Early 1881 — London, England

Monty had been with the gang for about four years now and had quickly risen in the ranks. Not that there were a lot of them which made his induction into the gang even more meaningful. These days, he had been trusted with deeper details more and more.

Tonight was one such night.

He was to meet one of the gang leaders connections, someone Monty had not met or been introduced to yet. The leader himself had confessed to not knowing much about the man other than they were a vampire and part of this deal with them involved the trade of blood. Monty personally thought too much of himself to be willing to give blood to a vampire but he supposed others weren't so invested in themselves.

He hoped this wouldn't take too long, Ewan tended to get testy if he ran late. Then again, almost everything seemed to make Ewan testy. And where was this Mysterious Vampire anyway? Monty thought he was certainly taking his time.

Ishmael

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   Brigadier General Abernathy, Elias Grimstone

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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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"Evening," Monty said in return, his eyes raking over the other. It was hard to pinpoint the others age but he must have been turned at a young age. There was something... feline about the other. And something magnetic.

"That I am," Monty said. "He sent me because he trusts me. He felt we'd connect well." That had been what Monty had been told at any rate. He didn't know what he had been expecting when he had been told he would be meeting a vampire. But it certainly had not been someone that he found difficult to look away from for more reason than just the other being a vampire.

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   Ishmael

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Ishmael scoffed at that. Because he trusts me. Maybe that was so, but Ishmael would wager no one trusted anyone else in this life, not as far as they could throw them. Clearly this boy was becoming useful to the man, though, and trusted in turn – because not everyone had the boldness to meet with a vampire.

Or maybe he was scoffing at connect well. “Oh, of course he does. He means he knows my type, that’s all,” Ishmael admitted freely enough – what was the young man going to do if he didn’t like the implication? Tell the constables? Ishmael could drink him dry before he could make it off this street. It was true, though; he’d done well with his distracting messenger. He was young, slender, pretty. He sounded like he had a mouth on him, too – he thought he could talk his way in or out of anything. (Out of his clothes, ideally.)

But, ahem – business. “Malik,” he offered, with a brief smile and a fleeting word of advice – “But don’t think you’ll cheat me out of anything by seducing me.”

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Monty was not wholly surprised. He reckoned he was most everyones type because how could he not be? Ewan had been doing his best to erode at Montys everlasting self-confidence but it seemed the older man had not done as good a job as Ewan had hoped for.

"Malik," he repeated, practically purring the name. The longer he was in this vampires company, the more he found the fact he had a cranky lover waiting for him to get home make less sense. Not when there were men in the world who looked like this. "Now why would we be trying to do something like that? We value our friends around here." A strong word for it but Monty found himself very much not wanting to leave this connection as a passing acquaintance.

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   Ishmael

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Ishmael rather regretted giving the alias, if that was how good every name sounded coming out of his mouth. And the boy hadn’t batted an eyelash at the talk of seduction, even if he had protested it – so Ishmael suspected he’d been right, and that was exactly what they were playing at.

He smirked, no matter that he was half-tempted to fall for it. “Oh, are we friends?” he asked archly. “Shouldn’t we get to know each other better first?” There was no getting to know each other in this kind of life, consigned to the shadows and speaking a language of lies to each other, no doubt; but that didn’t mean Ishmael wouldn’t mind stretching out the time in his company. “Should we go somewhere more private to talk,” the deal, he meant, just the deal; “or were you going to offer me a drink?”

(Of course, Ishmael’s tastes being what they were, the drink he was after was not quite the kind to be easily purchased at a bar.)

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"We could be," Monty said easily/ Never mind that he didn't typically make friends well. He was often much too particular. And Ewan had often lamented why Monty needed anyone else besides him. Even now, he had a feeling that Ewan might take issue with any sort of connection formed with the mjan before him.

"Why not both?" He was not about to offer the vampire his own blood. He was not that taken in by the others allure. But a little privacy... that he was very much into.

  

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Whoever Ishmael pretended to be, he was still a vampire, in the end; he had plenty of acquaintances, useful contacts, flirtations, but not many friends. And they could be any of those other things, but friends was unlikely. He might have liked to know this young man’s story. It was almost a shame.

“Both, then,” Ishmael said, pleased. “Come with me – I know somewhere.” The bar he had checked out before was safe tonight – they could get a private room at the back, and Ishmael could pick up a friendly blood bank at the bar and bring him. (To see if it would scare this new friend off, maybe, while he watched; or whether it might lure him in.)

He pressed a hand up to the other man’s shoulder to steer him around on the street, and if he let his fingers trail down his arm following it, it was because he thought he could get away with a little friendliness here, however much this was business. “Your superior never gave me your name,” he added, prompting, eyeing him curiously as they walked; it oughtn’t matter, really – Malik was not his – but still, he was greedy to know anything he could about this man.

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He was not being taken to a cavern or something was he? Wasn't that where the vampires of Hogsmeade congregated? He could not imagine being one, being without magic and daylight. Immortality also felt like it would be something that could become lonely though there was appeal in being a young age forever. Montys looks deserved to be immortalized, if he did say so himself. This was never going to happen though since he would never allow a vampire to come at him enough to drain him, so he waved the thought away.

"You can just call me Monty," he provided, as if bestowing a gift by not just using a throwaway alias. His given name of Montgomery never had sat well with him so very few knew of it.

  

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“Monty,” he repeated, in the same way his new friend had purred his chosen alias, rolling it about on his tongue as if he could somehow taste it. And Ishmael generally did not trust that anyone was more honest than him – that no one in this business, or on this side of society, necessarily gave their real names, or voiced their honest thoughts, or cared about truthfulness at all. But he was happy to accept the first-name-familiarity, whether it was true or false. He could pretend either way.

As they walked in the direction of the bar, down a back-alley or two, Ishmael asked, “And how long have you been working with our mutual friend, Monty?” Once again, he would not be surprised if all he got were lies in answer – but his interest, at least, was genuine. They reached the dingy bar (without trouble; vampires could cross the threshold at public inns like this) and Ishmael paused to speak in the barkeep’s ear, before they were pointed to a back room, set up for better privacy – warding spells, a table and chairs, no windows but a small fire going in the grate. Somewhere to speak freely, if they wanted; somewhere where no one would take a second glance at the vampire or his present companion.

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There was something much too delicious about the way the vampire spoke his name. It had him wondering how it might sound coming from the other during the throes of passion. He was not adverse to finding out and his sixth senses told him the vampire was likely of like mind. Not that he was going to offer himself up. He had not gotten to where he was by giving into impulsive desires or letting anyone get the best of him.

Huh. Maybe that was part of why his relationship with Ewan was so messed up. Though the longer he stayed in this striking vampires company, the more he found himself thinking Ewan who?

"Long enough," he answered vaguely. It had been four years which Monty felt was a decent amount of time to have more than proven himself. He rose an eyebrow as Malik spoke into the barkeeps ear which resulted in them being pointed to a back room. Without waiting to be asked, Monty draped himself across one of the chairs, somehow looking as if every space he occupied had been made expressly for him. Monty had always had a way of making even the dingiest of places look like it was an empire he deigned to rule.

"Well connected, I see," he teased lightly as he regarded the other more intimately. He had never actually been alone with a vampire before. There was something thrilling about it.

wc: 240

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   Ishmael

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Monty certainly didn’t lack for self-confidence. He had dropped into a chair, entirely at ease at being left alone with him – Ishmael mirrored him, always pleasantly surprised when a lingering gaze was interested more than wary.

Ishmael’s gaze raked over him slowly; his mouth had gone a little dry at Monty watching him, or at the way that he was sitting... Merlin, their mutual friend knew his tastes exactly. This was either a generous gift or it was some kind of torture.

He whetted his lips and then grinned, this time candidly enough to let his fangs show. “Yes, I am,” Ishmael agreed, of his connections. “I have a whole market of them, you see – if you need something to get discreetly from seller to buyer, I can make those connections for you,” he explained; this was the business. “In exchange for a varied blood supply.” If they gave him a sure supply of fresh blood or human bloodbanks, he could fence their stolen goods.

“Please, go ahead,” he remarked, gesturing at the drinks already poured on the table between them. (Getting a drink or two in Monty could only help his chances, he figured.) “I’ve got someone coming in for me.” They’d be in here in a moment, directed here by the barkeep for a quick bite. Another of Ishmael’s connections.

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Montys time with Ewan had dulled his senses but not entirely, it seemed. He had not initially clocked the mutual interest but he did now. And why wouldn't there be? Ewan had tried his best but Montys self-confidence had always been unshakeable.

"We can work with that," Monty mused. A very handy vampire to maintain a thread to. He poured himself a drink, keeping eye contact as he drank, purposely letting the smallest bit trickle down his throat. A tease, really.

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   Ishmael

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This Monty was no fool – he had to know exactly what he was doing. His mouth was still desperately dry as his eyes followed the drop of drink, as transfixed as if it had been blood or sweat. He would have liked to lick it off Monty’s skin, to trace its path along his jaw and down his neck and sink his teeth in there –

Business, Ishmael scolded himself mentally. He was not usually so derailed by a handsome face, but – there was something hungry about this young man, something rare and urgent in his eyes.

The door opened – a familiar bloodbank of his came in, and Ishmael – not at all in his usual manner – gestured him over carelessly, without making introductions or taking his eyes off Monty in the interim. Two could play at that game, anyway – so, sparing no care for subtlety, Ishmael let his acquaintance perch on his lap. With a caress, he tilted the man’s head away from him and sank in his fangs to satiate himself.

“And I’ll need to be kept informed of your movements,” Ishmael said, distracted enough by watching Monty across from him to find it possible to pause mid-drink, surfacing just long enough to speak, his mouth a little bloodied. The gang’s movements, he meant – their projects, places they were going to target or stolen stock they were going to supply. “With regular rendezvous.” (With the same contact as tonight, he sorely hoped – if a little bloodlust had not scared him off.)

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Monty was not blind to the effect he was having on the other nor was he unaware of the requited effect in himself. It was a little concerning. He probably should not mix business with pleasure. He smiled slightly as a man came into the room, the vampires meal, he presumed.

He watched as the vampire drank. Did all vampires drink so intimately from their blood banks? Not that he was personally keen on shedding his own blood to find out. There was something darkly attractive about the vampire having a bloodied mouth. Maybe he had been with Ewan for too long that he was finding most anything dangerous and potentially sexy as overly attractive.

"Of course. I'll do my best to help you keep on my every movement," Monty agreed.

  

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Ishmael drew another long draught of blood from the man’s neck before him and licked his bottom lip clean as he resurfaced, fighting the ever-present urge to keep going, to just drink a little bit more. His bloodbank looked light-headed now, swaying a little where he sat on Ishmael’s lap – Ishmael, less invested than usual, didn’t address him, only steadied him with a idle hand on his arm.

“And what about tonight?” Ishmael asked Monty, who had promised to keep him on his movements. Business might be as good as settled already, but he wasn’t in any rush to leave. “Can you stay for another drink... or do you have somewhere else to be?” He knew the outcome he wanted, but – how hard-to-get was Monty going to play? He didn’t know the young man well enough yet to guess.

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