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CHAPTER ELEVEN
PIERS’ DARKMOON DELI is nestled in the heart of the Darkmoon Veil, tucked away in a small alleyway that most people would pass by without a second glance. But for those in the know, it is a delicacy heaven for the supernatural beings that call this city home. The exterior of the deli is unassuming and almost blends into the dark alleyway. The windows are grimy and the signage is faded, but there is a perplexing allure to it all. Inside, the shelves are cluttered with jars and containers, each holding bizarre and unsettling food items. A pungent combination of spices and rotting meat wafts from the entrance, filling the air with a potent and vaguely unsettling odor.
The shop looks shabby from the outside, and the inside isn’t much better, but they have what nobody else has: fucking weird food items that would give me nightmares, were I to read all the labels and signs. I, having learned to accept my limitations, don’t. There is just one thing we need, and it sure isn’t displayed in the meat window.
Cor also seems to know where to draw the line, so he is lurking outside, across the street, in the shade of a modern looking bookshop. Waiting patiently for me to get him his early evening snack. Me, a Hunter. What a mess all of this has turned into. And it was supposed to be a simple job, fit for a newbie like me…
The man behind the counter throws me a glance beneath curiously lowered brows. I would be surprised if he didn’t already know I am not supposed to be a customer, but he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans his hands on the counter and gives me a once-over. “What’ll it be then? Bologna sandwich?”
Very funny. I force myself to smile at the joke. “Maybe another time. Do you happen to have vampire blood on stock?”
And the mood changes instantly. The man’s eyes turn cold and unfriendly as he glares me down. “And what would someone like you want with that, hm? Are you a Venom junkie?” His question hangs heavy in the air, and I can sense that my answer will determine how this interaction will go: bad, really bad, or just slightly inconvenient.
“No, I’m not a Venom junkie,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “I need it for a job.” Or rather, to feed my job, but there is such a thing as too much information. And I can’t really point to the vampire lurking across the street; it would just open the door for more questions, and way too much interest and attention in us.
The man’s expression doesn’t soften. “A job? What kind of job would require vampire blood?”
Seems like I won’t get around the TMI after all. “I’m a Hunter,” I finally admit, my heart pounding in my chest.
The man’s eyes narrow even more, his dislike a growing storm around his head. “A Hunter in this part of town? You must be new. And suicidal. And that doesn’t explain what you want with the fanger juice.”
Damn, it’s almost like he doesn’t want to sell me the stuff, who’d thought? I give in with a sigh, simply ignoring his bitter sarcasm. “Yeah, just started a few weeks ago. I have a… friend, outside. On the other side of the street. The big, broody guy?”
Mr. Grumpy the Deli Man walks over to his window, scowling at Cor’s figure in the shade. I don’t know if he is some kind of special supe or just one of the very few humans who got dragged into the Contract, but whatever he sees seems to placate him a little. He grunts and stomps back to where I am. “Vampire who wants vampire blood, hm? That is weirder than usual.”
And weird means recognizable, exactly what I wanted to avoid. This isn’t going as I wanted it. Not at all. I force my face into another flat smile and nod. “He has… special interests. And he hasn’t eaten in a while, so I am here instead of him. To make sure everyone stays unharmed.” Can’t hurt to throw in as much truth as possible, just in case this dude can smell a lie. Or taste it. Or hear it.
And to my surprise, he nods slowly before turning away and rummaging through shelves behind him. After a few moments, he turns back around with a small mason jar filled with dark red liquid.
“Here,” he says gruffly as he slides it across the counter towards me. “One cuppa’ vampire blood. That’ll be 100 dollars.”
I hand over the money without hesitation and quickly shove the jar into my jacket before turning to leave. He ripped me off, that much is for damn sure, but I don’t care. If I complain, it will just make me more memorable; the Hunter buying food for vampires already is too good a story to not tell.
As soon as I step out of the deli, Cor is by my side. He holds out his hand, and I hand him the jar. He gives it a quick sniff before downing its contents in three big gulps. Then he throws the jar over his shoulder and licks his lips with a satisfied grunt. It breaks with a loud, shattering sound that makes me flinch.
“Thanks Gideon! - Oh, no problem,” I mutter to myself as we walk towards our next destination.
It took me a while, but now I have a plan on how to proceed. Looke’s words are still ringing through my head, warning me that someone can follow our every move, as long as I have the amulet. I should get rid of the thing as soon as possible, but some part of my brain tells me to hold on to it a little longer. It represents the only connection I have to whoever put Cor in a box, and those people might be my last hope if I can’t find any other causes for the rotting vampires. Definitely not my first choice, but if nothing else pans out…
Luckily for us, I have some other potential sources we can visit before I get desperate. For example, the place where some cultist tried to commit suicide by vampire.
THE ‘NIGHTSHADE LOUNGE’ is a pretty popular spot in the Darkmoon Market, especially for a nightclub. It is a sultry haven of dim lights and hazy smoke, where the rich scents of patchouli and sandalwood mix with the metallic tang of spilled beer—and blood—and the warm breath of bodies pressed together like sensuous sardines in a hothouse. Not that I can imagine sardines ever being sensuous. Its blackstone facade changes color from bright red on the top floors, down to a smog-gray in the mid-section, and finally to a graphite gray on street level, complete with graffiti on the far sides. Nobody is stupid enough to smear the walls where the security guards can see, but kids will be kids. And gangs will be gangs.
Since no normal human would ever run into this place, the owners—some minor witch coven—haven’t much tried to hide the status of their customers. Fangers can be fangers here, and furries can be furries. They even have fighting pits and blood donors, willing victims for any and every kind of debauchery one could think of. It’s pretty much like in the movies, if the movies were teenie romances or action flicks. It surprises me. I would have thought supes don’t like clichés.
But here we are, at barely after dusk, and already there is a crowd of people in front of the entrance, queuing up to get inside. My, my.
The smog-lit night sky churns and boils overhead, threatening another potential rainstorm later tonight, but it might as well be the magic of the veil distorting the view. I don’t have enough experience to hazard a guess. Cor leans closer as he follows my gaze for a moment, then turns his attention back to the surroundings. He still wears his jogging pants and the zip-up hoodie, the cloth straining over his pecs whenever he turns his upper body to scan the area. His nostrils are shivering every so often, and there is an excited tension about him that I don’t quite trust. He looks… hungry. Again. And there is so much prey around.
‟Please don’t attack anyone,” I whisper to him, trying to go unheard by the bunch of supes milling around.
Cor doesn’t look at me.
Welp. It’s not like I can stop him if he ignores my request. I throw one last pleading glance to the heavens above, then get a move on.
Sadly I’m not the police, so we actually have to go to the back of the line and wait to be let in. And as it turns out, my situation is even worse. The doorman takes one look at me, scoffs, and gives me a hearty shove against the chest that basically catapults me out of the waiting line. I manage not to face-plant, somehow, but I hear the man’s pained grunt before I find my balance back. The grunt turns into a sharp scream as I turn towards him again, and I become witness to his right hand flying off into the night, leaving him with a meaty, bony stump. Oh, goddamn it!
The burly dude grabs the wounded arm to stop the bleeding, still shrieking with that shocked expression on his face as he stares at Cor’s blood-splattered face. Ripping off a limb is a damn bloody business, even if the limb was formerly attached to some kind of supe. His blood sprays everywhere, especially across Cor, before he manages to pinch the artery. The view makes me queasy down to my knees, but Cor doesn’t even blink at the hot drops. ‟Mine,” he growls at the man, as if it’s supposed to mean anything to him.
