Blood Work (Harlem's Deck 10)
Harlem's Deck 10:Blood Work.
By Paul Smith.
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Harlem's Deck 10:Blood Work.
Paul Smith
Copyright 2014 Paul Smith
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people, places or events is purely coincidental, and bears no malicious intent.
ISBN: 9781311567550
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'I'd like to dedicate this instalment to the people at Red Sea, for making me feel welcome and for getting me think about my ink properly. Thank you.'
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Author's note:
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Thank you.
10:Blood Work.
Jaret let him go with poor grace, stepping into the firebird with a scowl that could have curdled UHT milk. Clearly he'd wanted to spend the evening strategising about tomorrow night. An exercise Elliot was fairly certain would be pointless. There was only one safe course of action in these situations:
Not attending.
Anything else was just the maverick tempting of fate.
Which seemed to be Jay all over at the moment. Elliot had the awful feeling this was the start of an early (and extended) mid-life crisis. The man was afflicted with the sort of unassailable self confidence that seemed to go in for that sort of thing.
And it's my job to get him through it in one piece. Oh yay...
An agreement was an agreement, however. Being a Nu Shakya held few prerogatives, but one of the few sanctified within that contract was his right to request some small time for himself (by small, read once a month). There were Sunday afternoons, yes, but those were for the dojo, and he was expected to return to the house by the evenings. (He openly recognised how lucky he was with Karl and Jaret, whose unspoken agreement on the matter usually allowed him the later half of the day to do as please). And he was lucky also that Jaret was happy enough for him to please himself if he and Lise were in a 'safe' location, as happened the night of the Gala.
See? Maverick he may be but you get more freedom than most out of it...
He scowled, drawing a look of concern from the group of shrivelled little old ladies passing him as he crossed Ichiko Square. He pulled a face in apology. Which apparently wasn't very convincing, as they picked up their pace.
Sighing, he shrugged his sword straight on his back, pushing his hands further into his coat's pockets as he made his way towards the square's far side, where Ninth led away towards Willow Street, and the gateway into the Old Quarter.
Sprawled along the eastern half of Central Park's northern edge, the Old Quarter was bordered on its far side by the warehouse district and the river. Beyond the park, things became a little murkier, particularly between eighth and ninth (the area he traversed now) where it seemed to sort of meld into Maha Town. Its western remit was equally poorly defined: Green Bank, with its Wiccan book stores technically belonged to the Laines, though it stood across the park from them on the far side of City Hall.
Ask ten residents of Neppon to define the place on a map and you'd receive ten different answers. It was one of those districts that seemed to shift perceptually, depending on who you were talking to. A symptom, perhaps, of its residency? Elliot liked to think not. Despite his profession, he was a fairly practical man at heart. Held little truck with people who got all wide-eyed over anything 'paranormal'. He would freely admit that his regular contact with the realities of the shallows placed him firmly in the category labelled 'jaded'. Didn't particularly care what other people wanted to make of that. He just couldn't stand people who romanticised stuff that was (a) provably real (if not necessarily quantifiable) and (b) really quite dangerous, if not treated with the proper respect.
This opinion covered all manner of things on Neppon, from certain questionable 'religious' practices to what others might call 'magic' (of the black variety).
It also most definitely applied to the immortal population of the Old Quarter.
Elliot had never been able to decide whether or not the vampires knew about the shallows, before they offered to throw their weight behind the nascent colony on Narcisa (the name alone made him suspicious with its riverside overtones, despite everyone's insistence on record that it had been inspired by the fad of 'flower worlds' that had pervaded that era of the walkabout).
Needless to say, nobody had ever gotten a straight answer out of the ageless, who after acquitting themselves commendably during those formative years had quietly retired into discreet enclaves of their own, nestled within the bosom of several of the young world's larger population centres.
No loud chest-beating here, as with the Jovian Sanguiarchy. Just quiet coexistence, with the occasional offer of help and guidance when the establishment looked like it might need it.
Hell, they didn't even get involved in any of the various tangles with the otherside that were a fact of life here. Stating simply that the kya seemed to have the situation under control.
We get more trouble off the fucking dolphins, bloody warp diver's union.
Elliot couldn't decide if they were being laughed at or not. Zach insisted no, though Elliot was never sure whether he trusted the old Antediluvian's words. The two of them got on well enough, indeed the old man (who looked to be in his handsome twenties) seemed to genuinely cherish the young kya's visits. But Elliot couldn't shake the feeling he was holding something back.
Elliot loved the Old Quarter at night, particular on evenings like this one. The intermittent rain had turned the place into some old Noir director's vision of a dystopian future, littered with curio shop windows that gave off soft light whilst the street itself was a wash of dark shadows and bright reflections. Neon signs flickered above doorways and strings of lanterns replaced the city's normal street lighting. The major difference between this and Ichiko Square, of course, was to be found in the architecture. Where Ichiko and its environs were all sweeping terracotta eaves and coiling, brightly painted ironwork the OQ buildings had a more homely feel, like something out of a Victorian fairytale.
Hmm, except the immortals here are less precocious.
It was an odd mixture, but Elliot liked it. He suspected he might well have ended up living here, if he hadn't found employ with the Roscans. Something about the place felt like home.
Turning off Willow Street, he headed along Sundown past a couple of eateries and one of the ubiquitous book shops, coming to a halt before the narrow doorway, with its dingy stairs and candy cane poles. Blood Works was on the second floor, spilling back over the top of the book store and the coffee shop on its far side.
Elliot had questioned the choice of its proprietor in becoming a tattooist, when he first plucked up the courage to check out the recommendation he received from one of the girls at Masquerade.
Zach had shaken his head, offering a surprisingly disarming toothy grin. “Blood and art. Honestly Elliot, what more natural occupation for a vampire could there be?”
He found he was forced to concede the point. Particularly when the individual in question was as talented as Zach.
Glancing over his shoulder, he stepped in, pushing his hood back as he walked up the short corridor to the base of the stairs, ascending two at a time.
Doing a right on the first landing (which housed a tiny masseuse and a barbers – hence the ca
ndy canes) he headed up the second flight and through the beaded curtain there into Zachary's lair.
Soft music (something from the old world) came from the stereo in the main workspace, beyond a set of open double doors. The reception area was (predictably) deserted, his only company the framed photos of previous projects Zach was particularly proud of.
The smell of clove cigarettes and antiseptic wipes tugged a smile to his lips.
“Be with you in a minute.” Zach's voice from round the corner. Elliot grinned, taking the time to disrobe, placing the katana reverently on one of the chairs (this was, oddly, one of the few places it didn't seem to mind being abandoned like that) as he did a tour of the room to see if there was anything new.
The sound of footsteps made him turn round as the other man strode out, a smile of recognition lighting his beautiful eyes.
“Elliot! You're here.”
Elliot smiled, disarmed as always by this old man who wore the face of someone several years his junior. “I believe that is my name in the