Chapter Text
Drifter doesn't usually enjoy hunting like this. Typically, he waits outside the bars, finding his food in alleyways under the moonlight. But sometimes, he needs a change of pace, something with a little more thrill. The last few weeks he had spent prowling the streets of New York, examining his new hunting ground. The vampire council had recently lost some control over the city due to the rising influence of the Baxter society, which had staked at least a few semi-notable vampires. Though he was older than most of members of the council, he generally tried to avoid them, and they did the same — Both of them knew he didn't take their feedback well. But their retreat from New York left it wide open for him, and a few humans with wooden stakes didn't scare him.
The bar he finds himself in is louder than his usual haunts, and filled with people. The whole thing would overwhelm a younger vampire's senses. But for him, it is a melody of pumping blood and living souls. Tonight, he's not just here for a meal, but for some spectacle, something to make this hunt a little more personal. Music plays from a live pianist in a corner, jazzy and smooth, and the lights are kept dim to create a moody atmosphere. He scans the crowd. People move around him, drinking and laughing. Groups sit at wooden tables along the wall, while others stand by the bar or around the pianist. Someone nearly bumps into him as they wander past. Then, he notices a peculiar individual. A woman sitting alone, an empty drink glass sitting on the table, a pool of condensation forming below it. Every few minutes, her head turns towards the door, and then glances around the crowd before sighing. He's seen it before. Lonely, abandoned, isolated. An easy target.
Just as he's about to start his flirtatious introduction, a classic for any decent vampire, she notices him and practically shoots out of her seat. "Oh, finally! There you are. You're..." She pauses for a moment, examining him. "Simon, right?" Her eyes glance back as his, waiting for him to confirm.
Not exactly what he was expecting, but not an issue either. "That's me." He says with a smile, careful not to show his fangs.
Her smile quickly turns into an irritable glare. "You're late. By half an hour! I've been waiting."
"Sorry, sorry. I was, ah, caught up in some things." He can't help but examine her face as she frowns at him. His eyes drift to her neckline, exposed in her date night attire. Her heartbeat thrums in her jugular. It calls to him like a love song. "I'll make it up to you." He smiles again. "I promise."
She huffs, but smiles slightly. "Well, whatever, at least you're here now. Care for a drink?"
He tears his eyes away from her throat. Even without looking, he can still hear the steady rhythm. "Nothin' better than a good drink." He echoes.
With some amount of effort, the two of them manage to reach the bar. The crowd doesn't make ordering, or even talking to the bartender, particularly easy. He pays for both of the drinks, money taken from a previous victim. Though he himself doesn't have any desire for it, money is surprisingly useful to have on hand. He watches the way her eyes light up as he pays, and chuckles to himself.
Drinks in hand, the two of them return to her table. After a brief moment of silence, she starts. "So, what do you do, Simon? Marcelle didn't say much."
Drifter tries to think of something to say. It's been some time since he's been in a real conversation. "I travel for work, confidential business. Been all around." It was, in a way, true. He brings the drink to his lips, something with cognac that he swallows slowly. The flavor is dulled by his vampiric senses, but the warmth is still pleasant in his throat.
She nods. "I'm jealous. I haven't had any time to travel, much less the money for it. I don't know what Marcelle told you, but the Oracle doesn't pay half as well as they advertise, and the work is only half as exciting as I expected."
"You work for the newspaper?" He asks, a little surprised.
"Well, yeah? Although we do radio too now. That's how Marcelle and I know each other. I figured she would have at least mentioned that."
He clicks his tongue. "I can be a little forgetful when staring at a pretty face." He likes the way her eyes widen, before she turns her face away. Her heart quickens and he watches the minute vibrations of her pulse dance across her skin. She takes another sip of her drink, and he does the same, keeping pace with her.
"It's a good job, but I'm tired of writing about glamor cantrips and new Fairfax gizmos. I keep asking to be moved to the paranormal crimes unit, but the boss says I don't have the guts." She sighs.
"Ha!" He can't help but laugh. "It's better that way. Don't think you wanna see half of what goes down on those streets at night. Nothin' good is out there for someone like you."
"I'd buy a gun or something!" She protests, jokingly.
"And a gun is going to protect you from a vampire?" He chuckles. How naive. He ought to kill her now just for the idea.
"Fairfax says it's got bullets that even work on ghosts. Vampires are still tangible, at least. Plus, if they weren't killable, how would all those monster hunters survive?" She smiles, leaning back in her seat. "I bet they're not that scary."
"Good vampires can survive plenty of gunshots. Even from a monster hunter." His playful smile doesn't change.
"Guess I'll just have to not run into one then." She laughs. "But enough about me. You travel for work? Where?"
He hums, taking another sip of his drink to give himself time to think about his answer. How far did humans typically travel, in this age? He didn't know. "Everywhere and anywhere. Life takes you a lotta places, don't always get to choose where you end up." She nods along as he speaks. "But this place ain't so bad. I haven't been around very long, but I have liked what I've seen."
"It's a little rough around the edges, but the city has a good heart. And it's always busy! There's always something happening around here. It's one of the reasons I like it so much. I hope you'll stick around for a bit, I'd love to show you the city."
"Bet you know a lotta good places to eat, being a reporter and all."
She snorts. "I wish. No, we have a different reporter for food and restaurant reviews. Lucky! They sent him to Ixia a week ago to write about the food culture over there. I'd practically kill for something that exciting to happen to me."
He hums in response. She continues, "I came here to start living my life, to do something more interesting. I mean, an astral gate opened up here! Nothing like that ever happens where I'm from. I only moved here last year, and I know it takes time to build up a career, but if I wanted to stay at a desk and edit advertisements disguised as interviews, I would have stayed home. It would have been cheaper anyhow. The point of journalism is to get information out to the people, not convince them to buy things." Exasperation creases her face. He finds it amusing, in a way.
"Ah, so you're an idealist, huh? I can appreciate the ambition. Angry is a good look for you! Maybe you should try it more. Show your boss some fire." Drifter chuckles, mostly to himself.
She shakes her head, flustered, and downs the rest of her drink. "Oh, you really are a smooth talker, huh?" Once she finishes speaking, she gestures to the empty glasses, before standing. "Are you coming? I'll buy this time."
A few drinks later, and Drifter has learned several things about this woman. She has a favorite cafe a few blocks away, and on weekends she likes to visit the Astral Gate park, or occasionally the museum, to look at the outer planes artifacts. Apparently she tried to learn magic, but never succeeded beyond giving herself headaches. She is, to him, a perfectly regular human, albeit one who seems oddly invested in the supernatural for someone without any sense of the danger it holds. It's more entertaining to him than he expected, discussing with her the state of Fairfax Industries or whether he's tried the newest Ixian gadget brought over from the planes. Thankfully, she doesn't press him when he gives vague answers to her questions about his life. Lying was not a skill he had practiced in some time. Still, once she finishes her last drink, the atmosphere in the bar has become quieter as people begin to filter out.
"Well, I think I've had enough. I have work tomorrow!" She says, laughing a little as she stands. He stands as well.
"Let me walk you home. It is a dangerous city, after all." He says as they exit the doors of the bar.
She nods, and falls into step next to him. "Here, it's this way. Not too far from here, actually." The noise of the bar fades away into the cold night air behind them. She shivers as a gust of wind rushes by the both of them. The roads are dark at this time of night, and covered in a thin layer of ice. Lamps occasionally light the way, but the moon is the primary source of light at this hour of night — an issue the city states that it's trying to fix, but hasn't gotten around to yet. Finally, the two of them are alone. Truly alone. He licks his lips. She walks beside him, practically touching his side. It would be easy to finally pounce, to tear free the sweet blood from inside her throat for him to feast upon. There's no one around but them and the moon.
He lags behind for just a second, muscles tensing. It's time. His nostrils flare, vision narrowing. It is as if the world has gone quiet, aside from her heartbeat. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. It's relaxed, completely unaware of the danger she's in. His hands turn to claws, hidden away in the pockets of his jacket. Nails long enough to rend flesh from bone. But before he can sink his teeth into her neck, she turns.
"We're here!" She gestures up at a brick building, warm light shining through the windows. The suddenness of the moment breaks his focus. "This is my place. Thanks for walking with me." She continues, without noticing his expression shift. "I really enjoyed tonight. To be honest, I didn't think I'd have much fun, but you're a surprisingly good listener. Would you want to do this again, sometime?" Her eyes tilt down as she asks, hands nervously toying with a loose piece of thread on her jacket. Just inside the window, someone moves, flipping the page of a notebook inside their apartment. Above, a conversation occurs on a balcony and echoes down to the street. It's too public, too many witnesses. Even when he doesn't fear the attention of hunters or the council, he prefers his targets isolated. It's better for the flavor. In the yellow glow of this building, the moment is taken from him.
Looking at her face, the way hope glitters in her eyes, something in the air shifts. He's not sure exactly why, but he finds himself hesitating, claws digging into the fabric of his jacket. He finally answers, hearing her heartbeat quicken as his silence. "I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't enjoy myself." It comes out stilted, his throat aching for the sweetness of her blood.
But she smiles and moves close to him, close enough that she encompasses his vision. He blinks in the cold. It's been a long, long time since anyone has approached him, and even longer since someone has done so without the intent to kill him. It's the lightest touch, but she presses a kiss to his cheek. He feels himself freeze. It is a blessing for him that it's cold out, as his vampiric nature means he lacks body heat.
"What about next week, dinner perhaps? I've got a few favorite restaurants I can show you." Her voice wavers, excited but still hesitant. He finds himself agreeing, and setting up another date. With quick arrangements made for dinner next week, she waves goodbye, before entering her apartment building.
He waits for a moment, listening to the fading heartbeat. He can hear her lean against the door on the inside, breathing heavily for a moment, before she begins to walk up the stairs. It has begun snowing outside, white flakes finding their home in his hat.
Drifter turns away slowly, and walks down the street.
What was that? He can't believe it. The fearsome, deadly stalker of the night held off from easy prey? He's going soft. Irritation clouds his mind, and as he wanders his way back to the bar, he spies a decent alleyway to wait for fresh meat to take out his anger on.
Two drunkards from the bar later and he's full and pleasantly buzzed from the liquor in their blood. Half of him wants to waltz back to that apartment building and break a window, just to find her and finally eat the meal that he was toying with. The other half of him urges him to wait. Imagine how much sweeter the blood will taste when she welcomes him into her home, only to be filled with terror when he reveals his true self. The torture, the pleasure of it. He whistles to himself at the idea. No, he's killed in the same way so many times, but this is new, exciting. A few dates, hanging out in the human world? An easy price to pay for the experience of taking her life, not as a stranger, but as someone she trusts. His lips curl into a gruesome smile at the thought.
You feel faint once you get inside your apartment, heart still beating in your chest. A date! An actually good date! You nearly spin around, excited to tell Marcelle how it went at work tomorrow. Even if he was late, and a little bit awkward at times, he was cute enough to make up for it. And he offered to walk you home! You had managed to find yourself a real gentleman, it seems.
When morning rolls around, you find yourself rushing out the door to get to the office. It's cloudy, with an icy wind blowing through the streets. You bundle yourself into a warm coat, and shoes decent enough to avoid slipping on the patches of ice that have formed along the sidewalk. Winter is pretty sometimes, but this morning, it's just dreary.
Marcelle is there already, a few years older than you and always early. She's a photographer, and usually works with a number of other departments, including your current station as a technology, magic, and industry writer. She's grimacing as you approach, flipping through a binder of notes, but breaks into a smile as she sees you.
"Hey! Gotta head out in a few minutes, but how was the date?"
"Great! It was great. He's a surprisingly good listener."
"That's Simon for you. More of a shy type, but he'll open up the more you get to know him. I knew you'd like him! Are you planning a second date?"
"Yeah, next week. We're going out for dinner."
She looks overly pleased with herself. "Good. That's good. You deserve someone to treat you nice." She gives you a cheesy thumbs up, before turning back to the binder she's holding. Her face again shifts to a grimace.
"Marcelle? Are you alright?"
She snaps the binder shut, and shakes her head. "Fred is out sick today, so they're asking me to go downtown to document a police hearing. Pretty gruesome murder last night, it sounds like. Two men were torn to shreds in an alleyway outside of a bar. The police are comparing it to the murders last week, same style. This is all internal, but they're saying it's potentially something worse than just a serial killer."
"Worse?"
"You know... Something worse. Cultists, monsters... I don't know. But be careful out there, okay? The fact that the police are even willing to suggest that at all means it's pretty serious."
You nod solemnly, as Marcelle packs the binder back into her bag. She waves at you as she leaves, smiling slightly, though it doesn't meet her eyes.
You return to your desk, where a neat stack of folders sit. Work. You flip through them. As one of the newer members of the staff (aside from the rotating groups of interns who never seem to last more than a month), you write the small stories, things on the third page of the paper without too many pictures or flashy graphics. The deadlines are still tight, but you're given a little more wiggle room as nothing you write is considered "breaking news" or even all that important. No surprises, good or bad. Other would call it easy work, but you'd call it boring.
You find your interview notes from yesterday morning, talking with another Fairfax spokesperson about their newest charity event, to be converted into a printable story, as well as some leads and contacts to deal with later in the week. There's also a note reminding you to visit the copy desk to work out some phrasing for your latest article. Other reporters bustle around, moving to and from desks, and the sound of typewriters fills the room as others begin their work. It's another day sitting at your desk, for the most part.
The work, for what it's worth, is slow. The day passes without incident, aside from the dower look Marcelle has when she returns from the hearing. It's not like her to be so solemn, even when she's working on something serious. When tomorrow's paper is finished printing later, you catch the report on the murder incident. One of the benefits of being in the newsroom is getting to see the early prints, before they're distributed the next morning. In-house printing is one of the Oracle's claims to fame. Marcelle's photos show off an older detective, standing beside a number of other officers, all of whom are carefully controlling their expressions. The headline reads: RANDOM VIOLENCE OR SUPERNATURAL ACTIVITY? GRUESOME MURDERS ON DEVOE STREET. You skim the rest, only pausing when you realize that the location of the crime was right next to the bar you were at for your date. The last few murders were across the city, nowhere near your home, but this one was closer than you realized. Police estimate that, though the bodies were only discovered in the daylight, the murders had happened only a few hours after you left the bar. Chills run up your spine. Violence was admittedly common in the city, especially given the high prevalence of supernatural weapons manufacturers, but usually it didn't happen so close to you. Especially not something this horrible. Thankfully, the paper doesn't include any pictures of the bodies, though even the brief description makes you sick to your stomach. You lay the paper down, and turn back to your work, trying to shut it out of your mind. At the very least, it says that the police are "confident they can apprehend the killer shortly." Somehow, even though you doubt their abilities, it makes you feel a little better.
Part of your mind drifts back to your conversation with Simon last night, about buying a gun. It wouldn't be a bad idea, after all, and you do have a few connections that would make it a little bit more affordable on your salary. Your eyes flick over to your list of contacts, hovering over the call line for the Curiosity Shop, a secondhand weapons, artifacts, and curiosities dealer. An odd guy, but reliable nonetheless. The shopkeeper there could almost certainly get you something to suit your needs. You make a mental note to visit him after work, just to check in. A gun is useful for a reporter, after all.