Capita was a carnivorous city it had evolved from a few small clusters of town that had prided themselves on their relaxed, warm weather, friendly locals and root vegetables. Now, the place bragged a suburbia that rolled over hills in every direction and a rather impressive city centre if any city can be said to have a true central sector. It boasted three-million people in population, although it wasn’t New York it was almost as big. The main highways skirted the Kent river, running through half the county and finding the sea a few miles south of Capita.

Capita was semi-costal, with tourist beaches and sunshine—not a vampire’s first choice of locale, but the nightlife was active.

They say that New York is the city that never sleeps, but the truth is, most major cities stopped sleeping around the mid-nineties. I think it makes the urban life more aggressive; if you can get a cheeseburger at four A.M., you start doing things that need you to be awake at that time. Like robbing banks or working in the stock-exchange- not mutually exclusive.

Since the eighties, life as a vampire had become easier.

I came from a time when neighbours had to be shooed out with a stick or they got the impression that I was available to chat during the day. Now, I could live in a rich condo apartment on the edge of a stinking river—filled with rusting shopping trolleys and used Styrofoam cups—and never even see the neighbours, nor have to answer for late-nights and mass orgies. It was a wonderful time to be undead.

The world had become tolerant, and much of that was due to the subtle influences of the filthy rich undead—we, most likely to have an orgy at four A.M. and need sixteen cheeseburgers afterwards.

Regardless, Capita was everything that catered to our kind; prime real-estate, is the term. It had been a compromise between two warring capitals, and the result was a carnivorous town-eating offspring.

The locals were artistically and sexually experimental—I think the gay community was one of the most out-spoken in the country—and it lived off tourism to the relatively clean beaches. A university specialising in marine biology and a thriving coffee couture culture. Capita had it going on. I had been only once or twice; despite my wealth and influence in human circles, travelling into another vampire’s territory was not done lightly and the Spider had a reputation. We didn’t have a rolodex with each other’s phone numbers in it that we rang when we decided to travel.

There was a special chatroom now.

Temperatures were humane, which was a nice change from the freezing cold that Jarlsberg reached in winter.

Dante had not been exaggerating how much time he needed out of me.

I had just less than three days to get my shit in order before he was due to attend a large conference in one of Capita’s six-star hotels; all of his retinue would be needed to attend. It was the sort of party that Caine had avoided. A lot of posturing and important posing. I could count the number of six-star hotels I’d been in. The word decedent came to mind.

One member of the Spider’s donors was a secretary, and I received no less than eighteen phone calls from James—and enough emailed schedules that I had to start using my day-planner. Normally I was busy enough with my own schedules; but now I had to take on Dante’s social itinerary.

Three days was not a lot of time to get my businesses in order. I faked the death of my most public identity, Timothy Garland, and I began to expand two of my entertainment businesses to Capita. Establishing a new head office in the leading city was easy enough. In a city the size of Capita there were plenty of office buildings for rent.

I let a few of my less public personalities lose their fortunes in the stock market, wincing at what this did to those bank-balances.

But perhaps the biggest problem I had was with the Dawn-lights Circus, my harem of donors. Most of the performers had enjoyed the permanent carnival and performance centre I ran in Jarlsberg. Moving to Capita suddenly after I went away for a weeklong sabbatical seemed, in many opinions, a little extreme.

I did not mind my donors knowing I was a vampire, but for the most they were in the dark about the rest of vampire society. As far as some of them knew, I was the only one in the world. They were families and children I had known since their birth—my travelling harem of donors, loyal and talented performers in most cases. Explanations were due and these were not explanations that the men were expecting.

I contacted a company in Capita, spread the right amount of money around their heads and started the right negotiations to begin setting up a new, permanent circus and performance ring in the city. I was rushed for time, and had to get a few of the more willing donors to take on much of the moving.

I had no doubt that some of my donors would refuse to move. It was a whole host of conversations I was not prepared for. Most wanted answers and long thoughtful discussions. I had a timeline and a straight plan of approach. Those that couldn’t handle it would be left behind. I couldn’t bring much more than my personal possessions from Jarlsberg- it was against vampire traditions and I didn’t need to get in a territorial pissing match with the Mage.

By the night of the conference I had been back and forth almost sixteen times. If I was mortal, I am sure the jetlag would have been incredible. Instead I was just tired—unlike James, the Spider’s donor, who seemed utterly exhausted as he rattled off the meeting schedules for the next few weeks over the phone.

Dante kept a very busy schedule. He also had a reasonably visible mortal persona. Luckily, I did not need to pay attention to his mortal persona, but I had completely underestimated the number of odd creatures in the city.

“Fairies don’t like mentions of old mythologies or stories you might have heard, and don’t drink their blood under any circumstances. That goes for the Kami, too.”

He had been giving me dot points for the better part of an hour, and his voice sounded raw.

He would make a good vampire. I’d thought it a few phone calls ago, but not when he’d woken me at nine-AM that morning.

“Fairy blood bad—got it—no asking about ancient stories, no touching the Kami without permission, no pissing off the werewolves, no mention of other weird creatures—and no breathing.”

James laughed, “Well, you can breathe, but I just wouldn’t do it loudly. Mr. Broderick had some fairy blood two years ago. We found him two weeks later talking in Spanish about the economy to a brick wall.”

I suppressed a snort, “Okay, so definitely no drinking from the fairies.”

The pilot mumbled over the intercom, a sign that I was about to land again.

I rubbed my eyes, “Alright, I have the address. Tell Dante that I will meet him there in thirty minutes.”

“Good. Do you need anything else, Mr. False?”

I looked at my nails, musing that I needed to get them manicured again, “No, thank you, James. If I had known how busy he would be keeping me, I might have gone to Germany instead.”

James laughed, “Mr Randall said he is thankful for the effort you are making.”

I smiled, but I was not joking. At this rate, the next fifty years would just melt by.

That was a lot of effort for someone as lazy as I.

In my panic at moving to Capita, I had not, to my irritation, had a chance to speak with the Investigator. I wanted a chance to find out what I could about the King’s death. I put my phone back on the charger and expertly typed in a reminder to call the Investigator. I might have struggled to adapt to some technologies, but I was getting pretty good with my tablet and phone’s calendars.

It took a lot of effort to cut a vampire’s head off; we didn’t tend to stand still for the act. Caine had been strong. So, what had subdued him, making no sound, and caused the roof to cave in? It had to be something heavy—something big, perhaps? Nothing human. Another vampire? But who and why?

I was not acting as entertainer tonight; I had been assured that I was there to make a show of vampiric power, nothing more.

I dressed in a well-cut Armani tuxedo; it was red and black—harsh contrasts on another person, but I had the slim body and feminine tilt to make it sexy.

I had been told that the Spider would be in leathers, so I donned a few heavy rings, signets and what amounted to a metal claw on my left index finger. I brushed my hair down, fed early and touched a little mascara to my eyes to give them a stronger outline.

With the usual lengthening of my chin, thinning of my lips, and squaring of my hips, I was every gothic girl’s wet dream. My hair had taken more work.

I could not straighten it because my iron was still in one of my suitcases—which was God knows where. Instead, I left my hair around my shoulders and then slapped a black fedora on, running a bloodied ribbon around its edge.

I looked very vampiric. And so cliché it made me winced.

Well, I had a reputation to make, and I would not get in the door wearing my usual outfits, this was the best I could do. Sexy goth it was.

James had arranged a taxi when I pushed through the airport, barely garnering more than a couple of glances; they just thought that I was the smartly dressed Goth-boy that I appeared to be. It was vaguely unnerving to be all dressed up and not making a fool of myself.

A few of my donors—the ones that usually stayed with me—had come during the day and were busy arranging my new apartment and unpacking all our belongings. I would have hired someone to do it, but again, time.

The taxi had no trouble getting to the hotel where the conference was being held and I was immediately struck by the wealth poured into the place. This was no pale imitation of a grandiose locale. The Council meeting should have been here.

A bellhop opened my door and I pulled my hat on, stepping out after paying the driver.

Right down to the uniforms of the employees, everything was neat, clean, and modern.

This was the Toriko; I was impressed. Run by an old Japanese family business.

The concrete sidewalk had been replaced with marble, a clean black glassy marble that made my loafers click neatly as I strode confidently to the concierge. The doors were glass with gold rims; the lights were soft and easy on the eyes; the interior was also marble, though with silver patterns licking the edges of tiles.

A large Leonid Afremov impression—recreations of a rather remarkable standard to my expert eye—took up the entire wall behind the concierge’s desk.

The reception hosted a small cafe, and the bellhop hovered around me as I walked, silent and anticipating that I was not here for a room, but knowing I was still important. Plush chairs, where a pair of formally dressed woman sat, took up one corner of the lounge.

The concierge was a long, open desk with four people behind it, two who seemed busy; the other two jumped as I approached.

“The Conference on the third floor,” I produced my invitation, a thin rectangular card.

There was a brief scramble as the woman got to me first.