Once we were back at the lair, we cleaned and patched everyone up. This mainly involved the witch. Unlike us, she was unable to recover quickly once we were in the clear. She had been struck unconscious by whatever that old woman had conjured. The witch would be the only one who actually knew what it was. All we could do was speculate from whence it came and how long its residual power would last. She could be out for hours. Maybe even days.
Kara was in the library, as always, surrounded by her dark arts and esoteric literature. After making sure Sonya and Chad were able to square up the witch as she rested, I went to see Kara. I needed her insight into what we had encountered—what kind of power the witches had brought to bear.
Nothing she had was able to offer any enlightenment. Not yet, at least. The new book I had given her held many amazing things we might use one day, but it had to be translated. It must be translated very carefully.
Doing this kind of work is not the same as general translation. It is much like the English language: several types of slang and variations exist. This depends on where and when something was written. If someone from Dublin writes a book, and someone from, say, Wisconsin, reads it without knowing the local slang and vernacular, they will read something completely different. A person from Georgia or Alabama would have yet another interpretation.
Words like "boot" and "fag" can mean many things. If the wrong intent is applied to a word because the understanding is wrong, you could have disastrous outcomes. Or zero outcome at all. I will not rush Kara. I will only inform her of our current situation so she can infer the urgency of her work on her own. It will take time. It is clear we are going to need as much support as we can get.
With that said, we are going to need some foot soldiers.
I could tether the minds of the patrons of the club. But there is a major drawback: if one of them were to get hit hard enough to "ring their bell," it would sever the link. They would flee, or even worse, change sides. If I were hit, it could sever the link on everyone, with a much worse outcome.
We do have an extended vampire family, but the majority of them are self-serving. They would only help us if there was something in it for them. They have little interest in money or sex—things they can get easily. Power is all I could offer. And I do not have enough of that to buy their service.
We do have an understanding with the local street gang that controls this area. The leaders are fully aware of who and what I am, and they respect the unspoken rules that keep our uneasy truce alive. This is not about balance or friendship—it is about boundaries. They stay in their lane, and I stay in mine. The deal is simple: they do not sell dope in or around my club, they do not kill anyone on my doorstep, and my family agrees not to kill, drink, or turn any of their members. They cannot afford to have their people turned into mindless, bloodthirsty predators, and I have no interest in dealing with their mess in my domain. It is a peace built on mutual respect, power, and the understanding that stepping out of line will be costly for both sides.
With that said, it is time to take action. I need reinforcements. I could tether the minds of the patrons at the club, but there is a major risk involved. If one of them gets knocked around hard enough to "ring their bell," the link would break. They would scatter, or worse—flip sides. If I get hit, it is game over. Everyone's link would be severed, and the chaos that follows would be catastrophic.
We do have a network of extended family, but most of them are self-serving, opportunistic types. They would only help us if there is something in it for them. Power, mostly. But the thing is, I do not have enough to offer them. Not yet, at least.
That is why I am headed to the east side of the city. It is not a place I enjoy, but I am familiar with it. The glamour vamps run a few clubs there, and they have been eyeing my territory for years. They think they are too stylish for their own good, decked out in over-the-top furs, sunglasses at night, and makeup that looks more suited for a Broadway show than a vampire gathering. They think they are stars. In truth, they are not. They only act like what they believe power looks like. They are imitators—reflections of reflections.
They care about being seen. That is their measure of worth. It gives them comfort, but it does not make them strong. They feed on blood like the rest of us, but they exist for attention. They die off quicker than any real vampire I know. They never live long enough to come into their true power. In ability, they are beneath us.
Joe-ell, the leader of this self-proclaimed "family," is tolerable. I have dealt with worse. He understands what he is, and he is confident in it—more than most can say. His family, on the other hand, is a joke. Loud, pretentious, and too absorbed in their own illusions to see their own weakness. They live in a constant performance, mistaking vanity for power.
As I push through the velvet ropes that mark the VIP entrance, I spot him immediately, sitting at his usual table, surrounded by his underlings. The table itself is lit up like a neon trap, designed to flatter nothing but their superficial appearances. Joe-ell is as he always is—leather shorts, a mink crop, sneakers with pink trim. The man is confident in his skin, even if that skin is encased in ridiculous threads.
Joe-ell's eyes light up when he sees me. A flash of recognition, then a grin that would look more at home on a lounge lizard than a vampire. He raises a hand and waves it through the air as if I am the only one in the room.
"SEXY REXY!" he yells, his voice easily cutting through the thumping music. "My god, where have you been hiding yourself?"
I give him a quick, lingering handshake, a touch that lasts just a little longer than necessary. "I cannot recall. Looks like you are making a name for yourself."
"Oh, honey, my name has made itself. I wake up and have to fight to stay this humble!" he says with a flourish, still chewing his gum like a teenager. He waves for me to sit, his manner ridiculously warm despite the slickness of his appearance. "Sit, sit, sit, make yourself comfy. What can we get for you? Anything you want tonight is on me. Drinks, drugs, party favors, girls, BOYS." He leans in on that last word, dropping his voice a few notches, as if the offer itself were some secret they were sharing.
"I do not want to take up too much of your time here," I reply, making my intentions clear from the start.
"Nonsense," Joe-ell says, waving a dismissive hand. "You stay as long as you want, my dear brother in blood. Pleasure or degrade yourself as much as you like. Vodka still your drink, precious? Leon, get this man a martini."
"Gin," I reply, already done with the small talk.
"Oohhh, gin!" He raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Just when I thought my little Sexy Rex could not get any dirtier, you throw me a curveball."
I shake my head and let him have his moment.
"I am actually here on business," I say, cutting through the idle chatter like a knife.
He immediately perks up, leaning forward. "I like how that sounds. Let me guess... you want to retire down south and need to sell your place before you go? This is going to be a good night."
"No," I continue, cutting him off. "I am not going anywhere, Joe-ell. That is the reason I am here. Earlier tonight, my girls and I ran into a coven of witches."
Joe-ell cuts me off, laughing. "An oven full of witches? That also sounds like it could be a fun night."
I push past the interruption. "This COVEN came from nowhere, it seems. At least one of them has power far beyond any regular witches around here. I am giving you a heads-up. One of them blew my driver off his feet and took out one of their own. There is a better-than-slim chance they will show up in the city. They probably do not know who I am, so there is a chance they could end up looking for me here. I want you to be ready for that. I would hate for you to catch a stake that has my name on it."
"Oh, Rex, I have zero problem getting penetrated because of you. I think we have even role-played that one once or twice," he says with a grin, clearly trying to make me feel uneasy.
I stand up to leave as Leon hands me the drink he had gotten for me. The glass is cold, a thin mist forming along its stem. I take a respectable drink—just enough to taste the gin's sharp edge—and set it on the table in front of Joe‑ell. The music pulses behind us, bass rolling like a heartbeat through the floor.
I lean over and place one hand on his fuzzy white shoulder. The fur is warm against my palm. I lean in closer and tell him, "This coven is no joke, my friend. Watch yourself and your nest. I would hate for your glowing wonderland to end up as rubble because you thought these witches the same as the others that pop up around here. Take care, Joe, I will see myself out."
The look on his face shifts from flirt to serious as he nods his head once, slow. For a heartbeat, the act fades and the leader shows through.
As I am walking away, Joe‑ell yells over the music, "You should invite me to one of those little rooms at your club! I am a bottom, but I can be versatile!"
Knowing that was for his benefit more than any actual invitation, I just keep walking until I reach the door and step out into the night.
Such a strange vampire. Great sense of humor, though.
The night air hits me like a cool hand. I make my way to my car and get in. Chad is not with me this time. I like to drive. I miss driving. When I have matters like this to handle, I give Chad free time to do whatever it is that Chad does at home.
As I drive away, a strange shiver crawls up my spine. I do not remember feeling that since I was turned. Vampires have mild precognition. What I just felt was not that. It was more like someone had just walked across my coffin.
Anyway, I turn onto the main road and begin my voyage back to my side of town, where the creatures who belong to the shadows stay. I really hope Joe‑ell takes my warning to heart. I have done all I can for him. The rest is up to him now.
A text from Sonya flashes across the screen. My meeting with the "Shadow Lords," the street gang that controls our neighborhood, is set for tomorrow at midnight. For the moment, everything seems to be moving according to plan.
Tomorrow I will have to visit someone I have not been looking forward to. It is not that I dislike this woman; it is more that I have an issue with her race. Normally, I take little issue with the race of an individual. Vampires and Were‑people, however, have a long‑standing history of conflict.
The one good thing about cats is that they hate witches far more than they hate vampires. Witches like to use familiars in their work and daily life. More times than not, they prefer cats. The top prize, when it comes to stealing a cat's mind and binding it to their own will, is the Were‑cat. Some witches even like to ride them. That is the ultimate humiliation in the eyes of Were‑people, and I completely understand why.
If you want to ride someone in the privacy of your own home—or even conceptually in public—that is one matter. Forcing someone to do it against their will is another entirely. It is slavery, plain and simple.