It doesn’t take terribly long for Helen Emerald to wander around Two Rivers and end up right where Krag said she might. The detectives manage to get a grand tour of the necropolis district, with its tomb complexes and richly appointed mausoleums. The architecture leans toward grandeur, even as the size and complexity of the buildings diminish as the wealth per capita of their inhabitants decreases.
Toward the marshier end of the district, they find themselves in an area well off the main road. There is little traffic save a pair of ceremonial skeletal guards pacing a well programed route and their humanoid vermin quarry. Finally, the ratkin darts into one of the larger buildings in the area.
A little low gate surrounds a large tomb with a sandstone obelisk that was all the rage in sepulcher design a good dozen years ago now. Carvings on the obelisk indicate the crypt’s dedication to the god Nerull in honor of the Bellemare Family. The name Nerull has been scratched out badly and replaced with Bellaphex in relatively recent years.
The detectives wait on the path outside the Bellemare Crypt to see if their prey will exit any time soon. When she does not return, they take the opportunity to peek inside for themselves. Crypts in any part of the necropolis aren’t guaranteed to be unoccupied by someone willing to open a door for themselves, so they knock politely.
A different ratkin answers the door. This one has darker fur, with two long braids that fall to his shoulder. He’s shoving a snail into his mouth and crunching loudly on the shell as he asks them to come in quickly. They hear clinking glasses and polite laughter coming from within the hall of the dead. Cook feels the gentle tingle of a desecration effect in the air, it is a feeling of well-being, almost like how he remembers arousal, but not nearly sexual.
Behind the door hangs a black curtain, with heavy fabric pooling richly on the floor. The ratkin doorman closes the outside door behind the detectives before drawing open the heavy curtain. Their eyes do not get a chance to adjust to the utter darkness of this makeshift foyer before the curtain is drawn to reveal a brightly lit and comfortably appointed room.
Two of the most obvious vampires they’ve seen dressed in anything other than Melpress’s daylight resisting garb play pool at the far end of the room, directly across from the door. They bare their fangs in concentration for each shot, and sip gently from cups of thick red liquid that could only be blood.
Leather couches and overstuffed chairs dot the space between the pool table and where the detectives stand. A number are filled with lounging men and women, mostly human or ratkin, with a few wood elves and lizardfolk among them. Perhaps one in three is clearly a vampire, laughing and relaxing among their admirers.
Lamps hang everywhere, providing light from well stocked oil wells. The room smells overpoweringly of cologne. Alton would describe it as something smelling vaguely of citrus, with a woodsy note. Cook would not notice, as he has not needed to inhale in nearly a century. The wall to their right holds burial vaults for individuals, and the wall to the left has darkened doorways to places unknown.
They spot Helen Emerald talking to a vampire that’s watching the pool game at the far end of the room. He was clearly human to start, and fairly young in appearance, with a stocky build and short ginger hair. Cook supposes he might appear attractive to a young girl like Marion Durandal. His skin holds a faint trace of a tan and a dusting of freckles. His clothing includes relaxed trousers tucked into high boots and a short sleeveless tunic.
Cook looks as out of place as could be imagined, being the only necropolitan in the room. Alton pulls her spine straighter, adopting the air of some kind of high elf. They walk with confidence through the gauntlet of bloodthirsty potential killers. These are not Redeemed, so they need to tread lightly.
The vampire talking to Emerald looks their direction and then waves them over. The other vampires ignore the detectives instead of protesting the intrusion of outsiders in their sanctum. It seems like the safer choice. The living among them give nervous looks from the cool demeanor of the vampires to the confident detectives. They don’t relax completely, but they also do not react otherwise.
Alton approaches the red headed vampire, with Cook a half pace behind. When they approach, the vampire bows with an old fashioned flourish. He shakes Cook’s offered hand, and bestows a formal kiss on Alton’s hand, his stained red lips never touching her delicate fingers.
“It is a pleasure to meet illustrious detectives as I assume you both are,” the vampire nods at the badge on Cook’s breast pocket. Alton’s hangs from her belt, but it is slightly out of sight. “Please be welcome in my crypt. I am Adrien Bellemare, and this is my home.”
“You keep a comfortable lair, Mr. Bellemare,” Alton says, aiming for friendly and at least managing something other than intimidated. “As you guessed, we are detectives Imryll Alton and George Cook of the Unjust Existence Extermination Investigation Force. We are investigating the cessation of a vampire named Marion Durandal. We’re told that she may have connections to this place.”
“Oh, Marion.” Bellemare makes an old fashioned gesture of faith, but neither detective recognizes it as anything more specific than that. Cook thinks it may be related to the signs for warding the evil eye, but that would seem highly out of place in a den of vampires. Alton does not recognize it as meaning anything in Drow Sign. “She was new to us, yes.”
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“You knew the victim?” Cook asks, cautious.
“Of course I knew her,” the vampire sighs. Cook is vaguely unsettled by it, as many of the dead neglect breathing entirely. “I only gave her the Gift just last week.” Bellemare rubs his face in frustration.
“As I understand it, there ought to be paperwork involved in the counseling process.” Cook pulls out his notebook and begins to write.
“Oh, there is.” Bellemare shrugs. “We got through the important part, she signed the consent waivers and all that, but Marion didn’t want the sterile and inhumane process of the Transfer the state issues.” He gestures for Emerald to leave them.
“Then what did she want?” Alton asks.
The vampire begins to lead the detectives toward the wall of burial niches. His posture stays relaxed, but he talks with highly animated hands, gesturing wildly as he speaks. Alton recognizes this as a little old fashioned in habit, but also very unusual.
“Our Marion wanted to experience the Gift for what it is - not a curse, an illness, or some kind of what would you say,” he turns to Cook, “aberrant life choice?”
Cook only shrugs. Undeath requiring taxidermy for maintenance isn’t for everyone.
“Anyway, Marion wanted to feel the ecstasy of a kill, hold herself with eternal grace, and build the power to face her fears. She wanted an intimate turning, and I provided it for her.”
“You stepped outside the law to do so?” Cook pulls off his eyebrow trick again. Alton is still trying to figure it out for herself.
“Perhaps we skipped the counseling sessions, but Marion filed her paperwork with the Registry on time. She kept her copies of the forms in her coffin here.” Bellemare opens one of the niches with a press of his hand. It seems magical at first glance, but Cook notes the springs and magnets in the latch.
Inside the niche is a beautiful white coffin, a chipboard box with clothing, and a pile of folders and paperwork. It’s tidy, but has clearly been used. Little white scuff marks on the marble of the niche show where the coffin has been adjusted and scooted for someone getting in and out regularly. The paint is still fairly fresh, and hasn’t worn completely off the feet even with repeated scooting around for comfort.
The vampire pushes the pile of papers and envelopes toward the detectives. Cook gathers them all, pressing loose pages between envelopes. Some of the pages are unfinished letters home, others are application forms for Two Rivers City College, and one folder bears a wax seal with the stamp of the Vampire Ethics Counsel of Two Rivers.
The detectives have worked with the Vampire Ethics Counsel before, and the paperwork appears at first glance to be in line with their expectations. Cook makes note to deliver it to their forensic lab for further review.
“And what exactly does your intimate turning entail?” Cook asks, skeptical.
“I wouldn’t say in front of a lady.” Bellemare nods in Alton’s direction. Behind his hand he continues, “Honestly it isn’t much different except for the setting. Instead of a sterile white room we light some incense and candles, get another Gifted to play us some music, and drink direct from the vein instead of those little porcelain cups. It’s plenty intimate, but it’s not like we actually have sex. That would be crude. Plus it’s better without the distraction of fighting off the Hunger long enough to share.”
Cook is unimpressed, but the vaguely pleasant feeling of the desecration has him getting almost giddy. He chuckles.
“If you don’t mind,” Alton grumps, “please tell me why Marion Durandal asked for your Gift?” She respectfully refrains from using air quotes.
“Oh of course,” Bellemare acts flattered. “I was sure I’d already said something about that. She wanted to be powerful and strong enough to face her fears, eternally beautiful in the height of her youth, and to feel the rush of a kill.”
“You’ve mentioned killing twice now.” Alton gives the vampire the most distrustful glance. “Who exactly was getting killed?”
“Oh, that.” Bellemare shrugs. “While it’s not healthy to truly drink from them, we do hunt animals. It would be like trying to survive on nothing but, oh, what’s something unhealthy for you? Beans?” The vampire laughs. “But more seriously, we can’t live on animal blood alone and remain sane. We do, however, enjoy the thrill of the chase.”
“As any lycanthrope or harpy would agree,” Cook suggests, feeling charitable with the vampire that keeps his home so very comfortable.
“We’re not monsters!” Bellemare takes offense. “You compare us to filthy beasts, but we’re not animals.” He sneers. The look is most unattractive.
“Neither are lycanthropes these days,” Alton remarks. She wonders privately if perhaps some harpies feel the same way.
“What they claim to be and what they are in truth are not the same thing,” the vampire takes a hard line on monsters for someone of his status. This pot calls that kettle rather black. “With any luck they’ll show their true faces soon enough and this whole charade of civilization will end.”
“If that’s all you can help us with, we’ll be on our way.” Alton snags Cook by an arm. The necropolitan detective is hesitant to leave.
“Thank you for your information,” Cook says politely, “please let us know if you think of anything else that could help find our killer.”
“Be careful out there,” the vampire calls after them, “there’s adventurers around and they don’t take captives.”
Alton manages to get Cook out the door. He hesitates for a long moment between the curtain and the door to the outside. The desecration makes him feel stronger, better, more like the true warmth of life the longer he lingers. Once they both stand outside, he wonders if the lingering numbness is how an addict feels or if instead that’s simply how he’s always been and had not been aware of it until now. It is an awful feeling, but it fades as they head away from the Bellemare Crypt.
Alton wonders aloud if that’s actually where Marion died. Cook can’t rightly say.