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Another sort of musing that has its roots really in my own fascination with the whole vampire/sex thing.
-------------------------
Robert Gift sat in his parked car, still and silent. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, thoughts churned their way through his head, every one seeming to force his heart to beat harder in his chest. Powerful fingers rubbed stiffly at his temples as he tried to gain some semblance of control over his emotions. But it was a token gesture.
His mind swam in bloody imagery. Images that could not be forgotten. Experiences from which he could not escape, not now. Tortured screams filled his head, alongside well-remembered roars of prejudice and hatred. There was no escape, it seemed, from history’s judgement.
Pulling his head up, he risked a glance at the building opposite his car. It looked almost like any other in the district, with its bright red bricks and simple, functional design. With one exception; there were no windows. Here, in broad daylight, it still looked innocent enough. But Peter knew that as soon as darkness fell on the city, the deliberately seedy neon signs would light up like a beacon to attract every manner of inhuman scum from miles around to the most unnatural and profane clubhouse in existence. In bright red lettering, the signs would name the place ‘Necrotica’.
Necrotica. A whorehouse staffed almost entirely by vampires, and visited almost exclusively by people who were not. Sick enthusiasts fulfilling fantasies of vampire sex and neck-biting. Though every passing night, hundreds would flock to taste this heathen experience, Peter himself did not see the attraction. His experiences with the vampire breed were well documented, and he bore scars that no doctor, human or otherwise, could heal. And yet, with this in mind, he had knowingly been tasked with going inside.
As his heart beat a thud against the inside of his chest as though it were intent on escaping, he slammed a fist into the dashboard, and swung the car door open. Stepping out into the cold winter sunshine, he kept his eyes on the floor, and avoided looking at the clubhouse. It was an atrocity, and it betrayed everything he believed in to even accept its existence. But still he crossed the road, still he walked along the grey pavement to the main entrance, and still he pressed the large white button, requesting admittance. He heard the faint sound of a ringing bell from within. He waited, and as he did so, he pulled his eyes away from the paving slabs and looked around the entrance at which he stood. No fewer than three cameras observed the doorway. At night, he knew, those cameras would supplement the heavy presence of the door guards, who judged who should be allowed admittance. But during the day, this place was closed while those who serviced it slept. There was no admittance during daylight hours, and he was stood before the doors shortly before noon.
And yet, after a few brief moments, there was a series of muffled clunks from behind the door, and it slid silently open. On the other side stood a slightly built man who looked distinctly undernourished and tired. He stood with his shoulders slumped, and looked up at Peter from a head that seemed to hang loosely on his neck. His eyes bore a dull grey shimmer, and his balding head was awash with erratic clumps of greying hair. But he could be no older than mid-twenties. This was no vampire. Peter’s blood boiled in his veins. This was one of those who chose to serve under the undead like a slave, for no reward bar that of being used as a tool for their gratification.
He puffed his chest to stand head and shoulders above the boy, resisting the urge to tear his throat out. Gift stood taller than most men, these days, and if his height was not enough to put fear into people, his impossibly muscular build certainly did. But this boy did not look the least intimidated. A croaky voice squeezed its way through bloodless lips and an expressionless face.
“The House welcomes you,” he said “honoured patron.”
“I am no customer of yours, you filthy dog.” Peter snapped. The boy raised his head slightly at the severity of the reply. His lips looked about to crack as he mouthed the word ‘dog’ in reply. “Stand aside,” he continued “I’m here to see your mistress.” The last word was an envenomed sneer, as he stepped forward, not waiting for the lad to move.
And the boy did not move. After two strides, Peter was face to face with him. Without slowing down, he brushed a thick arm across the frail half-man’s chest and he was flung to the ground. He couldn’t resist shouting a curse after him as he fell.
“You filthy cur!” he slammed “Your Hell bound soul will pay an eternity for your stupidity!”
He strode forward, and began to take in the décor as he did so. Everything was made to look as classical as possible here on the inside. It was the image of a Victorian noble’s mansion. No doubt made to look so to fit with the foolish romantic notion the club’s patrons fantasised of. Ahead of him stood a flight of red carpeted stairs leading towards what he expected would be the ‘chambers’, where every form of unholy union he couldn’t bring himself to imagine would occur on a nightly basis. Yet still he strode towards them. Only the sound of delirious cackling from behind stopped him from darting straight up them. He stopped and turned to see the boy he had thrown, up on his hands and knees. His body rocked as his laughter seemed to tear his body apart from within. His voice was like sandpaper as he started babbling nonsensically.
“Dog!” the boy exclaimed “Dog for the Bell!” and a wave of what might have been laughter rocked him again before he continued. “Hell bound bell hound!” He cried. Then he fell silent, and raised his head to stare directly at Peter. The boy’s face looked suddenly confused as he said quietly “Bell…hound?”
Peter felt bile rise to his throat. The boy was delirious, sick and probably dying before he had even had chance to live. Vampires had done this to him, and any number of others. Their continued existence was an effrontery to all mankind, and if he ever got the chance, he would slay every single one of them.
“We all have our peculiarities, Detective Gift.” Peter swung around again to face the stairs and the voice that had come from them. Half way down, a woman in a long, black dress that flowed around her feet stood where moments before there had been no-one. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her hair as red as fire and her eyes as deep as the night. She had the beauty of ages, and he felt immediately the conflict as his body enjoyed the attraction in her face at the same time his mind recognised its features. “But that is not cause in and of itself for such prejudice.” She continued. It was a response, he knew, to what he had just been thinking. His hands worked their way into and out of fists at the rage he felt that she could read him so easily. His lip twisted into a snarl.
“Please Detective, follow me.” She turned and began walking up the stairs. She looked back at him over her shoulder, when he made no effort to follow. Shoulders, he noticed, that were uncovered from the rear by her black dress. That he noticed at all irritated him. “Murder, I feel, is of more immediate concern than whatever differences our people have, Detective Gift.” He met her eyes, and stared at her as though he could bore through her skull through sheer weight of willpower. “We have much to discuss.”
Murder. If killing a vampire whöre could ever be classed as murder, he thought. But this was why he was here. This was why he was violating everything he believed in to serve the law. This was why the Chief of Police himself had pleaded with him to revoke his retirement. There was no turning back now. The law had beckoned, and he had come, however reluctantly, to serve. Bitterly, he stepped forward and began walking up the steps, haunted with every one by the sound of inane cackling from the boy behind him.
-------------------------
Robert Gift sat in his parked car, still and silent. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, thoughts churned their way through his head, every one seeming to force his heart to beat harder in his chest. Powerful fingers rubbed stiffly at his temples as he tried to gain some semblance of control over his emotions. But it was a token gesture.
His mind swam in bloody imagery. Images that could not be forgotten. Experiences from which he could not escape, not now. Tortured screams filled his head, alongside well-remembered roars of prejudice and hatred. There was no escape, it seemed, from history’s judgement.
Pulling his head up, he risked a glance at the building opposite his car. It looked almost like any other in the district, with its bright red bricks and simple, functional design. With one exception; there were no windows. Here, in broad daylight, it still looked innocent enough. But Peter knew that as soon as darkness fell on the city, the deliberately seedy neon signs would light up like a beacon to attract every manner of inhuman scum from miles around to the most unnatural and profane clubhouse in existence. In bright red lettering, the signs would name the place ‘Necrotica’.
Necrotica. A whorehouse staffed almost entirely by vampires, and visited almost exclusively by people who were not. Sick enthusiasts fulfilling fantasies of vampire sex and neck-biting. Though every passing night, hundreds would flock to taste this heathen experience, Peter himself did not see the attraction. His experiences with the vampire breed were well documented, and he bore scars that no doctor, human or otherwise, could heal. And yet, with this in mind, he had knowingly been tasked with going inside.
As his heart beat a thud against the inside of his chest as though it were intent on escaping, he slammed a fist into the dashboard, and swung the car door open. Stepping out into the cold winter sunshine, he kept his eyes on the floor, and avoided looking at the clubhouse. It was an atrocity, and it betrayed everything he believed in to even accept its existence. But still he crossed the road, still he walked along the grey pavement to the main entrance, and still he pressed the large white button, requesting admittance. He heard the faint sound of a ringing bell from within. He waited, and as he did so, he pulled his eyes away from the paving slabs and looked around the entrance at which he stood. No fewer than three cameras observed the doorway. At night, he knew, those cameras would supplement the heavy presence of the door guards, who judged who should be allowed admittance. But during the day, this place was closed while those who serviced it slept. There was no admittance during daylight hours, and he was stood before the doors shortly before noon.
And yet, after a few brief moments, there was a series of muffled clunks from behind the door, and it slid silently open. On the other side stood a slightly built man who looked distinctly undernourished and tired. He stood with his shoulders slumped, and looked up at Peter from a head that seemed to hang loosely on his neck. His eyes bore a dull grey shimmer, and his balding head was awash with erratic clumps of greying hair. But he could be no older than mid-twenties. This was no vampire. Peter’s blood boiled in his veins. This was one of those who chose to serve under the undead like a slave, for no reward bar that of being used as a tool for their gratification.
He puffed his chest to stand head and shoulders above the boy, resisting the urge to tear his throat out. Gift stood taller than most men, these days, and if his height was not enough to put fear into people, his impossibly muscular build certainly did. But this boy did not look the least intimidated. A croaky voice squeezed its way through bloodless lips and an expressionless face.
“The House welcomes you,” he said “honoured patron.”
“I am no customer of yours, you filthy dog.” Peter snapped. The boy raised his head slightly at the severity of the reply. His lips looked about to crack as he mouthed the word ‘dog’ in reply. “Stand aside,” he continued “I’m here to see your mistress.” The last word was an envenomed sneer, as he stepped forward, not waiting for the lad to move.
And the boy did not move. After two strides, Peter was face to face with him. Without slowing down, he brushed a thick arm across the frail half-man’s chest and he was flung to the ground. He couldn’t resist shouting a curse after him as he fell.
“You filthy cur!” he slammed “Your Hell bound soul will pay an eternity for your stupidity!”
He strode forward, and began to take in the décor as he did so. Everything was made to look as classical as possible here on the inside. It was the image of a Victorian noble’s mansion. No doubt made to look so to fit with the foolish romantic notion the club’s patrons fantasised of. Ahead of him stood a flight of red carpeted stairs leading towards what he expected would be the ‘chambers’, where every form of unholy union he couldn’t bring himself to imagine would occur on a nightly basis. Yet still he strode towards them. Only the sound of delirious cackling from behind stopped him from darting straight up them. He stopped and turned to see the boy he had thrown, up on his hands and knees. His body rocked as his laughter seemed to tear his body apart from within. His voice was like sandpaper as he started babbling nonsensically.
“Dog!” the boy exclaimed “Dog for the Bell!” and a wave of what might have been laughter rocked him again before he continued. “Hell bound bell hound!” He cried. Then he fell silent, and raised his head to stare directly at Peter. The boy’s face looked suddenly confused as he said quietly “Bell…hound?”
Peter felt bile rise to his throat. The boy was delirious, sick and probably dying before he had even had chance to live. Vampires had done this to him, and any number of others. Their continued existence was an effrontery to all mankind, and if he ever got the chance, he would slay every single one of them.
“We all have our peculiarities, Detective Gift.” Peter swung around again to face the stairs and the voice that had come from them. Half way down, a woman in a long, black dress that flowed around her feet stood where moments before there had been no-one. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her hair as red as fire and her eyes as deep as the night. She had the beauty of ages, and he felt immediately the conflict as his body enjoyed the attraction in her face at the same time his mind recognised its features. “But that is not cause in and of itself for such prejudice.” She continued. It was a response, he knew, to what he had just been thinking. His hands worked their way into and out of fists at the rage he felt that she could read him so easily. His lip twisted into a snarl.
“Please Detective, follow me.” She turned and began walking up the stairs. She looked back at him over her shoulder, when he made no effort to follow. Shoulders, he noticed, that were uncovered from the rear by her black dress. That he noticed at all irritated him. “Murder, I feel, is of more immediate concern than whatever differences our people have, Detective Gift.” He met her eyes, and stared at her as though he could bore through her skull through sheer weight of willpower. “We have much to discuss.”
Murder. If killing a vampire whöre could ever be classed as murder, he thought. But this was why he was here. This was why he was violating everything he believed in to serve the law. This was why the Chief of Police himself had pleaded with him to revoke his retirement. There was no turning back now. The law had beckoned, and he had come, however reluctantly, to serve. Bitterly, he stepped forward and began walking up the steps, haunted with every one by the sound of inane cackling from the boy behind him.
Cheers Meka. I should really learn to proof read things before I post them...
Top writing. Really enjoyed this, and the way that the purpose of the visit was kept a mystery until the end. It felt very much like the start of something, and you've created a strong character in Gift.
A couple of minor things - "and began to take in the decor as he did so..." seemed a little out of place, I think you could have gone into the description without it.
Also, there's a sentence towards the end where 'body' is repeated twice in a short space, which jarred slightly.
It was good to read something new from you.
A couple of minor things - "and began to take in the decor as he did so..." seemed a little out of place, I think you could have gone into the description without it.
Also, there's a sentence towards the end where 'body' is repeated twice in a short space, which jarred slightly.
It was good to read something new from you.
Another sort of musing that has its roots really in my own fascination with the whole vampire/sex thing.
-------------------------
Robert Gift sat in his parked car, still and silent. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, thoughts churned their way through his head, every one seeming to force his heart to beat harder in his chest. Powerful fingers rubbed stiffly at his temples as he tried to gain some semblance of control over his emotions. But it was a token gesture.
His mind swam in bloody imagery. Images that could not be forgotten. Experiences from which he could not escape, not now. Tortured screams filled his head, alongside well-remembered roars of prejudice and hatred. There was no escape, it seemed, from history’s judgement.
Pulling his head up, he risked a glance at the building opposite his car. It looked almost like any other in the district, with its bright red bricks and simple, functional design. With one exception; there were no windows. Here, in broad daylight, it still looked innocent enough. But Peter knew that as soon as darkness fell on the city, the deliberately seedy neon signs would light up like a beacon to attract every manner of inhuman scum from miles around to the most unnatural and profane clubhouse in existence. In bright red lettering, the signs would name the place ‘Necrotica’.
Necrotica. A whorehouse staffed almost entirely by vampires, and visited almost exclusively by people who were not. Sick enthusiasts fulfilling fantasies of vampire sex and neck-biting. Though every passing night, hundreds would flock to taste this heathen experience, Peter himself did not see the attraction. His experiences with the vampire breed were well documented, and he bore scars that no doctor, human or otherwise, could heal. And yet, with this in mind, he had knowingly been tasked with going inside.
As his heart beat a thud against the inside of his chest as though it were intent on escaping, he slammed a fist into the dashboard, and swung the car door open. Stepping out into the cold winter sunshine, he kept his eyes on the floor, and avoided looking at the clubhouse. It was an atrocity, and it betrayed everything he believed in to even accept its existence. But still he crossed the road, still he walked along the grey pavement to the main entrance, and still he pressed the large white button, requesting admittance. He heard the faint sound of a ringing bell from within. He waited, and as he did so, he pulled his eyes away from the paving slabs and looked around the entrance at which he stood. No fewer than three cameras observed the doorway. At night, he knew, those cameras would supplement the heavy presence of the door guards, who judged who should be allowed admittance. But during the day, this place was closed while those who serviced it slept. There was no admittance during daylight hours, and he was stood before the doors shortly before noon.
And yet, after a few brief moments, there was a series of muffled clunks from behind the door, and it slid silently open. On the other side stood a slightly built man who looked distinctly undernourished and tired. He stood with his shoulders slumped, and looked up at Peter from a head that seemed to hang loosely on his neck. His eyes bore a dull grey shimmer, and his balding head was awash with erratic clumps of greying hair. But he could be no older than mid-twenties. This was no vampire. Peter’s blood boiled in his veins. This was one of those who chose to serve under the undead like a slave, for no reward bar that of being used as a tool for their gratification.
He puffed his chest to stand head and shoulders above the boy, resisting the urge to tear his throat out. Gift stood taller than most men, these days, and if his height was not enough to put fear into people, his impossibly muscular build certainly did. But this boy did not look the least intimidated. A croaky voice squeezed its way through bloodless lips and an expressionless face.
“The House welcomes you,” he said “honoured patron.”
“I am no customer of yours, you filthy dog.” Peter snapped. The boy raised his head slightly at the severity of the reply. His lips looked about to crack as he mouthed the word ‘dog’ in reply. “Stand aside,” he continued “I’m here to see your mistress.” The last word was an envenomed sneer, as he stepped forward, not waiting for the lad to move.
And the boy did not move. After two strides, Peter was face to face with him. Without slowing down, he brushed a thick arm across the frail half-man’s chest and he was flung to the ground. He couldn’t resist shouting a curse after him as he fell.
“You filthy cur!” he slammed “Your Hell bound soul will pay an eternity for your stupidity!”
He strode forward, and began to take in the décor as he did so. Everything was made to look as classical as possible here on the inside. It was the image of a Victorian noble’s mansion. No doubt made to look so to fit with the foolish romantic notion the club’s patrons fantasised of. Ahead of him stood a flight of red carpeted stairs leading towards what he expected would be the ‘chambers’, where every form of unholy union he couldn’t bring himself to imagine would occur on a nightly basis. Yet still he strode towards them. Only the sound of delirious cackling from behind stopped him from darting straight up them. He stopped and turned to see the boy he had thrown, up on his hands and knees. His body rocked as his laughter seemed to tear his body apart from within. His voice was like sandpaper as he started babbling nonsensically.
“Dog!” the boy exclaimed “Dog for the Bell!” and a wave of what might have been laughter rocked him again before he continued. “Hell bound bell hound!” He cried. Then he fell silent, and raised his head to stare directly at Peter. The boy’s face looked suddenly confused as he said quietly “Bell…hound?”
Peter felt bile rise to his throat. The boy was delirious, sick and probably dying before he had even had chance to live. Vampires had done this to him, and any number of others. Their continued existence was an effrontery to all mankind, and if he ever got the chance, he would slay every single one of them.
“We all have our peculiarities, Detective Gift.” Peter swung around again to face the stairs and the voice that had come from them. Half way down, a woman in a long, black dress that flowed around her feet stood where moments before there had been no-one. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her hair as red as fire and her eyes as deep as the night. She had the beauty of ages, and he felt immediately the conflict as his body enjoyed the attraction in her face at the same time his mind recognised its features. “But that is not cause in and of itself for such prejudice.” She continued. It was a response, he knew, to what he had just been thinking. His hands worked their way into and out of fists at the rage he felt that she could read him so easily. His lip twisted into a snarl.
“Please Detective, follow me.” She turned and began walking up the stairs. She looked back at him over her shoulder, when he made no effort to follow. Shoulders, he noticed, that were uncovered from the rear by her black dress. That he noticed at all irritated him. “Murder, I feel, is of more immediate concern than whatever differences our people have, Detective Gift.” He met her eyes, and stared at her as though he could bore through her skull through sheer weight of willpower. “We have much to discuss.”
Murder. If killing a vampire whöre could ever be classed as murder, he thought. But this was why he was here. This was why he was violating everything he believed in to serve the law. This was why the Chief of Police himself had pleaded with him to revoke his retirement. There was no turning back now. The law had beckoned, and he had come, however reluctantly, to serve. Bitterly, he stepped forward and began walking up the steps, haunted with every one by the sound of inane cackling from the boy behind him.
-------------------------
Robert Gift sat in his parked car, still and silent. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, thoughts churned their way through his head, every one seeming to force his heart to beat harder in his chest. Powerful fingers rubbed stiffly at his temples as he tried to gain some semblance of control over his emotions. But it was a token gesture.
His mind swam in bloody imagery. Images that could not be forgotten. Experiences from which he could not escape, not now. Tortured screams filled his head, alongside well-remembered roars of prejudice and hatred. There was no escape, it seemed, from history’s judgement.
Pulling his head up, he risked a glance at the building opposite his car. It looked almost like any other in the district, with its bright red bricks and simple, functional design. With one exception; there were no windows. Here, in broad daylight, it still looked innocent enough. But Peter knew that as soon as darkness fell on the city, the deliberately seedy neon signs would light up like a beacon to attract every manner of inhuman scum from miles around to the most unnatural and profane clubhouse in existence. In bright red lettering, the signs would name the place ‘Necrotica’.
Necrotica. A whorehouse staffed almost entirely by vampires, and visited almost exclusively by people who were not. Sick enthusiasts fulfilling fantasies of vampire sex and neck-biting. Though every passing night, hundreds would flock to taste this heathen experience, Peter himself did not see the attraction. His experiences with the vampire breed were well documented, and he bore scars that no doctor, human or otherwise, could heal. And yet, with this in mind, he had knowingly been tasked with going inside.
As his heart beat a thud against the inside of his chest as though it were intent on escaping, he slammed a fist into the dashboard, and swung the car door open. Stepping out into the cold winter sunshine, he kept his eyes on the floor, and avoided looking at the clubhouse. It was an atrocity, and it betrayed everything he believed in to even accept its existence. But still he crossed the road, still he walked along the grey pavement to the main entrance, and still he pressed the large white button, requesting admittance. He heard the faint sound of a ringing bell from within. He waited, and as he did so, he pulled his eyes away from the paving slabs and looked around the entrance at which he stood. No fewer than three cameras observed the doorway. At night, he knew, those cameras would supplement the heavy presence of the door guards, who judged who should be allowed admittance. But during the day, this place was closed while those who serviced it slept. There was no admittance during daylight hours, and he was stood before the doors shortly before noon.
And yet, after a few brief moments, there was a series of muffled clunks from behind the door, and it slid silently open. On the other side stood a slightly built man who looked distinctly undernourished and tired. He stood with his shoulders slumped, and looked up at Peter from a head that seemed to hang loosely on his neck. His eyes bore a dull grey shimmer, and his balding head was awash with erratic clumps of greying hair. But he could be no older than mid-twenties. This was no vampire. Peter’s blood boiled in his veins. This was one of those who chose to serve under the undead like a slave, for no reward bar that of being used as a tool for their gratification.
He puffed his chest to stand head and shoulders above the boy, resisting the urge to tear his throat out. Gift stood taller than most men, these days, and if his height was not enough to put fear into people, his impossibly muscular build certainly did. But this boy did not look the least intimidated. A croaky voice squeezed its way through bloodless lips and an expressionless face.
“The House welcomes you,” he said “honoured patron.”
“I am no customer of yours, you filthy dog.” Peter snapped. The boy raised his head slightly at the severity of the reply. His lips looked about to crack as he mouthed the word ‘dog’ in reply. “Stand aside,” he continued “I’m here to see your mistress.” The last word was an envenomed sneer, as he stepped forward, not waiting for the lad to move.
And the boy did not move. After two strides, Peter was face to face with him. Without slowing down, he brushed a thick arm across the frail half-man’s chest and he was flung to the ground. He couldn’t resist shouting a curse after him as he fell.
“You filthy cur!” he slammed “Your Hell bound soul will pay an eternity for your stupidity!”
He strode forward, and began to take in the décor as he did so. Everything was made to look as classical as possible here on the inside. It was the image of a Victorian noble’s mansion. No doubt made to look so to fit with the foolish romantic notion the club’s patrons fantasised of. Ahead of him stood a flight of red carpeted stairs leading towards what he expected would be the ‘chambers’, where every form of unholy union he couldn’t bring himself to imagine would occur on a nightly basis. Yet still he strode towards them. Only the sound of delirious cackling from behind stopped him from darting straight up them. He stopped and turned to see the boy he had thrown, up on his hands and knees. His body rocked as his laughter seemed to tear his body apart from within. His voice was like sandpaper as he started babbling nonsensically.
“Dog!” the boy exclaimed “Dog for the Bell!” and a wave of what might have been laughter rocked him again before he continued. “Hell bound bell hound!” He cried. Then he fell silent, and raised his head to stare directly at Peter. The boy’s face looked suddenly confused as he said quietly “Bell…hound?”
Peter felt bile rise to his throat. The boy was delirious, sick and probably dying before he had even had chance to live. Vampires had done this to him, and any number of others. Their continued existence was an effrontery to all mankind, and if he ever got the chance, he would slay every single one of them.
“We all have our peculiarities, Detective Gift.” Peter swung around again to face the stairs and the voice that had come from them. Half way down, a woman in a long, black dress that flowed around her feet stood where moments before there had been no-one. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, her hair as red as fire and her eyes as deep as the night. She had the beauty of ages, and he felt immediately the conflict as his body enjoyed the attraction in her face at the same time his mind recognised its features. “But that is not cause in and of itself for such prejudice.” She continued. It was a response, he knew, to what he had just been thinking. His hands worked their way into and out of fists at the rage he felt that she could read him so easily. His lip twisted into a snarl.
“Please Detective, follow me.” She turned and began walking up the stairs. She looked back at him over her shoulder, when he made no effort to follow. Shoulders, he noticed, that were uncovered from the rear by her black dress. That he noticed at all irritated him. “Murder, I feel, is of more immediate concern than whatever differences our people have, Detective Gift.” He met her eyes, and stared at her as though he could bore through her skull through sheer weight of willpower. “We have much to discuss.”
Murder. If killing a vampire whöre could ever be classed as murder, he thought. But this was why he was here. This was why he was violating everything he believed in to serve the law. This was why the Chief of Police himself had pleaded with him to revoke his retirement. There was no turning back now. The law had beckoned, and he had come, however reluctantly, to serve. Bitterly, he stepped forward and began walking up the steps, haunted with every one by the sound of inane cackling from the boy behind him.