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“Are you all done in there..?” A shaky voice called out, bouncing out of the living room, and off of the bathroom walls. 

“Just about.” 

Vi licked a sliver of blood off of her hawkbill knife. A sweet tang filled her mouth, eliciting a purr of hunger from her slumbering beast.

“C-can we leave then?” the voice prompted. 

A mangled corpse hung from a hook in the ceiling, leaking gore and entrails down into the acrylic tub, staining polished white a dark, sanguinary red. 

“I’ll be right with you.” Violetta replied, taking one lingering moment to admire her handiwork.

The cadaver had been gouged and mutilated beyond recognition. Its once feminine features were reduced to sickly, swollen pulp of raw tissue. Her messy ginger tangles had become knotted with congealed blood, and her belly had been sliced open, allowing her insides to hang freely, like sloppy strands of confetti.

Violetta had visited the Rijksmuseum, in Amsterdam, a few years back, and become enamoured with Jan de Baen’s painting of the corpses of Johan and Cornelis De Witt, after they had been lynched, gutted, and eaten by a mob of angry proletariat. 

The exquisite painting had become burnt into her mind, and she had modeled this kill around de Baen’s work.

“Vi!” the voice winged, “you know I hate this!” 

“Alright!” She snapped, stomping out of the bathroom. 

David the thin-blood was waiting for her, curled up on the sofa, hugging his own legs.

“You asked to come with me, this time, Dave,” Violetta frowned, “you told me you had experience with assassinations.”

“Micat Schumacpurr brought me a mouse once,” David explained, “the little guy was still twitching. I had to finish the job. It still haunts me to this day.” 

Violetta stared at her assistant in disbelief. 

[i]“Micat Schumacpurr..?”[/i]

“He is exceedingly cuddly for such a vicious killer.” David murmured. 

With a bewildered sigh, Vi headed out of the apartment, and her underling trailed behind her. They strode down to the carpark below, and slipped into David’s slick, vintage jaguar e-type. 

“I get bored in the car,” the thin-blood admitted, running one hand through his dark, shaggy hair, which was a fair few inches longer than Vi’s, “I wanted to see what you get up to.” 

“This isn’t a game, Dave,” Violetta told him, sternly, “I enjoy your company, but if you’re going to jeopardize my work, then I won’t hesitate to cut you loose. If you can’t hack it in the field, then stick to being my chauffeur.” 

“Yes, Miss Kyborowski.” He mumbled, submissively. 

The innate ventrue need to be obeyed, and fawned over, let out a content murmur, deep within Vi’s dead heart. 

“Take me to the meeting point.” She instructed. 

“Yes, Miss Kyborowski.” David repeated, whilst he prompted the car to life, and set off into the cool Los Angeles night. 

David Crampton had been working with Violetta for some time, as her personal assistant, and driver. Vi was perfectly capable of operating a car herself, but she enjoyed being indulged, and had a rapacious fondness for Dave’s antique sports car. 

Before Vi, Crampton had been barely scraping by as an underling for Sheriff Teach, and it was common knowledge that his neck was teetering on the chopping block. Violetta had agreed to take David off of Teach’s hands, and found herself a valuable new servant in the process. 

Even if he was a somewhat unconventional kindred.

They arrived in the carpark of a rundown 50’s-style diner, about a quarter of an hour later. A gaudy neon sign boldly declared that the restaurant was CLOSED, in garish blasts of vulgar light.

Violetta slipped a cigarette into her mouth, and lit it with the crackling flame of her zippo lighter.

“Mister Soto is waiting for you inside,” David relaid to her, “you two will have the place to yourselves. The staff are all on an extended lunch break.”

“Good to know,” Violetta exhaled a mouthful of smoke, “privacy is always paramount, particularly when things might get messy.” 

Crampton shivered uneasily, tugging on his smart blazer. 

“I don’t like messy.” he grumbled, anxiously.

“Do you think maybe that's why no one in Elysium takes you seriously?” Vi asked, resting her Solovair-clad feet on the dashboard, whilst she took another hungry drag from her cigarette. 

“What do you mean?” David prompted, genuinely confused, “everyone at elysium takes me seriously! Prince Vannevar likes me so much that he invited me to my own secret elysium, where I was the only person important enough to go! I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t want to make you jealous, but if you’re going to be mean, then the gloves are coming off.” 

“Just try not to blow up the car, whilst I’m gone.” Violetta grumbled, unlocking the passenger door, and stepping out into the carpark, before tossing the smoldering remains of her straight to the ground, and grinding it underneath the heel of her Solovair. 

“Words hurt the most when they come from the people you love, Violetta!” David called after her, his voice cracking with woe, “you wouldn’t like it if I was nasty to you!” 

The thin-blood’s cries of misery faded into background noise, as Vi swept up to the diner, hems of her gold-buttoned jacket billowing softly behind her. 

Violetta found James Soto sitting in a plush booth, a stone’s throw from a tired-sounding jukebox, and a tacky Elvis poster.

The diner appeared to be deserted, save for the two kindred. 

“Miss Kyborowski,” the big man smiled nervously at her, “I heard you wanted to speak with me.” 

Soto cut a large figure. He had warm golden skin,  slender eyes, and was dressed casually, in a tartan shirt, and fashionably ripped jeans.

“You heard correctly.” Vi replied, icily, as she took a seat opposite him. 

James shuffled nervously beneath Violetta’s withering glare. He knew that nothing good was coming. 

The scourge pulled a slick android phone out of the pocket of her balmain blazer, and placed it gently on the table which stood between them. 

“You’re a fan of [i]Breetiful[/i], the streamer.” She stated, “a very enthusiastic fan, by the sound of things.” 

“Bridget and I have been seeing each other romantically, yes,” Soto replied, cautiously, “that isn’t a masquerade violation.” 

“No,” the scourge replied, “but this is.”

Vi slowly slid the mobile phone across the table, fixing Soto with a cold stare. 

“Who do you see in that picture?” She asked, letting a sharp growl into her voice. 

A bright image, framed with the cool white Instagram interface, was displayed on the screen. It showed “Breetiful” and her clique of professional ass-kissers, huddled together in some swanky garden party, beneath an inky black night sky. 

James Soto was stood beside her, with one hand resting affectionately on her lithe shoulder. 

“It’s just one stupid photo, Vi!” the man protested, weakly, “who is it hurting?!” 

“All of us,” she snapped back, “if anyone in the Second Inquisition figures out that a man who supposedly died during the great depression is not only - still alive - but also - still in his thirties -, what do you think happens? Do you think that's the sort of thing they’d just ignore?” 

“I’m in one - FUCKING -  picture!” he complained, “why does it matter?!” 

Vi’s nails unsheathed, burrowing into the table, and digging up cold metal splinters, as they extended with bestial fury. 

“This isn’t some random kine you’re porking, Soto,” she growled, “this prissy little cunt is all over the fucking web. Do you have any idea how many people viewed that photo alone? Were you dropped on your fucking head as a child?!” 

James bolted upright, rage burning in his eyes, but Vi was quicker. 

She grabbed him by the wrist, willing blood into her dead muscles, and yanked him back down, whilst supernatural vigor flowed through every cell of her body. 

Soto’s skull struck the table, with a sharp thud. A deep gouge split across his forehead, leaking dark blood. 

The beast roared inside Violetta, rousing her red thirst. The sweet scent of fresh sanguine made her fangs extend in their gums. 

“What do you want from me, bitch?!” Soto murmured, nursing his bleeding head, “to say I’m fucking sorry?!” 

“Oh, I don’t want anything from you, James,” she leered, flaunting her fangs, “this call is for my benefit, not yours.” 

A look of fierce terror flashed across the man’s golden features. 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Kyborowski?” He snarled. 

“The news would have reached you sooner, rather than later, but I wanted to be here in person,” Violetta replied, allowing an uncharacteristic smile to gently grace her full flips, “I wanted to see the look in your eyes.” 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” James repeated, slamming his fists into the table. 

Vi reached out, wordlessly scrolling across on the display of her phone, and flicking to the next picture. 

The image of the redheaded woman appeared, the messy ribbons of her entrails dangling carelessly into the bathtub, and smearing the tub with dark, blotchy sanguine.

Soto lurched backwards, gagging. His face broke, crumbling into the image of sheer heartbreak. 

“Bridget…” he gasped, “no...please! Oh god, please no!” 

The vampire began to weep uncontrollably bloody tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“We are not the unruly, Anarchs, Mister Soto”, she told him, “there are laws. This is strike one. You do not get a second strike.” 

Violetta grabbed her phone, then left the blubbering mess to wallow in sorrow and self-pity.