Submission
by Soledad
A "Pathways in the Dark" story
Part 20 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Triangle".
For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.
Rating: Adults only, please!
Warning: This chapter contains particularly strong elements of violence, with very disturbing images. Read at your own risk.
Author's notes: Mick St. John is, of course, a guest star from the excellent TV-series "Moonlight". I just couldn't withstand the temptation to include him. If you want visuals from Bernie the Monkey, think of Brent Spiner as the crazy scientist in "Independence Day". Jean-Vincent is, of course, "played" by Jan-Michael Vincent from "Airwolf". They are both RPG characters, and it's game canon that Bernie was killed by Jean-Vincent, according to the LA by Night website.
Summary: Justin gets more than he's bargained for. Meanwhile, Phillipe Navital helps Brian to figure out who's sending him the anonymous mails, and a new business opportunity is offered to Michael.
Brian woke up after a night of most relaxing sex with Phillipe. He'd gone to the lawyer's haven on the previous evening because he'd needed something solidly familiar, and Phillipe was a known quality. Besides, sex always helped him to relax, especially if drugs and booze were no options. Which they weren't anymore. Vampires had a much higher tolerance for alcohol – in fact, it was near impossible for someone of such a strong bloodline as his to get drunk on booze alone, unless consumed it purely and through an IV drip – and Alain felt strongly about mind-altering drugs.
Strongly enough to make pre-emptive measures. Basically, he'd told Brian to break the habit, or he'd break his bones. Every single one of them, one by one. And Brian knew his Sire well enough to know that Alain had meant it literally. After all, vampires healed quickly.
So the only familiar way to relax was sex, and with Phillipe, it always was a lot of fun. The Ventrue had a fine technique and the usual Kindred stamina, and he was willing to switch. Since Brian had to submit to his Sire nine times out of ten, he'd felt like playing the dominant partner for a change, and Phillipe had no objections. They'd known each other intimately for a year or so already, and it was easy to find ways that satisfied them both.
"It was a most agreeable night," Phillipe commented in his usual understated manner at about an hour before sunrise. "Becoming a Kindred seems to have increased your natural abilities… but that was to be expected. The Change doesn't make us different persons – just members of a different species."
Brian grinned. "Only you can have a philosophical discussion during post-coital bliss."
"I didn't intend to," Phillipe replied, stepping into the bathroom to have a shower. He was the most fastidious person Brian had ever met, human or undead. "It was just an observation. I enjoyed our little get-together. You may call on me whenever you feel frustrated."
"Perhaps I will," Brian said. "Can I use your laptop, too? I'd like to check my mail."
"Naturellement," not the least bothered by his own nudity, Phillipe walked back into his living room that also served as his home office and typed in his password. "Be my guest!"
"Aren't you afraid that I'll be spying on your fiendish lawyer's secrets?" Brian asked, logging in to the mailing programme.
Phillipe shrugged. "They're individually encrypted and protected by different passwords. You're welcome to try, though," and with that, he went back to the bathroom.
When he emerged again after his shower, Brian was starring at the laptop's screen, petrified. Filling the screen was a snapshot of Alain and Michael, kissing passionately in front of Alain's car. In the background some nondescript industrial building could be seen, perhaps a cargo hall.
"It's just come via e-mail," Brian said without looking up. "That's Alain's private haven, isn't it?"
Phillipe nodded. "It seems so, although I haven't been there since he finished the place."
"I've never been there," Brian said sullenly. "He never took me there."
Phillipe shrugged. "Have you asked? Perhaps he'd have shown it you, had you shown any interest. The place has a great personal importance for him."
"I'm not very good at asking," Brian admitted.
"You might want to learn how to do it," Phillipe suggested. "It could solve some problems… and prevent misunderstandings. Do you believe that this little message comes from your ex again?"
"He's not my ex," Brian snapped. "Just an annoying little stalker who wouldn't accept no as an answer. Too bad I can't send the police after him."
"That won't be a good idea," Phillipe agreed. "We must keep a low profile to protect the Masquerade. What you need is a good PI – preferably an undead one – to collect evidence, so that we can make our move."
Brian laughed humourlessly. "I can't really walk into Angel Investigations and ask the Prince to help me get rid of my stalker," he said.
"No," Phillipe agreed. "The Prince and his family are specialized in bigger things like that: demon infestations, Sabbat massacres and general mayhem of the similar kind. But there are other Kindred who deal with smaller annoyances, and I think that Mick St. John is your man."
Mick St. John climbed the wall of the New Age occult store Aquarius without any effort and made himself comfortable on the flat roof of the little one-story building. Through the air ducts he could see everything that was happening down in the shop, and his acute vampire hearing enabled him to follow potential conversations between the shop owner and his customers.
He vaguely remembered having met Bernie the Monkey – now in his early sixties – decades ago. At a time when Bernie still had been a vampire wannabe and belonged to Joseph's personal herd. Before the then-young man would mess up his brain with drugs so badly that Joseph had to declare him a security risk, wipe his memory and set him out.
Apparently, Bernie had been completely caught up in the New Age movement since then. And apparently, he hadn't given up on his precious drugs, if his puffy face and reddened, swollen eyes were any indication. He'd also become rather flabby in all the years in-between, and his long hair had turned iron grey. He was anything but an attractive man, and so it had surprised Mick that the young blond thrall he'd been hired to follow would have anything with him.
The request coming from a respected member of the Camarilla elite had surprised him, to tell the truth. He was a clanless Anarch, forced into unlife without being asked first, without his consent. In a city under tight Camarilla control he'd have been destroyed decades ago – which was why he'd chosen LA as his dwelling space, the last fortress of Anarch freedom. Here, under the rule of an Anarch Prince, he had nothing to fear – at least not from the Camarilla and its allies. And he didn't want to meet his Final Death – not yet. He could protect the clueless mortals from his own kind or from the predators in their own rows – and he was reasonably content to do so.
Rarely did the Camarilla contact him (although he did sometimes do small jobs for Anarch leader Salvador Garcia), and he'd been surprised that all they'd wanted him to do was to keep watch on some blond twink. Even if said blond twink was the plaything of Jean-Vincent, which made the whole job all the more interesting.
Mick hated the Sabbat and what they represented, despite the fact that – technically – he'd be counted as one of them: someone of such uncertain origins he didn't even know which Clan his bloodline originated from. Not that he'd care. He gave his undead existence as little consideration as possible, working on the main – and some would said hopeless – agenda to become a human being again. There supposed to be a way – an arcane process called the shansu – and some said that even the Prince of the City had thought about walking that path once. Well, Angelus might have given up on it – Mick St. John definitely hadn't.
The way to shansu, he'd been told, led through protecting the innocent and the helpless against vampires, demons and evil mortals alike. Becoming a PI was his way to follow that path and, so he hoped, eventually reach his ultimate goal. Although why the Camarilla types might have thought that this Justin character would match his usual profile was beyond his understanding. The twink had obviously chosen to become Jean-Vincent's boy toy, for whatever insane reason, and if he found it a good idea to offer his ass to Bernie the Monkey for the questionable advantage of using the computers of the Aquarius, that was his problem, too. And Bernie's should Jean-Vincent realize that his little bed-warmer was cheating on him.
Mick couldn't understand how the Sabbat vampire had failed to smell the foreign scent on the twink – unless, of course, he used Blondie to star in his third-class porn movie, in which case even a bloodhound would have a hard time to sniff all the people who'd done the youngster. It was possible, of course, that Jean-Vincent simply didn't care, but somehow Mick doubted that. The Sabbat were jealous of what they considered their property; cattle generally weren't allowed to make their own choices. Perhaps it was just a matter of time for Jean-Vincent to do something really… drastic about the whole affair.
Still, that didn't explain why the Camarilla was interested in Blondie in the first place. Like any good PI, Mick had studied Justin Taylor's file, given him by his employers, even listened around in the circles of artist wannabes, both mortal and undead, but couldn't find anything of true interest. Blond twinks like him were a dozen a dime in LA. Granted, the boy did have some decent artistic talent, or else Alain DeLaigle had never accepted him as a student, but so had hundreds of other budding artists in town.
Well, as long as Navital & Waters paid him full for such a simple observation, he'd keep doing it as long as thy wanted. Mick glanced at his watch. If he kept his usual schedule, Blondie would arrive within twenty and thirty minutes, to let himself in with the spare key and do whatever he was doing with the computers. Mostly editing pictures and sending e-mails to various peoples. It was rather dull, really.
Mick sighed, chose a more comfortable position on the roof and opened his sharp vampiric senses, so that hey would alert him fort he twink's arrival. It was only then that he realized the all-too.-familiar stench of death somewhere down below within the house – and the presence of a powerful vampire nearby.
The filming of the Rage movie was winding down to its end, but Michael knew they would be a lot of work yet before it could hit the theatres. Currently, they were watching the last dailies, he and Brett and Edward Blount: the scenes recently filmed with Suzie Wong in the role of the blind female swordfighter, Dragonfly.
The role had gone through quite a few changes since its original conception. Dragonfly had started as a psychic blind woman with slight preternatural abilities but had become a much more martial figure in the end. Now she was a fighter in the best Japanese action movie tradition; one that balanced out her lack of sight with the unnatural sharpness of her other senses.
To play the part of the blind woman more convincing, Suzie had trained for her scenes blindfolded and had opaque contact during filming that only allowed her to see light and shadows. The end results were stunning. Trained in several martial arts, before all else in aikido, Suzie developed an artistic, well-choreographed art of moving and fighting that was practically unique.
Her shared scenes with Bai Ling – who played her roommate… soul-bounded… lover… whatever in the movie – turned out spectacular, too. Although the only onscreen body contact between them was the touching of fingertips (which was how they communicated telepathically, as Bai Ling's character was supposedly mute) the air literally sizzled between them with sexual tension. Granted, they were bisexual like most vampires, but they didn't have any interest in each other privately. On the big screen, however, they were hotter than a pair of volcanoes. Even Michael had to admit it, although he'd never in his life had any interest in women, lesbian or otherwise.
He wondered why the eroticism between the both actresses didn't bother him at all, while he'd often found the public display of affection between Lindsay and Melanie so embarrassing. Part of the reason must have been the fact that he looked at the artistic beauty of the two exotic flowers with a professional eye. Not to mention the fact that he had not to gear competition from their side where Brian's attentions were considered.
Perhaps that was the reason why he could never truly grow fond of Lindsay, while he'd used to get along with Melanie well enough – aside from the Justin issue, that is. Because even Lindsay had had Brian, despite being a woman, while he hadn't. Because Lindsay had a child with Brian, which he could never have, even if they had gotten together. Because both Lindsay and Melanie had the cheek to berate him about Brian and take Justin's side against him every time. Because Brian had to sign over his parental rights over Gus to keep Lindsay on Melanie's side, or else he, too, would have lost Gus completely, while the two women had no problems with accepting Brian's money. What fucking bitches!
He shook his head in disgust, forcing his attention back to the dailies. That made him notice the door opening and Vera Vignes leading in two Asian-looking (presumably Japanese) visitors and offering them seats in the back rows. One of them was an elderly businessman in a conservative – and very expensive – Armani suit. Michael already knew him from seeing: Yoshida Ozaki, one of Little Tokyo's most prominent businesspeople and the owner of a local bank. As such, he had excellent contacts in both the Japanese and the Korean community in LA and did his best to counteract the growing Chinese influence in town.
The other visitor was a petite Japanese woman in her late twenties, barely taller than five feet, with her dark hair pinned up in a traditional style. In her extravagant black business suit – a unique Girard model – she looked like a silk painting.
"Who's that?" Michael asked in a low voice. She had to be important if Vera Vignes took the effort to bring her here personally.
"Mika Ishimaru," Brett replied after a sideway glance. "She wants to sponsor a spin-off to the Rage movie, focusing on our two female Asian characters."
"She's got that much money?" Michael was impressed.
Brett shrugged. "Her father was a Yakuza obayun – basically a gang boss – in Osaka, a great defender of the samurai tradition. He came here in 1987 to establish a steady Yakuza presence in LA but was assassinated when tried to infringe Chinatown. Mika, playing her father's lieutenants against one another, managed to preserve most of the family business. She has a series of night clubs, restaurants and other cash businesses; all very well-suited for money laundering, I guess."
"And Vera intends to make business with her?" Michael was a little taken aback by that.
Brett shrugged again. "All big money is a bit dirty, one way or another, and moviemaking isn't cheap. Besides, we can't know for sure. The thing is, she's a competent businesswoman, with extensive training in academic pursuits, and she also worked with a personal defence trainer for years. She does have some experience with traditional Japanese forms of combat and wants a big action movie with our exotic couple, made in the best tradition of Hong Kong cinema. There is a big market for that in the Asian communities of the States, and if done well, such a movie would make us enough profit to give the Rage sequel a kick start." He gave Michael a shrewd look. "Would you be interested in writing the screenplay?"
"Me?" Michael said in shock. "I don't know a thing about the Hong Kong cinema!"
"You can do something about that," Brett pointed out reasonably. "It's called research. We can get you copies of the best movies with the greatest female stars; we can get you in touch with the screenwriters for brainstorming, and as for the rest... you've got a degree in moviemaking now. Use it."
Michael laughed. "I've only learned the basics, Brett! A lifetime won't be enough to learn everything I'd need to learn about moviemaking."
"You can have a lifetime… and more than that," Brett retorted. "It's up to you, really. As far as I know, Alain is more than willing to give you the chance."
For a moment, Mick St. John hesitated. He was still young as vampires go, and confront a powerful Sabbat – because he had little doubt who else could have been hiding in the house – would have been suicidal. Besides, the human down below, most likely Bernie the Monkey, because who else could it have been, was already dead. It wasn't as if he could have been helped in any way.
So, what was there for Mick St. John to do? Blondie would arrive in minutes, walking straight into the clutches of a seriously pissed-off Sabbat. Mick could feel the boiling wrath of the other vampire even from such distance. No, the Sabbat didn't like their sheep to flirt with other shepherds – or even with other sheep, for that matter. Blondie could call himself Lucky if Jean-Vincent simply intended to kill him – not that that seemed likely. Based on the stench, there had to be quite the carnage going on down below. And once the Sabbat started on a killing spree, they weren't easy to stop.
Mick realized that his choices were limited at best. For the first time, he regretted having refused to carry a phosphorous gun, the only weapon that could kill vampires safely, aside from beheading and fire. He could have alarmed the Prince's Enforcers; every Camarilla vampire and those who sympathized with the Camarilla knew the emergency call number, but waiting for reinforcements would have taken too long.
On the other hand, he knew he wouldn't have a rat's chance against a powerful Sabbat on his own. Not face to face, at least. All he could count on was the moment of surprise. Not that he'd have been particularly worried about the blond twink – he wasn't eager to put his unlife to risk for such a selfish little prick – but his sense of duty didn't allow him to let the kid be torn apart alive.
Decision made, Mick St. John began to descend from the roof in the best noiseless manner he was capable of.
Justin was walking towards the Aquarius in a jolly good mood. Jean-Vincent hadn't returned from the Hunt in the previous night, which meant that he'd spend the day in one of his other havens. Which, on the other hand, meant that Justin was free to do as he pleased all day, without waiting for permission from his master – or needing to lie to him.
Not that Jean-Vincent would care much about his daily activities – unless he needed some 'artistic' input for his current movie, which usually meant help to choose positions or other such activities, he was making cheap porn, after all – but he tended to be a control freak, and Justin liked his freedom. That was the reason why he organized his private business trough the computers of the Aquarius, even if it meant he had to allow Bernie to fuck him in exchange, which was, frankly, quite disgusting. But his youth and his good looks were his only capital – it would take years because he could live off his art alone, especially after having screwed up his relationship with Alain DeLaigle and associates beyond repair.
Of course, all that wouldn't matter, once Jan-Vincent had turned him into a ghoul. That would keep him young and pretty forever, with plenty of time on his hands to get Brian back. If he had to wait for Michael to grow old and die, he would. Time wouldn't be a matter anymore, and besides, as soon as Michael began to turn grey and wrinkled, Brian would lose interest in him.
And that was only the slowest, least preferable solution. It would be much better if Brian got properly pissed about Alain and Michael cheating on him. His fucking Sire and his best friend – that had to sting, and Justin was determined to help getting the kettle to boil. If Brian got mad enough, he might even break up with both of them and turn Justin to his personal ghoul, so that they'd stay together for… well, forever.
Whistling jauntily and slightly off-key – as much as he'd admired Ethan's music, he couldn't carry a tune himself for his life – he opened the back door of the Aquarius with the key Bernie had given him and entered the storeroom. It always had a strong scent, as Bernie kept here his supply of exotic herbs, incense sticks, teas and all that esoteric stuff. Justin hated the smell, but this was the shortest way to the store itself, where the computers stood. Besides, the smell kept the drug hounds from finding the good stuff.
This morning, however, it was stronger than usual and seemed to come from the store itself. That stupid old fart had either spilled something particularly vile in his drunken stupor – or was smoking pot already. Justin had a fairly relaxed attitude toward drugs (it would have been hard not to, considering the time he'd used to spend in Brian's company), but what Bernie was doing in that area was a bit too much, even for him.
Even though it provided him with a nice side business that helped paying his bills.
"Hey, Bernie!" he called out, opening the door to the store, "are you in here?"
He got no answer, so he entered the store to see whether the old hippie was stone drunk, high as a kite or possibly dead from a heart attack. What he found, however, was a scenario from a horror movie. From a cheap and especially bloody one.
The first thing he spotted was Bernie's head… placed atop a tall Chinese vase, wire-rimmed glasses still sitting askew on his pointy nose, his long, grey hair spread all over the counter. His lifeless, watery blue eyes were dimmed like opaque glass, but the terror was still mirrored in them.
Bernie's torso, clad in one of those hilariously-coloured Hawaii shirts and Bermuda shorts, was thrown carelessly in front of the counter, like that of a broken doll. Again, like a broken doll, it lacked all extremities. The bloody limbs were randomly arranged on the various shelves of the store, arms still wearing those stupid good-luck-charm bracelets and feet still stuck in rainbow-coloured rubber sandals. Blood was dripping from the counter, the shelves and the various items in-between and was pooling on the floor.
The stench of death was unbelievable.
And in the middle of this slaughterhouse, Jean-Vincent was sitting calmly in a wicker chair, wearing his usual non-descript jeans, black shirt and worn leather jacket. His plain, round face, slightly wrinkled around his mouth – he had been beyond forty when turned – seemed calm and indifferent, too. But in those slanted eyes of his glittered cold madness, and Justin began to understand for the first time the magnitude of his own stupidity.
"A little late for such profound realizations," the creature sitting amidst the carnage said casually; after all that blood-sharing he could snatch up Justin's panicked thoughts easily. "As thy say, hindsight is fifty-fifty, isn't it? You know, boy, I'd have looked the other way if you'd just offered your perky little ass to that… thing," he waved in the general direction of the late Bernie's separate body parts with a hand that was sporting vicious talons all of a sudden, "after all, half the city has already been there, so why should one more dick matter? But no, that wasn't enough for you, was it? You had to meddle with drug business, and cause me to have a very… unpleasant visit from the Setites who control the drug import in LA. And did you really think that I wouldn't catch you selling pirate copies of my latest movie through the Internet? Do you think I've survived so long by being stupid?"
Justin was too petrified with horror to even think of any convincing answer, left alone speak. Jean-Vincent nodded with terrifying satisfaction.
"Thought so," his voice was so… normal, so business-like that it freaked Justin out more than even the direst threats would have, making him nearly piss himself from fear. "Well, you were mistaken, obviously," the Sabbat vampire continued in the same casual tone. "I'm not some pathetic human to give up any important things for a piece of blond boy ass. Yours was good, but the costs involved turned out to be entirely too high for my liking. So you'll understand that I'm writing off my losses."
And with that, he rose and extended a clawed hand towards Justin who was unable to move or even to scream for help. Not that he could have hoped anyone to hear him.
Mick St. John was grateful for the fact that vampires didn't need to breathe. He'd have been puking his guts out by now otherwise; not to mention that Jean-Vincent would have heard his panting in the moment he entered the store. It was also fortunate that the Sabbat was drunk with bloodlust and totally focused on his next victim, or else he'd have noticed Mick's presence. Vampires had a sixth sense for each other; it was an instinct that came with the Change.
But the Sabbat seemed too busy with his mortal prey to watch out for his own kind, which gave Mick the advantage he'd wished for. What he needed now was a suitable weapon – not an easy problem to solve in the seconds left from Blondie's life. Vampires were notoriously hard to kill, and an old and powerful Sabbat represented a category on its own.
Beheading would have been the best, but Mick seriously doubted that Bernie, a devout follower of the outdated hippie philosophy, would keep anything like a sword or an axe around. Setting the shop on fire wouldn't work, either – it was too slow, not to mention that it would have killed him, too, and probably Blondie as well.
Looking around frantically for something – anything – that he could use as a weapon, Nick suddenly spotted a candlestick on the counter. It was an antique piece that stood out of these esoteric surroundings like a sore thumb; had he had the time, Mick would have wondered where Bernie the Monkey had got such a precious thing. Stolen, most likely, or accepted as payment from someone who'd lifted it during burglary, perhaps. In any case, it was made of silver, and it had three long, razor-sharp spikes where the candles were supposed to be stuck. Long enough to reach the heart of a man through the ribcage – or that of a vampire.
Time being the essential factor at the moment, Mick dropped his human disguise and rushed for the candlestick with his best vampire speed. Even so, he was almost… almost too late. In the very moment he made his move, the Sabbat whirled around, also wearing his true face – and a nightmarish visage it was! – ready to tear him to pieces.
Mick had less than a second of advantage on him, but for a vampire, that was enough. He ducked to avoid the Sabbat's talons and thrust the candlestick upwards with all his strength, stopping the other vampire in mid-leap.
Silver cannot kill vampires, but it can paralyze them. So can any pointy metal object rammed through their hearts. A silver dagger – well, in this case a candlestick – was enough to paralyze even an old and powerful Sabbat. The undead had their own specific weaknesses, and they knew how to utilize those against each other best. That fact had saved Mick's life… unlife… whatever... repeatedly in the last sixty years.
He carefully stepped away from the paralyzed Sabbat and fished his cell phone from his pocket, hitting #1 on his speed-dial: the alarm for the clean-up service.
"Mick St. John," he said to the vampire on duty. "I've got a Sabbat situation here," he gave the address. "You better hurry up to get here before someone calls the police. The Sabbat had a little… fun before I arrived. It's… well, ugly, even as we see things. Blood, carnage, body parts everywhere, the full nine miles."
"Any mortals involved?" the vampire on the other end of the connection asked.
"One," Mick replied, "but he was the thrall of the Sabbat, so worrying about the Masquerade is a moot point."
"All right," the vampire said. "The team is on its way. I've sent the Nosferatu; they know best how to deal with that sort of thing. Get the mortal away from there. Make him forget if you can."
"I can't," Mick said. "I'm of Weak Blood, and I'm fairly young for one of us – Domination isn't my forte."
"Then find someone who can," the vampire said. "Whatever the Prince might think, panicked humans with knowledge about us are a danger for our existence."
"I can take him to Josef," Mick offered. "He's old enough to…"
"No," the vampire interrupted. "He's been too careless lately. Take him somewhere safe, try to calm him down, and report back later. This is serious; don't screw it up!"
"It's not my style," Mick retorted, slightly insulted by the lecturing. Usually, it was the other way round; usually he had to clean up after the stupidity of other vampires.
He hung up, without waiting for an answer, and turned his attention to the terrified blond twink. He sniffed and pulled a face. The little idiot had in fact pissed himself! Not that Mick blamed him, because really, the carnage and Jean-Vincent, who was still not the Final Death kind of dead, could have frightened much braver people out of their minds. Still, it was disgusting. Someone who socialized with the undead on a regular basis should have known that it wasn't a safe thing to do.
God beware us from groupies and vampire wannabes," he thought sourly. Blondie here had not only chosen to sell his tight little ass to a vicious Sabbat, he'd also managed somehow to cross important members of the Camarilla… Mick would have loved to know whom and why.
Which reminded him that he ought to call his employer about the unexpected – and not very pleasant – twist in the job. Like all Camarilla sympathizers, he had the number of Navital & Waters saved in his cell phone. The law firm had both mortal and vampire employees. With the practical result that they could be reached around the clock. Also, they would know what to do about the knocked-out Sabbat. They were used to deal with that sort of thing.
At the fourth ring, a female voice answered the phone. "Navital and Waters," it said with a strong Spanish accent. "Can I help you?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to speak to Mr. Navital personally," Mick said. "I'm Mick St. John. I'm working on a personal project of his, and things have just taken a, say, unexpected turn. I need instructions."
"Just a moment, please," the woman with the Spanish accent spoke to someone in French, and then Phillipe Navital came to the phone in person.
"You have news?" he asked.
"You can say that," Mick replied wearily. "When Blondie and I arrived at the Aquarius, jean-Vincent had already taken the place – and the owner – apart. Literally. The sight is… disturbing, to say the least."
"I see," Navital paused. "You've called clean-up, I presume?"
"Of course," Mick said. "But I've got a Sabbat with a silver candlestick spike in his heart here, and I don't know if clean-up is really up to deal with that."
"No, I don't think so, either," Navital agreed. "I'll call the Prince. Can you remove the hard drives of all the computers there in the meantime? We might need the data… and it would be better if the police didn't find anything. We've got our people at the LAPD, but…"
Mick shrugged, although the lawyer couldn't see that, of course. "Sure, I can do that. What should I do with Blondie?"
"Take him to the Hyperion," Navital suggested. "The Prince can decide what to do with him. He is… well, he was… a Sabbat dependent, after all."
"Gladly," Mick said. "I'm happy I won't have to deal with him. He seems high maintenance."
"According to a friend, he is," Navital replied. "Can you wait for the Enforcers? It wouldn't be good if some mortal busybody stumbled over that scene and tried to help the Sabbat."
"I will," Mick promised, "just tell them to hurry up. I don't feel comfortable here."
TBC