One of the good things of playing his own underling was that Jack always had his ear to the street and a front row ticket for gossip.
Grinning against the rim of his cup, Jack managed a small laugh before taking a sip. “It aint the profit he’s worried ‘bout,” he assured the girl. It was right; thievery still went on and the Dodger still got his dues. Those that made lives for themselves on the streets and those with no other option would carry on as usual, fog or not. But it was a different story when they started dying and, like any military commander, Jack felt the loss of his soldiers.
The mention of vampires sent a chill down Jack’s spine and for a moment he was lost in his own darkened memories. Fog and headstones and soft dirt; when he was younger cemeteries had always been the place for street kids to sleep. But that was until they started to disappear, and until that night, the one that Jack still wasn’t convinced actually happened. Teeth and gripping hands and pain in his neck and ten year old Jack had gone out of his way to get out of town.
“You shouldn’t pay heed to such gossip,” he warned. His mug clunked against the table as if to drive the point home. “No one should. Mass hysteria isn’t the way to deal with this situation.”