*.*
One of the strangest perks she hadn't expected as a newcomer in the city as a whole was that she had found getting around more easily than she had at first anticipated. By this point she had memorised a chunk of streets and ways to get around. Cab being the primary way to get to where she needed to be. Which in itself was suspicious enough, creepy and all around not right. But it was something she didn't dare to think about too deeply. She already had too much on her plate to delve into the mystery of a cab always being readily available to her.
She had reached the apartment building Damsel had pointed her to, and had found Paul's place not only to be unlocked, but the doors were left slightly ajar as well.
They told her Malkavians had the gift of foresight. She didn't need one, or to be one, to know that things ended badly between these walls. If the stench of a decomposing body wasn't a clue enough, the swarm of flies would be a dead giveaway. Clearly, the building was devoid of any tenants who would notice either of these two clues.
Indeed, without much looking around she had found the body of the ghoul named Paul on the floor of the kitchen. Maybe he was reaching for the glass of water, or the nearby phone, right as he collapsed. The answering machine had the message that, according to the date at least, has been sitting there for a while. Since his death? Or was he going for it?
'Hi, Paul? It's Hannah. Just callin' to see how you are. I hope I didn't give you what I've got.'
Before approaching the body she did a quick tour through the apartment, and found nothing. Just by looking at him, she could see how the disease had eaten him away. Sasha had seen people die of cancer, and had a close encounter with the dying. This wasn't it. This was something much worse.
'Ugh... I feel like crap. Actually, I need to ask you a favour. Could you pick me up some cold medicine at the store? I hate to bother you, but... I can't seem to get out of bed. The code to my door is 1203.'
His eyes were gone, not simply white cobweb but as if rotted away. And the blood vessels across his body have become as thick as tree roots, bursting with something that reeked of a… bog. Sasha had no idea why that description of all things would come to her mind, especially since it was quite the opposite of a decomposing swamp - which was what was happening here. Old Tin Can Bill died too fast and was sick on top of whatever he was given, she could never see how bad it really was. Was his body still there when she left the sewer?
'Hey, listen, I, uh... had a really good time the other night. Maybe we could do it again sometime?'
But Paul was a ghoul. By all accounts the vampire blood should have kept him going... unless the disease was so invasive it just chewed through the vampire stuff. So... a magical blood-borne illness? She dearly wished her abilities were just… more. Being young really wasn't helping her right now.
'Sorry... I'm rambling. Okay, bye.'
Sasha looked at the answering machine for the longest while after the ending beep. If she could've gone paler, she would've.
Good God above, she didn't like where this was going.
Upstairs, she had found the girl, dead in her bed. Sasha couldn't tell for how long she had been lying there, forgotten. She didn't know how long she stood there, in front of the deceased's bed.
If Damsel refuses and decides to pussyfoot around, she will need to call someone to take care of the bodies. Masquerade be damned.
The dead girl couldn't tell her much. There were no traces of bites, which was given, but she had to be the initial victim and it was Paul who got it from her. That seemed like the most logical chain of events. She should really start investing in some medical books and start learning more about human anatomy. Astrophysics isn't exactly proving to be much of a practical use here (outside of sort of knowing something about explosives).
But where did the poor come in, then? Shelters? Most died on the street before having the chance to spread the disease. There was too little information and too much guessing for her liking.
With a quick look around, she had found an appointment book. Hannah was an escort girl. With her last appointment at the Empire Hotel. She had learned the hard way that it was a popular feeding ground... It was disconcerting to her that she was reduced to calling it that, and yet there was simply no better alternative to describe the mentality of a predator and how they've divided the city into territories. How was she supposed to kill a vampire in the middle of the hotel filled with guests? She could only count on the vampire equally not being keen on getting noticed and having all her hard work ruined... but how realistic was that? And if she finds herself on the losing end, things will get ugly.
There was a criminal group on the floor above, she knew that much, but how would she get them involved? Humans would be easily shredded by a frenzied vampire... But these ones also carried a lot of bullets on them. Enough to do some shredding in return. And if she were being honest, she had promised Venus for the longest while to look into the crime syndicate that has been blackmailing her. She just had no idea that the entirety of the sixth floor was filled with the kind of armed brutes you'd only see as silent extras in movies.
Yeah. That's going to take some planning.
But the sewers were a bigger unknown. She hoped that Bertram had to be up and about by now.
*.*
Sure enough. One trip from downtown to Santa Monica, in her one and only cab, she had found the Nosferatu in the abandoned oil tank. His hiding place was over at Sunco Gasoline, with the gate now unlocked. She didn't dare step in too much into the tank, despite being given permission. It felt like intruding. Now that she had a better understanding of just how easy it was for them to hide in plain sight, she wasn't surprised anymore by his choice of residence. Anyone would believe him to be no more than a squatter. With a working PC. That tracks if you don't think about it too much.
"You keep coming around, cupcake. Now, either you like my company, or I am the best informant around."
"Or the cheapest."
There was some kind of strange paranoia mingled with fascination with the Nosferatu that the rest of the kindred as a whole had. It was something she couldn't quite understand. Bertram was the first she had ever met, but by that point she had sort-of stumbled on a trophy serial killer, has been chased around by an axe-wielding ghost of a serial killer in a haunted hotel lit by spectral fire, and had seen exactly how crazy Therese and Jeanette were. Bertram's appearance might have been something of a shock for the senses but by that point she just wanted the long night to be over – it wasn't, not by a long shot.
And then she learned of the existence of a very creative clan named Tzimisce. And ever since that not-so-fun lengthy excursion in the sewers, as far as Sasha was concerned, every damn Nosferatu was a Vogue model in her book.
"Watch it, kid. That kind of thing works only because you're too damn young to know better."
"And I don't have a sire for you to complain to?"
"Hmph... I wish the Tremere would finally and 'officially' make you part of their 'pyramid' so I can have a proper reason to be pissed at you."
"Strauss made it very clear that I shouldn't expect that. I was told that my sire being a disgrace was apparently more than enough for the clan to not even consider me anywhere near them," she shrugged.
That was the clan's position, but Strauss did hint on other possibilities – none of which sounded promising if the rest of the Tremere already considered her to be lower than dirt they walked on. Never mind that beside Strauss, she hadn't seen a single one. "But you can still be pissed. I am here because I need something."
"You know the drill by now, cupcake. Any information you want is going to cost you."
"A dead Kuei-jin agent you set me up to kill for you should be enough for an exchange."
"That was weeks ago."
"Two weeks."
"Still not much of a bargaining chip." His lip curled showing whole rows of needle-like teeth.
He still blamed that on 'blood magic'.
Asshole.
She had no blood magic. And he damn well knew that. She had no sire to teach her the rituals, the charms, the symbols and whatever else that whole stick involved. But the rule was thus – if you are labelled Tremere, you are hated and guilty of everything not going right. Or doing right, except you know, you're a cheating bastard using blood magic.
"You've milked me for a favour there. You've said it yourself."
"And I showed you the path right to the Sabbath's back door."
"After I calmed Therese down enough to call off the feud. Jeanette couldn't stop her mewling about just how very happy she was to see you again."
Sunken eyes glared at her. Better not to go about guessing just what Jeanette did later that night, and how much say he had in it. Two stars, by the way, but she'll die before she ever says that out loud to him. ...Who's she kidding? He had probably hacked through Jeanette's laptop a long time ago.
"You're learning a little too fast for my tastes. All right, what do ya need?"
"Unused-... no, unseen sewer tunnels under the downtown area. Specifically under and around the Last Round."
"Ah," he let out a chuckle, red eyes lighting up with mirth. "They have you chasing the plaguebearer. Being on pest control duty makes for a shitty night." He said that as if he was reminiscing of his much younger and less peaceful nights.
"You know he's there?!"
"Cupcake..." he shook his head, as if trying to have patience with her juvenile innocence.
"There's a plaguebearer in your backyard and you're not dealing with him?"
"Sure. Sometimes. If you like doing community work. Doesn't do it much for me personally."
"How's that make any-...?"
"Nosferatu business." He cut her off with a particularly sharp gesture, one she really didn't expect from him given their almost leisurely chat up until this point. "That's all you need to know. Good luck dealing with the thing though."
Very soon after joining the ranks of the undead, Sasha had learned that vampires liked to refer to the ones they despised or didn't fit into the 'sane' kindred society, as an 'it' or a 'creature'. Which was hypocritical as fuck given that they were all walking corpses. She had heard that Nosferatu in particular were often referred to as such. It was doubly so for the Tzimice, and that made sense. Those things didn't even categorise themselves as anything remotely human.
"If I'm to deal with him, then I need to get into your damn labyrinth to find him."
She clutched at the strap of her container hiding the blade, fingers digging in fear at what was to come.
The kind of hunt that she would embark on. "How do you think that's going to go?"
"Huh. I'm gonna make an assumption that you are not gonna do well."
"Right."
He shook his head, and let out a guttural snarl – not aggressive, it was just how his vocal cords were now. She caught 'lucky' and 'likes you' in between noises. It looked to her as if deciding on doing something he really shouldn't and not really liking it one bit. But for all she knew, it could've been a staged performance. Things worked like that in these parts.
"Look, you want to go hunting this thing through the sewers right under the dead centre of the city, you'll either need someone who knows the area, or get a map."
"You don't have any?"
"It's all up here, cupcake," he tapped the side of his large, misshapen head. "And I don't plan to tag along on this excursion of yours. Mitnick can help you with the hard copies. If you catch him in the right mood." A different way of saying, 'if he's properly motivated.' Oh he'll be. She had set up all those networking hubs for him and she was yet to see something come out of it for her.
...And she was slowly starting to sound like them.
The problem for her was... that Mitnick was also very firmly hauled up down in the Warrens, with no intention of ever leaving his small, cozy, high-tech filled room.
Sasha sighed. It was a very human thing to do. Most kindred stopped with that kind of nonsense a decade down the line. At least they won't stop her from hunting it down from the sound of it.
"He's not going to send me those over the email, is he?"
There was a smirk, the kind that could put a fear of anything and everything one's twisted imagination could come up with – into a hardened war veteran's mind, or even any vicious killer in general.
"What do ya think, cupcake?"
It was back to the Warrens for her.
Fuck.
*.*
