New York City, United States of America - Chelsea District, Manhattan
Same Night
3:00 A.M.
A tall, handsome young man with a short crew cut fade and a solid square jaw clumsily bumped and shouldered his way through the warzone occurring on the dance floor. It was time for a break; plus, he needed a drink.
His light blue dress shirt was practically soaked through at the armpits and upper back. A thin sheen of sweat glistened across his face and neck—the harsh, alternating glare of the multi-colored strobe lights chaotically playing across his body and revealing his less-than-stellar condition. Then again, he wasn't the only one sweating buckets and swaying like a dinghy in a storm—it didn't look like there was a single sober soul in the entire club, though he couldn't entirely trust that since holding up his hand revealed two hands. Finally, having cleared the dance floor's boundary and the hot, sweaty press of bodies, he made a beeline for a relatively open spot at the bar closest to one of the bartenders.
A passing group of young women wearing colorful designer dresses and animatedly chatting amongst one another briefly caught his roaming eyes. He couldn't help but take an appreciative glance back as they passed to admire the sway of their hips and how their dresses hugged their curves. He made a silly 'damn' face and drunkenly blew a kiss at their backs before continuing on his perilous journey to the bar, slurring out a "pardon" and "s'cuse me" as he forced himself between two other guys nursing their beers. He dramatically slapped the wooden countertop.
"I'm in a dire situation, sir!" he shouted to be heard above the raucous din of everyone on the dance floor happily screaming as the live DJ transitioned to the next popular song.
"What?" The barman's question was more or less lost to the music as he looked over with confusion, then bent down and grabbed something from beneath the counter, his long brown hair hanging down around his face.
"I'm losing my buzz!" the young man shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth and smiling goofily as he swayed against the counter. The two other guys on either side of him exchanged annoyed expressions, sharing the universal "this fukin' guy" look before simultaneously shuffling a bit further away so their elbows weren't being bumped as they tried drinking.
"One second!" The barman replied, standing back up with a Coke in one hand and pushing his silky hair out of his face with the other. He then cracked the soft drink's seal and topped off a partially filled glass of smooth, brown liquid. He grabbed it with one hand and slid it across the counter to another waiting patron while underhanding the empty aluminum can into a nearby recycling bin with the other. Then, he started lining up empty shot glasses on the counter before hurriedly turning and selecting a tall, thin bottle of vodka from a varied lineup of liquors on a shelf.
"Yeah, yeah, man. Take your time, dude!" The young man said, turning around and resting his lower back against the bar while leaning back on his forearms. Something wet and sticky staining the countertop clung to his forearm—he didn't mind. A small mass of people suddenly crowded the bar to his left, yelling: "Shots, shots, shots!"
A relaxed smile spread across his face as his glassy eyes lazily panned across the nightclub. He basked in the lively energy suffusing the place. He felt the music's deep bass thrum in his chest, blearily watching the chaos of people dancing, mingling, shouting, and placing orders. The sweat across his brow finally grew too heavy, slowly trailing down the side of his head. Groggily wiping his face with a dress shirt sleeve that was rolled up to his bicep, he couldn't help but inhale that heavy mixture of sweat, beer breath, cologne, perfume, and hair product that hung in the air. He almost didn't even notice the smell anymore. Almost. It was still pretty darn unpleasant. He wanted that drink... Right, he just placed the order. Patience is a virtue. His wandering mind tried focusing on something else. That something else turned out to be the eye candy waitresses walking throughout the area in their skimpy uniforms while somehow balancing entire trays of drinks.
'They make it look so easy...' he sluggishly thought, tracking the movements of a blonde waitress with large breasts as she effortlessly navigated between dancers, half-hearted gropers, and tall, round-top tables spread across the room—their surfaces positively cluttered with half-finished drinks and surrounded by people either talking or on their phones.
And that was when, out of the corner of his eye, for the barest of moments, he saw a shimmer of platinum hair around a breathtakingly gorgeous face.
'Whoa!' His eyes widened as he inadvertently pushed off the countertop to follow the platinum hair—only to feel a tap on his shoulder.
He jumped and spun around to find the bartender wiping his hands with a wet rag.
"What can I get ya'?" the bartender shouted, tossing the rag into a clear, plastic bin filled with soapy water on a lower shelf.
"Um..." The young man was momentarily so flustered that he'd forgotten where he was. He turned around and looked out across the dancing crowd—trying to find a flash of that hair again. Nothing.
'Huh... I... uh...' He couldn't assemble a coherent thought, but he did know that he suddenly felt an inexplicable sadness in his chest.
"Yo, buddy, whaddya need?" came the bartender's shout again, a frustrated edge to his tone.
"Uh..." The young man turned back to the bartender, shook his head slightly, and forced a half-hearted smile as he stuffed those weird thoughts and feelings into the back of his mind.
"Right, um, sorry—one, uh, Long Island iced tea!" He leaned onto his left forearm and reached behind with his other hand to remove a black leather wallet from his back pocket.
The bartender rolled his eyes with a nod, "Sure thing—tab?"
The young man swayed in place and shook his head, pulling out a metallic credit card that he placed on the counter.
"Just the one!"
The bartender started making the drink with practiced ease. The young man leaned forward—both forearms against the countertop—as he absently watched the bartender work... felt the music... listened to the ambient noise. But he couldn't stop himself from seeing that hair. He glanced over his shoulder again, his brow furrowing.
----------------------------------------
Dzidra silently fumed as she navigated a path between the vile, putrid press of mortals, tables, and sticky puddles of mystery liquids. Despite having anticipated just how much she would despise setting foot inside the building, she found that her expectations were not only marginally exceeded but healthily surpassed, and to such a degree that she had to constantly remind herself of how dire her family's situation was to stop herself from immediately leaving—or worse. Moreover, the variety of cloying stenches hanging thick in the air on the densely packed main floor was abominable to her senses, nearly shattering her practiced concentration as she actively shrouded her presence from the minds of these randomly thrashing, inebriated imbeciles.
Then, her concentration momentarily lapsed—her masked presence wildly fluctuating in response to her barely contained rage as she realized she'd somehow managed to step directly into a small streak of vomit. It was almost the last straw. Yet, through that red haze of anger, some rational part of her understood that such severe emotional reactions were unbecoming of someone in her position. Striving to ingratiate herself into the local Camarilla would not only require patience and extraordinary effort, but it also meant that she needed to be capable of diplomacy. Screaming, crying, or lashing out during tense diplomatic relations at what she found uncomfortable could have severe repercussions and consequences for herself and those she would hopefully represent. This was delicate work in a crude, harsh environment. She needed to be prepared for anything the Prince's enemies might throw at him.
And perhaps she could also acknowledge that she was something of a spoiled oddity in the Kindred community—having no recollection of her mortal life and awakening in her new family's compound where she was rigorously schooled, groomed, and pampered by dozens of her father's Ghouls and masterful educators. She'd rarely stepped beyond the protective confines of her home and always under strict scrutiny and supervision when she had. It wasn't until recent events that she took a chance and convinced her father to allow her to venture out and make a play at saving the family. She was now realizing how severely lacking her experiences with Kine had been.
She needed to learn. She needed to be better. She could do this. She was a Whitelocke. With an effort of will, she swallowed her rising anger and refocused, the flickering shroud strongly re-establishing itself around her as her presence was once more completely masked. She hoped no one had noticed anything. She continued, a stern expression of concentration on her beautiful face as her lithe figure fluidly snaked through the crowd, searching for another entryway or corridor possibly leading to a lower floor.
'Most likely out of plain sight...' she brainstormed potential locations while silently cursing the Prince for having his muscle-headed goons deliver ambiguous details regarding the meeting. She still remembered how infuriating that conversation had been. She was to meet with an exceptionally talented and promising addition to Percival's Court known as "Mixer,” who owned and managed a relatively discrete, subterranean Elysium accessible through the nightclub above it. Exactly where that entrance was located must have slipped the British bastard's mind when he gave his orders.
'Or... he doesn't completely trust his family?' Now that was a disconcerting thought. She hadn't even considered that she might be trying to be adopted into another family with just as many problems as her own. If not more!
'No... No, that isn’t very likely. He's just testing me...' she mulled over the concerns as she weaved between a waitress and someone shouting at their phone. A test of her strengths and weaknesses as a Court member was undoubtedly more plausible than a mighty Prince knowingly keeping untrustworthy subordinates—right? Her father's ghouls and extended family were as thick as thieves, so someone even more powerful and influential should have no issue controlling his people.
'I hope he chokes on that blood wine... You'd think he doesn't want me working for him,' she scoffed at the thought, but a small voice insisted that perhaps this was the case. However, she didn't have a chance to entertain the notion for too long when she was suddenly floored for the third time that night.
'Are they... dancing!?' she incredulously wondered as she strode around a group of women on the edges of the dance floor, vigorously shaking their backsides in time with the wild music as they received shouts of encouragement from their entourage.
The severely obnoxious music suddenly tapered to a low hum, and the bright, colorful lights shining across the dance floor and ceiling went out, dropping the area into still silence. Aside from a few excited whispers and laughing hushes, even the patrons had gone utterly silent. Dzidra immediately halted as a surge of panic jolted down her spine. What was happening? Her presence remained undisturbed—effectively muted. So why did everyone stop—had she been found out? Was this a Second Inquisition trap? Had she been betrayed?! Her thoughts frantically spiraled out of control as she stood frozen with indecision—incapable of deciding on a proper course of action after finding herself caught so exceptionally flat-footed.
'How could—'
Her keen night vision noticed something odd.
'Why are they all... crouching?'
"TURN DOWN FOR WHAT?!" an electronic voice boomed.
The room exploded with strobing lights, erratic music, ecstatic screams, and chaotic movements.
All the noise swallowed Dzidra's surprised yelp as she jumped over a foot straight into the air. When her shoes grazed the floor, she frantically called upon additional vitae and blurred through the writhing dancers randomly—in any direction! And somehow found the very thing she was looking for.
The strobing lights illuminated the Camarilla's symbol stenciled across various movie and music band posters plastered across the bottom length of the bar. The bottom of the modified crucifix was angled toward a particular wall section in the back of the main floor. She sped across the room and soon stood in front of that wall while the entire building around her practically shook in its foundation to the beat of the music. Without waiting another moment, she strode toward the section of the partially hidden wall and channeled a large portion of her presence into the fingertip of her right index finger. She gently pressed the finger to the wall. The barest azure glimmer flashed somewhere above her on the wall—surprisingly too fast even for her to catch any details, let alone a mortal. But it did tell her that the runes were active and had verified her blood's purity as belonging to one of the sanctioned Clans. She stepped through the wall as though it weren't there. Her vision momentarily went blank before reality reasserted itself as a moderately-sized, dimly-lit corridor bathed in a hazy crimson light. There was no discernable light source. Two bouncers stood on either side of a door-like opening in the shape of an arch at the end of the corridor.
Dzidra gently cleared her throat as she pulled down on her shirt and smoothed out any creases on her pants. Then, feeling somewhat more presentable, she confidently approached the two bouncers. Gradually, the hazy fog wafting through the corridor parted to reveal beaming, neon-red letters spelling "Hospice" across the arch's top.
'That's… different,' her eyebrows lifted at the club’s name.
"Whitelocke?" growled the larger bouncer of the two to the right of the entryway. Her thoughts interrupted, she nodded. He grunted, then looked her up and down.
"He's expecting you. Down the stairs, corridor to the right," he rumbled, motioning down the stairs behind him with a large arm before dismissively looking away. Dzidra politely nodded and walked past the duo, stopping at the top of the descending stairwell to survey the bottom for anything unusual. But she wasn't going to let her guard down anymore.
"Mm. And stay out of trouble, sweet cheeks," the smaller bouncer on the left snarked.
Dzidra was about to take her first step down the stairs when the other man's words made her halt. The two bouncers simultaneously glanced over their shoulders, the smaller bouncer's confusion morphing into an oily smile.
"Oh? You know what, Kansas?" the smaller bouncer slid his hands out of his jean pockets and crossed his arms as he adjusted his position to comfortably lean his back against the drab, scuffed wall.
"I think I hurt her feelings."
Kansas frowned at his partner's words but kept silent and closely watched the hallway with arms crossed, his muscular forearms bulging against one another.
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"How's about it, then? Want me to apologize?"
Dzidra slowly turned around with a look of profound confusion, her eyes flicking back and forth around the area where the two bouncers stood guard. The smaller bouncer's smarmy expression faltered when he saw her expression.
"That's odd..." Dzidra said, conspicuously looking around in confusion, "I could've sworn I heard a dog barking," her cold, crimson irises locked with the smaller bouncer.
"Must have been my imagination."
Kansas snorted.
"You fucking—" The smaller bouncer took an aggressive step toward Dzidra, who was already covertly circulating her vitae with an innocent expression on her face, when Kansas's large hand fell onto his right shoulder, stopping him cold in his tracks. Kansas shook his head with a severe look in his eyes. The smaller bouncer met his partner's furious gaze with his own as the two engaged in a silent staring contest. The fire finally left the smaller bouncer’s eyes after a few more seconds, his brows furrowing in restrained frustration as his shoulders slumped. Then, visibly deflating, he grumbled a half-hearted 'sorry' before knocking Kansas's hand off his shoulder, turning his back on both of them, and returning to stand watch. Kansas frowned at his partner's back before partly turning to Dzidra and motioning toward the stairs with his head in a 'go on' gesture before similarly returning to his previous spot.
'This has already gotten off to such a marvelous start,' she thought morosely as she descended. But she also knew she needed to stand up for herself in these places. She’d read about it and heard from her Sire and GrandSire alike: courtesy and respect were earned after you bashed someone's teeth in. There would be no opening a rational dialogue with most of these muscle-brained cretins. The stairwell ended rather quickly, terminating either left or right. She chose right without much thought. If this were a setup, whoever might've wanted her dead already had many opportunities. She would keep her eyes open, but she was through the mouth and heading toward the belly of the beast. It was best to commit. The right corridor similarly ended quickly, terminating in a vast, semi-circular opening through which she could see flashes of red light suffusing a dense haze of wispy smoke. She could also make out the sounds of intense, muted techno music.
The closer she got, the more her nose was assailed with the warm stench of cigars, the sharp tang of liquors, the tantalizing scent of fresh blood, and an underlying musk of pheromones. She paused on the threshold, eyes closed as she gave herself a moment to acclimate to the debaucherous ambiance swirling around her. She exhaled.
'Here we go again... You can do this.'
She determinedly opened her eyes as she strode through the arch and into... well... a surprisingly small space that looked like a subterranean nightclub with dark red lighting accents and black leather, gothic-styled furniture that looked remarkably comfortable. There was a wooden bar along the entire length of the back wall, complete with two shelves of predominantly dark liquors—her nose also identified that the dense smell of blood came from that direction. Kindred sat individually or in groups, quietly discussing recent events or simply nursing glasses of fragrant blood. There was a surprisingly somber mood pervading the room despite the music. She was also surprised to discover the scents of a few mortal men and women sprinkled throughout the room, though, considering where she was, she supposed it wasn’t too surprising. She had learned that many humans desired to be used by vampires—many falling prey to the addictive sensations of the Kiss. She focused on one of the more fragrant mortals... her eyes naturally drifted toward the smell. In a more secluded booth on the left side of the room, she spotted a pretty boy with a mop of unruly, wheat blonde hair furiously blushing and twitching in the arms of a pale, muscular woman. The woman raised her head from his neck and wiped some excess blood from her lips with a sultry smile as she looked down at him with predatorial eyes.
Dzidra's eyes narrowed as she looked away from the crude sight and focused on more important things. 'Well... I'm in the right place. That's for sure.'
Now she just needed—
"No! You couldn't possibly be the Dzidra Whitelocke?" a youthful, exuberant shout came from the back right of the room, where a semi-circular, dark leather couch sat in the corner. She couldn't distinguish who'd spoken through the thick, smoky haze and general dimness. Dozens of shady, scowling personas hunched over their drinks or tables turned to look at her.
It took more effort than she would have liked not to wilt under the intense scrutiny. She'd been extensively trained to one day stand in the spotlight for her family, but training and performing were entirely different animals.
She held her head high and tried her best to appear unflustered.
"Yes, and I'm looking for 'Mixer.’"
Hushed whispers—nearly everyone in the room started speaking with their companions.
"And Mixer just happens to be looking for you; come on over!" The same voice shouted.
'He refers to himself in the third person. Fantastic.'
She walked deeper into the club, passing a trio of two males and one female sitting at a grimy, rectangular table. Their hungry eyes tracked her movements.
Naturally, her ears picked up on the furtive conversations around her.
"That's her!"
"Neva 'eard o'er..."
"That hair... Puta..."
"She's from that family of traitors..."
Scorn. Derision. Hateful stares. Venomous whispers.
"All right, that's enough of that, you bloodsucking jackals!" came the youthful shout, louder now that she was closer.
"One more word and no more drinks, capeesh?"
The mutterings and whispers immediately stopped—every mortal or immortal patron turned back to their own drinks and friends. Conversations slowly started again when Dzidra reached the back right corner of the room and finally laid eyes on her contact. He was not what she expected.
Mixer was a young man with a clear complexion who didn't look a day over eighteen, with piercing sapphire-blue eyes and raven-black hair. He wore a silken, heap collar long-sleeve t-shirt that showed off a generous amount of his pale chest and whip-cord musculature. A small, golden pendant emblazoned with a simplistic north star design hung low around his neck from a gold rope chain. A variety of brown leather bracelets wrapped around his wrists, and a couple of simplistic rings adorned the fingers of both hands. Hands that were sensuously stroking the throats of two identical twins with blue-streaked hair who were possessively arching their backs into his sides. Their greenish-gray eyes examined Dzidra through half-lidded gazes as she approached. It almost looked like both women wanted to hiss. Mixer, however, was all smiles.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" he exuberantly said, raising his arms before draping them across the twins' shoulders again.
"It's wonderful to put a face to the name finally—and such a beautiful face, at that!"
Dzidra remained standing and inclined her head, hoping he hadn’t seen the derision that flashed through her eyes.
"Thank you for inviting me," she neutrally spoke, raising her head to look at the couch just past his shoulder.
"So formal," he shook his head with mock sadness, "—but no worries. All right, ladies," he pulled his arms back to himself and motioned to the bar with his head, "—off you go." Both women placed their palms over his exposed chest while staring daggers at Dzidra.
"Just a little meeting before the night really kicks off, I promise," he crossed his heart solemnly, his finger tracing over the tops of their pale hands. The twins looked at one another, then once more at Dzidra, a warning glint in their eyes before they synchronously rose in silence and glided across the floor to the bar. Mixer's eyes followed them before he relaxed back on the couch with a devious expression. "Those two will be my death... but I couldn't be happier!" he chuckled, then carefully examined Dzidra. She grew stiffer with every passing second as she felt his gaze travel across her body.
'This little...' No. She needed to focus—cold diplomat. Figure out what needs to be done, and start a dialogue. Keep it simple, keep it forward.
"Ahem. So, why... 'Hospice'?" Dzidra managed to ask as politely as possible, maintaining a professionally curious expression and tone.
"Ah, I'm so happy you asked!" Mixer leaned forward with a smirk that was equal parts conspiratorial and predatory, placing his elbows on his knees and intertwining his fingers. "It's because... our drinks ease peoples' suffering."
Dzidra cocked her head. "Our?"
Mixer leaned back into his chair with a half-smile, "Mm. I'm touched you think so highly of me. But yes," he inclined his head, "—I couldn't have done all this alone," he gestured to the surroundings without elaborating further.
'I see how it is.'
That's when she noticed how repugnantly simple his necklace truly was and couldn't restrain herself.
"Why do you have that?" Dzidra asked, choosing the furthest seat that still faced him without waiting for his permission. Mixer's brow furrowed briefly before a look of understanding dawned on his face.
"Can't exactly help what I was born with," he said, massaging his jaw with a 'hurt' look.
Dzidra's right eye imperceptibly twitched.
"The necklace," she responded flatly.
"Hm? Oh, this!" he said in an infuriatingly childish tone, placing a hand on his chest so that his index finger and thumb surrounded the pendant as he glanced down, then looked up with a smirk.
"You'll laugh if I tell you," he leaned back into his seat and placed both hands on the back of the couch. Dzidra critically examined the "VIP" area before meeting Mixer's innocently expectant expression with one of pure disinterest.
"I'm not in the laughing mood."
"Fair enough," Mixer’s lips pursed, "—here we go then," he inclined his head, still with that damned smirk.
"It reminds me not to lose myself."
Dzidra's right eye visibly twitched this time.
"See!" he said with a knowing smile, pointing at her and wagging a finger, causing his assortment of leather bracelets to shake like a cat toy.
"What did I say?"
"I—" Dzidra tried.
"Ah, it's fine, no biggie—" he graciously waved it off, settling back into his seat, "—it's a pretty silly reason, after all. But important to me, you know?" he sheepishly mumbled, scratching his chest.
"Ah, I don't know—I was young when I got it," he grumbled, shrugging off his own words before twisting around and craning his head back to look over the couch.
"Yo, Alfonzo!"
A middle-aged, thin man behind the bar with dark curly hair looked over as he refilled a patron’s glass with a clear, fizzling liquid that loudly spewed from a rectangular device with a nozzle.
"Two House Specials, my good man!" Mixer announced, holding up two fingers with a hand as he turned back to Dzidra.
"Trust me—you’re going to love this. And this way, we relax a bit before getting to business." He said, easing back into the plush couch and motioning back to the bar with his head.
"As I'm only here on business—I would rather not." Dzidra politely declined with a cold voice.
"You're declining my hospitality?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"I'm declining a drink."
"Potato-patato! C’mon, how about just a sip?"
"I'm not hungry."
Mixer's amiable, happy-go-lucky expression vanished like smoke on the wind, replaced with a deathly cold glare that could freeze flames.
"We're always hungry, Ms. Whitelocke," he spoke softly, menacingly, his blue eyes boring into her own like drills. The transition was so sudden, so jarringly the opposite of her preconceived notions of who this man was, that she felt an uncontrollable surge of fear curl through her stomach.
Alfonzo came over with two wine glasses filled with thick, crimson liquid. He silently set them down on the glass table, respectfully inclined his head to Mixer, and strode back to the bar just in time for another patron with slurred speech to ask for another 'Snakebite.’
Mixer picked up his glass without breaking eye contact. "Now, then. Here's to easing the burdens of our past, and embracing the opportunities of the future," he gestured to her glass with his own. The blood wine gently sloshed up the sides of the glass, staining the surface in a thin, red veneer. Dzidra's eyes flicked to the variety of patrons passed out in different states of undress at the grimy bar top.
To the dozens of unattended, colorful drinks on high-top tables and sprinklings of unidentifiable grime and crumbs across the floor.
To the mature, brunette woman in skimpy clothes making an 'O'-face and rubbing her thighs together on the dance floor as a man held her tightly while nuzzling her neck.
To the trio of shady men snorting lines of white powder off their booth table and downing tall glasses of what smelled like beer.
To the pleasantly-smelling glass of blood wine in front of her...
An all too familiar feeling rose inside her.
‘Fuck,’ she suppressed a sigh and picked up her glass. "To the future," her words were punctuated with the clinking of their glasses.
----------------------------------------
Unknown
Same Night
3:10 A.M.
"Camelia has arrived, Amantă," Tavian announced, bowing low in the center of a small, cluttered administrative office space.
"Leave," Aurelia softly commanded.
An ominous, swirling pillar of shadows heralded his departure. Aurelia silently watched the door to her office.
...Tap...
Her manicured nail struck her heavy wood desk. Her gaze unreadable. The door opened, admitting a tall woman with light brown hair falling past her shoulders, curious green eyes, and an athletic figure that screamed 'Huntress.’
"Amantă." Camelia respectfully sank to one knee with a lowered head.
Silence...
...Tap...
...Tap...
"Tell me, child..." Aurelia's voice drifted through the enclosed space as though she were speaking from every corner.
"Have your tracking skills improved?"
Camelia's brow furrowed at the unexpected question.
"Yes, Amantă."
Silence...
...Tap...
Her finger was about to fall again—only to stop a centimeter from the desk's surface.
"...Excellent."
TAP!
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Outside of the Saguenay City Police Precinct
Same Night
3:00 A.M.
"You good?" Martin placed a hand on Savio's shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah—I'm good," Savio absently replied, fiddling with the hem of his winter overcoat.
Martin nodded and said, "I'll be back," giving Savio's shoulder what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze before heading off to speak with Hjalmer, who was currently having an animated discussion with Janice. Savio distractedly nodded as he further protected his rifle from the weather. Martin heard their friendly bickering as he approached at an average pace. He wanted them to hear and see him; that way, they could decide whether or not to keep flirting despite his approach.
"It would sound better coming from you!" Hjalmer said exasperatedly, motioning at Janice with both hands.
"You are our leader," Janice adroitly replied, turning away and removing an archaic-looking cube decorated with strange hieroglyphic symbols from her coat pocket.
"Okay, well..." Hjalmer's defeated eyes suddenly lit up as he raised his head and voice in victory, "I delegate it to you!"
"You cannot," Janice replied without sparing him a glance, tapping seemingly random symbols on the cube in series and changing the angle at which she held the foreign object with every press.
"Since when?"
"Now."
"You—" Hjalmer closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. All joking aside, he didn’t want to call this one in. He knew he had to; he wasn't being serious with Janice. But talking helped... bantering helped. He just needed to get it over with. He sighed.
"Here."
Something pressed into his chest. He opened his eyes and looked down to see Janice's small, pale hand pressing a cube to his chest—its edges glowing a soft emerald. He reached up and softly grasped both the cube and Janice's hand. He silently held both, just held them. Felt her smooth yet unyielding skin; the cube's hard edges; the chilling snow; the howling wind.
"Thanks," he whispered, not meeting her eye.
She carefully pulled her hand back.
"You can do this," she said softly, then turned away and walked toward the paralyzed Zoé Sauvage, passing Martin on the way, who politely nodded at her. She didn't acknowledge his presence. Martin ignored Janice's cold shoulder. It was remarkable he hadn't mistaken her for a snowbank, considering how cold she was to everyone. Well, almost everyone. His boots crunched a particularly icy patch of snow as he stopped behind Hjalmer.
"We're all set," Martin explained, "—station's clean. Savio and I are ready."
Hjalmer absently nodded while looking at the glowing cube in his hand.
"We'll make it?"
"We'll make it," Martin affirmed. "Though..."
"Mm?"
"What about the mayor?"
"It's already happening."
Martin's brows nearly rose to his hairline. He was actually at a loss for words. Now that was efficiency. But who had—
"Is that all?"
Martin blinked.
"Uh, y-yes."
"Good. Get prepped—we leave in five."
Martin nodded and vanished in a blurry puff of displaced snow.
"But first..." Hjalmer sullenly mumbled, holding up the cube to his eyes, "...the hardest part of my job."
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Montreal, Canada - Lexington Avenue
Summit's Pinnacle - The Obsidian Gem
3:05 A.M.
The interior of a dark study.
The shadows of bookshelves, cabinets, tables, and chairs loomed around every corner like obelisks.
A lone man sat at an executive-sized, wooden veneer desk with a dark walnut finish. Instead of a laptop or disposable phone, a small cube sat on the desk before him, its edges glowing a dim, azure blue. The glow reflected off his expressionless face. The symbols on the cube simultaneously glowed the same color as its edges. The man silently examined the pulsing cube before reaching out and tapping one of the symbols—the cube's glow significantly diminished, and all the symbols aside from the one he'd touched faded away.
"Hjalmer Norström—Saguenay incident report," Hjalmer's voice floated out from the cube, the symbol's glow intensifying in time with his voice.
"Speak," the lone man's masculine voice filled the quiet office space.
"Zoé Sauvage wouldn't accept the invitation. She's been staked and is awaiting transport."
The corners of the man’s eyes crinkled at the news, but it was within his expectations.
"Well done. Continue."
"The station's been cleaned, and the mayor is being handled. There's no trace of our presence."
"Wrong—the Second Inquisition knows."
Silence.
"Continue..." the man growled, real emotion entering his tone.
"Th-there was another man with Ms. Sauvage. We think he was her Childer."
The man's right hand clenched into a shaking fist, then unclenched.
"He was taken from us by... well, by an old man... We couldn't stop him. And um, this man wanted us to relay a message to 'the new Baron,' were his exact words."
Silence.
The man’s eyes bore holes through the cube.
The sound of Hjalmer nervously clearing his throat.
"He said—'rex noctis immortales evigilat.'"
Silence...
The man reached out and tapped one of the symbols adorning the cube. Its surfaces flared a bright azure and momentarily lit up the room's immaculately organized interior as the connection was severed. He sat silently in the darkness, intensely staring at the dormant cube.
"It can't be..." the barest whisper left his lips.