Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
North Paradise Luxury Studio Apartments — Nyx
3:30 A.M.
The uncomfortable sensation of lingering heat and nausea steadily building up in his chest suddenly ran up his throat when he tried opening his mouth to speak. The next thing he knew, he was bent over at the waist and vomiting on the floor.
The serene tranquility of the apartment was abruptly shattered by the unsettling sounds of retching. Desperately gasping for air and enduring dry heaves, Emerson convulsively coughed and expelled the searing, metallic taste from his mouth while clutching his knees. Delicate strands of pink saliva dangled from the corners of his mouth, and faint trails of blood trickled down his cheeks. Moaning, he tightly shut his eyes, feeling a throbbing headache hammering at his temples. The world spun around him, while a burning soreness seared his throat, and his abdomen throbbed with the effort of his forceful heaving.
A shiver involuntarily coursed through his body as he smacked his lips and swallowed, his mouth parched. He couldn't help but wonder how on earth that'd happened. He'd never felt that sort of churning nausea or experienced such intense vomiting, not even after the handful of parties he'd been to as a bachelor, where he may have indulged in excessive drinking.
He focused on taking slow, deep breaths until the moment subsided. ‘Jesus fucking Christ...’ Embarrassment and shame flooded his face as he comprehended what he had just done in front of such an incredibly gorgeous stranger. Part of him was so mortified that he almost wished she would just end it right then and there. Clearing his throat, he used his sleeve to wipe his mouth before cautiously straightening up and timidly lifting his gaze.
The woman's visage hardened, her features briefly flickering as she struggled to suppress her disgust. Her small lips curled in revulsion, and her slender, angular eyebrows knitted together as she locked her gaze upon him with narrowed eyes. And despite only being covered with a towel, the woman maintained an effortless composure and grace as she kept a finger on the trigger and the gun’s muzzle unwaveringly pointed at his head.
Emerson's hands trembled as he cautiously lifted them, a silent plea flickering in his eyes before he silently lowered his head, remaining motionless. Then, at last, his blurred vision fixated on the expanding pool of frothy, crimson vomit gradually seeping beside his shoes.
And for some inexplicable reason, that was the moment. The final straw broke the camel’s back.
The weight of the moment settled upon him, causing him to feel as though he had aged another decade. His shoulders slumped, and he let his arms drop, gazing vacantly beyond the floor with a glazed expression. The overwhelming need to sit consumed him. "Sorry... I need to sit, sorry," he murmured softly, placing a palm on the floor and slowly lowering himself to a seat away from the puddle. Without lifting his gaze to meet the woman's eyes, he pushed himself backward along the floor until he bumped against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees. He began to tremble.
The woman's gaze darted back and forth, alternating between the stranger and the bloody vomit marring her cherished carpet. A peculiar glint sparkled in her eyes, accompanied by an enigmatic expression that briefly passed over her face. With her finger easing away from the trigger, she lowered the gun. "Hey!" she called out sharply, her voice dripping with a dangerous allure that sent a shiver down his spine and left him tense.
Emerson cautiously tilted his head, allowing him to glimpse her from the corner of his eyes. It was a subtle way to acknowledge her presence and demonstrate that he was paying attention, all while avoiding direct eye contact with someone who was only wearing a towel. He felt it was the least he could do, considering he had unwittingly trespassed and invaded her space.
The woman's sneer deepened as she observed his feeble and evasive demeanor. "Don't move," she spat with contempt. She turned back towards the open door, her hand resting firmly on the handle. "And don't touch anything..." Her gaze darted towards the stained carpet, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. "...Else." Her command was delivered with an icy coldness, her words hanging in the air as she looked over her shoulder, her eyes burning with a smoldering intensity. Wet strands of hair as dark as midnight cascaded down between her shoulders, trailing loosely to the small of her back.
Emerson kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, not daring to look up as he heard the soft padding of the woman's footsteps gradually fading away.
The door closed silently behind her.
Emerson rested his forehead against a forearm and released a shuddering, turbid breath. He sat that way for quite some time, lost in thought.
The distant blare of a car horn abruptly snapped him out of his reverie.
Raising his head, he turned his gaze toward the direction of the noise, his eyes fixating on the sliding glass door leading out to the balcony.
The distant flickering lights of the city cast a dancing reflection on his unblinking, red-rimmed eyes. He tightly shut his eyes, attempting to regain control over his tumultuous emotions, and felt a warm sensation sliding down his cheek. At that moment, he felt an overwhelming disgust with himself, surpassing any he had experienced before. Tears? He berated himself inwardly, questioning his own weakness. ‘Man the fuck up already. Cmon’, get ahold of yourself.’ He used his sleeve to wipe his face, only to freeze in place when he spotted the fresh streak of blood staining the fabric. He stared at it silently, his expression hardening, and his hand clenched into a fist to suppress its trembling. Lowering his arm, he shifted his gaze toward the balcony door. With determined resolve, he glanced down at the blood on his sleeve once more before steeling himself and slowly rising to his feet.
As he stood there, he couldn't shake off a lingering suspicion that he wasn't actually still somewhere in the Canadian wilderness. After all, teleportation wasn't a real possibility, right? Doubt nagged at him, making him question everything around him. It felt real. The woman had sounded real. The vomiting was sure as shit as real as real could get. But... Vampires? Magic?
Although it was a struggle, he could reluctantly accept the existence of supernatural creatures, mainly due to his own firsthand experiences and encounters. But a part of him still resisted fully embracing this strange new reality, rebelling against everything he'd seen as some sort of drug-induced hallucinations. Nevertheless, deep down, he was an intelligent, compassionate, and pragmatic man. He recognized that he could no longer deny or explain away the truth logically. One thing was certain: he'd reached a point where he was done evading his problems. However, it didn't mean he would stop questioning them, far from it.
Feeling a semblance of normalcy returning, he began to observe his surroundings, taking in the unfamiliar place he'd been abruptly tossed into. Judging by the appearance of the living area, it seemed to be a studio apartment. A rather nice one, at that.
The living room was decently spaced, with a comfortable-looking sofa and an armchair positioned in front of a sizable flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. With his curiosity piqued, he turned his attention to the rest of the living room walls and found a diverse array of beautiful artworks adorning them. The pieces depicted various themes, ranging from scenes capturing different seasons to vibrant portrayals of cities and captivating glimpses of nature.
Connected to the living area, he found himself facing a surprisingly modern and well-maintained kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, including a refrigerator, oven, microwave, and dishwasher, caught his eye with their sleek appearances. Even the kitchen countertops were spacious and clean, their surfaces impeccably organized without a single kitchen amenity out of place.
As he surveyed the apartment, he couldn't help but notice a peculiar detail. Apart from the lights in the kitchen and living room, the only source of natural light seemed to be the balcony. It struck him that there were no other windows or openings that allowed sunlight to filter into the apartment.
A slight furrow creased his brow as he pondered the implications of this seemingly minor detail. However, he also recognized that it presented a perfect opportunity for him to get some vital clues about his surroundings.
Walking through the living room, he couldn't help but grimace as he had to carefully step over the small puddle of his own vomit- an unpleasant reminder. He halted in front of the sliding glass door that opened to the balcony. Outside, he noticed two padded chairs placed on either side of a small table adorned with a potted cactus, creating a sparse yet cute setup. However, his attention was immediately captivated by the view that stretched beyond the balcony.
Emerson's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in awe as he took in the surreal sight before him. The view was nothing short of breathtaking— a mesmerizing display of vibrant lights, brilliant colors, and ceaseless motion against the dark backdrop of the night sky. He recognized it. Somehow... he was looking at the iconic skyline of Las Vegas. The towering hotels and casinos, adorned with neon lights, LED screens, and various other forms of dazzling illumination, painted the cityscape with an enchanting glow.
Multi-story clubs, restaurants, and bustling crowds filled the streets, while the towering presence of vibrantly decorated casinos dominated the scene. The cityscape was a vibrant tapestry, with packed liquor stores, pharmacies, general goods stores, salons, and clothing shops adding to the eclectic mix. The view showcased the vibrant nightlife of the inner city, where colors, movement, and scale merged to form a dynamic and living collage of sights.
The streets below bustled with a vibrant energy as people filled the sidewalks, vintage cars cruised along, and sleek limousines glided through the thoroughfares. It was almost as though there was a magnetic sense of purpose and excitement in the air as if each person and vehicle had a story to tell and a destination to reach. He could feel the energy in the air even from inside the apartment. It was an intoxicating social energy he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
From afar, he could faintly hear the distant but discernible sounds of laughter, music, and animated chatter. The joyful cacophony floated up from the streets below, blending with the vibrant atmosphere of entertainment that spilled out into the streets from the open-air dance clubs and live music bars.
In the further distance, the iconic "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas" sign shimmered with a warm golden glow.
"...It's real," he murmured, his voice barely audible. The words escaped his lips with a mixture of disbelief and wonder, as he finally accepted something that should've been impossible. He wasn't in Canada anymore. As far as the eye could see, there was no trace of forests or vast wilderness. Instead, there, right before him, stretched a captivating expanse of concrete and lights.
“Hey!”
Emerson started and spun around in time to catch something blur across the room— coming straight for him! Startled, he instinctively shut his eyes, flinched with a yelp, and raised his arms in a protective gesture. However, instead of impact, he felt something warm and soft gently land on his arms before lightly settling on the floor. Bewildered, he cautiously opened one eye, realizing that he was unharmed. Slowly lowering his arms, he directed his gaze downward to see what had fallen at his feet.
A thick white towel lay in a heap on the floor in front of him.
He stared blankly at the towel for a moment, his confusion evident on his face. Then, straightening up, he turned his gaze across the living room.
The woman had changed into loose, casual attire, her damp hair clinging to the collar and shoulders of her shirt. Squinting at him with a peculiar expression, she pointed a finger at the towel. “We’ll talk after you clean.” Her small nose wrinkled. “Now.” Her tone left no room for argument.
Emerson felt a resurgence of guilt for trespassing and leaving a mess on her floor, compounding his embarrassment. Without hesitation, he obediently picked up the towel and walked over to stand beside the mess, ready to clean up without causing any further inconvenience. He knelt down, unfolding the towel and draping it across the mess, and began cleaning, moving in a mechanical and methodical manner.
The woman maintained her position on the other side of the room, her gaze fixed on the peculiar sight of the unfamiliar man's awkward attempt to clean her floor and carpet. Her expression was a faint mix of curiosity, scrutiny, and perhaps a hint of amusement as she watched him diligently work.
A heavy and unspoken tension lingered between them.
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Las Vegas, Nevada - The Strip
The Venetian Resort - Subbasement
3:30 A.M.
Deep beneath the surface of the renowned Venetian resort, far removed from the glitz and glamour of the city, lay a concealed network of ancient concrete passages and rooms. These hidden spaces were no longer documented on any public maps, whether online or physical. And anyone alive who was privy to its existence was under the absolute influence of extremely powerful individuals.
One of these elusive underground locations was a stark concrete room, seemingly designed with a single purpose in mind: to safeguard and conceal secrets from prying eyes. Its existence a bleak testament to the depths lost to history beneath the surface of the bustling city above.
Darkness enveloped the boundaries of the concrete room; the absence of natural light contributed to an overwhelming sense of oppression. The only source of illumination came from a lone fluorescent bulb, its flickering glow casting faint light that barely penetrated the darkness. The elongated shadows it created danced upon the rough and unfinished walls, adding an eerie touch to the stark environment. Against the walls and in the corners, rusting metal lockers and equipment storage containers were haphazardly positioned, as if pushed aside in haste. The thick concrete walls loomed in all directions, seemingly closing in on the occupants, amplifying the feeling of confinement and claustrophobia.
The air hung heavy with dampness, carrying a musty odor that seemed to permeate every corner, threatening to cling to one's clothes even long after leaving the chamber.
One of the few things which broke the monotony of the rough concrete and looming shadows was a heavy metal door, rusted with age, standing at the far end of the room and looking as though it hadn’t been opened in ages: that, and the small group of four figures in the center of the room.
“It’s really quite simple, yeah,” a man with a heavy cockney accent calmly spoke, his voice cutting through the stagnant air.
Cra-ack!
A piercing masculine scream filled the room over the sound of snapping bone, reverberating off the cold concrete walls, before gradually tapering into soft whimpers and incoherent murmurs.
“Do ya, or do ya not…” The man's voice trailed off, accompanied by the sound of rustling clothes and footsteps.
Craaack!
A second scream pierced the air, along with the sounds of a chair scraping against the floor and the frantic rattling of heavy chains.
“ 'ave ma money?” The speaker exuded an air of ethereal elegance, with the kind of looks that could appear in any male model cologne catalog. His piercing green eyes were like glowing chips of necromantic energy, and his sandy blonde hair cascaded effortlessly around a pale and flawless complexion. It felt like every step he took seemed to transform the ground beneath his feet into a makeshift runway.
A scowl was etched seemingly perfectly onto his remarkably handsome face as though it were always meant to be there. The man took a step back, disdain evident in his piercing gaze. Then, he callously discarded a pair of bloodied pliers, flinging them nonchalantly over his shoulder. The metallic tool clattered loudly against the cold, unforgiving concrete floor, eventually coming to a halt as it skidded against the wall. The sound echoed through the room, punctuating the tension that hung heavy in the air.
With a self-assured stance, the blonde-haired man rested his hands on his hips and tilted his head to the side, his cutting gaze fixated on the person before him. His intelligent eyes dissected every detail, assessing their target with a mix of curiosity and perhaps even a hint of morbid amusement.
A robust man with dark, closely cropped hair was bound to a metallic chair, heavy silver chains tightly constricting his wrists behind its back, and his ankles firmly fastened to its legs. The contours of his broad chest strained against the restraints as he slumped forward, his once striking and rugged features now transformed into a ghostly pallor. His head hung limply, weighed down by exhaustion and despair, almost touching his chest.
The man's business casual attire, now a far cry from its former splendor, appeared tattered, ripped, and drenched in sweat, with dried blood creating crusty patches. The skin underneath bore the marks of dark, purplish bruises, and numerous seeping lacerations stained his clothes. But, if someone looked closely at those wicked gouges, they would see something that defied the imagination; the skin was slowly stitching itself together at a visible rate as he took shallow, shuddering breaths.
Gradually, the man's quivering shoulders settled into a steady rhythm, causing his restraints to clink and jingle in unison. Amidst the muffled grunts, a peculiar laughter began to emerge from deep in his chest, growing louder and more twisted with each passing moment. With an arduous effort, the man raised his head, revealing a visage splattered with dark blood. A crooked nose and a filthy rag wedged into his mouth distorted his features, while one eye, enlarged and bloodshot, stared back with sinister intensity. Its counterpart, completely swollen shut, was discolored and enlarged.
The blonde man's eyes widened with a strange sense of satisfaction. “Huh! Na that's a man!” He was pleasantly surprised by his employee's resilience, recognizing it as a testament to his endurance even in the face of torture if ever captured by their enemies.
The blonde man gestured towards one of the two security guards standing nearby, while the other remained stationed by the door.
The guards possessed impeccably athletic physiques, their faces etched with stoic expressions that seemed permanently fixed in frowns. Darkened shades shielded their eyes from view, and they were dressed in classic casino bouncer attire, complete with earpieces and well-tailored suit jackets that exuded an aura of no-nonsense authority.
“Aw, wite, tell me. What's so funny?” The blonde man inquired, crossing his arms over his chest. The security guard, following his earlier command, strode towards the chained man and proceeded to roughly remove the crude gag, allowing it to fall to the floor.
The chained man worked his jaw, the cracking of bones audible, and then a sinister smile spread across his face, revealing missing teeth and a mouth filled with dark blood. "Vaffanculo," he hissed in a slurred Italian accent, before suddenly spitting a mouthful of blood at his interrogator.
A sharp, resounding slap echoed through the room, causing the man and the chair to rock precariously. The security guard swiftly moved forward and held the chair in place, ensuring it didn't topple over. He then grabbed a handful of the chained man's sweat-soaked hair, yanking his head back forcefully. A red welt began to form on the man's cheek, and the overhead light made him wince and squint, arching back with a pained groan.
The blonde man let out a disappointed sigh, shaking his head as he stepped back and adjusted one of his numerous large rings. “Wot a shame.” Suddenly, his eyes narrowed when he noticed a tiny smudge of blood on the ring's insignia, causing his pupils to contract. Ignoring the blood and saliva stains on his dress shirt, he retrieved a pristine white handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket. With precise and delicate movements, he carefully wiped away the blood from the ring, his lips curled in disgust. “We were 'avin' such a pleasant conversation just na, ya and I.” he spoke softly, almost absentmindedly, as he held the ring up close and polished it under the dim light. “And ya 'ad ter up and be rude.”
The chained man grunted and rattled his restraints, provoking the security guard to tighten his grip and give him a rough jostle.
The blonde man swiped the handkerchief across the ring with a final flourish, his eyes squinting as he examined its lustrous surface. A fleeting glint of satisfaction flashed in his eyes before he lowered his arm, flipping some sandy blonde hair out of his face. Sniffing, he cast a cold and calculated gaze upon the chained man and motioned to the security guard with a dismissive hand gesture.
The chained man let out a pained groan as the security guard released his powerful grip and took a step back, clasping his hands together behind his back with a stoic expression.
“Ya kna, I'm disappointed.” The blonde man remarked, his gaze scrutinizing the chained man's grave appearance.
With labored breaths, the chained man raised his head slightly, fixing his bloodshot eye on the blonde man.
“Not in ya,” the blonde man said with a bitter shake of his head and pursed lips, “-but in myself.” He placed a weary hand on his chest and let out a sigh. “I truly do not kna wot I was thinkin', trustin' the chuffin' vassal of a Rabble. I must 'ave been aht of me bloody mind.” His expression suddenly changed as he looked thoughtful, tapping his chin with a finger. “Mm. Nah. Nah, ya kna wot?” He gestured with a decisive nod. “I want to express me gratitude.” He affirmed to himself.
The chained man's gaze dropped, and he lowered his head in resignation.
“ 'cause you’ve opened me eyes, see? Reminded me 'a this business works. Yeah?” The blonde continued, tilting his head. “So,” he suddenly clapped, the booming sound startling the chained man in his seat. “ 'ere’s the bleedin' deal, wite?” He said, walking over, grabbing the chained man’s head, and lifting it, so that they were now making eye contact.
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The chained man's hands clenched into shaking fists behind his back, the faint embers of rage burning in the depths of his one good eye. However, he refrained from retaliating at the contact, keeping his composure despite his evident desire to lash out.
“Ya tell me where me money is…” The blonde man demanded without paying any attention to the glare he was receiving, “-and I won't fuckin’ gut ya and poke out yur eyes.” His grip tightened slightly as he tilted the chained man's head to the side, inspecting the purplish-black swelling around the eye with a discerning gaze. “Well… Eye. Single, yeah?”
The fire in the chained man's bloodshot eye flickered and waned, a glimmer of resignation replacing the previous defiance.
“Sounds good, rite?” The blonde man gave a humorless smile. “And, you know wot? It gets even better— mhm.” The blonde man nodded with a smirk as though lauding his own benevolence. “Cause’ see, if you call now,” he reached into a pocket and fished out a generic flip phone that he held up. “—And tell me 'oo put ya up ter this, it will really ‘elp everyone.” He pointed to the other security guard beside the only door behind him.
The expressionless man, who looked like a carbon copy of the other security guard, was holding a neatly folded suit jacket draped over a forearm. He gave the impression of being a butler rather than a highly trained killer.
“ 'cause Liam 'ere is just summit wite awful at cleanin' the bleedin' floors in 'ere. In'cha, Liam?” The blonde man asked in a low shout, looking back over his shoulder.
Liam remained silent and motionless— staring straight ahead.
“You nutta’.” The blonde man warmly smirked before turning back and coldly frowning at the chained man. “And I daan't wanna 'ave ter ask 'im ter do this unpleasant fin' for me. Get it?” He lightly rapped his knuckles against the chained man’s forehead before dismissively pushing his head aside. “But I can see this ain’t gunna work.” He shook his head. "It aint’ gettin’ through this head of yours, is it?” The blonde man ruffled the man’s hair and then made a face as he wiped the blood and sweat off his hand onto the chained man’s sleeve.
“So, 'ere we go. I’ve thought abaht it sum more. You're garn ter like this, ready?” He held down the chained man’s shoulders— their foreheads almost touching as he leaned in close. “New deal, yeah?” He whispered menacingly. “You've been wif us for a long time? Ten years? That's a long fuckin’ time, ‘specially in this business.”
“So ya got that,” he wobbled his head side to side with pursed lips as though looking for the right word, “—wot do they call it?... Tenure.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers before heavily dropping the palm back on the chained man’s shoulder. “That's the bloody wahn. You've got sum tenure wif us.” He roughly squeezed and then patted the chained man’s shoulders before stepping back and adjusting his cuffs.
“Wif me.” He clasped his hands together behind his back. “That goes a long way, yeah? But see, ya did summit really bad this time.”
“Ya nicked me shit,” the blonde man sadly shook his head. “So this goes beyond just the bloomin' money, yeah? Ya understand?” The blonde man severely asked.
The chained man didn't respond.
The blonde man responded with a groan, “It's loike talkin' wif a wall, for fucks sake.” He threw his hands up and looked up at the cracked ceiling as though it held all the answers. His eyes dropped back onto the chained man with a sigh. “I’ll say this then: it's not abaht the money. It was never abaht the money, wite? Ya 'ear?” His eyebrows raised in question as he stretched his neck to look into the chained man’s ruined eyes.
“So wot was it abaht? Ah? Eh, can ya tell me? Someone? Anyone? Liam!” The blonde man pivoted and expectantly looked back at the security guard beside the exit. “Wot was this ‘ere aw abaht?” The blonde man asked, grandiosely motioning around the room.
Liam remained silent and motionless— staring straight ahead.
The blonde man pursed his lips, waved a hand as though discarding the thought, and turned back to the chained man. “I've always wondered if 'e was aw up there.” The blonde man tapped his own temple with a half-smirk that didn’t reach his dead eyes. The next moment though, the smirk vanished as though it had never existed.
“Respect. This was abaht respect.” The blonde man’s tone grew severe and heavy. “Understand? So, do ya respect me?” The blonde man asked, crossing his arms across his chest. “'Cause I daan't quite feel respected ter tell the ‘truf.”
The chained man mumbled something under his breath.
"Wot was that?" The blonde man turned his head and put a hand to his ear as he leaned in. “Speak up, na. I'm an old man.”
The chained man stilled, then curtly nodded once before slumping against the chair.
“There. Na was that so 'ard?” The blonde man asked rhetorically, rolling his eyes. “So 'ere's what's garn ter 'appen. I'm garn ter leave through that there door.” He casually pointed to the only exit before turning around, walking to stand in front of Liam, and turning his back to the guard while extending his arms out at his sides. “And you're garn ter stay 'ere for the night…” The blonde man paused as he let the security guard help him put on the suit jacket’s sleeves and slide it onto his shoulders. The guard then respectfully stepped back.
“-and ruminate on wot you've done.” The blonde man declared, buttoning up the front of the jacket and adjusting the golden-obsidian cuff links on his sleeves. “Then…” He examined the rings on his right hand and shifted one so that they were all uniform, “-come firs' fin’ tomorra night, I’m garn ter let ya ou’.” He pulled down on the end of his jacket and smoothed down the front while carefully examining the chained man. “An' you'll be a changed man. Yes?”
The chained man took a deep breath and gave another slight nod.
“Good.” The blonde man evenly replied, his tone completely concealing the cold malice in his eyes.
Perhaps if the chained man had bothered to raise his head, he would’ve seen the barest flicker of a mirthless grin stretching his interrogator’s lips.
The blonde man turned and left the room while Liam followed close behind at a respectful distance.
The other security guard who’d remained in the room walked over to the open door, peeked outside the room to look down the cement corridor in either direction, and then disappeared inside. The sound of the door slamming shut echoed through the long underground passage.
The blonde man suddenly stopped in his tracks and spun on his heels. “Righ' 'hen, Liam. You knah the drill, yeah? Give our friend a ring, one in 'he head, 'hen ou' back." He snapped his fingers. “I want it done na, and I want it done wite. Go on.” He shooed the guard and started walking away.
The guard raised his wrist to his mouth and softly whispered a few words into a watch piece before lowering his hand and turning around to head back to the room when-
“Oh, an' Liam?” The security guard immediately spun around and silently waited.
“I've been meanin' ter ask ya, ma'e.” The blonde man said, quickly walking back. “But what's wif the sunglasses?” The blonde man asked with furrowed brows, reaching up and tapping the frames. “I mean… It's bloody night, ain’t it?”
“Did I miss a mee'in or summit?” He wondered with genuine confusion, remembering how one night he’d woken to find that most of the casino’s security retinue were suddenly dressing the same and wearing these ridiculous sunglasses no matter the day or time. “ 'oo even gave ya these?”
The security guard didn’t respond; however, he raised a hand to his earpiece as though he were listening to something.
“They're 'orrid. I want them gone, yeah?” The blonde man continued, unaware of the unresponsive, seemingly disrespectful bearing from his security. “Send a memo aw some shi'. Go on, nah.” He dismissed the guard with a wave of the hand and started walking away.
“My Prince.” A deep, masculine voice rumbled through the corridor behind him.
The blonde man stopped in his tracks and turned with raised eyebrows.
The security guard lowered a hand from the earpiece with a nod and stood straight.
“We may have a problem.”
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When the elevator door slid open, its occupants were treated to a dazzling display of bright lights and a cacophony of noise. Its tiny interior was inundated with the sound of slot machines ringing and roulette wheels spinning. The air hung thick with the heady aroma of cigar smoke and expensive perfume, instilling an anticipatory sense of decadence without even stepping off the elevator.
The Prince and Liam walked out onto the floor with purposeful strides. Weaving through the space packed with people of all ages and backgrounds, all dressed in some of the finest attire. Glittering chandeliers adorned the high ceilings, and the walls were lined with gold and silver accents, giving the entire room an air of extravagance. In the center of the room was a stage where a group of stunning dancers performed a mesmerizing routine to the beat of the music. Their elaborate costumes hypnotically shimmered as they caught the light with every twist and turn.
Every table along the walkways was packed, with entire groups engaging in intense blackjack, craps, and baccarat games. The sound of chips clinking and cards shuffling added to the already ambient frenetic energy of the room.
Waitresses weaved in and out of the crowd, balancing trays of exotic cocktails and champagne glasses, delivering drinks to the gamblers as they tried their luck. Meanwhile, dealers in pristine uniforms carefully oversaw each game, ensuring the rules were followed, and the bets were placed correctly.
The Prince and Liam ignored it all. Passing every game table, machine, and center stage as they continued to the opposite end of the room. Soon, the throng of revelers and gamblers grew sparse enough to see a door in the back right corner of the room. A security guard watchfully stood outside. When the security guard saw the pair beelining toward him, he immediately raised a wrist to the scanner pad on the wall. The light turned green, and he swiftly opened the door for them and stood aside with his head slightly inclined.
The Prince and Liam walked past without acknowledging the other security guard, who promptly shut the door behind them and stood before it— resuming silent vigil over the floor for any disturbances or suspicious activity.
The pair entered another long stretch of corridor with staggered doors on either side, similar to a hotel hallway, with a single obsidian-mahogany door at the end. The Prince stopped before the door and adjusted his suit jacket and cuffs.
“Wait 'ere.” Said the Prince, opened the obsidian door and stepped through smoothly, shutting the door behind himself.
He was now inside an opulent room whose entire space exuded luxury, elegance, and sophistication. If a mortal or fledgling vampire had seen the interior for the first time, they would’ve been struck dumb by the space’s sheer extravagance. The soft glow of candlelight illuminated exquisite oil paintings and tapestries hanging on the walls. The walls were painted in rich, deep colors like burgundy and streaks of navy and adorned with intricate gold leaf patterns and gilded moldings, and the air was infused with the rich, heady scent of exotic flowers and fragrant incense.
Plush, oversized sofas and armchairs upholstered in soft, sumptuous velvet and silk fabrics were pleasantly situated along the walls and against the heavy-draped windows. Accompanying the armchairs were coffee tables and side tables made of polished marble and antique wood, their tops set with ornate candelabras, crystal decanters, and delicate porcelain tea sets.
A massive dining table crafted from rich, dark wood adorned with detailed carvings dominated the middle of the room. The legs of the table were curved and showcased flowing designs and motifs strongly reminiscent of Gothic architecture. The tabletop was polished to a high shine and was covered with a deep, red velvet tablecloth trimmed with embroidery. The table’s centerpiece was a massive candelabra made of wrought iron holding a dripping wax candle. Its flickering flame cast dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling, adding flare to the moody and atmospheric ambiance. Even the place settings were as grand as the table, with elaborate silverware and crystal glasses that sparkled in the low candlelight. The porcelain plates themselves could’ve been considered works of art as each depicted a different pattern in astonishing detail.
The untouched meal set across the table was a sumptuous feast of rich-smelling meats like roast beef and lamb, with hearty stews and savory pies. There were also entire platters of fresh fruits, cheeses, and bread, accompanied by pitchers of wine and champagne placed between the platters for self-serving access. Surrounding the table were high-backed, ornately carved chairs upholstered in sumptuous brocade.
Dignified and attentive servants stood out of sight and out of mind around the edges of the room, ready to serve the guests.
A woman sat alone at the head of the table wearing a little black dress with a timeless, versatile design that perfectly highlighted her figure. A large obsidian gem boldly sat on display between her milky cleavage, daring anyone to look. Her polished black heels lightly tapped the floor. Her position overlooking the living room where the other guests mingled. No one dared approach her. Yet, despite her alluring beauty, an overt sense of danger mysteriously swirled around her ethereal figure.
Primly adjusting herself at the head of the table, she gently extended an arm of smooth porcelain skin that seemingly glowed in the candlelight. Her fingers daintily picked up a floral-print teacup from its place atop a saucer; her every movement practiced and refined. Long, dark hair as black as the night sky cascaded in perfect ringlets around her shoulders and down her back, framing a gorgeous face with piercing golden-hazel eyes that possessed an intense quality but also with an underlying gaze of boredom that hinted at a pearl of deep, ancient wisdom hidden in their depths. The slight, sharp smile tugging at her full, red lips suggested her teeth might’ve been just as dangerous as her beauty. She gently sipped from the teacup.
The Prince took every detail of the Elysium’s small gathering in at a glance. The atmosphere seemed strained.
“Atticus, you old so and so! Cmere’!” A friendly shout came from somewhere further inside the room.
‘Oh fuck.’ Prince Atticus inadvertently straightened his posture a split second before a mature, silver-haired man in a stylish gray overcoat appeared directly before him as though out of thin air.
“My goodness, look at you!” Saga patted Atticus’ shoulders with a massive smile on his face and a look of wonder gleaming in his blue eyes. He brushed the arms of Atticus' jacket while examining him up and down.
“Hubba-hubba, amirite ladies?” He craned his head back to look at the group.
The woman at the head of the table audibly scoffed at Saga’s remark and rolled her eyes. Still, despite Saga’s crass address of the room and herself, her golden eyes narrowed and glimmered with interest over the teacup’s rim as she watched what was happening. The other handful of immaculately dressed women seated in the room pretended they hadn’t heard him. The men all looked like they'd swallowed something bitter, as most had come to attend with their partners.
“Man, it’s good to see you again—how long has it been?” Saga curiously asked; before Prince Atticus could get a word in edge-wise, Saga had already released him and started speaking again as he walked away.
“And it looks like you…” Saga strutted over to a small, gleaming gold table laden with an extravagant assortment of blood-based confections. Then, examining the table, his eyebrows jumped as he eventually found something curious and hoisted up a delicate crystalline decanter of bright red blood that sparkled in the dim candlelight.
“Have been doing rather well for yourself, huh?” Saga rhetorically asked with a weird look on his face. Then, taking a moment, he genuinely appraised the overly-extravagant decanter before unstoppering the glass plug and noisily sniffing the contents.
Prince Atticus couldn’t help but feel sheepish when someone questioned his taste in decorations. Though if he were being truthful, it hadn’t all been his idea exactly. But he didn’t hate it, so he went along with it.
However, the members of his Court were less than pleased with Saga’s uncouth behavior spoiling their business gathering. They would never confront him about it, given his status and the stories they’d heard, and expertly hid their disdain for Saga’s presence with practiced ease. Whereas Saga pretended he wasn’t receiving every side-eyed glare in the room as he held out the decanter and gave it a ‘not bad’ look before placing it back.
“Who is this clown?” A man’s nasally voice sneered from the couch.
The room fell deathly silent as all quiet conversation, drinking, and movement ceased.
One of the other few women in the room made a strange noise as she choked on a small sip of blood. She forced it down with a strained expression before softly lowering her cup to her lap and remaining perfectly still, staring straight ahead without blinking.
The speaker was the newest addition to the Camarilla Court of Las Vegas: an arrogant-looking man exuding a distinct air of superiority and bone-deep entitlement. His position on the couch spoke volumes of how he carried himself. Despite their similar positions and authoritative powers, his facial expression was a near-perfect mix of haughty and dismissive of those around him. The man himself was tall and lean, with pale skin pulled over sharp, chiseled features and piercing eyes that looked down on everyone and everything. His ink-black hair was perfectly coiffed and styled, and expensive designer clothes that reeked of the latest fashion and buckets of money hung off his thin frame.
This same man sat at the other end of the couch as the woman who’d nearly choked on her drink. Now, she regretted ever deciding to have exchanged words with such an ignorant, contemptible fool. The confidence and strength that had attracted her to speak with him was nothing less than an express ticket to hell in the face of true power. She needed to distance herself from this bumbling buffoon immediately!
Everyone else in the room shared similar thoughts as their eyes bore into the poor fool who’d dared voice his complaints in the presence of such a monster. Finally, a handful of the men looked on with undisguised scorn as though they’d never seen such an idiot before in their unlives, lamenting all the while wondering how long the council meeting would now be delayed when his corpse decorated the lamp shades.
Prince Atticus’ pupils shrank to pinpricks, and a chill shot down his spine as he looked at the newest Court member with something akin to pity and a healthy amount of disbelief. He couldn’t understand how a vampire could have survived this long without the social capacity to read a room.
He opened his mouth to speak, only for Saga’s eyes to momentarily flick over and stare him down from across the room with unprecedented intensity. Intense apprehension flooded his thoughts, and debilitating dread shot down his back. He was utterly suppressed— paralyzed before the conversation had even begun. Then, Saga’s burning blue eyes left his own. It had all happened so fast that no one had noticed their interaction except for the golden-eyed woman, whose eyes dangerously narrowed from across the room at her place at the head of the table.
“The name’s Saga! A pleasure to make your acquaintance…?” Saga pleasantly spoke, addressing the speaker with a bright smile and politely leaving the question open.
The vampire sniffed, a strange smirk curling his lips, “Saga? How odd. In any event, you must leave.” He quickly remarked with a dismissive flick of a hand and without offering his name as he reached for his drink and settled back into the couch.
“Oh?” Saga’s eyebrows nearly rose to his hairline. “Am I not allowed to stay?” He asked, sounding hurt.
“Of course not!” The vampire scoffed at the notion as though it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.
“If you haven’t noticed,” he tilted his head to his colleagues nearby, who didn’t acknowledge him and even slyly distanced themselves.
“But we’re gathered to discuss official Court business. I’m not sure how you got in— but even so, if your Sire did extend an invitation, they’ve done us all a disservice.” He sipped from his cup.
“For not having disciplined you in etiquette.”
That’s when the vampire finally looked around the room to see if anyone would step forward and admit their mistake when he noticed everyone had fallen silent and had an odd expression. You could’ve heard a pin drop in the abject silence the room had fallen into. No one dared speak. The vampire frowned and was about to ask what was wrong with them when a soft voice spoke out.
“You wish to discipline me?” The vampire looked over and saw a strange glimmer in this weird newcomer’s eyes that he couldn’t quite place. Nevertheless, he was clearly in the right and forged ahead, happy to have already been presented with an opportunity to exert his newfound presence as a Court member.
“Not at all. You misunderstand.” The vampire shook his head with a smirk.
“It’s not my place to discipline another’s Childe. I’m merely pointing out that your presence is disruptive to our important gathering.”
The corner of Saga’s mouth twitched, “Important gathering? Interesting…” Saga mused, then asked, “Dearest Atticus, how long did it take you to find this one?”
The vampire’s thoughts stopped as he heard his Prince being addressed informally. But then, he felt a burning rage at the blatant disrespect for the Prince’s authority.
“You-“ He was on the verge of mercilessly rebuking this insolent man when the Prince quickly spoke over him.
“Seven months, Lord.” The Prince’s docile, almost submissive response sounded like thunder in the vampire’s ears as he shut his mouth and sat there dumbfoundedly.
“Mm. I see.” Saga solemnly nodded and suddenly appeared, sitting beside the stunned vampire. Leaning back into the couch, he draped an arm across the vampire’s shoulders and sighed as he looked out across the gathered members of the Court.
“And what do you all think? Hm?” Saga calmly posed the question to the room, looking around at everyone present as he squeezed the vampire’s shoulder in a friendly manner. His question was met with silence; all heads were down, and no one dared make eye contact.
“Should I be disciplined?” The vampire under Saga's arm stiffened, a cold, terrifying dread descending his spine as he finally understood something was very wrong after tried moving and found that he couldn't! What was happening?
Saga sucked his teeth and pulled the stunned and confused vampire beside him in close, patting him on the shoulder with a sigh.
“It’s okay, baby boy. You didn’t know any better, so how could I, a man with the odd name, stay mad? Wouldn’t that be irrational? Mm?”
“In fact,” He solemnly continued, “-I’m feeling quite chipper today on account of making a new friend. So I’ll make this easy on you.” He removed his arm from around the vampire and casually sat back, crossing one knee over the other and straightening his overcoat.
“Lord, please-“ Prince Atticus spoke out, hoping against hope that Saga wouldn’t go as far as to violate the sanctuary provided to all Kindred beneath the roof of an Elysium. But, unfortunately, the repercussions for such an act weren’t something he and his Court would survive. They weren’t strong enough to condone Saga’s actions and would be implicated alongside him. Thankfully, though, Saga interrupted him by raising a finger in his direction without looking and reassuring him.
“Calm yourself, Atti. It’s not what you think. And know that this is happening because of your incompetence. Your Court needs to learn respect.” Saga lowered his hand and closed his eyes as he reclined back into the coach.
Prince Atticus’ mouth pressed into a thin line, but he held his tongue as he stepped back. He didn’t appreciate being condescended to in such a demeaning manner before his entire Court, even if it was someone like Saga. He’d even had his full title reversed into something akin to a child’s nickname! But there was nothing he could do.
“Five seconds.” Saga casually remarked and unleashed a fifth of his Presence.
Every vampire in the room suddenly spasmed as though they’d lost control of their bodies, roughly crashing to their knees with pained shouts as though they were magnetized to the floor. The sudden, sharp sound of shattering glass and the tinkling of shards scattering across the floor punctuated Saga’s declaration like a starting gun. The arrogant vampire sitting closest to Saga screamed the loudest as he was ruthlessly pressed into the couch to the point where he couldn’t move a finger. He’d also dropped his drink, and the sound of it breaking alongside others’ was like poetic justice, as it coincided with the moment his bubble of self-importance was popped. The look on his face now was pure terror, and his eyes frantically bounced around in his skull as he struggled to stay conscious. Remorse and regret weren’t even close enough to describe his emotions.
The other half a dozen vampire in the room frantically flared their auras to try and resist, only for their efforts to appear like strained candles in the presence of the sun— minuscule and worthless. Their bodies contorted in awkward angles as they struggled to maintain what little balance they had left not to faceplant. The pressure was beyond intense, as though they were trying to do pushups with a car on their backs. Groans of pain echoed throughout the room as some tried using the furniture to boost themselves up, only to crash back to their hands and knees—the wooden floor beneath them creaking and straining under the combined weight. The vampires’ expressions ranged between hopelessness, depression, and anxiety as they realized how powerless they were in the face of a true vampire.
Prince Atticus was the only one who kept his back straight while supporting himself on one knee, but he also couldn’t stop his body from trembling as his aura madly fluctuated and sputtered. His teeth were gritted, and his hands clenched into fists hard enough for blood to seep between his fingers.
The mortal servants and hidden Ghouls were the only ones unaffected by Saga's presence. This, however, only left them trembling and even more fearful of him. It was incredibly difficult to control one's presence to such a degree. What kind of horribly destructive power had their Prince provoked?
“Saga, dear.” A heavenly woman’s voice drifted across the room, sounding like smoke and smooth bourbon.
Saga cracked open an eye and glanced over. Then, he opened both eyes— a plain gleam of interest sparkling on the surface.
“Let the children be…” she continued, sliding out of her chair and standing to reveal a spectacularly mature figure in a tight black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. She charmingly giggled as she saw how Saga's eyes were instantly drawn to the obsidian gem sandwiched between her breasts.
“Mommy and Daddy need to have a talk.” She curled her finger in a come-hither motion as she sashayed to another part of the floor.
Saga’s eyes were practically burning rings of pure sapphire as he tracked her sinfully sexy figure gliding out of sight. And then, suddenly, his presence withdrew like a receding tide.
A few of the Court members directly collapsed to the floor with blood leaking from their eyes and ears, while some flipped over onto their backs and blankly stared at the ceiling.
Prince Atticus heaved a shuddering sigh and stood with some difficulty. Taking a look at all of his Court members and guests, he couldn’t help but feel beyond depressed that even after his decades of ruling such a profitable organization in what was tantamount to a mortal goldmine, he still amounted to nothing when faced with a single vampire of the older generation. It was profoundly depressing. But, since Saga was here and seemed more lucid than usual, he could use this opportunity to discuss something plaguing the Vegas Families for quite some time.
He softly cleared his throat and spoke with some hushed urgency, “Me lord, if ya would, there's summit we need ter discuss.“
“Yeah, yeah, sounds good to me; you have my support,” Saga said, patting the Prince without ever taking his eyes off the hallway the woman had entered. Then, he disappeared after her.
The Prince’s shoulders slumped somewhat as he released a light sigh and looked out around the Elysium to see what was still salvageable of the meeting.
“So…” a masculine voice hedged.
Prince Atticus’ head involuntarily turned toward a man seated at a smaller table in a shadowy corner of the room. He cut a very suave and sophisticated figure as he sat with crossed knees pointing toward the center of the room and dressed in a form-fitting tailored suit and designer accessories. His piercing brown gaze glinted with a cruel intelligence as though he seemingly saw through everyone and everything. He had one elbow on the table and slowly stirred the blood in his glass goblet with a finger.
“Does this mean we can go?” He asked with the tilt of his head.