Color code 766359
Location: Abandon Warehouse Time: Dusk
Speaking with: @Oso Dom @deegee Kessler

^{__________________________________________________________}

Church. So poetic. So...ironic. Lucian agreed. Anyone who is a part of the Iron Fangs, or wishes to be, needs to see this. They need to know what the pack is all about. Sure, the pack is just a group of misfits, scoundrels and miscreants. But it's also family. When someone punches your brother or sister, you punch them back first and ask questions second.

Let alone killing one of your own.

Lucian looked to Kessler, mind already revving at a thousand miles per hour. "Hey bro, take him somewhere peaceful. Like Dom said. Somewhere where the sun hits first. I'll start calling in the pack. I'll have them all gather for church. Dom, there is someone I need to see. I need to know. I'll be back in time for Church. Don't worry, I'll have a couple of newbloods with me. You two, get home safe. Whoever did this. They will strike again. And if they were bold enough to go after Logan, there ain't no telling who they're after next. I'm headed to the Bite, just in case I don't come home..."

He didn't ask if Kessler can be trusted to get this done. He knows that Kessler can do this. There was no need to ask for trust. As for himself, there was an air of heaviness to his last words. The Velvet Bite, as welcoming as they are to the different factions, has always been murky ground even before this major shakeup. But, Lucian didn't care at this point. He was already on the hunt, trying to sniff out even the faintest trail. Anything that can lead the pack to finding whoever, or whatever, commit this atrocity.

With that, Lucian stepped off. The sound of his boots grinding into concrete was followed by a low, throaty rumble of his bike engine, then by the sound of it's exhaust as Lucian rode off into the night.

The ziptied fifth grader scuffed his side along the shag carpet and rolled to his mother’s side.

“This one tried to run,” sneered the man. His voice, quiet and high, bore a biting contempt, as if the child’s attempt at running off was most of all an inconvenience and an insult. In his other arm, he held a similarly restrained toddler. The woman promptly relieved him of that burden. She planted the squirming baby on her hip and began to sway and bounce it gently.

The woman loosened the toddler’s restraints slightly with one velvet-gloved hand as she flounced around the coffee table, shushing his muffled wailings as if he were simply having a bad dream. The man stalked behind the couch in unison, as the two steadily circled Claudia and Juan-Luis. Wife and middle child, respectively, of the nuclear household. If only the captives knew how well their captors knew them. They knew their birthdays. What time Juan-Luis’s soccer team met every Tuesday and Thursday for practice, Saturday for away games. Where the boy’s grandparents lived.

As the baby’s cries began to soften, the woman spoke once more.

“We’re missing one, aren’t we?” she asked. Her voice was gentle, almost timid, perhaps best suited in tone to asking a question about the grocery list after dinner.

The man returned to Claudia’s side of the floor in short order. He walked with a certain ease, as if he were a salaryman with an unusually long lunch break. His wrist remained fairly relaxed, even as his latex-clad grip on the gun remained firm. He aimed it at the wife as if it were simply a prop in a stage production rather than a real weapon. As if it were nothing but a tool to set the pace of a scene, as if he were conducting a small choir, or directing passengers aboard a train.

“Where’s Valentina?” he said.

As if alerted to the absence of her eldest, Claudia’s head pivoted and her eyes darted, shifting from glances towards her present children to scans of the room. Valentina’s absence, plain as it was to see, soon led Claudia into a new throes of panic, marked by a bout of writhing against her restraints and guttering into her gag.

The man stopped in place before Claudia. He gazed down towards her as his arms settled to his sides. As he did so, the woman hopped over the boy and took a seat between Claudia and Juan-Luis. She nudged him to the side with her foot to make room for herself, and pulled the toddler onto her knee. She brought her free hand towards Claudia’s gag.

“My husband will be back soon,” Claudia growled. “And the neighbours—someone will notice.”

The woman drew her hand through Claudia’s hair, the latter shivering with disgust. One of the pockets of the man’s sweatpants buzzed. The man shook his head. The woman pulled the gag back into the woman’s mouth.

“Fuck it. The kid comes back, shoot her,“ the man announced. “Show on the road.”

He reached into one of his sweatpants pockets, produced a flip phone, checked its screen, and put it on speaker. The man pulled his voice down as he answered. He sounded calm, confident, with a certain cadence that might have rendered his speaking almost melodious were it attached to a rich Southern drawl rather than his own caustic chatter.

“Hi, is this Bertin?” he asked.

As the woman finished smothering the screaming captives, the lack of response on the other end of the line became overwhelming. The patter of the rain both at the house and there became a dominating presence, until at last, Bertin Guzmán’s shaking voice broke through: “Yes, but…Claire…Claire, what’s going on here? Is this a sick joke, or are you making the worst mistake you’ve ever made in your life? Please. I don’t understand.”

“Speak to me, not to her. We’re very impressed, Mr. de Guzmán,” redirected the man on the other end of the line, “Very impressed indeed. We’ve considered your asking price, and I’ve gotta say, a chance this good won’t come ‘round our way again any time soon, will it? So I think we’re ready to buy.”

“Buy? What is this ‘buy’? Nothing of mine is for sale.” A sudden silence. Then, Bertin exclaimed with renewed vigor, “Claire, whatever it is I did to hurt you, please, we can talk abou—”

“No,” the ghoul barked. Then, she spoke slowly, carefully, as if anticipating and dreading every word. As if someone else was holding a gun to her head, and had been for long enough that a part of her hoped they’d pull the trigger instead of making her dance. “Stop. Don’t do that. Talk to him.”

“Yes, Bertin, stop that. A bit of sentimentality is one thing, but to back out now, right as the ink is about to dry—”

“What the hell is he talking about?!”

“The property on West Pomona Ave. You’re aware of it; you’re there right now,” the man replied plainly, the steadiness of his voice betraying nothing amiss about this supposèd transaction. “We’re ready to pay your asking price of ₡90 thousand credits. Upfront and in cash.”

Bertin let out a bitter laugh, and incredulously wheezed, “Ninety thousand? Did you lose two zeroes somewhere?”

“Let me assure you we arrived at this number very carefully,” the man firmly countered, ”Issuant to the property’s age, its condition, and its locale, among other factors.”

“You mean a ten-unit in the middle of Doherty—safe, clean, so close to Halcyon’s nightlife, to the terminals?!” Bertin bellowed, “Just the building alone is worth a million and a half. That’s before plumbing, heating, electric, furnishing—”

“We arrived at this number very carefully,” the man insisted.

Bertin scoffed and sputtered for a moment, then went silent.

“So that’s it then,” he growled. His voice shook with outrage at first, then erupted into a vicious fury compressed into a bitter hiss. “You are here to rob me. Both of you.” His strained, enraged breaths carried across the line.

“I know it may not seem like it, Mr. de Guzmán, but Klára is trying to save you some trouble. She’s a sweet girl, really,” the woman chimed in. Her voice was somehow more saccharine. “She has your family’s bes—”

The woman could not finish her thought before, with only the briefest curse, Bertin’s rage at last erupted.

_


Bertin roared as he lunged for Klára. The phone fell to the floor along with the both of them. The gun, too, skittered away into some inaccessible corner. Klára yelped as he put his full body weight on her, pinning her to the sagging floorboards. But there was a power hidden away behind that girlish frame, one the much larger laborer could never have anticipated. She wriggled free, enough to slither up a wall and jump back to her feet. Bertin grasped at her leg, dragging her back down. Her head slammed against the hardwood as he strained and grasped at the gun.

Save for the rain, on the other end of the call the house was bone-quiet.

“What did I—” Bertin sputtered as he grappled Klára’s arm and pulled himself in reach of her neck—“ever do—to you?!”

With a strength that almost took her off guard, Klára jerked her arm free just as Bertin clamored to pull her back to the ground and get himself up. She scooted back and, hardly even thinking, slammed her knee into his nose. A loud crack punctuated his collapse backwards. He clasped both hands to his face and clumsily scrambled away from her, hissing and spitting as blood throbbed from his mouth.

Klára sprung up. The adrenaline and the pain of her direct hit against the hardwood floor buoyed her head. She darted towards him and planted a firm kick right into his ribs.

“Why couldn’t you listen? None of you ever fucking listen. I told you what would happen,” she half-shouted, half-wailed, each stressed syllable accompanied by a boot to his ribcage, “I told you! I told you…”

Klára stared down at Bertin, now curled into a fetal position, cowered, guarding his face and his midsection. She panted. Shaking, she planted one more kick before reeling back.

“Klára?” called the man on the phone. “Spare him his hands, darling. We still need his signature.”

_


As the line quieted, the man sighed.

“So, Mr. de Guzmán—if you are still listening—I understand getting cold feet in a situation like this. Maybe you’re sentimental about the place. Mmm, you and your wife made some fond memories there?…Not my place to ask. But speaking of your wife—”

He pointed the gun towards Claudia’s head, nudged the front sight in a downward motion. “Perhaps she can lend you a little bravery?” His accomplice got the hint; pulled Claudia’s gag down while nudging her softly with her knee.

“How are you, Claudia? Comfortable? Can I get you anything?”

Claudia grimaced. Her jaw tensed as she glared ahead. Suddenly, she spat towards the man. Her saliva splattered on his cheap running shoes as she defiantly bellowed, “Fuck you, pendejo.”

The woman planted a firm smack in the back of Claudia’s head.

“Don’t speak like that in front of your children.”

Claudia winced, growled, and then exclaimed, “Bertin, mi amor, don’t give up! Get away, get help! Call the police, anything, my love, please!”

From the other end of the line, Bertin wheezed and gurgled. He groaned softly for a time, evidently mustering what strength he could to speak, by how his breath bubbled through wet nostrils, wet throat. He did, in the end, manage to speak—but not to the man. Not even to Claudia, his darling wife.

“I don’t know what this is about—drugs?—or maybe you’re too scared of these people to do what is right.” His voice shook with a horror that had drowned the inferno in him. “It doesn’t matter. You do what you want to me, Claire. Even my tenants. That’s for God to judge. But I promise if you hurt my family...“

A crash and a crunch—another blow to Bertin sounded through the line.

“You should’ve listened,” Klára said, her anger replaced by resignation.

The man with the phone in one hand and the revolver in the other looked down at Claudia. He clicked his tongue. “Fine......Fine.” He returned the pistol to the gym bag and stalked towards Juan-Luis. He ripped the boy from the ground with one hand, holding him by the arm. It was astonishing the way the zip tie snapped from barely a strum of his fingers. Broke like an overcooked noodle.

Juan-Luis caterwauled with renewed vigour as his sockets strained under his entire weight. The man began walking, dragging the boy with him, into the kitchen.

“You wanna negotiate? Alright. Let’s negotiate.”

Claudia began to kick and strain against her bindings. She shouted, “You let him go! Right now or I’ll kill every last one of-”

The woman grabbed Claudia’s face and lifted her from under the coffee table by the jaw. “You’ll just get one of your own hurt, Mrs. de Guzmán,” the woman corrected. She stood, popped the baby back on her hip, and dragged Claudia into the kitchen. Claudia writhed. She jerked and threw her body weight around, trying to break free, or even, at least, to get a bite in.

The man stood in the centre of the kitchen, holding the wriggling boy in a single latex-gloved hand like a fisherman does with an eel. His gaze panned across the room slowly, brushing over the knife block, food processor, and cleaning chemicals. Until it settled. He walked towards the sink, his catch in tow.

“You know, Bertin, I really think we’re starting to get to the heart of our little misunderstanding here. It’s not that you’re trying to highball us here, no, no. It’s that no one ever stopped to teach you about opportunity costs.”

He flipped the switch to the garbage disposal unit and as the hopper splelched and shuddered to life, Claudia de Guzmán began to scream.

_


Bertin pulled the phone in close as he heard it all. He begged them to stop, all of them, begged them to reconsider, to give him a chance to think about it, to do whatever they wanted to him but not his son, not his little boy. But above his mewling rang the man’s scoldings, rang Claudia croaking out an omen, croaking, “Y él hará volver sobre ustedes su iniquidad, y los destruirá en su propia maldad, Los destruirá Jehová nuestro Dios!”—rang the mechanical, infernal racket of the machine. The one he’d installed himself. It was really an incredible machine. It could chew through just about anything.

And still hollering over it was that voice without a face, the one Bertin would never forget, grating like a knife scrapes a whetstone, yet high and alto and almost boyish the way it cracked and squealed. “So damned preoccupied with what you stood to gain,” it jeered, the voice, ”you never stopped to consider what you stand to lose—ey, Bertin?”

There was a pause in the voice which Bertin did not know was actually the man peering out the kitchen window, to know with certainty that the neighbors on the northern side of the house had not overheard any of this hellishness over the downpour battering the roofs and the clatter of the machinery. That it was also a ruminating as the boy’s fingers recoiled, curled, shrank, practically withered in the man-sized fist as it dragged them in, dragged them close, close enough that the breath from the whirring blades tickled the skin. Closer. So close the steel had just skimmed the first hairs of Juan-Luis’s knuckles. How he cried and cried.

”Well, Mr. de Guzmán! Call this lesson number one.”

Again, the thought echoed in his head as he kept hitting the punching bag. You need to be stronger. The sounds of William focusing on the punching bag intensify as his punches strike harder and harder. It is filling his ears as he continues to listen to his stray thoughts. You failed them, and a memory would surface, and it was her face. That memory struck a nerve, and with great strength, he punched the punching bag so hard that it almost came off its ceiling mount.

William, breathing heavily, backed off from the punching bag and tried to calm down. This is what he does when he needs to focus on something else for a time. Work out and practice his martial skills in this place that could be called a gym. For the anniversary of him joining the Lost Claws is coming, and it is all he has been thinking about. But even as he relaxed and went to get some water to drink. A nice refreshing taste of cold water straight from his water bottle. Even now, practicing does not help to ease his thoughts.

It has been a tradition of his to honor the Lost Claws that he joined every year by visiting their old hideout and paying his respects to his old Alpha. Not the one that ruined everything, and the thought of her made his blood boil. Still, he tried to calm down a bit and not destroy another punching bag. Which based on how some people in the pack have been using his gym equipment when he is not around. It can get expensive to replace the broken equipment.

"Breath in, breath out," William said to himself softly as he breathed purposely. The main thing about this tradition of his is that so far, no one has claimed the Lost Claws' old hideout. Since that place is hard to find if you do not know where to find it. So it can act as a place where he can relax and reflect on things if he wishes. Or his own personal safehouse. But the memories of that place are mixed with both good and bad, so he tends not to stay long there.

So after claiming down, William inspected the punching bag, and to his surprise. It is still intact and can take more punches. Good, he thought as he was relieved as he felt the worn material of the punching bag.

Though a part of him would feel uneasy, as William has not told anyone about his tradition. Even though he is apart of a new pack, the IronFangs, which he is glad to have joined. William still has his secrets, and honestly, he was not sure how the others would feel about his tradition. Honoring the old while serving the new. He is not sure when he will feel comfortable about talking about it, since the Lost Claws he remembers is not the same one that people know about. At least the ones that bothered to care and remember about a pack that tore itself apart.

Still, he is with the Iron Fang now, and William is expecting to stay, as long as things stay the course, and so far. He has not seen anyone stray from the pack's mission. A thought that he is grateful for, but for long remains to be seen.

After making sure he does not have to buy another punching bag and checking his watch to see what time it was. William figured that he had done enough practicing for today and felt a bit hungry. So after cleaning himself off with a towel and putting his shirt back on. William called the Golden Wok, "Hey, hello, I would like to place an order to be picked up."

William has no plans tonight and was expecting to take it easy. Though a shower would not be so bad right now, he thought after placing the order. But the night has not yet begun, and the city can be an interesting place at night. That he knows from experience, and it is time to see what the night has in store for him.

"Yeah, extra spring rolls. Thanks Shan." Came the voice of the Golden Wok's regular, Alicia Tenebris. She brushed a lock of white hair from the side of her face as she pulled her jacket hood back, absentmindedly tapping at her phone, scrolling her social media feed while she leaned on the table nearest the counter where a young man was presently doing his homework. She tutted as she hesitated on a particular post and rolled her eyes, angrily tapping out a reply before shoving the device in the pocket of her torn jeans. "Fuckin' anime-only tourists. You shouldn't have opinions if you haven't read the manga..." She griped under her breath.

"You shouldn't get that mad at strangers on the internet all the time." The studying youth beside her casually stated, his gaze not drifting from the laptop. She swallowed hard, embarassed he'd even heard her, and ignored him pointedly as she planted her palms on the counter, watching distractedly as the staff busily prepared her order behind the plexiglass.

The scent of the braised duck wasn't what was making the lycan's nose itch. She felt a twitch in her ear as it picked up something... Off - and she clicked her tongue in annoyance. She was off the clock, it probably wasn't her problem. Probably. There was a tension in the air that she really didn't like - and she nearly yipped when, in her reverie, the bag crinkled on the counter. Sheepishly, she nodded to the girl at the counter and shrunk a bit as she backpedaled out of the door.

The air was heavy tonight with something she couldn't place and it set her nerves on edge. She found herself feeling a rush of paranoia, eyes flicking to and fro scanning the passersby as she walked, sticking close to the edges of the buildings and making herself as small as possible, avoiding eye contact anytime it threatened to connect.

She rubbed her temple - no amount of trying to distract herself daydreaming about anime was taking her focus off that... Sense. "No no no, it's my day off..." She quietly whined to herself, her gaze flicking up along the length of the road that would have led to her apartment and this week's episode of 'Long-Haul Trucker-san In Another World?!' - her favorite this season.

She hesitated at the intersection. Halcyon had been a bit of a shithole - she learned that well enough over the past several years - but something big was about to blow up and it made her hackles rise and set her on edge, even more than her typical paranoia and hyper-awareness generally did. "Fuckin' Fangs..." She thought to herself, as she began to make her way towards their shared hideout.

That's what it was, she dimly recognized. That primordial feeling, that sensation that a member of a pack got when one of their own is in danger or distress. There was a familiarity to that sensation. She'd been slowly integrating with the Fangs long enough that her instincts were beginning to line up with the others.

That itch had started just yesterday, but she'd done her damndest to ignore it. Today though, just this evening, it began to compound. The pack was pissed about something, and though she had no idea what, she was feeling it.

Rounding another street corner, Alicia's eyes narrowed and she sighed. She wasn't the new kid anymore, but it still felt a little odd running into the others in the wild, so to speak. She tutted, and held up the bag of takeout with a finger, placing a hand on her hip as she clicked her tongue twice to get his attention. "Dickhead." She announced, face to face with William Connors. She regarded the other Lycan with the quality of a coworker who really wasn't looking forward to overtime.

"Dinner time for you too?" She opened. "I was just about to head back, but something feels off tonight. Dunno if you're reading it too, but I was about to make for the hideout." She explained. Hesitating a moment, she chewed on her lip, choosing her next words. She'd really prefer making the trip solo, but Halcyon wasn't friendly to loners. Just walking to the corner store at night usually puts her on edge. Having a bruiser at her back might be smart. "Grab your shit and walk with me."

She noted the confused look on the older Lycan's face and tutted with an added eye roll. "Look, you've been with the Fangs longer than I have. Something's itching at you right now, right? Something bad happened and..." She cleared her throat, noting the volume in her voice as she stepped closer, lowering her tone as she raised her gaze to look him in the eye. "Quick trip to the hideout, make sure everything's chill, and we can fuck off back to our business. Sound good?"

She stepped back and leaned on a lamppost, as she dug into the bag and rifled about for a spring roll, crunching into it and wiping her fingers on her coat. "Quick twenty minute sidequest. Just could use the backup if my instincts are right, you feel?"

He knew a place. He wasted no time, as there was nothing further to say. He called a guy he knew. Human. A no-questions-asked sort. Courier driver under contract to a big carrier, but possessed of just a plain white van. One of ten thousand on the road. Kessler moved quickly, up an old, rusty set of metal stairs that rained rivulets of rusty metal and dirt, caught in a single shaft of light streaming in through a broken window, to what had previously been an office or operating control centre of sorts. Broken glass, and broken equipment littered the floor, along with a filthy old mattress, and fifteen years worth of bad decisions and broken dreams. He glanced for a long moment at dry condoms, empty whiskey bottles, blackened spoons and hypodermics full of death, before spotting what he was after: A row of lockers on one wall. And inside one of them, an ancient coverall, emblazoned with the logo of the former canning factory, long shuttered.

He stripped off the remnants of his clothes from the evening's mission and put on the coverall, tying it at the waist, and then donning his cut over his bare chest, pulling his combat boots back on, leaving them untied. Spying a ripped tarp in the corner, previously trying in vain to redirect rain from one of many holes in the roof, he grabbed that up and shook it out once before bunching it up under his arm and descending once more to Logan's body, wrapping him carefully, even lovingly in the tarp, careful to watch his head, lifting it gently.

At some point the others had continued about their business, leaving him to his task. Or Dom was watching from somewhere close by. It didn't matter. Kessler went about his every action as if the entire pack were judging him. (weren't they, always?) He moved reverently, making sure the mess, the site was clean of their movements, their presence. Whoever had done this to Logan didn't care to cover their tracks... he did. He used what was left of his clothing, made sure there were no viable tracks. Waited as patiently as he could for the courier to arrive, which he did, about ten minutes later, the big E250 rumbled to a halt at the corner of the building five hundred yards away, and Kessler waved him over.

Once he had confirmed the man's identity, the same Caribbean laconic nod, the same slouch hat set on a relaxed angle across his forehead. He had brought the supplies Kessler had asked for, and he retrieved these from the back doors. The driver merely sat in his van, hands visible, engine running, lights off, while Kessler worked. The bleach would destroy the blood samples. The gasoline would ensure there was nothing left. He moved Logan's body to the back of the van, rolled it up in one of the sheets of roofing plastic that had been supplied. Walked back to the scene of the murder, lit a cigarette, and lit the fire with the remnants of the match. He watched it burn until there was nothing left. The fire would burn itself out in another five minutes. Time to go.

He moved back toward the van, closing the back doors, and stepped to the passenger's door. "Let's go." The driver nodded, waiting while Kessler climbed in. He had been thinking it all along. He knew the perfect spot. And he gave the driver the briefest of directions, simply bluntly pointing him in the general direction using highway locators and exits, and then staring out the side window, making no smalltalk whatsoever. It was how they had navigated these waters before. The driver asks no questions, he gats paid well, for (usually) very little work. It would be another twenty minutes before they arrived at the spot Kessler was thinking of, and in those long minutes, he was lost in his own thoughts.

He was trying to recall how he knew this spot, how he knew it still existed, though he was certain he hadn't been there in this life. And when in the last? Not anytime recently, that was for sure. He vaguely recalled a swing. A chain-link fence. Rusty even then. And the lights of the city. He remembered the lights. Everything came back in short, lightning-quick blasts of memory, and he wasn't even sure how he knew to direct the driver. But he did. Even when the driver nearly made a wrong turn, Kessler was able to quietly, calmly correct him. "No, it's to the right." They arrived in the dead of night, and though he hadn't been there in who-knows-how-long, he knew instinctually when they were 'there.' Knew it was a five minute walk to the tree. He told the driver to wait there, while he walked up the slope with Logan's body over his shoulder, with the same level of exertion as if he were carrying his Telecaster to the gig.

When he arrived at the spot, he simply stood, with Logan over his shoulder, staring out at the city. The rusted remnant of the chain-link fencepost, the cinderblock foundations of a small structure poking out of the overgrown grass and thicket. It was the perfect place. He could smell the city, but it was all laid out beneath him like a dream. Far enough away that Logan would be sheltered from its vices and held away from its flame. For a time, he agonized over how he knew this place, but ultimately it didn't matter. Setting Logan down on the ground, he walked back down to the van, to have one more word with the driver. "Give me an hour. Come back to get me. Here--" he handed the driver a couple hundred bucks. "go get a coffee or something." He watched the courier go, and trudged back to the top of the hill, starting to dig with his bare hands. The ground was an odd mix of clay and shale, rocky gravel and he went through it with his claws, tears streaming down his face, bloody knuckles tearing at the earth, digging like the fucking dog he was. At some point he removed his cut, sweat and dirt glistening on his strapping frame. Alone with his memories of Logan, and the father-figure he was when Kessler needed one. The rage seethed under the surface, he was ready for the hunt, ready to make the ones that had stolen his father away from him —- or more a father than his own had ever been —- pay dearly. The rage focussed his energy, focussed his actions. When he finally stood from the grave, the blood ran freely from wounds that were already closing. Sometimes, just sometimes, Kessler wished the scars were easier to keep. He wanted to bleed for Logan.

He walked back down to the waiting van, around to the driver's side, sweat streaming down his face, breathing heavily. The driver had the window down, and the heavy scent of weed billowed from the front window. Kessler moved to the driver's window, raised an eyebrow at the joint hanging from the man's lips. He passed it to Kessler, who took a long drag. "Give me a hand for a minute?" The man nodded slowly, understanding. They walked up the hill together, and within sight of the tree, and the moon looking down on them from the heavens, Kessler tore the man's throat out. He buried them in the twin graves he had dug with his own sweat and blood. Logan was laid to rest in his kutte. He was a little sorry for what had become of the human man, who had dutifully helped him on several occasions... but there were things the man could not unsee. It was cleaner this way. No traces. He didn't say anything over Logan's grave. That would come later. He walked back down to the van, and drove himself back into the city, stopping at the border of Warden territory and nowhere, in a back alley, using the last of the gasoline supplied by the Courier to set the van alight. Disappearing into the nightwas an easy enough thing to do for a monster like him.

It was time to head to Church.

Time: Evening
Location: Velvet Bite, Midtown

---

The Velvet Bite. The atmosphere around him buzzed. Wolves, Fae, and Bloodsuckers were all welcome here. Lucian decided this to be a neutral enough site to invite and meet an ‘old friend’. The music droned on in the background, intermixed with boisterous conversation and the occasional shattering of drinkware. Knowing the circumstances, Lucian paid out of pocket to have a private-enough booth arranged for himself and whoever he was meeting. A bottle of decent-enough scotch sat on the table with a couple of glasses and ice that never seems to melt. Fae magic, of course.

Tapping the package of his Halcyon Spirit Additive Free Unfiltered cigarettes, Lucian expertly pulled one out with his lips, and with a quick flick of his windproof lighter, one end of the cigarette began glowing a faint cherry-red as Lucian took a long drag of the tobacco and exhaled. With the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, Lucian took out his phone and checked for messages and the time. It was fast approaching the agreed-upon time for his guest to arrive. “Fashionably late, as per usual with this one…”, Lucian mumbles as he takes another drag of his cigarette.

Lucian also took a brief moment to send a message to the Pack’s senior member-only chat: “I’m at The Bite, shouldn’t be too long. If I don’t report back within 2 hours, raise hell.” He then set his phone down and waited as patiently as he could for the man to show his face… if he could call it that.

He’d know the exact moment he made his entrance. Most, if not all people who visited the Velvet Bite, whether for business or pleasure, at least put in the effort to fit its scene. Not Hollow. He was one of the few humans who could walk in here like he belonged, and he was the only human who could do it while throwing any inkling of a dress code through the window.

Reputation meant everything here if one desired to speak to the right people. Sometimes, all it took was waving the right flag, and other times, it was stories people whispered about you within the confines of the private booths.

It was no surprise when there was a sudden, yet slight shift in the lounge’s atmosphere. As if a vinyl briefly skipped due to the slightest bump against its frame.

Hollow moved through the crowd, his signature mask bearing the visage of a skull, steadily moving past the light crowd of patrons. The only difference in his usual attire was a black trench coat he had worn over it. He went full-fledged edge lord with it, too; the collar popped and unzipped to show he had easy access to whatever he concealed beneath it.

However, the trenchcoat wasn't the strangest addition–no, the strangest addition was the girl at his heels.

Elodie Ashbourne didn’t belong in a place like this.

Not really.

And yet… here she was.

She clung close behind Sean—no, Hollow. She had to remind herself he wasn't Sean tonight. Her wide hazel eyes soaked in the Velvet Bite’s chaos with a mix of awe and tightly-coiled nerves. Glamour clung to the air like perfume, brushing her skin with invisible fingers, and she felt the way eyes followed them. Some with curiosity. Some with confusion and wariness. Like she was a wrong note in a perfect chord. She didn’t blame them. Sometimes, she felt it, too.

Still, she kept her chin up and tried to match his pace in her velvet milkmaid dress, all flared skirt and black satin lacing. She’d chosen it carefully–sweet, but not prey. Her strawberry waves bounced with every step. “I’m trying to look confident, but I feel like I'm giving scared baby deer energy right now.” She whispered with a smile, not quite steady.

Then came the voice. “You smell… odd.” A Fae man leaned in, too close, his grin a sliver too wide. His nose hovered near her neck like he meant to breathe her in. She flinched, brushing against Hollow’s coat with a barely audible gasp.

Elodie straightened quickly, cheeks flushed. She gave the man a smile like spun sugar over steel. “Mmm, if you can smell that, you’re too close.” She said, blinking up at them. “Back up, please, before someone gets ideas.” He blinked, then chuckled and drifted off.

A barista saving lives with politeness…

She exhaled and let her fingers linger on the edge of Hollow’s coat. Still smiling. Still shaking a little. Showtime.

Lucian absentmindedly flicked some cigarette ash onto the floor before taking one last drag from the now-spent cigarette and dabbed it into the ashtray on the table. Taking the bottle of scotch and twisting the cap off, then poured two glasses, each with about two fingers worth, and twisted the cap back on. Picking up one of the glasses, he swirled the amber liquor around and took in the scent of it. A little peat, a little spice. Lucian let the scent linger in his nostrils, in an attempt to mask the inherent floral rot that permeated the place. Fae magic. Lucian detested it most of all, out of all things ‘wrong’ with the city.

Just as the scent of peat dissipated, Lucian picked up another. A human and a vampire in very, very close proximity. This made him furrow his brows. As far as he knew, Hollow worked alone. What the hell is going on… Defensively, Lucian tucked a hand behind his back, wrapping his fingers on the grip of his pistol, loaded with bullets tipped with liquid mercury.

“Old friend. Welcome. Please. Sit. Take a load off…” Lucian said in a controlled, confident tone but just below normal conversation volumes. Subtly drawing a deeper breath than normal, Lucian turned slightly to address his other ‘guest’ “And you. What might your name be? Please, have a seat as well… Any guest of the Hollow is a guest of mine…” Lucian offered the young vampire a half smile, showing one canine tooth longer than it really ought to be.

A detail caught by the eyes behind orange-tinted lenses. Hollow could have gone about things his way, but instead, he took a half-step back, offering Elodie the lead.

She peeked out from behind Hollow, eyes wide as they swept over the man sitting before them. Apprehension flickered across her face, but only for a moment.

“Go on, introduce yourself,”

Elodie took a quick breath as she straightened with a practiced grace, offered a sweet smile, and gave a little wave as she stepped forward.

“Cinnamon.” She said brightly, the name rolling off her tongue like candy on velvet. One could only imagine how much Sean’s face twisted behind his mask. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” She held out her hand in the offer of a handshake, doing her best to keep her trembling at bay, but she felt a firm hand grasp her wrist.

“No handshakes. Sit.”

She startled slightly as Hollow grasped her wrist, the gentle command making her blush as she sat quickly, murmuring, “Yes, sir…” before she could stop herself. Mortified, she stared straight ahead.

Again, Lucian took in the scent of his two guests. Hollow smelled familiar. Human. Albeit sweaty. But, the other one, the one that decided her name is a fucking pantry ingredient, she smelled foul. A tinge of floral mixed in with traces of metal. Lucian looked at the unfamiliar girl quizzically as he pushed the whisky glass towards Hollow.

“Who…what are you? You…smell strange…”

Lucian’s words made her freeze. Her lips parted, breath caught, like she might have asked What do you mean?, but Hollow cut in first.

“She’s sitting. That's what.” There was no sign of warmth in his tone.

Elodie blinked, composed herself, then offered a honey-slicked smile and replied softly,
“I guess I’m an acquired scent.”
She folded her hands in her lap, posture perfect, voice pleasant. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. In the meantime, Hollow slid into the booth, sitting right beside her and directly across from Lucian.

“Hmm… was all that Lucian let out before finishing the content of his glass. “Well. Let’s get straight to it. Hollow. Within your networks, what have you heard in the supernatural world, specifically on the Lycan side of things? I know you keep tabs on all factions…

“Specifically on the Lycan side of things? Something internal then… So the rumors do ring true.” He almost seems too happy to confirm a tragedy, but events such as the one concerning Lucian forced Halcyon to writhe with activity. Each faction would use the event of Logan Delaney’s death in some form or fashion, and Hollow would capitalize on it. It was ugly but it was business.

Hollow peered down at the two glasses of scotch, reflexively weighing the intention behind the beverage of choice. However, his curiosity was ever so brief. He reached for the closest glass and guided it across the table toward Elodie. The action hadn't gone unnoticed by Lucian, but he didn’t care. That wasn’t important. The offering of scotch was merely cordial anyway.

“If you're looking for a murderer. I don't have their name. Not yet… Mostly because your pack is keeping a tight lid on things. Now, I understand the sentiment…” Hollow leaned in ever so slightly. “...but that is not how information sharing works. Right now, I’m working with leaks from unreliables, so you, Lucian, have a choice to make. Tell me everything you know about what happened now or keep it all tucked away until you get desperate enough to tell me when the trail runs cold.” He held an air of aloofness to what Lucian would decide but this was far from how he truly felt.

Elodie lifted the glass slowly, sipping just enough to hide her expression. A murder in the pack? That’s not small news. She glanced between the two men, lips still on the rim. Why does it feel like the real danger hasn’t even shown up yet?

“Mmm. Well. You seem to have as much, if not more information than I do. Yes, I am looking for the bastards that did this to our brother. But that’s all. Surely your network of rats and spies have told you more than that? Such information is so surface level, and one such as you should find it insulting to even share something so inconsequential…” Yes, Lucian kicked the ball back towards Hollow, but his words are not without truth.

He didn’t know much more. Someone killed Logan Delaney, and he will work whichever angle he needs to find out who did it.

“Like, I said. Your pack has a tight lid on this…” Hollow made a mental note to be careful with how he went about this, knowing the temperament of the average lycan. Lucian was on a higher rung than most, but the death of one of his own had to be considered. “...and I'm beginning to think that includes you. If you believe I have more inconsequential information than you do, allow me to prove you wrong. We'll start easy. Did you see the body?”

Elodie quietly set her glass down, the clink of it soft against the table. Her hands folded delicately in her lap as she looked between the two men.

“I know trust is a rare currency here,” she said gently, “but maybe we can spend just enough of it to get somewhere tonight.”

Her gaze settled on Lucian with quiet sympathy, the corners of her mouth softening. “It sounds like you lost someone who meant a great deal to you. That kind of grief…” she paused, her voice dropping just a little, “...it hollows you out in ways words can’t fix. I’m so sorry you’re going through that.”

Then, with a slightly wistful little smile, she added, “But, my mama always said you accomplish more with kindness and pie than you ever will with claws and teeth.” A tiny shrug followed. “I didn’t bring pie, but I’m real good at the kindness part.”

She glanced between them again, voice light but sincere. “So maybe… we can all take a small breath, and start over with just a little kindness and understanding?”

Lucian’s eyes snapped to the girl that just…tried to perk up the conversation?

“How strong's that scotch?” Hollow said in reaction to Elodie. Her kindness was charming but it had no place here, especially if it was genuine.

“It’s just normal scotch… Not strong enough for all this kumbaya talk. But I do like that accent of yours.” Lucian said, letting off one small crooked smile before refocusing himself. “Starting easy is fine with me. Yeah, I saw the body. I’m sure you got pictures of it before we had a chance to bury him. You and your spies made sure of that, right?.” Hollow didn't confirm or deny such a thing, not with words or body language. He kept his cards unbelievably close to his chest.

Lucian retrieved the now-emptied glass in front of Elodie and refilled it, slightly less than before this time, and lightly pushed it back while lighting another cigarette for himself. Hollow shot a glance toward the refilled glass but did nothing beyond that. “Surely that’s not what you’re here for. What’ve you got for me, Hollow?”

Elodie blinked at the glass, then at Sean, then back at Lucian. One brow arched slightly. Her fingers curled around the glass with slow grace as she muttered under her breath mostly to herself, “Pours like a gentleman, talks like a warning label…” She sighed and took a sip of the drink and coding to glance at whatever else was around them.

“I have people that will look into it. The problem is that this…” He considered how he might describe it since he felt like a broken record player but perhaps he could give just a little. “This crime against the Iron Fangs is still very new. No one's out there bragging about taking out your second in command, either. It hasn't gone up the Warden channels just yet, and I’ve even ruled out the infamous Butcher due to no mention of crescent-shaped scars on the body… I need to know more, so I know who to ask about this. So from what you could see, in what manner was he killed? And who discovered him?”

Elodie slowly settled back into the booth, trying to make herself smaller–less of a presence in the crossfire of testosterone and tension. So many sharp words and not a single bandage between them. Her gaze briefly lingered on Sean. And Hollow’s not just tossing rumors for fun, sugar. He’s trying to help without handing you a shovel.

A pause. Then, under her breath without realizing she was actually speaking, “Lord help me, I should’ve brought cookies.”

“I’d sincerely hope whoever did this, whoever committed this atrocity, would be smart enough to not start bragging about it… This is beyond the doing of common thugs. This was a message. Consider this, Hollow. You, or one of your own, discovers a dead warden, strung up on a cross, all bloodied and brutalized. How would you treat it? Logan Delaney, while he was old, he was still very capable. A low-level thug could have never gotten to him. The state of his body…” Lucian let out a long sigh and considered his next words. “He was brutally murdered, likely from more than one assailant. There wasn’t anything specific about how and what they did. Think of a gory movie murder. You get the idea. A young one of our pack found him in the warehouse, and notified the higher ups…”

Lucian then lazily addressed Elodie “And yeah, that’s me. A gentleman with a few warning labels. One of the labels say ‘Yes, I can hear you. Perks of the race.’ So. If you got some’n to say, just go ahead. I chose this place because it’s neutral. I won’t bite ya, not here anyways. Though…if you brought cookies, I don’t know what I’d do…” Lucian said with a small smirk.

Elodie tilted her head, smile delicate as spun sugar.
“If I wanted you to know what I was thinking I promise I’d gift wrap it and whisper it straight to your ego.” And with that, she went back to sipping the drink and glancing around.

“A message…” Hollow suddenly pondered aloud. “Doesn’t make sense. Not to me, anyway…” Despite the small details shared, the tidbits began to paint a different picture of the situation for Hollow than what Lucian described. “I think we've hit a wall,” he lied but he didn't want to dig into this matter further with Lucian in tow. Looking at Elodie from the corner of his eye without turning to face her, he took note of her demeanor. She probably needs a breather anyway, Hollow thought.

“Fuck sakes Hollow. Not only did you bring this Fresh one to this meeting, you’ve actually managed to give me nothing. I guess it’s too early to be tapping into my connections. My fault. I thought your network would have some threads I can pull, some scents I can sniff out…” Lucian said, quickly finishing off the contents of his glass and snuffing out whatever remained of his cigarette. “And you, Cinnamon, what a ridiculous name by the way, welcome to the dirty, egotistical world of underworld dealings. You best start believing in ghost stories. You’re in one.” Lucian said, his signature smirk never leaving his face. “The bottle is yours, consider it a thank you gift for actually showing up. Booth is also yours for the night. I’ve booked it. Courtesy of the Iron Fangs. You two have a good night.” Lucian said to his two guests before turning and heading out of the Velvet Bite. As he was leaving, he took out his phone and made a quick dial, holding an indistinct conversation.

Back at the table, Elodie blinked, watching Lucian retreat through the lounge haze, cigarette smoke curling in his wake. She leaned slightly toward Sean, brows furrowed in quiet disbelief.

“D-did he just quote Pirates of the Caribbean at me?” she asked, voice hushed with genuine confusion. “Was that... supposed to be threatening or thematic?”
Her gaze lingered on the empty spot Lucian left behind.
“And do all werewolves talk like Tumblr posts from 2011?”

Sean let loose a sigh, yet there was a soft chuckle at the end of it. He faced Elodie, smirking beneath the mask that had no hint of warmth in its visage. His tone would be much lighter now that Lucian had departed.

“I am this,” He nearly pinched his index finger and thumb together, “close to telling you that they all do but… I’d say it’s just a quarter of them or maybe a third.” He shrugged after stating the statistic so plainly. “Anyway, you did well for yourself, Cinnamon... With most Lycans, there's a short range of about twenty-or-so moods. It's kind of like defusing a bomb.” He gave the surface of the table a light smack. “And after all that tension and nothing to give, we got ourselves a little bit of info, free scotch, and a booth to ourselves.” He was feeling good about tonight yet…

The night’s still young.

Wulde went straight back to the Sunday school classroom after he had sent the Bastion his response, and for a few minutes he had the room to himself. The other Wardens either had filed into the breakroom to take up Lt. Grant’s offer of refreshment or were on their phones trying to find out more about the Code 3. Wulde, who was not in the mood for either of those things, chose instead to spend some time in the mute company of childishly drawn dinosaurs and more professionally rendered doves. Through one thin wall of the quiet room, he could hear the resonant voice of Lt. Grant complaining to somebody about something, although he could not make out the details.

After a while, the others began shuffling back to take their seats, with moods as black as their coffees. It was not rare for a Warden to go missing, although it was never welcome news, and rarely ended happily. Everyone was disgruntled by the development, and no one’s gruntles were more dissed than those of Lt. Grant, who stamped into the room with a look that suggested that she was about to confirm Wulde’s suspicions about how loudly she could yell when she saw fit. Most of the Wardens hardly seemed to notice at first, as they inevitably had started talking about the MIA.

Somebody had discovered the name behind the Code 3: Zacariah Reed. No one in the classroom had any additional details about the disappearance, nor about Reed. Judging from their conversations, Wulde realized to his surprise that he probably knew more about the missing man than any of them did. Reed was someone he had known by name before he even joined the outfit. He was a colleague of Ben Gerber’s, a fellow forensic accountant. Wulde had long suspected that they had been working together on whatever investigation got his stepfather killed; could Reed’s disappearance be connected to that somehow? Gerber’s murder had been years ago, but then, vampires operated on long timescales.

Lt. Grant, to Wulde’s surprise, did not immediately try to command silence; rather, she waited a few minutes for the hubbub to subside before quietly clearing her throat. She might as well have bellowed out: “Oye! Oye!”, as the effect was just as decisive. All voices ceased at once and all eyes turned towards the front of the room where she sat perched upon that undersized desk.

”Thank you for your attention,” she began, her tone now calm and commanding, in stark contrast to what Wulde had heard through the wall just a few minutes earlier. The Lieutenant had clearly managed to collect herself in the brief interim.

”I know we’re all concerned about Warden Reed, but we must focus on the task at hand. That task is to investigate a warehouse not far from here.

”Warden Wallace -you all saw him when you came in- has been investigating for the last few days reports of unusual activity around one of the warehouses. Vehicles had been seen visiting and departing it several times a day after its not seeing a soul for almost six months. On a hunch, Wallace set up motion-sensing cameras overlooking both the front and the back of the building.

“Last night, a crew van not unlike the one we have here pulled up to one of the back loading docks, and several burly men carried a large, bulky bundle from the back of the vehicle into the building. No one else was detected entering or exiting after that, until shortly before sunrise. The men emerged from the building, no longer carrying the bundle. They drove away in the same van, leaving the cargo bay door open, and haven’t returned since.

”Wallace did as a good agent should and sent me a report with those images. I’m sending you all those pictures now. I’ll send the report later.”

Grant paused to press some buttons on her phone. A few moments later, a chorus of chirps signaled that she had done as promised. Some of the wardens looked down at their phones. Wulde resisted the urge to do so himself, preferring to stay focused on the Lieutenant.

Grant continued: ”By the time I had gone over everything Wallace had sent me, it was already near evening, and by then there was more news. More vehicles arriving at the building, motorcycles this time. And some of those motorcycles are still there as of last report. We sent the alert to you guys because we recognized both the patches and some of the faces. I’m sending you those now, too.”

There was another smattering of chirps, and of looking at phones. This time, there were gasps and grunts. ”Iron Fang patches,” one of the Wardens muttered. ”That looks like Dominic Blackmoor!” another exclaimed.

Yielding at last to curiosity, Wulde pulled out his own phone to peruse the sent images. He skipped to the last ones, one of which indeed clearly showed the Alpha of the Iron Fangs, standing on a loading dock in a faint pool of light, most likely from the headlamp of one of the gathered motorcycles.

”As you can see,” said the Lieutenant, ”something has happened that merits our attention. And this brings us to our mission: We are to enter the warehouse and find out what we can. Whatever is important enough for Dominic Blackmoor to show up in person to examine, we want to see it, too. I only want one of you bumbling around inside the warehouse, though. Too many hands spoil the crime scene. The rest of you will secure the perimeter or man vehicles.”

”I volunteer”, offered Barton. Grant just looked at him.

”Of course you do,” she answered drily. ”You all did when you showed up. But we’ll just let God decide. And by God I mean me.” She pointed at each of the Wardens and counted out loud: ”One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.” Wulde was Four, apparently.

The Lieutenant pulled a die out of her pocket and rolled it on the desk next to her, meaning that no one but her could see the outcome. After peering at the result, she looked up at Wulde and grinned.

”Congratulations, Four. You’re up.”

”Good times,” said Wulde, in a tone that indicated anything but.

William had not expected to see a fellow member of the Iron Fangs on the way to the Golden Wok. A face he knew, Alicia Tenebris, and she did not look like she was in a good mood. More so when she called him a dickhead to get his attention. Something he does not like, but William will let it slide since it is not that bad of a greeting compared to some others he has heard.

After listening to what she said and making sense, William spoke. "I feel, I guess I can accompany you in that case and... I have felt something now that you mention it, but I see no harm in seeing if things are okay. Just give me a minute to get my order." Maybe thinking about the anniversary has clouded his sense, he thought as he started walking to the Golden Wok. William did feel something, but it was not strong, and he is not sure how to feel about that. Either he is too concerned with the anniversary, or it is nothing.

Still, no harm in checking it out, but if Alice is right, then what could it be? Hopefully nothing bad, but who knows in a city like this? Especially at night, and it is coming closer with each minute. Alice is not a fool for wanting some backup, and William is fine with providing some. They are in the same pack after all, though he does not know much about her.

William quickly returned to Alice with his order in a bag. "Okay, now we can go, and I hope this will be a quick visit." So William started making his way to the hideout with Alice. Time to see if her instincts are right and if this visit is worth having some cold food. He thought with a hint of concern. He really hopes it is not.