CHAPTER 43: THE PITCH
Colin's banking contact was a disaster.
"She drained the loan officer into a coma," Colin explained, his teenage face showing something between embarrassment and professional disappointment. "Apparently she got excited about the compound interest discussion and forgot to stop. The hospital is calling it 'unexplained fatigue syndrome.'"
"So the supernatural banking avenue is closed."
"For now. Evelyn sends her apologies and a fruit basket." Colin paused. "The fruit basket is also supernatural. Don't eat the grapes — they cause temporary blindness."
Which left us with the old-fashioned approach: door-to-door fundraising in a community I didn't know existed.
The show had never depicted what I was looking at now — a strip mall on the edge of Staten Island that operated exclusively between 10 PM and 4 AM. The signs were subtle enough to pass for normal businesses during daylight: "Midnight Cleaners," "Luna's Botanicals," "Salvatore's Alterations." But at night, the true nature revealed itself.
Nadja stood beside me in the parking lot, studying the row of businesses with the particular disdain of someone who considered herself above retail.
"I did not become a vampire to go shopping," she announced.
"You're not shopping. You're networking."
"Same thing, but with less honesty about what you want."
[+8 VEP: World-building — Supernatural Strip Mall]
Midnight Cleaners was run by a witch named Dorothy who looked exactly like someone named Dorothy would look — sensible shoes, graying hair pinned in a practical bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. The only unusual detail was the collection of bloodstains mounted on her wall like trophies, each labeled with a date and species.
"Vampire blood is easy," she explained, demonstrating her process with a garment that had clearly seen violence. "It comes out with the right solvent and some persuasion. Werewolf is trickier — the transformation leaves behind proteins that bond with fabric at a molecular level. And don't get me started on demon ichor."
"We're opening a nightclub," Nadja said, cutting through the small talk with characteristic impatience. "In the old Council building downtown. We need investors."
Dorothy's eyebrows rose. "The Council building? That place has been empty since the purge."
"Purge?" I asked.
"Before your time, dear." Dorothy waved a hand dismissively. "Vampiric politics. Very messy. Took me three weeks to clean the aftermath." She studied Nadja with the appraising eye of a businesswoman. "A nightclub for supernaturals. That's ambitious."
"I am an ambitious woman."
"Clearly." Dorothy set down her cleaning tools. "What's your pitch?"
I stepped forward, letting the Scene-Stealer enhancement sharpen my delivery. "Exclusive supernatural entertainment venue. First of its kind in the tristate area. Safe space for after-hours clientele who can't frequent normal establishments. VIP sections, private feeding rooms, a dance floor with adjustable lighting for photosensitive guests."
"And the investment terms?"
"Percentage return based on opening night revenue, plus lifetime VIP status and a permanent discount on venue cleaning contracts."
Dorothy laughed — a genuine sound that made her seem younger. "You've done your homework. Or you're very good at improvising."
"Both."
[+10 VEP: Social Engineering — Witch Recruitment]
She bought a small stake — five thousand dollars, conditional on the venue actually opening. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
And she sold me a blood-removal pen for twelve dollars, which felt like the most normal transaction I'd experienced in months.
Salvatore's Alterations was run by a vampire who hadn't aged since 1890 and showed no signs of having updated his fashion sense since then.
"A nightclub," he said, pronouncing the word like it tasted strange. "In MY neighborhood?"
"Your neighborhood is Staten Island," Nadja pointed out. "It's everyone's neighborhood."
"It's MY neighborhood because I've been here since before there were neighborhoods." Salvatore adjusted his spectacles — an affectation, I assumed, since vampire eyesight didn't degrade. "What makes you think the community wants an entertainment venue?"
"What makes you think they don't?"
The negotiation took an hour. Salvatore was old-school in ways that made Nandor look progressive — suspicious of change, protective of territory, convinced that any disruption to the supernatural status quo would bring Council attention. I let Nadja handle the vampire politics while I worked on the practical concerns.
"The venue will provide legitimate cover for supernatural activity," I said during a pause in Nadja's increasingly frustrated arguments. "A nightclub explains the unusual hours, the diverse clientele, the occasional noise. It makes the community more secure, not less."
Salvatore's expression shifted. "Go on."
"Right now, every supernatural business operates in isolation. Midnight Cleaners. Your shop. The bodega down the street with the special menu. If anyone investigates, each business is vulnerable individually." I leaned forward. "A central venue creates collective protection. One location that draws attention, handled by people who know how to manage scrutiny."
"You're talking about a shield."
"I'm talking about infrastructure."
[+12 VEP: Social Engineering — Vampire Conversion]
Salvatore invested fifteen thousand. His condition was simple: the nightclub had to remain vampire-primary. "No werewolves," he said firmly. "No witches in leadership positions. This is a vampire establishment."
I agreed to the condition with appropriate solemnity.
I was lying, but he didn't need to know that yet.
The final pitch of the night happened at Luna's Botanicals, a shop that sold herbs and charms and the occasional curse for customers who knew how to ask.
The owner was a witch named Marcus — no relation to my body's previous occupant — who listened to our pitch with the patient attention of someone evaluating a long-term investment.
"You've raised twenty thousand," he said when we finished. "That's half your budget."
"We have additional revenue streams in development," I said.
"Meaning you're hoping someone else will cover the gap."
"Meaning we're building a coalition that benefits from collective success."
Marcus smiled. "You're good at this. The pitch, the framing, the way you let your vampire friend handle the passion while you handle the practicality." He stood, moving through his shop with the ease of someone who'd occupied the space for decades. "I'm not going to invest."
"May I ask why?"
"Because you've made conditional agreements with both a witch and a vampire who hate each other. Dorothy's family and Salvatore's line have been feuding since 1923." He pulled a jar from a shelf, examining its contents. "Your 'coalition' is going to explode the moment they realize they're both involved."
My stomach dropped. The meta-knowledge that had carried me through so many situations had nothing to say about this — the show had never depicted these characters, this community, this particular political landscape.
"Then why did you let us pitch?"
"Because I wanted to see how good you are under pressure." Marcus set down the jar. "And because the nightclub idea isn't bad. It's just incomplete."
"What would complete it?"
"A guarantee that the venue serves all supernatural species equally. Not vampire-primary. Not conditional on anyone's approval." His eyes met mine directly. "An 'open to all' clause that can't be revoked."
[+10 VEP: Complication — Condition Conflict]
I thought about Salvatore's condition. About the careful lies I'd been building. About the coalition that was apparently already on the verge of collapse before it began.
"Done," I said.
Nadja's head snapped toward me. "Arthur—"
"Done," I repeated. "The nightclub will be open to all supernatural species. Equal access. Equal treatment."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Then I'll invest. Ten thousand, contingent on that clause being legally binding in whatever agreements you file."
We shook hands. The deal was made.
And I'd just promised two contradictory things to two different investors.
The drive back to Staten Island was tense.
"You agreed to 'open to all species,'" Nadja said, her voice carrying the particular edge of someone restraining themselves from violence. "That means werewolves."
"I know."
"Werewolves. In MY nightclub."
"Your nightclub needs funding. The funding comes with conditions." I kept my eyes on the road. "We can work out the details later."
"The detail is that werewolves are disgusting, hairy, and they smell terrible."
"They're also a significant portion of the supernatural community with money to invest."
"They are NOT—"
My phone rang.
Unknown number. I answered on instinct, grateful for the interruption.
"Heard you're building something." The voice was gruff, direct, and carried the particular undertone of someone used to giving orders. "We'd like to talk."
"Who is this?"
"We're the Pack. Staten Island arc." A pause. "Your 'open to all species' clause got around fast. We'd like to discuss what that means for us."
I looked at Nadja, whose expression had shifted from fury to horror.
"I'm available to meet," I said. "Name the time and place."
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