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Vernon Grant-Bell leaned forward a little in his black leather chair; his was a studious face, impressed with several lines of concentration; a pair of dark green eyes moved over the page in front of him before his hand scratched at the finely cut beard of raven black hair that sculpted round his jaw. His posture adjusted a little more, just so he could more easily rest his elbows on the smooth ebony and oak desk that sprawled out in front of him. He wanted to look carefully at the numbers. His ink-emerald eyes led his mind like a navigator through cloying fog, allowing a little upward turn at the mouth to follow: a confident certainty that he had read it right. Vernon didn't make errors of judgement in straightforward financial matters such as these. Pausing, he drew his eyes away from the last business item in his in-tray, removed a set of gold cuff-links impressed with two well cut, square black diamonds which he set aside, and rolled up the sleeves on his white shirt. A momentary gaze through the large window behind him hinted at the night's enticing secrets; he wanted to know them. He needed to get out, into the city that teased him with her fresh, bold new lights and the dark shadows they drew eyes away from. He afforded himself a small self-vow: he would know those secrets tonight, both shadow and light, he just needed to finish this final document first...

The numbers made for an interesting, rather telling read; it wasn't a traditionally volatile market, but it had faced a steep downturn in the last month or so. The old Camarilla Prince of L.A., Sebastian LaCroix, had been subsidising several local and state level courier firms in quite an unprofitable way, likely as a front for an intelligence network - his own, not the Camarilla's. His death, although behind the scenes for many kine, had caused such subsidies to dry up, affecting business operations negatively and thus the share prices. The market had levelled a little, but Vernon was curious as to what a little tinkering could do. If he was right, and he was confident that he would be having worked in the Camarilla, as a spy and as a banker both, for many years, then he knew exactly how to play it. He would target the first, second and third weakest companies to short sell on their stocks, drive the market down to the basement based on this and a little bit of rumour selling amongst old friends in the press and banking; he'd then buy up stocks across the companies and provide long term loan solutions to recapitalise them, put some expert man managers in place on their boards and push a positive news spin with aggression. The market would quickly re-establish - give it a year and he could sell shares for major profit whilst keeping the intelligence assets which proved useful. There wasn't much risk in it, and although it wouldn't have the money rolling into Camarilla coffers in any ineffably grand way, it would begin securing and making money on some important assets. He finished writing his plans and sent a quick email out to his share broker - Vernon would meet with him tomorrow. 

Tonight held other plans...

What awaited him now was a pallet of his own musing, and the desirable company of his favourite co-artist:

[i]Aurelia, come over in twenty. Paperwork done - need to see this city first hand; care to join?
PS - bring someone to eat...
Vernon x[/i]

He was hungry, but always choosy, as most Ventrue were. Blood needed to have an energising richness, vibrancy and subtle layers: it was champagne, after all, to one of Cain's lineage; why settle for products of inferior quality? Aurelia would bring someone delicious and refined though - she knew his tastes well enough, as well as the benefits of keeping her boss happy.

[i]Twenty minutes...[/i] His mind was alert now: the prospect of heading out into a new town for the first time excited him. He rose from the chair, feeling the newly laid cream carpet absorb the weight of his tall, lithe frame. Leaving the jacket of his light grey Ozwald Boateng suit behind the chair, he slipped his hand into its left breast pocket and removed a set of uniquely rolled, medium cigars encased in a walnut box with sterling inlay to the edges. Lighting the first, he took the smoke in deeply and let the rich flavours infuse: the blood that would follow would be made all the sweeter for setting his pallet correctly. He smiled at the thought of this, although only a touch. Replacing the box, he then made his way over to the beautiful off-black Fazioli piano that stood as meekly as such a grand object might in the corner shadows, and ran his finger down the keys, listening for the perfect tuning and rich tone that he had come to expect. He bought a new piano every year: they were precious to him in a way few other things were. This one he had only played twice before, and never in L.A. He walked over to the large window that overlooked the city from his office at the very pinnacle of the 777 tower, looked into the night one last time - its brightness and activity antithetical to the pleasing docility of the starry night - before turning to sit and to play. He didn't consider what he would play, but let his fingers lead so that his mind finally caught up with the exquisite sound: [url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKgX5HNEAFo]Chopin[/url]

Nothing happened except music. No facts, figures, plans: music was indulgent escapism intertwined with something more sublime than he could muster to thought. It was only with the arrival of Aurelia, slipping in through the large double doors outside which Gregor, his guard and captain, stood. She held the room like an aesthetic counterpoint against the ballade's furious coda; grace and fire: a symbolic fusion: one fitting for an evening like this one.

"Hello, Victor." The simple greeting, softly spoken, was an understatement afforded by their greater-than-lifetime understanding. She stood like a dark angel of youth: her midnight hair held high into an elegant up-do complemented the complexion of her bronze skin. She wore a smart, maroon suit jacket that was empowering and yet surprisingly feminine given it's adaptation to her frame. Her smile warmed him from his musing, ponderous mood and her hazel eyes smoked wildly in the ambient lighting of the room. 

"Hello, Aurelia." His reply met the genial understatement in likeness. "Care to join me for an evening stroll?"

"Yes, would you like to eat first?" She spoke tellingly, almost teasingly. The silence and slow nod from Vernon led her to click her fingers and in walked a delightful, petite red haired girl, around nineteen by his estimates; she wore... very little. 

"Lovely..." The feeding was exquisite - she was compliant enough, which told him that this wasn't her first experience. That made it easier - she accepted and they took. Vernon rarely drank the blood of anything other than young, red haired girls. Through experience he found it a transcendent taste in comparison to everything else. He could afford to feed on the best, so he did. 

In the action he ascended his vitality once more for the night; he stopped, took it in - let the thrill and rush surge like a river of power. When he opened his eyes the girl had already been taken away. The readiness good blood provided was like the opening of a door to glimpse the predator within; as a Ventrue he had far more mastery over the beast than the Gangrel which stood outside his door, but it didn't mean it wasn't there: it spoke now - a bass, throaty growl that lingered in foul temper against the cultured reason which subjugated it; but Vernon listen to it now.

"Quite finished?" Aurelia spoke, resting a feminine hand upon his shoulder, re-centering him. "You always were a little too obsessed with your food. So, where are we headed?"

"Only for a drive. There's much to be said for letting things come to you, Aurelia. I always told you that." He returned the compliment of a hand to the shoulder as he spoke, his touch every bit as soft as her's. "But you must be out in amongst events to experience them, it's no good staying in a place where the world can't touch you. Let's live feelingly for a night." 

She always remained impressed when he spoke in abstract; Vernon held a room like no other man she had met. She would follow him to the ends of the earth on that alone. Taking his hand, she pulled him and in a twist turned herself also towards the doors. They were leaving.

"Coming Gregor?" Victor said as he left. The bullish looking Gangrel at the door flexed; he stood in a pair of washed jeans and a tight black t-shirt that contrasted the Ventrues' formal wear. "Aye, sir. Be good to get out for a change. Can I speak freely, sir?" The rough tones of his voice echoed a similar accent to Vernon's, but somehow the sounds were far less refined.

"You may..." Vernon replied curiously, still content that his best soldier had lost little of his discipline, despite his closer proximity to the beast.

"Standing at your door has made me mightily hungry." He grinned. Vernon returned it; then Aurelia.

"We've overlooked our best man," Aurelia mused. "The night is your picking my friend." Gregor grinned further - that was as good as a promise to him.

They took the elevator down from the top of the tower and into the basement. There waited a stunning, velvet coloured Rolls-Royce Wraith. It was a statement car: power, refinement, luxury, wealth. The cream leather interior greeted them like an old-friend. The two Ventrue sat in the back, getting a clear view of the city out of the blacked-out windows as Gregor drove. The streets sung with action as they ambled through the city; this place never rested - perfect territory for kindred. No wonder the Camarilla were so interested in re-securing it. Looking at a city as assets on paper was one thing - to take it in first hand, see its people, its problems, its wonders: that made you understand it. Of course, this wouldn't come in a night, but as an intelligence man Vernon knew he had to begin the process. 

[img=http://img.caricos.com/2014_rolls-royce_wraith_6.jpg]

"Any direction?" Gregor muttered from the front. Teaching the Gangrel to drive had been hard enough; to do so well had taken an age, but he was exemplary at it now. The Wraith weaved in and out of the traffic, but they were heading nowhere in particular. Vernon was about to speak when something familiar yet striking caught his eye out of the window.

"Turn around Gregor, at the next junction. Then drive passed slowly." There was a curiosity laced with tempered excitement in Vernon's voice. Gregor complied, wheeling the grand, powerful car round with expert control.

"What is it, Vernon?" Aurelia spoke softly, her subtle Spanish accent accentuated by the whispering in his ear. She was interested in what he had seen; whatever it was, it was more than the everyday, that was certain.

"One of our own, I think... a Ventrue. I only saw her for a second, but I know our kin. She was of our blood..."

The Wraith pulled up outside an alleyway - it's blackened windows slipped down a little; there was no trace of her now, but Vernon starred into the darkness knowingly. "Blood. Poor blood, common blood, not fit for one of us. She's desperate; lost perhaps. Cut off."

He stepped out of the car. His sharp suit, tall figure and natural elegance made him stand out amongst the scruffy kine that littered the streets. Once Aurelia stepped out in all her striking, composed beauty, the effect was doubled. They drew looks, but very few looked for long.

"Gregor, watch the car. Come Aurelia, we have one of our own to locate." The certainty he spoke with somehow lent a warmth to the cool night air; a confident aura. She would follow him anywhere, down any alleyway - even in this strange, unfamiliar town called L.A.