Ishmael liked London. He had never lived here when he’d been human, but it still reminded him of home, somehow. Maybe that was why he had allowed himself to stay so long, to be almost settled amongst the streets. (Well, the more sordid side of them, usually.)

He had carved out some good business for himself here, too – knew a few people, knew how to get them what they wanted, could take his own payments in return, all with staying clear of the law.

He had never considered himself a slave to his business dealings, though – he took his own time with things. (Unlike most of his associates, he had time to kill. Spades of it.) So he had taken his time to scout out the alley and stroll around the place before committing to showing up at all; there was a bar not far away where he could have found himself a tall drink for the night, never mind the business.

Still, he had showed – eventually, slow and sauntering. “Evening,” Ishmael said casually, although it had gotten dark hours ago – it was still early in the night for him. He raked his gaze over the young man – young, scarcely into his twenties if he was at all – head to toe and back again, curious. (For who he was, he had style. But he didn’t seem much of a threat; Ishmael could pin him in a matter of seconds, if he had to.)

“I take it you’re the one who’s been waiting for me,” he offered, in case the stranger was in any doubt of whether he was the right vampire. This wasn’t his usual connection to the gang, though – he had to wonder if he was getting blown off. “How come he’s sent you?”

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