My Little Ventrue Pt. 04 Ch. 04

He set the large bowl down, and squeezed the edges of the glass. His arms started to shake. His fingers squeezed in just the right spots to not break the glass; any other place and he was sure the bowl would shatter. His muscles started to clench, flexing, bracing for inevitable combat. Calm the fuck down, calm the fuck down. Breathe.

This wasn't normal. And it wasn't PTSD; fuck was wrong with him for even thinking the thought? He'd been a ring fighter, MMA, not a fucking soldier. He had no reason to be shaking from head to toe, imagining scenarios in his head of the person at the door breaking it down, and trying to stab him, shoot him, jump him, ruin his home and take his life. No reason at all. But he was imagining it. And he was imagining the feel of their neck breaking in his grip. Bones snapping, cartilage tearing, the feel of skin and meat ripping apart in his teeth.

The sensation was very overt. He thought if he was going insane, the effects would be more subtle, sneak into his life and slowly take him over. American Psycho. Sociopathy, maybe even Hollywood's version of schizophrenia, leading to aggressive behavior and delusions, until he was killing prostitutes by dropping chainsaws on them. Real prostitutes, or hallucinations?

The door knocked again. And he was still shaking. Breathe, just breathe.

He got up, wiped away a fresh drop of sweat from his forehead, and opened the door. Fuck, it was Mr. Pitt.

"Got my money, Eric?"

"Fuck you. You want the money? Get it from Sheryl."

Mr. Pitt was a short man, white, bald, with bit of a belly, and a nice suit to match his better-than-you mafia attitude. Matched the big guy beside him, another white guy except this man was tall, huge, with muscles coming out of his ears. Face kind of reminded Eric of a refrigerator.

"Your ex-wife doesn't owe us money Eric. You do."

"Yeah well, she got all the money. So go bother her." He tried to slam his door shut, but Mr. Pitt's muscle stepped in and blocked it with his foot. And, like he owned the place, Mr. Pitt stepped into the apartment.

"You don't look good, Tanverson."

"Rough time sleeping. Get the fuck out of my apartment," he said. His words got him some angry glares from the tall stack of steroids.

Every muscle in Eric's body, every fucking instinct wanted to grab the guy and break his nose, and then his arm. And he could too, he knew he could. Big guy like that lived in the gym and pushed around weak fucks for a living. Eric doubted the man had ever fought someone who fought back, and he couldn't stop imagining how it'd feel to crush the man's neck inward with his palm. But he wanted to do more than that. He wanted to bite the man's throat out. He wanted to taste blood, taste muscle and skin and bone and cartilage and—

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

"Looking down on money, Mr. Tanverson. Not good. Mr. Montel wants his money, and I'm afraid—"

"You came over here to shake me down for money in the middle of the day?" He folded his arms across his chest, and glared down at the fat bastard.

Pitt shrugged, and leaned to the side to look past Eric into his shitty, rundown living room. "Rick's son goes to the school in the neighborhood, and he forgot his lunch. We had to bring it to him." The two morons chuckled.

"Want your money? Take it up with the law. I'm not paying you shit, how many times I have to say it?"

Pitt sighed and looked down, complete with a dramatic shrug. "You're the one that agreed to the loan, Mr. Tanverson."

"My wife—"

"I don't care how your wife convinced you, you're the one that agreed to it. And Mr. Montel has been very understanding of your circumstances. The divorce. The injury. He gave you a six month extension. At no interest! You're a very lucky man, Mr. Tanverson." Fat bastard walked past him, and when Eric moved to get in his way, moron number two put out a huge hand to block his path, letting Pitt explore his apartment.

"Sheryl got the jewelry, the car, everything." Not like it was a secret. Still tasted like ashes though. The lawyer bills alone drained what little money he had left. "And—"

"As I said Mr. Tanverson, your loan, your money. Your head." He walked around the couch, in his shoes no less, and chuckled as he analyzed the shit world Eric lived in. "Get a roommate, Mr. Tanverson. You'll need the money. I—oh! What a precious creature." Mr. Fat Bastard got down on a knee, and held out a hand for Kat. It'd have been nice if Kat was a mean feline, maybe take after her owner, but that just wasn't Kat. Damn cat came up to the intruder, sat down, and stared up at him with her big soft eyes.

"Don't touch my cat, Pitt." He came up to the man, even as Rick stayed within an inch of him at all times. "Ever seen John Wick?"

Fat bastard laughed, got up, and walked past him. Stared up at him too, met his eyes as he pat Eric on the shoulder, and then moved for the door.

"One month, Mr. Tanverson. One month, before Mr. Montel loses his patience. And then a lot more than just Rick and myself will be back."

Eric growled. A literal growl, something deep in his throat. It didn't sound terribly human, and Mr. Pitt raised a brow as he looked over his shoulder at him. But the little man shrugged it off, flicked his fingers in a dismissing wave, and walked out the door.

Going to kill him. Eric was going to kill him, and Rick, and any other fucker that showed up at his door. Kill them all, rip them apart, bite into their fucking throats and tear them open. He—

A meow broke through his maelstrom of violent thoughts. He looked down at Kat, and scooped her up into his arms. Soft, a little fat, face a bit flat; just made her face look soft and adorable. And he leaned in to rub his nose against hers, only for her to reciprocate with a few licks of her rough tongue. Totally oblivious to everything, to the danger, to the knife's edge Eric's life was balancing on. She just wanted to cuddle, eat, sleep, and chase the occasional laser pointer.

He walked over to his shit couch, Kat in his arms cradled like a baby. His free hand stroked her belly, then her ears, then past to reach for the table and pick up the card that man had given him. John Ganders, manager at the Bloodlust club. A very successful club, swimming in profit and with customers swimming in money and drugs and sex. Christ what a slutty city. Even the cops were getting in on it, Eric bet. Who cares. Adults could do whatever they wanted as long as they didn't hurt anyone, and Eric agreed with that philosophy.

He just wasn't sure he wanted to be there when adults were engaging in that philosophy.

"What do you think Kat? If you get sick, I don't have the money for surgery or medicine right now."

She meowed.

"And if I get sick, well then we're both fucked."

She meowed again, longer this time.

"... ok, I'll do it Kat. Not because of that fucker Mr. Pitt either, but because... fuck we need a better place to live. And I don't want to lose you." Only good thing going in his life right now, the cat he bought on a whim cause he knew he needed to lower the stress in his life. And fuck losing the one good thing in his life.

She meowed.

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~~Jack~~

This was going to be dangerous. Not super dangerous, he hoped. Mildly dangerous? Best he could hope for, walking into Carthian territory, and then surrounding himself with a bunch of werewolves, snarling and roaring and biting and clawing. Course they wouldn't be doing that, but he had a pretty vivid memory of what they were like transformed. Titans. Indestructible titans.

Indestructible titans that were, according to a friend of a friend, as horny as they were fit. Word had already gotten around about Natasha and her two lovers, and by the time the information had circled the Kindred net a few times, the story was that the two wolves were fucking her multiple times a night, every night. Exaggeration, surely. Maybe? There was no denying that the wolves were bastions of life, of raw power, heat, blood, energy. Made perfect sense they'd be as horny as a vampire with a belly full of fresh blood..

The driver dropped him off outside the appropriate building, a shitty rundown apartment building. Just how the Carthians liked it. He doubted they actually liked it like that, but economics was a cruel mistress, and capitalism bred inequality as consistently as people breathed. Money was different for a Kindred though, less important, just a byproduct of playing the game and herding the sheep.

The sheep around here looked at him with a few raised brows. A kid in a suit. He wasn't a kid, but he knew he looked like one, even with the fancy suit and shoes and tie. Must have looked like some sort of rich kid getting out of the nice car, with fancy rich parents and such. He laughed, and remembered the time he visited Garry with Julias. Did his sire look like his father in that scenario?

He stepped into the lobby, and started up the stairs. Room 312. Sure enough, once he reached the third floor of the dirty, water damaged, stained building, he found Matthew Wilson standing outside the door. Man was gigantic, utterly gigantic, with one of those happy, consistent smiles. The sort of fellow who was a genuinely joyful man. A rarity in the city, or anywhere really.

"Yo Jack," he said with a small wave.

"Um, hello Mr. Wilso—"

"Whoa, just Matt little dude." He held up his hands in surrender, as if Jack had just put a shotgun to his head.

"Oh... ok." So much for trying to be polite. Not that these wolves couldn't be polite, but Invictus tactics weren't going to work. He knew that too, but a part of him was hoping the form of politeness he'd been practicing for almost a year now would work on the wolves too.

But then, he smiled. Avery appreciated bluntness. Jack wasn't allowed to be blunt with his superiors, as it was very bad for Invictus business rocking the boat like that. Even with the Carthians, bluntness was dangerous if he touched a nerve. But the wolves were a different animal. Bluntness could work well, which meant he could be himself with them. He just needed to test the water first.

Matthew opened the door, and Jack stepped in. The big guy followed in after him and gestured for him to move toward the couch.

Not a chair, a couch. There was no desk with someone sitting behind it doing a power pose, and there was no arrangement of chairs pointed at a center or main point. He'd walked into a literal living room of an apartment. Avery's apartment, if he had to guess.

"Hey Jack," the old woman said. Well, maybe not old, but older, looked like she was in her fifties. Fit as hell, and tiny like him. Hard to picture a small woman like her leading anything, but she did have these titans as her pack. And when she was transformed, she didn't seem so little, especially with the flaming claws. How the fuck did a werewolf get flaming claws?

"Avery." He walked over to the couch, but didn't sit down. A little too much too fast for a business meeting.

Avery on the other hand had no such issue, already sitting in the window sill, one of her legs up and her side to the window.

"Glad you could make it."

"That was the deal, right? I show up, tell you what's up, you tell me what's up, and I make sure no one kills each other." A little bluntness. Testing the waters.

"Yeap," she said. Water tested, be blunt as fuck with these people. "Hey Clara, get in here."

Jack flinched, and looked down the hall. Clara came out of one of the rooms, and gave him a wink before she came over to grab a wooden chair from the connected kitchen, and sat in it reverse style. Only made sense for Avery's second in command to be here, don't look into it.

"Hello Clara," he said, official as possible.

It only made her laugh. "Hey kid."

Avery, rolling her eyes, gestured to the dark street through the window. "Weird to see buildings burn down in Dolareido."

Yeah, it was. "Mmhmm."

"In most cities, a lot of the older buildings actually burn slow. Harder material. It's the newer buildings that go up like kindling, made of nothing but cheap shit, filled with nothing but cheap shit," she said. "Back in my day, things were made of real wood, and shit burned slow. But these days, everything's synthetic and just looking to snap into a blaze in seconds. I could light a couch on fire, and bring down a building in five minutes." Random lecture? Oh good god, she'd gone grandma mode.

"Dolareido's a little different," he said. "Far as I know, Viktor and Antoinette and Lucas, they pushed for buildings to be built with fire resistant material, when the option became available. Cause, you know, Kindred. So the older buildings, like the one that burned down, are the ones we're generally a little more concerned with."

"Exactly." She nodded to herself a few times, scratched her chin a few times more, and gestured to the buildings across the street. "Garry's neck of the woods, the buildings are either old, or not built like your fancy shit is. That fire wasn't too far from this part of the city either. And Kindred don't risk spreading fire."

"Telling me there's no way Garry would risk killing Barry with fire? Or covering up his murder with fire?"

"More or less." Looking back to him, she smirked. She liked it when he caught on to what she was saying, just like a grandma would, complete with the oddly warm smile.

"You assume I suspected Garry," he said.

"You didn't? You'd be the first Kindred I ever met that didn't suspect an opposing covenant of foul play."

"Touche." His turn to nod, and scratch his chin. "Is this what you wanted to talk about? Barry's death?"

"Only to tell you what Clara told you, that we're looking into it too."

Nice of her. And suspicious. But that was just a bit of his Kindred paranoia showing through, hopefully. "Keep an eye out for four humans. Two trench coats, two leather jackets. Two men, two women." He shrugged as everyone in the room raised a brow. "Yeah I know, shitty lead, but they may be connected."

"I'll remember that."

The strangest meeting of his life, so casual he felt like he should be wearing a t-shirt. Avery didn't seem too concerned with a Kindred in her presence, and if anything, she almost seemed amused about the whole thing. There was a small grin on her lips, the sort of grin someone had when their mind was elsewhere and imagining, or remembering happy things. At least she seemed in a good mood.

"I understand the Invictus ball is open invitation to all covenants, and even the Uratha and Begotten," he said.

Avery raised a brow and looked over her shoulder straight at him. "... part of me thought that was a joke."

He raised a brow to mirror hers. "What? No, the Invictus have balls every so often. And, not long ago, Antoinette had her own, where all covenants were invited. The Prince wants to keep the peace that the city is enjoying, and the Invictus are on board with that idea. And, since now there are Begotten and Uratha in the city, they're a part of that peace." He rubbed his buzzed head, and glanced around at the crummy apartment. Would they have the money? Well, they were pals with Garry, and Jack knew that the elder had the connections to at least get well dressed when he wanted.

But Clara and Matthew looked interested, and the two of them looked up with wandering eyes. Picturing themselves in ballroom clothes, maybe?

"It'll be a sort of casual dress code," he said, "for a ball, I mean. Suits and dresses, but nothing as strict as black tie. Showing some skin is encouraged." Finally knowing the meaning of black tie and other dress codes was a useful tool in his kit.

"I'll talk to the pack. Jacob being there may be an issue." Avery looked back to the window, set a hand on her knee, and leaned back against the frame of the window sill. There was weight on her, somewhere he couldn't quite place. "What's Maria been up to?"

Whoa, hard turn on the conversation direction.

"Maria Turio?"

"Of course."

He scratched his head again, and looked to Clara. She'd gone serious mode too. What brought this on?

"Invictus business, nothing I can discuss. That said, the Mirrden business is pretty public at this point." And he very much doubted Avery was asking because of the Mirrden business. She was getting at something, but he didn't know what; question was out of left field.

"Yeah I knew it was a long shot, asking you." She sighed, louder than Jack expected, and cracked her knuckles. "But I like you kid, so, fair warning. Don't trust her."

"... honestly? That's status quo for Kindred, even here in Dolareido. I'm guessing in the pack, you all learn to trust each other with your lives, right?" he said. The three of them nodded, and he chuckled. Hey, this conversation was kind of fun, now that he was feeling more comfortable. "I can count on one hand the Kindred I trust with my life, with fingers to spare. Just the way things are. Madam Turio is pursuing her own agendas on top of Invictus agendas, I am sure."

"No idea what those are?" Clara said, leaning forward on her chair a bit.

"Beyond the typical Kindred stuff? No. I'm the last person she'd tell her secrets to. I'm sure she's got plans on top of other plans to not only keep herself alive for a long time, but to achieve any motivations she has on top of that. Right now she's helping Damien start up the Second Estate once more, to sister our First Estate."

Avery nodded, but frowned as her eyes looked down. Not satisfied, apparently. But after a few seconds of silence, she shrugged. "You're like a bunch of... politicians, digging away at each other all the time, not realizing you're digging your own pits of hell."

Pits of hell. The imagery was vivid. Thought for sure she was going to say they were digging their own graves, but pits of hell certainly carried some extra implications he couldn't deny. He winced as he considered each elder the city currently housed, each digging their own pit, each pit growing big enough to swallow the whole city and everyone in it. Certainly fit Jacob well, and the Invictus and Carthians a bit too. Antoinette though?

"I don't disagree," he said. "Mostly."

Matt laughed at that, before walking over to the fridge and digging through assorted things. Things on plates? He pulled out an enormous steak, took off the plastic wrap, and set it on the counter.

"Want some?" Matt said, glancing his way.

Jack laughed. Matt didn't. Wait, was he serious? Must have been, at least until he realized how absurd what he said was, and the giant started laughing too. Maybe he was trying to lighten Avery's weird mood? Or he could have just been a big silly dope, and that would have partly explained why Natasha liked him. He was lovable.

"So we'll see you at the ball then?" he said. "I have to warn you, it's going to be... well, maybe not as bad as Bloodlust, but it's supposed to be about relaxing. Kindred relax by drinking kine, so kine will be there, and... yeah, people can get pretty... aroused."

Avery rolled her eyes, and her two pack mates laughed. But Clara had a twinkle in her eye Jack recognized. She knew what he meant, but the others didn't. They'd learn.

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~~Eric~~

The phone call went well. Too well. John Ganders was excited to hire him, and bombarded him with all the benefits he'd get if he took the job. It was a very weird situation to be in, to have someone trying to convince you to take the job offer, when the job offer was already a much better deal than your current job. The dental, the medical, discounts on alcohol the club served, entry into the club whenever he wanted, and a salary that was indeed triple his current income.

He wasn't sure he wanted it. At least as a taxi driver, he could focus on driving. At the club, he'd be standing around and watching people, interacting with them occasionally, making sure no one caused trouble. Cocaine and alcohol did occasionally lead to troublemakers, Ganders said. The man was so damn open about the drug use, but Eric doubted Ganders was distributing; no way it'd be worth the risk. Much as Dolareido was pretty light on punishment for trafficking or prostitution, it couldn't turn a blind eye to everything. Better for Ganders if he didn't touch the stuff, and just let his customers bring their own drugs and hookers.