IN THE PRESENCE OF VAMPIRES pt. 2 (read pt. 1)
The morning had been taxing, and Lowell was exhausted. After speaking to the press about Prida’s murder - which had caused not only shockwaves through the press room, but owls had started flooding in after the WWN’s report - he’d had to endure meeting after meeting of concerned ministers. They’d each pressed his hand in condolence, and Lowell had grimaced and reassured them all in turn that this was a freak accident, that it wouldn’t be repeated, that he would take care of it.
But the parallel trails of blood that Lowell had followed like a twisted trail of bread crumbs to find Prida’s body had stuck with him. It wasn’t that Lowell had never been exposed to blood or death; he had, numerous times, but this was Prida. Lowell wanted to believe that he could protect those within his employ, and even those he cared about. There was also the fact that it looked terrible for his image as a Minister, and as unfeeling as it seemed, Lowell cared a great deal about that, too.
After shaking the hand of a sweaty-palmed wizard who explained, for ten minutes, about the time Prida had made him a cup of coffee, Lowell excused himself to his office. The floor was quiet as he stepped out of the elevator, the marble floor suddenly echoing with the silence of Prida’s loss. Lowell had gotten used to her there; to the smell of her perfume filling the foyer as she walked to and from her office, or the exact way she made coffee, or the sound of her laughter while entertaining a minister. She’d been loyal to the very end, Lowell was sure of that - she’d fought and died by what she believed, which was that the creatures of this world must be controlled and contained.
She had paid the ultimate price. Lowell knew he should’ve tried harder to shield her from harm; should’ve made sure she didn’t live so far from the aurors, that she should’ve been properly trained herself. But in truth, Lowell had been blindsided by this - he had expected attempts on his own life, of course, but his secretary? It was a murder that showed these creatures and beasts had no humanity or reason left.
His office was dark and as he’d left it that morning, though the severed hand had been removed, taken by the aurors who were investigating. Lowering himself into his well-worn chair, Lowell pressed a hand to his face, drawing in a slow breath. He knew what he had to do next, but the execution would cost him a great deal - and he would need to wait til sun down.
“Sir?”
Lowell glanced up, tired eyes taking in Fischer and Blackwood standing there.
“Report,” he ordered, waving them in.
They nodded, taking two steps inside the office, before beginning the debrief. It was short, the investigation still in its preliminary stages, they said. But the creature that had murdered her was confirmed: vampire.
“As suspected,” Lowell murmured, rubbing his forehead again. He would like a strong drink, but dared not allow himself. “Very good. Head back to the manor and I’ll meet with you there in an hour. Tell the others.”
Fischer and Blackwood didn’t argue, though Fischer did hesitate for a second, as though debating whether to say what was on her mind.
“What is it, Fischer?”
Her mouth thinned into a line, and Blackwood looked on from the doorway. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, a moment of rare gentility. “About Prida.”
It was the first time that day that Lowell had actually believed anyone to be sincere about the loss, and Lowell met her eye.
“Thank you,” he said. “She was a good person.”
There was nothing more to say, and Fischer left with Blackwood, the two of them already bickering before they’d even entered the elevator, Lowell listening remotely to their heated words before there was silence once more.
He wasn’t used to feeling like this - like he was on the backfoot, like there was something he was missing. He understood the anger of these creatures - that they’d made very clear - but this was unexpected. Lowell usually planned for every possibility; strategised for every move that someone could make, every variable that could crop up. Was he losing his touch? The thought bothered him more than he would’ve liked to admit, and the itch for a drink was strong - just something to burn his throat, distract him from his thoughts.
Instead, Lowell stood and grabbed his wand, his coat, and headed out. He couldn’t be here, not when everything was so open ended, and with several more hours until the sun set, there was time to kill.
*
The Bowery was dark when Lowell apparated in.
Leaving the confines of the manor house after discussing the murder of Prida with his team, Lowell had allowed the sun to set and the night to settle before he’d grabbed his coat once more. The others had been exhausted as they wrapped up, though he was glad to see they fought through it - Winterbourne squeezing Walcott’s hand periodically, Caomh chattering small comments to Fitzpatrick in Gaelic that kept them both awake and engaged. Lowell had to admit that the team he’d chosen were strong and dedicated, and he was grateful for each of them.
And true to their nature, they’d offered to accompany him to the Bowery, some of them knowing its filth better than Lowell - some of them having worked there, bled out on the cobblestones, grew up knowing its twists and turns. But the destination that Lowell sought was not for the others to know about; his business was a private one, even from the people that he trusted most.
Of course, not many people in full possession of their rationality and sanity would walk into the Bowery at night; even the citizens knew which spots to avoid. They knew that Stabbing Street was nicknamed that for a reason; knew that the sound of cheers and screams from The Basement could lure you in like a siren and just as quickly take your money. They knew that the Meatlocker had whatever you needed, for a price, but the selection was more varied at Sade’s. They knew a decent drink could be found at Shelley’s Leg, but if you were after something less than legal, The Sabbat could provide.
Lowell knew all this and walked through the Bowery anyway. He knew the kind of people that lived and worked here - knew exactly which of laws were being flaunted, broken, abused. And he allowed it, because that was the way the Bowery worked. Besides, if he raided Sade’s, he’d find more than a dozen of his Minister’s with their pants around their ankles, and then he’d have to go through the hassle of employing more.
No; the Bowery was a teeming underbelly that worked to its own code, and the less Lowell and his Ministry disturbed it, the better off they all were. Besides, most of the Bowery remained self-contained: if you walked through it, then you knew what you were going to get. Newcomers never made the same mistake twice. Unlike Knockturn Alley - with its cheap criminals and shattered families trying to make the most of things, the Bowery was unforgiving. It made no pretense like Knockturn; it hard no well-meaning foil to it the way Diagon Alley was to Knockturn. There was no redemption on the streets of the Bowery - this is where people came when they were at their end, and the monsters came to toy with them.
The idea was of some comfort to Lowell as he walked through the main street of the Bowery, keeping his eyes straight forward but not from cowardice. At least he knew where to go to find the monsters in the world - and here, there was some control, some order to their reign. And, Lowell reasoned, a chance at negotiation.
The sources of light came from the glowing windows of the Bowery - the neon of Sade’s, kept further back for complete discretion versus the unabashed display that the Meatlocker put on. The pubs glowed invitingly, while the other establishments provided light through greasy, stained windows - dim and alluring. But Lowell would not be swayed tonight by the temptations of the Bowery, though he could not say he never had before - every man had his weakness, after all, and his eyes lingered in the direction of Sade’s before he picked up his step. Lowell had always prided himself on being stronger than his vices, for which his family had fallen prey - he would not be the same, and he would not end up dead like them.
His presence in the Bowery drew more attention than he would have liked, but Lowell knew that nothing in the quarter would go unnoticed. Someone, somewhere, was always watching - eyes followed all passers-through, and everything was reported back to the metaphorical beating heart of the Bowery: the Duchess. Lowell knew her blood slaves were reporting his movements to her at this moment, webs of information that she used as puppet strings to control the Bowery and everyone in it.
Nothing happened without her knowing, and much less happened without her permission.
Only fools ignored the other powers in charge in their quest for complete dominance. Lowell was no such fool. He understand that in order to get what he wanted, there were times when sacrifices and compromises must be made - when he had to bow his head to another major player and hope they bowed in return.
The Duchess had manners - built over centuries of being alive, she was one of the only people that had ever gotten under Lowell’s skin and could play him in a way that landed him humiliated and vulnerable. It was why he delayed meeting her as often as possible; why he came only now, when he needed to.
Her manor was, as always, darkly-lit with torches of fire rather than muggle electricity, which many wizards had adopted. Lowell’s eyes adjusted to the light quickly as he walked inside, meeting soft music that immediately culled the outside world away. A blood slave - pale, thin, drawn - closed the door behind Lowell with a click, and he was entombed.
It was warm, and Lowell began walking, taking the hallways by memory from the times when he’d been here before.
The Duchess’ manor house was beautiful and old-fashioned, but less in a gaudy way than in a legitimate and decadent fashion. There were objects collected from all over the world - cultures that Lowell would’ve loved to have studied as a boy, and trinkets that he is sure would’ve swallowed him whole. The Duchess was a collector, of sorts - her manor held some of those things. Books and objects and carvings and paintings of all sorts were neatly arranged along the walls and display cabinets; weapons, jewellery, and in one glass case, a hand.
It made Lowell think of Prida’s hand from that morning, and he turned away.
“Mistress will see you in her chamber,” came a voice from the doorway, and Lowell turned to see the blood slave from the door staring at him, dead-eyed.
Lowell said nothing to this man, who was, in most respects, no longer a man; he had given himself over to the Duchess’ power in exchange for a drop or two of her blood. It had been his choice - yet another vice that had claimed another life.
He followed the slave through the room and down the hall, the music still a gentle swell in the background - not loud enough to discern exactly what was playing, but enough to be reminded of something from a long time ago that you couldn’t quite grasp at the memory of. It made Lowell think of many things; things that prickled at his spine, of a lifetime ago before things had become what they were.
He shook the thoughts immediately. This was why he hated coming here. Vampires had an unsettling power over people - it was no coincidence that they called her the Bathory of the Bowery.
The Duchess’ chambers were warm and dimly lit, and from where Lowell stood, staring up the length of the room to where she sat, he could see a dozen or so blood slaves around her. Some were lying prostrate on the stone, either in worship or a state of pleading, Lowell couldn’t be sure. Others, possibly higher in her favour at the moment, sat closer to her, around her feet and scattered like puppies. One lucky blood slave was kneeling in front of her, the slave’s long red hair falling over her back as she offered up her wrist.
“Care for a drink?” came the velvet-smooth voice of the Duchess as Lowell entered, not looking up from where she was working on draining the slave’s wrist into a wine goblet.
When she was satisfied with the amount, she looked at the slave, who immediately bowed her head. The Duchess’ painted lips curved up in a smile, and she leaned down. Lowell watched, intrigued, as the Duchess licked over the wound in the slave’s arm gently - and the wound closed, slowly, as though magic knitted the skin back together.
“No, thank you,” Lowell replied once this intimate moment between master and slave was over, his eyes lingering on the girl as she cradled her wrist to her chest, as though it were a precious gift, before leaving.
“Are you sure?” pressed the Duchess, fondly watching the naked slave leave before her dark eyes lifted to Lowell. “I thought a drink was something you people couldn’t refuse.”
Lowell let the taunt glance off him. “I came to speak to you about business,” he said, seeing no reason to delay, though he gave a wary glance to the blood slaves still spread around the Duchess like toys.
She gave a dry roll of her eyes and took a sip from the goblet. When the goblet lowered, he couldn’t tell if it were blood on her lips or the colour of her lipstick. “It’s always business with you, Lowell, darling. That’s the problem: you take no time to find joy in the little things.”
“I’m afraid I have not much cause for joy today.”
The Duchess raised her eyebrows behind the goblet she drank from, and their eyes met. He held her gaze, and nor did she waver.
“Leave us,” she said once she’d swallowed the mouthful of blood, and the slaves around her hastened to follow the command, each of them thin and pale, all bone and hollow eyes, lank hair trailing after them as they left the chamber. “Are you going to make me ask what this is about, or shall I begin guessing?”
The idea that she didn’t already know what this was about didn’t seem possible.
“And I didn’t want to do you the dishonour by assuming you were that poorly informed,” Lowell returned, his face impassive and belying the emotion he felt about Prida.
Her lips quirked. “Smart man,” she said, nails catching the light where they held the goblet. “I assume this is about your hired help.”
“She was more than help, and I would appreciate if you didn’t speak of her so callously,” Lowell said, voice heated. “As far as my team and I are aware, she was murdered.”
The Duchess looked at Lowell, daring him to say it. “Yes, so I heard.”
“By vampires,” Lowell continued. “Tortured, even.”
“The lives of humans are so very fragile,” sighed the Duchess, mockery evident.
Lowell took a step closer - he hated feeling on the back foot around her; if it had been anyone else, he would’ve found a way around her and her power. Undercut her, manipulated her, blackmailed her, threatened her - anything that gave him a bit more leverage. Lowell had gotten good at that over the years, digging and clawing his way in secret to circumvent the people around him. But the Duchess? There was no going around her, because she was everywhere, and she wasn’t just one person.
She was an army.
“Our lives are not a joke,” Lowell said, voice cutting. “And for someone whose own future depends upon that of my own, I would expect that you’d take more care.”
The Duchess sobered. “You truly are no fun today,” she drawled, as though tired of his presence. “Very well, let us talk business. I know nothing of the murder of your human.”
“I don’t believe you,” Lowell countered immediately. “You know everything the vampires do.”
Her smile was thin. “You give me much more credit than I deserve, Lowell,” she said. After taking a sip from the goblet and swallowing, she continued. “Not all vampires recognise a leader. Some are angry.”
“With my leadership.”
“In part,” she allowed. “But you are one man, serving for ten years. What many of us have endured is centuries-long confinement. For some, torture. Enslavement. You’ve just tightened the leash.”
“Speak plainly,” Lowell said. “Who did this?”
“No one under my control, but as I told you when we struck our bargain, not all vampires are under my control, Lowell darling. I have a majority, at least when it comes down to it, but there are some beyond even my reach.”
The Duchess didn’t seem happy about admitting it, and Lowell took that as a sign that she was telling the truth.
“And where might I find those beyond your reach?” Lowell pressed. “Names, locations, I’ll take whatever you have.”
Her smile, when it appeared, was wicked and sharp, curving at the corners like the thorn on a rose. She had power, and she was more than capable of wielding it; you didn’t get into a position like hers without it. And though Lowell knew he could more than hold his own against her - you didn’t become Minister without being able to pull strings yourself - he felt fragile and new, a newborn babe at the mercy of a predator.
“That sounds like you’re asking for something,” she said coyly. “What will you give me?”
“What do you want?”
She knew she had him in the palm of her hand, but Lowell held firm, neither shrinking nor cowering.
“Blood,” she said, raising her chin. “Our dens and bars are running short, and my own personal supply is low -- lower than I am comfortable with.”
Lowell frowned. “You have your slaves.”
“Despite what you think of me, I am not a cruel master,” she laughed. “I won’t bleed them dry.”
There were strings Lowell could pull - it would be difficult, but he could do it.
“You’ll have the same amount as the last order,” he said.
“Double it or I’ll leave you to chase your tail.”
It felt like a fist was closing around Lowell’s lungs, a struggle with what he wanted and his own morals. To give in would set a precedent; to resist would destroy his sanity. The bottom line was that Lowell could not get answers from any other source than the Duchess; the cost might rise, but he would have to pay it.
“Double and no higher,” Lowell relented. “Tell me what you know.”
“With pleasure.”
And when she spoke, weaving the story of rogue vampires conspiring together, planning attacks and pointedly targeting people and places, Lowell understood that this war was going to be a lot harder than he thought. Now battling a war on two fronts - werewolves and vampires - he would be stretched thin as it already is. He would need more people, and a better strategy. He would need time to think.
“Thank you,” Lowell said, once he’d gotten a few names that he could go on. “You’ll have the supply by week’s end.”
His mind was full and already beginning to compartmentalise, and Lowell needed to leave. His study called to him, a roaring fire that would warm his knees while his mind turned over everything he’d been told, making plan after plan, going through each possibility. Strategy was his strong suit, and Lowell needed space to do what he was best at.
Turning to leave, Lowell had almost left the room when she called him back, a name on her tongue that made his spine straighten.
“I saw Lysander the other day.”
Lowell’s feet froze, and his heart thumped twice, three times, before he turned. “Oh?”
She was the picture of delighted, eyes lively and gleaming with humour. “He is well,” she said, picking up her goblet. “He, at least, stayed for a drink.”
He wouldn’t let this sway him, and he dropped his eyes from the Duchess’ and left, walking past the blood slaves who rushed into the room he’d just vacated, as though unable to breathe a moment longer without their master.
Lowell would not think of Lysander; today was not about him. It was about Prida, and finding those responsible for her death. He would have justice for her death, and if it took the form of the most brutal punishment possible, then Lowell would not apologise.
