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“Soooo, waddaya think?” 

Lothaire placed the 12 gauge shotgun down on the bed in front of him, turning to address his contact. 

Robert Gurendel was unmistakably Nosferatu; with a face that looked as though it had been hacked apart, and then [i]badly[/i] stitched back together again. Twisted, goblin-like, ears sprouted off of the sides of his head, and his rancid mouth was stuffed full with teeth that were reminiscent of some old horror movie monsters. Gurendel wore a plain grey hoodie, underneath a faux leather jacket, and the repugnant stench of the sewers clung to him like vulchers to a rotten carcass. 

“It certainly looks like it will do the job,” Lothaire gave a curt nod “but I’m more interested in the ammunition.” 

Lothaire and Gurendel held their meeting in a run-down roadside motel, with peeling wallpaper and beds that were stained with god-knows-what. It was the last place one would expect to find Lothaire Loyonia, which was exactly why they used it. The Baali had traded in his tailor made suits for jeans and a hoodie, and had gone so far as to switch out his usual cologne for a much cheaper body spray. These slight deceptions, partnered with his use of obfuscation when need be, all worked towards making sure that Lothaire could carry out his business without interruption.  

Of course, there was always an element of risk involved in these dealings, so the vampire tried his very best to keep them to a minimum. 

“Right, the Dragon’s breath rounds,” Gurendel reached down with his long, gnarled fingers, flicking open the briefcase he’d brought with him, and fishing out a bright red shotgun shell “you can always count on ya boy to deliver.” 

Lothaire graciously took one of the shells from the Nosferatu, spinning it softly in his fingers. 

“You’ve never given me any reason to doubt your credibility, Robert, and I’ve always found our dealings to be both pleasant and professional.” Lothaire gave the Nosferatu a nod of approval as he spoke. 

“Ey, you too, man.” Gurendel grinned, showing of his movie monster teeth. 

“That said,” Lothaire chimed in “I unfortunately feel obliged to emphasize just how regrettable it would be for you to try and deceive me in this particular transaction.”

“My word is gold, boss,” Gurendel promised “trust me on this.”

“I’m inclined to believe you, Robert.” Lothaire smiled.

The use of his Presence discipline wasn’t needed for these meetings. Robert knew not to fuck with Lothaire Loyonia. 

“You’ll be takin’ the stuff then, Mista’?” 

“I do believe so.” Lothaire gave the Nosferatu a slight inclination of his sculpted head. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Robert said, with a grin that Judas in hell might have been proud of.

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The Los Angeles night was humid, bordering on muggy, but to the dead man everything just felt rather unremarkably chilled. The Skull and Serpent wasn’t exactly what Lothaire would consider an enjoyable night out, however he had a very specific purpose for calling at this particular bar, that was part of a much larger scheme of his. 

Slipping furtively into the back alley behind the Skull and Serpent, with his recently acquired shotgun resting inside a barrel bag, Lothaire made his way cautiously over to one of the bar’s large dumpsters, carefully moving the shotgun out of the bag, and sliding it underneath. Once he was done, Lothaire tossed the bag over one shoulder, and made his way round to the front of the bar. 

Lothaire had come dressed in a leather jacket and crisp black chinos; all part of a getup that gave the impression of one trying their best to blend in with the general vibe in this part of LA. The Skull and Serpent had become quite a popular mixing pot for Los Angeles’ more macabre community, and its strings were being pulled by a kindred who had started to take a rather unwelcome interest in Lothaire, which was precisely why he had decided to give the bar a visit.

The Skull and Serpent itself had a rather battered, rundown appearance, but whether this was due to neglect or a deliberate aesthetic choice by the owners was a matter of contention. The line outside the bar had whittled down to virtually nothing, and it wasn’t long before Lothaire was standing in front of a smartly dressed bouncer, who bore an incredible resemblance to a gorilla that had been shaved, and then stuffed into a suit, against its will.

“You on the list?” The gorilla grunted, peering down at the clipboard in its over-sized monkey hands. 

“ I should be,” Lothaire gave a courteous smile “Stefano Cervantes.” 

Lothaire had accumulated a rather impressive arsenal of false aliases over the course of his unlife, but the use of the same fake name that he operated under at the Ahmanson theatre was very much a deliberate choice of his. The proprietors of the Skull and Serpent were lackeys of Rachelle Rousseau, and Lothaire had every intention of making her aware of his presence here.  

“Go on in.” the gorilla huffed, giving Lothaire just enough room to slip past him.

The interior of the Skull and Serpent was much like its exterior; disheveled, and unabashedly gothic. The lights were dim, the furnishings dark, and a series of twisted chandeliers were draped down from the ceiling. There was pleasant buzz of patrons, but the crowd wasn’t so big as to be uncomfortable. They were all black clothes, black hair, and black lipstick; with smatterings of occult jewelry, and skin like bleached porcelaine.  

Lothaire couldn’t help but wonder how many of these customers would embrace the night if they truly knew what lurked out there in the darkness, and how many would cry and shit themselves.

The vampire ordered himself a simple glass of water from a bar that was decorated with all manner of eerie ornaments, before taking a seat at one of the few empty tables.

At the other end of the bar, a young woman with a winged rose tattooed on her exposed right arm was reading spoken word poetry into a microphone.

[center] [i] “With each cold, and rasping breath,
I sway closer, and closer to death,
And at the risk of sounding blunt,
I want to feel you inside my-” [/i] [/center]

Once Lothaire realised that the poem wasn’t his cup of tea, he retreated back into his own thoughts, shutting out the rest of the world around him. He took a small sip from his water, slowly counting down a generous three minutes.

[i] That ought to be enough time. [/i]

The vampire nonchalantly stood up from his chair, slipping through the crowd, and back out into the night. 

“Done already?” the gorilla grunted, as Lothaire stepped passed him. 

“Just going for a cigarette.” Lothaire called back over his shoulder, wandering round into the back alley that he had arrived in. 

The vampire took a few easy steps back down the alleyway, when he heard three sets of footfalls creeping up behind him. 

[b] “Lothaire Loyonia.” [/b] 

Suppressing a smirk, the vampire spun on his heel, and turned to face the new arrivals. 

In the centre of the trio, flanked by two thugs in beanies and wife beaters, stood a tall, dark figure, with swept back, dingy hair, and flesh like sculpted ivory. His eyes were slender, his goatee neatly trimmed, and he had a jawline that looked like it could cause some serious damage in a knife fight. 

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Lothaire asked, feigning confusion. 

Lothaire knew the middle figure. He was Sebastian Alvarado, childe of Rachelle Rousseau. Lothaire could sense the slight aura of presence emanating off of the Toreador, as his well-dressed form came striding forwards. Alvarado was the only vampire of the trio, but there was every possibility that the others could have been ghouls.

“I’m afraid so,” Alvarado's voice was firm, and unwavering, like rough stone “my mistress tells me that you’re becoming something of a problem, and that cannot be tolerated.” 

The Toreador swept forwards, and Lothaire made no attempt to counter as the vampire’s supernatural might smashed him across the face, sending the Baali stumbling to the floor. 

The trio chuckled as Lothaire crashed to the ground, landing right next to a large dumpster. 

In a blur of movement, Lothaire’s hands darted underneath the dumpster, fishing out his newly acquired 12 gauge shotgun. Alvarado’s eyes went wide with terror, just as a roar of blazing flame rocketed out of the end of the weapon, thundering through the air, and smashing into the Toreador. The Vampire’s form smoldered and shriveled as the Dragon’s Breath shells slammed into him, his necrotic shell lighting up with a fierce gush of fire, before crumbling into ashes, and plunging onto the ground. 

[b] “MotherFUCKER!” [/b] 

One of the thugs made a move for his gun, but in a second Lothaire was up on his feet; using every ounce of his vampiric strength to ram his hand straight through the man’s rib cage. The thug’s chest exploded in a gust of bloody crimson, his lifeless body swaying, and crashing to the floor. 

The final thug stumbled backwards, his body shaking and quivering. He made a move to run, but Lothaire grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hoisting him up off of the ground with his gore-covered hand.

“Tell your [i]mistress[/i],” he hissed “to [b]STAY OUT[/b] of my way.”