In the seediest neighbourhood of New York City (or more technically its outskirts) was Clan Blackmoore's base of operation, Skye Manor. Unlike its namesake, the previous vampiric headquarters back in Scotland, this one looked almost derelict from the outside; an ugly thing. Slate tiles clung to the roof in clumps like concrete scabs, the garden an untamed jungle full of listless orchids and strangling vines – all pallid with death. It was about as welcoming as its residents.

Alistair, the current chieftain of the family, sat in a plush armchair in the lounge downstairs where any of his followers had the freedom to access – a gaudy room that couldn't have screamed [i]vampire[/i] anymore than it already did even if the walls themselves had been coated in blood. Everything was black and red, decorative pentagrams engraved on the ceiling and shelves full of musty books on witch-hunting and other examples of human stupidity. It was lit only by candle-light, even though the manor miraculously had electricity, all for the thematic purpose of [i]looking intimidating[/i].

As it was, he was bored out of his skull without the inclination to go out wandering in the city alone. If he did, he would surely find something to do, some rule-breaking vampire to slaughter mercilessly or a meek, human-loving one to mock just as ruthlessly. It was just more fun with friends.