Chapter Text
— N O W —
The dim red glow at the end of his cigarette was the only thing giving away Wilbur’s position in the dark of the night. He was huddled up on a rooftop, pressed against a chimney for balance as he kept watch. A handful of cigarette butts littered the shingles near his feet, evidence of how long this stake-out had lasted already – and, perhaps, also evidence that he smoked too much, these days.
His back and shoulders ached from staying still for so long and fatigue was starting to make his eyelids feel heavy. Yet he stayed where he was, determined not to screw this up.
Again.
The well-worn photograph he kept safely tucked away inside the breast pocket of his trench coat burned a hole into his chest, right above his heart. Unable to resist the urge to torture himself, Wilbur put his cigarette between his lips and pulled the photo from his pocket. With great care bordering on reverence, he unfolded it, smoothing out its creases in his hands.
It was too dark outside to make out every minute detail, but it didn’t matter. Wilbur had stared at this picture so often he’d memorized it.
Tommy had been around twelve years old or so when this photo was taken. His blond curls were in total disarray and a huge, shit-eating grin filled his face from cheek to cheek. Wilbur was in the picture, too, at the peak of his angst-filled, awkward teenage years, with long, gangly limbs and a skinny frame. He was smiling as well, but not by choice – Tommy was hanging off his back and had his hands on Wilbur’s cheeks, forcefully pulling them into a smile.
Just thinking about that day made Wilbur feel as if someone had reached into his chest to squeeze his heart in an iron grip.
Tommy was seventeen, now, and would be turning eighteen soon. He’d gone missing months ago, at this point, and they’d been desperately trying to find him since.
Sometimes, Wilbur wondered if he was even still alive.
A cold gust of wind made him shiver. He put the photo back into his pocket and then pulled his trench coat more tightly around himself. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, Wilbur returned his attention to his task – watching the back exit of the exclusive gentlemen’s club Phil, Techno and he were staking out tonight. They suspected its owner, Schlatt, to be heavily involved in the widespread illegal blood-trafficking ring that kept the wealthy vampires of this country comfortably fed.
Schlatt was rumored to be a real piece of work, but tonight, he was not their target. No, they had bigger fish to fry.
Their target was—
“Dream is on the move,” Phil’s voice suddenly spoke inside his head, aided by the enchanted earrings they all wore. “And he’s headed your way, Wil. Look sharp.”
“Got it,” Wilbur replied, pulling a series of glass vials from the potion bandolier he wore attached to his belt. He downed their contents in quick succession, grimacing at the way the foul-tasting liquid burned down his throat and then lit his veins on fire. With sharpened vision unbothered by the darkness of night, Wilbur glanced down into the street below.
A horse-drawn carriage had just pulled up at the club’s back exit, and with a powerful jolt of hatred coursing through him, Wilbur watched as a man wearing a forest-green three-piece-suit and a featureless mask carved from ivory entered the carriage.
Dream.
The carriage began to move. With gritted teeth and a grim look of determination plastered onto his face, Wilbur gave chase. He jumped from rooftop to rooftop with potion-induced strength and heightened agility, keeping pace easily.
That is, of course, until he stepped on a loose shingle.
With a surprised yelp, Wilbur went sliding down the roof. He attempted to catch himself on the edge of the rain gutter but fumbled his grip. Unable to slow his descent, Wilbur fell off the roof and landed on the cobblestone pavement beneath with a sickening crack.
Everything went black.