December 12th, 2020

New York, United States of America - Park Avenue, Manhattan

Antheia's Retreat - Winter's Warm

9:05 P.M.

Antheia's Retreat: a modern, all-suite luxury hotel inside a soaring, forty-story glass tower found in Manhattan's Garment District. Every area, whether a simple common room, complementary fine-dining restaurant, champagne bar, or fitness center, offered a spectacular view of the surrounding city at all hours of the day, especially at night. Tourist hot-spot, modern-marvel, and opulently simplistic were all perfectly common descriptors of the popular hotel.

However, what the residents don’t know is that Antheia's Retreat has a forty-first floor. It cannot be seen from the building’s exterior, and sound cannot escape beyond its confines.

The entire forty-first floor was a luxurious lounge packed with countless amenities, floor-to-ceiling windows, and an extended terrace facing the Hudson River. The windows provided guests with a picturesque, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree penthouse view of the city skyline, while the terrace supplied a comfortable, quiet alcove for nursing beverages, conversation, or simply solitary introspection while enjoying the refreshing breeze.

The interior was comfy, intimate, and vintage- nearly every surface was custom-made, polished cherry hardwood. And the only illumination came from equidistantly placed, low-hanging crystalline chandeliers and small candles glowing atop dark mahogany coffee tables, creating a dimly lit ambiance that was as relaxing as it was cozy.

Plush, slate-grey semicircular couches and deep indigo rectangular futons were spread around the lounge in such a way that allowed for private conversation and a view of the hypnotizing city lights.

The lounge was completed by a golden-backlit bar spanning the entire width of the northern wall, offering an endless variety of colorful alcohols bottled in all shapes and sizes. And just below the glass shelves was a wide array of neatly organized, high-quality bartending tools such as martini glasses and brandy snifters that sparkled in the dim lighting, chrome cocktail shakers, walnut wood cutting boards, stainless steel garnishing tools, and shiny juicers.

This lounge was known by a select few discerning clientele as Winter's Warm. And known by even fewer, as Elysium.

Among those few was a lone man casually reclining into a chair facing the western floor-to-ceiling windows, his left arm draped out across the back of the seat.

Middle-aged, with bright hazel irises and well-groomed, dark-brown hair tapering to a fade just above both ears- he was an above-average looking man. He could not be described as handsome, however, since he was too gaunt in the cheeks, too skinny in the limbs, and just a shade too pale.

He did, however, radiate intense confidence, bordering on intimidation, which lent itself well to his stoic demeanor. And that social presence, that charismatic gravitas, was arguably far more dangerous and commandeering than any good looks.

The man was currently wearing a plain white-cotton, button-down dress shirt tucked into a pair of cleanly pressed navy-blue suit pants with a simplistic caramel-leather belt and polished silver buckle and tawny-colored leather Oxford dress shoes with a reverse stitching-embellished toe. The dress shirt’s sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled back to midway on his forearms and the topmost collar button was similarly undone to partially reveal a pale, hairless chest and pronounced clavicle.

Everything about this man screamed successful, upper-class businessman unwinding after a long, stressful day.

Appearances can be deceiving.

For this individual was Percival Walker, Camarilla Prince of Manhattan.

Percival picked up an antique, silver cigarette case from the small, wooden, rectangular tabletop to his right while absently gazing beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows at the multi-colored, twinkling city lights.

The case opened, revealing sixteen king-sized black cigarettes with golden paper filters. Percival removed a cigarette and placed it into the corner of his mouth, after which he shut the case and lightly placed it back onto the table. Fishing a plain chrome Zippo out of his right pants pocket, he flipped open the lid, sharply flicked down on the wheel, igniting a small orange flame which he leisurely held up to the cigarette’s end with his left hand cupped to the side.

The flame caught, and taking a few drags, he snapped the lighter closed and placed it upright onto the table. After which he draped his left arm across the back of the chair and crossed his legs, placing the right knee over the left.

And so, it was for the following twenty minutes that he puffed and exhaled clouds of smoke, occasionally tapping ashes into the tray beside him while silently watching the city.

Patterned rapping sounded at the lounge’s only entrance.

Percival made no discernible acknowledgment to the sound.

The knob turned with a crisp click, and the door silently opened to admit three sharply dressed individuals, two men and one woman. The trio strode into the room, stopping well short of where Percival sat.

The woman was gorgeously sharp-featured with pale skin, high cheek bones, scarlet irises, and waist-length, straight platinum hair that stood out in beautiful contrast against her midnight-black, fitted V-neck sheath dress and hip-length black jacket. She confidently stood on shiny-black, peep-toe stilettos, revealing glossy-black toenails. Her expression was aloof, yet alert- emanating a mysteriously alluring aura that was offset with an inexplicable sense of danger and gut-wrenching unease.

The two men flanking her at shoulder distance were seemingly unaffected by the nefarious aura, simply standing with shoulders squared, hands clasped behind their backs and eyes staring straight ahead. The pair wore identical black slim-fit suits with white dress shirts, patterned navy-blue ties and black, pointed-toe dress shoes.

The man to the woman’s right, unprompted, took one calculated step forward and bowed his head, announcing in a deep baritone:

"Dzidra Whitelocke, Second Daughter to House Whitelocke."

Strained silence met the announcement.

Sweetly smelling smoke strands lazily drifted over the seat.

Dzidra’s eyes narrowed, and her small, ruby lips pursed.

Suddenly, the two men simultaneously turned on their heels and strode out of the lounge in an orderly manner. The door shut with a click.

Dzidra found the sound oddly suffocating.

“Welcome.” A suave, British accent caressed her ears like liquid silk.

Dzidra blinked.

“Please, if you would...” The Prince motioned to the dark brown leather chair beside him with a smoldering, matte black cigarette in his right hand, the gesture briefly leaving a thin trail of smoke suspended in the air.

Dzidra silently stalked through the empty lounge, her crimson irises flicking side to side at incredible speed as she absorbed as many details as she could- little was known of the reclusive Prince’s Elysium.

Dzidra approached the chair, pausing before gracefully sitting on its cushy edge with her knees together, making sure to gently smooth out any creases below her thighs before crossing her ankles together and angling her knees toward the Prince and folding her hands in her lap just above her thighs.

The pair were now only separated by a small, circular wooden table. Atop which were four items: a flattened, polished silver cigarette case, a square-shaped, black marble ashtray, an unmarked glass bottle of golden, honey-colored liquid, and a small, flickering candle set on a squat, gothic-styled candle holder sitting in the table’s center.

Dzidra was covertly sweeping the room from her seated position when suddenly her roaming eyes found themselves inadvertently magnetized to the view beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows directly before her, no more than five feet away.

The New York City nighttime skyline.

Skyscrapers of various sizes and frameworks intermittently pierced the horizon like monoliths, seemingly towering over the hundreds of smaller, chaotically organized buildings that filled every other available space between them- like foliage struggling not to suffocate beneath a redwood’s shadow. And every building was utterly adorned with twinkling, multi-colored lights, the sheer quantity alone casting a veritable field of excess, faintly glowing light beyond the city’s confines.

The nearly full moon majestically sat above the city, further complementing the view with its breathtaking presence.

Dzidra inadvertently cocked her head at the mesmerizing sight- at this angle, it almost seemed as though the moon hung above the city like a guillotine. She couldn’t take her eyes off the picturesque view. Her gaze was glued to the sight as she painstakingly tried to devour every detail of the scene with her eyes. Her pupils gradually expanded the longer she looked, and her irises gained a warm glow.

Tap. Tap. Tap- warm ash drizzled into the already moderately full ashtray.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Dzidra could only faintly nod in response, such was her state of engrossment.

“Mm. I come up here rather often when I need to think.” He held the cigarette between his lips, inhaling.

“I’ve found,” he breathed out smoke, “-that it’s only here, where even the heaviest burden, will lift itself from my shoulders.” He spoke softly, slowly- motioning at the windows with his cigarette in hand.

Dzidra’s analytical mind desperately fought to break free of her blood’s compulsion and take advantage of such an obvious conversational opener.

‘I understand more than most- let me help, we can help each other!’ her thoughts cried in frustration, but the next moment:

‘Those lights are flashing in a pattern as the cars drive past...’

“Oh, and the terrace,” he continued, speaking with reminiscent wistfulness, angling his head back against the seat with eyes closed, “-the cool breeze against your skin, the sounds, the smells.”

He lowered his head and opened his eyes- there was a hint of distance, an age to his gaze.

“But it never lasts.” He took a drag on the cigarette, holding the smoke for longer before exhaling without taking his eyes off the city.

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Look at me, rambling like a disillusioned, immortal fogey,” he deprecatingly scoffed, then turned his head to look at Dzidra.

“-when sitting beside me is perhaps the most beautiful woman on the east coast.” He offered a dashing smile before turning away.

Dzidra was mortified that she couldn’t respond. Not only was it disrespectful to someone of his authority, but he was also treating her well all things considered.

“So then, to what do I owe the pleasure of entertaining the second daughter of House Whitelocke?”

Silence.

“Well, I wager you’re not just here for the view...” He cocked an eye after taking in her appearance with a glance.

“Mm. I may actually lose that bet.” he muttered, thin wisps of smoke seeping form between his lips.

"This really ensnared you, huh?” he rhetorically asked, looking out the window.

“Poor thing.” He shook his head.

“In any case, I'll take this chance to be candid with you, Ms. Whitelocke-” he said in a lowered voice, leaning forward and putting out the cigarette in ashtray. He then leaned back and steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the armrests.

“-I wouldn’t be who, or where I am today, if I were a man devoid of empathy or feeling- I commiserate with your desperation. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you and your family...” he exhaled through his nose, sadly shaking his head.

“With that said,” He looked at Dzidra, and something dark flashed behind his eyes.

“-The Camarilla is my family.”

The surrounding temperature plummeted enough to make Dzidra’s skin crawl. His carefree voice had become frigid, poisonous- devoid of pretense.

“And I will not allow you to endanger-”

The shadows deepened and took on a definite edge. His eyes were partially bloodshot, and the irises glowed maroon in the darkness.

“-hurt,”

Candle flames sputtered, dwindling down into a single, fluttering point of orange light. Blackened veins slowly crawled up either side of his neck.

“-or harm them.”

The chandeliers ominously flickered and gently swayed as though an invisible current rushed through the room. The pressure had exponentially mounted on Dzidra as he spoke, and finally, her Clan’s blood compulsion relinquished its hold upon her psyche. She almost wished it hadn’t.

“Are we in agreement?”

Unblinking crimson eyes stared into maroon, maroon into crimson.

There was only one correct answer.

Dzidra shut her eyes and bowed her head.

“Yes, Prince Walker.” she said respectfully.

“Mm. Grand.” The creeping veins withdrew below his collar as he turned away, pulling another cigarette from the case and lighting it. His eyes had also returned to their original, soft hazel.

The shadows retracted, the candle flames danced once more, and the chandeliers stilled.

Dzidra let out a light breath as the inherent pressure the Prince exuded eased into its natural state- not unlike a sleeping dragon.

“With that unpleasantness out of the way,” he said in his natural voice.

“-what is it that you’d like to discuss?”

Dzidra opened her mouth.

“And,” he interjected, holding up a finger, “please understand that we are potentially on a time constraint so, do be succinct, if possible.”

‘Potentially?’ Dzidra wondered, filing the question for later and focusing on her reason for requesting the meeting.

“I would like to become one of your advisors.” Dzidra said, sitting up straighter and daring to make eye contact to express her confidence.

“Mm,” Walker took a drag on his cigarette, “-and people in hell want ice water.” he breathed out with a straight face, along with smoke.

“I believe I would make an excellent addition to your Court.”

Walker chuckled, lowering his right foot to the floor as he leaned over the right arm rest to tap ash into the tray. He then placed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth to better adjust his sleeves with both hands. Once satisfied, he picked out the cigarette and held it between his thumb and two fingers and turned to look at Dzidra.

“Alright, Ms. Whitelocke, consider me intrigued.”

“Well...” He cocked his head to the side as though considering, “more bored than intrigued really- you’ve no idea just how much of a bore Gav can be!” He mock shout-whispered to Dzidra, even going so far as to turn around and peek over the back of the chair.

‘What...?’ Dzidra maintained a neutral expression.

"Therefore, I’ll humor you- make your case.” he said, turning back around and crossing his right knee over the left.

“I’m incredibly adept with intelligence gathering, deceit, and sabotage.” Dzidra replied without hesitation.

“Indeed? Quite the marvelous resume, that.” Walker blithely said, tipping the cigarette in her direction.

“I can offer some of the Whitelocke reserves.”

“Ah?... because I’m clearly in desperate need of money?”

“No, Prince Walker, I would never suggest that, I'm only trying-”

The Prince cut her off with a weary sigh, “I never thought I’d see the night...” he sadly shook his head, “-someone that rivals Gav... what an utter travesty.”

“I know you’re at war.” Dzidra said through gritted teeth, though her outward composure was as resplendent as the moment she’d entered the lounge.

Prince Walker scoffed, “Please my dear, I’ve more enemies than stored ounces of blood.”

“With Matthias Sever.” Dzidra finished.

Silence.

“Well now...” Prince Walker said, a trace of genuine surprise coloring his voice. He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray.

“That’s impressive. However, if you want to keep my interest,” he picked up the cigarette case, “why don’t you tell me,” -he removed another cigarette, "-how exactly," -he placed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, "-you came to that conclusion." He somewhat mumbled, igniting the Zippo and placing it to the cigarette's end, puffing until it caught. The lighter flicked shut with a snap and remained in his left hand as he returned to smoking and watching the city.

"As I’ve said, Prince Walker- I'm highly skilled at espionage and intelligence gathering." Dzidra confidently said.

“Mm. I’ll acknowledge that.”

The city lights played on his face as he silently exhaled smoke, pondering. Eventually, he made the universal motion for 'continue,’ and deeper into his chair.

Dzidra straightened some non-existent creases on her immaculate dress and organized her thoughts.

"As you know, Mattias Sever is known simply as ‘The Baron,’ a remarkably intelligent Anarch of Clan Brujah. His fiery nature is often at odds with his wisdom, and makes him more easily predictable,” she shook her head, “however, he also expects his enemy to exploit this obvious weakness, and counters violently with disturbing ease- Pictou Island, off the coast of Nova Scotia being the most recent according to reports.”

Approximately two weeks ago The Baron coordinated a small siege on the Island of Pictou to eradicate over two dozen rogue Tremere who were using the isolated land mass to perform blood rituals and re-establish an Order.

“I’m not surprised- Matthias undoubtedly felt threatened by their presence in his backyard.”

“Most likely,” Dzidra tipped her head, “With regards to The Baron, little is known of his origins,” she continued, “however, rumors suggest he was embraced in Bohemia during the Hussite Wars. And since his arrival to North America, he's slowly constructed an exportation empire transporting blood, drugs, weapons, alcohol, and ammunition anywhere between Alberta and Newfoundland- his business has strictly remained within Canada’s borders.”

"The issue is that The Baron has recently overstepped his jurisdiction- one of his distribution networks operating out of Cornwall has started running aftermarket sidearm attachments through Massena.”

She turned to look at him.

“Without your express permission.”

“Well said,” he tipped his head before taking another drag from the cigarette, “And you guessed based solely on this information?” he asked.

"No, Prince Walker, not entirely. I made my deduction based on the most recent intelligence reports spanning the last two years about the most relevant key factions and figureheads.”

“Mm. Then the others would be?”

“Beatrice Serche,” Dzidra replied without hesitation, expecting the question, “-the newest Sabbat Archbishop known as ‘Archangel’. An indifferent, merciless woman galvanizing a Second Inquisition crusade across the western seaboard, primarily against the Los Angeles and Seattle strongholds.”

“Archangel?” the Prince muttered with rhetorical disinterest.

"Indeed. Apparently, her motif is annihilating suspected Kindred dens using military-grade, incendiary explosive devices.”

"And,” Dzidra said, unconsciously curling her lips, “apparently, high-profile public infrastructures such as libraries, hotels, community centers, and bars are treated as acceptable collateral. Any mortals occupying the spaces are treated similarly.”

The Prince betrayed disappointment, something flashing behind his eyes.

"Her greatest weakness is isolation,” Dzidra divulged, aiming to ease the severity the threat posed, “she is new to her position and undoubtedly doesn’t have many trustworthy advisors. It’s likely that her own ranks will turn against her, and I believe the situation will ameliorate itself prior to the Prince of Seattle becoming personally involved.”

“I certainly hope so, that man doesn’t take prisoners.” The Prince said, taking a drag on the cigarette held between his thumb and two fingers. He then rested his forearm on the chair rest as he languidly exhaled the sweet-smelling smoke.

"Penelope Hill,” Dzidra continued, “although you might know her as ‘The Sanguine Alchemist.’”

“Mm, The List...” the Prince muttered, tapping ashes into the tray. His hazel eyes taking on a glazed quality.

Dzidra inclined her head.

“Yes, Prince Walker. Penelope Hill is fourth on The List- she possesses an inordinate potential for destruction should her motivations align against The Camarilla.”

“Who’s on assignment?” he abruptly asked.

“I believe The Baroness has invested in the services of Hubrecht Jonas, Prince Walker.” Dzidra responded tightly.

The Prince chuckled humorlessly, “’The Eighth Sin?’” He sighed in mock defeat.

"Why am I not surprised.” He motioned with a hand, “-continue.”

“Disparate rumors surprisingly all agree that ‘The Sanguine Alchemist’ was Embraced by Clan Ravnos, although it’s mainly speculation predicated on the evidence that she travels very often and is prone to appearing in various ‘hotspots’ wherever she does visit. The most recent sighting occurred over... fifty-three hours ago. The eyewitness claims to have been feeding on wildlife in the area when he saw her.

“Plausible,” The Prince said, putting out the cigarette into the ashtray and removing another from the case.

“My thoughts exactly; the witness states Penelope was moving through the Allegheny National Forest.”

The Prince struck the Zippo and lit the end of the cigarette, puffing a few times before flicking the lighter shut and easing back into the chair and asking:

“We have a trail?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Dzidra affirmed, “One of our informants with the Sheffield police precinct earmarked the report in his monthly data transfer- two park rangers were found mutilated Southwest of Cherry Grove with lacerated throats, torn clothes, and severe loss of blood.”

The Prince nodded to himself, clearly thinking, "Mm, right, send the files when we’re done. A proper cover will be necessary.”

“It will be done, Prince Walker.” she said solemnly.

“Her trail suggests Cleveland,” She continued, “but the reality is she could safely house herself anywhere between Edinboro and Pittsburg. In fact, she may not circle around Lake Erie and make for Detroit, but head toward Colombus and then onto Cincinnati.”

Dzidra shook her head, “We simply don’t have any patterns or previous history to make a confident assessment of her movements.”

“Why Detroit?”

Dzidra shrugged, “We assumed she’d scavenge the Midtown DMC since it’s an incredibly popular gathering ground for any local Cainites.”

The Prince silently cocked an eyebrow while exhaling smoke and glancing at Dzidra.

“It’s difficult to hunt in such heavily regulated cities, the DMC supplies blood bags to those who are starving or can’t safely hunt. I've heard the Hecata are regulars.”

“Mm, well done.” The Prince said, “Continue monitoring her at a distance, and make sure to keep a detailed log and analysis of her activities.”

“Perhaps...?” The Prince mumbled, then nodded to himself, taking another drag of the cigarette.

“Yes, that’ll do.” he said, exhaling smoke with his words. “Our network has a reliable operative stationed in Allentown. My advisors will get you into contact. Meet with him, coordinate a plan, make it work. Now then, who’s next?”

"George Knight, an abnormally eccentric Malkavian and known Sabbat sympathizer.”

Dzidra stated confidently, now more assured than ever that her place among Prince Walker’s Court was nearly secure.

“He’s also been Blood Hunt sanctioned due to multiple accounts of diablerie.”

“Mm. Yes, I remember...” the Prince tapped ash into the tray, “-a small-minded fool who fancies himself the chosen prophet of Caine.”

“Just so,” Dzidra said, adjusting herself on the chair’s edge and settling into a looser, more comfortable position.

“Thankfully, the Sabbat has yet to officially sanction his message, and given his history, we have no reason to believe such a step will be taken. He will cause property damage and disrupt the locals, but aside from a complete Masquerade breach, he represents nothing. He and his gang of mindless thugs and fanatics are more concerned about a steady supply of blood than waging war."

“Do we know where he’s searching?”

“There have been break-ins reported at the Southern Blood Center and the Archytas Blood Bank.” Dzidra replied, “And apparently, none of the staff have been reported missing or dead.”

“He’s scared of drawing attention. Good... Increase security at those locations, make it more difficult to get bagged blood- I want him focused.”

“Easily done.”

“Excellent, anyone else?”

Dzidra nodded, “Yes- Prince Webb is currently preoccupied with exterminating a feral Nosferatu nest in northern Queens. Apparently, it was in fact not ‘gang-related’ homicides.”

“They’re slipping further and further apart from us...” The Prince said under his breath.

Dzidra understood he was talking to himself more than anything. So, she continued.

“As of two nights ago, our network verified Prince Webb’s Court converging on the site. This naturally presents itself as an opportune moment to strike against his organization and claim it for your own.”

“However, I believe there is a long-standing blood tax arrangement between your Burroughs? And the routine delivery date is quickly approaching- destroying dependable, loyal and longstanding acquaintances is not your goal."

“Mm. No, I should say not.” He glanced at her while exhaling smoke before looking back to the city. “You are well-informed.”

Dzidra lightly nodded, “I make it a point of pride to be so,” and then asked, “And I’m certain you’ve heard of Henry “Purchase” Burgess?”

“I daresay my knowledge of the man is severely lacking compared to yours, Ms. Whitelocke. So, let’s hear it already, don’t keep this old man in suspense.” He stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray and leaned back into the chair, placing his hands on the rests.

Dzidra bowed her head while seated, “Your compliment means everything to this lowly neonate, Prince Walker.” Dzidra lightly crossed her arms over her knee, the picture of composed professionalism prior to saying:

“Mr. Burgess is something of a hierarchical anomaly. Neither Camarilla, nor Anarch, yet despised, envied, admired, and respected as though he were a high-ranking member of either faction. This is not only due to his marked ingenuity, but also for an uncanny knack of market manipulation and the establishment and management of novel business models through nearly untraceable mortal proxies.”

“Until recently, yes I’m aware.” the Prince casually remarked, flicking a wrist.

“You are correct as always, Prince Walker.” Dzidra said.

“Compliments now, is it?”

“An observation, Prince Walker.”

The Prince allowed a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes to tug at his lips before asking:

“What else?”

“Mr. Burgess recently invested most of his capital into the SCI Corporation, headquartered on Staten Island. The corporation was apparently incredibly volatile and collapsed, resulting in the loss of millions of dollars. He's rebuilding, regrouping, and in no position to challenge your authority or offer resistance. However, it's for those very same reasons that he means nothing and is worth nothing. For now."

“Mm.”

“Then of course, we have Andrien Coste, who goes by many names. His most recent operational alias being ‘The Frenchman.’ He owns an extensive spy network in the Bronx and primarily relies on diplomacy and the accumulation of secrets that he trades to the highest bidder or through a complex bartering system. He’s also kept a pacifistic track record throughout his eighty-seven years of ruling and chooses to outsource protection of his interests to other parties.”

“I strongly predict that the only warfare you'll be waging with him is blood tribute negotiations over dinner.”

“Ha,” The Prince breathed, “as if I’d sit at the same table as that penny-pincher. He’d probably make me pay the whole bill, the bastard.” He muttered sullenly, resting the side of his head into the palm of his right hand.

"Lastly, there is Elizabeth Courtis- The Baroness of Brooklyn.” Dzidra somehow managed to keep a smirk off her face at the Prince’s somewhat juvenile outburst. The memory of earlier certainly helped.

‘How is this the same man who threatened to eradicate me and my family without hesitation?” she wondered.

‘I suppose old age really does affect us differently.”

“The Baroness is one of the few in this region who poses a direct threat to your authority within the city. Your politics, ideology, and pursuits are complete opposites.”

"However-”

CRACK

Dzidra was looking at Prince Walker when suddenly the muted sound of cracking glass echoed throughout the lounge. Her instincts screamed of danger, and before she was even aware of doing so, she’d already circulated her vitae and rushed to duck behind the nearest couch.

‘What was-’

“There we are!” Prince Walker happily said, rising out of the chair and checking the antique clock hanging over the bar.

“Took them long enough- you know I was actually beginning to suspect you were who you said you were?”

“What-”

“No matter. This clears everything up- Gav? Gavin! Would you be a dear and take out the trash?”

Dzidra peeked over the back of the couch, befuddlement written across her beautiful face. That was when she noticed one of the window panels was partially caved inward at a single point, causing a cascade of cracks to radiate in every direction not unlike a spiderweb.

‘Wait.’

That was the window directly in front of where she’d been sitting... at head height. Dzidra would’ve broken out into a cold sweat if she were still capable.

‘I-I almost died.’ She thought. Then Prince Walker’s words registered.

‘He expected this? He... was waiting for someone to try and kill me?’

“You- you were waiting for someone to try and kill me?” Dzidra shakily asked, standing up from behind the couch and smoothing down her dress.

“Hm?” The Prince turned away from examining the cracked window to regard Dzidra. He almost looked as though he’d forgotten she was there.

“Oh, right, that- yes, yes, what of it?” He waved her off, turning back to the window while holding his chin in one hand, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Winchester?... Springfield?... no, no, no impact radius isn’t that large- so... Remington, right Gav?” Prince Walker shuffled around the point of impact to get a better angle, cocking his head in different direction and lightly probing the glass with a finger, all the while muttering.

Dzidra was about to say something when her instincts once more warned her of danger, only this time, it was distinctly more prevalent. She backed up, ready to circulate her vitae at a moment's notice. She felt a pair of eyes watching her; Prince Walker was still examining the window.

Then suddenly, the two were no longer alone.

A deep shadow detached itself from a corner of the lounge and flashed across the floor, stopping beside Prince Walker before slowly rising into the air.

Dzidra watched wide-eyed as the amorphous, seemingly liquid shadow morphed into a bald, pale man slightly taller and broader than Prince Walker and wearing acid-washed jeans and a plain white T-shirt that strained to cover his musculature.

“Day late and a dollar short, you decrepit bag of bones.” Prince Walker asked without acknowledging the newcomer.

“Closest vantage is the Scarlet Palace and Spa, approximately 42 meters distant at a ten degree decline.” The bald man replied coldly.

‘This must be the ‘Gav’ Prince Walker spoke of, but why can’t I...?’

Dzidra’s senses couldn’t detect the scent of vitae on the man, though he was clearly an expert practitioner of Oblivion.

‘The Prince has some truly frightening allies.’

“Beyond that, there’re roughly 378 rooftop and above-street-level vantage points within a 700 meter range of these windows. The structure with the least angular deviation within that range would be... The King’s Atoll.”

“Sure, sure but never mind all that.” The Prince waved away Gavin’s flat delivery of information that made even Dzidra feel threatened.

‘Perhaps this man is the Court’s security?’ Dzidra wondered, closely watching the pair’s interaction.

‘No, they’re too close, too familiar, and judging by their body language... personal bodyguard?’

The Prince pointed at the point of impact before leaning to the side and glancing out the non-fractured window.

“Caliber and model- quickly now.”

“Could have been standard NATO, .300 Winchester Magnum, or .338 Lapua Magnum, though I would've expected more structural damage to the glass with Lapua; could’ve been an SSG 69, AWM, or... mm, M24 SWS.” Gavin rattled off while inspecting the damage.

The Prince snapped his fingers and pointed at Gavin, “It was the AWM. The AWM for sure, alright,” he clapped his hands, then crossed his arms across his chest, “so either our darling Baroness is a master of comedic timing-” he glanced around the lounge, “or this place was somehow tapped...Mm, no unlikely actually... wait, what the hell am I doing?” The Prince threw his hands up and groaned.

“You always do this, Percival- making things right bloody difficult for yourself.” He muttered exasperatedly.

“Gav, grab that dumbass and bring him in please, alive preferably. I have a few questions for the poor soul with large enough balls to take potshots at my Elysium.”

“My Prince?” Gavin asked, cocking an eye.

“Well? What’re you standing around for- I saw him packing up his gear over on top of the Crescent Library. ¡Ándale! por favor.”

Gavin looked like he wanted to retort but instead simply nodded, his form now wreathed in shadows.

Dzida wasn’t surprised to hear his voice come out sounding distinctly deeper and slightly warped.

“Should I inform Cassandra and Adeline?”

“Hm?” Prince Walker had already turned away and started toward the bar. He turned around part way, with hands clasped behind his back.

“Oh. Um, no,” he shook his head, “well...?” he then looked ponderously at the ceiling, “Yeah, no,” he reaffirmed with a nod, “best to avoid that- better to bring him in without any missing pieces, eh Gav ole’ sport?”

“As you wish, My Prince.” Gavin rumbled before sinking into a pool of shadows that burst apart across the floor, flashing through the windows and into the dark night beyond.

That was when Dzidra noticed thousands of miniscule shapes and figures that looked like hieroglyphs flash across the entire length of the floor at the base of the windows as Gavin passed through.

‘Warding runes- so many!’ She almost gasped. The price alone was strictly prohibitive, let alone including the necessary labor and talent for the inscription process.

‘The Prince’s subordinates even seemingly have their vitae profiles recorded into the rune system?’

Dzidra was more than impressed and only served to solidify her desire to join his Court.

“Oh, and I almost forgot!” The Prince called out from behind the bar, causing Dzidra to look over.

“Ms. Whitelocke,” he continued, standing up from behind the bar holding a wine bottle in either hand.

“-as a thank you for drawing out some of my enemies.” His thumb nails sharpened and elongated, piercing wine bottle cork tops. With a simple flick of both thumbs, the cylindrical corks popped out and rolled across the countertop. The heavenly smell of sweet, rich copper and iron wafted across the room.

Dzidra’s pupils contracted into pinpricks as the Beast reared its head in the presence of such refined, exquisite blood-wine. She coquettishly walked to the bar, adding more swing to her hips than was strictly necessary.

“Prince Walker, you shouldn’t-” her naturally seductive gaze faltered, her eyes widened, and she stopped walking, her alluring aura evaporating.

The Prince had placed both bottles to his mouth and tipped them back. The lounge was filled with the sounds of gulping.

Dzidra looked both crestfallen and despondent. Her mouth significantly dryer than normal after catching a mere whiff of that blood. Even her incredibly well-off family didn’t own anything close in their reserves.

The Prince slammed the wine bottles onto the countertop with a satisfied ‘ah!’, smacking his lips. He noticed Dzidra standing there like a wounded puppy.

“Mm? Oh! Ha-ha, oh, my word,” The Prince chuckled, “my apologies darling- got excited there. Listen,” he tapped the side of the wine bottle with a nail, “these bastards? I can only imagine what they’d smell like to a young blood, but the moment you took a sip? Final Death.”

Dzidra stiffened, glancing at the bottle as though it were a close friend who’d betrayed her.

The Prince cracked a rare smirk, “That’s more like it- remember, your Beast doesn’t know the difference between left or right, it’s a right stupid idiot. Now then,” he clapped his hands.

“-that right over there is for you.” The Prince said, gesturing behind her.

Dzidra turned and saw the unmarked glass bottle of golden, honey-colored liquid innocently sitting on the table.

Dzidra eye’s narrowed but she nevertheless walked to the table and picked up the bottle in her small, manicured hands.

“That there is a 94 year old single malt scotch whiskey.” Dzidra glanced back at the Prince to see he’d somehow placed another lit cigarette into his mouth puffed on it before motioning at the bottle.

“Don’t look at me like that, you damned succubus,” The Prince’s tone dropped, and his eyes took on a cold edge.

“I’m aware you can’t drink that- even I can’t.” He continued before Dzidra could offer an apology, “So why did I buy it over ninety years ago in Scottland?” he rhetorically asked, taking a drag on the cigarette and exhaling smoke, his hazel eyes never leaving hers.

Dzidra remained silent but didn’t dare to look away for fear of aggravating the Prince any further.

“Tell me- what makes the world go round?”

“What is the root of all evil? Hm?”

“Money, my dear Watson.” The Prince finished, leaning against the bar. Dzidra’s eyes slightly widened in realization as she looked upon the previously ‘useless’ bottle in her hands in a new light. He saw that she finally understood the worth of what she held.

“Humph, ‘skilled at espionage and intelligence gathering,’ my immortal ass.” The Prince scoffed, taking a pull on the cigarette and looking away from her.

Dzidra felt duly chastised and regretful of her momentary lapse in judgment. She was better than this.

“Ah well... there’s youth, and then there’s eternal youth.” The Prince exhaled smoke and looked at her.

“You’re not completely hopeless, Ms. Whitelocke.”

Dzidra was ecstatic, but before she could say anything, the door to the lounge crashed open and frantic shouting invaded the serene space.

“Ah! Fuck, goddamnit! Let go... right... now!” Gavin casually strode into the lounge, dragging someone behind him by the nape of his shirt, only to then turn around grab the struggling man with his other hand and hoist him up like a laundry bag. He closed the lounge door with a foot before turning around with the man held aloft, who was futilely beating against Gavin’s forearms and hissing and spitting into his face.

The Prince tsked, “Gav, I said to take the trash out, not bring it inside!”

Gavin started to turn around when Prince Walker suddenly appeared by his side; Dzidra hadn’t even blinked and missed his movements. There was no danger sense, no remnant vitae signature, nothing. He simply appeared in another place.

The Prince patted Gavin’s left bicep, “Hey now, I was only messing around- thank you.”

Gavin nodded once, as emotionless, and unmoving as a statue.

“Now then, whatever shall we do with you?” the Prince lowered his hand as he asked the man, who’d now given up trying to escape Gavin’s hold and simply stared daggers at Prince Walker.

“Me?” The man scoffed, “You fucking idiot, do you even know who you’re messing with?” He spat.

Dzidra noticed that Gavin’s grip on the man imperceptivity tightened.

‘Interesting- their relationship runs deeper than I’d predicted.’

“Mm, now that you mention it?” The Prince said, taking a drag on the cigarette and looking inquisitive.

“Nope.” he said, blowing smoke directly into the man’s face. The man momentarily renewed his struggling but once more found that the behemoth holding him wasn’t strained in the slightest. He settled down with a resigned growl, secure in the knowledge that these gangsters wouldn’t dare make an enemy of his boss.

“Do you know who I am?” the Prince innocently asked.

“What? You? Some moneybags asshole by the looks of it,” The man said, eyes scanning around the ornate lounge. His eyes widened when he saw Dzidra elegantly standing across the room with a bottle in her hands. He sneered.

“You better start running, Whitelocke! I’m only the first- you're fucking dead, you hear?” He shouted, barring his fangs at her.

“Gavin.”

SMACK

The man’s head whipped sideways as Gavin’s large hand fractured nearly every bone on the right left side of his face. Blood droplets sprayed across the polished floor. The man gasped, hacked, and coughed as he writhed in Gavin’s grip.

The man piteously moaned through a ruined mouth, “Ughhh, whadafu- AHHH!”

The man’s face contorted into a rictus of utter torture as Prince Walker stabbed the lit end of the cigarette directly into the man’s ruined eye. The sound of screaming and sizzling mixed with the distinct smell of burned flesh.

“Y-you-yousonofa-fuck! Do - who you, AH!” The man released another hair-raising scream when Prince Walker crammed the entire length of the cigarette into his mangled eye socket. He then nodded at Gavin, who held the screaming man up with one arm and reeled back with the other before striking. The man’s screams were abruptly cut off as his nose caved into his skull and he finally went limp.

“Ah fudge,” said Prince Walker, patting down his blood spattered dress shirt, “-I hope you know that this is coming out of your pay.”

Gavin’s response was to throw the unconscious man over his shoulder in a princess carry and turn towards the door.

“Mm, right you are, old boy!” Prince Walker nodded, turning to follow Gavin out of the lounge.

“Ah, Ms. Whitelocke, thank you again for your help in apprehending this fiend- the world is a safer place for it.” Prince Walker said, patting the unconscious man’s behind as the pair strode past her.

Gavin opened the door with his free hand and bent down slightly to walk through clearly. Prince Walker stopped outside the door with one hand holding the frame and the other behind his back. He partially looked over his shoulder.

“And welcome to the team. Do see yourself out when you have the chance- I'll have someone contact you shortly.” And with that, he closed the door behind him.

Dzidra was left standing in the middle of the lounge. Everything was silent.

She looked at the cracked window. The blood splatters on the floor. The bottle in her hands. The lounge door.

‘Fuck.’ She sighed.

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