Prologue
Near the coldest, darkest part of winter the air of Paris has a calm stillness. Warm lights push through the mist that escapes from the icy river Siene. The river pours through the city reflecting Paris over twisting swirls and flows.
Above the city's thrum of constant motion high in Notre dame cathedral was an established meeting place. Loyal eyes watched for their masters there to ensure privacy when a meeting is called. In the southern bell tower two barely perceivable figures both hunched over in the shadows, in familiar silence each pondered the other's intentions.
"Good evenin', my prince. Looks like that fire really did a number on this place eh." said an out of place cockney accent.
The Prince replied with a throaty French accent. "Oui the inquisition has been brutal on the mainland, you are lucky Monsieur."
"Yeah good old clan Ventrue have got a firm grip on parliament, Brexit should slow the tide of inquisitors for now."
"Pour moi this is chaos, le hunters try to cross the channel with the refugees. They gather en masse in Calais, my domain!"
"Thats rough mate, you know I'll always help a clanmate in need, but that's not why I'm here." he rasped .
"I assume you have le demande Monsieur." said the Prince
"Yeah mate," he paused "my prince. I wish to ask your noble permission to bring another in to the clan."
The Prince released a guttural laugh. "Ah Sol mon ami, di-moi why would you need my permission for this, you do not reside in Calais. Is this one you wish to embrace in my domain?"
Sol answered cryptically. "not yet, but he will be when he gets here."
"Paris is not my domain, I cannot give permission for this." Said the prince.
"Indeed, but from England one must travel through your domain to get to Paris." He said in mocking proper English.
The prince sighed. "If you can get them within my domain, nowhere else, then oui. How can I refuse you."
Sol nodded. "Thank you. I'll make sure only to stay in your domain for the first part, you know. When he's ready we'll be off so he can fledge."
The prince gave a hard rasping laugh. "If he survives the… first part I would like to rendezvous with him. A tribute I think is owed, non? "
"once I've got him settled, you'll be our first port of call." Sol assured.
The prince of Calais took a moment to enjoy the power dynamic whilst he had the upper hand. "Very well then, ensure you do not disappear before tribute is made."
"Of course, now If it pleases the prince I'll take my leave."
"Of course."
Sol waved a hand. "Bon Soiree my prince."
The prince laughed again "Good evening…my sire."
Chapter One: Tea Leaf
Rodney Butcher, a Londoner in his late twenties was on the road. He had rented the blandest car he could find and headed south from Peckham. He drove away from the lights of the city to a small town with a train station feeding back in to London. He had chosen the small town station specifically because there was not much CCTV and no staff at night. He parked on a street near the station which was poorly lit and not overlooked.
"Keep calm Rod." he told himself.
Rod worked for most of his money, but not all of it. He had avoided drug dealing, having seen friends dead or locked up. For him other people were a liability, his extra curricula activities were solo operations. Making huge wads of cash was never the point, he loved getting in to places he should not be. He loved to make plans to find ways in and out of secure locations and had followed through with a few.
This time was different, he was rusty from a few years of being mostly a good boy. A good woman can make a good boy, until she can't. The best money he had made form burglary was from finding a cheap phone. That phone belonged to some business type who was using it to liaise with his mistress. Mr Businessman kept that phone in his office, this mistake cost that man five thousand pounds. When Rod's girl found the blackmail money she left, so Rod had nothing to stop him from further misbehaviour.
With too much time on his hands from a lack of legitimate work, he turned to his last big plans. His planning was thorough, he had worked as a labourer during an office block's construction. He knew the layout having seen the walls go up. He knew there were extra steel supports all the way up to the top floor. He saw the safe installed on top of those supports and he even saw the default codes. It is not uncommon for default codes to remain for some time, before the owner gets round to changing it. He had recently begun casing the building again, having previously put the plans on the back burner for a while.
He spent a few nights in the bushes watching the security guard sitting at reception. It was during this scouting he had felt an unease come over him, the feeling of being watched accompanied by a strange smell. The smell was like a bag of salt had been thrown over him, he could taste it in his mouth. The foul after taste of sewage and sour milk hung in his throat. This feeling had hit him a few times recently and the smell would always follow. Because of the smell Rod had begun to consider seeing a doctor, but never made the call.
He was standing at the back door of the rental car assembling his disguise, the hat completed the look of an old man. Then came that smell again, he put his head in his hands and held his breath. When he finally broke and gasped for air the smell had drifted away on the cold wind. Breathing deep to gather himself Rod packed his tools in to the large overcoat and got on the first train back in to London. Travelling through a few stations, changing train to throw off any police investigation really dragged out the stress of anticipation. He could hear his heart beat pounding in his ears the entire journey but finally made it to his destination.
Assessing the area around the building Rod realised he was a little later than he had hoped he would be. The car park was empty, except for the security guard's van. The shutters were still up so he could see the guard drinking his coffee before his first round. As soon as those shutters hit the floor Rod paced across the road, through the car park and to the rear fire exit. A wooden door frame with heavy steel doors, easy but noisy.
Balaclava on, gloves on, lump hammer and short wrecking bar in hands he was ready. Rod took the bar to the top door jam, hitting hard to break through to the magnetic alarm trigger. Having removed enough wood, he jimmied the magnetic strip attached to the door and taped it to sensor on the door frame. Where he had broken through he levered another chunk of wood exposing the door bolt. He wedged his wrecking bar between the bolt and its socket and pushed hard until the door popped open. If he was caught at this point there was still time to run, from that moment on caution was key.
Rod stepped back to look up the rear face of the building, the guard should have been on the second or third floor. No lights were on so he waited, after a few heart pounding seconds the third floor lights flickered on. It was time. Rod focused, his shoulders dropped and he began to move on his toes never being flat footed. Two stairs at a time all the way up, he came to the door at the top. The top floor was the office of the building owner. He was a creepy Austrian guy who Rod had briefly seen once. The man stank of the oldest money, he acted like he had never seen tradesmen before. His office was walled with rosewood panelling, carpeted in crimson wool carpets and decorated with ridiculous antique furniture. All Rod had to do was get in.
Through a stroke of good luck Rod had been asked to install the very lock blocking his path. He had felt that five keys was too many for any man, so he took one and had placed it behind a light fitting on the wall. This had made getting materials in to the top floor much easier during construction, it made out of hours access easier too. Through the then unlocked door he entered the secretary's office, the lift and main stairs were beyond a locked high security door. Before he could make it to the grand wooden doors to the owners office, the lift opened spilling light in to the waiting room. Rod half crouched half sprinted behind the secretary's desk and peered under the back panel. The lights came on and torchlight shone in. Rod backed up and closed his eyes listening for the lift or the door. Those moments always feel like a very long time, but sure enough the guard took the lift back down to the lobby. Allowing himself to relax his body once more, Rod dropped his shoulders and shook his hands. He knelt by the tall wooden doors and reached for his breast pocket.
Calm and steady he removed a lock pick and tension wrench. The lock was part of the ornate brass door handle, ornamental but not secure. Working from one pin to the next he found the four subtle clicks, more pressure to open and he was in. Rod stepped through the door closing it behind him and leaning on it for a moment. The office was mostly as he remembered, a few new pieces of art and fully stocked bookcases were the only difference. The joiner he had worked with was a master craftsman; each joint concealed, flawless finish on all the panelling. The seam around the door to the safe room was cut in to a carving concealing its presence. Rod had marvelled at the workmanship during installation, pride lead the joiner to show him the inner workings.
A square within a circle topped by an offset triangle was the symbol. Applying pressure to the square caused a light click. The panel shifted a few millimetres out so rod was able to pull it open. The aperture was a hand cut shape following the flowing patterns of the carving. Rod stepped through glad to see the same safe from months before. He was getting hot now, under all his baggy clothes a torrent of sweat had formed. He reached in to his back pocket shifting the overcoat and letting cold air relieve his body momentarily. From the pocket he pulled a soggy scrap of paper, two strings of numbers were luckily still legible.
Shaking hands tapped the short four digit code in, Rod felt anxiety flood his veins. The short buzz denying his code nearly stopped his heart, one of three red lights on the keypad illuminated. The question Rod asked himself was, did I mistype that code? He decided to move on to the other, the master code. Rod slowly and very intentionally entered each digit of the seven number code, ENTER.
Beep click, what a sweet sound. A ninety degree turn of a handle confirmed his success. Rod closed his eyes as he opened the safe, he slowly peeked at the prize. Four steel shelves housing plastic trays filled with paper records, rod took one to inspect it. A coded chart seemed to show purchase of a liquid in litres: SUB1Vitae-600L=£300. He could only assume it was some elicit substance so he kept looking. The top two shelves seemed to record this mystery liquid coming in, the dates stopped in 1995. The two lower shelves were the outgoing, still in code reading: VEN+200L=£5000, NOS+800L=£18,500. The dates continued to present day. Rod figured that they started producing their own "vitae" in the nineties, but Rod no idea what it was.
Rod replaced all the records where he had found them, he could not find the value in the safe. He could take the records and try to blackmail an international drug cartel, or keep looking for value. Deciding the latter was wiser, Rod closed up the safe and it's secret room then turned his attention to the office. Some books are worth a fortune, but if they are valuable then they are rare, if they are rare they are liquor cabinet just had a crystal decanter and glasses, no booze kept in house. On the desk was a monogrammed fountain pen, too personal. But the desk its self had draws, most of them contained mundane stationary and office supplies. One draw, the middle draw above the users lap, was locked.
Bringing out his lock picks once more rod knelt to examine the entryway to the lock. It was a strange lock, the three pointed entryway meant three rows of pins. His hand was steady again and as he focused in on the lock the world faded away. He did not know how long he had spent trying pin after pin until he felt the mechanism finally give way. He slid the draw open to see what treasure needed such a nasty lock. A small book bound in a crimson fabric with a leather spine and corners was alone in the draw. The same symbol which opened the hidden door to the safe was painted on the cover in red paint.
Rod sat back in the chair exhausted and disappointed. He knew he had time before the guards next round so he reached in to the draw and took the book in hand. The book felt cold and did not warm from his hands. He took the strange sensation as nerves, ignored it and began to read the book. It was a diary of sorts, seemingly research notes dating back to 1995. The first entry read as follows:
Apprentice: Tobias Brunner
Apr 8 1995,
Summary to date:
Initial success exceeded expectations, yield was more than twice the projected target. The local population is unaware as yet, no extra doctor visits nor deaths recorded. Moving forward I will be looking to increase the range of capture whilst reducing the quantity taken from each donor. Once these factors have been fine tuned I shall endeavour to separate the blood by quality and type. Quality vitae for the clan, the remains can be sold to fund further research.
"Blood?" Rod said out loud.
He turned to the Latest entry:
December 13 2021,
The New facility has been operational for three months and the yields are still steadily increasing. With the new offices near by all operations are now contained within London. The catchment area for the ritual now seems to reach throughout the greater metropolitan area, the donor population is still oblivious to blood loss. The vitae taken from each donor is now so small that blood pressure fluctuations would be imperceivable, even on a heart monitor.
The text ended there, the final entry was punctuated with a blob of red ink. The ink looked wet so Rod tried to rub his thumb over it. As he tried to touch it the ink slid away from his finger.
"What the fuck?" Rod asked the book.
Before he had time to consider when or how he was drugged, the ink began to dance on the page forming letters. "What the fuck" It wrote in a different style of writing to the earlier entries. Rod slammed the book closed and rubbed his eyes. His heart was beating so hard he could hear it, he was drenched in sweat and his mouth was completely dry. Rod rubbed his tongue on the top of his mouth and his senses kick-started. Salt, the taste was strong and the foul smell was hanging close to him. He had not noticed the smell but had the feeling it had been with him the whole time. As panic took hold he shoved the book in to his coat whilst simultaneously launching in to a run for the door. Arriving at the door he managed to still his mind and peek through before exiting. Seeing the way was clear he crept through the secretary's office and back in to the stairwell. He relocked the door and replaced the key in the light fitting.
Trying to hear through the thud thud of his pulse was not working, so Rod just leapt down the stairs three at a time trying to land softly but failing. Reaching the back door Rod gasped the fresh air to regain control. He wanted nothing more than to sprint back to the station but knew he had to stroll like a man with no guilt. The whole walk back he was convinced he was either walking too slowly or too quickly. He kept his head down and avoided close contact with any people. Once at the station Rod had to wait three long minutes until a train arrived. When the train squealed in He found a seat in one of the less populated carriages. The pursuing smell seemed to fade in to the edge of his senses, lingering but not as intense as it was earlier in the office.
Relieved to have London and the strange ordeal behind him Rod headed back to the car and relaxed briefly. Taking that comparatively tranquil moment to roll and smoke a cigarette, then back in the car and off to Dover. The drive and the radio calmed Rod, until the lights of Dover port came in to view he had forgotten the anxiety and that smell. The port was busy, freight and passengers queued even at night. Rod queued, moving forward only a few yards at a time. He got closer to the water, tension rising with each short lurch forward. There were dock workers guiding cars in to lines, taking one or two at random to search them and ask a few questions. Rod knew he had put his tools in with the spare tire and his picks were lodged under the dash. When he got to the front he was pleasantly surprised to be waved straight through, as if he was not a single man in a rental car. Slowly he moved forward until he was loaded on the parking deck of the ferry.
On the ferry he was able to stretch his legs and have a smoke. He got an overpriced apple juice and sat down to nurse it for the journey. It takes longer to drive across London than it takes the ferry to cross the English channel. Before long the passengers were heading back to their vehicles. In case anyone had forgotten, there were plenty of large signs warning the English to drive on the right hand side. Rod followed the slow traffic out of the busy port, in to Calais.
Rod did not want to stop so soon, so he drove straight out of Calais heading for Paris. He made it in to the surrounding country and stopped in a lay-by on a small road outside a picturesque village. At first he thought the scent of rural business was in the air but that taste of salt crept back in. Rod panicked his heart was dong gymnastics as he tried to pull his tobacco from his trouser pocket. The rolling papers flew from his shaking hands. Before rod could bend down something restrained him silently from behind. It felt like steel cables had wrapped around his waist and arms. He could not call out as all the air had been squeezed from his lungs, so he just mouthed the word help. Then he felt a sharp pressure on his neck, a sweet pain gave way to euphoric pleasure as he felt himself submit. His last thought was, so this is it, then mercifully he lost conciousness.