The shopping spree was over all too quickly.
With a bundle of clothing that Catherine had deemed worthy in his grasp, the pair made their way back to the counter.
Emerson knew that it would take a while before he could master, or even begin to fathom, the vastness of his newly acquired senses. However, as he would recall this moment in the future, he’d remember the subtle shift in Catherine's demeanor that he'd detected as they approached the rear of the store.
At that very moment, Emerson couldn't quite put his finger on what was bothering him, but he could sense it lurking in the recesses of his mind. It felt like the jovial air had suddenly turned somber and repressed, as if all the good vibes had been sucked out and replaced with an ominous energy. The joy of their shared shopping expedition seemed to slip away, trickling through his fingers like sand. And then, there they were, standing in front of the checkout counter, enveloped in an eerie silence.
"Find everything you need?" The middle-aged man broke the silence, unenthusiastically asking without looking up, his pencil scribbling away. He flipped a page and turned over the spreadsheet paper, looking as though he’d already forgotten the question or that there were even people in the store.
Emerson glanced back at Catherine, taken aback by the solemn gravity on her face. It was a look he'd never seen before and one that he found difficult to comprehend, given the time and place. What could be so serious?
His face must have betrayed his confusion because Catherine's response was decidedly frosty. She nudged him pointedly with her elbow and raised her eyebrows in a silent command, urging him to engage the man in conversation.
With a tight-lipped expression, Emerson suppressed his natural inclination towards social withdrawal and quelled the rising sense of anxiety within him. Summoning some courage, he strode forward to the counter with his new clothes in hand and forced a serene grin onto his face.
"We did, thank you. This is everything." He said, laying down his other two sets of clothing on the scratched wood counter.
Emerson had initially been hesitant about Catherine's fashion choices for him, but after she employed some firm persuasion tactics in the form of scathing ridicule, he eventually conceded defeat and allowed her to take the reins.
Together, they settled on a subdued grey crew-neck sweater that perfectly complemented a pair of khaki chinos and a button-up shirt with an eye-catching pattern on one sleeve that paired elegantly with slim-fit black jeans. To complete the ensemble, they opted for a sleek pair of black Chelsea boots, a style unfamiliar to Emerson, who was more accustomed to sporting Sperrys or sneakers.
The whole ordeal compelled him to pause and remind her of her earlier permission to entrust him with the task of selecting a replacement rug and to offer her the opportunity to reconsider.
He found her following expression incredibly amusing as the full gravity of just how bad his fashion sense was laid bare. Surprisingly though, she stayed firm on the fact that the only apology she would accept was a new rug from him and him alone.
Emerson found himself curiously moved by her resolve despite his poor performance and decided to do his best when he had the chance to pick something out. He was somewhat concerned, though, about Catherine's mood swings.
He was slowly coming to understand her mercurial temperament, but the fact remained that Saga was much worse. Saga had all but abandoned Emerson to Catherine's watchful eye without a goodbye or simple introduction. That she had refrained from greeting him with a bullet to the skull upon his unannounced arrival was a minor miracle in its own right, particularly given the tone of Saga's departing words.
Emerson harbored strong suspicions that the old curmudgeon had expected nothing less than exactly what had happened. The bastard.
So, overall, he preferred Catherine to Saga, though he wasn't entirely certain of their relationship. He didn't want to go down that rabbit hole for now and instead tried to consider the ramifications of trusting a vampire with something like a promise. It was oddly concerning how much she was pushing this topic firmly into his court, so to speak.
Emerson prided himself on his trust in others and his willingness to repay kindness and favors with interest. Nevertheless, he remained somewhat hesitant to make a definitive judgment about Catherine's character. On the one hand, she seemed amiable enough. On the other, she was a vampire, and the intricacies of vampiric society and its codes of conduct remained a mystery to him. Something told him to limit his involvement with her to the matter of the rug and hope that it wouldn't come back to bite him. The thought almost made him smile.
He also didn't want to be a hypocrite. He really didn't like hypocrites. So, he gave her the benefit of the doubt because, despite also being a vampire, he hadn't felt any malevolent inclinations or cruel desires. There were some disconcerting urges, to be sure. But he could control them. If anything, it almost felt like saying no to junk food or practicing willpower on something you really wanted but didn’t need. Though in a vampire’s case, he wasn’t sure intermittent fasting was a long-term solution.
But if he could control those urges, then Catherine definitely could. Right? Plus, as she'd said earlier, it wouldn’t be easy, but it would get easier because he would get better at it. It sounded like she had plenty of experience with it.
He was hopeful, first and foremost. And, despite some lingering reservations, he was surprised to find himself slowly coming around to trusting her.
Though for now, he put it aside, certain that at some point soon, once he felt like he was on solid ground, he would make a good decision.
The clerk didn't raise his head.
Emerson softly cleared his throat. "Oh, and also what I've got on. It fits really well, and I was hoping I could wear it out?" He asked in a pleasant and hopeful tone, running a hand down the front of the leather jacket.
The pencil paused in its relentless dance across paper. Something was slowly circled, then it continued.
"Um, sir?" Emerson tried, unsure about how to feel at being so obviously ignored. "We'd like to check out, please."
No response.
‘Okay. So that’s weird.’ Emerson got the feeling he was missing something important.
It wasn't often that someone was this rude simply out of boredom or spite. Especially running what appeared to be a declining business. Given this place’s condition, every customer should be treated like royalty if they stepped inside to spend their money.
He'd worked the occasional stint in retail as a salesperson and a desk jockey for sign-in or call orders. This wasn't normal. Not in the least.
Ambivalence, rudeness, and passive aggressiveness? Sure. That was par for the course, but blatant disregard? That was odd.
So, if anything, Emerson was more curious than angry.
A hauntingly beautiful chuckle that sent tingles shooting down Emerson's back echoed throughout the store. "That's quite enough, Strauss. Help the poor boy." Catherine said.
Before Emerson could recover enough to respond to that particular remark, the clerk finally looked up, squinting at him. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and his skin had a pallor that Emerson was beginning to find distinctly familiar, thanks to his keen eyesight. Now that he was paying attention, he realized he couldn't hear the man's pulse or heartbeat.
‘Oh shit,’ Emerson thought, resolving to be more observant.
Surprisingly, however, the clerk returned to his books. "Don't play games you can't win, child," he said in a steady tenor, each word dripping with an overbearing coldness.
Emerson shuddered as a wave of intangible anger radiated from the clerk, making him step back involuntarily. He felt a similar pressure pressing against his back, as if he were caught between two predators.
Any single move would prove fatal.
"Don't pretend—" Catherine started, her irritation rising, but the clerk lowered his pencil and met her gaze over Emerson's shoulder.
Catherine fell silent, a chill shooting down Emerson's spine. Every instinct screamed at him to remain absolutely still.
The clerk moved the calculator aside, clasping his hands on the counter as he leaned forward. "You know the rules," he said, cocking his head. "Why are you being difficult?"
"The rules don't apply here. You know that," Catherine said firmly.
"Is that right?" The clerk's eyes flicked to Emerson, burning with a cold fury that sent shivers down his spine. "That doesn't sound like the rules I'm familiar with." He shrugged, looking back at Catherine. "But what do I know?" His smile was condescending, patronizing, and pitying all at once.
"Very little, it seems," Catherine said darkly. "Your arrogance will catch up to you one day."
The clerk's smile vanished. "It has a lot of catching up to do." He gestured dismissively toward the door. "See yourselves out." He picked up the pencil and resumed his work.
Emerson was about to turn and leave when Catherine's hand fell on his shoulder, holding him in place.
"My friend will not owe you anything for this transaction."
The pencil stopped. The clerk didn't raise his head. "Your friend?" he asked slowly, savoring the word. He looked up at Emerson.
Emerson resisted the urge to slap Catherine.
The clerk grunted, his eyes glimmering with something besides cold intent as he examined Emerson from head to toe.
"I wasn't aware you were allowed friends, child," the clerk said thoughtfully, amused.
"Father personally left him in my care," Catherine declared with finality.
The clerk's pupils shrank to pinpricks, and the pressure in the room vanished. "Is that right?" he murmured. "Huh."
Emerson swore the clerk looked uncomfortable.
"It would indeed appear that I was mistaken, Ms. Villin," said the clerk. "You have my deepest regret, and most sincere apologies."
Emerson's legs nearly buckled as the man's eyes left him; Catherine's hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Like my father, I prefer something tangible over words. And I'll say again: the rules don't apply," Catherine declared.
The clerk's expression darkened. "They always apply, girl," he nearly growled. "But they can be bent. For a price." A cold glint appeared in his eyes. "Only in your father's name. Now get out." He resumed his work.
"I need to make a few calls. Then we'll leave," Catherine said, turning before she finished speaking.
The clerk didn't respond.
Emerson blinked. "Um. So I'll just..." He looked back to Catherine for input, but she was gone.
Perfect. Just great.
He carefully stepped closer and scooped his clothing up off the counter. "Sorry, let me just..." He trailed off, realizing he needed a bag.
His eyes flicked around in a panic until he saw a drab brown paper bag on the counter beside an old desktop computer.
"I'm just gonna..." Emerson slowly reached out and touched the bag's handle. Seeing no reaction from the clerk, he snagged the handle with a finger and slowly lifted the bag as though he were trying not to spook a wild animal.
Securing the bag, he manhandled his clothes into it, the paper making plenty of noise.
The clerk's eyes flicked up, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he looked away.
Emerson, none the wiser, finally conquered the bag and offered an awkward 'thank you' before hurrying away to find Catherine.
----------------------------------------
The sound of a door opening down the hall...
The plodding of bare feet on polished marble flooring...
"Holy hell!" Saga's boisterous voice preceded his completely nude figure as he walked into the immaculate reception room, stretching out his arms and giving an exaggerated yawn.
The only clothes on him were a pair of calf-high white tube socks, fuzzy hot pink handcuffs attached to a wrist, and a blue and white-striped nightcap hat that sat atop his head.
“Cleanup on aisle me!” He chuckled to no one in particular as he strode through the opulent guest area, which was now clean, and into a sleek, modern kitchen whose interior was in stark contrast to the largely gothic-inspired dining area and reception room.
The surfaces of stainless-steel appliances glinted in the bright overhead lights, and a polished granite countertop wound around the kitchen’s circumference like a shining black sea.
At the center of the kitchen, a massive island dominated the space, its surface covered with gleaming pots and pans. A ludicrously expensive-looking induction cooktop sat at its heart.
Above and below the countertop sat a row of gleaming cabinets and drawers, their doors fitted with soft-close hinges and sleek metal handles. The soft scents of spices and oils lingered over some of those places.
To the back left was a massive refrigerator that quietly hummed with a digital display and touch-screen controls on its door.
Walking past a trio of state-of-the-art ovens, Saga snagged the refrigerator door handle and threw it open in a single motion. The handcuffs merrily jingled and clinked against his arm, and angry red claw marks visibly streaked down the length of his pale, muscular back.
"What a fuckin' night," he tiredly groused to no one in particular. The satisfied smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth, however, dispensed with any negative connotation behind his words. "I'm starving…" He mumbled, eyes narrowed as he took in the fridge’s meticulously labeled and organized contents in the shelves, lower drawers, and side pockets.
He took out a blood bag from the side door and was about to close it when he noticed another bag to his liking. Pleasantly surprised, he held the original blood bag between his teeth and selected an additional two bags from the shelves before turning and shutting the fridge door with a heel.
Plopping the two new blood bags onto the center island, he ripped into the one held in his mouth and drained its soothing contents in record time, loudly sighing in satisfaction. Crumpling the bag in a fist, he placed it down and scooped up one of the other bags when he caught sight of some servants heading in the direction of the hallway. "Ah, ah!" he called out warningly, raising a hand toward them.
The servants immediately stopped in their tracks and pressed against the walls as though to clear a path, heads lowered and hands clasped together in front of them.
Pleased with himself for being such a caring person, he loudly imparted some advice. "I wouldn't go in there for at least another hour. Give the poor woman a chance to recover, or she may just kill you." He offered a charming smile that did the opposite of calming the staff, who silently trembled in place before bowing deeper and hurrying away to tend to their other duties.
Nodding to himself, Saga leisurely gulped down the second bag, crumpling it like the first. He placed the third bag to his lips when suddenly, he noticed some blood splotches on his bare chest and on the island.
It was unbecoming of someone of his station to feed so sloppily. “Mm. No, that won’t do,” he absently mumbled, looking thoughtful and placing his hands on his hips and tapping the floor with a foot. The blood bag limply hung from between his lips.
‘Maybe there’s one of those garbage bins that slide out with a bottom cabinet?’ he thought, looking around for somewhere he could toss the empty bags while also on the lookout for a paper towel roll or something.
That's when he noticed a security guard with sunglasses and an earpiece silently standing in the corner of the kitchen.
"Oh? And who're you, then?" Saga spoke around the blood bag hanging between his lips.
The security guard didn't respond, and instead remained silent and unmoving, staring straight ahead.
Saga frowned and walked closer, measuring the man up and down.
"Do I know you? You look familiar." Saga said, eyes squinted.
The security guard didn't respond.
"The strong silent type, eh?" Saga cocked an eyebrow, then shrugged, turning away.
"Boo!" he suddenly appeared directly in front of the security guard's face with arms raised and eyes wide, wild, and crazed.
The blood bag’s plastic tore a little and hung lower, slapping his chin on the way.
The fuzzy handcuffs jingled.
The nightcap flopped about.
The security guard didn't react.
Saga pouted. "No fun," he mumbled sadly, returning to his normal posture and waving a hand as he walked back to the kitchen. "Go get me a robe." He said, all traces of levity removed from his tone as he leaned against the island. "The more gold, the better. Oh, and tell Atticus to come and see me.” He added as an afterthought.
The security guard finally moved from his position and disappeared down a corridor reserved for staff members while softly speaking into his wrist.
----------------------------------------
A polished mahogany poker table sat in a dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of cigars, the clinking of chips, and the shuffling of cards.
Surrounding the table was a group of five individuals, excluding the card dealer.
Small piles of colorful poker chips sat before each player, who hid a pair of cards either on the table or in their hands.
Two of the men wore expensive suits and glittering jewelry, each showcasing different designer choices and fashion statements.
Another man was dressed in shabby clothes with his collar flipped up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. His facial expressions were nearly impossible to discern as he huddled into his clothes like a turtle.
The only woman at the table exuded a commanding presence and gave off the impression of being tall and regal despite being seated. Her raven hair existed somewhere between bangs and a pixie cut, and her eyes were a deep, hypnotic green that seemed to glow with the light of competition. A small silver stud shimmered on her left nostril, drawing attention to her sharp cheekbones. A delicate golden ring sparkled on her left eyebrow. She wore a simple black tank top that hugged her curves and a pair of fitted jeans that accentuated her long legs. Her feet were adorned with sleek black boots. Intricate tattoos played along her arms, appearing to writhe and twist with a life of their own. Images of serpents and dragons coiled and ready to strike, dark flowers with petals unfurling, and numerous skulls—both plain and warped—decorated her skin.
Her eyes flicked to the cards in her hand. “Check,” she purred with a heavy accent, tapping the table twice with a black-manicured finger. The movement was graceful, yet powerful. Confident. Leaning back into her leather seat, she plucked a smoldering cigar from a glass ashtray and brought it to her mouth, her glossy black lips parting as she took a drag. Thin strands of smoke seeped upward from her mouth as she crossed her legs and watched the man beside her with narrowed eyes and an impish grin.
The man fiddled with one of the many rings on his hand, his eyes jumping between his cards, the river, the other players’ hands, and the significant pile of chips in the center of the table.
He sucked his teeth and tapped his cards. “No. No, I’m not falling for this again.” He shook his head, about to toss his cards to the dealer, when her voice made him pause.
“Are you sure?” the woman asked innocently.
The man scoffed. “Of course I’m not sure,” he practically spat. “But my gut’s telling me to drop this one.” He tapped the cards harder, trying to convince himself.
The woman chuckled. “You don’t have a gut.”
That got a round of half-hearted snickers from the table.
“I’d listen to her, Caius,” the other well-dressed man offered kindly. “Your pile is looking low, and you know we’ve still got next week’s game. I’d do the same if I were you.”
Caius’s expression turned sour, his lips curling into a thin line as he drew closer to a decision.
The sound of chips clinking together came from across the table. “Good thing I’m not you,” laughed the other man.
Caius’s expression grew dark, dark veins popping out on his hands lying over his cards.
The woman gave the other man a stern look. “Magnus,” she said evenly.
Magnus smirked, looking away with hands raised in surrender. “All right. I understand. I’m sorry, Caius,” he said, lowering his arms.
Caius grumbled under his breath, fidgeting more as he hesitated. Then, when he was about to make a move—
“Do you forgive me?” Magnus’s question startled him from his thoughts.
“Gah! Fu—Yes! Christ Almighty. Fold.” Caius stared daggers across the table as he threw the cards to the dealer and sat back with a huff, crossing his arms.
The dealer swept the cards aside with practiced ease and waited for the final betting round to conclude.
“That wasn’t very nice, Magnus. Where are your manners?” the woman asked with a frown, though her eyes sparkled with humor.
Magnus smirked, dexterously flipping a blue chip between his knuckles. “You know me, Kat. Never learned ’em,” he replied flippantly.
“It’s not such a bad thing.” She shrugged, moving her cards around. Then she offered a challenging smile. “You playing?”
Magnus sniffed, tapping the table’s edge with a plain band on his ring finger. “Unlike my dearest friend, I possess what we men like to call: balls.” He winked at Caius.
Caius chuckled despite himself. “Asshole,” he muttered, focusing back on the game and gambling with himself to see if he could guess their hands.
Magnus tossed in another red chip. “Raise,” he said with a smile, resting his forearms on the table’s edge and looking at the next player. “And ’round the world we go—how’s about it, Prince?”
To Magnus’s left sat Prince Atticus, his eyes cold and calculating as he examined the cards in the center of the table and his own. He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.
Magnus feigned a gasp. “No, it can’t be! Are the coffers of the famed Prince of the Strip so shallow he cannot play for the sake of the game? I could spot you a few grand.” He twirled the chip between his knuckles and extended it out in offering.
Prince Atticus huffed. “I 'ave a wite mind ter kick ya aht.” His eyes flicked between the cards, not taking the provocation seriously.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
These card games often went this way, and Magnus could somehow talk shit through a mouth sewn shut. It was his gift. It was their curse. Thankfully, his card skills didn’t translate to his magical ability to annoy people.
In that regard, Atticus was sure Magnus was bluffing.
The problem was Mr. Sunglasses. Now that man knew how to play poker, and he was a yearly regular; he cleaned Atticus’s clock like a professional horologist.
Magnus retracted his hand. “Just being polite, Your Majesty.”
“Ya kna wot? Fuck it,” said Atticus, tossing in another red chip. “Call.”
Everyone shifted in their seats, eyeing the prize pool. It was very large this round.
“To the Ice Man!” Magnus called out, carefully watching Mr. Sunglasses.
The man silently slid a red chip into the pile. Not fast, but not slow either. There was practically no tell to exploit in his expression or movement.
Everyone at the table was frustrated, especially since his bluff-to-play ratio was practically even.
Then, all eyes fell onto Kat, who basked in the attention as she languidly examined her cards with a slight smirk.
“Oh, I know that look; this should be good,” said Magnus, leaning back in his seat, crossing his legs, and draping an arm over the back of the chair.
“Zip it, Mags, let the lady think,” Caius groused.
Magnus snapped his fingers and pointed at Caius. “I’ll remember that the next time your wife calls.”
“Which one?” Caius shot back.
“The pretty one, naturally,” said Magnus, motioning to one of the servants standing along the back wall.
A young woman brought over a silver tray with a single shot glass filled with ruby-red liquid. Bending over beside Magnus, she exposed ample cleavage and the side of her dainty neck.
“Watch it, they’re all gorgeous. And’ll probably kill you,” Caius warned.
Magnus downed the shot in one gulp and placed the glass upside down on the tray, motioning the servant away.
“You, old friend, need glasses,” Magnus winked.
“You fu—” Caius tensed in his seat, about to lunge over the table, when Kat’s voice held him in place.
“Children.” Kat’s stern tone hung in the air. She motioned to her cards, to the pile of chips. “Round’s not over.” Then she tipped her head toward Atticus. “Apologies, Prince. Boys will be boys.”
Atticus waved it off, then swept a hand over the table.
Kat inclined her head. “Thank you, Prince. Call.” She tossed in the final red chip.
The dealer glanced around the table. “Good?”
He received unanimous nods, some with more strained expressions than others.
“Showdown,” the dealer announced, shifting his posture to face Magnus. “Mr. Mehr, as the player to raise on the final betting round—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Magnus waved the dealer off, unceremoniously dropping his cards face-up on the table.
A sliver of satisfaction pulled at the corner of Atticus’s mouth, and Caius let out a defeated groan.
It was at this time that one of the security guards beside the entrance raised a hand to his earpiece.
“Single pair,” the dealer announced, then turned to Mr. Sunglasses.
“Mr. Echdonn, if you would, please?”
Mr. Sunglasses kept his cards hidden and slid them to the center of the table.
No one was surprised. Everyone was certain that statistically, the man had even thrown away winning hands on occasion to mix them up, so they never knew if he’d been bluffing. It was annoying.
The dealer accepted the cards and turned to Atticus. “My Prince?”
Atticus was about to reveal his cards when a security guard leaned down to whisper in his ear.
Magnus’s expression tightened. “What gives?” He motioned to the guard, annoyed. He didn’t like his games being interrupted.
Atticus raised a finger in Magnus’s direction, telling him to remain silent.
Magnus held his peace, though his annoyance grew. Thankfully, the conversation was short. Only a few cursory words were exchanged in hushed whispers.
Atticus’s brow furrowed slightly. He scooted back his chair and rose.
Everyone’s eyes fell on him.
“Me apologies, gentlemen. Lady,” said Atticus, buttoning his suit jacket. “Urgent business calls. Ya understand.” He smoothed down the front of his jacket and inclined his head respectfully. “Make use of the 'ospitality for as long as ya need.”
With that, he flipped over his cards and slid them into the center of the table, nodding to the dealer. “Good evenin'.” He turned and strode toward the exit- the security guard following close behind.
Magnus hissed, Caius swore under his breath, and Kat’s eyes narrowed.
The dealer scooped away the Prince’s full house and faced Kat. “Ms. Yanna, if you would, please?”
----------------------------------------
Footsteps drew Saga’s attention away from the large kitchen knife he was playing with.
“What took you so long?” he hollered without looking, rocking back and forth on a bar stool with his feet kicked up on the countertop. A sharp whistle of air came from above him a moment before his hand reached out, snatching the falling knife by the blade between two fingers. He flipped it, grabbing the handle, and was about to toss it again when the footsteps stopped behind him. Sighing, he twisted around. “This better be—” His words died in his throat.
The security guard had returned, carrying a golden robe with a completely straight face. Its golden hue caught the light, casting a radiant glow. The cuffs and neckline were adorned with intricate embroidery and golden threads that formed a shimmering, unparalleled beauty.
"What—How?" A weird expression twisted Saga's face. Eyes glowing with disbelief, he tossed the knife over his shoulder and reached out to take the robe, holding it out at arm's length as his eyes roved over every inch.
The metallic scrape and clatter of the knife came from somewhere in the kitchen.
"You—" He incredulously glanced at the guard, who, after handing off the robe, returned to his corner.
"You actually found a golden gods-damned bathrobe?" Saga asked incredulously. "I was kidding!" He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Where the hell did you even...?" For the first time in recent memory, Saga found himself at a loss for words. He gave the security guard a deep look, trying to pierce the veil of mystery surrounding this curious mortal.
Throwing on the bathrobe, which felt fantastic with its silken material, Saga spoke to the guard. “I like you, kid,” he said, tying the robe in front. “What’s your name again? Ah, it’s fine. Whatever. Say, what would it take for you to come work for me?” He asked seriously, pulling out a seat at the island bar.
The guard didn’t respond.
Saga tapped the counter, nodding in thought. “I see. I see…” He slapped the counter and pointed at the guard. “Fifty grand, how about it?” he asked, looking expectant.
The guard remained stoic and silent.
“Fine, fine, you saw right through me,” Saga bemoaned. “How’s about an even hundred grand? Ah? Whaddaya say, partner?” He asked with renewed vigor, sticking out a hand as though to shake.
The guard remained still, like a statue.
Saga didn’t bat an eye. “Playing hard to get, huh?” he said, eyes narrowing. “If it’s not money…” Saga mumbled to himself, dead set on acquiring this man for his personal retinue.
The door to the reception area opened just as Saga was about to make another offer.
Saga’s expression lit up. “In here!” he called out.
Atticus entered the kitchen alone, pausing just beyond the threshold. The guard who had been following remained behind.
“Me Lord,” Atticus spoke respectfully, inclining his head.
“Always so serious, Atti. Come, come, come, get over here, have a seat,” Saga waved Atticus closer, patting the chair beside himself.
Atticus pulled out the bar stool beside Saga and took a seat, his posture rigid and expression carefully neutral.
“So,” Saga clapped, making Atticus wince. “We have a lot to talk about. But first, have you been keeping up with the news?”
Atticus nodded. “I 'ave,” he said.
“And what do you think?” Saga asked.
“It's not gunna 'appen,” Atticus replied without hesitation.
Saga raised a finger, laughter glittering in his blue eyes. “Ah, but see my dear boy, that’s where you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
Atticus’s expression changed drastically. “Ya mean…?” The question was barely a whisper. His eyes were glazed over, far away. Thinking.
Saga nodded. “I’ve seen it. It’s happening. And soon.” He sounded expectant, almost excited, but simultaneously very serious. He placed a hand on Atticus’s shoulder. Atticus was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice.
“You have a lot of work to do and not much time. Are you prepared?” Saga asked.
Atticus blinked; his posture straightened. He’d come back to himself. A newfound glint of ambition and excitement shone in his green eyes.
“Not even close. I’ll get started.” Atticus made to stand, only to hastily bow his head. “Wif your permission, me lord?”
Saga patted Atticus’s shoulder before removing his hand. “Good man,” he said with a smile. “I’ll give you an hour for now, but we still need to discuss business. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Atticus respectfully lowered his head even further before rising and making his way out.
“Oh, and what’s this guy’s name, Atti?” Saga shouted a parting question.
Atticus paused outside the kitchen entryway and turned back with a furrowed brow. His expression eased once he saw whom Saga was pointing to.
“Liam,” said Atticus.
“Liam, huh?” Saga put a hand to his chin. “Not bad. Can I have him?” he asked.
“What's mine is yours, me lord,” Atticus replied easily.
Saga clapped happily. “Haha! Thank you, Atti!” He sounded genuinely happy and excited.
The corner of Atticus’s mouth twitched. He was about to ask if he could be dismissed again when Saga waved him off without looking. “Go on, now. And remember: one hour.”
Atticus nodded and left, hastily pulling out a phone and calling over the other security guard.
Saga turned to Liam with a grin. “So, Liam, was it?” he asked innocently.
Liam didn’t respond.
Saga laughed out loud. “Goddamnit. I love this guy so much. All right, Liam. Go wake up the Lady; she needs to sit in on this one.”
Liam wordlessly strode out of the kitchen toward the bedrooms in the back hall.
Just as Saga was thinking this mortal truly was fearless and interesting, he winced as a painful bloom of hot itching pulsed across his back. It was the place where all those claw marks intersected. Reaching behind himself, he roughly scratched his upper back through the robe. "That's the last time we use Holy Water during foreplay," he groused, but the thoughts of last night made him break out in a goofy smile.
Then, looking up at the ceiling, he crossed himself with mock solemnity.
----------------------------------------
Unknown
"What do you want, Sever? Huh?!" Zoé hissed, her voice cold and menacing.
Baron Matthias Sever didn't respond, his face set in stone as he regarded her from across a polished wooden table. He simply sat there, watching.
Tap... He softly tapped the table with a large finger.
Zoé snarled, her eyes glowing with an eerie red light. She hated how he looked at her like she was a thing to observe. "You look awful, by the way," Zoé sneered. "Feeding on rats again?"
Tap...
Zoé fidgeted in her seat, unnerved by the Baron's stoic demeanor.
"You're a disgrace; you know that?" She ruthlessly piled on, her crimson lips curling into a sneer. "You're supposed to be an Anarch, right? The Baron himself, for fuck's sake." She groused. "Well, where's my goddamn right to exercise your precious democracy and equality under your 'Free State'?!" Her voice grew with every word, seeping with venomous anger that crescendoed into a low shout echoing through the meeting room.
Tap...
Zoé's eye twitched as she stabbed a finger at the table. "How the fuck is it okay to tout your nonsense and destabilize our society if you sanction random kidnappings? You prick. You pitiful excuse for a man." She practically spat.
Tap...
The table shuddered beneath Zoé's fist. She bared her fangs, a low growl emanating from her throat. "You go back on your word. You betray our deal. You betray the Camarilla." Her voice fell to a whisper.
Her hands clenched into fists. "Then..." Her lips curled into a self-deprecating smile before she laughed—a cold, cruel sound.
"You try to kill me!" Her expression turned frigid, her eyes cold and hard. "What gives you the right to question the Traditions and pull this shit, huh? How do you even sleep?" She demanded softly. "Are you any better than the 'oppression' you're fighting? Are you any better than—"
The next thing Zoé knew, she was flying backward, her back roughly slamming into the wall.
A large hand wrapped tightly around her throat.
Her body exploded into a cold sweat as she frantically grabbed and clawed at the forearm. The hand. The fingers.
Unfeeling blue eyes as cold as winter wind stared her down from the end of his arm.
Terror screamed through Zoé's mind, drowning out any thoughts. All ambient noise seemed muted, as though coming from a far-off distance.
Her ears rang.
Crushing pain stabbed through her neck and chest, robbing her of reason. Of instinct. Of willpower.
Bloody tears streaked her face as she blindly thrashed against the wall, her eyes scalding hot and bloodshot. Her nails elongated into claws, raking ineffectually against the man's unbreakable, pale skin.
Then, there were only those blue eyes. Dispassionate and powerful. Staring her down from the end of a dark tunnel as everything else began fading away.
Suddenly, the crushing pain and pressure on her throat vanished, along with those eyes, as the floor violently rose to meet her.
The side of her head cracked against stone, and everything went dark.
Heavy, oppressive silence blanketed the room.
Two eyes stared down at Zoé’s collapsed figure. A flash of ridicule and animosity crossed them, then turned into nothing except an emotionless gaze.
The faint whisper of footfalls…
A door opening… closing…
A click.
----------------------------------------
Emerson found Catherine standing beside a garishly bedazzled display of jewelry and sunglasses, talking into a phone with a stern expression. She looked every bit the modern businesswoman on a mission, from her posture to her tone of voice. It was damn sexy.
Not wanting to interrupt, he stopped a bit away and checked the bag to ensure it contained all the clothes he'd 'bought'. It did. Despite the distance, he could clearly hear snippets of her conversation, thanks to his enhanced hearing.
"-be there soon? Good. Have... time?" He missed a bit, then caught, "That works. No... Yes. Thank you." Catherine ended the call, snapped the flip phone shut, and turned to Emerson.
"Catch any of that?" she asked coolly.
Emerson was briefly startled but quickly regained his composure. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "Wasn't really trying; I'm just not used to this kind of thing yet. Can I control it?"
Catherine raised an eyebrow. "What kind of question is that? Of course you can." She sounded more annoyed than he expected. Perhaps it was the phone call, or maybe the earlier encounter with the clerk had struck a sore spot.
"How?" Emerson asked, hoping his genuine curiosity would engage her and lighten the mood.
Catherine's lips pursed. "How do you make out any one voice or noise in a crowded room?" she asked, an edge creeping into her voice.
"...Practice?" Emerson tried.
"Practice," Catherine replied curtly, then beelined for the exit. "Let's go. We've got a long walk."
----------------------------------------
Las Vegas - Downtown
Emerson closely followed Catherine through the crowded downtown streets, navigating crosswalks, turning corners, and passing a variety of storefronts with glowing signs and jostling lines of customers.
The second time around was easier to handle. Barely.
The relentless urge to sink his teeth into everyone around him whispered sinisterly in the back of his mind. Every brush of a shoulder or hand sent electric tingles through him, unpleasant and frightening. The scariest part was the small part of him that wanted to give in.
It was like discovering a darker side to every thought, a deeper desire behind every want.
"Emerson. Control yourself," Catherine said over her shoulder. She had been closely monitoring Emerson the whole time and sensed his presence fluctuating wildly.
Emerson extricated himself from the crowd and paused in front of a closed flower boutique. He closed his eyes and did breathing exercises he’d learned to calm himself after long study sessions or waiting for grades.
It helped somewhat.
The overwhelming urge to hunt and feed faded into the background.
Present and lingering. Dulled, but not forgotten.
He opened his eyes.
Catherine stood before him, arms crossed and eyebrows pinched together. "You good?" she asked.
Emerson inhaled. Exhaled. Nodded.
He did feel better, but it was hard. Harder than anything he’d ever done before. It was exhausting fighting himself. His brain felt like it had been holding apart two powerful magnets for hours.
Catherine turned on her heels. "Stay close," she said over her shoulder. "We’re barely halfway. Plus, it's our last stop. Just... keep your head down if you have to." She offered some final advice before they entered the stream of people.
For Emerson, it felt like stepping out of fresh country air and headfirst into a churning wall of blood and the thunderous drumbeat of hearts.
It was going to be a long night.
----------------------------------------
Las Vegas - West
They walked for another forty-five minutes, traveling along smooth sidewalks lined with neatly trimmed trees adorned with twinkling fairy lights. The sounds of laughter, conversation, traffic, and music filled the air.
As they ventured further into the heart of the city, Emerson noted the gradual shift in scenery, revealing signs of decay and neglect.
The once pristine buildings of the downtown Strip became dilapidated, with broken windows and crumbling facades. Graffiti adorned the walls, some fresh, most old and faded. Overgrown shrubs and weeds replaced the neatly trimmed trees, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.
The immaculate streets now bore the scars of time; potholes and cracks marred the pavement. Trash littered the sidewalks, and the air was heavy with a multitude of stenches.
The throngs of partying revelers were left behind, replaced by the wail sirens and intermittent shouting. The people in this part of town were different too. Nicely-dressed men and women were replaced by figures clad in tattered clothes, their faces lined with weariness and desperation. Eyes that once shone with hope were now dull and hollow.
Emerson’s pace slowed as they passed a repurposed building turned into a makeshift shelter. The entryway doors were missing, allowing him to see inside. Cardboard boxes and tattered blankets lay strewn across the floor, serving as beds. Dark lumps on those blankets rose and fell softly, their occupant's breathing shallow and rhythmic.
On the wall in a back corner was a poorly drawn red dog near the floor. An empty, dirty blanket lay bundled beneath the drawing, with a small nub of a red crayon atop the bundle.
“Hey,” Catherine came to stand beside Emerson.
“…Hey,” Emerson replied softly.
Neither spoke for some time.
“What are we doing here?” Emerson asked eventually.
“We need— you need to meet someone."
Emerson took a deep breath, exhaled, and turned his back on the building. He stared blankly across the street, his expression carefully neutral.
Catherine didn’t disturb him, remaining silent beside him as she also looked across the street.
"We don’t hurt these people, right?” he asked, his tone neither angry nor demanding.
Catherine remained silent.
Emerson’s jaw clenched. “Who?” A cold fury tinged the edge of his voice.
Catherine sighed. “Emerson—”
“Who?” Emerson repeated, a dark promise in his tone.
This was the first time Catherine saw another aspect of the man she was essentially forcibly tied to by her meddling-ass of a father figure.
She understood. She sighed because she understood, and her gaze softened all that much.
“I’m old, Emerson,” said Catherine. “I've seen friends die of hunger, watched families torn apart by violence, and witnessed the cruelty the powerful wield over the powerless.” She looked at Emerson with a fierce gleam in her eyes. “You think you’re the only one? You think I like this?” She gestured back to the building, her voice cold. “You think I would let this go on if I could stop it?” She pushed, growing angry.
“Can you?” Emerson asked, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. A hard coldness in his gray eyes.
Catherine scornfully chuckled. “No one can. This is just life.”
“I don’t accept that. We can—”
“Who cares if you can’t accept it?” She scoffed. “That’s just how it is. You can’t change it, and neither can I. Not even my father could.” Her voice grew quieter toward the end.
Emerson shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
Catherine’s eyebrow rose.
“It’s not that I can’t accept it,” he said evenly. “It’s that I won’t accept it.”
“...You’re hopeless.” She shook her head, brushing past him.
Emerson shrugged, falling into step beside her. “I’ve been called worse.”
----------------------------------------
“We’re stopping?” Emerson asked, looking around with raised eyebrows.
A cracked street extended off into the darkness in both directions, devoid of parked cars.
Dilapidated buildings with broken doors and boarded windows loomed in the shadows like monoliths.
“We’re here,” said Catherine.
Emerson turned, seeing Catherine pointing to the entrance of a large alleyway behind them, sandwiched between two surprisingly tall buildings. He wondered what they could’ve been before all of this.
He stood beside her. “Who are we seeing again?” he asked hesitantly. The alleyway was incredibly dark; even his enhanced night vision barely revealed dark outlines. He also sensed faint heartbeats. Concentrating hard, he felt a pang of pain in his temples.
“Stop.” Catherine's hand fell onto his shoulder, jolting him out of his intense concentration. The pain vanished, leaving a lingering throbbing.
“That was foolish, Emerson,” Catherine scolded.
Emerson winced, placing a hand to his forehead. “I… don’t understand.” This hadn’t happened before. He felt tired, sluggish, woozy.
Catherine sighed. “I suppose that’s my fault again."
“It’s not—” Emerson started, only to be cut off by a sharp gesture from Catherine.
“Enough. It is, and I will accept responsibility for it.” She straightened. “You tried prying through a Rune formation using a passive Vitae technique you’ve never practiced before. You’re lucky I stopped you.”
Emerson understood some of what she said but was still confused. Catherine noticed his furrowing brow.
“You nearly died,” she clarified.
A chill crawled down his back, and his mouth went dry.
“All right. Let’s go. We need to get you indoors. Then some blood.”
Emerson opened his mouth to refuse, but a cold glance from Catherine silenced him. She strode into the alleyway.
Emerson watched her back vanish through the darkness. 'Holy shit,' he thought, then followed, feeling like he passed through a soap bubble into a grimy alleyway reeking of garbage, urine, and rot. Tension hung in the air, and a crackling sense of foreboding prickled his skin.
The flickering glow of scattered gas lamps cast eerie shadows, revealing broken glass and discarded debris. The indistinct whisper of hushed conversation echoed off the crumbling walls.
Figures clad in tattered rags huddled in makeshift alcoves, their faces hidden beneath hoods or behind bottles of cheap liquor. Their eyes were hollow. But not all the figures were quiet. Muffled sobs, drunken laughter, and the clatter of shuffling footsteps reached Emerson. His hands clenched into fists.
“Don’t think about it,” Catherine said, looking back at him. “You can’t do a damn thing for these people if you’re weak and stupid. And right now? You’re both. So shut up and keep up.”
Emerson's shaking fists unclenched. He followed.
Every ragged, glassy-eyed person he passed sent a tremor through him. His empathy and desire to help were overwhelming, pushing away the stray thoughts of feeding.
He was so angry with the world for what it had done to these people that he didn’t even have the capacity to be disgusted with himself for those thoughts. He didn't consider if he'd feel the same if he were starving. He’d like to think he would. But then he didn’t think about it after that.
Catherine eventually stopped outside a weathered wooden door adorned with a small brass plaque bearing the initials "T.W." It looked conspicuous compared to everything else here.
Emerson patiently waited behind Catherine as she discreetly rapped on the door once, twice, then pressed a hand flat against the plaque. She stepped back.
The sound of something metallic racking back.
A small rectangular strip at eye height slid back to reveal dark eyes squinting at Catherine.
“We’re here to see Jeffrey,” said Catherine.
“Beat it, sugar tits,” a raspy male voice hissed through the slot, then it slid shut.
Emerson raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t see Catherine’s expression, but he doubted it was pleasant.
She knocked again. Same rhythm, same sequence.
The slot opened again, the same eyes glaring at her.
“I said—” he started.
“Voormura.”
Emerson blinked, his vision going fuzzy, and an incessant buzzing occluded his ears. Then, as quickly as it happened, it was over.
The sound of sliding bolts and unhooking chains came from behind the door, which opened inward to reveal a tall, pale man in a black trench coat with a hooked nose. He looked terrified.
“My deepest apologies, Madam—” he rasped.
Emerson's mind struggled to catch up when a crisp slap rang out.
The hook-nosed man stumbled back, hand to his cheek, head lowered. He didn’t make another sound.
Catherine strode past him without another word.
Emerson blinked, then followed, glancing at the still unmoving man as he caught up.
“What just happened there?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied tartly, eyes straight ahead.
Emerson thought better of pushing further and focused on the surroundings. They were not what he expected.
The plain, empty corridor was practically paradise compared to the alleyway. No weird smells, no crying, no nothing. It was oddly static, like this place wasn’t connected to the world. A stupid comparison, but it felt right.
“All right. We’re here. When we get inside, go to the bar,” said Catherine at the end of the corridor. “Don’t talk to anyone, don’t even look at anyone. Got it?”
“Um, yeah, got it,” he said. “But where are you going?” He didn’t want to be left alone for too long, especially not in this place.
“I have to find the person you need to meet.”
“Jeffrey?” Emerson recalled the name from earlier.
“That’s right, so—”
“But how long should I wait?” Emerson interjected with some worry.
Catherine frowned. “Maybe five minutes.” She gave an estimate. “Now stay quiet.” With that, she opened the door and walked through.
Emerson followed.
Stepping through the threshold, he was embraced by a warm, cozy atmosphere, like being transported to a bygone era of prohibition and speakeasies. The interior was a captivating blend of opulence and nostalgia, where old-world charm met modern elegance. The dimly lit space was adorned with rich mahogany paneling, vintage leather armchairs, and plush velvet curtains. The walls were lined with dark velvet, and candles flickered on the tables, casting a warm glow. Soft jazz music floated through the air, mingling with murmurs of conversation.
Behind the long bar at the back, a muscular man in suspenders and a bow tie concocted cocktails with precision and flair. The shelves behind him were lined with an impressive array of colorful spirits, most a dark ruby red.
The corners of the room had private booths and small nooks for group gatherings, and vintage bookshelves were propped against the walls. An aura of exclusivity pervaded the air despite the room being surprisingly full of patrons. Over a dozen men and women lounged in comfortable leather chairs, flipping through different channels on the large flat-screen TVs around the room.
“Pick your jaw off the floor and move,” Catherine harshly whispered beside him.
Emerson blinked, then beelined straight for the bar without looking at anything else. He picked up on some of the conversations around him, especially whatever was playing on the TV as he walked past.
"The situation in the Middle East continues to escalate," a news anchor said, her voice grave. "The United Nations has issued a warning to all countries in the region to exercise caution and restraint."
The man watching sat forward, his expression serious. "Shit. This does not bode well for us," he muttered, switching the channel.
Another news anchor: "-reports of a new strain of the flu virus spreading rapidly across Europe and Asia. Governments are scrambling to contain the outbreak, but experts warn it could become a global pandemic."
A woman huffed, sipping her drink. "As if humans weren’t diseased enough already," she said.
Emerson frowned but kept silent, almost reaching the bar.
Another anchor's voice boomed through the television speakers as Emerson walked past.
"-the stock market plunged today, following rumors of a global recession. Investors are panicking, fearing a repeat of the 2008 financial crisis."
The vampires watching exchanged glances, their eyes glinting with amusement. They had seen countless economic cycles come and go, and the human obsession with money never ceased to entertain them.
‘I’ve really got to start paying more attention to the news,’ Emerson told himself. Realizing this was how vampires kept up to date, it made sense now.
The rest of the world operated during the day, so it was easy to miss what was happening unless you were plugged into the news cycle regularly. Another television caught his ear.
"-group of hikers has gone missing in the nearby woods. Local authorities urge anyone with information to come forward, fearing foul play."
A dark chuckle came from the TV direction. "Definitely one of ours," a masculine baritone mused.
Emerson felt a profound sense of unease at the man’s voice, but he’d reached the bar and pulled out one of the remaining stools, sitting down. The air was thick with the scent of blood and alcohol, and the low light cast deep shadows across the bar and countertop. Emerson kept his head down.
To his left and right, vampires mingled and drank, their eyes flickering in the shadows as they whispered and laughed. Just at a glance, he could tell these people ranged from the wealthy to the rough and seedy.
He didn’t want anything to do with it. Hopefully, Catherine would come to get him soon.
"Good evening, I'm Alexa Stone with The Pulse of the Nation, reporting live from outside the Capitol building. We have breaking news on the latest developments in Congress.” A stoic-looking, pale brunette woman in a business suit appeared on-screen holding a microphone.
Behind her was the United States Capitol building, its symmetrical, white marble design and central dome iconic and easily recognizable.
Emerson’s ears perked up, instinctively following the pleasant voice to the nearest flat-screen TV above the bar.
There was grumbling from a group in a corner booth. A masculine baritone called out: “Oi Harry! Change the channel, would ya?”
The bartender, a middle-aged man with eternally graying hair and limpid brown eyes, glanced up at the television. He snagged the remote from the counter when a timid voice interrupted.
“Um, sir?” Emerson softly called out to get the bartender’s attention. He couldn’t help but want to listen.
Finger poised over the channel button, the bartender focused on Emerson. He raised an eyebrow.
“Could you please leave it for now?” Emerson asked.
The bartender smirked. “Sure thing.” He said to Emerson, then: “Another time, Bruno!” He called out, putting down the remote and moving down the bar.
Emerson’s gaze followed him a moment before returning to the TV.
“-moments ago,” the reporter continued, “the House of Representatives passed the highly controversial H.R. 12015 bill. This bill has been a hot topic of debate in Washington for months, and its passage will have a significant impact on law enforcement and communities across the country. Let's take a closer look at what this bill entails.”
“No shit?” A murmur of disbelief came from a woman seated a few places down the bar.
Emerson was surprised; she knew what the bill was already?
Now that Emerson was attuned to it, he noticed the previously lively conversation in the bar had fallen into hushed whispers. The atmosphere took on a more tense and guarded quality, with patrons exchanging words in low voices, eyes darting around.
The news reporter’s voice took centerstage. “The H.R. 12015 bill, also known as the Law Enforcement Funding and Oversight Act, aims to decrease national police funding and reallocate resources to community-based programs. The bill incentivizes states and localities to reduce police budgets and invest in public safety programs like mental health services, education, and affordable housing.”
The scraping of chairs and hurried footsteps echoed as patrons moved toward the nearest televisions. Emerson could hear murmurs of anticipation and excitement mingling with anxiety. The energy of the room changed.
“This bill has both support and criticism. Proponents argue it will address systemic racism and police brutality by shifting resources to community-based solutions. Opponents argue reducing police budgets will hinder law enforcement and increase crime rates.”
“There’s no way…” A soft murmur of disbelief escaped someone's lips. Someone shushed them.
“The bill now moves to the Senate for further debate and scrutiny. If it passes, it will be sent to the President's desk for signature,” the reporter continued.
“They’re really doing it.” A tone caught between a question and a statement.
Emerson was glued to the TV. He didn’t know what to think, but this was big news no matter which way you sliced it.
“This is a significant development in Congress. We will continue to follow the H.R. 12015 bill's progress. This is Alexa Stone signing off from outside the Capitol building.”
The room remained silent for two seconds before erupting into a frenzy of conversation and movement.
The sensation of wind brushing past startled Emerson. He barely caught the blur of patrons making their way to the exit.
Others hastily retrieved phones and dialed with intensity. The remaining individuals gathered in small clusters, discussing things he didn't understand, in languages that didn't sound real.
With the bar seating area nearly emptied, only Emerson and a solitary figure remained.
Not a single person remained unaffected, including the bartender, who poured himself a shot of blood with a somber expression.
"Um..." Emerson hummed, his voice trailing off, as he swiveled on his stool to survey the room. To his surprise, Catherine stood directly behind him, her gaze fixed on the TV broadcasting another news segment. She'd been there for the broadcast?
Meeting Emerson's eyes, Catherine wore an expression he'd never seen before.
“You sure picked an interesting time to join the Kindred."