Chapter 95: Hell Sings and so do the Shadows

Ilyana and Brontë informed the rest of the Midnight Suns of their recent discovery, but only after further confirming their suspicions.

Brontë kept his promise. He showed Ilyana around. He let his nose guide them to emptied out festival grounds, wintery gardens invaded by fleeing muskrats and rabbits. They even stopped at rushing rivers near the cities edge and all manner of barely standing tourist attractions.

They ate a lot. Neither minded. They had an overly active lifestyle afterall.

And the whole time, they found at least one Vampire everywhere.

A baker. A butcher. A housemaid. Brontë found himself having to take breaks. To blink away the images of foul red eyes and dead bodies.

He suggested calling backup.

That was hours ago…..

"Why are we taking this kind of risk? You were the one pointing out that we're already taking too many risks. What changed?" Bronte whispered as they sat in the bar, in a booth at the back. Even if it was barely occupied, the extra privacy felt nice. No judgemental stares.

"Because. We know Vampires." Ilyana replied as she traced the circular end of her glass of water. Her black nails reflected the orange dim lights casually in a way her piercings and dark tattoos could not.

"Yea….." Bronte nodded, urging her to further explain.

"These Vampires aren't moving with any sort of motive, Bronte. We've been scouring the city. You've been using your senses to find something— anything. Your Wolves havent howled. Your birds havent screeched from the trees. There's no operation. They... they're people."

Ilyana went quiet. "This feels ironic…."

She stared blankly at Bronte as he bit the cap off his fourth beer.

"How are they surviving? How do we know they're not sapping the people here? That would explain why barely anyone's outside. I know I'm from New York…. But this place is dry as hell. No offense."

"Funny." Ilyana rolled her mascara lidded eyes, "Also no."

"Wha— why not?"

Ilyana pointed at her eyes, "Sometimes you forget to use these….. more than sometimes."

Brontë feigned offense before side eyeing her, "What you trynna say?"

Ilyana's cheeks reddened as she slouched in her seat, attempting to hide beneath her blonde bangs, "I'd prefer not to say….."

"Uh-huh…"

"Im just saying…. Dogs also do that. Use their nose so much that they can miss what's right there."

"So we're back to calling me a dog. Next month I'm pulling the race card." Bronte replied.

"Yea good luck with that." Ilyana took a sip of her water.

"So what did you mean? What did you see?" Bronte brought them back to the original discussion.

"No bite marks. I checked necks, wrists, ankles, everywhere I could. I even peeked around in the ladies room. Nothing. There's a good chance these Vampires are unaffiliated and trying to live normally."

Brontë shook his head, "That don't sit right. This is Dracula's home. Khonshu said this place was grimey... Cthon's Temple is here…. How is it not a nightmare to live here?"

"Someone must've killed Dracula." Ilyana supported.

"Someone like Daken….." Bronte mumbled.

"That's our target."

In the silence a man got up from the bar ahead of them and turned around. Brontë felt his gaze long before what was probably intended, resulting in a staring contest as he approached.

He was middle aged with salt and pepper colored hair slicked back against his head and a clean shaven face. He was kind of wiry in build which could've been from an active life on the road. Or abuse of hard drugs….

Either way he hid it relatively well in a black button up and fur lined overcoat.

He was clean. Sleek. And seating himself next to Ilyana—

Bronte's booted foot came up from under the table, placed firmly where the man was about to be seated beside Ilyana.

He grinned faintly and straightened as he looked to Bronte.

"What's good?" Bronte questioned.

"Just trying to get to know new faces... we've had quite the influx recently."

"Word? Who else came here?" Bronte questioned as Ilyana studied him in silence.

"I didn't get their names. Could I get yours?"

"Jordan Hudson." Bronte replied flatly.

The man looked to Ilyana.

"Anna Redfield."

The man nodded, maintaining his casual grin, "Well, my name is Abraham Van Helsing. I won't lie to you…. I couldn't help but listen in on your previous discussion. I think I could be of help."