Stevan McRay

Intro

• "A vampire enforcer standing between humanity and the excesses of the undead"

• Basic Info

  • Name: Stevan McRay
  • Gender: Male
  • Nicknames: Stevie Ray
  • Race: Vampire
  • Age: 849
  • Body Type: Athletic/Muscular
  • Height: 6'
  • Weight: 220
  • Complexion: Pale
  • Hair: Black
  • Eyes: Green
  • Handedness: Right
  • Personality: Stevan is quiet but friendly, prone to gallows humor during stressful times

• Description

  Stevan is six feet tall, with an athletic build that tends toward muscular. He has short black hair and green eyes. His arms and the back of his shoulders are covered in tattoos of religious imagery and Scottish heraldry.

• Character Preview

  ((A little short story set in Stevan's intended setting. Violence and language throughout. Reader discretion advised))
  
  
  Crack The Sky
  
  Chicago was not an easy place to live. However, as it turned out, being dead in Chicago was exceedingly easy. Especially if the vampire in question couldn't be bothered to follow the rules laid down by his brethren. Rife with violent crime, in direct contradiction to the stiff firearms laws, Chicago was the perfect backdrop for disappearances of a less mundane nature. Who was going notice a few more corpses?
  
  It was Stevan McRay's job to notice, and had been so for close to seven hundred years. In rare moments of suspended modesty, the undead Scotsman had to admit that he was getting pretty good at it. The Priory of Malleus existed as a law unto itself within vampire society. Meant to function as impartial investigators and enforcers, it's members were both feared and respected, as they answered directly to the Oland Council, and would be the ones to come for you if you stepped out of line. Being an immortal creature of the night came with a peculiar set of limitations.
  
  Stevan, born Steafan MacRae eight-hundred and forty-eight years before, cut an intimidating figure. He was six feet tall and built like a tank, his body frozen in time after three years of swinging a broadsword in the name of Christ during the Third Crusade, his dark hair still shorn almost to the scalp to better fit a helm he'd taken off for the last time in 1192 AD. Dark shades hid pale green eyes, and a collarless leather jacket hid the tools of his trade: blades and pistols. Dark green cargo pants and combat boots completed what amounted to his work uniform, along with his badge of office pinned inside his jacket. Blood tattoos, in such a dark shade of red as to appear black, peeked out from his sleeves, the insane patchwork of Celtic religious imagery and Scottish heraldry starting at the knuckles of his bare hands and cresting across the back of his broad shoulders. As with the human version, the process was lengthy and painful, since permanently scarring a race known for rapidly healing flesh was a science all to itself.
  
  Having access to police records was extremely helpful to the kind of investigations Stevan was involved in, and it was a slew of missing persons reports from around the North Eastern United States that led him to this dark basement nightclub in the industrial section of Chicago. The music was dubstep, for some unfathomable reason, and Stevan winced inwardly. Some of it could be good. Most of it was very, very bad. Especially to a pair of ears that could hear a human heartbeat in the woods from a quarter of a mile away. "What I wouldn't give for some proper Trance..." he muttered, the very faint trace of his old Glasgow accent returning suddenly to betray his agitation. It had to be done however, so Stevan trotted down the steps and waded into the crowd.
  
  The club had no name, as a hedge against people talking openly about it. So it was generally referred to as "nowhere", or the really clever folks would talk of it abstractly, saying they'd "disappeared for the night." This was not just a club owned and run by vampires... it was a vampire club. The distinction was important in Stevan's mind, because it meant that the occupants were almost all vampires. There were blood dolls and thralls inside, of course, for no vampire of means would be caught in public without his retainers and hangers-on, but the air vibrated inside the place in that curious way it did when several dozen vampires gathered together in one place. This raised the possibility of complications to almost certain.
  
  Stevan McRay was not well known in Chicago. His reputation on the West Coast as being a fair but tenacious investigator had not quite traveled this far East. Stevan didn't mind that, as it could make things easier. But this was a dancefloor full of vampires. With their intense pack mentality, vampires were notoriously adversarial, and tended to regard any unknown element as a possible threat. This fact explained the hostile looks Stevan drew, and the vampires that moved to block his way outright. With a sigh, Stevan flipped open the lapel of his leather jacket, exposing the tiny, silver, hammer-and-anvil device pinned to the inside, marking him as a member of the Priory of Malleus. Like Moses and his staff, the sea of vampires began to part, most with respectful nods, but with more than a few threatening growls. There was a fine line between fear and respect: they'd both follow you into hell, but fear would shove you through the gates as soon as your back was turned.
  
  At the bar, the club's host, a tall, cadaverously slender vampire, was holding court with a bevy of undead groupies. Stevan let his fist thump against the bar. "Gonna need a word with you, sport."
  
  The vampire seemed to twitch, and slowly turn toward him, as if he'd just noticed dog shit on his boot. "Say, man, I don't know who you think you are talking-- Aw, hell," the host cut himself off when he got a good look at Stevan, clapping a hand to his shiny bald head, and waving the women away from the bar. Trench, as he called himself, was one of the few vampires in Chicago that knew who Stevan was and what he looked like.
  
  "Jesus, McRay. I didn't even recognize you, doing that accent and all." Trench said, stepping close to try and keep their conversation between them.
  
  Stevan just shook his head. "Doesn't pay to get noticed in my line of work. Americans have a peculiar sense of xenophobia for a country claiming to be a melting pot of culture. Better I should fit in."
  
  Trench looked around nervously. "Well, speaking of your line of work, we're a long way from L.A., man. Aren't you out of your jurisdiction or something?"
  
  Stevan gave him a grin full of fangs. "The Hammer's jurisdiction ends somewhere between here and the moon, Trench. But I have good news and bad news."
  
  Trench blanched. "Oh great..."
  
  Stevan walked around the bar and clapped the man on his bony shoulder. "Good news is, I'm not here for you."
  
  Trench gasped in relief and seemed to slump against the bar. Then he looked up. "What's the bad news?"
  
  "I'm looking for your boss, David Schwartz. I need to talk to him about some... odd purchases he's been making."
  
  Trench seemed to close up, and that was exactly what Stevan was looking for. "Mr. Schwartz is out of town I'm afraid. On business, in Boston. I'm sure you could catch him if you headed that way... I could put him in contact with--"
  
  "No, that's not necessary. Really just gonna have to take a look at his office, look through some of his records." Stevan started toward the door. "It's just back here, right?"
  
  Trench, in a panic, blinked across the space between the bar and the door, insinuating himself between Stevan and the office. "I really can't let you go back there without him here... I'm sorry. He'd have to be with you before I could--"
  
  Stevan sighed heavily, and a wave of tension seemed to work it's way up from his ankles and into his arms, changing his stance to something more predatory. "Trench. My boy. You know what's a sure-fire way to make me really suspicious about a place I'm trying to see?"
  
  Trench locked his arms against the doorframe, all pretense gone. "You don't understand. If I let you back here, I'm dead. Schwartz would pump me full of silver and leave me on the roof till morning..."
  
  Stevan slowly took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his jacket pocket, his emerald glare boring into Trench's face. "You have any idea what would happen to you if I released information suggesting that you had something to do with the Portland Coup of '94?"
  
  Trench, seemed to deflate and shrink back from the door. "Well I know why Ticks calls you Stevie Ray, now."
  
  Stevan smiled as he snapped the lock on the door. "And why's that?"
  
  Trench smirked and started gathering his things to leave. "Because you're always in a 'Rude Mood'."
  
  Stevan barked a laugh. "So your music tastes aren't entirely shite. Congratulations." Stevan's voice became icy. "I'd be out of town by dawn, by the way."
  
  He put his shoulder into the door and pushed.
  
  Past the door the atmosphere changed. The pounding music from the club was muffled considerably, as if the office were soundproofed. Then Stevan noticed the filing cabinet pulled out from the wall. Reaching for it, Stevan realized that the filing cabinet was locked onto a track that allowed it to slide silently out of the way of a hidden door in the wall. Ducking through and onto a concrete stairway, Stevan slipped down into the depths.
  
  The passage finally opened into a subterranean grotto lit by candles and torches. The air hung heavy with the smell of incense and blood, with the faint, ugly aftertaste of urine and less pleasant material. Stevan felt a low growl rise in his chest and headed for the center of the room, set up like an altar, with a line of five concrete slabs. On each slab lay a human body, surrounded and attended to by vampires in ochre colored robes daubed with blood. Stevan reached under his jacket and withdrew the pair of wakizashi short swords he carried, each folded-steel blade parkerized black, except for the tempered cutting edges, which were inlaid with silver.
  
  With a flourish, Stevan called out, his voice a growling burr, his accent reasserting itself as his anger mounted.
  
  "Service is cut short, fellas." The priests turned toward him, but he was already in amongst them, blades slicing and stabbing. Vampires screamed and burned as silver-plated steel sliced through necks and torsos, removing heads and bisecting hearts. Flaming skeletons collapsed into smoldering ash as Stevan ripped through them. Only the first few fell without resistance, as the others reacted quickly, leaping forward with weapons drawn.
  
  Stevan had no more strength or speed than the other vampires, but where the cultists' lives had been spent on arcane pursuits, Stevan's had been spent studying the arts of war. Running through a torso and impaling a heart was as much muscle memory for him as walking. Experience made him unstoppable, and soon it was just Stevan, David Schwartz, four dead humans, a dozen piles of ash, and the cultists' last victim.
  
  David Schwartz was drenched in blood. Black-crimson stains covered once ochre robes, and turned the vampire's hair into a matted mess. Stevan's lips pulled back from his fangs in disgust. Schwartz was short of stature, and physically small, with a countenance that looked like it had been assembled out of the spare parts of serial killers all over the world. The truth was probably not that far off. Grinning like a shark, baring his fangs, Schwartz stood over the last human sacrifice, ceremonial kris knife held high and ready.
  
  "Stand firm, dutiful Prior. Or this precious blood-calf will be sent to join Lortho in the Void." His voice was high and hoarse, as if he'd been screaming, and it dipped and cracked, telling Stevan that he wasn't entirely in control of himself.
  
  Looking around, Stevan noticed that the other sacrificial subjects had all been ritualistically carved up, the first woman missing her eyes, the second man with his tongue cut out, the third with his nasal cavity hollowed out, the forth with his ears dug out... and each human with broken breast bones and missing hearts. The last man was awake, breathing shallowly, with smaller knives arrayed around him. Stevan guessed that this last victim would be flayed, corresponding to the sense of touch. The Cult of Lortho, thought to have been wiped out during the Purge of 1925, alive and well under a nightclub in Chicago.
  
  "Son of a bitch..." Stevan muttered, and slowly sheathed his swords across his back. "Listen, Schwartz. You haven't crossed the Rubicon yet. You can still get out of this with your skin intact. But if you kill this last guy, my hands will be tied." A lie by any measure, but Stevan had to play for time now.
  
  If anything, Schwartz's smile got wider. "Your hands have been tied for an eternity, Inquisitor. You will always be at the mercy of Father Lortho and his loyal servants. This generous supplicant lying here was dead before you even knew where to find him."
  
  Stevan’s eyes widened and he felt his hackles rise at the loaded term "Inquisitor". Of all the disparaging names brought to bear against the Priory of Malleus, "inquisition" was the most inflammatory. Their founder, the legendary Swedish blacksmith Magnus Jarnholm, was believed to have died in battle with the Spanish Inquisition in the 16th Century, though no one had been able to confirm it. It was tantamount to accusing a human World War II veteran of acting like a Nazi.
  
  Stevan growled, low and dangerous. "I just changed my mind. You're gonna die no matter how this turns out, you nutbag piece of shit--"
  
  Schwartz barked a laugh and drove his knife into the human's abdomen. At the same instant, Stevan's Springfield XD 45 snapped up from under his jacket and cranked a silver jacketed slug through Schwartz's heart. The priest screamed in surprise and then his body collapsed, burning into ash. Holstering his pistol and rushing forward, he got to the human and pulled out the knife just as he started to convulse.
  
  "Shit... Stay with me, kid." Reaching into his pocket and pulling out his Gerber pocket knife, Stevan shoved the sleeve of his jacket up and sliced his wrist, letting the blood pour forth and dribble into the human's mouth. Choking and sputtering at first, the man finally swallowed a good gulp, and then began to lap eagerly at Stevan's wrist. Stevan watched until the wound in his belly started to close itself, and then snatched his wrist away. "That's enough. I don't have procreation rights in this town."
  
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
  Four hours later, Stevan sat watching a Priory agent interview the human, a cubicle jockey named Josh Munson, and digging through all the information they'd collected about David Schwartz and where he was getting his human subjects. One of his associates, a sometime partner named Hunter Morris, sat next to him.
  
  "So Chicago's baron isn't real happy with you stomping around his turf turning his subjects into potting soil." Morris said with a laugh.
  
  Stevan sniffed. "Maybe if the guy paid more attention to his subjects he'd be on the council proper, instead of a House of Commons wannabe."
  
  Hunter snickered nastily. He was short and bullnecked, with a blazing shock of red hair. If Stevan didn't know for a fact that he was born a Shaker in Pleasant Hill, Kentucky in 1833, he would swear that Hunter had stumbled onto a boat out of Belfast. Stevan had never seen the man go longer than ten minutes without a smile on his face.
  
  "So your boy here tells us he got snatched on the way home from work in the Manhattan financial district. Apparently he's some kind of CPA or high-end number cruncher for a brokerage firm in New York. They had his brains scrambled pretty good. The only reason we got through it this fast was because of the shot of blood you gave him. He wasn't far enough gone to cross over, by the way. He'll feel like a million bucks for a few days and then he'll be back to normal."
  
  Stevan nodded. "What else did we get?"
  
  "Well, before Schwartz decided he'd make a good sacrifice, he was cooking some books for him. All we have on his account for the purchase of these people is an account number with a very familiar looking routing code." Morris slid a slip of paper across the desk toward him and Stevan frowned down at it.
  
  "That's a council account. This is starting to get interesting..." Stevan grunted.
  
  Hunter nodded happily. "The plot thickens, as they say. So you know anybody who could tell us who this number applies to?"
  
  Stevan nodded. "The Baron of Chicago, of course."
  
  Hunter did a double take, then grinned. "That's right, he used to be on the finance committee before he grabbed Chi-Town."
  
  Stevan was standing now. "Yep. I'm gonna go have a word with Mr. Munson before I head out."
  
  Hunter gave him a strange look. "Say man, you sure about that?"
  
  Stevan shook his head. "Homophobe."
  
  Josh Munson froze in place when Stevan walked into the room, staring at him. Stevan pushed ahead. "So how do you feel, kid?"
  
  Munson shook his head. "Disoriented. I don't know where I've been... What I've been doing... I remember little things, like that number I gave your friend, but..."
  
  Stevan nodded. "How's the guts?"
  
  Munson shivered. "A little sore, but... It's not as bad as it should be, right?"
  
  Stevan nodded again. "Indeed. Luckily I was right there. Physically, you'll feel pretty good for the next few days, you may have some cognition issues, thoughts or dreams that aren't yours... It'll pass."
  
  Munson looked into his eyes. "You are a vampire, aren't you?"
  
  Stevan pursed his lips. "Yes I am. And so was the guy who tried to gut you."
  
  Munson closed his eyes. "Jesus..." he said softly.
  
  Stevan reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "Cheer up. You got found by the good guys. And after this, you won't remember any of it. We're gonna selectively modify your memory. I hope that's okay. It's a necessity. Keeps you safe, keeps us out of trouble."
  
  Munson nodded slowly, looking relieved, but after a moment, he shivered and looked at him again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I wanted to ask you something..."
  
  Stevan coughed lightly and sat back. "You aren't gay, are you?"
  
  Munson shifted in his seat. "I'm pretty sure I'm not."
  
  Stevan shook his head. "No seriously, you aren't. You drank some of my blood. That is why you are physically attracted to me. That'll pass in the next day or so, and you'll be right back to daydreaming about Kate Upton or whatever. You don't have to worry, it's not a natural thing. You humans get too hung up on that kind of shit anyway." He stood.
  
  "Listen, I'm gonna take off, and some of my colleagues are gonna come in and make the last month disappear for you."
  
  Munson looked up at him, his face full of emotion. "Thank you, whoever you are."
  
  Stevan nodded and reached for the door, laughing softly at the human’s intensity. "No problem, Mr. Munson."
  
  Hunter Morris started on him the moment he walked in, laughing. "That poor bastard has it bad for you, Stevie Ray. Maybe you should take him out for dinner."
  
  Stevan just smiled shook his head. “Not really my type, Morris."
  
  　
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
  　
  Ludovico Sforza called himself the Baron of Chicago, one of the many titles vampires like to adopt for themselves once they were in control of their own city. Most went with Prince, as a throwback to Renaissance Era Italy, and the Medici dynasty, but vampires were a vain lot, and many tried to stand out from the crowd. The last vampire who called himself King was Vostok of Seattle, and he'd dropped the name after being snickered at during council meetings one too many times. The Baron of the Windy City was not happy to have an agent of Malleus in his town, even if he was tickled by having a Scotsman formally address him as "Il Magnifico".
  
  "Messer Sforza, you understand how this looks, right? I mean, the Cult of Lortho, in YOUR city, on YOUR watch...?" Stevan was saying as he stood before Sforza's desk, preferring to look down on the undead monarch, rather than sink into the plush office chair behind him. "The Oland Council was fine letting your armed coup happen because you were better suited to run Chicago than your predecessor, but you still have a responsibility to maintain order here."
  
  Sforza, who looked like he could have been a real baron in another age, bristled visibly. "Do not presume to lecture me on my responsibilities within my own city, Mr. McRay. Are you here to investigate these people, or threaten my position?"
  
  Stevan leaned forward and planted two large fists on the edge of Sforza's desk. "Both. And I agree, I shouldn't have to remind you of your duties, but the fact remains that I am still here."
  
  He let it hang for a moment, and the Italian vampire finally turned away with a growl. "So what is it you want, then? What will spare me further annoyances from your ilk?"
  
  Stevan slapped the account number down on Sforza's desk. "You can tell me who that belongs to."
  
  Sforza stared at the number for a moment, and then shook his head. "The fool. Colin Ackerman. In New York."
  
  McRay smiled and shoved the scrap of paper into his pants pocket. "Honor among thieves. A pleasure doing business with you, Baron Sforza." He turned to go.
  
  "Prior McRay."
  
  Stevan's head came up at the sound of his formal title, and he turned to face the fuming baron.
  
  Sforza pointed a finger at him like it was a weapon. "When you are finished here, see to it that you do not find yourself in my city again."
  
  Stevan tipped his head to the side, as if considering a challenge. "If I do, it would not be for personal reasons." His voice got low and menacing. "And if I have to come back here on business, you are going to wish you'd never even met me."
  
  The threat hung heavy, but the baron weathered it without blinking. "Oh, we are far past that point, let me assure you."
  
  Outside, Stevan slipped into the front seat of Hunter Morris' BMW. "We can cross Chicago off my vacation list."
  
  Hunter cackled as he pulled out of the parking lot. "You certainly have a way with people."
  
  "I'm looking for a New York councilman by the name of Colin Ackerman."
  
  Hunter nodded. "That would be Duke Colin Ackerman."
  
  Stevan blinked once. "Wait a minute, this asshole calls himself the Duke of New York? Do they introduce him in council sessions like that?"
  
  Hunter was trying not to giggle. "Yeah, man. He's A Number One."
  
  Stevan rubbed his face. "I miss California."
  
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
  The Duke of New York knew that the Priory was coming down on him before Stevan McRay ever landed at LaGuardia. His "private jet" was an Antonov An-225 Mriya cargo plane. Ackerman decided that maintaining his fiefdom in New York was not worth fighting the Priory of Malleus, nor the war with the other US commonwealths that would result. Trafficking in human beings was a lucrative business, and one that was expressly forbidden by the Council Of Oland. Business was business, he always said. It was time to relocate, as the council's reach was not as strong in Europe as it had been in the old days, and it would be easier for Ackerman to slip away.
  
  His plane's cargo ramp was down, loading the last of his personal belongings into the massive jet. He was sitting in his personal lounge near the cockpit, drinking bloodwyne and braiding his long mane of blond hair. Dawn was coming, and they would not be able to follow him anymore. Colin Ackerman was unconcerned. Until the sharp squawk sounded from his security personnel's radios. "We have one on the airfield, on a motorcycle, coming this way."
  
  "Leave the rest, take off now." Ackerman barked into the intercom. The plane started rolling, and a crew member ran toward the rear of the plane to close and lock the ramp.
  
  Before he got the chance, Stevan's borrowed Yamaha crotch-rocket mounted the ramp and hit the thralled human full-force, just barely getting the Scottish vampire aboard the plane before it was moving too fast to catch. The crew member was slammed into the wall of the plane before the motorcycle fell over and sputtered to a stop, slowly sliding back down toward the open ramp. Stevan was already shooting, having calmly stepped off the motorcycle and drawn his pistols in one smooth motion.
  
  The plane's hold, while the biggest of it's kind in the world, was still packed from stem to stern with the ridiculous amount of personal holdings that Ackerman maintained. Darting in and out of the crates, Stevan's handguns blasted away, launching silver slugs through skulls and breastbones. Some of his targets dropped and died. Some of them screamed and burned. None of them were going to survive. The Council had approved a full purge on Colin Ackerman and his retinue. New York was already being transitioned to a new leader.
  
  By the time he stood facing Colin Ackerman near the front of the plane, Stevan was fresh out of ammo. The Prior and the Duke tore into each other with inhuman ferocity, and the two vampires proceeded to shred the huge cargo plane as they fought, smashing through crates, snapping bulkheads, and puncturing windows. Finally, an errant swipe from one of Stevan's short-swords sliced through a fuel line, and the plane erupted into flames, major parts of the superstructure ripping away into the night sky, exposing them to the screaming slipstream at 15,000 feet.
  Weathering a savage fist into his face, and dodging another backhand swipe, Stevan slipped around behind his opponent and sliced through his back. The silver embedded blade seared vampiric flesh as it cut, but the blade stopped hard against Ackerman's spinal cord, breaking it, but failing to bisect his heart. Ackerman gasped as parts of his body ceased to function, and he flopped nerveless to the deck of the dying aircraft.
  
  Sheathing his swords, Stevan shook his head to clear it, and swiped at the blood decorating his face. "Hunh," He said, smiling down at the stricken Duke. "That looks like about a T-4, T-5 fracture. Not deadly to either of us, but how long do you think it will take to regenerate those bones and messed up nerves? Three or four hours at least." The deck shifted again, as the pilots attempted to bring the nose of the shattered aircraft up.
  
  Stevan grabbed a piece of steel bulkhead and impaled Ackerman through the chest, stapling him to the deck. "Could have made this easy, you know. But there it is." Stevan slung a parachute pack from the emergency storage locker up onto his back and buckled himself in. Ackerman frantically pulled at the steel brace through his chest, trying to free himself, while muttering a steady tirade of invective.
  
  Stevan smiled down at him. "Colin Ackerman. In accordance with the dictates of the Oland Council set forth and issued this day of Sixteen December, the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Sixteen, as a duly appointed member of the Priory of Malleus, I hereby carry out the sentence of summary execution by immolation, blunt force trauma, and all kinds of other shit that I'm not gonna be here to watch. Have a nice morning, Duke of New York."
  
  The Mriya came apart and exploded somewhere over Upstate New York, just as the sun crested the horizon. Stevan managed to clear the rear ramp of the plane just in time, deploying his chute in a panic, and then regretting it as he ended up suspended in direct sunlight for long, painful minutes. Contrary to the legends surrounding his race, it wouldn't kill him. But hanging in the baking sun while he drifted down made him wish that it would, sapping his strength, halting the regeneration of his battered body, and filling him with searing pain from head to toe. Cursing softly to himself, trying to keep as much of his skin covered as he could, a pain-wracked, steaming, and slightly scorched Scottish vampire floated back to Earth on his stolen parachute. Stevan crawled into a cave to sleep out the day.
  
  　
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
  
  Hunter Morris showed up at his hotel room just after sundown, two days later.
  
  "So we managed to dig through all of Ackerman's records. They correspond with a case file being put together by a Prior named Harrison Beck."
  
  Stevan snorted. "He sounds even more like a law firm than you do."
  
  Hunter snickered. "That's fair. But the guy was very good at his job. Especially given that he was only 150 years old."
  
  Stevan frowned. "You said he 'was' good at it?"
  
  Hunter nodded gravely. "Went missing six months ago. The Priory has been tearing up Texas looking for him."
  
  Stevan began leafing through the file Hunter handed him. "Based himself out of Dallas. And all his information pointed to Houston."
  
  Hunter shook his head adamantly. "You are on your own with that one, brother. I don't mess with H-Town anymore. The Prince there hates me almost as much as that guy in Chicago hates you."
  
  McRay laughed softly and shook his head. "No worries, Morris. You are off the hook. I know just the right guy."
  
  "Let me guess. Runs-With-Vermin?"
  
  "Ticks ever heard you say that he'd probably eat part of you." Stevan said as he started packing his stuff.
  
  Hunter grinned and headed for the door. "Ticks would probably eat part of me just cuz he was bored. Good luck in Houston, you're gonna need it."