NOTE: The conversation (and some of the writing around the conversation) have been changed AGAIN as of August 8th.

(Not too horrifically, but enough that it would be worth a quick scan if you've already read it once. Look out for the name, Madár. It'll be used later on in reference to the female character of this chapter. I doubt anything more will change on this chapter, but please do read and review and mention if something's not making sense. By the way, I got rid of the name "Estwan"...Nigel is "Nigel." We're sticking to him...)

Chapter 13: The Twisted Neck of Raven

Elsewhere...

Deep in the heart of District VIII, an abandoned subway line had been transformed into the gritty darkness of an underground street-club. The place was sweltering. Concrete walls jammed with the moist bodies of over two hundred mortals pumping and grinding themselves to remix time. Lasers installed above their heads darting across the mob, illuminating the toxic pulse of these creatures living for the beat of a dangerous turn-table. Most were born of wealthy families, but had grown tired of the regular club scene. Paying in cash, they now sought excitement in the shadow of their bodyguards. Bouncers and security standing at the edge of every exit. Special armoured cars sweeping in and around Budapest, dropping these prosperous children into infamous poverty so they could dance the night away, pretending to be the street vagrants they found so fashionable.

One figure stood out, coldly striding through the crowd and music as if she owned the place. Her face, though exquisite, was unnervingly pale, the icy blue eyes slightly hazed around the edges. Unlike the sharply dressed children that milled about her, she wore a slim hooded trench-coat, shabby by the standards of most and missing the all-important designer label. A small sweatshirt underneath, black and zipped up to the chin, hiding her neck. Pants made of black leather. Hair completely concealed by a hood, save for the few dark strands falling past her forehead. Even with the slight change in her choice of clothing, she still managed to exude the word...sleek.

Reaching the other end of the hall, the icy woman walked by the bouncer, shadows playing across her face as she entered the rusty doorway behind him. He nodded at her, keeping his cool and resisting the impulse to call for back-up. They'd been through this once before…and if the woman wanted in, she got it. Once out of her sight, he put a sweaty palm to his ear and spoke through the transmission, warning the boss of who was coming.

Warn him then, the intruder thought coldly, hearing the bouncer's words as he spoke them through the metal door.

She strode on into the dark VIP lounge filled with plush leather seats and card-playing gamblers. The children of millionaires resting their feet upon imitation tattered-rugs...drinking malt-liquor and toasting their daring campaigns into the unknown. (Several scantily clad servants could be called upon should anyone thirst after something more…diamond cocktail-based.) Even as the guests raised their ever-so-slightly dirty glasses, the security stiffened uncomfortably as the strange woman passed. There was a strong scent of mold coming from her body and the fronting socialites had begun wrinkling their noses. Ignoring the slight, the woman continued on her path, keeping her silence. Although she had enough speed to rip a tendon from each of their necks without being seen, she had no bone to pick with them this night.

Walking down a dank hallway and stepping into the official men's toilet (hardly used, as there was a pristine one two doors down for those who could not brave imitation-shit), she sniffed the air slightly. Disgusting, she thought. And then, striding to the last stall, she kicked it open.

A little puddle of unidentified water leaking all over the heavily soiled cement floor. Graffiti and slurs written on the walls. Pieces of toilet paper hanging from the filthy seat and strewn across the porcelain.

And of course…

…a man.

Stylish and clothed in a black wool suit.
Blessed with the face of an angel.
Fiery red hair, sensuous lips…

…and a pair of demonic blue-eyes.

Nigel had wedged himself into the corner beside the toilet, holding both arms out as if to stave off the blow he knew was coming. Except it would be worse than a blow this time. "It wasn't my fault!" he hissed, practically squealing as he tried to back further against the wall. Not even daring to put up a fight.

"The last I heard that wasn't my problem," she murmured, casually taking the time to load a single ultraviolet bullet into the gun strapped to her leg. Her voice was deep and ominous, sounding a death toll with every cold word spoken from her lips…

"Wait! Please…just wait!" He begged, scrabbling beside the porcelain.

"And why would I do that, Mr. Courting?" Her eyes were starting to grow even redder as she spoke, driving home the subtle hint of how little she needed the gun now pointed at his forehead.

"I can get you…blood! You need blood, I can get you blood," he began to whimper, almost babbling in his haste to save the commodity running through his own veins. Not even caring as she used his real name…

"I don't need blood."

"But what you ask…it's impossible now," he whispered, starting to nervously scratch the walls with the carefully manicured fingernails. "I can't…"

"Then we'll have to find someone else," she shrugged nonchalantly.

"No, wait!" He yelled desperately, holding both hands up as he heard the sound of the gun being cocked. Closing both eyes as if he could escape this nightmare. "I can…I can find a way to put it back, but please…just two days…"

"One. This is the second time we've had to have a little chat, Nigel," she said coldly. Conducting business as usual. "…and regardless of your status, I doubt even my mistress has enough warmth to deal with your perpetual transgressions. Do you understand my meaning?"

"Yes," he whispered miserably, swallowing the bile caught in his throat and damning the night this strange, raven-haired assassin called at his door. Why did he do it? Where could he run? She wasn't going to kill him, but…nowhere to run and daylight in four hours… Bloody hell, he couldn't even meet her eyes...

...but watching his throat tighten, the raven breathed his fear, callously taking in the nervous sweat as it trickled down his body. From such simple words, she had seen more in his logic than he yet realised...

"Why the two days?"she asked, keeping her voice low and yet forcing her prey to look up with horror. Her question seemed almost careless,but meeting the terrifying eyes, he understood the not-so-subtle suggestion that life would become very dismal for he who answered incorrectly…

"What?" he replied nervously, his heart starting to sink…even as hejerked his chin up again, aided in part by the gun placed in such close proximity…

"Two days, Nigel…you only took the pendant last night. Surely if you're so keen on 'putting it back', you'd move with all haste…and yet, really…two days?" the woman smirked suddenly…cruelly. "Tell me, if Visegrád is only half an hour away, how did you plan on spending the other forty-seven hours of your trip?" The gun moved another inch forward. "Business or pleasure? Or is it prayer?" she inquired in a deceptive murmur, dropping her cold smile even as she began to gauge the true extent of his crimes. The gun had by no means moved from its place directed at his forehead. "Tell me, Nigel...which of the three sides do you stand for?"

"Prayer," he answered softly...almost rashly. The empty voice of a man who had lost himself...

"How safe she might have been without the pendant to let mistress in..." the woman recited coldly. "...and yet, now that Cinder preys on Reed, pray tell me, Nigel, where is the pendant to let her leave?"

"I…I burned it," he whispered brokenly.

The woman hissed, showing true anger for the first time...the growl slashing through his hopes as her fangs lengthened. Slamming himself against the wall, Nigel covered his face and prayed she might kill him quickly. He had seen her victims…and where once, she had reached the height of rage through the piercing blue of vampires…now, something else…someone else lay behind the cool facade. But he was in luck… Tightly reigning in her anger before it unleashed a great deal of…death, the dangerous woman blinked the glowing red glaze from her eyes and calmly said…as if nothing had happened…

"The ashes then?"

"Scattered across the parking lot. The wind took them."

"Oh really…" she murmured softly, taking a discouraging step forward.

"I'm not lying," he whispered earnestly, keeping his eye on the barrel of the gun while crouching further away from his oppressor. The suit no longer looked as sharp as it once had, but what was money when your life was on the line? "…but I just…need more time. What can one more day hurt, Madár? If it's already burned, we will need…"

The music stopped in the distance suddenly…the off-beat of someone's remix catching his words in the open. His voice suddenly felt over-loud. The sound of him stalling in his own throat, and the words of barter dying off into silence…

Abruptly, the woman lowered her gun, efficiently returning it to its sleek holster. Frowning coldly, she turned her back and stalked away, further belittling his strength and knowing even a bullet could not stop her in her tracks. "I'm afraid there is no 'we', Nigel. You have one night. You can find a new pendant…and you can put it back where it belongs. I trust you've done enough homework to realize who can aid you with this matter…" Reaching the door, the icy ex-deathdealer now called back to him in a pointed whisper that carried…"Darkness knows why I'm helping you, but two and a half pints should do it. If you're lucky, Cinder won't smell the residue..."

"Two and a half pints?" he repeated miserably from the stall, still plastered against porcelain and knowing the raven-haired creature could hear perfectly from where she stood… "I don't have two and a half pints of blood to be dropping on every single Tom, Dick, and Mary that cuts wood!"

"I never said these things were easy to come by," the woman replied coldly as she leaned against the door. "It might cost you a tidy fortune, but they do work on short notice…"

"They?"

"You know," she murmured mysteriously, crossing her arms and staring at the mirror. Feeling the pulsating beat of music echoing through the door. "…Kovács. You didn't think they only did silver, now did you?"

His heart stopped beating for a moment, but he forced the next words to leave his mouth. "I…I thought their house was…"

"The remnants live in Miskolc…but you should be be familiar with that by now. You've already made their acquaintance at least once." By the sound of her voice, she was starting to find something very amusing, though in the fashion of a killer who found it pleasurable to watch kittens drown.

Miskolc? Their acquaintance?

He started to frown, sliding further into his crouch. Rubbing his eyes as he tried to work out the words of this unhelpful, though merciful, woman of ice. "But I've never met a Kovács…" he whispered from the stall. "...I mean, except for those sun-deprived…" The words suddenly caught in his throat, and darting out into the open, he faced her, holding onto the door, his eyes wide and…utterly disgusted. "They said there name was...was…" he swallowed, sliding to the floor, the expensive suit completely ruined on the grime. "…Varga."

She continued to stare at him, unconcerned by his horror…though in truth, he had a right to his revulsion. The Kovács had been struck from history for over a millennium, and though the twisted and sadistic world of Yllarius Kovács, the cheerful Smith, had been vanquished many lifetimes ago, his descendants still paid the price for his ghastly and atrocious sport. In mortal terms, it amounted to having Vlad the Impaler as a distant relative. All vampires bearing the name were shunned…and most descendants tried desperately to cover any ancestral tracks connecting them to the infamous and accursed house...

"I guess that'll be all then," she murmured with a cold gleam to her eye. "Word of advice though. After they're done, try not to faint on the way to Visegrád. Blood-loss and driving don't mix." The last words were spoken very softly, and Nigel had to strain to even hear them.

Without another word, the raven-haired woman jerked the door open and left.

The sound of hip-hop still making its way through the walls. Concrete walls jammed with the moist bodies of over two hundred mortals pumping and grinding themselves to remix time. Lasers installed above their heads darting across the mob, illuminating the toxic pulse of these creatures living for the beat of a dangerous turn-table. He had started the club two years ago…and this was the true investment. Not the auction house…

It was his club. Not hers…

…but hopeless, the blue-eyed demon continued to sit, staring blankly into space from the grime-ridden floor. For several minutes, he rocked himself, still hearing the deadly beat of music so far away…trying to figure the way out. There had to be a way…there was always a way. Raising his hands to his face, he began to press upon his temples…and then darting swiftly into a rise with the speed of vampires, he slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into pieces. The blood dripping from his wound as he silently began to snivel, his escape cut from all sides. There was no way out. He'd turned on her once…and now a second time.

Forgive me, Ambrose, he implored silently, running the hand under water and swathing the wound as tightly as possible in his jacket. Stupid to have done that…precious drops of blood falling into the sink. I tried to save her. God forgive me, I tried, he began to mutter to himself, over and over and over again. But the words didn't sound so heroic anymore as he watched the red liquid being swallowed by the rusty drain.

Foolish and betraying friend…

…you'll need that blood.

And then forcing his lips into the strained smile of a doomed man, Mr. Nigel Courting left the room, intent on burning his way through the streets of Budapest. If he was going to reach Miskolc before sunrise, he'd have to drive like a madman.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, Specks and Andrea (they were very heartening,) and I hope everyone likes this new chapter...as you've noticed, there are lots and lots of pendants running around this story. We're practically rolling in pendants...everyone has one. The latest thing since the death of Lucian. Very chic...

(Don't worry, I'll sort it out...the meaning of the pendants will become clear. But as of this moment, just so we're all on the same page, there's

(a) the "first key to the tomb" pendant usually around Aeduin's neck...

(b) the "the second key to the tomb" pendant usually around Urith's neck...

(c) the pendant of Lucian (that used to belong to Sonja, but is currently missing)...

(d) the pendant introduced in this chapter, that was actually burned in Chapter Two without anyone noticing, including Reed, the writer, and the readers. And no, Reed doesn't usually wear it or even care for it, hence it's easy to steal. Sneaky Nigel. We'll learn more about this type of pendant later...

...and that's all for pendants for the time being.

Next chapter, I believe we'll be continuing on with Reed and Lucian...