"Nice shades," John said with a nod, and a voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Thanks Detective," Vera returned loudly enough to be ensure that the bodies around them suddenly found new places to rest. Behind her newly acquired mirrored sunglasses the young vampire rolled her eyes, purely for her own sake. 

"They got Mauser," John continued, waving down the skeletal bartender.

Drunk, irritated, and not just a little bit lonely Vera snapped back at the detective, "What Mauser?"

"The Mauser. Hieronymus Mauser, Head Wizard of Detroit, himself."

"Well, shit."

"It gets better."

"Does it?" Vera replied halfheartedly staring into alarming empty glass of blood slurry that she had forced herself to drink. It remained the closet thing to beer that she could drink. She ran a hand through her freshly cut hair, it would buy her a few seconds, enough hesitation to bring her gun to bear on any old [i]friends[/i]. She hated it already. She'd never liked her hair short. She never wanted a pixie cut. She never wanted to be every drunken hipster's manic pixie dream girl, but here she was, looking the part with freshly dyed hair. Wearing a leather jacket she'd stolen from some biker, and fish-net stockings dressed with holes. Slumming it with the dregs of supernatural Detroit and the mortals that had enough wealth or favors to their name to avoid being turned into the latest midnight snack. She'd hated the Necronomicon since her turning. It was a garbage bar, full of garbage people, and worse undead.

"He had opened up an investigation."

"So, all the Robes do is investigate."

"Sure," John smirked "But how often do they risk investigating the dealings of kindred?"

"Almost never," Vera said with growing interest.

"Exactly."

"Why are you telling me this? You know I'm out, I'm an exile. None of this concerns me. Not anymore."

"You might think that. If you were the impulsive sort," John said with a grin. "But you don't get out that easily. Not unless they want you to."

"I have no idea what you are talking about John," Vera hissed. "You're drunk, go home. Go home before someone here finally shuts that big mouth of yours by tearing out your throat."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart," John laughed.

"Fuck off, John," Vera sighed, rising to her feet. She could feel a pleasant buzz course through her as she drained the last of the blood from the glass. It did little to mask the panic, and sudden nausea that bit at her stomach. She felt a wave of disgust. At herself. At the bar. At everyone in the bar, especially the weathered the detective that sat across from her. She stumbled into the cold embrace of the dark night with an audible gasp of relief. A cigarette finding its way to her lips, before butane fueled fire found it.

"Fuck," Vera muttered, as she began to walk down the empty street. She sensed her sire's hand in the detective's words. She could feel the soft hand tightening around her neck. She had to talk to Strauss. He'd want to know, he'd know what to do. The goblin had his uses. Hideous and terrible as he was.