BloodWise

Winston Solomon watched through the one-way mirror as men and women quietly filed into the air-conditioned store front and checked in with the front desk clerk. From there, they shuffled to a bench to fill in their paperwork, and then over to the chairs where two trained nurses in white coats administered needles and IV lines.Finally the blood started to to flow, turning the yellowish intravenious tubes a dark crimson shade. Winston looked back at Fiztpatrick and Reyna, giving them a slow nod. It was elegant. He put one hand in his jacket pocket and let his fingers brush the tiny journal of philosophical teachings that he brought everywhere. Surely, he thought, the ideas they were implementing this day would have made William of Ockham and Jeremy Bentham proud. Such a simple solution to their problems. No more fights, no screaming, no killing. Just willing participants who would be paid for their time, and yet- as far as Winston knew- not a single vampire in history had tried setting up an anonymous blood bank before.

What would old Catman say, if he could see this unfolding, Winston wondered. Catman would hate it, but Delroy Catman was part of the old order, trapped in an 1800's mindset. This was the 1970s, and things were going to be changing soon.

"Not particularly dramatic," Fitzpatrick said. Fitzpatrick always managed to sound skeptical, and he looked the part too, like a college professor with a preference for gray suits, corduroy vests, and thick-rimmed glasses, the only thing he was missing was a pipe.

"Not dramatic, but effective," Winston said. "It will free up our time to do more important things."

"And you're sure it won't be traced back to my house, Winston?"

"The clinic is owned by an offshore company represented by a law firm and accountant who only exist on paper, my lord."

"I don't know about this," Noah said from the corner of the observation room where he'd been playing with a long knife. "There's just something about getting blood right out a man when its hot. I mean, this blood that you're tapping, it has to go through plastic tubes and sit in coolers. What kind of shit is that?"

"Language!" Fitzpatrick said.

"Sorry boss. I just mean, who wants to have old, stale blood in their lips."

"I can't tell the difference," Reyna said in a soft voice. "Blood is blood."

Noah laughed and then tossed the knife in the air. He nimbly caught it and placed it on a desktop alongside his trademark Assegai.

"Laugh if you want," Winston said to the lanky killer, "But as of today, House Fitzpatrick has been put on the cutting edge."

"Actually, I'm the cutting edge," Noah said.

"What is that outside?" It was Ivan who'd spoken. He'd been standing in the far back of the room, quiet as always, and they'd nearly forgotten him.

Winston looked back at Ivan, and then followed Ivan's line of sight through the storefront and out to the street. Outside, parked near the curb was a black pickup truck. The truck was weather-worn and beaten, it's bed loaded with nondescript boxes, and it was just sitting there with black smoke pouring out of its tailpipe, but there was something else too, something orange and shiny. Flames.

"Get down!" Ivan yelled as he threw himself on top of Fitzpatrick.

Winston grabbed Reyna's forearm and began to yank her down as the truck ripped itself apart in a wave of fire and screaming metal. They both hit the floor and were immediately showered with a wall of broken mirror, plaster, wood chips and an unholy wave of noise. Then came the intense heat. Winston got up on one knee. His ears were ringing. He couldn't hear a thing. His black suit was entirely covered with beige plaster dust, as were Reyna's dress and hair. He glanced back at Fitzpatrick, who was already being lead out of the rear emergency exit by Noah and Ivan. As he helped Reyna stand, Winston risked a looked ahead through the gap that had contained the one-way mirror. The store front was nothing but bodies, debris and dancing flame. The bodies that had been nearer the big front window were charred black. At least two people were still moving. "Get out!" Winston mouthed to Reyna and then he jumped what remained of the wall to help the injured mortals.

*

Twenty minutes later, Winston stood watching the smoldering storefront from across the street. The street was littered with emergency vehicles, cops, and reporters. Firemen had contained the blaze. Of the twelve mortals who'd been in the shop, only two people had survived. One of the nurses, and one of the customers who'd been lucky enough to be in the bathroom when the truck-bomb had gone off. Winston's grand experiment had lasted a total of two hours and fifteen minutes. His hearing was returning. The shock was wearing off now ,and something new was coming in to take its place. A bright-edged anger. He fostered the anger and and then he waited until the inevitable arrival of the big black car.

As usual, Reyna was driving. She gave Winston a sober look. She had a series of fine cuts across her left cheek from when she'd hit the ground. Her short hair still had some dust in it. Fitzpatrick and Noah were in the back, so Winston took shotgun. Nobody spoke as Reyna drove them three blocks away and pulled the car into a brick-walled, trash-strewn alley, one of the hundreds of neglected thorough-fairs of Baltimore in the 1970's. Reyna cut the engine. It had been twenty minutes since the explosion and Fitzpatrick was already wearing a new suit. His right hand was wrapped in gauze. "What the hell happened back there!"

"It was vamps," Noah said. He had his Assegai propped between his legs, like some grim reaper's version of a hard-on.

"I thought you said our connection was untraceable, Solomon," Fitzpatrick said. "I don't have to remind you of how much of my money we just saw go up in smoke."

Winston closed his eyes. "It was. I don't understand how they found us, but I have pretty good idea of who was behind it. It was either House Zulu or the Prestons."

When Winston had first arrived in Baltimore and struck a deal with Neal Fitzpatrick, he's done his homework. He'd studied territorial maps, read the papers for random acts of violence, sketched out local family trees and asked many questions and then programmed all his information into a new invention called a personal computer that allowed him to recall and manage and cross-reference the data. One of the many discoveries he made was the intense overlap of blood rights claimed by Fitzpatrick, Zulu and the Prestons. They were natural rivals.

"I don't know," Fitzpatrick said, ever the skeptic.

"Anything that hurts us would be a boon to them," Winston argued.

"But there are a lot of wild houses out there, Winston. I get threats all the time."

"I'd suggest following Occam's razor, the most obvious solution-"

"-is usually the correct solution," Rayna completed Winston's thought.

Fitzpatrick looked unconvinced. "We can't just start blindly retaliating, Winston. An all-out war in Baltimore won't benefit us."

"There's no need for that, my lord. I'm going to find out who was behind the attack."

"How?"

"I'm going to ask politely." Winston checked his watch. "It's Seven o'clock. I'll plan to meet you at your townhome by 2 AM."

"Be careful," Reyna said.

Winston glanced at her and then back at Fitzpatrick. "Maybe be Reyna can help as well."

"She's my driver," Fitzpatrick noted. "I'm not going to have you taking her to visit the Zulus, much less the Prestons."

"I don't want to take her with me. I mean maybe she can take a look at the explosion, use her abilities to look back into the past."

"No. I'm sorry. This was your project and your mess, Winston. You solve it."

"Two AM then," Winston said. He exited the car, took a quick look around, and then headed back to his apartment for a fresh suit.