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His cowboyish gait was at odds with the Savile Row suit. There was a casualness to it that wasn't quite right in cloth so crisp. All that was missing was the gun and ten gallon hat. When he opened his mouth it was with a New York accent and the hand he offered to shake was manicured to perfection; the skin softer than a baby girl's. His face was one of utmost confidence and there was a line of orange that greeted his hairline. Whatever game this man played he wasn't accustomed to losing. He smiled like a long lost brother and shook Claude's hand warmly with the perfect squeeze and eye contact. The Blood Thief reciprocated. Eyes like discs of molten gold dropped briefly to the gesture extended towards him. The man took his hand and set it against Claude's, gripping firmly to give it a single shake.

A handshake was customary amongst strangers - and Claude had certainly exchanged so many hundreds in his life - but there was something about the way the other hand looked and felt; the smoothness of his fingers and palm, and the way that it curved against his that suggested that this was a man who’d given and taken just as many handshakes in his years. And those years looked like they couldn't have surpassed maybe thirty five or so. Claude would never trust a man so perfect - as he would never trust himself. As far as he was concerned, the more perfect the image, the greater the danger underneath. Everyone had flaws and quirks, if they had been polished right out then trust wasn't even an option.

The crushed velvet curtains were drawn behind them as they stepped into the private room at the back of the establishment. Claude often found himself questioning why he wound up in predicaments like this one on an almost bi-weekly basis; sharing clandestine meetings with queer folk in even queerer places. The royal purple curtains were drawn, but remained far apart enough that small slithers of frost coloured light from the strip club bled in through the cracks. The light diffused the darkness enough to reveal the majestic shadow sitting in the room’s midst. Claude shouldn’t have been surprised to see that this place was being run by a woman - it was the twenty first century after all - but he was surprised by how very plain she looked amidst leopard print, fuschia feather boas, and rainbow beads.

“So you’re the eminent Claude,” she drawled in the same New York accent that her colleague had spoken.

He was relieved that she hadn’t offered a handshake with those bejewelled talons and instead gestured to the seat opposite. The worn beige leather relaxed against him like the warm skin of a lover. Claude merely bowed his head to her in greeting, waiting for her to continue. His back was to the far wall, which allowed him an unparalleled view of the darkness whilst retaining an agreeable view of his company. His back remained straight, his shoulders pushed back incidentally accentuating a broad chest - a symbol of schooled posture. He also sat with his legs crossed at the ankle, feet beneath him, and hands settled in his lap as a capsized gesture of prayer. It was a position he found himself in whenever he was making the effort to be comfortable with others. As charming, friendly, and encouraging as Claude could be, he was not a natural when it came to relaxing. He found comfort in boardrooms and lecture halls, so he couldn’t help but bring a touch of that rigidness with him wherever he went.

His amber eyes trained to her features and even in the dim light he saw her unnatural beauty. Her eyes, like the indigo ocean, were pools of iridescent blue, sculpted upon her creamy face like dazzling jewels. Strands of molten copper tumbled out of her scalp, cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall. She also had cherry lips, crystal white teeth, and fangs.

“My, you are handsome. I bet you make all the pretty boys and girls mad with envy.” Despite the complimentary nature of her words, there was a glint in her eye that suggested something altogether more sinister. “It’s probably why you’ve lived this long being what you are. Your kind spit in the eye of my own.”

“I wouldn’t dare share any of my bodily fluids without at least acquiring your permission first,” Claude answered with a dark, knowing smile.

She laughed this haughty and honeyed sound which caused her chest to heave and her barely covered bosom to jiggle. “And the same goes for taking too, I would hope,” she added, practically snarling.

“Naturally. Though, this is not why we are here.”

“No. You wanted to know why the dead are rising. I can help you, but first, I need something.”

Ah, what was a mission without a fetch quest at any rate?

Claude nodded his head and adjusted his position to switch how his ankles crossed beneath him. She passed a glance at her well-dressed colleague and nodded her head once. The action held a meaning that remained a mystery for only a moment as the man reached inside a small wooden chest set atop an antique dresser. From it, he had acquired a small glass vial shaped into a heart with a black cork topper and a lace of black satin. He handed it to Claude.

“Take that,” she ordered. “And fill it with the inky blood of a Feral. Then return to me and I’ll tell you all I know.”

And so it was that the young Blood Thief returned to the streets with a mundane task that was to be carried out before sunrise. Beyond the horizon, the moon illuminated the shimmering haze of pollution. In the far distance, the silhouette of the skyline pierced through the cool glow like a jagged mountain ridge. Millions of lights caused the dense mass of skyscrapers to glisten like a galaxy. People were needle points and cars were blood cells flowing through the veins of the city. Despite the time, the hustle and bustle never came to a halt in Harper Rock. The city's residents were off for a movie, to chill out in a smoky jazz bar downtown, or to seek their thrills in Lady V’s strip club.

Life carried on as if the threat of imminent death did not haunt their shadows or linger in the doorways of their family homes and love nests. Claude could have chosen such a life once, but those paths had closed a long time ago and he could hardly pretend to blend in amongst these people now. The Blood Thief traversed the streets, crossing lanes that led him back toward the Quarantine zone. The military cut of his navy wool trench coat disguised the shape of the athletic body beneath it as well as the number of arms he was carrying. It did not hide the protrusion of the black collar of his shirt that hugged his neck or the sleeves that spilled through the coarse blue cuffs of his coat. His black cargo trousers and combat boots were equally practical; allowing both for freedom of movement and defence. There would be no negotiating with a Feral Vampire and to get what he needed, he would have to fight.