My hand was on the phone as I was coming out of the park, and I hit the speed dial, cupped it to my ear and watched for the oncoming traffic that never stops. London is hectic, frenetic. It is no wonder those who live here are crazy...
     I have Davydd's words in my ear as I dial you. But though the story isn't what I thought it was, nothing much has really changed. It's different. It's the same. My first thought really isn't on myself or what I will think about any of what he told me when my room is quiet and I don't have London here to distract me.
     Will I care...
     Will it matter that I know anything different tonight than I knew yesterday...
     Will I feel betrayed...
     Will I have to pick sides...
     I don't know...
     I don't know...
     My first thoughts, brother, were for you. So, I am calling you. You know my number. Scotland. Only I am not in Scotland...
     A cellphone rings in London, probably in the worst sort of place surrounded by all the wrong people...

     The ring stops. There's laughter in the distance. In the background. Air swirls around it as the primary voice's slow to make itself known.
     "Hello? Who's this?" the voice says in English. Posher than most. He laughs again. "You've reached...well, The Phone..."
     More laughter ensues, though from the rustling and brushing, the cellphone's being moved about.

     "Je recherche Eduard," comes the very Franc voice on the other end. Deep, smooth, auditory sensuality. "Si vous avez son telephone, ou vous prenez des tours sucant son bite et ses mains sont occupees...ou il est mort..."
     Infanta Maria isn't the only one who can answer a phone like that. There is the sound of a man likely pausing to take a pull off a cigarette. "...S'il est l'ancien, dites-lui que Guillaume doit parler avec lui immediatement...."
     There is the sound of a car's engine. The Jaguar he keeps in London just for the one or two nights a year that he is here. Well, and for friends who need to borrow it.

     "Huh?" the voice says, not really understanding French. "Sorry," more laughter, this time gently so, "...I don't know French."
     "Wha--?" the voice says, talking maybe to someone else.
     The sounds of someone clearly on something. Is it that difficult to tell?

     "Edward," the voice on the other end. William peers at the phone. "I need to see you... you are having a party? You did not invite me? That is typical, yes?" A smirk. "Tell me where you are, I will come over..." Sure, that was English. You think. The accent is thick, the English all off cadence, elongated by the Angevin mouth.

     "Oooh," the voice says, then a laugh, "...oh, sorry...Edward?" Followed by a muffled, "Is that him?"
     "Hey, you're a friend, huh?" the voice comes again. "Maybe his brother? A twin?"

     This is not sounding good, ami. You are going to force me to do something I do not want to do. You are going to make me call you to me, not knowing what state you're in. What I know is... it isn't good, ami....
     "Where is he and who are you?" The phone is All Business. "...Why do you have his phone?"

     "If I tell you, will you come?" that gets laughter again. A sniff, as in the clearing of a nose, "...he's sorta busy right now. But...I'm not," the tone suggestive. "And he gave me his...phone," a little confusion making its way to the speaker's lips. "But don't worry! He's...alright, really. I...promise."

     "Where are you?" William murmurs. Maybe he's taking you up on your offer. Maybe he looks as good as he sounds...

     "I'm not supposed to tell you," the voice says, "...but Hockley. But it's private. By the old cricket field...like anyone in this shite place ever knew how to play..."
     Ah, but posh never dies.
     "It's a house, but...you can't come in, it's a secret. Don't tell me mum," the voice laughs.

     "You want me to come but you don't want to let me in?" He cannot dominate from this distance, this person he doesn't know, but that won't keep the charm from oozing out of every pore, resonant as olive oil. William looks to the road as he drives, the sound of the sports car can be heard.

     "I'd definitely let you in," the voice says. He's perhaps stoned out of his mind. Something. "But I don't run it, mate. I mean, it's not my place, you know? So..."

     "Open the door," William grins, "...I will do the rest..." He sounds like he'd be capable. But then, to the wasted the sober is king.
     "Edward is face down, yes? Tell him William is on his way from the palace..." Which one, he does not say. Which William he does not say either.

     "I...I gotta go," the voice says hurriedly. Nervously...damned near frightened. Suddenly the call's disconnected.

     "Shite," A large hand hits the steering wheel and the phone is tossed into the empty passenger's side seat. "Why am I the only one making sense," and now I am talking to myself? Hockley. South? South... somewhere...
     I hate the south...
     A hand goes to the inside of his jacket. Yes, he is armed. But as he makes his way through traffic, quickly, he lights another cigarette.
     A moment later, he's reaching for the phone again. This time, another Scottish number whose endpoint is sitting in Kensington Palace...

     Weird. My phone is ringing?
     My phone never rings.
     It is a second or two before it's picked up, and Ian says a tentative, "Will?" A call unexpected if there was one.

     "Mais oui... this is a shite night. I'm going to be out a while. I've sent Davydd over to the house for a sleepover. Edward's not answering his own phone. The only time he lets loose of it is...well... normally you have to knock him out, suddenly I call and it is being passed around hand to hand, I don't like it..."
     You can hear him smoking. And driving very, very quickly...
     "You know the Hockley area well? I know about where it is, but I don't want to drive around all night looking for it... some place by the old cricket grounds...?"

     What?
     "Hockley?" Ian repeats. He is quiet a moment, then, "Not really, no." His frown is audible. "Want me to ask Davydd? Or...wait. Let me get Pritchard to ask the staff?"
     Ian. In Hockley? Not in his wildest nightmares.
     "Hold on a moment, laird."

     "I'm not dressed for this," comes the Angevin grumble around a cigarette. His mouth is agile it pulls, flicks ash out the window and releases smoke in a symphony of motion as his hands tend to the wheel and shifting. Generally, he heads southward.
     It was never his side of town. Generalities, yes. Specifics no...
     And he is in a house somewhere? A private party? What? A warehouse? God only knows. And in what condition? We can assume bad, but how bad. Incapacitated? Incoherent? Fucking mortals or whatever running around with his phone?

     On the phone, Ian's heard talking to Pritchard. Then feet. A door.
     "Sorry, laird, another moment. He's gone downstairs."
     "What...is going on?"

     "I can't get into it over the phone. Davydd's there? Good... give him a bottle of scotch and he'll be happy. Edward... I am worried about." Despite the fact that Edward's a grown man, an elder vampire and usually more than able to handle himself. "I am mediating between the two... " he sighs out smoke. "It's a long story, amours..."

     A long story? Well, he believes you. And Ian's faith, these nights, only grows.
     "I'll see about Llewelyn," Ian confirms.
     The door opens again and feet shuffle.
     "Oh, wait, Will, it's Pritchard."
     Mumblings ensue about the 3, Hockley, a left at Crossdown, past the warehouses. An open field, with some old council homes and flats around. Fieldhouse now closed...
     "Did you hear that, laird?" Ian asks, not really keen on repeating it.

     "Mais oui... merci... je'taime..."
     He doesn't repeat it either, since it's open air and the air is everywhere. "I will call you later. I expect to be home before sunrise," a smirk. "If that changes, I will call, amours..."
     The 3.... Hockley... left at Crossdown, past the warehouses... an open field...old council homes and flats... fieldhouse now closed. Held in the memory. With that the call is done.

     The call's done and Ian looks up at the servant. "We're having a visitor. Make sure rooms are ready for him, a valet. And a bottle of whiskey," Ian waves, moving back to take a seat in his chair, phone in his lap.

     The traffic at this hour runs thick. Not like during the day, to be certain, and nothing like the rush hours in and out of the City. Just in this late hour, deep into the dark, there is activity down the 3. Few take the exit to Hockley, and the city center of shops are most definitely closed.
     In Hockley, there is quiet desperation. Frustration. Those who live here work hard for what little they have...or they have nothing. The have-little and the have-nots. Houses with tended gardens are the rarity, and a turn off town center onto Crossdown Rd. reveals the truth of it. Small tended bungalows give way to brownstones and sixties metal council flats, some of which are long forgotten. Broken glass and security fences circle the worst of it, though those remain side-by-side to those where residents still live. Auto plazas and a few brokers line left and right, and garages where blokes repair machinery and car parts highlight the industry of the area.
     At the end of Crossdown, the buildings yield for low warehouses, mostly abandoned with broken windows and metal bars exposed, and a sports field, replete with a fieldhouse, hasn't seen a cut in months.
     On the right, a few three-level brownstones sit in a row, but they too look abandoned, despite a car and a nice motorbike parked at a corner of one of the buildings.

     He sticks out like a sore French aristocrat in a luxury, vintage British car. A bit noticeable. A bit too noticeable for his taste as he makes his way through broken glass, dark streets and into Hockley. One wonders whether Hockley's seen better days. Maybe it's one of those portions of London that has never been on the upside of luck or fortune.
     Whatever its past, its current is one of hard time, hard work and hard luck...
     When the Centurion comes into sight, his hand is reaching for the phone again, the Jaguar slowed as a number is pressed in speed dial. Hopeful that Edward answers this time.

     The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. It is indeed, picked up, save by a recording that says, "Yeah, speak now." His voice, but his voice mail.

     "Nevermind," William exhales into the phone. "By the time you get this, you've probably already kicked my ass. This may be a posthumous message," he quips. "I'm in Hockley.. and where you are about to be..."
     The call is ended and the phone is placed in his jacket. He pulls the car over, stopping, parking it near the Centurion. Indigo eyes scan the area as he gets out. Three brownstones. One of these, but he's not about to search them.
      No...
     Mohammed cannot come to the mountain, so the mountain must come to him...

     One minute...
     Nothing...
     Another minute...
     Still...
     Nothing...
     Two more minutes pass...
     Nothing...

     "Fuck me..." William smirks and heads toward one of the brownstones. The one that feels like there's shite in it. Powerful shite, doped shite.
     The thing I do for friends. They owe me. They so owe me...

     The stone steps are worn, and the wood edging that once made this brownstone cute is all but rotten. Weight upon the wood cracks it, and the small porch smells slightly of urine and age.
     There are three levels, to be sure, and most of the windows are gone. A few of the windows have bars, but not on the third level. The front door is slightly ajar, but there's little light inside...more than likely any electricity was cut off a long while ago.

     The Glock 9-mm is new, as are the shoes and the suit. It is in his hand, lowered by his thigh as he moves the door ajar...
     In those brief seconds between fingers touching the door and the door and his body in motion, William knows that it will be impossible to seem anything other than an agent of law enforcement.
     This isn't necessarily a bonus...
     What moves before him is the absolute thud of him on the air, moving before him, denying argument. It is the presence of a king...

     The room where the front door opens is a smallish room, but there are openings to other rooms, and a staircase sitting flush against the left wall. It goes up and turns to the right, disappearing into the darkness.
     The front parlor is squalid and the smell of urine is no longer a waft -- it's constant. A few bodies lie in corners and on rotted pallets, once cushions and upholstery, engaging in various activities, mostly involving the ingesting of chemicals. If you were the Met, they do not seem to care. Pairs and trios hold spoons and matches, though some are lucky enough to have glass.
     The bodies are in states of age and decay. It's hard to tell how old some of the addicts are, for their faces, clothes, skin, and hair are so filthy, it hides the truth of it. The smell of kine is ripe, but it mingles with the scent of blood. And where there is blood...
     From a room on the right, someone appears upright. Walking. In low-rent jacket, it's someone lucid. His eyes narrow as he looks at you, mouth opened to yell.
     But shouting does not come out.
     "Who are you? I didn't let you in. You....you must go," he says, suddenly more nervous than a potential 'authority' figure should be in this place.

     The addicts pose no threat to anyone other than themselves (that needs no explanation). The other? Potential authority becomes very real authority. It has little to do with his size (though, that is immense). William gestures for him to move aside, against the wall, the gesture made by his free hand. "Keep your mouth shut and you won't have to worry about it," he directs, sudden Oxford English. There's no wiggle room in the tone or the look. "Edward?"
     It's a one-word question, for which he expects an answer.
     It can be in the form of a gesture...

     The man looks a little confused, as if he doesn't know the name. But he gestures upstairs anyway, as he moves to the side. "I didn't do anything. I just run it, like it's supposed to be, is all."

     Dark eyebrows lift and William gestures for him to take a seat. "Sit there... don't say a fucking word to anyone. No one has to lose a buzz." He'd say 'no one would get hurt' but that'd just be silly. The only person not hurting here is him....
     Moments are folded...
     One breath...
     Two breath...
     Three...
     At the stairs, then up the stairs... easily lost in the darkness of the stairwell until he's altogether unseen...

     The brownstone seems a traditional four-room plan...there are other spaces left unexplored. At the first landing, a room much like the downstairs one opens, with trash, boxes, and broken cabinetry piled around the space. Only a couple of individuals are immediately visible, content to rest, shuddering in a heap.
     There are a few noises from an adjoining room, whose opening is directly opposite the landing, across the room.

     Hidden indigo glance takes in the environment in quick glances, bursts of floor plans memorized. Filed away for later. William continues unseen up the next flight of stairs.
     Hell, even if he were seen, he smirks, who'd fucking remember here? I'm a figment. Even without having to be a figment...

     There are muffled noises coming from the other room. Breathing, and the scent of blood. But blood isn't the lush blood of mortality. It's the rich ambrosia of age. With the patterned breathing, there's the sound of squeaking, like a spring. And skin.

     He'd know that sound anywhere...
     He hates to think of it. Particularly with what he's seen thus far. Talk about a no pride night. William turns, feet leaving the stairs and heading down the hall. Shaking his head.
     He'd almost rather be hanging out with the other addicts in the urine filled foyer...
     William Plantagenet appears out of thin air just before the archway...
     And then through it, past the rusted hinges, the splinters of a long-dead door...

     The adjoining room opens up wider from the first, perhaps once a first-floor sitting room. Multiple items are visible, but the most obvious and apparent is at your left hand wall. A broken-down sofa sits in the darkened gloom, barely visible now to mortal eyes. Upon it is a familiar, large figure, currently stretched back in the middle of the rotted sofa.
     Edward's head is tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed, legs stretched forth and arms extended left and right. He's dressed as he was earlier, though his black shirt and jacket are spread open widely, exposing him from neck to torso to stomach. At his right hand, upturned on the sofa's 'arm', a young man drinks greedily, though the blood is but a trickle. His clothing seems Covent Garden, if dirty and disheveled.
     At Edward's outstretched left hand, a girl slurps, her makeup smeared and clothing far worn.
     The source of the noise is instant. On Edward's lap straddles a young man, indeed (un)dressed well. His shirt is on, but open, and his slacks are tossed aside. His face is buried at Edward's throat, as he drinks shallowly while he slowly sexes himself against his seemingly unconscious partner. His black slacks, while on, must be opened.
     A glint of silver lies on the floor, beneath a crumpled piece of paper and near the posh boy's discarded slacks. It has two sides and a hinge, as if it were a case. Also near it, a phone.

     There's no recognition that anything has changed for those in the room. Though, the male at Edward's right hand looks up and cocks his head, as if he's wondering about something. A change in scent? A presence. But there's nothing there, and so he dips his chin again, small fangs evident as he returns to his meal.
     There's nothing from the male on Edward's lap, or the girl. They continue as they were, the posh boy's rear lifting up and down as he frantically strokes himself, while he continues to drink from Edward's scratched throat.

     What happens in the room should get their attention. It is a wave. A very powerful wave. A very ... angry wave. Followed by the instant materialization of someone greater than they...
     But by the time they feel it, he will already be there...
     By the time they realize it, it will be too late...
     By the time they even register movement, the woman will have been pulled off and thrown back against the grimy wall. And he is Suddenly There, left arm and hand at the head and neck of the young man, the gun at his other temple.
     William pulls the young man's head hard, just to the point of muscles straining, and levels his gaze at the other young man. "Against the wall... now."
     "And you," he whispers to the young man whose neck he holds in a very precarious situation. The young man might recognize the sound. "Stand up. And I suggest you do so carefully..."

     The immediacy of it comes as a shock. There's a scream from the girl, who slams against the wall and slides to the floor, unconscious. A frail form...it does not take much.
     The one commanded against the wall takes a step back, then another. He blinks a few times, unafraid to show what he is. Teeth bare in a defensive posture.
     The third -- the one so occupied -- gasps and winces as he's grabbed. He tries to crawl from his position, but stumbles awkwardly between the two large men at either side of him.

     At the sofa, Edward's arms fall from their Christ-like repose along the frayed top of the the sofa. He falls towards the left, as one of his hands tries, in vain, to rest flat on the sofa seat.

     There is a grin, sharp, vipered. Those, so rarely seen, so rarely needed to be shown these nights. He can't even remember the last time he's been so. The retreating vampire is shown his better. William does not take his eyes off of that one, commanded or no. It is only a glance spared to the one in his arms.
     Straightening, he pulls the young man up with him -- talk about coitus interruptus. "Dress him," William says at the young man's ear, blue-violet eyes fastening on the vampire who retreated, "...and anything you've taken from him," the 9-mm's barrel is aimed at the vampire's third eye. "... return to him..." Be it money, gun, phone or all of the above.
     With that, he shoves the Fucking Opportunist toward the sofa to do it. "Quickly...I can't fucking stand Hockley..."
     The girl isn't spared a glance, a thought as to whether she's living or dead...

     The young man crumples slightly once he's on his own two feet. He does not move so quickly, perhaps because he's not in control of his own body. A trip over Edward's feet and he twists about to try and find things, but he's too addled to really remember what it is he's supposed to do.

     The vampire blinks confusedly, taking another step back at the now-bared fangs. He wipes at his eyes and says, "Y...you can't...do that. This...it's not your place. Dom...will hear about it. It's his."

     Fucking addicts...
     William doesn't halt the young man's fumbling around. Instead, he turns his formidable attention to the young vampire. "Dom... isn't going to hear anything," William notes quietly, features placid and very much in control. "You're not going to say anything and they're not going to remember anything." He puts a hand to the vampire's face, smiling. "For a variety of reasons..."
     Indigo glances over to the Village Idiot, but returns to the young vampire (younger than he is for certain). "Have a seat," William says to the vampire, "...and keep quiet...Not a sound, not a motion, not a reach for anything. My friend and I are going to go..."
     William turns, seeing the drug-addled not-quite-mortal still fumbling around. A glance to the vampire, and he motions for him to sit down, the gesture made with the gun. Sit. Shut up.
     He exhales, "Enough play time, move," William shoves the not-quite-mortal aside, and it doesn't take much. Silver case, phone. No sign of the gun. Indigo eyes cut over to the vampire. Eyebrows lift. "You have the piece... slide it over..." And great shoulders shift. As much as the unconscious vampire has to weigh, he's lifted easily. Phone and silver case pocketed. Visage expectant upon receiving what he asks for...

     The vampire stands, only teetering slightly. He runs his hand beneath his nose, and is surprised to find blood there. No matter. He looks down to a pile of crumpled paper and a crushed box, and kicks the box away, revealing a bright Browning in the muck.

     Nearby the confused one moves around. He falls onto the sofa, clad only in his shirt. Suddenly, he begins to sob.

     "Bring it to me..."
     William has no intention on reaching for it...bending down to pick it up. That's what young vampires and servants are for.

     The vampire seems as if he has something to say. But whatever it is, it's not voiced. He stumbles forward and picks up the gun, then shuffles towards the unknown man, offering it to him, barrel down. The expression on his face suggests 'another time, another place,' but he's unwilling to vocalize it.
      At the wall, the girl folded in a pile does not move, nor does she appear to breathe. The posh young man notices it, and crawls off the sofa and across the floor towards her, whimpering the entire time. "Kenni, wake up, wake up..." he says over and over, crying hysterically as he wipes his face with hands that are covered in filth.

     My dear childe, you will be lucky to live that long...
     The expression is placid, giving nothing, taking nothing. William takes the gun, it is secured. His friend is secured. He looks to the vampire. "Better calm your lick," he suggests.
     There is Nothing in his face for the sobbing young man, the dead girl. It is too late for forced forgetting now. Even rearranging would be problematic. And not exactly time-effective. "You know... you should not do these things," William murmurs. "Look at what happens, when you bake the spoon..."
     There's nothing more exchanged. He leaves the arch for the hall and the stairs, one arm and side given to his friend, hefted over his shoulder (he's heavier than he seems), his other hand holding the Glock. There is a brief survey -- sight, sound, smell -- before he's on the move.

     A voice, stronger with you gone, rushes at the couch, "You wait! You can't do shite like this. It's not your domain! That's the rules!"
     For two in the room, his yelling matters not. The young man continues to weep over the body of his friend, her form lifeless beneath his arms.

Posted by rowan at April 30, 2004 11:13 PM