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Finley couldn’t exactly complain about the life that she had been given. A year – more – had passed since Finley’s drunken encounter with Mister Stonehouse. Plenty had changed, but plenty had remained the same, too. A year and a half ago she’d been engaged, but she hadn’t been in love. She’d wanted only money and a nice house. She had that now, more than enough, and she hadn’t had to marry a gross sloth of a man to get it. She hadn’t had to marry anyone at all.

The blonde was now free to roam the city to do as she wished – so long as it wasn’t during the day. There was a single encounter with her ex, months ago. The guy had quickly become a meal and then dismissed; she hadn’t heard from him since. It was likely he’d forgotten the encounter completely, and that was fine with Finley. If she ever ran into him again, she might forego the meal – he hadn’t tasted very good. The blonde had figured out that she had a type, just like she had her favourite foods and her favourite kinds of alcohol.

She liked them young and pretty. She liked the ones that were full of life, willing to take risks. The thrill seekers. She liked to throw herself at them, to be held and lifted, tangled and flung. With vampirism came more life than death. There came opportunities. And, like an addict hooked on a drug and getting away with it, Finley lived her unlife to the fullest.

Whether it was rewarding or not didn’t matter.

In fact, she probably fucked up more than she achieved anything. She barely learned a thing, but nor did she put her mind to it. Even if someone tried to teach her she’d have skived on her studies. Even Grant couldn’t keep control of his wayward childe, though she meant him no harm. No, she kept the trouble from his door, most of the time. She came on like a whirlwind and was gone just as quick, always thankful for the gifts that he had given to her.

No, she could no longer get drunk and nor did her allergy to certain drugs bother her. But this did not matter. She got herself into all kinds of fun and games, many entanglements that she nearly trapped herself within. She’d managed to get herself out of trouble – until now.

Lingerie was a weakness of Finley’s, and there was a particularly upmarket shop in the better part of town that she often meandered through but never bought anything from. She was casing the place, clearly. And on the night she intended to thieve the shop for all that it was worth – well, she got distracted, as was Finley’s forte. She wanted to try some things on, and in the process set off some alarms.

And she’d run out of her gadgets.

She tried to talk to the guards but to no avail – she tried fighting them but, well. She was in lingerie and missing her weapons.

And now she was hiding in the back corner of the store, half naked, though she did still have one item on her. One item that she so happened to be taking selfies with when she’d set off the alarms. One single thing that might help her out, without getting caught and put in cuffs (they probably had vampire-proof cuffs, these days).

She called Grant.

As soon as he answered she gave him no room to even say hello.

”Okay don’t hate me but I’m kinda stuck and if you could just come distract some blokes that’d be grand…” she said. Even though he couldn’t see her she was grinning sheepishly, mischievously, that tell-tale glint in her eye that meant she really wasn’t concerned. Even now, even in trouble, she was having so much fun.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” said Grant Stonehouse, bold as a bronze statue of a Greek god welcoming travellers as they entered the gates to the city of Athens, “is why the business venture that I am proposing is guaranteed to be fruitful for all of us.”

The tall Englishman, dressed impeccably in a navy blue Hugo Boss suit, crisp white shirt, and a chestnut brown silk tie that complemented his leather shoes and belt perfectly, began to walk purposefully around the meeting room of his office. The building may have lacked the architectural majesty of the Acropolis, and the divine aura of Mount Olympus, but Stonehouse still felt like an almighty deity as he handed out printed copies of his latest entrepreneurial escapade.

In a world swamped by iThis, eThat, and virtual-Whatever, there was something reassuring, something comforting and familiar, about holding a physical copy of a business proposal in one’s hands. That ability to thumb through the pages with ease, to underline or highlight key bullet points, to actually feel something substantial between one’s fingers and thumbs rather than simply staring at a screen, always brought a smile to Stonehouse’s chiselled face. It was like reading a good old-fashioned book, as opposed to browsing a web page, or flicking a lazy digit across the touch-screen of a Kindle.

“Here is a resume of everything that I’ve just presented to you,” said Stonehouse, shuffling through a small pile of paperwork. “Please read it at your convenience.”

Stonehouse handed out the first copy of his business proposition to a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, who grabbed at the files with his stumpy hands, eagerly getting to work at digesting the information with his greedy eyes.

“By all means feel free to ask any further questions,” added the sophisticated salesman, “although I’m sure that you’ll find everything to be both thorough and correct.”

Technically speaking, when Stonehouse mentioned ladies and gentlemen he was wrong, as there was only one woman in the room. The second recipient of the confident businessman’s report was the lone female in question, a smart-looking woman, perhaps thirty-five years old, dressed in a knee-length grey skirt and matching jacket, her black hair tied back into a tight ponytail. She appeared to have taken her fashion advice from TV courtroom dramas, and was apparently invited to the meeting by the balding man to scrutinize the legal side of any deal. It was perhaps highly ironic, then, that there was absolutely nothing legal or above board about this particular transaction.

Although Stonehouse’s company, Mastermind, was supposedly a small firm dealing with psychological analysis and self-help, it was purely a mask for what was hidden within, nothing more than a concealed gateway to a shady world of arms dealing. Ever since the collapse of the Masquerade - the veil of secrecy that had protected the anonymity of the vampire community from their human neighbours - trade in firearms had been booming. Whether it was a group of nervous vampires, worried about potential vigilante attacks, or fearful humans, frightened that the bloodsuckers would select them as their next victim, everyone wanted the protection afforded by a weapon. Anything from easily concealable handguns to military grade assault rifles, if someone wanted it, Stonehouse could source it.

Needless to say, the murky underworld of illegal arms trading was, in itself, a dangerous place to be, hence the need for the third person in the visiting consortium. A set of sturdy hands, belonging to a muscle-bound man dressed in clothes usually worn by doormen at nightclubs, accepted the final copy of Stonehouse’s file. The beefcake mumbled something under his breath, possibly an indication that reading business literature wasn’t exactly his strong point.

Having completed distributing the details of his excellently delivered sales pitch like Santa Claus handing out presents on Christmas Day, Stonehouse stood tall in the centre of the room, a proud expression etched across his face.

“I’m sure that you’ll all agree,” concluded Stonehouse, addressing the small gathering, “that we can make a substantial sum of money.”

A set of piercingly sharp eyes scanned the features of the three people who remained seated in front of him, examining their body language, searching for signs of either acceptance or rejection while they whispered amongst themselves. The self-confident businessman always trusted his instincts, and right now, his gut feeling was that the meeting had been a roaring success. These people wanted to strike a deal.

The clientele of this potential transaction, lead by the balding man, were all human, but fully aware of the existence of vampires within their precious city. They saw through the fog of hysteria and paranoia that had descended upon certain quarters of the population, and were focussed solely on the Dollar signs that repeatedly flashed before their avaricious eyes like strobe lighting at a swanky nightclub. One man’s blood-curdling nightmare was an opportunist’s financial dream.

Both the relative silence and Stonehouse’s concentration were abruptly shattered by the unmistakable sound of a phone ringing, and the accompanying vibration in the pocket of the Englishman’s suit trousers. A puzzled appearance spread across Stonehouse’s face as he wondered why his phone was still switched on. Ever the professional, the entrepreneur would always turn his phone onto silent mode during an important meeting or seminar. Then it struck him like the lightning-fast fist of a boxing champion; it wasn’t his regular phone causing the disturbance, it was his “special” phone, a separate device, the number of which was only given out to a very select group of people, those who had gained access to Stonehouse’s inner circle.

“Please excuse me for a second,” said Stonehouse apologetically. “It appears that something urgent has just popped up.”

Withdrawing the phone from his pocket with the grace of a deadly gunslinger drawing his Colt 45 from its holster, Stonehouse gazed in moderate surprize at the name flashing on his screen: “Finderella”.

Finderella, or Finley to give the free-spirited woman her Sunday best name, was the childe of the cosmopolitan vampire, and quite possibly the only person in Harper Rock with even a sniff of forcing Stonehouse’s firm hand, or influencing his otherwise watertight decisions. The tall, slender woman, with her sparkling blue eyes and blonde hair, held an interesting position within her sire’s non-beating heart.

When it came to women, Stonehouse didn’t have a specific “type”. The adventurer certainly didn’t feel any necessity to pigeonhole his tastes into one particular box. That would be like dining regularly at an elegant Michelin starred restaurant, and always choosing the smoked salmon as one’s main course. Sometimes, the connoisseur wanted to sink his teeth into a plate of succulent red meat, oozing with juicy flavours, while on other occasions, a serving of lean, grilled chicken would satisfy his appetite. Why go for the traditional platter all the time if there was a spicy Asian dish on the specials board just aching to be sampled?

Having said that, if Stonehouse were forced to nail his colours to the mast, then a Finley-type flag would probably be riding high on his pole. But the leggy blonde was most definitely not on the menu. Taking a bite from his childe would be like fooling around with one’s sister. In fact no, it would be far worse than that. Crossing the line with Finley would be akin to messing about with your best friend’s sister; strictly speaking it was allowed, but the fallout could be truly chaotic.

Stonehouse smiled softly. Like it or not, there was no way that he could avoid taking the call. Tapping on the green “Accept” button, Stonehouse was all set to churn out a predictable greeting when Finley jumped straight in, expressing what appeared to be her concern at being stuck in a spot of bother. Her voice sounded distant, as if she were whispering, hoping not to be heard by someone in her vicinity. Was she trapped in a cupboard, or hiding in a box?

In virtually any other circumstances, Stonehouse would have whizzed away like a doting father who was anxious to get his daughter home from the school prom, and plucked Finley out of whatever scrape she’d found herself in, but that wasn’t a viable option right now. There was too much at stake in the current game of firearms poker, too many cards already on the table to simply fold and walk away. Rather than the businessman heading to Finley, Stonehouse was going to have to summon the rebellious mischief-maker to him.

The sharp-dressed executive returned his focus to the three humans, preparing to make his next announcement.

“If you have no objections,” said Stonehouse, “my... secretary would like to join us. She’s very keen to be part of this momentous partnership.”

Several nods of approval gave Stonehouse the green light to bring an additional player to the table, albeit one that probably wasn’t holding any aces.

“Please forgive the theatrics involved,” added the classy vampire, as he unleashed his mystical powers to summon his childe.

In the blink of totally stunned eye, Finley materialized in the room like a character beamed aboard the USS Enterprise during an episode of Star Trek, much to the delight of the middle-aged boss of the purchasing consortium. The shifty-looking man wasn’t so excited by the display of vampiric magic as he was by the sight that now held his sleazy eyes captivated. The toned blonde wasn’t dressed in a standard issue Star Fleet blue, yellow, or red uniform, but in skimpy underwear that could only be described as sexy-as-****. The outfit, and the svelte figure of Finley to which it clung so perfectly, was a devastatingly hot combination that could melt the polar ice caps, causing even the most clueless Oompa-Loompa lookalike US president to change his prehistoric views on climate change.

Despite the palpable rise in temperature, time appeared to freeze, an awkward silence gripping the room like the grubby hands of a serial strangler around the throat of the meeting. Stonehouse turned to face his gobsmacked audience, attempting to restore an atmosphere of consummate professionalism.

“As you can see,” he said calmly, “I like to employ a very liberal dress code, especially on dress-down days such as today.”

According to self-appointed fashion guru, Gina Ross, the on-off **** buddy of Stonehouse from back in the days of his human existence over in Manchester, England, an awful lot could learned about a woman just by studying her underwear. Granted, such a pearl of pseudo-psychological style wisdom was gained through Gina’s relentless reading of lifestyle magazines such as Cosmopolitan and Vogue, rather than a randomized, controlled scientific trial, but there were grains of truth in her statement.

Gina was the daughter of Alison Ross, Stonehouse’s ultra-efficient secretary at Elixir, his former place of work. The attractive brunette was like many other women in their mid-twenties: she wanted to fit snuggly into the often unachievable standards set by modern society, yet stand out from the crowd; to strive for the frequently unobtainable goals listed in popular culture, while not appearing to be too greedy and selfish; to constantly look her best, but do it in an apparently effortless manner; and, of course, to receive more “likes” than her counterparts when she posted yet another selfie - no filters, obviously - onto her Facebook profile.

Having digested page after page of style tips and advice from the glossy publications like a gourmet dinner at a lavish couture restaurant, the curvaceous fashionista had told Stonehouse that items of underwear should always match. Bras and panties came in sets for a reason, and should never be mixed and jumbled up. Wearing, for example, a white bra with black panties was tantamount to treason. Never go out on a date wearing novelty pants: a man is not interested in whether or not you are a “disco queen”, “little princess”, or a “horny devil”. For the love of lingerie, get the correct size. The list of dos and don’ts was almost endless.

In many ways, the bubbly brunette’s words made perfect sense to the attentive ears of the businessman. Stonehouse had always frowned suspiciously at men who wore odd socks. They weren’t quirky, wacky, or any other inappropriate adjective used to describe such folk: they were simply disorganized. Spiderman boxer shorts should never be worn by anybody over the age of about fifteen, and God forbid anyone should ever be seen dead in “comedy” briefs depicting cheeky elephants or tigers. Any such sartorial terrorists ought to be arrested immediately by Detectives Class and Taste from the fashion police squad.

Gina’s key point to remember, the crème de la crème of corsetry, the Holy Grail of hosiery, was that if you were planning on showing off your underwear in, shall we say, a private catwalk scenario, make damn sure that you look ******* amazing, and wear it with supreme confidence, so that the recipient of such a show is instantly mesmerized. Easier said than done? Apparently not for Finley, the flamboyant exhibitionist!

The balding man’s eyes had grown wider than a pair of shining moons, held prisoner by the scantily clad body of Finley, her slender physique acting as the gravity that kept his pale green satellites transfixed in her direction. His sleazy gaze roamed freely over her skin, the trader’s eyes orbiting ever inch of visible flesh while his mind hungrily imagined the sensual areas that remained thinly cloaked in delicate black material. The overweight arms dealer would surely have signed any contract placed in front of him if it meant that he could get his grubby little fingers all over Finley’s svelte frame.

Internally, Stonehouse wasn’t sure whether he wanted to burst out into fits of uncontrollable laughter, or scream like an angry teenager at his childe. Once the meeting was over, he would undoubtedly have a stern word with Finderella, interrogating her like the prime suspect in a murder investigation, trying to ascertain what kind of weird and wonderful situation she’d found herself roped into this time. As per usual, the charming allurist would inevitably talk her way out of her chastisement, flashing her hypnotic blue eyes to appease Stonehouse with consummate ease. Those glistening orbs were the wrong colour: they should have been a dazzling shade of green like precious emeralds because they seemed to act as Stonehouse’s kryptonite. For now, though, the entrepreneur needed to seize the initiative by the scruff of its opportunistic neck.

“Mr Butler,” said Stonehouse proudly, addressing the man with the receding hairline, “may I please introduce you to Finley, my personal assistant.”

The smartly dressed businessman placed a hand gently on Finley’s shoulder, as if he were about to parade her around like some kind of prized asset. Perhaps that was what the charismatic blonde actually was, Stonehouse’s most valuable resource? There was a certain indefinable bond that came from sharing the same blood, a loyalty upon which no material price could ever be placed.

“Finley,” said Stonehouse, smiling as he turned to face his childe, “this is Mr Butler, the talented gentleman we discussed earlier.”

There had been no prior discussion, no in depth business consultation about forthcoming meetings, but Stonehouse held eye contact with Finley just long enough for her to hopefully get the idea of playing along with the charade.

“Obviously,” continued Stonehouse, “all three of our guests are incredibly important members of our budding partnership, but if you could afford Mr Butler some… special attention, that would be marvellous.”

Stonehouse let his hand slip slowly away from Finley’s smooth shoulder, allowing his index finger to ever so lightly trace a subtle path across the back of her neck and a vertebra or two of her spine. It was a reassuring touch, perhaps a little more, to indicate that he wasn’t trying to throw her to the grubby lion sitting in front of her charming smile, certainly not without first removing the animal’s canines and dirty claws.

Stonehouse briefly switched his attention to the other two members of the consortium. The woman, otherwise elegantly professional, looked a little awkward and phased by the unfolding scenario, and was not exactly sure where to focus her gaze.

“My apologies for the somewhat unconventional approach, Ms Monroe,” said Stonehouse. “We like to do things a little differently here. I think it gives us a certain edge, helps us to stand out from the crowd.”

The tall Englishman turned to the muscular man, who had remained relatively motionless throughout the meeting, except for the faintest of wry grins when Finley had appeared.

“I’m sure that you agree, Dave?”

Stonehouse didn’t expect a reply from the bodyguard: he clearly wasn’t paid to speak. The beefcake’s weapons and fists would probably do all the talking in his particular profession.

A panoramic gaze spread across the room as Stonehouse’s astute eyes evaluated the situation. He offered a warm, reassuring smile to each participant, clasping his hands together in a comforting manner like a vicar at a church service.

“Are there any further questions?” he added “Can Finley assist you with anything, or shall we conclude our deal?”

John Paul Butler was a product of 1967’s Summer of Love. The offspring of a couple of free-spirited hippies, Butler was named after his parents’ two favourite Beatles: a compromised outcome, mainly because they couldn’t decide which one they preferred, despite endless hours of LSD-infused deliberation. In theory, the liberal child should have blossomed into his Bohemian lifestyle, but several wrong turns along life’s path forced the youth to turn feral, to walk on the wild side; to slip through the cracks in society’s pavement into the murky underworld that lurks just below the surface.

As he closed in on his fiftieth birthday, time eroding his overweight body like slowly creeping rust, the grubby arms dealer was convinced that his time had finally come. Butler was going to make financial hay while the sunshine of uncertainty caused by vampires shone brightly. Trading weapons would transform the petty crook into a criminal mastermind. He’d celebrate his fiftieth birthday next year by sitting on a golden throne, having been crowned the King of Harper Rock. Why stop there? He could become the Duke of Ottawa, the Earl of Toronto; the deluded fool could even claim the title of the ******* Emperor of Ontario!

Katie Monroe had a somewhat different story to tell. Academically gifted, the talented woman had been brought up in a distinctly middle-class neighbourhood, reaping the benefits of wealthy parents, and a thriving social network. Having gained a criminal law degree, and subsequently falling head over heels in love with a fellow successful lawyer - who was insanely handsome - Katie appeared to be living a lifestyle that was plucked straight from a Disney movie about princesses. That was until she found her newlywed husband ******* his recently hired blonde secretary over his office desk.

Needless to say, being the wounded party in a domestic cliché didn’t sit well with the soon to be Ms Monroe. The divorce was both swift and painful, not least because Katie had, in a fit of emotional rage, burnt her cheating husband’s collection of suits, slashed the tyres of his BMW, and spammed the Facebook profile of the blonde secretary with pictures of whores and hookers. Despite being the victim, the attractive brunette soon became the pariah, the outcast thrown aside by her colleagues. Nobody wanted to touch her with a bargepole; such was her rapidly growing reputation as a loose cannon and general liability.

From adversity comes opportunity. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, so when Ms Monroe had seemingly been thrown rather unceremoniously onto the career scrapheap, a shrewd thief and trader of stolen goods named Butler pounced like a manipulative panther. Monroe had previously been on the prosecution team that had put away several of Butler’s counterparts, and word of her sudden demise had spread like wild fire throughout the backstreets of Harper Rock. An unholy alliance was forged, and the rest, as they say, is history.

As Stonehouse watched Butler’s every move, assessing him constantly, he was almost certain that he witnessed drool emerging from the corners of the chubby man’s mouth. Although Finley’s arrival had initially felt like a crazy curveball, about to bamboozle the entire team, it now appeared like a stroke of monumental good fortune. Serendipity was shining her dazzling eyes on Stonehouse this evening. The sophisticated Englishman was already holding a great hand, but suddenly he’d been slipped an additional ace. Butler was surely about to throw all his chips into the pot?

The fact that Finley seemed to be playing along with the whole charade so perfectly brought a huge grin to Stonehouse’s clean-shaven face. She seemed to be relishing the role of the temptress, milking the cash cow that was Butler for all he was worth. Although Finderella was still going to have to take a mouthful from Stonehouse after the show was over, after all, she had clearly found herself in some kind of trouble, hence her phone call, the businessman was undoubtedly going to go easy on her after this epic performance. Not only had Stonehouse been selling weapons parts recently, but he’d also been turning his adept hand at crafting a few bad boys himself. Perhaps it was time for his childe to receive a new toy to play with?

First things first, though, this deal needed to be finalized. There were contracts, paperwork to be signed, and hands to be shaken. Illegal arms trading clearly didn’t fall snuggly into the every day rules and regulations followed by legitimate companies, but there was still honour among thieves. Broken promises could shatter the reputation of even the greatest criminal overlord. In addition, a signature here and there on fabricated agreements would help throw the taxman off the scent, should he ever come sniffing around.

Stonehouse turned to Finley, smiling broadly as he handed her a folder containing several important documents. For a brief moment, he thought about sending a cheeky grin or wink in his childe’s direction, just to let her know that he was impressed by her work, but surely she’d already know that, surely she’d sense his approval? Instead, the smartly attired vampire maintained an aura of total professionalism.

“Finley, if you could please hand this contract over to Ms Monroe,” said Stonehouse, “so that she can have one final look at the details, then we can wrap things up.”

He paused, his eyes deliberately lingering just a split second too long as they glanced towards the dark-haired lawyer, amused to see her playing nervously with the pearl necklace that adorned the smooth, pale skin of her neck.

“I think both Mr Butler and Ms Monroe deserve the best possible treatment,” added Stonehouse. “Special attention is our speciality.”

In the entrepreneur’s egotistical mind, everything was falling into place like a flawless jigsaw puzzle. Butler was like putty in Stonehouse’s cool, vampiric hands, ready to sign his own soul away at a mere hint that the thoughts racing around in his sleazy mind about Finley could potentially become reality. The tall businessman withdrew a pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and wandered purposefully towards the balding arms trader.

“So, Mr Butler,” said Stonehouse, placing a hand on the middle-aged man’s shoulder, “I can definitely see us having a special relationship.”

Stonehouse glanced at Finley, knowing full well that Butler’s eyes were following a similar trajectory.

“I’m sure you do too, Mr Butler,” added Stonehouse. “A very special relationship.”

The speed at which the bewitched Butler signed the contract was lightning fast, as if electric blue forks were shooting out of the tip of the pen rather than dull, black ink. The arms dealer had been transformed into a robot, his wrist acting like an automated mechanical appendage. It was like witnessing an insincere author scribbling his name across the cover of his latest novel during a book-signing event. A signature here, a signature there, while all the time thinking about the money about to be made from forthcoming sales, not the adoring fans who’d made the trip to see their literary hero.

Stonehouse noticed Ms Monroe roll her eyes in a sign of annoyance and frustration. Butler, in his haste to seal the deal, hadn’t even afforded his financial advisor a final minute to look over the documents. What if there was a paragraph on the last page, written in almost illegible small print, stating that the signatory had to agree to give away their soul to Satan himself? The sleazy trader had simply plunged straight in, eager to do the bidding of Finley, after the scantily clad blonde had asked him to sign on the dotted line. She could have demanded that the balding businessman used his own blood to pen his name on the contracts, and the mesmerized fool would have undoubtedly complied with Finley’s outlandish request.

Stonehouse’s eyebrow curled ever so slowly, a wry grin delicately creeping across his face. His childe was, even to the most unappreciative, cynical set of eyes, an attractive woman. Strip the leggy blonde down to her skimpy underwear, and allow her to flash those bedazzling sapphire orbs in your direction, and it wouldn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to say that the tall temptress could wrap you around her alluring fingers. It would be difficult for most red-blooded males - and a fair few females - to resist her feminine charms, particularly if they were deluded enough to think that they may get their greedy hands on the prize.

Perhaps the fact that Stonehouse no longer had testosterone-fuelled red blood circulating around his body - a mysterious black substance having laid claim to his arteries and veins like a supernatural pioneering homesteader in the Wild West - had helped him to resist the talents of the temptress. Despite the numerous occasions when the normally cool and collected Englishman had allowed his thoughts to drift slightly across the boundaries of politeness, and visions of him finally sinking his fangs into his childe’s luscious flesh had crept into his mind like a naughty ninja, he had not yet acted upon these animalistic impulses.

The thought had crossed Stonehouse’s methodical mind that he was already somehow under the hypnotic spell of his charming childe. Prior to the fateful night when the vampire’s blood had surged into the body of the dying woman, the pair had never even met, yet the consequences of their unholy soirée had been truly monumental. The virtual stranger had suddenly gained unlimited, and effectively unconditional access to the successful entrepreneur’s home, his possessions - his entire life. Did she also have access to his thoughts, his innermost secrets? Stonehouse was a control freak; he was the master, not the servant. The idea that he was somehow being manipulated didn’t sit easily with his gargantuan ego. Perhaps that’s why he would always dismiss such thoughts as pure folly. After all, a part of him was eternally inside her. As Finley just mentioned while addressing Butler, deals were about trust. Stonehouse seemingly had no choice but to trust that his childe’s intentions were good.

Whatever powers of persuasion the svelte princess possessed, she was using them like a skilled siren, luring the hapless Butler onto her enticing rocks with consummate ease. Stonehouse wondered if Finderella could cast her captivating net just a little bit further, and ensnare Ms Monroe too? A legal eagle would be a useful ally.

For now, having Butler’s signature was all that mattered, and that part of the task had been successfully completed.

“Many thanks, Mr Butler,” said Stonehouse. “I know that it will be a genuine pleasure doing business with you.”

Stonehouse calmly stretched out his hand, and picked up the freshly signed contract. His dark eyes watched with amusement as Butler’s stubby thumb repeatedly clicked the end of the pen, popping the ballpoint nib in and out of its metallic tube, a symbolic gesture; a manifestation of his dirty thoughts about Finley.

“Please keep the pen, Mr Butler,” added Stonehouse. “Call it a souvenir of this evening’s meeting. The pen that signed the contract.”

Butler’s eyes appeared to be glued in position, transfixed upon Finley in a slightly unnerving manner.

“I’m sure that everything in the contract was fine,” said Monroe, snapping her employer out of his drooling trance.

“Oh, everything is just perfect,” replied Butler, “absolutely perfect!”

The middle-aged trader scanned the faces of everyone in the room, a warm smile emblazoned across his content face.

“Perhaps we should celebrate? Drinks? What do you say, Finley?”

Fingers were such wonderful things: definitely one of the most inventive and useful parts of the body. Dextrous digits could electrify the fretboard of a guitar, or invigorate the cold keys of a piano, creating sonic solos to whip a sweaty rock crowd into a frenzied state, or delivering a virtuoso-like concerto performance to captivate an audience of musical elitists.

The bottled imagination of a boundary-pushing fantasy novelist could be sprayed like literary Champagne across crisp, white sheets of paper, with the aid of rapid-fire fingers tapping down onto the keyboard of a typewriter, or the graceful strokes of a pen, held attentively between the writer’s eager finger and thumb.

Love and affection could be conveyed through the gentle caress of a delicate fingertip across the tingling skin of a partner, or lustful passion displayed via a tight grip around a lover’s wrist, or the greedy squeeze of juicy, voluptuous flesh. Conversely, anger and hatred could easily be demonstrated by a middle finger salute, or a traditional “up yours” V-sign. Curl those fingers into a fist, and aggression could be unleashed upon the face of an enemy in the form of a devastating punch.

If Neanderthal level violence wasn’t your style, and the thought of damaging your knuckles on the abrasive skull of your adversary wasn’t particularly appealing, then why not raise the bar of sophistication, and use a finger to pull the trigger of a gun? The simple movement of just one digit could control a battalion of bullets, could command the obedient projectiles to march into the face and chest of a rival. Grip the handle tightly, then tease the trigger into submission: a trick that Stonehouse had perfected over recent months.

A whole arsenal of signals was available to a gesticulating general: the raised finger of a cricket umpire, spelling doom for the hapless batsman; the seductive beckoning gesture of a sultry siren, luring a lover into her sensual lair; or the dreaded finger point from a witness, picking out a criminal from a police line up. Fingers were so versatile, so practical.

But there was one fingering skill, one amazing digital gift that was seemingly granted to only a chosen few, that Stonehouse both desired and admired more than any other - the ability to wrap somebody around one’s finger. The power to manipulate, to control, to master: that’s what Stonehouse craved.

Back in the “old days”, the time before his transformation into a shadowy vampire, Stonehouse was highly adept at persuading others to do his bidding, to come around to his way of thinking. People were nothing more than his own personal cat’s cradle, toys, not just wrapped around his fingers, but intricately entwined and manipulated, exploited and taken advantage of in order to give the scheming businessman the upper hand. However, things were not quite the same nowadays.

As he watched Finley cast her bewitching spell on the drooling Butler, the epitome of a lapdog, Stonehouse was consumed with feelings of both pride and envy. On the one hand, the elegant entrepreneur’s ego was telling him - assuring him - that he had somehow created Finley, saved her from death, and helped her to metamorphose into the magnificent creature that stood so close to him in the room. It was his blood inside her, his actions that had given the stunning allurist the opportunity to flourish. Stonehouse was most definitely proud of his amazing creation. On the other hand, the pragmatic side of the scientifically minded Englishman was instilling a sense of realism into Stonehouse’s thoughts. Finderella wasn’t just a talentless pauper plucked from obscurity by Prince Charmless; she was already in possession of numerous abilities, Finley was a princess in her own right.

Deep down, buried behind the conceited smirk that adorned his handsome face, Stonehouse knew that his childe owned a gift that made him jealous, a talent that he would die for… if he weren’t already dead. It frustrated him immensely, grated on his nerves as if his ego were a block of mature cheese that Finley was slowly wearing down with her alluring blades. And yet he begrudgingly respected her power and influence. After all, she was playing this particular match like a consummate professional.

Some people earned respect by working diligently year after year, demonstrating their knowledge and competence, while others used force and threats of violence to procure instant obedience. Finley had contrived to gain Butler’s upmost respect in what seemed like the fluttering of her enchanting eyelashes. Not just that, but the scantily clad blonde appeared to have Monroe eating out of her cool palm too.

Stonehouse scowled internally as his steely eyes locked onto those of his childe, the intensity of the gaze saying what a thousand words couldn’t ever convey. She was indeed playing this match like a pro, in fact she was playing Stonehouse at his own game, and, quite possibly, winning. The charismatic blonde may have initially appeared to be in a position of vulnerability, thrown head first into the scenario like a Christian being tossed to the lions in a Roman amphitheatre, with nothing more than a set of skimpy underwear as armour, but now she was effectively running the show.

Finley had her sire over a barrel. Having delivered her succinct speech about respect, the slender woman had given Stonehouse what was essentially an ultimatum. Finley’s input into the business meeting had been invaluable, so Stonehouse could hardly deny his childe her request to go home for a quick wardrobe update, not without looking like a disrespectful tyrant, and potentially jeopardizing the deal.

As much as Stonehouse would have enjoyed allowing his appreciative eyes the privilege of continuing to have a field day while they roamed effortlessly across the svelte body of the leggy blonde, he knew that agreeing to Finley’s request was the only realistic option. The cosmopolitan businessman had a creative and vivid imagination, so banking the visuals for later would have to suffice. Keeping the momentum flowing, especially with Butler, was all that really mattered right now.

“But of course you can change into something more suitable,” said Stonehouse, his sparkling eyes not breaking the sobering gaze for a split second. “I’m sure that you’ll look your effervescent best in whatever attire you choose.”

The entrepreneur held the stare to the edge of becoming uncomfortable, ever so slightly raising an eyebrow before instantly switching his focus back to Butler.

“So, Mr Butler,” said Stonehouse, addressing the arms dealer, “it would appear that your idea of celebratory drinks is a stellar suggestion. Do you have anywhere in particular that you'd like to go? We could make our way there while Finley changes?”

Was it inevitable that Butler, his recently acquired puppy-dog eyes bulging to the point of bursting like giant gelatinous balloons as they drooled over Finley’s exquisite curves, would suggest anywhere that his new mistress recommended? Probably, but Stonehouse still had to do the honourable thing and ask.