Den of Serpents: Sin City

Chapter Two

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold tile wall, fingers working slowly at his temples in hopes of stopping the gentle throb at the base of his skull. The swelling had already started at his cheekbone and it took throbbed, soft and tender. Quintin’s hands still smelt of Justine, the soft feel and gentle scent of the oil coating his palms, and he could feel his own pulse beat against his skin. The washroom was small but pristine, clean white tile mixing with the polished chrome fixtures to produce a glare loud enough to pierce his retinas.

This was insanity, this was torture, this was just another day at the office. Quintin peeled off his jacket, tossing it across the back of the toilet without bothering to open his eyes. His blue silk shirt clung to his skin like seran wrap and it was strangely hard to swallow.

Yes, another fucking day at the office.

His hands were surprisingly cold as he loosened his tie and undid his collar. Effort. It took effort and more self-control than he would care to admit not to let his hand wander. Not to slip down his zipper and be done with the gentle call so prominent in his crotch. A junkie’s fix, nothing more, but the stark truth did nothing for the desire.

It was enough to want her. To live awake well into the night thinking of the particular shade of her eyes when angry or the rough feel of her hands bruising his skin. But then came the blood. Quintin had once both pitied and loathed the swarms of supposedly intelligent men, powerful men, who so easily cast aside their freedom for a few moments of ectasy. The pinprick of a needle in their arm or the cold rush of powder through their nose. He’d thought himself above such petty things and he was right.

Until Justine. Until Justine and her games and her blood and her scent and the various other addictive add-ons that at once made him hate and love his mistress with an intensity he thought only mythical.

She would feed him. The logical part of his mind, the part of his mind that screamed as his hand inched ever closer to the waistline of his pants, told him as much. Justine needed him and, to keep him strong, she would feed him.

But that did little to soothe the want. The need. The burning fire for a drop or two of heaven on his tongue as her hair swam about him like a living thing and his heart beat for them both. A part very separate from anything logical feed him with glimpses of the past, pushed his hand farther towards his zipper and gave a victorious cheer when his fingers moved to unbutton his pants.

No…

There was logic, rearing its head again. Unwanted and very necessary; much like everything else in his life.

No matter the dull ache in his groin or the growing headache that promised to sear his vision white if allowed, there was work to be done. His Mistress was busy elsewhere, satiating dark desires in her den while business moved on.

Justine helped, when it was appropriate. Being a few decades deceased minimized the time one was able to exist in the limelight. Once Justine’s moment center stage was over (and she did mourn its passing, he had no doubt), someone had to take over. A business, especially one as large as Justine’s virtual empire of vice, had to be monitored.

That was Quintin’s job. Day in and day out, his life was his work. That much hadn’t changed since his time before Justine. Only his motivation, his mindset, had changed. He was successful, it was in his very veins a colleague had once confided, and the business thrived. But there was no money filtering into his own pockets, whether through his salary or a few minor slips in his personal accounting. Not any more.

In all honesty, his newfound honor was only the most noticeable change. Quintin was a different man from the one who stumbled across the Blue Martini five years ago and struck up a conversation with the saucy redhead in the stool beside him. He slaved without question and without true reward, Justine stepped in when necessary, and shadowed figures above them both grew fat. Content.

It was the way things were done and, though his mortal mind couldn’t yet fully appreciate the simple logic of it, Quintin was satisfied.

A loud rap finally brought him to his senses. Like a child with his hand in the cookie jar, Quintin froze with his fingers toying at his zipper. Again the knock rang clear from the adjoining office and he found that he could think again.

“One moment…”

With a groan, Quintin shook his head and pushed himself from the wall to glance quickly in the mirror over the sink. The entire right side of his face was red and swollen, too soon to be black and blue. He closed his eyes again, taking a moment to heal the wound. Usually he wouldn’t, especially considering how long it had been since he’d fed from Justine, but it wouldn’t do to have clients see him in such a state. After the forming bruise was no more than a memory, and with such thoughts of propriety in mind, he then quickly tidied his clothing and ran a quick hand through his hair before opening the door to his office.

The office, a well-decorated expanse of dark wood and soft leather, was strangely devoid of personal effects. Just like that washroom, it seemed more like an excerpt from a magazine spread than an actual inhabitable space. A massive desk sat in the middle with only a clock and a calendar to mar its surface. On the opposite side sat two chairs, leather, for guests.

One of the chairs was occupied.

Quintin took it in stride, plastering on a lawyers smile (in his veins, after all) and approaching the stranger. “Forgive the delay. I was tidying up.”

The stranger stood and turned, offering his hand with no hint of the same smile (false or true) daring to touch his face. “Damian Creed.” He was of average height and slim build, pale blonde hair cropped short and his clothes were simple if not expensive. More of the same for the usual clientele Justine’s business attracted. Escorts for the busy professional; or at least that’s what the card said.

“Good evening, Mr Creed.” Quintin took his hand, giving a firm handshake. “It was good of my secretary to show you in. I’m Qu-“

“I know who you are. No need for formalities.”

Quintin withdrew his hand, not yet giving up on the smile. “Very good, then. Shall we sit?”

“No. I’m here to see your employer, not you. Fetch her.”

“Employer?” Quintin studied the man carefully. His pale eyes were unsettling, to say the least. Creed wasn’t in the habit of blinking too often, either. “I’m afraid that you are mistaken, Mr Creed. I-“

Before Quintin could finish, before he could think to react, the few paces between them were gone. He found himself suddenly on his knees as the slim man looked down at his with satisfaction. Quintin’s smile was gone.

“As I said, ghoul, no need for formalities. I am here to see Justine. Go fetch her. Before my thinning patience begins to break.”

There was silence in the room for a few moments, each man almost frozen in place. Quintin was no fool. He knew what stood above him and it was only incompetence on his part that he failed to see it sooner. Another of Justine’s kind, though perhaps not of the same stock. However, this Creed, no matter his ties to the vampiric world, wasn’t a regular. Whether he was to be trusted or not surely wasn’t up to Quintin.

Given the situation, Quintin’s hesitation was only understandable. Seconds streamed by before he spoke, face now blank. “Justine? I have so many girls, I’m afraid it’s difficult to keep them straight. Perhaps if you left a number, I could search for your missing escort?”

More silence. He’d readied himself for a blow. For yet another display of power in an evening that desired only to prove his inevitable lacking. But it never came. Creed stared at him for a long while, their eyes playing a constant back and forth, before finally helping him to his feet.

“Very well, then.” Creed nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a card. “When you see her, tell her I came by.” He dropped the card on the table and exited, the loud click of the door closing echoing through the office long after he’d gone.

Quintin walked to his desk with trembling knees, not surprised to find that his hands were shaking as well. It wasn’t fear. No, far from it. Emotion wasn’t something Quintin really understood, even after his time with Justine. It was something he could finally experience, yes, but not something to be embraced. Simply to be watched. The first inklings of anger trickled over him and he merely sat.

Sat and let his fingers strum rhythmically against the top of the desk as the muscles in his back tensed and loosened along with the silent tune.

Justine wouldn’t be happy. He didn’t think she’d be upset with him. He was far past that point in his training, no more her whipping boy, but she wouldn’t be happy. That much was certain. As fast as the ordeal had been, and it had flown past his eyes in a matter of minutes, it stayed with him. He couldn’t quite understand why, but it felt wrong. Something about the man’s eyes or his voice or those few seconds when the carpet pressed against his knees and their gazes were locked…It was just…wrong.

Another knock at the door. His fingers were still. Great. What now? “Come in.”