The Fallout

The Fallout

Author's note: Originally this was written as an epilogue to "Gang Violence." It's even where that title comes from. Since I've shelved GV until I can rework it, I thought this might make for an interesting offering in light of certain events that happen in chapter forty-one. Enjoy!

PS: This takes place several weeks before the start of chapter one.

Primus Rurik was a busy man. This was hardly surprising. Running the most prominent vampire House in the tri-state area left one little time for free enterprise. But then, Rurik had known that when he’d killed his predecessor. He had soon discovered he’d been right, but had severely underestimated the paper work.

His arm muscles flexed as he scrawled his name across the bottom of the document, a safe-passage missive. Vampires had no concept of diplomatic immunity, each journey requiring new negotiation. He sighed. Travel between Houses was such a hassle, especially for a stay lasting several weeks.

Rurik had been a handsome man when alive, and the perfect complexion of vampirism had only improved the gods’ original efforts. There was a reason the Beautiful Warrior was a common staple in vampire folklore. Hell, his own bellicose nature had earned him a similar name among his followers. That, and the fact that he looked exactly like a viking warrior.

He was a big man, broad of shoulder, tall, muscled. His brows came together over piercing eyes, resting on a strong forehead. His hands would have been callused from use had they not been kept perpetually smooth by the power of his blood. Yes, looking at Primus Rurik it would be easy to image him in fur and leather during ages past, ravaging coastline and virgin alike.

It was a pretty picture, but Rurik was only in his forties. Quite a bit of ambition and planning had gone into making himself one of the youngest House leaders on American shores, and his carefully cultivated image had been part of the grander design.

A knock came at the door. Rurik raised his head from the paper and called out in his rumbling voice, “Yes?”

The door opened and his secretary Knox, a blond slip of a boy with green contacts, poked his curly head in.

“Sir, Carlisle’s outside.”

“Show him in.”

“Yes, sir,” Knox said.

A tall man in a smart business suit and long black coat glided through the door. He’d been brought into the night later in life, which was attested to by the smatter of salt-and-pepper at his temples. It gave him an air of dignity to make up for the power lacking in his shadow. He walked at a sedate, stately pace, but even so there was a swagger about him.

The man dropped his head to the side in an exact showing of proper submission.

“Lord Primus.” His voice was smooth and cultured. Too old to be called silky, but caressing nonetheless. Sly, perhaps, was the proper term.

Rurik nodded and Carlisle raised his head.

“You have heard of the bother in California?”

A prominent brow arched. “Isn’t that what I have you for, my spy-master?”

“One does one’s best,” the other replied with an entirely affected air self-deprecation. “It is troubling news.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” Rurik replied. “Rogue groups break up all the time.”

“That’s not quite what I meant, Lord,” said Carlisle delicately.

“Speak plainly,” the Primus rumbled.

“Of course,” the tall man said, the mischief in his hooded eyes unmistakable. “What I’ve been able to uncover is rather startling.”

“Startling?” Rurik fought a valiant struggle to keep the wryness from his voice. “Hunters have been known to kill vampires before.”

“Indeed, Lord,” Carlisle agreed, “but this is a new tactic for them.”

“How so?”

The spy spread his hands. “Do keep in mind that each source has something a bit different to say—”

“Naturally,” Rurik put in.

“—But the general consensus seems to be infiltration,” Carlisle finished. “Apparently, the younger of the hunting pair assumed the mannerisms of a thrall and wormed his way into the inner circle of the gang.”

“Go on.”

“This young hunter spent an undetermined span of time, a few days to several weeks possibly, on the fang of this gang’s leader—”

“A hunter allowed himself to be fed upon?” Rurik asked.

“I believe so, Lord,” Carlisle said. “When he had gained his master’s trust, he challenged him to open combat and killed him.”

Rurik’s face gave away nothing. “Hunters are not known for their success in one-on-one open battles. They fight us from the shadows. How did one mortal boy kill a vampire all on his own?”

An apologetic looked formed on the spy-master’s face. “Again, I can’t say for sure. The stories vary wildly, anything from carving out his heart with a spoon, to other such outlandish tales. But my most trusted source indicates that the boy ripped his master’s heart out by employing the One-Inch Punch.”

“Of course,” Rurik sighed. The most fabled of hunter weapons, even more feared than their curving swords. It seemed there was some temper left in the spines of hunters, after all.

“The entire gang stood on in awe as the boy, and I quote, ‘sauntered’ away unharmed,” Carlisle finished. He sighed with just the right amount of resignation. “This is why we hear constantly from Europe. The old courts worry the House system is deteriorating.”

It is deteriorating, Rurik thought, but outwardly said, “You wouldn’t be impugning those above your station would you, my spy-master?”

Carlisle dropped into a perfect bow, with just enough flourish. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Lord.”

After a few seconds of giving his spy-master the eye, Rurik returned to the matter at hand. “It’s nothing to worry about. They’re city vampires, they have a history of gang violence to begin with.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Lord,” Carlisle drawled. “But I can see how an entire gang of vampires who consider themselves rogues, and thus beyond the authority of the courts, would be worrisome to the Old World.”

“All it takes is one hunter to disperse them.” Rurik barely resisted snorting. “A child hunter, no less.”

Carlisle shrugged. “I merely report, Lord.”

Rurik was silent for a moment.

“What hunting family was the boy?”

“My source was not close enough to see the tattoo,” Carlisle said, then amended. “Well, not that tattoo. All he had to report was that he was young looking and blond.”

“The perfect picture of a harmless thrall,” Rurik murmured.

“Indeed, Lord.”

“And what of the boy’s partner?”

“No one knows,” Carlisle said. “The partner was never spotted in the vicinity of the blond, and there are any number of young men in known hunting pairs that would fit the blond’s description.”

“I see,” Rurik said. “You’ve passed on the information to your hunter people?”

“I plan to as soon as I’m no longer needed here.”

“I have travel negotiations to finish. Carry on.”

“May your venture turn out well.” Carlisle again bowed his head. “Your servant, Lord.”

With that, the spy-master turned smartly on his heel and headed for the door.

“Carlisle,” Rurik called right as the other was opening the door.

“Yes, Lord?”

“Send my Knox to me.”

The boy slipped into the room, and approached the desk. “Sir?”

“I’ve just heard the most interesting story,” Rurik said calmly. He sat back in his chair, his hand reaching for his belt buckle. “It made me long for a blond young man. Know any?”

Knox grinned, and dropped to his knees.