A Posher Apartment Building in Moscow, Tuesday Afternoon, Still in 1902

[bitten_notshy]

Jack could not honestly say he was surprised when Dyachenko asked if he recognized a ring that had been found tucked into the dead woman's pocket. It was a vampire court ring (with an odd pale-blue sapphire that he knew belonged to Irina's former patron, Starkad. (Of course, Jack thought, slightly irritated. Someday he was going to help solve a crime that had nothing to do with vampires. Or werewolves, for that matter, hard as that might be to pull off these days.)

Dyachenko had named the woman as Olesia Valentinova Sharankova. Jack only dimly recognized the name -- he'd known her by the nickname Lesya, and only slightly at that -- but she'd owned the gallery where Irina most often exhibited her paintings.

The one unexpected thing about any of it was, the ring wasn't hers. Which made it look even more like the entire thing was a set-up.

After a day's fruitless searching, Emma had finally persuaded someone to get a message to Irina. A bit later, the response came: She would meet with them.

It was rather ingenious, the way Irina had holed up in Lesya's abandoned flat. The police were done with it, and no one else seemed likely to disturb the rooms for some time. Jack reminded himself to congratulate her as they tapped at the door late Tuesday morning.

[OOC: For she who is here and two NPCs. NFB.]

Comments

[bitten_notshy]

"My long story," Jack said sheepishly, no pun intended. "I'm a werewolf, yes. Apparently. It's part of why we needed you to rejoin the court."

Then, with a look to Starkad that was half glare and half curiosity -- he'd never smelled anything half this powerful or ancient -- "Sebastien's court, that is."

[icecoldfrost]

"Hence why we were so eager to get your case resolved," Emma put in dryly. "Breaking people out of prison is so tacky and predictable, and I don't think I like Sebastien quite that much to indulge him." Sorry, Jack. "Even if you do wear Don de Ulloa's ring."

Just in case you had forgotten, Irina. Emma didn't care either way which one you picked, but she could be a bit snotty on Jack's behalf.

She tilted her head, hair rustling slightly as diamond strands brushed against each other. "It seems someone desires your attention, Starkad. Is it only two of your courtesans that have been murdered, now, or are there more elsewhere?"

[ofthe-blood.livejournal.com]

"I have not yet ascertained," he said, softly, still looking only at Irina. "While all that has happened cannot be set right, I shall see that, for it, someone pays. They wish you to meet with a police officer?"

He did not even wait for Irina to reply.

"Then speak to the policeman you shall." Starkad ducked his head to smile at Jack slightly. "Such desecration deserves a response, and if there is an honest policeman in all Moscow, I trust the students of my brother Sebastien would have found him."

[bitten_notshy]

Jack had no doubt at all that Starkad would get revenge. Vampires, he had found, did not lie on such matters; it was one of the things that made them such fierce predators when they chose.

He had picked one word out of what Starkad said.

"Brother?" he frowned. It wasn't unlike the blood to use family titles among themselves, but he'd never heard any besides David do it in reference to Sebastien. "So Evie was your sire, too?"

Evie, who had burned three years and what felt like several lifetimes ago. Dark, lovely Evie, who Sebastien would never cease mourning.

To Irina and in a low voice, he added, "Listen to him. Please."

[ofthe-blood.livejournal.com]

"I am the Norseman, child of Gaius," Starkad replied simply. "I was born even before Eudaline's grandsire Aethelwyn. But your patron has lived longer than most of the young ones, as did his sire. I made it my business to learn about him, and his court."

[bitten_notshy]

Starkad thought Sebastien was young, and Jack was suddenly very aware the creature he was talking to could well have been born when the rule of Julius Caesar was a recent memory.

Could already have been old then, even.

The courtesan in him understood Irina's infatuation perfectly well based on that alone. The werewolf in him ...

It was best not to ask what the beast thought.

"Ah," he said, and -- realizing he had little more to add -- went to get the few layers of winter wraps he'd discarded. "He's on his way. He should be here tonight or tomorrow, depending on the trains."

To Emma, he added, lightly, "Best not to go on the street like that, love."

[icecoldfrost]

Emma batted her lashes at him coquettishly, although the effect was somewhat marred by being a living diamond. "But I'm pretty," she protested, before closing her eyes to let the adrenaline drain away, and the shimmering stone melted away to flesh and blood.

"There," she said, opening them again and fluffing her hair. "I presume I am more satisfactory? Hand me my muff, darling, if we're to go out again."

[ofthe-blood.livejournal.com]

"Tell me how you did that?" Irina said. (She was closer, so she gave Emma her muff.) "On our way. I promise, you will not have to break me out of prison to tell me later."

She still looked sad and overwhelmed, as was understandable; they hadn't found the real murderer yet. But, as Starkad closed the door on Lesya's apartment, a new emotion joined the mix on Irina's mobile face.

Relief.