I'd been hanging around London for weeks now, hoping to find Charlotte, or at least that she'd find me. Well, not so much the latter—I definitely wanted the element of surprise on my side, and not hers. Self-preservation and all that. Word around town from other demons was that she was probably affiliated with the Circle of the Purity Scroll, a group dating from ancient Rome that sought to rid the world of demonic beings. They were a pretty shadowy bunch, though, and no one seemed to know anything about them having a significant presence in London. I was beginning to think she had been here simply to deal with Ellison, but even if that were the case, I would have been surprised if she hadn't stuck around knowing I was in town.
In any case, a girl's gotta eat. As per my usual MO, I'd been preying on either real scumbags, the kind of people that deserved to die, or on hard-luck cases: those with terminal illnesses or who were about to kill themselves. Cancer support groups were always a good place to find someone. In fact, attending them was part of my strategy to find Charlotte. I thought she might put two and two together, after what I'd told her, and realize these would be a prime spot for me. But so far, no luck. I struck out in the feeding department as well; the only men at the meeting were some combination of old, fat, and gross. No poor souls being cut down in the prime of life.
It had been a week now since my last feeding, though, so I was getting pretty desperate. I'd heard rumors of a sex club controlled by the Russian mafia. Real sick stuff; kidnapped Eastern European girls that upper-class twits would spend hundreds of thousand of pounds to rape and torture to death. Through some well-placed cash outlays of my own (when you're twelve-hundred years old, money isn't much of an issue; you've had plenty of time to make some solid investments) I got a line on a girl who was being taken off a cargo ship and sent to wherever this place was.
I got down to the docks just in time; she was going willingly enough. Probably thought all she had to do was some porn or prostitution, the poor thing. I was hoping they were going to load her into the back of a van or something, from where I could have taken her place unseen, but she was just riding in the back seat of a BMW 750. There was a driver and one other guy riding shotgun. I followed them instead, keeping to the rooftops as much as possible. Eventually the car turned into an underground parking garage in Acton. I scrambled down to the street and down the ramp just in time to see the three of them get into an elevator. It stopped at the fourth floor of what was a five-story building. Back up to the roof then. I figured they had at least the top two floors. The operation probably was largely a conventional brothel, with, I assumed, one or two "special" rooms for the rough stuff. It wasn't a particularly new idea. Anywhere there was too much money and too many easy thrills bred a market for this sort of thing. London, in particular, had a long history of sexual sacrifice. Let's just say Jack the Ripper didn't happen in a vacuum. But that's a story for another time.
The doorway on the roof was well-secured. The locks wouldn't have been too much of a problem, but the alarms certainly were. I made my way around the side of the building along the fifth floor, peering into what windows weren't fully covered. It was, as I had suspected, an ordinary brothel. As far as I could tell, though, each window was alarmed. The fourth floor was more of the same, until I came to room with an open window. There was one man inside, sitting in front of a bank of video monitors. He was absentmindedly stroking his cock, his pants unbuckled and pulled down just enough to give him access. A security guy, no doubt, but when you've got nothing to look at but grainy cam footage of people fucking, I guess it's easy enough to lose your focus. He wasn't the one I wanted, but I was awfully hungry. Before he knew what was happening, I had straddled him, slipping my cunt right over his erect member.
He started to say, "What the hell are..." (in Russian -- 1200 years gives you lots of time to learn languages, too) but was soon overcome by the intense pleasure he was feeling as I pushed down onto him. He was actually pretty big, and I say that as a girl who's not easily impressed. Nor was he bad looking. He had made some poor career choices, though. I began to grind into him, pushing him deeper into my cunt, moving my hips in a circular motion. The sense of fullness his cock was giving me was nice, to say the least, and in any case I wasn't in much of a mood to take my time. I focused my mind on the sensation of his hot, engorged cock sliding in and out of me, and in a few seconds I was coming -- which meant that he was, too, a few seconds after that. As usual, the sensations he was experiencing made the fact that I had suddenly turned bright red and grown horns and a tail not all that important to him. As his life force spurted into me for the next two or three minutes, his body wracked with an unknowable and unimaginable pleasure even as he passed from this world, I came again, the spasms of my vagina squeezing out his excess ejaculate that, pooling up, began to make a loud squelching sound as I continued to move up and down on his nearly exhausted body. His eyes were wide with wonder as the last of his soul dribbled from his cock. As I climbed off of him, his body fell off the chair onto the floor.
I quickly cleaned up with a fistful of tissues and started to examine the video monitors. There were several BDSM-themed rooms with various accoutrements -- sawhorses, shackles embedded into the walls, floggers, and the like. But outside of the décor, they were just ordinary rooms, except for one. This one looked medical or clinical, all white tile, with a padded leather thing that was half-chair, half-bed, and all sinister. It was either for people with a serious medical fetish, or it was the torture room -- much easier to clean up blood. The monitor was labeled 404, so I figured it was on the fourth floor, same as me. There was no one in the room, yet.
I was pretty well sated, hunger-wise, after that, which of course diminished my biological imperative to feed but nevertheless left me with something of a dilemma. Here was a group of evil men, doing very bad things. I could, probably, one by one, go through the place and fuck each one to death. That seemed kind of wasteful, though, when I knew I could keep coming back here every time I got hungry. But then there was the problem of the girls. Sure, I could get the one who was heading for the torture room out of there, but they'd just send another one in her place. I could try to get them all out of there, but I'm just one person and I can't solve every problem in the world. It was time to come up with a plan.
I spent thirty minutes or so watching the video monitors. There were maybe ten or twelve girls active at any one time. There were two rooms that were dormitories, with a dozen or so beds in each room. There seemed to be eight guys around the place, five on this floor and three upstairs. Two of them on the 4th floor were ensconced in an office; the rest seemed to be guards. There were also two guys downstairs at the elevator in the garage, doormen more or less, and a woman who went back and forth, escorting clients up to the girls. One of the two guys in the office went out and checked on this or that every few minutes; the other never seemed to get out from behind his desk. Probably the head guy. I slipped down the hall to what I figured was the office. I figured right.
"Who are you?" the number two man asked, in Russian. The whole conversation was going to be in Russian. I addressed myself not to him, but to the man behind the desk.
"I'm from Sergei," I said. There's always a Sergei somewhere higher up. "A gift for the both of you. For your hard work." I started to take off my shirt.
