"Good morning, Anderson," Lauren greeted, every word tinged with the air of authority befitting her position as Captain. Anderson's voice on the other end crackled with anticipation, "We, at Apex, have sent over a shipment of 100 boxes, each containing bottles of pepper spray for the community under your watch."
Lauren's acknowledgement was immediate, though she couldn't resist injecting a note of skepticism into her response. "That's thoughtful, but you do know that pepper sprays are futile against vampires," she murmured, her voice lowered to a hushed tone to maintain the confidentiality of their conversation.
In a tone that bordered on clandestine, Anderson elaborated, "Exactly why we've laced it with a highly concentrated vervain. Every bottle conceals this powerful compound, with a hint of pepper to keep the disguise intact. And, of course, the community remains oblivious to this essential detail," he emphasized, underscoring the covert nature of the endeavor.
Pleased by this unexpected turn, Lauren's voice resonated with genuine gratitude as she expressed her thanks, "That's excellent news. Thank you very much," her sincerity evident in every inflection.
Before the conversation concluded, Anderson smoothly interjected, "Don't mention it. You will be coming to the security award night, right?"
Lauren concurred without hesitation, affirming, "Yes, I will be there. See you then," before terminating the call.
Meanwhile.....
As soon as Damien crossed the threshold of his office, he was met by his secretary, who promptly delivered a mail that had arrived in his absence and swiftly departed. Dropping the envelope on his desk, she vanished, leaving him to confront the solitary contents of the room.
With a heavy heart, Damien stood in a contemplative silence, his hands buried deep within the pockets of his trousers, his gaze fixed upon the vista of the bustling cityscape that unfolded beyond the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows of his office.
The weight of yesterday's exchange with Lauren, as they parted ways at his home, settled upon him like a burden too heavy to bear. His reasoning at the time had seemed sound, justifiable even, but in that moment of solitude, he couldn't deny the gnawing sense of emptiness and regret that now swept over him.
As he loosened his tie, seeking a fleeting sense of liberation, he settled behind his imposing mahogany desk, retrieving a cigar from a small compartment in its polished surface, the flicker of the igniting flame painting a brief interlude of warmth amid the surrounding air of desolation.
At length, he turned his attention to the solitary envelope that lay unassuming before him, its contents whispering of the promise of an evening yet to come—a prestigious gala and award night. With a somber deliberation, he set the invitation aside.
In a moment of quiet contemplation, tendrils of smoke swirled upwards as Damien raised his phone to place a call, only to be interrupted by the unanticipated entry of Derek, Damon, and Venessa, his inner circle of confidants.
Venessa's concern, expressed with unfeigned candor, sought to pierce the heavy silence that enveloped Damien. "You seem... different. Is everything alright?" she inquired, her genuine worry woven into every syllable, although her query was met with an unwavering silence that echoed through the room.
Undeterred, Venessa approached Damien's desk, dropping upon its surface a substantial brown envelope.
Venessa laid bare the scant information she had unearthed about the elusive Vladimir Nabokov.
"Here, I've compiled everything I've managed to gather. It's not much, considering he's practically a ghost, but it's a start," she explained, veiling her narrative in a shroud of mystery as she retreated to the mini bar, procuring a bottle of bourbon to punctuate the gravity of this revelation.
As Damien perused the files with a keen eye, his curiosity piqued, prompting him to voice his perplexity. "What do you mean he's a tribrid?" he queried, the weight of this revelation looming over the room like an unspoken challenge.
Venessa recounted what she had unearthed. "According to the ancient records I managed to go through, Vladimir Nabokov began as a formidable sorcerer, delving into the forbidden arts , and earning a fearsome reputation as a necromancer—a wielder of dark, ancient magic. Legends swirl of his near-omnipotence, marking him as one of the most powerful sorcerers honed by centuries past."
Pausing for a moment, Venessa continued, her voice tinged with an unsettling note of gravity, "It was purported that he transitioned into a vampire, whether through a biting or through his own malevolent machinations remains shrouded in ambiguity. The annals of time affixed yet another mantle upon him, as he emerged as a shape-shifter, culminating in a trinity of potent abilities, a sorcerer, a vampire, and a shape-shifter."
Damon's wry observation punctuated the heavy silence that filled the room. "Fighting an adversary gifted with the ability to shroud himself in ever-changing visages is a indeed a daunting challenge," he remarked, his voice bearing the weight of unspoken concern.
Derek, ever the pragmatist, cast an ominous shadow over the conversation with his measured reasoning. "This presents a significant threat. His familiarity with our identities, perhaps even the knowledge of our dwellings, could render an unforeseen attack tomorrow an insidious prospect," he articulated, underscoring the clandestine perils that loomed on the horizon.
" It is also etched in the records that Vladimir Nabokov suffered the grievous torment of losing a child, consumed by the flames of a fire instigated by the witche council in their attempt to eradicate him. One of the witches present during this tragic episode was none other than the great-grandmother of the Benneth lineage" she revealed, her voice tinged with an unsettling mix of trepidation.
As Damien grappled with the weight of their shared revelations, a solemn tremor reverberated in Venessa's voice.
"I have a premonition that something evil is on the horizon, and it seems as though the prophecy is unfurling right before our very eyes," she declared, her words laden with a sense of impending dread.