It was practically the longest night of the year, and the new moon was only a couple of nights away, but no one would ever accuse Kurby Bagnold of doing anything by half measures. 

It was rare that he found himself in the Being half of Level Four.  Back in the old days, before the Werewolf Wing had been formed, the Capture Unit had sat firmly in the Beast Division, while other support services for werewolves had been operated out of Beings.  Even then, Kurby had mostly stuck to his own half of the floor, feeling far more comfortable with the beast handlers than he ever was with the liaisons and diplomatic types who worked with the other supposedly more civilized species.

The particular office that he wanted to visit today was known to remain empty until well after the sun had set.  This time of year, that meant that it would stay quiet until the near-end of the workday, when most of the Ministry workers were heading out for the night.  Kurby had lingered in the Capture Unit office until close to five o'clock, when he'd finally torn himself away from his paperwork and headed over to see if the Vampire Consultant was in.

It was a simple enough thought. Kurby had spent a lifetime studying werewolves, but he knew very little about the magical undead.  Before approaching Lazarus with his semblance of an idea, it made sense to gather what information he could: both to ensure that he knew what he was getting the Capture Unit into, and to prevent himself from making any major missteps.  Since the Ministry went through the efforts of employing a vampire consultant, he might as well try and leverage the resource.

He didn't even know if there would be anyone here tonight -- he had a vague understanding that new moons were to vampires what full moons were to werewolves, and for all he knew, the Winter Solstice could have been some kind of official undead holiday.  But even so, he didn't want to put the conversation off.  Kurby had a dubious suspicion that if he waited too long to make an offer to Laz, one or more of his bosses would rethink the enterprise altogether and he'd get his recently-granted permission rescinded.

Judging by the slightly ajar door, there was someone -- some being -- present in the vampire liaison office tonight.  The werewolf hunter knocked briefly on the wooden door, and then nudged it the rest of the way open.

"Uh..."  Kurby paused, peering inside the office.  "Sorry to cut in," he said after half a beat.  "I had a couple questions, and I was wonderin' if you might have a minute to talk."

Tristan tapped his cigarette, sprinkling ash into an open drawer of his desk while he distractedly read a newspaper taking up most of the table (The Parisian Prophet, 1895). It was the Christmas season - joyeux noël - and he was wearing a red velvet vest over the flounciest of white shirts, unbuttoned at the front. His trousers were red, as was the little wool bobble hat that sat askew on his dark head. And his mouth - oh yes, his mouth was also very red, stained by a tumbler of blood in his other hand.

            "Sorry to cut in..."

"Bonsoir monsieur," the vampire raised his dark gaze, made darker by the shadows under his eyes. "Come in."

This was not a face familiar to him but Tristan recognised the head of the WCU, if only from snatches of gossip around the office. Werewolves, they were a popular subject of discussion, after all. He also knew that there had been a vampire involved in Bagnold's last adventure - a crumb of information from level two.

Tristan's office was rich in personality. It was a small space, filled to the brim with bookshelves on two sides and a large corkscrew board almost entirely full of clippings. A newspaper rack next to his antique desk was meticulously organised; part of his job was to log and contextualise historical records vampiric activity. The room smelled of Italian cigarettes and French cologne, and an underlying metallic hint of blood.

Behind him and his desk, a large wooden Crucifix had been bolted to the wall. There were no other chairs in the room. He stubbed out his cigarette rose from his seat, eyeing the visitor curiously."Tristan Vaillancourt. You are Kurby Bagnold," Tristan observed pleasantly.

He breathed in, trying to discern Bagnold's particular scent. His nose tended to be sensitive this close to the new moon. "How can I help you?"

This was the second time that a vampire had known his name, which counted as a slightly unsettling trend.  Kurby pushed any uneasiness aside as he stepped into the small office, dark eyes flicking over the interior.

One’s workspace said a lot about how an individual operated.  It had only taken a day or two for Iona Ballentyne’s new office to return to a state of disorganized chaos and clutter, much as he remembered from their years working so closely together.  Kurby kept his own desk neat and minimal, with very few personal touches that might hint at his life outside of work.

Tristan Vaillancourt’s office was all about vampires.  Kurby’s gaze flickered over the volumes on the bookshelves, the newspaper clippings on the cork board, the crucifix behind the desk.  Vaillancourt was here as a representative of his species as much as anything else, and it was clear that he lived and breathed (or, considering that he was a vampire, actively existed) anchored in the stories of the undead.

The werewolf hunter reached out to offer Vaillancourt a handshake.  He was perfectly happy at the lack of additional chairs; he hated sitting in other people’s offices, anyway.

“It’s, uh, a bit of a story,” he said, finally taking in the vampire himself.  Vaillancourt looked young, but he had the same uncanny, casual stillness about him that Kurby had come to associate with Laz.  His distinctive red mouth suggested obvious uncomfortable associations, accented by the hint of a familiar metallic scent in the air.  The wool bobble hat was a nice touch, though; it seemed almost like a humorous seasonal afterthought, even though it matched the red of the vampire’s other extravagant garments.

“There’s a vampire that’s given us a hand in London the past couple of full moons.” Kurby met the vampire’s dark gaze evenly, swallowing as he shifted his stance and crossed his arms.  He assumed that if Vaillancourt knew his name, he didn’t have to provide context as to the work of the Werewolf Capture Unit.  “I was hopin’ to find a way to thank him properly no matter what, but if he’s plannin’ to make this a regular thing, I want to see about formalizin’ the relationship and offerin’ him a job.”

Tristan took the proffered hand, letting his grip linger a moment. It was a warm hand - marginally warmer than most humans - and the proximity allowed him a whiff of the bouquet. Underneath the earthen scent of old leather, something more savoury. Blood that would pair well with herbs crushed underfoot and the damp night in which mushrooms might flourish. Something of substance. A main course.

            "There’s a vampire that’s given us a hand in London the past couple of full moons."

Leaning against the side of his desk, the vampire offered his full attention. Yes. He knew about this: the official story was from level two but the other gaps were filled by talk in the city and in the wood. Hungry mouths under unlit bridges, voices obscured by rushing trains overhead.

"You are talking about the zoo incident and such, non?" Tristan smiled thoughtfully as he crossed his arms to reflect Kurby's altered body language. "How kind of him to be of use to you."

Vampires had a tendency to be territorial, and his first instinct to being joined by another at the Ministry was a competitive one. But Tristan was old and had learned which instincts to trust by now. He could only welcome more of his kind here. Wixes could be so... unsympathetic. A certain head auror came to mind.

"If formal is what you desire," he narrowed his gaze, bitting his bottom lip, "then you must make the offer formally. What is this vampire's name? One of Hooker's, I gather from the streets?" Tristan hadn't been back to see his friend Terry for some time now - it wasn't his coven after all.

Kurby gave a brisk nod in response to Vaillancourt's inquiry about the zoo.  Despite their efforts to keep the incident under wraps, it felt a bit as if half the Ministry already knew what had happened during December's full moon.  Apparently, that information had also spread to undead circles -- that was, if it was ever truly separate from them.  After all, Lazarus had to have found out about the direwolves somehow.

Being the focus of the vampire's direct gaze was more than a bit disconcerting.  It felt like he was being inspected by a predator, with dark and glittering eyes examining him carefully for any weakness.  Kurby had faced down dozens and dozens of werewolves over the past fifteen years, but somehow, the snarling maw of a rampaging werewolf never managed to seem quite so raptorial as this, quite so much like being scrutinized by a ravenous, cold-blooded viper. 

But he wasn't going to let it get under his skin.  Aside from the strong likelihood of Bruce Ballentyne breaking the rule, the Ministry wasn't about to knowingly employ any bloodthirsty monsters that wanted to eat him.  Vaillancourt had been entirely courteous and friendly so far; that was more than he could say for many of the wixes that he had to suffer on a daily basis.  So Kurby kept his expression even, his posture as relaxed as he could.  If he could manage an amiable conversation with Knox Greyfriar without getting jumpy, then he wasn't going to let himself get flustered by a helpful vampire.

"His name's Lazarus," he replied easily.  "He didn't give me a last name.  Seems American, based on how he talks.  I haven't heard him mention anyone named Hooker." 

The werewolf hunter hesitated for half a beat, and then inclined his head slightly to Vaillancourt.  "That's part of why I stopped in," he said, brows knitting.  "I reckon I know less about vampires than I probably should.  I don't want to show up somewhere askin' about Laz and accidentally cross a line or step on someone's new broomstick.  If you've got any advice, or any ideas to point me in the right direction, I'd appreciate the help."

Lazarus - as in Lazarus who was risen from death, of Bethany, of God is my help. A suitable name and one he recognised after a moment's thought. Especially an American Lazarus. Languid in movement, Tristan reached for the Rolodex on his desk and spun the wheel of cards before expertly plucking out one of them to lift into view:

Lazarus Blackburn (Registered)
Approx. Age: 175 years
Turned: 1871
Coven: Camden Town Hookers. Camden Town, London.
Notes: Originally US born - no known criminal record -  approved to receive blood and aid

He passed the card on to Bagnold, "I know him. Not personally but I am acquainted with the leader of his coven, Terrence Hooker."

Although he didn't say it, Tristan was relieved that the wizard had come to ask for advice. Hooker's coven was laidback as far as covens went but Hooker himself abided by certain rules of vampiric etiquette. He did not like prying and he didn't like Ministry surprises either.

"I would take a direct approach," he mused as he looked Kurby up and down, and decided that a subtle personality was maybe not this person's strong point. "Visit Hooker's pub, ask to meet Lazarus. Show you have nothing to hide or fear from them. It is likely they already know much of your story."

Tristan himself could never lead a coven but he liked the Hookers. They were a family, and Terry's leadership was not paternalistic. He smiled at Bagnold with a full set of teeth, fiddling idly with a frill at the front of his shirt. "It goes without saying, not to eat any garlic before your visit. But do you have any... particular concerns?"

Kurby took the Rolodex card, turning it over in his hands to read the script.  Lazarus Blackburn.  It felt strange, oddly impersonal, to put a surname to the vampire like this, to read scant details of his recent comrade's life and unlife.  Wizards lived a long time, but it was unfathomable to think of one who was born in 1871.

He mentally filed the details away, passing the card back to Vaillancourt.  Camden Town.  It made sense why Laz had been out that night, and had been so concerned about the trouble that had been brought to their doorstep.  Kurby didn't know anything about how vampire covens worked, but they couldn't be happy about Tawse and his furry allies stirring up trouble practically in their backyard.

He listened silently to Vaillancourt's advice, regarding the vampire seriously.  Show them you have nothing to hide or fear from them.  That, at least, sounded like his language.  He stared down fear every month.

The comment about the garlic made him laugh.  Kurby flashed a quick grin at the vampire, appreciative and bemused.  No garlic, no stakes, no bloodsucking jokes.  He'd be seeing Rosheen on Sunday; he could probably ask his sister for the full list of impolite topics to avoid.

"Aside from whether it's alright to offer to buy a vampire a drink?" he asked cheerfully.

He thought for a moment.  Concerns about integrating Laz into the Werewolf Capture Unit -- how to deal with people like Tessa Fenneken -- could wait until he knew if the undead American wanted to accept his slightly crazy proposal.  But the mention of a coven had made him start to think about other things.  Lazarus had decided to fall in with them, but the presumed other vampires in his coven hadn't.  As soon as you started to play with fire, it became too easy for innocents around you to get hurt.

"It's one thing if it's just Laz decidin' to get involved with us," he said after a beat.  "I don't want to put this coven into the line of fire because of my direwolf problem.  You reckon they're goin' to be alright protectin' themselves if they need to?  Or should I be thinkin' about how to make sure they can get help if someone decides to take somethin' out on them?"

            "Aside from whether it's alright to offer to buy a vampire a drink?"

"Careful, monsieur, I may take that as an invitation." Tristan pointed out, his laugh ringing like a thin silver chime. "Which you must also keep in mind. My kind, we can be trés fickle with our words and games, like the fae of your legends."

Bagnold's more serious question gave him pause. He hadn't expected the man to be worried for the coven itself, most non-vampires did not concern themselves with the well being of the living dead. Tristan tapped his desk with a long fingernail as he looked his visitor bluntly in the face. Not informed about vampires, non, but Kurby clearly had principles. Ethics.

"Registered covens have a system in place," he began after the long pause, mouth relaxing into a delicate smile. "We are alerted in the eventuality of an attack as, you understand, the practice of hunting vampires is illegal but not dead. And covens like Terry's, they employ wizards in the day hours."

Former Hitwizards, disgraced aurors, sorceresses. People who could stand to be around his species and entrusted with their safety. They were accustomed to being hated, Cinaéd Tawse was nothing new. He glanced down to flick a piece of fluff off his trousers, speaking absently.

"Some of those in his employ," Tristan continued, "are also sources of sustenance. I beg you to turn a blind eye to the impropriety of such things should you come across them." He looked up again, the slightest bit contrite. "It is, I assure you, invariably consensual and safe."

When he had gone to visit Hooker's with Cepheus and Andromeda, the brother and sister were warned as well. It was illegal to drink blood from any source that wasn't Ministry approved but to put a complete stop to so ancient a tradition was quite impossible.

Limit the sarcasm.  Check.  Keeping up with witty wordplay wasn’t really Kurby’s forte, but he could hold himself to clear and direct communication. 

His question made the vampire stop and stare at him again.  Vaillancourt didn't exactly say that the coven wouldn't need to worry -- there was that wordplay, perhaps -- but at least it seemed that they'd already be thinking about security.  It might be a question to pose to Lazarus, if they ended up discussing the possibilities of a position.  The last thing that he wanted was to visit more trouble on anyone.

Except, apparently, the coven instigated trouble for itself. Kurby regarded Vaillancourt silently for a moment, his expression carefully neutral.  He’d heard stories — they’d all heard stories — about wixes or Muggles who sought out vampires to feed upon them.  Who went chasing the magically-induced high that came along with being bitten.  If vampires did that sort of thing to their victims, could it really be said to invariably be consensual?

He knew that he couldn’t save everyone.  Kurby had made his peace with that fact a long time ago, or at least, that was what he told himself.  There were those that he’d failed to protect, like Bruce, who knowingly took on risks and had to pay the price, and those who were put in the line of fire despite their innocence, like Ramona Flickwick and the muggle guards at the London Zoo.  If he let the deaths and injuries get to him, if he took it too personally, he'd never be able to do his job, and more people would likely get hurt as a result.

But there was a difference between failing and intentionally turning a blind eye.  The vampire was asking him to let the monsters be monsters.

Kurby knew that the world wasn't black and white as he had once imagined.  There wasn't a clear line between heroes and villains, humans and monsters.  Right now, the most pressing issue was putting the best defense that he could into play for the January full moon.  But if he encountered something that clearly wasn't consensual, he wasn't going to just stand by.

It seemed a bit silly to overthink possibilities now before he'd even visited the coven.  Kurby rolled his shoulders in a shrug and inclined his head to Vaillancourt.

"I'm just goin' to talk to Lazarus," he said easily.  "The rest of it isn't my business."  That was, it appeared, the price of trying to conduct business with a vampire.

The vampire consultant, though, had already been extremely helpful.  These were all important facts for him to know, to be able to center himself before he strolled into a vampire den.  Better this than walking in blind and inevitably walking into something that he shouldn't, or having an unclear idea of what to expect and not being prepared to react in the moment.

He flashed Vaillancourt a tight smile.  "Thanks for all this," he said, and meant it.  "Is there anything I should know about Hooker himself?  There a correct way to address the leader of a coven?"

If Tristan recognised the pause in their conversation for what it was, a contemplation of ethical quandaries, he did not show it. It wasn't his place to defend the practices of an entire species and he was already straddling an official line by asking Bagnold not to look too closely at any illicit behaviour in Camden Town. He took off his hat, idly playing with the fuzzy bobble at the end.

             "Is there anything I should know...?" the other man resumed.

The idea of someone calling Terrence your eminence or majesty was amusing but not a safe practical joke.
 
"Hm, I know him as Terry but he prefers to be called Hooker. He is..." Tristan tilted his head to one side and then the other, like a dithering bird. "He was not a good man before he was turned, and as one of my kind he does not shy away from making it clear that you are food."

His smile widened, nostalgic in some ways. "You do not have to worry, Mr Bagnold. You are an official of the Ministry of Magic and, I think, a man of the world non? Not like les enfants who come to Hooker for drinks and cheap thrills. He will take you seriously."

Especially, thought Tristan, because Kurby was a friend of Lazarus. Or what Hooker would call a friend. Friend, food, family. Not many categories of people in that vampire's head.

"I could, if you like, write him so that he might expect a visit?" Tristan offered, gesturing genially at the quills and inks on his desk. "A letter of introduction."

The werewolf hunter rolled his shoulders in a shrug.  He wasn't worried, not about vampires.  That had been the point of stopping in here, anyhow -- to find out what he needed to know to find Laz, and then to make sure that he wasn't going to come across as walking in to start a war if he found him.  If he could handle mouthy lycanthropes on a regular basis, he wasn't worried about holding his own with an unfriendly vampire.

Tristan Vaillancourt, though, had proven to be decidedly more friendly and profoundly more helpful than he might have guessed.  Kurby flashed the vampire a smile, clearly appreciative of the offer.

"If you reckon that'll help, and it won't take up too much of your time," he replied cheerfully.  "I just didn't want 'em to think that I was comin' in to pick a fight or something.  When would be the best time to stop in?" he asked, brows knitting slightly.  "Well after the new moon, aye?"

Ah, the hunter was not so concerned for his safety. Maybe he was right not to be. Tristan had played this game from the other side for too long - he had forgotten what it was like to be mortal prey. To be soft, to bleed, to feel young and innocent again. Sometimes he remembered. When he drank from those who offered.

            "When would be the best time...after the new moon, aye?"

"After, oui," the vampire laughed lightly and glanced at the lunar calendar on the wall, "I do not think any date would be remiss. Not Christmas, perhaps." The night before and the day itself would be busy for the Hookers, who drew in a crowd of lonely patrons looking to distract themselves on what should be a joyous celebration.

People who had no families or who had lost them to various addictions. Terry was not above taking advantage of the emotionally vulnerable.

"I think, close to the witching hour, that is the best time." Tristan brought himself back to their conversation, smiling at Kurby. "I wish you the best in your endeavour, monsieur. I cannot lie, it would bring me great pleasure to see another of my kind walking these corridors."

However much he might feel like he owed Lazarus a thank you and as much as he wanted an excuse to get out of his own family's celebration, Kurby certainly hadn't been planning on visiting the vampire on Christmas.  But the witching hour -- that felt like an appropriate time to pay a visit to a vampire pub.  If he was going to do this, he might as well jump in full force.

"Appreciate it," he said, giving a friendly smile to Vaillancourt.  "And thanks again.  Hopefully I can help a bit on that front."

After all, he thought as he nodded to the red bobbled vampire and headed out of his history-filled office, if Carter was so intent on making sure that Level Four had its share of werewolf employees these days, he might as well do his part to ensure that the undead were equally represented.