bitten_notshy | Paris, Later, 8 Jan. 1902

As for Jack, he spent the night pub-crawling. He was of no use to Sebastien when it came to feats of physical prowess -- the wampyr, although he generally preferred to downplay his puissance, had that aspect of the operation under complete control -- but Jack knew he was Sebastien's superior when it came to striking up casual friendships and earning confidences.

This first night, Jack was only formalizing relationships that had previously been two or three links removed. In America or occupied Eire, or England herself, he would have named this the underground and it would have been much harder to locate -- but in Paris, there was nothing treasonous in calling for the overthrow of the English king. Since the deposition of the Emperor, it was far more likely in Paris for one to be hauled into jail for espousing monarchist sympathies than republican ones.

Jack quickly came to realize he adored the city -- a cramped, gorgeous, antique place full of drunks and poets, artists and gardens, whorehouses and opium dens, crooked streets and tilted buildings. He wished Sebastien had brought him here ten or fifteen years before, or that he’d taken a weekend trip when he was bored and alone in London.

He could have come on his own at any time. Sebastien would never have prevented it.

But Jack was never fond of leisure plans that involved too much absence from Sebastien, especially ones that couldn't be glossed with at least the pretense of furthering his schooling. He considered it a poor trend, and one that should not become established.

He didn't allow himself to settle in in any one bar, this first night. This was for exploring, for listening, for locating men who might eventually become friends. Not that he would need them, if Sebastien and Abby Irene's plan came to fruition.

But Jack believed in redundancy and in fallback positions. He assumed that the others were also making contingency plans.

None of them were dumb.

Sebastien had convinced him that counterfeiting an Englishman was entirely too unsafe, and Jack had never been successful at trying to pass for American. Jack allowed himself to slip into an Eastern European accent and gave his name as Hlavach, although he was careful never to hint that he was not merely a Czech by birth, but also a Jew. Better to be thought a refugee from Russian expansionism: there were enough of those in Paris these days.

The blond hair and blue eyes helped. And he had, after hours of exploring, finally found the right bar.

For a moment, sighing over his wine, his workman's cap folded and shoved into his hip pocket, Jack allowed himself to wish he was home, the greatest concern of any night a paper to write before morning. He checked his pocket watch idly and was surprised to notice the time.

When he stood, excusing himself from his new acquaintances, they encouraged his return.
Another small victory. Pile enough of them together, and they became like bricks in the wall.

One of the drinkers -- a tradesman named Rene whose last name Jack had not managed to catch (Sebastien would be disappointed in him) -- stood when Jack did. "You're too new for wandering Paris at night," he said. "Especially on the full moon. I'll see you safe back where you belong."

For a moment, Jack wondered what Rene expected in return for the escort, but then he shrugged and got his coat without a protest. Jack was a slight man, but Rene was classically Gallic: dark, not tall, with a distinctive nose. Jack thought he could defend himself if it became necessary. "All right," he said, and Rene wrapped his scarf, buttoned his overcoat, pulled on his gloves, and was ready while Jack was still fussing with his cap.

They walked in silence through empty streets, breath steaming under cold lamplight, between swirling flat broad snowflakes, and chins scrunched into collars, while Jack considered what he'd do if Rene made a pass.

It was the downside of being slight and pretty. If you considered it a downside, exactly.

But Rene seemed mostly nervous of ambush, or something. And so Jack was still contemplating his options when he noticed the streetlights down the block flickering and then brightening once more, one at a time, like a ripple rolling over still water. The effect was moving away from them, slightly faster than the pace of a walking man, and he nudged Rene with an elbow to get his attention. "What's that?"

"Just an eddy in the power. You see them sometimes." Rene sounded bored. "You know, it doesn't snow like this every year, in Paris."

Jack sped his steps. His boots left a wet black trail pressed through to pavement. "There's something there."

"Where?"

"Under the first lamp." The lamp where he'd seen the beginning of the ripple effect burned bright as ever. Under it, something black and lumpy stretched on the cobbles, the snow about it a soaked outline of red. With a nasty creeping feeling, Jack recognized the shape. "There's someone in the street."

"Oh God," said Rene, folding his gloved hands into the bends of his elbows. "Not another."

[OOC: NFB, NFI, lightly edited from New Amsterdam. Part of this.]