Directly behind Sevinc's victim you catch a glimpse of Hauberk finishing off a second gunman, thick gristle hanging between his teeth as he jumps up and lumbers back toward you.
"Fuck, Sev," the Feral grunts, spitting out a bloody mess of flesh and cartilage. "That's a good trick. Teach me sometime?"
"I'd sooner teach a mortal," the Banu Haqim spits.
"They aren't ERT," Ward says. He's kneeling down beside one of the bodies, pawing through pockets and pouches. "Looks like mercenaries or zealots. Not cops or spooks either—wannabe vampire hunters. We might have gotten lucky." His statement is punctuated with the sound of approaching sirens. "Spoke too soon."
"We gotta rabbit!" Hauberk grunts and points at the mercs' bodies. "What about them?"
"That's Qui's job," Ward says. "If the Sheriff can't control the cops on his payroll and protect the Masquerade, then he's more useless than I thought." He shifts to look at you. "I think you have places to be, Agad the Imperishable. Don't want to be missed at your little soiree—if both you and your sire are missing, it would paint quite a pretty picture." His mouth spreads in a grin, those large, too-perfect teeth flashing in the moonlight.
"But who were they?" you ask, pointing to the bodies. "You have to tell me what's going on, or at least where I can meet up with you next."
"Look," Ward says. "I'm glad you decided to help us. I'll be in touch within the next few nights, but for now, you need to get to that exhibition. Go on, now."
When you're clear of the mortal authorities, you take closer stock of your appearance. Your formerly pristine clothing is covered with grit and torn in several places. There's not much you can do about it now, though.
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