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25/02/2026 8:17 pm
Posted for The Good Father
The Haven’s Tower
The office was lit only by the glow of a brass desk bankers lamp, the warm amber light pooling across neat stacks of paperwork, some correspondence from the New York Archdiocese, and a Cristal D’Arques crystal decanter of blood resting, untouched, at Father Callahan’s elbow.
The heavy wooden door eased open, and Renfield stepped inside. He was still in his driver’s attire, jacket slightly rumpled, his pale face drawn tight with unease. His hands fidgeted at his sides, as if he already knew what was coming.
Father Callahan did not look up immediately. He slowly sat upright, and adjusted his cufflinks with measured calm. Then, he finally raised his gaze — dark, steady, commanding.
“Renfield. Let us speak frankly. Where is my car?”
The ghoul swallowed, his throat bobbing.
“Father, I — well, you see, Bastanji insisted… he said it wasn’t safe. That the Inquisition… that they saw us leaving Saint Paul’s. He was certain they’d marked the car.”
Callahan fully leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before him, his expression unreadable.
“You allowed another to take possession of what is mine? My Rolls Royce. My sanctuary on wheels. My sanguine sacrament, stored beneath the leather. All of it… now gone.”
His voice was calm, but it carried that Lasombra weight. Like a shadowed resonance that made the air in the room feel heavier.
Renfield’s face flushed with shame.
“I… I didn’t want to, Father. But Bastanji, he — he said it was for your protection. He swore it was the only way. He took the keys before I could think. And… and I let him.”
Callahan rose slowly, the leather of his chair sighing as he pushed it back. He moved with a deliberate, predatory grace, each step of his pristine oxfords echoing, momentarily, like a slowly-ticking metronome across the marble floor.
Callahan: “You… just let him?”
Renfield lowered his eyes. “Yes, Father.”
For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy as stone. Then Callahan exhaled through his nose, his tone both cutting and cool.
“It was a custom car, Renfield. A piece of history. An… irreplaceable… piece of history.”
“I understand Father. All I can do is beg your pardon and accept your discipline.”
Callahan continued, clearly with no consideration for Renfield’s words… “And yet, perhaps… Bastanji was not wrong.”
Renfield’s eyes darted up in surprise.
“The Inquisition knows too much already. That vehicle, for all its elegance, drew eyes. I cannot afford eyes upon me. Still…” He leaned forward slightly, his shadow seeming to stretch unnaturally across the desk. “Kneel before me, and listen to me very carefully, Renfield.”
The ghoul comes closer and nervously kneels in front of the Lasombra. Ready to accept whatever comes next.
“You are mine!”
“You… Are MY Ghoul. MY servant! And you will never surrender what belongs to me without my consent again. Do you understand?”
Renfield nodded quickly, almost trembling.
“Yes, Father. Never again. I swear it.”
“Do you really understand, my servant? You are mine. You do not belong to Bastanji. You do not belong to anyone else. You belong to me. Your blood is mine, your breath is mine. You… only… exist… to serve me!”
The priest’s words hung, oppressively, in the silence of the room, as the metronome of steps made their way back to the desk and sat down.
“Good.”
Renfield was now trembling visibly as he awaited whatever form of swift discipline awaited him.
Callahan studied him a moment longer before sitting back, the tension easing, though never vanishing.
“You may rise, Renfield.”
“Yes, Father.” Renfield rose to his feet, arms in front, fingers laced, and head down.
“Now, then. We must look forward. I will require a new car.” Callhan’s tone was calm, even.
Happy the conversation had suddenly taken on a different tone, Renfield began… “Yes, Father. Of course. I… I thought perhaps, given the new danger, we might consider something less conspicuous. A newer model. A luxury sedan. Mercedes. BMW. Something that blends in with the Manhattan elite.”
Callahan tapped a finger against his chin, considering. His lips curved in a faint, amused smile.
“Practical. A form of modern camouflage.”
He opened a drawer in his desk, reached in, and pulled out a slim leather wallet. He slid a black metal card across the polished surface toward Renfield.
“Take this. Acquire something suitable. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing that announces itself. Leather and wood interior. Room enough for passengers. And Renfield…”
The ghoul picked up the card with careful hands, nodding. “Yes, Father?”
“Be certain there is space for another fridge. I will not be without my necessities.”
Renfield gave a quick, relieved smile and bowed his head.
“Understood, Father. I’ll see it done at once.”
Callahan poured himself a glass from the decanter, the blood catching the lamplight like dark garnet. He swirled it idly as he watched Renfield back toward the door.
“Do not fail me again, Renfield. I forgive once. But only once.”
Renfield froze at the threshold, spine stiff, then nodded quickly before slipping out into the hall.
The door shut softly behind him, leaving Callahan alone with the amber light, his thoughts, and the faint taste of iron on his tongue.
This topic was modified 2 months ago by Dorym
Topic starter
25/02/2026 11:43 pm
Posted for Bastenji
The Night before…..
Operation Party Favor
A Night with Renfield
3:00 AM — St. Brigid’s, East 87th Street
It was the kind of night where the streetlamps leaned in close, like they were trying to hear secrets.
The Rolls sat purring at the curb — midnight-blue, mid-century lines you could shave with, leather seats that had heard more confessions than the Father himself.
I was keeping the engine warm when I heard it.
Not gunfire — not yet. Something worse. A soft hiss that didn’t belong in the New York night.
The Red Mist.
They say it strips the unlife right out of a vampire, leaves them coughing up their own blood while the rest of the world keeps on breathing. Inquisition’s favorite party trick. And judging by the way it rolled out the side vents of the church, someone inside had just pulled the pin.
Then came the fire alarm. Screaming in the cold air. A warning, a lure, and a countdown all rolled into one.
The Side Exit
The main doors were already being swallowed by black armor and mirrored visors. The cross-and-sword logo caught the light like the devil’s own seal.
That’s when the side door cracked open — a forgotten exit for forgotten saints.
Out came Father Calahan, coat flapping like a battered flag. Bastanji right behind him, carrying the Spanish girl like she weighed less than the smoke in the air. Her skin was wet with Vitae, eyes glassy. Bastanji looked like the Mist had crawled inside his lungs and made itself at home.
I popped the doors. They piled in.
3:07 AM — The Drop
Two turns later, Bastanji leaned in, voice low and final.
“They’ve got the car in their sights. Drop us here. Destroy it.”
The Father, the girl, Bastanji — they vanished into the shadows, an Uber scooping them up before the taillights had faded.
I was left with the Rolls. And the order.
Southbound
The Lincoln Tunnel was the plan, but plans are for people who don’t have shadows in their mirrors.
Two of them. Black SUVs. No plates. The kind that roll quiet until the shooting starts.
I cut west, down a street where the only witnesses were rats and old newspapers. The SUVs ghosted past. I didn’t relax.
The Cowboy
Chelsea. That’s where I met him — rhinestones under the streetlight, grinning like he knew I was running from something.
“Nice ride. Going downtown?”
I should’ve said no. I didn’t. He slid into the backseat, smelling like bad liquor and worse decisions.
“I know a shortcut,” he said, pointing to an unmarked brick door.
The Red Room
Inside: red lights, cigarette haze, the bassline of a heart you couldn’t trust. Faces came and went in the smoke — some laughing, some watching too closely.
I stuck to the bar, eyes on the exits. That’s when the cowboy came back, pale and grinning.
“Your keys. That guy just took your keys.”
The Chase
Tall guy in denim vest, moving fast. I followed him out into the wet street. He tossed the keys to someone leaning out of a cab, and just like that, my night got stupid.
A Citi Bike was leaning against a lamppost. I didn’t think — just rode. The cab led me across the Hudson, into the kind of dockyards where the fog tastes like rust.
The Warehouse
The cab was empty. The warehouse wasn’t.
She was there — short, stocky, Giants hoodie, spinning the Rolls’ keys like she’d been waiting for me.
“You Liam’s guy?” she asked.
I nodded.
She tossed me the keys. “Car’s too nice to lose to amateurs.”
The Lot
By dawn, I found my stage — cracked asphalt behind an old textile mill in Newark.
From the trunk, I took the only things that mattered: a worn leather Bible, a crowbar, a manila envelope stamped Operation Party Favor.
The rest? Gasoline, match, fire. The Rolls went up slow, like it didn’t want to leave. The chrome bent in on itself, the leather gave up a sigh, and then it was gone.
I pocketed the Bible, kept the envelope under my arm. The sun was coming up, bleeding pale light into the sky.
A delivery van pulled up. Driver leaned out. “Need a lift?”
I thought about the Mist. About the Inquisition. About the side door no one had used in years.
“Yeah,” I said, climbing in. “Midtown.”
