#accursedmaneater

         Seven years prior to this day the Quarter felt the wrath of the demons it harbored. The devil came, he saw, and decimated the foundation the pillars of the city built upon. The underworld was dealt a great blow in the ordeal, for their leaders either ran or were cut down in the aftermath. Organized crime broke off into splinter cells of thieves and two-bit gangsters starving for the greater power their fallen leaders had attained and peace between uneasy alliances became a husk of its former self. New and refurbished local businesses refused association with the supernatural gangs and those that were criminally inclined. NOPD were able to easily find and thwart the uprisings, in addition to petty crime in the wake of the 1919 Opera house massacre. The fall of the Mikaelsons Family was both a blessing and a curse in disguise.

          And none knew this better than the two leaders of the respective vampire and werewolf factions that were cordially eating dinner with each other in the old Mikaelson courtyard. In a town that were renowned for its legendary crime syndicates the Guerrera and Gerard crime families ranked near the top of the most ruthless regimes that has taken root in recent years. Under the venomous guide of Marlo Guerrera, the werewolves sunk their fangs titanic-deep into the soil of political ranks and pockets of the law enforcement. Gaining tributes from a plethora of local businessmen through sheer force was first nature to the apex predators. Oppositions and those that refused to lend their services in their journey to the position of power became maggot food, their bones play things for the omegas.

          The Original Family left a great gap in their premature fall, but thanks to the Prohibition Era, like Capone, Luciano, and other prospering gangsters around the States the Guerrera pack took advantage of the new law's good intent and thrived. Speakeasies, prostitution, gambling, and bootlegging ensured the Guerrera mob a consistent flow of income. But they owed a great debt to the moon, albeit the bane of their existence, it is what fiercely solidified their hold over their territories. Their use of intimidation and bloodthirsty tactics saw to it that their tenure as kings of the New Orleans underworld would be a term of werewolf supremacy.

           But that is what also earned them a pesky, but great enemy in the outlaw Marcel Gerard. The Guerrera mob had their private connections to local authorities, their assassins, poisoners, honorable hunters armed with dreadful technology the times permitted. In that area they exceeded the might of their ragtag rivals; that was why Marcel had systematically secured a place in the hearts of the people and attacked the fearsome organization in the art of guerrilla warfare. He ruled his own kind and his supporters by the power of his charisma and intelligence.

         Invitation; a well known weakness of the vampires was made into their greatest advantage. When necessary, their native allies would provide asylum for a modicum of Marcel's band, whilst their greater opposition's patrols searched religiously for them. That tidbit of influence made the nocturnal bandits practically ghosts in the streets. This frustrated the Guerrera mob immensely to the point they started flexing their muscle through their 'friends.' If they couldn't eat, then their allies couldn't eat. So, their pocket police harassed, sometimes aggressively, the residents for the whereabouts on the lead vampire and anyone that associates with them. Gangs of hoodlums under the Guerrera pay were sent to terrorize business owners for information. The Guerrera themselves would often hold public executions and threaten that nobody is immune to their wrath.

          At first, the plan was to disrupt the cash flow by persuading Guerrera partner's to do business with the vampires and or setting loyal rackets on fire, but it became personal. Some of his close human friends and their families found themselves slain, and as a war hero Marcel understood the concept of casualties of war, but he well in tuned with the craft of revenge more. Marcel response in painting the streets red in Guerrera blood engineered a dangerous vortex of one of the most bloodiest supernatural vendettas. Classic vampire versus werewolf.

          With all of the carnage that has taken place, neither side profited. thus bringing about the demand for the meeting. Pastor Joel, head of the Human Faction, arranged for the two warring factions to maintain a healthy truce for the evening. Two neutral emissaries were sent out to the two parties and instructed them to bring only four delegates from their armies to meet at the old Mikaelson compound. Considering it once housed a famous family of crime lords, it seemed like a appropriate spot for the city's latest ones. The Gerard and Guerrera crime families were reluctant about it, but ultimately agreed for the betterment of business.

         "Pastor, you gathered us here on the day of my nephew birthday. Must I remind you that I'm only here off of the respect I have for you and Mr. Gerard's late predecessors. But even that had its limitations. Our patience wear staggeringly thin. Say what you must now, otherwise this little meeting is concluded and we'll start back up where we left off." Don Guerrera sighed tempestuously, dipped a morsel of lobster tail in the butter dish and downed it without reserve.

         "My dear Don Guerrera," Gerard smiled sheepishly, "with all due respect to you and your nephew, lest we teeter-totter with the issue at hand, let's lay out our real grievances on the table and discuss solutions and not use faux reasoning to us being here today." the lead Vampire bandit sliced into a bakery fresh cheesecake and and delicately held it in front of a young Creole courtesan that saddled his lap. The vampiress gaily took a bite and flashed her sire a look. His pinky mopped the blood crumb daintily off the side of her cherry-washed lips and whispered something inaudibly in her ear. She giggled like a school girl and popped her big bum up off his lap, and sauntered her well-proportioned figure through the compound's courtyard. As she disappeared from plain sight, she left Marcel and the three other vampires, fresh recruits, alone with the five Guerrera brothers.

           "Firstly, I find it awfully funny that you want the broach the subject on respect with me when this is suppose to be a congregation of bosses, but I'm here I am—in the company of a joker. While I haven't the pleasure of personally seeing the man, I see his grace has a taste for tricks. You don't think I know who you really are, Carmine Orejuela?" Marcel seethed, his jaws bound tighter than that of a Nile crocodile's. Surprised by this revelation, or rather the young vampire's keenness the Pastor was about to open his lips to say something, but Marcel interjected and said, "Joel, don't be rude now. I haven't finish making a statement. Our body double here, senor Orejuela needs to understand that contrary to popular belief of the simpleminded, this negro can read and he does his homework. Also, lest it's not obvious, he's sitting in the humble abode of a Gerard, not a Mikaelson. Or at least it will be, once I run out all the mangy bitches littering about around here." A small grin pulled across his face, much to his enemies chagrin. 

         "But I'll forgive his many slights for two reasons and two reason only: the first is that I wouldn't want to ruin what could be a good family photo on the day of his nephew's "birthday" and the second is to send a message back to your true don, since seeing little ol' me wasn't fixed on his schedule. My message is a simple one, one you should be able to relay without difficulties." He took a deep sigh as he mouthed the next words slowly, as if the gentlemen before him were hard at hearing. "Marlo Guerrera is not a god. He can be touched. He is facing a major lost he has with the vampires, if he continues going about his business like the way he is now. I like to say I'm a civil guy, so I can honestly say that I find it to be in his best interest to step down now while he can, lest he can still run with wolves under the full moon, let alone still have the heart to turn than. . . With all due respect of course," Marcel said, with a promise that sounded severely threatening to his opponents.

           The four Guerrera brothers rose from their respective seats, palms punching into the insides of their two-piece smokey grey wool suit jackets, at the ready to riddle the bandits with wood, but their cousin, their fake Guerrera don had rose his hand to halt them in their actions. Marcel's three newest recruits, apprehensive as they were, remained seated in silence. If they wanted to, the five werewolves would find themselves without the luxury of a head in the blink of a eye.

         "You guys hear the balls rolling of this putero de mierda tongue?" Pudgy fingers lifted the dark shades off of his face and folded them over the collar of his grey button up, ensuring that the grimness on his face wasn't missed. Crows feet peaked predominately around his cold coal grey eyes, as his paper-thin lips wedges a crack of a half grin across his aged toasted brown features. "Kid, you barely managed to assert yourself on the booster seat to this little thing of ours. You don't have the privilege, no real rights to sit down with real power players and if you continue on with the belief that leading a bunch of witless hoodlums and causing mischief will pit you anywhere near that circle, then you have a long way to go son. You're well on your way to falling on your sword."

           "Gentleman, please. The purpose of this get together. " Pastor Joel started to say, trepidation discernibly in his tone but was broken off by Orejuela's slamming his hand on the table.

           "Was lost the damn moment this darkie struck up the audacity to throw his weight around our city, steal the food from our table and spit on our laws!" Orejuela voice boomed, his piercing glare burning holes in the pastor. "The problem as I see it is like all young upstarts, you're too willful and sure of the crumb of power you managed to scrape up out of the gutters for yourself. The Faction treated the vampires with too much deference. Diplomacy is a concept suited for those of a greater standing in our society, characters with a magnitude of influence and I'm afraid Mr. Gerard, as troubling as he has been for us, just doesn't meet our scales. Once he learns respect and tact, then maybe the guy got a shot at shining our shoes. He should be grateful enough that the Guerrera Family are even entertaining this Roberitco Capucha wanna-be and that his carcass isn't floating out in bayou somewhere, waiting to be devoured and become gator shit."

           You could cut the tension in the air with a butter knife. It took a great ounce of willpower for Marcel not to break character and throw diplomacy out the window. To be spoken to as a underling is the formula that compelled his thinking into the relentless desire to want more for himself. There were plenty of men like the fake don and his family; individuals whose egos rivaled Rome itself, so Orejuela's attitude came as to no surprise, but it still got drove his nerves wild. Turning his attention to the pastor, Marcel shot him a wicked grin then reverted a dark glare back to match Orejuela. "And here I thought the Guerrera Family were a pack of sophisticated and reasonable people. I blame my naivety on that." Marcel chucked a low chuckle and snort, whilst leaning with interlocked digits coming down on the table. 

          "Old friend, your passion speaks out to me. I can see now that I undoubtedly overstepped my bounds with your family. And for that, I deeply apologize for not realizing sooner," the vampire head released a soft grin and spoke his next choice of words in a sterner tone, "we're not meant to co-exist. We can't. You are right about the vampires not being able to work out in a system that our predecessors laid out for the later generations to continue to follow. But, I've been walking this earth long enough for you to be many of my great-grandsons. Rome wasn't built in a day, but neither did it take a day for its fall. And my people have taken our place in society from the moment we got off that boat and damn sure from the moment we started building Louisiana. We're magic-made, sweetheart, anything can happen. You fellas have a good day." Marcel removed himself from the table and started walking towards the compound's entrance, with his men in tow.

            As they stepped out into the cool night sky, Pastor Joel caught up with them and opened his mouth, perhaps to offer apologies but Marcel spoke before he did. "Pastor, it's been a pleasure. I'm sorry this couldn't have worked out as you'd like, but when it comes to the lay of our land there can be no pacts between a pride of lions and a pack of wolves That much was made clear here this evening. Next we meet, I'll be in my best suit for the funeral. You're not the only one that can look nice in black, Pastor." Marcel winked at him, and with that he and his crew left the Pastor standing there alone.

             Later on, Marcel and his small army would make an inconspicuous appearance at one of their favorite jazz club spots to see King Oliver and his Creole Jazz Band perform. Marcel needed something to swell his soul, purify it, for what he had planned for his adversaries would surely taint it.

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Number 68

Marcel stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel, wiping it across his face and down his body before wrapping it around his hips and walking out of the bathroom. Padding across the tile through the darkened kitchen, he yawned and opened the fridge, pausing a moment later as he heard the second heartbeat in the room. He listened for a moment before clearing his throat.

“You know,” he started speaking, still facing the open fridge. “Breaking and entering is actually still illegal around here.” Marcel turned, a slow smirk stretching over his lips as he caught sight of Danica who had made herself at home on his couch. “If you wanted to see me naked all you had to do was ask.”