The Blood of the Wicked

1: Ethos

Clementine's boots ate the white tile that spanned between her and New Amsel's Police Morgue's doors. She kept her face angled toward the ground, away from the cameras punctuating the ceiling, to conceal her scratches and bruising lacing her tawny-colored face.

What a fucking night, she breathed.

While she had been hand-deep inside a vampire's chest after catching one out in the wild, Wolf, her boss, call could wait. Yeah, she may have gotten back to him a little late, but there was no way in umbra she was letting this opportunity pass her by because of work. Yes, it may have been a little creepy for her to stalk and follow him for blocks, but didn't everyone always go to extreme measures when they really wanted something? At least she did.

A wince slipped from her as she raised her hand to open the door and opted to use her shoulder instead, whirling her way in. She hissed from the bright white light expelling from the panel lights, hurting her corneas.

Fuck. That meant she had a type two concussion.

"Well, it's a good thing; there's traffic," Wolf snipped, with his back to her. She hummed a sardonic tone from his sarcasm and slipped her lab coat on. Rolling her shoulders back, she contemplated what lie she would spin to Wolf—one he would believe—regarding her state. And it'd have to come to her like yesterday as she turned toward his office, made completely of glass—one, two, three...

"Minnie! What in the umbra happened to you?" Wolf asked, stepping outside of his glass box and heading towards her.

Sidestepping away from him, she tried to rearrange her features as a wince crawled up her throat from the pitch of his voice. The vamp had bashed her head twice into the brick wall of the alley before landing her killing blow.

"You know I don't like it when you call me Minnie." There were only four people allowed to call her Minnie, two were dead, leaving only her grandad and nan. And Wolf didn't fall into either category, therefore excluding him from that privilege. "It's Clem, Clementine, or Ms. Alarie to you—" leaning against one of the metal tables.

Wolf shook his head, his afro bouncing. "Still doesn't answer my question."

A defeated sigh came from her, and she folded her arms. "I got mugged on my way home, and let's just say I put up a fight for my vintage designer purse."

"Your life is more valuable than losing it to scum from the Brimmers."

She nodded in understanding but hated the stereotype that caged the Brimmers. Most people that lived there were the hardworking class of New Amsel, just trying to provide for their families. Was there a problem with drugs? Yes, but so was there in downtown Amsel.
Only difference was the media didn't broadcast the facts but spun their own story of the epidemic of drugs growing in the Brimmers because of thugs and gangs. When in reality it was affluent families controlling the mass production of drugs and taking impressionable youth to run it for them.

"I know, but vintage designer," she re-emphasized.

"I think you're more than comfortable financially to be able to replace it," he said, raking his stare across her face.

She licked her lips, tucking her bottom lip in. Everyone thought she was loaded because she belonged to one of the five royal houses—Mughal, Demidov, Chamberlain, Blackthorne, and Alarie. But most of her money went towards the CNRI—City Necessary Resources Initiative—founded by her deceased dad in the Brimmers when he provided legal services to low-income individuals. Her grandad had kept it afloat until she came of age to decide what to do with it. Since he wasn't their blood, it was her choice to decide what to do with it legally, and she decided to keep funding it.