See what you guys think of this before I post it on a bigger site. Bigger site = more humiliation if it's no good. 
It looks better in word, but it should be readable. Let me know if you guys just can't make it through.
Chapter I
Requiem
Frankfurt, Germany, Messeturm Skyscraper, 59th floor, 3:45pm
I sat in contemplation with my eyes shut, focusing on the rain battering the windows, trying to remember Adela’s face. Of course, I wasn’t just sitting there. I usually kept my hands busy doing something these days. It helped keep my mind off the thirst. In this case, I was playing my cello. I glanced at the clock at a human pace, a learned behavior from being around mortals so much the last 60 years, even though I knew I had exactly fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds until my last meeting of the day.
At first, my personal assistants (I had two for appearance’s sake) thought it was quite odd for a major venture capitalist to bust out a cello in the middle of the work day. The very generous salary and benefits I provided them kept them around at first, but now they claimed to look forward to it. I marveled again at the adaptability of mortals. With this thought, my mind flitted to a disagreement I had had with my former masters, the Volturi, over the nature of mortals. I crushed this train of through before it could begin. Even after all these centuries, the distractibility of my vampiric mind was sometimes very annoying.
I refocused on the rain hitting the glass and steel structure I resided in. I very much enjoyed the chaos of the rain. Unlike so many other things that were predictable after 1700 years of existence, the rain always stuck in a random pattern that changed every second. It was as much music to my inhuman hearing ability as the complex sonata I was playing. I used the rain as a catalyst to focus my mind on what remained of my human memories. They were so weak now. I had thought that my modified diet might help with this, but it seemed to be making things worse. I could no longer conjure any memory of my beloved Adela at all. I was now completely dependent upon the portrait I had commissioned from Rembrandt, and that was based off one I had had painted in 10th century Byzantium.
I pondered with amusement how that was another way I was dependent upon mortals. Already dependent upon them for nourishment, I also needed them to remember what my wife had looked like. Despite my many centuries of existence, I could never catch the knack of painting. Or composing for that matter; regardless of how well I could the most complex of pieces. No, my talents lay in more……..violent arenas. War, personal combat, business, economics; disciplines based off of conflict were my specialty, not those of harmony. At least I had given up on war and combat. I left that to the mortals now. Suddenly, the intercom on my desk buzzed to life.
“Herr Raginhart?” a pleasant voice inquired. “The Gasprom delegation will be here very shortly. You might want to make any necessary preparations.” Katarina knew I wore contacts, but had no idea what their true purpose was.
Cursing to myself, I examined the clock and saw that I had less than four minutes remaining until the meeting. They were probably on the next elevator up. I wondered if my increased tendency to get sidetracked was a function of my sheer age, or my subsistence diet of two units of human blood a week. I knew which one I was most suspicious of, and the thought troubled me greatly. That was a problem for another day.
“Thank you for the reminder.” I returned, using my praising voice. My assistants so enjoyed my praise. It also kept some of my eccentricities well in the back of their minds.
I closed the blinds on my windows and, after making sure my double doors to the 59th floor foyer were closed, became a blur of activity, although not nearly as fast as I had once been. I hadn’t really noticed it until I was being forced to make preparations so quickly.
First things first, I thought. I quickly changed out my deep blue contacts. I didn’t need a mirror to know that underneath the discs of formed polymer that my eyes were jet black streaked with faint milky white lines. The white lines were not something I liked to think about. They had started developing about two decades ago, and slowly, but relentlessly covered about a third of each eye. Contacts were completely indispensible now.
Next, I did a quick check over my exposed flesh. Face, around the neck, and hands where all that were not covered by the custom Armani suit. Mortal eyes would not perceive the extent of the scarring that crisscrossed my middle-aged face. They saw only faint lines.
The scars were the first thing another of my kind would notice, of course; they were the legacy of hundreds of battles with my own kind and the Children of the Moon. They were a constant reminder of my blood-soaked legacy.
I turned my attention to the skin beneath the scars. Perhaps even more horrifying to me than my clouding eyes were the patches of skin becoming thin and translucent on my body. So far, limbs were primarily affected, but in time, I was sure an area not covered by normal mortal clothing would be affected.
A thought of pure weakness came over me then, sickening me. If I became too much like them, I might ask the Volturi to destroy me. Caius would be more than willing. All too willing, I was sure. What little I remembered of my mortal father told me that he would certainly not approve of this line of thought at all. Even though I couldn’t remember his name or face anymore, I knew that he had taught me that a warrior always goes down fighting, even if victory were not possible. I also knew, however, that he could have possibly foreseen that path I ended up taking. He couldn’t have seen the hundreds, no thousands that were going to die by my hand. The thousands more that were going to die indirectly because of my decisions. Men, women, children……….
The miniature Glockenspiel on my desk announced that the four o’clock hour had arrived. This immediately broke my previous train of thought and pulled me into the task at hand. I was being driven to distraction way too often lately.
I pulled the Gasprom file from my desk and quickly glanced over it. Russia was an emerging market, yet held tremendous potential. But the Russian state, in general, was not good on making the most of its potential during normal times. I knew. I had watched the ugly, brutal state evolve from the lowly Duchy of Muscovy under the heel of the Mongols to a global superpower first hand. I also knew that the whole lot of them underperformed without a dire, direct threat. Of course, I also had personal, intimate knowledge of what befell a nation who DID directly threaten them. Germany had went down that route and paid a horrific cost.
I ended that train of thought as I heard Katarina announce, “Herr Raginhart will see you now.”
I decided this whole venture they were about to present to me all came down to whether I thought Putin could keep Russia stable enough to get a return on my investment. Putin, the new Tsar of Russia.
I was still indexing factors both for and against Putin being effective into the near future when they came in. The delegation consisted of two men, one tall and obviously of Scandinavian ancestry; the other, short, moderately overweight and very Slavic and a blonde woman, whom most mortal men would consider very attractive. I immediately determined her to be true ringleader of this group, based off the subtle body language between her and the other two men. I wondered if the Gasprom brass really thought that sending a female as lead negotiator would net them a better result. After another moment of thinking, I surmised I would try it myself. History had shown that men would do foolish things around the right women. If only I were still a man.
The blond greeted me with a very business-like, “Greetings, Herr Raginhart, I assume we should set up our presentation on that table over there?” She gestured to the large meeting table to my left.
Due to the ventilation system I had had installed in my office, all fans blew air out into the foyer, but with her close proximity, her scent hit me in full force. It was nothing special, really. It was easy enough to resist the urge to my position of power in these negotiations to get her alone after the meeting and drain her dry. I was done with killing. That part of my life was over. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
The incredible burn in my throat vehemently disagreed. Today it felt like a blast furnace. Some days were better than others, and this was not a good day. The burn was greatly enhanced by my extremely limited diet of human blood. I was very good at ignoring pain, perhaps even masterful. But today the burn still distracted me enough that I was unable to sound as charming as I would have liked.
“Yes, of course,” I smoothly replied in Russian. “In fact, rearrange the room in any way you need. Oh, and here is the key for the building’s wireless network.” I handed them a sheet containing the wireless password. I changed it weekly. One could never be too careful in the modern age of computers. Mortals were very……..enterprising nowadays. Especially in these last couple of centuries.
“Your Russian is excellent, Herr Raginhart,” she commented while her two companions set up the presentation equipment. “I don’t remember your dossier mentioning that you spent any time in the Ukraine, though.”
Had I used a Ukrainian accent? I must have. The burning was going to be a bigger problem today than I thought. I recovered quickly, however; even in my weakened state my mind was more than up to the task.
“My Russian tutor was from the Ukraine,” I smoothly lied. “I’m sure I picked up the accent from him.” In reality, I had spent a two decade span in that area hunting Children of the Moon and other trouble makers for the Volturi. Back in the pre-Demetri days, when finding someone was difficult for the Volturi guard. They were so proud of their little toy, Demetri.
“Ah, that explains it, then.” She seemed to accept that answer. “Shall we begin? I think you will find our proposal most compelling.”
I smiled as I sat down at the meeting table. I had already read multiple reports on Gasprom’s latest project. Or some would call it a scheme. It was a plan to utilize cutting edge technology to get a newly-discovered oil reserve in desolate Siberia. Like the project’s many critics, I found myself very skeptical of Russia’s ability to develop the proper infrastructure to properly execute such a plan.
I had to admit, though, they had quite a persuasive presentation. At least as much of it I was paying attention to over the thirst. None of my kind had ever tried this before. None had ever had the combination of the control necessary to resist the lure of warm, quenching blood a mere four meters away and the desire to no longer murder humans for food. At least none that I knew of. Perhaps it had been attempted in antiquity, but I had not been able to recover any meaningful research. I had not discussed this with even Aro, as I was really not interested in THEIR take on the idea. There was always Vasily, a vampire a I knew to be at least as old as the Volturi, but he was………erratic to say the least. And dangerous. I avoided him at all costs.
Still, I was still faced with the fact that the diet was causing problems. I couldn’t acquire any more blood without drawing scrutiny from mortal authorities and that was the LAST thing I needed in my life.
At some point during the presentation, I realized I had already decided to support their project. It was somewhat of a long shot, but it had been a good fifteen years since I had went for anything that remotely resembled a long shot. Maybe I was just making the decision that I knew the Volturi would not. The safe bet. Was I so reduced to such a state that I was making decisions like an adolescent mortal? Perhaps. But perhaps I was just bored of sure things, and the inevitability in perceived in so many events in the world.
Their surprise was palatable when I rendered my verdict. 200 million Euro was a lot of money, but to me, it was just a number. Even if the venture failed completely, the money was easily replaceable with more conservative, predictable projects. A five year setback for me at worst; to my sense of time it might as well be a week’s setback. They thanked me profusely, and I had Katarina show them out after they had repacked their presentation equipment.
After the double doors to the foyer were closed, I quickly removed the accursed contacts from my eyes. They were so very irritating, even after all these years. I sat back at my desk, and opened the drawer that contained my sheet music for cello. My desk was full of non-work related items, as everything of importance to my business was either computerized or in my head. I searched for something a bit more upbeat. Risking large sums of mortal money was a small thrill in the scheme of things, but it was the most audacious thing I’d done in over a decade. I was still searching, being indecisive (a rarity for me; indecision was a horrible quality in a warrior), when my intercom buzzed to life again.
“Herr Raginhart? Mr. Tamaguchi is here to see you.” Katarina sounded as confused as I did.
Tamaguchi? He was a venture partner from Japan. Even with my mind not working at 100% vampiric capacity, I knew my next meeting with him was months away. I very much enjoyed Mr. Tamaguchi’s company and knew all our meeting dates for the next five years.
I quickly cycled through possible scenarios for his arrival, but I came up with nothing. He was a very formal person. Not even the death of a loved one would cause him to break convention. He LIVED convention. And it was after regular business hours. Very unusual.
“Send him in,” I requested in what I was sure was a perplexed tone. It was getting so easy for my feelings to bleed through into my voice, especially in the last five years. I found myself flipping through my personal meeting dates on my computer, praying that I had not slipped further than I thought.
As soon as I made the request, my senses were assaulted by a wave of sensation that I had not experienced in over sixty years, and certainly not under the influence of my new diet. Before I could even look up from my computer, I heard the sound of my double doors shattering. I heard a thump thump emanate from the foyer. Part of my brain registered this as the sound that a silenced pistol made. 9mm to be precise. The last sensation came all too late, unfortunately. I smelled the sweet, sickly scent that my own kind gave off. I would have smelled it much sooner if it were not for my “clever” ventilation system.
About this time, I looked up from my computer to see what was going on, and that was when the first magnesium round hit me right in the chest.
It looks better in word, but it should be readable. Let me know if you guys just can't make it through.
Chapter I
Requiem
Frankfurt, Germany, Messeturm Skyscraper, 59th floor, 3:45pm
I sat in contemplation with my eyes shut, focusing on the rain battering the windows, trying to remember Adela’s face. Of course, I wasn’t just sitting there. I usually kept my hands busy doing something these days. It helped keep my mind off the thirst. In this case, I was playing my cello. I glanced at the clock at a human pace, a learned behavior from being around mortals so much the last 60 years, even though I knew I had exactly fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds until my last meeting of the day.
At first, my personal assistants (I had two for appearance’s sake) thought it was quite odd for a major venture capitalist to bust out a cello in the middle of the work day. The very generous salary and benefits I provided them kept them around at first, but now they claimed to look forward to it. I marveled again at the adaptability of mortals. With this thought, my mind flitted to a disagreement I had had with my former masters, the Volturi, over the nature of mortals. I crushed this train of through before it could begin. Even after all these centuries, the distractibility of my vampiric mind was sometimes very annoying.
I refocused on the rain hitting the glass and steel structure I resided in. I very much enjoyed the chaos of the rain. Unlike so many other things that were predictable after 1700 years of existence, the rain always stuck in a random pattern that changed every second. It was as much music to my inhuman hearing ability as the complex sonata I was playing. I used the rain as a catalyst to focus my mind on what remained of my human memories. They were so weak now. I had thought that my modified diet might help with this, but it seemed to be making things worse. I could no longer conjure any memory of my beloved Adela at all. I was now completely dependent upon the portrait I had commissioned from Rembrandt, and that was based off one I had had painted in 10th century Byzantium.
I pondered with amusement how that was another way I was dependent upon mortals. Already dependent upon them for nourishment, I also needed them to remember what my wife had looked like. Despite my many centuries of existence, I could never catch the knack of painting. Or composing for that matter; regardless of how well I could the most complex of pieces. No, my talents lay in more……..violent arenas. War, personal combat, business, economics; disciplines based off of conflict were my specialty, not those of harmony. At least I had given up on war and combat. I left that to the mortals now. Suddenly, the intercom on my desk buzzed to life.
“Herr Raginhart?” a pleasant voice inquired. “The Gasprom delegation will be here very shortly. You might want to make any necessary preparations.” Katarina knew I wore contacts, but had no idea what their true purpose was.
Cursing to myself, I examined the clock and saw that I had less than four minutes remaining until the meeting. They were probably on the next elevator up. I wondered if my increased tendency to get sidetracked was a function of my sheer age, or my subsistence diet of two units of human blood a week. I knew which one I was most suspicious of, and the thought troubled me greatly. That was a problem for another day.
“Thank you for the reminder.” I returned, using my praising voice. My assistants so enjoyed my praise. It also kept some of my eccentricities well in the back of their minds.
I closed the blinds on my windows and, after making sure my double doors to the 59th floor foyer were closed, became a blur of activity, although not nearly as fast as I had once been. I hadn’t really noticed it until I was being forced to make preparations so quickly.
First things first, I thought. I quickly changed out my deep blue contacts. I didn’t need a mirror to know that underneath the discs of formed polymer that my eyes were jet black streaked with faint milky white lines. The white lines were not something I liked to think about. They had started developing about two decades ago, and slowly, but relentlessly covered about a third of each eye. Contacts were completely indispensible now.
Next, I did a quick check over my exposed flesh. Face, around the neck, and hands where all that were not covered by the custom Armani suit. Mortal eyes would not perceive the extent of the scarring that crisscrossed my middle-aged face. They saw only faint lines.
The scars were the first thing another of my kind would notice, of course; they were the legacy of hundreds of battles with my own kind and the Children of the Moon. They were a constant reminder of my blood-soaked legacy.
I turned my attention to the skin beneath the scars. Perhaps even more horrifying to me than my clouding eyes were the patches of skin becoming thin and translucent on my body. So far, limbs were primarily affected, but in time, I was sure an area not covered by normal mortal clothing would be affected.
A thought of pure weakness came over me then, sickening me. If I became too much like them, I might ask the Volturi to destroy me. Caius would be more than willing. All too willing, I was sure. What little I remembered of my mortal father told me that he would certainly not approve of this line of thought at all. Even though I couldn’t remember his name or face anymore, I knew that he had taught me that a warrior always goes down fighting, even if victory were not possible. I also knew, however, that he could have possibly foreseen that path I ended up taking. He couldn’t have seen the hundreds, no thousands that were going to die by my hand. The thousands more that were going to die indirectly because of my decisions. Men, women, children……….
The miniature Glockenspiel on my desk announced that the four o’clock hour had arrived. This immediately broke my previous train of thought and pulled me into the task at hand. I was being driven to distraction way too often lately.
I pulled the Gasprom file from my desk and quickly glanced over it. Russia was an emerging market, yet held tremendous potential. But the Russian state, in general, was not good on making the most of its potential during normal times. I knew. I had watched the ugly, brutal state evolve from the lowly Duchy of Muscovy under the heel of the Mongols to a global superpower first hand. I also knew that the whole lot of them underperformed without a dire, direct threat. Of course, I also had personal, intimate knowledge of what befell a nation who DID directly threaten them. Germany had went down that route and paid a horrific cost.
I ended that train of thought as I heard Katarina announce, “Herr Raginhart will see you now.”
I decided this whole venture they were about to present to me all came down to whether I thought Putin could keep Russia stable enough to get a return on my investment. Putin, the new Tsar of Russia.
I was still indexing factors both for and against Putin being effective into the near future when they came in. The delegation consisted of two men, one tall and obviously of Scandinavian ancestry; the other, short, moderately overweight and very Slavic and a blonde woman, whom most mortal men would consider very attractive. I immediately determined her to be true ringleader of this group, based off the subtle body language between her and the other two men. I wondered if the Gasprom brass really thought that sending a female as lead negotiator would net them a better result. After another moment of thinking, I surmised I would try it myself. History had shown that men would do foolish things around the right women. If only I were still a man.
The blond greeted me with a very business-like, “Greetings, Herr Raginhart, I assume we should set up our presentation on that table over there?” She gestured to the large meeting table to my left.
Due to the ventilation system I had had installed in my office, all fans blew air out into the foyer, but with her close proximity, her scent hit me in full force. It was nothing special, really. It was easy enough to resist the urge to my position of power in these negotiations to get her alone after the meeting and drain her dry. I was done with killing. That part of my life was over. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
The incredible burn in my throat vehemently disagreed. Today it felt like a blast furnace. Some days were better than others, and this was not a good day. The burn was greatly enhanced by my extremely limited diet of human blood. I was very good at ignoring pain, perhaps even masterful. But today the burn still distracted me enough that I was unable to sound as charming as I would have liked.
“Yes, of course,” I smoothly replied in Russian. “In fact, rearrange the room in any way you need. Oh, and here is the key for the building’s wireless network.” I handed them a sheet containing the wireless password. I changed it weekly. One could never be too careful in the modern age of computers. Mortals were very……..enterprising nowadays. Especially in these last couple of centuries.
“Your Russian is excellent, Herr Raginhart,” she commented while her two companions set up the presentation equipment. “I don’t remember your dossier mentioning that you spent any time in the Ukraine, though.”
Had I used a Ukrainian accent? I must have. The burning was going to be a bigger problem today than I thought. I recovered quickly, however; even in my weakened state my mind was more than up to the task.
“My Russian tutor was from the Ukraine,” I smoothly lied. “I’m sure I picked up the accent from him.” In reality, I had spent a two decade span in that area hunting Children of the Moon and other trouble makers for the Volturi. Back in the pre-Demetri days, when finding someone was difficult for the Volturi guard. They were so proud of their little toy, Demetri.
“Ah, that explains it, then.” She seemed to accept that answer. “Shall we begin? I think you will find our proposal most compelling.”
I smiled as I sat down at the meeting table. I had already read multiple reports on Gasprom’s latest project. Or some would call it a scheme. It was a plan to utilize cutting edge technology to get a newly-discovered oil reserve in desolate Siberia. Like the project’s many critics, I found myself very skeptical of Russia’s ability to develop the proper infrastructure to properly execute such a plan.
I had to admit, though, they had quite a persuasive presentation. At least as much of it I was paying attention to over the thirst. None of my kind had ever tried this before. None had ever had the combination of the control necessary to resist the lure of warm, quenching blood a mere four meters away and the desire to no longer murder humans for food. At least none that I knew of. Perhaps it had been attempted in antiquity, but I had not been able to recover any meaningful research. I had not discussed this with even Aro, as I was really not interested in THEIR take on the idea. There was always Vasily, a vampire a I knew to be at least as old as the Volturi, but he was………erratic to say the least. And dangerous. I avoided him at all costs.
Still, I was still faced with the fact that the diet was causing problems. I couldn’t acquire any more blood without drawing scrutiny from mortal authorities and that was the LAST thing I needed in my life.
At some point during the presentation, I realized I had already decided to support their project. It was somewhat of a long shot, but it had been a good fifteen years since I had went for anything that remotely resembled a long shot. Maybe I was just making the decision that I knew the Volturi would not. The safe bet. Was I so reduced to such a state that I was making decisions like an adolescent mortal? Perhaps. But perhaps I was just bored of sure things, and the inevitability in perceived in so many events in the world.
Their surprise was palatable when I rendered my verdict. 200 million Euro was a lot of money, but to me, it was just a number. Even if the venture failed completely, the money was easily replaceable with more conservative, predictable projects. A five year setback for me at worst; to my sense of time it might as well be a week’s setback. They thanked me profusely, and I had Katarina show them out after they had repacked their presentation equipment.
After the double doors to the foyer were closed, I quickly removed the accursed contacts from my eyes. They were so very irritating, even after all these years. I sat back at my desk, and opened the drawer that contained my sheet music for cello. My desk was full of non-work related items, as everything of importance to my business was either computerized or in my head. I searched for something a bit more upbeat. Risking large sums of mortal money was a small thrill in the scheme of things, but it was the most audacious thing I’d done in over a decade. I was still searching, being indecisive (a rarity for me; indecision was a horrible quality in a warrior), when my intercom buzzed to life again.
“Herr Raginhart? Mr. Tamaguchi is here to see you.” Katarina sounded as confused as I did.
Tamaguchi? He was a venture partner from Japan. Even with my mind not working at 100% vampiric capacity, I knew my next meeting with him was months away. I very much enjoyed Mr. Tamaguchi’s company and knew all our meeting dates for the next five years.
I quickly cycled through possible scenarios for his arrival, but I came up with nothing. He was a very formal person. Not even the death of a loved one would cause him to break convention. He LIVED convention. And it was after regular business hours. Very unusual.
“Send him in,” I requested in what I was sure was a perplexed tone. It was getting so easy for my feelings to bleed through into my voice, especially in the last five years. I found myself flipping through my personal meeting dates on my computer, praying that I had not slipped further than I thought.
As soon as I made the request, my senses were assaulted by a wave of sensation that I had not experienced in over sixty years, and certainly not under the influence of my new diet. Before I could even look up from my computer, I heard the sound of my double doors shattering. I heard a thump thump emanate from the foyer. Part of my brain registered this as the sound that a silenced pistol made. 9mm to be precise. The last sensation came all too late, unfortunately. I smelled the sweet, sickly scent that my own kind gave off. I would have smelled it much sooner if it were not for my “clever” ventilation system.
About this time, I looked up from my computer to see what was going on, and that was when the first magnesium round hit me right in the chest.
Hehehe... 
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