WHO: Elias Reiter and an NPC.
WHAT: What the hell was Reiter doing when he was gone for over a month? HERE, HAVE A BRIEF GLIMPSE.
WHEN: About a week ago.
WHERE: A fire escape in Denver.
STATUS/RATING: Complete narrative/PG-13 for some language/violence.

Reiter did not often contact his humans personally. He sent his associates, or lower members of the Coven, to call on them, convey whatever message needed carrying. But his usual delegates had proved less than successful in the past weeks, and this was a matter of some importance: Nadine provided a vital economic outlet for the Archai, and moreover, had earned a place of loyalty within the Coven. There were certain privileges that came with the responsibilities of loyalty, and Reiter did not renege on his oaths. You were protected in the Coven until Reiter deemed otherwise. He would not have some half-skilled fool changing the order of things. Mr. Hanson was an acquaintance from the days before Others had made their public debut, a man who had required protection from the lesser businessmen of the area – those with mob ties, who felt their fingers belonged in every pie. Mr. Hanson had been required to pay protection fees he could not afford: they had put a knife to his wife's throat. They knew, as Reiter knew, that he was useful, his old underworld contacts liable to loosen their tongues around the unassuming, mousy family man. Reiter's associates had initiated contact; Hanson was asked to pay no tithes, no tribute to his new keepers. They merely asked he give them what they wanted when they wanted: never money, never anything to put his family in danger. Reiter was no monster, after all. Not that Hanson knew that. The Hansons lived in a dingy apartment complex outside Aurora, five floors up. Reiter climbed their fire escape silently, past winter plants in their complacent colored pots, past a dog with its face buried in its bowl, past a young girl staring wistfully into the cold air. She did not see him, because he did not want her to, just as the dog did not bark, because Reiter did not wish to be noticed. When he reached the Hansons' window, glowing merrily from inside, Reiter lit a cigarette, and waited. It was some time before Hanson came to the window. Reiter's charm seemed to have dimmed in the years they had been out of contact, but it wasn't all gone: the short man came to the glass, compelled, drawn, and carefully slid it open. Reiter waited. Hanson looked out, moved the pale curtains aside, stepped out onto the balcony rubbing his arms and looking over the edge of the fire escape. “Good evening, Mr. Hanson,” Reiter said. The man leapt back against the ascending stairs. “Jesus, what the fuck – Mr. Reiter? How the hell did you get here?” “I took the stairs,” Reiter said simply, taking a pull off his cigarette. Hanson clutched at his chest like he was thirty years older than his still-young 40 – comparatively young, anyway. Inside the apartment, Reiter heard the tell-tale screeching of children, a baby gurgling somewhere under the cautious supervision of Hanson's diminutive wife. Reiter remembered her: small, quiet, firm. Her breasts were magnificent, of which he had duly informed Hanson, to make the man aware how little Reiter valued their familial ties. He was a traditional man, power-wise: it was not about taking what he wanted, so much as making people aware that he could. The younger man rubbed at a stitch dramatically, eyeing Reiter up and down with the recklessness only acquired from months of radio silence with your less-than-legal employer. Reiter smoked casually, flicked ash away with a creak of worn leather gloves. He did not speak, did not look into Hanson's apartment. The man grew fidgety next to him; Reiter could smell the fear rolling off of him in waves. After several minutes, Hanson broke the silence, his voice a frantic whisper. “What do you want? What are you doing here – uh. Sir.” Reiter took a purposefully long drag off his cigarette (Turkish and foul-smelling; they seemed to make much more of an impression than his usual hand-rolled smokes), glanced at it briefly before tossing it onto the fire escape and grinding it under his heel. “Don't be stupid, Mr. Hanson. You're an informant. What do you think I want?” Hanson swallowed loudly. “In-Information?” “Information. Yes.” Reiter adjusted his gloves, never giving Hanson the benefit of looking down at him. The vampire was imposing in all respects: both by nature of his vampirism and in general physicality – taller, broader, more muscled than his withering, middle-aged companion. Reiter wore it well, aware of the difference between them without flaunting it. It made his actions that much more terrifying, a vast sea at any moment ready to break into storm. “You're aware one of my people was attacked recently.” “I don't know anything about that,” Hanson said immediately. Reiter could smell the sweat on him, even at this temperature. The man's breath came out in harried puffs of white, quicker now that Reiter's hands weren't occupied with the cigarette. “I don't, honestly, Mr. Reiter. I didn't hear anything until after it happened.” Reiter glanced over Hanson's head as one of his children – a girl, three years old – drifted by with a rolling wooden duck on a string. Hanson abruptly whipped around and shut the window behind him. The vampire said nothing. Hanson watched him, his pale eyes wide in fear and anticipation – of what, he couldn't say, but it was rarely anything good when Reiter appeared without warning. Reiter knew this. It was the way of things: good things came during the day, on his human's conditions. The other things came when Reiter dictated the terms – in the cold places, the dark places, where human nature got the best of them. Where he could smell their terror, like sweat and the thick, heady odor of roasting meat. There was a knock at the window, and Hanson nearly tripped over himself bending down to open it. His miniature wife leaned out, her magnificent breasts just barely visible in the top of her blouse. “What's the matter, honey? It's cold, come inside.” Hanson gestured vaguely behind him, and Reiter melted into the shadows. The wife glanced where Hanson pointed, and on turning round, Hanson understood her look of confusion. “Just – getting some air, honey,” he said uncertainly. “I'll be right in.” His wife gave him a dubious look under her heavy brows, and slipped back inside. “She's gotten prettier,” Reiter said calmly, and Hanson jumped again. “I'd—we're. We're happy,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. Reiter reached inside his jacket and pulled out another cigarette. Hanson's voice gained urgency. “Really, sir, I don't know anything about the Russo girl, I –” Reiter's hand paused in bringing the match to the cigarette, and Hanson knew he had misspoke. “I never told you her name, Hanson.” “I don't—I mean, that is, I—” “I'll ask you once more, Hanson, and then you will tell me. What do you know?” “I don't! I don't know anything! Please, I just want to go back in to my family, I just—” Hanson's feet were abruptly dangling off the edge of the fire escape, one of Reiter's gloved hands clamped around his throat. The man fought, choking in the vampire's easily maintained grip, kicking vainly at the freezing air beneath him. Reiter took a short tug on his cigarette. “You cannot scream,” he said simply. “Don't waste your breath trying. Tell me what I need to know.” Words were a struggle, coming out in brief, strangled bursts. “I don't—know—” Reiter blew out a cloud of perfumed smoke. “I don't believe you.” “Let me go, please let me—go—” “That would be counterproductive to dangling you over the edge, Hanson. Are you simple?” Hanson gurgled, his lips turning a sickening shade of purple. His eyes rolled like a frightened horse, locked in its stable as the eaves caught fire. Reiter examined him briefly – too fat to eat with any pleasure – and lifted him back onto the fire escape, dropping him in a heap at the dead man's immaculately shined shoes. Reiter smoked; Hanson spit up onto the rusty grate. Reiter was patient. He finished his cigarette while Hanson tried to cough up his innards, weeping and hacking piteously. It took several long minutes for him to speak again, in a harsh croaking wail. No better than a scared dog. “I don't know anything. I heard afterwards some Coven member'd been hit but I don't—I don't know who or why. I thought — Christ, Reiter, I thought it was just some goddamn anti-Other thing!” “Did you.” “What else was I supposed to think?!” Reiter glanced down at the man at this feet, and Hanson shrunk away. “You will listen more carefully from now on, Mr. Hanson.” It took Hanson several long, agonizing minutes to rise to his feet, those thirty extra years he had felt in his chest weighing him down with each fresh bruise on his neck. He spluttered and coughed up apologies, promises, pleas to leave his family out of it, oaths to report anything and everything he heard. All that remained of Reiter was a foul-smelling cigarette butt, still rolling into place on the grate.