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[b]BLOODLETTING 1.2.2[/b]

The cafe was located within the heart of the Big Apple. Its popularity was more of a matter of convenience and reliability rather than of any credit to its product. People filtered in and out of the hovel like rats from one sinking ship to the next. Eric’s nostrils flared as the overpowering scent of brewed kettle coffee suffused the air with an overpowering electrical aroma. He took a deep draught and felt it flow down through his spine and down into his waist. It would have been a good place for him to take his mind off hunting for once. Maybe, he’d invite King down here for breakfast the next time in town. 

Unfortunately, his present company was a blind century-old arthritic martial-arts master. Stick had been annoyingly silent ever since he showed up mysteriously out of nowhere at the graveyard. He bore the same stony-faced countenance that combined with his mummified features, made him almost look like a taxidermy. 

“ Ahem.”  

Both of their heads turned left to a glossy-haired waiter who had dark circles underneath her eyes. A toothpick was pinched between her lips alongside a permanent look of irritation that seemed glued on her face. She took out a notebook and clicked a ballpoint pen. 

“ What’ll it be, gentlemen?” 

“ Double espresso,”  Blade said. 

“Hmmm, lemme think.” Stick’s features had crinkled up into a loose impression of a smile as his voice took on the tone of a stereotypical grandfather. “ How’s about a can of Pepsi?” 

The waitress droned out their orders and waited for their confirmations before moving onto the next table with barely veiled fatigue. Blade pushed down his shades and gave an amused look at Stick. 

 “ What?” Stick eased his head slightly in his direction. “ You expect me to order something like tea, cause I look like some old mystical grifter?” 

“ No, I expected you to give me answers.”  

“ Conversations like this can’t be rushed, Brooks.”  

The waiter arrived a moment later, sliding a can of Pepsi towards Stick and a hot cup of steaming coffee in Eric’s direction.

 “ Ah, thank you.”  Stick nodded his thanks. 

The next minutes were then spent observing Stick doing a pantomime impression of a blind person, waving his hands around to try and grab onto the can. Guess he had appearances to keep up.  Eric knew Stick was anything but a helpless, crippled old man.  He knew he had nothing to be wary of but if a member of the Chaste was ‘round these parts, something bad was coming this way. 

“ Jamal was one old tough son of a bitch. We lost a good soldier today.” 

“ He wasn’t a part of your war, Stick.”  

“ Might as well have been.” Stick cracked open the can with one thumb, the hiss of carbonation piercing the busy air in the cafe. “ Anyone who hunts down the dark is a part of our fight.” He then gave a little chuckle. “ He must have went down kicking and screaming, didn’t he?” 

The table then groaned, the bolts shuddering under Eric’s grip. It knocked him out of his stupor and he looked down at the grooves he dug into the corner of the table with his fingers.  He took a deep breath and then, said with an unnerving calm. Stick, however, remained cool and impassive throughout, taking another sip of his Pepsi. 

“ Cut the shit, Stick. Why are you here?”  

“ I’ll cut to the chase.” Stick’s lips puckered as if he was swallowing a lime before speaking. “ I need your help with a problem. A vampire problem.” 

That was two firsts for Eric. The fact that Stick needed help and that Stick was involved in the supernatural side of things in New York made his stomach turn. 

“ So, why pick me?” Eric stirred his espresso absentmindedly with a spoon. “ There’s better hunters out there than me.” 

“ Don’t sell yourself short, Brooks. Your hunting’s not what I recruited you for. It’s - “ Stick tapped his forehead two times.  “  - your knowledge. Sure, every hunter I’ve met knows how to stake and how to kill but Jamal didn’t teach you just to be a mindless killer. He taught you to think.”  Eric watched as Stick fished a hand inside his ratty trench coat. “ Which brings me to this.” 

It fell onto the surface of the table, rattling from the impact, before lying still. The metal was whorled with faint waves etched onto the surface and had been shaped into a circlet with an open five fingered hand in the middle. He reached out to touch it and felt his skin begin to warm up upon touching it. 

It was blessed sliver, but blessed sliver didn’t usually elicit that type of reaction. There was only one answer. 

It had to be made of heirloom silver. 

Back in the days of the old magic, when hedge wizards were few and far between and the Masters of the Mystic Arts were still burgeoning, the only way to kill vampires was to use sliver that had been inherited down for generations from father to son, mother to daughter and so forth. The vampire clans long ago had tried to hoard all the heirloom silver in the world to try and stave off their extinction. Rumor was they had enough buried away to crash the global economy. The rest had been reforged into jewelry, artworks, useless knick knacks that wouldn’t pose a threat to them.

The number of heirloom silver artifacts he’d seen in the hands of Van Helsing and the rest of her ilk was less than five and they were all weapons of some sort. 

“ Where’d you find this?,  He peered back up at Stick. 

“ I found it off a Hand ninja. Funny thing about the guy was that he was stronger than the rest. Heart didn’t beat but the rest of him was like a block of iron.” Stick paused for a moment to rub his knuckles. “ Had to chop off his head to make sure he stopped trying to break my rib-cage.” 

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. There was no need to vocalise the unspoken connection that both of them made in an instant. A millennia old cult of ninjas getting their hands on the supernatural formula for the most virulent bloodsuckers ever made by dark magic was a recipe for disaster. 

“ So…” Stick grumbled. “ How’d you suppose they made - “ 

“ No.” Eric interrupted. “ Not made. No one’s ever made one ritualistically since Dracula. You have to be Embraced and to get Embraced, you have to contact a clan.” 

“ So, which clan is it? I assume it’s gotta be the biggest one in town.” 

“ No, it couldn’t be.” Eric shook his head, still staring intently at the pendant. “ The biggest ones in town like stability. Why share power around when they can have it all to themselves? No, it’s gotta be a smaller clan. Someone looking to shake things up.” 

“ All right. So, who do you think it is?”

Eric steepled his fingers together, ruminating on the possible candidates. It would have to be a clan with at least a measure of influence but not an old one that was mired in tradition and superstition. Allying with the group like the Hand would take more than a handful of vampires but not enough for an army. Lastly, they’d have to be open-minded to working with mortals which was rare considering that most vampires had a superiority complex. So, there was only one vampire lord who had the political muscle and resources available to convince lesser clans that allying with the Hand was a good idea. 

It was the perfect one he needed after a long day of grieving and sucking up to other hunters. 

Eric set the pendant down on the table and there was a smile on his face that cut through his cheeks.

“ Let’s see if we can’t find Deacon Frost.”