3

Gabriel had come full circle. After twenty years searching, he had hit a dead end, only to wind up back where he started. As the Greyhound bus pulled into the station in downtown Savannah, he let out a defeated sigh.

'Home, sweet home, ' he thought. It wasn't exactly untrue – he had spent the first five years of his life here, wide-eyed and wondering at the beauty of the city, and Savannah still held a special place in his heart.

He stepped off the bus, eyeing his reflection in its side view mirror. He knew what he saw wasn't the appearance he presented to others – nevertheless it disturbed him, and it had taken quite a long time and force of will to gaze at his reflection deliberately.

He was tall – at 6'8", almost abnormally so, and riddled with scars. His skin was the pale gray-yellow of jaundice. His hair, a shaggy dark blonde mane fell to his shoulders, each lock growing at a seemingly different pace from the others around it. One green eye and one blue peered out from under a heavy, badly scarred brow. Gabriel looked down at his hands – the one truly beautiful part of his body – they were the hands of an artist – all at once well-muscled as a sculptor's, but with the long and dexterous fingers of a master musician. He focused his mind, let it empty of the rage he felt at his own appearance, and exhaled a breath of tranquility. When he looked up again, the scars were gone, and his skin had taken on a reasonably human pallor. He saw now as those around him did. The bus pulled out, taking its mirror with it, and he set off, his long strides never showing the weariness of his soul.

Jerrod rose earlier than usual that particular morning in late February. He felt invigorated, and not solely due to that night being the night of the full moon. The last two months had been a time of exceptional progress on the Whitaker Street Speak-easy. The day before, he had received their liquor license, and their landlord, despite being both a recovering alcoholic and Unitarian minister had gotten the Savannah Historical Society to approve the reopening. Of course, he had a condition, and what was more, a condition Jerrod had not yet met – it was to serve food as well as alcohol. Jerrod had since acquired all necessary licenses to open. The only thing that remained was to find a cook worthy of the Speak-easy's more unique qualities.

"In other words, a cook who wouldn't balk or call the police at the sight of the refrigerator filled with bagged blood." Said Sam, as the three roommates contemplated this latest step in the process.

Jerrod nodded, "I'd do it myself – at the very least it'd get me out of working at the lumber mill, and I can definitely put together the menu and train somebody, but I just don't have the practiced skill to keep pace in a professional kitchen." he looked to Sam, hopefully.

"Oh, no – sorry Jerr – I can make a mean mixed drink, but I can't boil water without burning it."

So now, as was the way he did most of his best thinking, Jerrod walked the streets of the historic district, allowing his steps to be guided by the sights, sounds and smells of the city; some pleasant, some rather revolting, all quintessentially at home in Savannah. The afternoon was overcast and gray, and though the rain held off in the part of the city he was in (Savannah weather is notoriously unpredictable and diverse, depending on where you happen to be at a given moment), the cool dampness of the air gave way to areas of fairly thin, misty fog, giving apparent credence to the drama of the east coast's "most haunted city."

At some length, he found himself following Lincoln Street, heading north towards the riverfront. He was aware that his path would intersect Colonial Park Cemetery, but oddly, when he arrived at its gates, he found his vision completely obscured by an unnaturally thick fog which encompassed the central region of the cemetery. Denied his vision, Jerrod was far from blinded, and in the distance, he could hear the sounds of struggle; smell the keenly metallic odor of freshly spilled blood. With steely determination in his eyes, Jerrod slipped into the fog.

Gabriel grunted painfully as the vampire drove a devastating punch to his gut. The punch would likely have left a hole in any average human, and at the very least knocked a werewolf or another vampire off their feet. Gabe skidded back a few inches, but stayed upright, and held his ground.

"By decree of the Council of Ordo Noctis, you are to surrender yourself, abomination!" said one of the vampire's compatriots. Gabe knew better than to surrender to the Ordo Noctis – the supernatural governing body of Savannah. He had fled Savannah fifteen years prior due to their lofty "decrees". It was because of them that his creator had been forced to abandon him and go into exile, and if they had their way, he'd be dead and buried all over again.

"What crime have I committed then, that I must surrender?"

"the fact that you had been… assembled here was enough to condemn you, but now you return to our city! Taint it's streets with your heinous presence… your death will be a slow and painful affair."

Jerrod was thankful there wasn't another wolf with them, but then, the Ordo Noctis was extremely careful with its wolves. Due to the volatility of a wolf's emotional state that close to the full moon, the Ordo had decreed that they be under lock and key not only the evening of, but the day leading up to it. Of course, most wolves just stayed home that day, and those that were emergency responders were excused, but Jerrod wasn't exactly on good terms with the fascist supernatural bureaucracy.

Another wolf might have sensed Jerrod's heartbeat, but the fog masked his scent from the two vampires, and the ghost creating the fog was too preoccupied with his litany on abomination and heresy to notice him. He moved in stealthily, as close as he dared go before he was ready to make his move, withdrawing from a well concealed pocket in his leather jacket an iron pry bar, perhaps a foot in length. 'I'll have to move quickly,' he thought, 'the ghost can't be allowed to see me, or I'll have the Ordo on my back for sure. And I can't give either vamp the chance to flee…' Timing, he knew, would be everything.

Gabriel sidestepped another punch from the vampire who had struck him, only to realize that he hadn't intended for the punch to land at all. Within a fraction of an instant, the vampire had him in a headlock as the second one stepped up, a rather wicked looking knife in hand.

"You should be flattered, abomination. This knife was made especially for you." said the ghost, apparently the spokesman for the ordo among the three – the other two were clearly there for muscle alone. "Note that one edge is silver and the other iron, and it is coated in a mixture of aconite, Dead Sea salt and water from a fast flowing stream – as you can see, we've spared no expense in ensuring your destruction."

Gabriel let out a pained growl, as the tip of the knife was drawn along the skin of his upper right arm. The wound burned terribly, and as the pain spread up his arm, he was forced to drop his glamour to resist crying out in agony. He watched as the vampire drew the knife along to the first of many stitching scars. He braced himself for pain he knew he would not be able to hold up against, when he suddenly noticed another figure slip up behind the ghost.

The ghost, who was watching his agony rather intently, noticed the change in the direction of Gabriel's gaze, and began to turn, but not before a hand wielding what it was safe to assume was something iron ripped through his midsection, dispersing him. At the sound of the ghost's cry, the vampire with the knife whirled round far too late, and found the pointed end of the pry bar imbedded in his chest. For an infinitely long fraction of a second, the wolf who had come to his rescue looked him up and down. This was the first time since he had learned to conceal his true appearance that someone had seen Gabriel as he was. Then the impaled vampire dissipated into dust, the wolf nodded as if to say don't worry – I am not afraid, and stepped to one side, proffering the improvised stake. In one swift and terrible motion, Gabe grabbed his captor, whirled him over his shoulder, and planted him squarely on the upturned metal rod.

As the second vampire became dust and was cast to the wind, and the fog began to break, Gabriel felt his rage subside, and as the emptiness that is the calm after the storm entered him, he turned gratefully to his rescuer.

"So," said Jerrod, snapping in two under his boot the wicked knife they had used on the stranger, "this may come as an extremely odd question, but, any chance you're a decent cook?"