what she looked like; she was young but her expression added years to the pale and angular lines of her face. She had eyes that had reminded him of the pictures of open fields with the wide, blue sky above them, pictures that hung around in plentiful on the walls of his four-walled room. Her hair, dark as ebony, was always pulled back and tied up in a way that looked almost painful. He knew her because she was always different from the others; a little tougher, a little colder, a little more determined.

"I'm going to need you to open your eyes."

She spoke again and his pulse quickened. She was displeased and he didn't have to look at her to know it. He knew it because he was disappointing her. And every time he did that, her tone got a little more firmer and then she'd pause and wait. He'd done it before and he'd seen the way her already rigid face stiffened, the way her eyes grew larger, just the slightest bit like she thought he was defying her, or the way her thin lips pulled a little tighter to compensate for the way her teeth were grinding together behind them.

He didn't know what she'd do if he didn't listen. He never waited that long. It always took the second warning before he listened. He didn't want to know what would come after a third warning. He took a deep breath, his thin ribcage expanding. His eyes squeezed together before his dark lashes fluttered as he pried his eyes open to the stark white and blinding lights, and the pain seared through his pale eyes. He flinched and shut his eyes, for a fragment of a moment and not a second longer, before he opened them again to the blurred silhouettes in front of him.

"It'll be okay. This will make you better."

It was her again. Her voice was softer now and in his young mind, it was mistaken for kindness. Like he was being rewarded for his obedience. He thought because he didn't wait until the third warning, she was appeased and whatever annoyance, whatever disappointment she'd felt towards him seconds before had been wiped clean. But she harboured no feelings towards him, beyond what he was to her.

This room he was in was one he woke up in often. In some ways, it looked a lot like his own room with the four clean, white walls, the minimal set up. He caught the glint from the telltale sliver of metal from the corner of his eyes.

His spine straightened automatically as he prepared himself, watching the woman for a second as she picked up the full syringe and stepped around the cot to stand behind him. He shut his eyes once she could no longer see his face and he froze, telling himself it would be over soon. Time passed, time was constantly going, rolling, moving. Time would pass. This, too, would pass with it. The angled tip, as it pierced his spine, didn't hurt this time. It was sharp and his skin was still delicate, his flesh tender. Maybe that was what the slumber before hand was for. Or at least that was what he told himself. The initial contact of the needle against his skin was okay but what sent shocks of bone-deep pain reverberating along the length of his spine before stretching out over the canvas of his back was the way the 16G needle was inserted in, further, tearing the tiny hole it had initially made before a searing sort of a fluid was injected through it.

"Not much longer now."
Not much longer now.

Baxter licked his bottom lip as shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the woman behind him. He reached up to fiddle with the brim of his cap, adjusting it over his eyes as he stalled and waited for her to leave. It wasn't exactly her fault, his impatience. He'd, quite stupidly, chosen the alley next to a fairly popular nightclub. It made sense at the time; the sun had set and people did all kinds of weird **** in alleys behind nightclubs. But this particular nightclub (Nightmode, as it was called) was rather busy and bustling, both inside, out and around the back where Baxter sat, waiting. Looking back, it made sense; it was a nightclub. What had he really expected?

His gaze narrowed as he watched as her cigarette grew short painstakingly slowly. Each time the cherry lit up with her deep inhale, he wanted to rip his own hair out. He must've looked absurd, sat in a crouch near the dumpster. He'd been trying to conceal himself within the shadows of the alley the best he could but there was only so much of himself that would disappear behind the shadow the dumpster cast. At this point, his legs were throbbing dully from the prolonged position and he'd really just given up, throwing caution to the wind. The newest scar that sat over the side of his throat flared up as in on cue, sensing his thinning patience and taunting him. It had been a few days since the "sorcerer" marked him with what he thought was the symbolism for a "power" that came in the form of a chant.

He'd made a mistake. He had just been humouring the woman. It had been a combination of politeness and amusement when she'd asked him which he wanted out of the ones she'd be able to mark him with, and he'd picked the chant because he figured all he'd have to do was… well, chant. Oh, but he'd been sorely mistaken. It turned out that after these witches, or whatever it was they called themselves, were rather sadistic in their art and the tattoo he'd been given had hurt enough to make him pass out for a good couple of hours. It felt a lot like a bad trip when he woke up in the bathtub of a motel room he'd never been in before.

It took a lot of self-convincing before he thought to give the sorcerer the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't been scammed. But only time would tell.

So two nights later, there he was. In the back alley of Nightmode, crouched and waiting. He could just walk away, he thought, but then she'd catch him and think he was some kind of a stalker. So he sat like a grounded gargoyle, wearing a similar expression.

When she finally flicked her cigarette aside and blew out the last bit of noxious gas from her mouth, Baxter could've cried in relief. He watched her head back ins and quickly pulled out the Bowie knife he'd purchased from the auctions, quick to act before the next clubhopper popped out for a quick break from the writhing masses inside.

The sharp edge of the blade slid across his palm seamlessly and deep crimson followed its track, spilling into and dispersing in the puddle of Lord-knew-what between his boot-clad feet. Baxter cursed before holding his breath. Now or never. He hesitated, only briefly, before his lips parted around the Cleansing Chant.

For a second, there was nothing and he was ready to get angry about the seven stitches he'd probably need to repair the split skin of his palm. But no sooner had he resolved to hunt down the sorcerer and shake her down, did his head suddenly feel like it had become detached from his body, floating away. Baxter's eyes rolled back and he blacked out for the second time in two days.

But at least he wouldn't be needing those seven stitches anymore.

"Hey, Fred?"

He remembered looking over his shoulder at the blonde.

"Yeah?"

Fred had looked back at him, annoyed, his brows pinching together. He hated it when he was slung over a shoulder. "Like a sack of flour," he'd say. Baxter would grin at him and continue onwards. Fred would rarely protest it but he'd sulk. His pretty face would darken and his lips would jut out in a pout, nostrils flaring. Sometimes, Baxter would wonder if he did it on purpose because he knew he liked it. Fred was a lot smarter than he made himself out to be. He knew it. Baxter knew it. But they both pretended otherwise.

"Does that rat kid have a car?"

Rat kid a.k.a Thomas From Starbucks a.k.a Fred's co-worker a.k.a the kid that couldn't keep his hands or eyes off of Fred a.k.a rat kid. Mind you, he looked nothing like a rat or even a related rodent. In fact, most people would even consider him handsome in a Hipster Barista kind of way. If Baxter were to be objective about him, he would agree. But as it just so happened, he wasn't. Because rat kid was constantly sniffing around things that didn't belong to him, like his namesake.

This particular evening, Baxter and Fred had dropped by the younger male's workplace to grab a couple of coffees and while Fred was distracted by the winking face one of the other baristas had put on Baxter's cup, Baxter had been watching Thomas. His stony mask remained as the male's dark gaze scoured over Fred's body. He idly, habitually, bobbed the cigarette sitting at the corner of his lips as the rat kid reached out to touch Fred's hair, ruffling the messy locks. He listened quietly as Thomas leaned over to whisper into Fred's ear to make him laugh. He'd smiled wanly to himself and looked away, watching out the large, glass window as a car drove by. A bright red Camry. His fingers were twisting and toying with the lint inside the pockets of his jeans, his ears prickling as he listened to the two talk. He let the gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach settle. Patience, he urged himself, have some patience...

Fred looked more annoyed now. "Yeah, he's got a green Corolla. 90s." He looked like he was going to slug Baxter in the face. In fact, the older man was anticipating it. But it never came.

"Did he bring it to work?" His footsteps had come to a stop and Fred wormed out of his hold and tossed his coffee out before looking up at him with those big, green eyes. No matter how many times the male scowled or glared, those green eyes always remained doe-like and dewy, glistening.

"Yeah, it's probably around back." he sounded crestfallen as he led the way to the parking lot. Baxter took a sip of his coffee to hide his grin, disregarding the winking face scrawled on with Gerd's marker as he tossed the rest into the bin and followed Fred to the car. It was a hideously grotesque-looking hatchback. How fitting, Baxter had thought of it.

There was a pause when they'd both come to stop next to the car. They stared at each other, both adamant. But Fred knew what Baxter wanted. To an extent, anyways. And Baxter knew Fred knew. Baxter figured that Fred thought he wanted to steal Thomas' ****. And he did. Sort of. The older blonde waited silently until the other male sighed, caving as he wiggled the handle to the back door of the hatchback before opening the door and standing back.

Baxter smiled at him. "After you."

The response had been narrowed eyes and a deep, patient inhale before Fred leaned in to climb inside. No sooner had the male sat down did Baxter slide in and grab the other, pushing him back as he shut the door behind him. "Kendal, why are w-..."

He didn't get to finish his sentence.

Because by then Baxter's lips had already found his pulse, and his hands were already working to strip the male bare. He felt the others neck stretch under his lips as Fred's head rolled back and he felt the male shift under him as he moved to grab the back of the passenger seat to support himself. Baxter slid lower, mouth travelling over the pale planes until he was situated on his knees, head dipping.

"Kendal-SH-it..."

There was a moment of scrambling, of surprise, of long legs thrashing before he felt the fingers sink inside his frosty hair, gripping tight. Each time he moved, the thin fingers flexed and pulled until his scalp was burning pleasantly. Each tug reminded him why he was here. Each murmur of approval reminded him why he was here. Each time the other panted, his breath wafting upwards to fog up the windows, he was reminded why he was here.

He pulled back briefly and flicked his eyes up. It was no longer as subdued as back in Starbucks. There was a hardness in the icy gaze; a cold, hard determination. "Say my name." he demanded, his voice quiet but firm. He bit him lightly. Say it or else.

Fred looked down at him with those doe eyes, red in the face and with a damp brow as his chest rose and fell, like a cornered animal before he pushed his hands into his own hair in frustration and shifted on his seat. "Daddy..." he'd hissed as he was bitten. Baxter smiled faintly before he descended to kiss him once more, prostrating himself over the body of the fallen angel.

Fred's voice pitched in the form of his name. His real name.

He felt Fred flounder and heard his stubby nails scrape at the back of the passenger seat he'd been grabbing onto earlier, threatening to tear the time-old material. His own hands, calloused and worn, lifted to drag over and explore every inch of what was his. He wanted Fred to remember it. More importantly, he wanted…

"Fred...?"

Rat kid.

Fred nearly fell back as the car's door opened. Baxter grinned a little to himself and continued, much to what he imagined was Fred's embarrassment. He'd felt him heat up. He heard his stammering, trying to control his tone which only spurred the older man on further, making Fred's voice hitch again. In fact, he made a show of it for rat kid.

He glanced up with those cold, hard eyes, meeting the darker, widened pair. He watched a series of emotions play out over the dark pools; anger, shock and then what Baxter had been waiting for. Heartbreak. He held Thomas' stare the entire time, greedily taking in each shift as Fred stuttered and tried to explain himself. Fred didn't notice the battle that was taking place. Fred didn't notice Baxter's stare; one that spoke loud and clear to Thomas'. I will destroy you, it promised with conviction.

It was a shame really because deep down, Baxter knew Thomas genuinely cared about Fred. And if Baxter had been anyone else other than who he was, he'd have relented his vice grip for Fred's sake. Thomas was the sort to wife'n'life him and keep him happy, and safe. He wanted him beyond the surface, he wanted to fix Fred. Maybe put him in a polo and wear matching v-neck sweaters with him so that when they came out past the white picket fence of their cute, little house in the suburbs with their twin toy poodles, everyone would get giddy over just how damn endearing they were.

But that wasn't Fred. And more importantly, Fred wasn't his.

"You could've used the office." Thomas said finally, red in the face, as he reached past them to grab his cigarettes from the console before he turned away to leave the scene. Baxter grinned again and finally lowered his gaze to finish before he pulled back. He'd hoped, in silence, that Thomas was going to lock himself in the men's room and cry. Fred fell back, panting. And he was beautiful. Reverent, thankful. His eyes were wide, incredulous, in that way Baxter liked them best. The younger male uttered how he wanted to return the favour later.

Baxter smiled, lashes lowering as he moved to sit up on the seat.

"Anything you want."
Anything you want.

He repeated in his head as the waitress hovered over the side of the booth he was sat at. Anything you want, she'd said to him, anything on the value menu. That was her reply when he asked what the all-day breakfast platter contained. He got the impression she didn't much care for her shitty, likely part-time and likely minimum wage, job. She looked young, freshly out of highschool maybe, working a shitty job to pay for the fake Fendi purse that sat in her locker at the back. Or the fake Chanel logo earrings that hung heavily from each earlobe. She stared at him much like any teenager would stare at an adult. With raging contempt. Impatient that he was even daring to ask such a stupid question.

"I'll just have a small black coffee." Baxter tapped the edge of his phone lightly against the formica table. The girl stared at him in disbelief and then she inhaled deeply, her eyes getting big as she scribbled his order down on her notepad like she just could not be anymore annoyed by him. "No sugar." he added with a smile. She nearly rolled her eyes but opted to just turn and stalk off, not wanting her manager Jerry to howl at her again about good customer service.

It wasn't just the service at Interwebz that left much to be desired either. Sitting a few blocks southeast of Coastside station, it was a hole in the wall, an absurdly small café and Baxter had come to learn that most people unanimously agreed that they had likely the worst coffee in all of Harper Rock. He didn't come here for the coffee though. He liked it because it was just a hop, skip and a jump away from the water.

Baxter flipped his phone over and tapped the screen to check the time. He was nearly a half hour early for the meeting. He needed that time to get comfortable, to let his presence spread over the room and take over like creeping fog. Like he owned the place, as shitty as it was.

The first to arrive was Lincoln King. A quick search on the internet would reveal he was the owner of an app called Bitr, designed after Tinder. But Baxter didn't need to do any research, Lincoln had been fairly open about who he was and what he did. In fact, it was one of the first things he'd mentioned to Baxter in their exchanges via CrowNet. Sterling Monsivais, on the other hand, had arrived in a charcoal-coloured Cobra, which had taken Baxter by surprise. Sterling had come off a modest and humble man, especially with the online moniker "I Love Big Books", Baxter had guessed he would've come off less self-assured. It was an intriguing little detail he'd tucked away for the time being.

What started off as a generally well-off meeting quickly soured. To be very fair, Bax had little patience to begin with. He'd come to the meeting in hopes that the two men had a bit of information to give him but as it were, they didn't. And that too would've flown by under the radar if not for the tone in which the men had been discussing the case. It was light. Too light. The men had even begun a bit of banter amongst themselves, and it made Baxter's skin crawl. He hadn't come for a coffee date. He hadn't come for chatter. In fact, he loathed chatter. He'd come to meet them for information on a missing kid.

For a while, he was quiet and he sat back, his posture relaxed and harmless. His expression had even been plain, thoughtful. He watched the two. He tried to be patient and maintain an amicable presence. When minutes passed with no chance of any serious tone settling over the meeting, he finally sat up with a rigid back which he hoped would be the first signal to the men. When that failed, his tone changed. It became less neutral and more grim with the slightest edge to it, enough to hurt but not enough to draw blood.

It was the edge that finally made the men react, though not in the way he'd hoped. But still, they had reacted in a way he liked. Nervous, fluttery... aiming to please even. They had, inadvertently, given him the upper hand. They had, unknowingly, bowed their heads down to him. No, it wasn't what he'd wanted but it was an extra little something for his efforts. But he wasn't done with them yet.

He smiled and he sat back, doing what he thought he did best, watching them. Watching as they floundered and scrambled like fish out of water, at his very mercy. He dissected them, keeping little parts of their demeanours as mementos. And it was like they knew. Baxter was willing to let them sit and squirm. He was patient enough when it came to playing his cards. When their tones became apologetic, he finally released the tether he'd had on them and, almost graciously, he thanked them, like he was doing them a favour. Not because they'd been of any use for his predicament but rather because he'd been entertained for the night. And good entertainment was just so hard to find these days.