Hard Number - Chapter One

A Con Man in Boston (NSFW)

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September 7, 1893

Gas lamps had already made his life more difficult, so when Boston replaced them with electric ones, Clinton Galloway didn’t figure much else would change. He’d already learned the new shadows in a familiar town and though this meant the bustle extended past sunset, he had looked for the positives. This meant more con targets and, of course, more opportunities to feed.

As the nineteenth century wound to a close, though, lights found their way into more places than streetlamps. Bright theaters dotted the downtown area, with crowds of humans staying out and awake longer than they had in most of his two-and-a-half centuries. Times were changing, though they seemed to have hit a breakneck pace in the years past the Civil War.

Clinton mused on this while walking down Washington Street, looking like a well-dressed, but unassuming, man in a vest with a long coat over his clothing. The fashions had changed, but so had hats, and the derby on his head made it easy to hide his eyes when he tilted the brim. Seeing them wouldn’t have made anyone aware that monsters walked among them, but at this rate, masking the years in his eyes had become difficult.

You’re losing yourself inside your own head again, he thought, crossing the street after a horse-drawn carriage had passed. What brought him so close to downtown had more to do with work than with leisure and nothing at all to do with sating any need to eat. One of the new cafes which had opened close to the Boston Music Hall became the place where he conducted his less-shady affairs.

The pubs still sufficed for the rest.

She’d be waiting there, though, and he didn’t blame such a woman of means for not wanting to be in the southern part of town at this hour. It had been why he suggested it, and her agreement had sealed the deal. Twenty dollars had been adequate for a deposit, but Clinton eagerly awaited the other eighty, quickening his pace when the café came into view. It passed out of view when a streetcar sped down the road, but as it emerged again, Clinton saw her sitting there.

In Europe, she might have been able to convince somebody she was a baroness. Gretchen Sedgwick—God, even your name is pretentious, lady—wouldn’t have blended in a crowd between the ostentatious hat and the layers of lace and satin which made up her dress. That was often the point for ladies of her standing; one of the Boston Brahmin families which made up old money in Massachusetts.

Clinton wondered what his family might have become had they not burned his mother as a witch.

He pushed open the door to the café and quickly weaved through the tables, dodging a server along the way, until he reached Gretchen. She tilted her head to catch sight of him past the shock of red hair peeking out of her hat, sweeping down to cover half her face. A cup of coffee and a half-finished piece of lemon torte sat on the table. Ignoring both, she also chose not to react when he took the empty chair across from her.

“Did you find it?” she asked, lifting a napkin to pat the corner of her mouth.

“It didn’t take long. He liked to flash it around,” Clinton said. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other nonchalantly. “Thank you for the advice that he had a weakness for gambling.”

“You got it by playing cards?”

“Playing cards and keeping him lubricated. I talked him into the bet when he couldn’t back out.”

She smirked, giving the first indication of any emotion. As she finally made eye contact with Clinton, her brown eyes sparkled with barely contained mirth. “Let me see the prize, then. I assume you’d like to be paid. Unless Jonathan paid you well enough for your trouble.”

“Not nearly enough. He’s a rowdy drunk.” Clinton slid a hand into his coat, reaching for the inner pocket. “As it was, I only asked for a hundred as a favor for your father.”

“Was worth asking.” Gretchen set the napkin down beside her plate. While lifting her cup to her lips, she turned impassive again, but that lasted only until Clinton produced the small jeweler’s box from hiding. She focused on it in anticipation and smiled broader at it when Clinton placed it on the table. Once he’d slid it closer to her, Gretchen immediately picked it up and opened it.

Her eyes widened when she saw the ring.

“Oh, this is perfect,” she said, plucking an impressive sapphire from inside. Set in gold with two diamonds flanking either side, it had ornamental carvings, making certain to tell the beholder it had been expensive. Gretchen lifted it close to examine it. “His wench would’ve adored it, gaudy as it is.”

“Do you feel vindicated now?” Clinton asked.

“No. But I relish knowing that he’ll have to spend more on the next ring.” Gretchen slipped it on her finger. Despite having just labeled the ring ‘gaudy,’ she extended her arm to admire how it looked. “If only I could keep it. I’d savor him seething the next time he had to call upon my father to draw up a contract.”

“Yes, but the point of asking me to—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I’m simply saying.” Gretchen reluctantly slid the ring back off and placed it back in the box. “Do you know a seller? It would be enough to buy myself something to wear for his next visit.”

I’ll never understand rich women. Clinton sighed and shrugged, pausing in thought. “I know someone who might pawn it without him knowing, but he’d ask a fee for his services.”

“Whatever. Drop the money at my father’s office and mark the envelope for me. Father will ensure I receive it.” She reached beside her for purse, opening the clasp with her gloved hand. Handing a few crisp bills to Clinton, Gretchen looked him in the eyes and managed a polite smile. “You don’t disappoint, Mr. Galloway. We’ll be sure to call upon you again if the need arises.”

Clinton took the money from her hand, pocketing it without counting it. Yes, be sure to call upon me the next time you’re jilted, Madame, he thought, tipping his hat both in recognition of that and the way she rose to leave the café. Without another word exchanged, Gretchen left her cup half-emptied and the lemon torte with a few tantalizing bites left in it.

Not for the first time, Clinton wished he could taste modern food.

The coffee he could indulge in, but he pocketed the ring and made sure Gretchen had paid before excusing himself. As he left, he watched as she disappeared into her carriage, the door shutting with a soft thud and the horses whinnying as they started to move. Adjusting his hat, Clinton walked toward the Music Hall, hoping to find transport to the south side. What he really wanted, more than coffee, was something alcoholic to drink.

He hired an open carriage from the Music Hall, settling in once they’d embarked with silent gratitude that the driver chose not to talk. Only then did he take the money out of his pocket, counting it to find an extra twenty dollars slipped in with the other eighty. For that, he thought, Gretchen could have bought herself an impressive ring, but even he understood the principle of the matter. He’d wound up earning fifty while gambling with Jonathan Lyman.

One hundred seventy dollars. For that, he didn’t have to take another job for the rest of the month.

A small smile, like the one Gretchen Sedgwick had flashed, graced his lips. Clinton had very few immortal acquaintances apart from the one who had made him. And of those, none understood the job he had chosen. A common, urban criminal. With eternity in front of him, he could have walked so many other paths, but this had been the only one that resonated. It had started with a pirate boat and led him on a two-century journey here.

Clinton continued to let his thoughts wander until they reached the south side. After directing the driver closer to the Bay, they stopped within walking distance to a familiar pub. He paid the driver for his time, but commanded the man to look him in the eyes as money exchanged hands.

“You came here to drop someone off,” Clinton said. “But by the time you get back, you’ll forget who.”

The driver nodded, his pupils dilating to show Clinton the suggestion had taken hold. As the carriage drove off, Clinton walked toward the pub.

Now, Clinton thought, to see about that drink.

Walking inside, he glanced at the men gathered along the counter, giving a nod to a group who nodded first in unspoken acknowledgment. He knew none of them by name, but their hardened looks and Irish accents had become comfortable and familiar. If he had a home, this came the closest to it. The bartender smiled when he saw Clinton, and this time he smiled back genuinely.

“Should have just had the glass of gin waiting,” he said as Clinton sat at the counter. “Knew you’d be here when you were done.”

Charles Diaz—or Chaz, as Clinton knew him—didn’t have to hide much about who he was. Even being the same age as Clinton, within a decade or two, Chaz still had a heartbeat and breathed for more than just the need to speak. The only time his condition became clear was when Chaz needed to take in energy, and even then, his prey wouldn’t even remember the ethereal glow of blue eyes. His voice wouldn’t register as suspicious. And no one knew well enough to connect it with the Bay.

“I like you to wait for me to show up, though,” Clinton said. While he tried not to admire the other man openly, it was impossible not to appreciate the slight swarth of his skin and the dark color of his hair. A contrast to the paler patrons, Chaz still became a chameleon of sorts, helping him blend. He wore the same clothing as the other men, with a flat American accent adopted when they’d settled in Boston. Chaz had been the pirate who had first lured Clinton away from his home colony.

Since then, they’d been inseparable.

Chaz nodded, shooting a wink when sure the other patrons weren’t watching. He went to fetch Clinton’s drink, leaving him alone with his thoughts for a few minutes, and returning at the point that the man seated beside Clinton got up to leave. Tossing a few coins onto the bar, he gave Chaz and Clinton a small, private space for them to settle into.

“How much longer until you close?” Clinton asked, lifting the glass of gin to his mouth for a sip.

“Another couple of hours. Why?”

“Because I have a business proposition.” Clinton paused. He lowered his voice. “Madame Sedgwick wants us to sell the ring I won.”

Chaz rolled his eyes. “Of course she does. I told you; this is just entertainment for her.”

“Not concerned about that.” Clinton shrugged. “We get to keep a seller’s fee and drop off the rest at her father’s office in Cambridge. Thought you might tell me how much we could get for it.”

Nodding, Chaz bit his lip in thought, looking away for a moment. “If it’s the one you showed me a couple days ago, I’d say it depends. Are we talking regular market or the special one?”

“Whichever one might get us more.” He raised an eyebrow. “You think the ring might be valuable there?”

“Might be. I’ll look at it again.” Chaz focused on the rest of the room. “Why don’t you wait upstairs for me? I’ll be up when I close shop and you can take some time to relax.” When he looked back at Clinton, his lips spread in a sly grin. “Just don’t touch the other liquor until I get there.”

Clinton smiled knowingly. With a nod, he polished off the rest of his gin, stepping down from the bar stool after he’d finished and placing a few coins on the counter, too. Making a show of leaving, he waited an extra moment to make sure nobody followed him out of the pub. Once he knew he was alone, he stepped into the alley beside the bar, using the fire escape to ascend to the second floor.

Chaz always kept his window open. Anyone foolish enough to rob him wouldn’t do it a second time, which made it easier for Clinton to sneak in whenever he needed to. Or wanted to, he thought, shutting the window behind him after settling both feet onto the floor. He walked out of Chaz’s bedroom, into the main living area, and freed the money and the ring from his coat before stripping it off.

The money, he pocketed. The ring, though, he held and admired while sitting on the couch. He removed it from the box and turned it around in his fingers like he had when Jonathan Lyman had offered it to him. Clinton knew what the real deal looked like; these were magnificent diamonds and a decent sapphire. Lyman had sworn to him it was worth the money he owed and more, which made Clinton wonder where he’d gotten it.

He put it back into the box and stood, opening the liquor cabinet and seeing the bottle he wasn’t allowed to touch yet. Behave yourself, he thought, reaching for the gin instead and pouring a splash in a glass Chaz kept near the cabinet. Chaz had decorated the small apartment with a variety of things he’d collected through his dealings with tavern patrons. Books from authors, both local and foreign. Dime novels, and penny dreadfuls from London. Clinton took one down from the shelf and read it to occupy the time.

The door opened after Clinton had read his third story and was well into a second glass of gin. He had since brought the bottle over to the couch and liberated several of the stories in case the bar’s patrons kept Chaz busy. This amused his friend, seeing Clinton reclined with his shoes off, like he’d made himself at home. “I see you found the new ones,” he said, nodding at the pamphlets.

“I like the mysteries,” Clinton said, finishing the page he’d been reading and setting it aside. He admired Chaz as he walked a bag from the front door to the kitchen. “Better than the ones about the wolf creatures and monsters.”

“Too close to home.” Chaz said, setting the bag on a table. He freed a loaf of bread from inside, as well as a piece of cheese and a jar of preserves. While Chaz prepared a snack, Clinton walked to the kitchen and peeked inside at the rest of the bag’s contents. Butter, potatoes, and dried meat made up the rest of the contents. Probably ham, Clinton assumed.

Chaz swatted him away. “Torturing yourself?” he asked, giving him a stern, but playful, look. When Clinton retreated, Chaz opened the jar of preserves. “I’ll let you lick what’s left on the knife.”

“Maybe.” Clinton thrust his hands in his pockets, drifting closer to the wall. As he leaned against it, Chaz cut into the bread. “The world’s changing. I swear, people are coming up with more and more things that make me wonder what surviving’s going to look like.”

“What do you mean?”

“Met the client at the café and she was eating a tart. There’s more stuff like that available. More places for them to be out for much later and all.” He frowned. “You asked about those stories? I don’t like them because we’ve stopped being shadow creatures and started becoming entertainment.”

“You’re worried we’re going to get spotted easier this way?” Chaz shot a look over his shoulder. Clinton nodded and Chaz focused on slicing pieces of cheese off the wedge for a moment. “I’d always wondered when that might happen. It’s felt inevitable, even before those stories started calling you a vampire.”

“That word’s still strange to me. My maker taught me to use the word revenant.”

“Times change. I like a curious human better than a paranoid one.” He finished spreading preserves on the bread, then turned and offered the jam-stained knife. “I also think you forget you weren’t always named Clinton. You got used to that. You’ll get used to being a fictional monster, too.”

Clinton rolled his eyes but took the knife, anyway. As his tongue flicked across the metal, taking a sampling first to make sure it wouldn’t make him ill, Clinton followed Chaz back into the living room. The jam tasted good. He had to admit that. And even if he couldn’t enjoy it all, human creativity had become focused on far more pleasurable things lately.

“Just realize I’m going to hold it against you if some ‘curious’ human gets the better of us,” Clinton said.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Chaz sat on the couch. He patted the seat beside him and as Clinton lowered beside him, Chaz took the knife from his hand. At first, Clinton looked confused. But as Chaz slid his finger along the blade, creating a superficial cut, he offered what became blood-tinged jam to his friend.

“Go on ahead,” Chaz said. “My meal isn’t going anywhere.”

Clinton looked from Chaz’s eyes to the dark smear being presented. He took Chaz’s hand in his, and as he brought the finger to his mouth, he pursed his lips around it and suckled suggestively. The way Chaz tensed showed this had been his intention, as did the way he groaned when Clinton continued to suck what he could from the cut. “See?” Chaz whispered. “It isn’t all bad, is it?”

With a hum, Clinton kept lavishing on the finger, withdrawing his lips only to look Chaz in the eyes. As Chaz pulled him close, he leaned against the arm of the couch, sprawling out and letting Clinton settle on top. Clinton hovered over him at first. It didn’t take long, though, for him to lower his lips in search of Chaz’s until they met in a kiss.

Chaz moaned into the kiss. Clinton felt Chaz’s hands run along his back until they settled on his hips and pulled them closer. With a chuckle, Clinton adjusted his weight until he felt their cocks touch. “You’re in a mood tonight,” Clinton said.

“And you aren’t?” Chaz asked, countering. He demanded another kiss, shifting his hips to create friction between them. “Come on, let’s blow off steam. We’ll both feel better afterward.”

“If you insist.”

While their mouths remained tangled and tongues danced, their bodies ground together, both cocks turning harder. As Clinton kissed down Chaz’s neck, he let himself graze the skin with one of his sharp teeth. After a quick suckle on that wound, too, he continued lowering.

Chaz helped him undo the buttons of his shirt; the clasp of his trousers. Once he’d freed his erection, he let Clinton take him in his mouth, his back arching into the attention and hands settling on Clinton’s head. “You’d better not stop,” he said, undulating harder into Clinton’s mouth. “I’ll tell you when to stop and fuck me properly.”

All Clinton could do was grin. Chaz’s cock filled his mouth, touching the back of his throat each time Clinton slid his lips along the shaft. The longer he worked, the more they both became painfully hard, until Clinton freed his cock to touch himself. Chaz begged him to keep going, his hands on Clinton’s head and hips thrusting into each taunting suckle.

“Yes,” Chaz said. He whimpered and gasped. “Yes, oh God, yes, right to there. Yes, Clinton, you’d better fuck me now.” While Clinton withdrew, he pushed his trousers further past his hips, kicking them off while Clinton removed his as well. Clinton licked Chaz’s opening and spat on his own cock before positioning himself. And just like Clinton knew he liked it, he pushed into Chaz without hesitation.

Chaz clenched with the pain and moaned in delight over it. It took a moment for him to relax enough for Clinton to move, but once he could, Clinton relished how Chaz felt. He was warm and inviting; the first man he’d ever been able to fuck. The one who’d proven to him he liked men and liked them a lot. Chaz relished each subsequent conquest as much as Clinton did, often repeating that to Clinton afterward.

“You enjoyed him, didn’t you? Just remember who brought you to that paradise first.”

Clinton groaned, with climax encroaching upon him. They had never used the word ‘love’ with each other, and Clinton chose not to dwell on that; love felt like a concept he’d never grasp. Sex, he understood. The heat and movement of two bodies. The only hunger that mirrored bloodlust and only relief that resembled feeding. His hips snapped, and a hand reached between them, running up and down Chaz’s shaft to bring him to the finish as well. When Chaz cried out, Clinton felt his eyes roll back.

His fangs lowered as he came. And as Chaz came, Clinton bit into his neck.

As lovely as the preserves had been, this was his ambrosia. The taste of blood, tainted with lust, made it so much better to drink. He took two mouthfuls and shut the wounds by licking them, still feeling his cock pulse inside Chaz. It took a while for him to find himself enough to withdraw and walk to the bathroom to clean himself up.

When he returned, he saw Chaz still mostly naked, eating his snack on the couch.

Clinton chuckled. Chaz looked pleased with himself and more amiable toward discussion, making room for him again and pivoting to face Clinton. “Alright, so the ring,” he said. “Let me see it and I’ll figure out what we’re doing to fence it.”

Nodding, Clinton plucked the ring from the table and passed it to Chaz, who dusted off his hands and set aside his food before taking the box. He opened it and examined it, and while he did, Clinton reached on Chaz’s plate for another small sampling of the jam.

“Yeah, I think the black market might get us a few extra dollars,” Chaz finally said. “The gem looks real, and I think I know of a witch looking for one of these.”

“I enjoy pocketing extra money,” Clinton said, smacking his lips while removing his finger. The taste of blackberry and Chaz’s blood lingered in his throat, adding to the sated and content feeling engulfing him. “Give me what you think some rich girl’s father’s going to want and we’ll split the rest.”

“Fair enough. How long do I have?”

“Give it three days.” Clinton grinned. “Make sure we get the best price for it. I’ll drop off their cut then and see what happens next.”