Zantafio had half an hour until he began the graveyard shift. It wasn't one he cared for, for reasons numbering more than one, but since he didn't have kids or a wife he often took the scraps. Still, whether he was on one side of the action or not, he took a liking to hear what was going on via the police blotter, whether it was in the morning with Fantasio or en route to the station.

Tonight was particularly interesting. Something about a blood bank being broken into. Not an actual bank. A blood bank. Pretty specific.

"Probably some black market stuff," he muttered to himself as his car roared back to life.  It wasn't his type of stuff- it was more money laundering and drug cartel--but busting whoever was responsible would be great for his reputation in the department. There was a supposed vampire (well, more like vampirist serial killer) in the city as well. Any possible money reward from his capture would really help with that month's rent or two, too. Win-win in his book.

The blood bank, located inside a clinic next door to a pharmacy, did not have any squad cars in front of it. Good; all the better a chance for him to snag the perp himself.  Did it really matter that he was late if he was doing his job? Only one way to find out. Zantafio placed his gun in his holster and opened the car door.

Something about the air inside did not feel right. It was a feeling he knew often on the job, but this... This was different. Just how he or his stomach or elevated heartbeat couldn't adequately described. Somehow he kept a cool demeanor with each step further into the dark space.

"Police!" He cried. "This is the police! Come out now!"

No response. That obviously didn't mean no one was actually there.  He kept his hand on his gun, preparing for if he needed it.

Entering the actual storage space he immediately gagged at the pungent smell. He barely repeated his words, then found enough courage to turn on the light. Surprisingly there wasn't a bloodbath inside. A couple spots of blood, where a bag, all unnaturally hung up in neat rows on racks taking up most of the space shelves, cabinets, sinks did not,  ruptured but otherwise, most were sucked dry except for scarlet trapped between bits of vacuum sealed plastic. Bags on the back left side swung more violently than the ones on the right. Zantafio sighted a bit of scarlet not from blood. Whoever was on the other side now had a gun aimed at them.

"I know you're in here! Come on out and you won't get hurt!"

Now, he couldn't guarantee that. It all depended on how nice the criminal act--

"Hands up! I want your hands up now!"

Towards the middle bags swayed to and fro. Rows rocked, with closer proximity to the cop, until the perpetrator came out.

"No way!" Zantafio laughed, gun now at his side. "Are you kidding me?"

Spirou, outdated bellhop cap and all, moved towards him, healthy for once. Zantafio could never really recall a time that his cousin's best friend looked anything besides too pale for even that hair of his.

The redhead nervously, slowly, waved.

"Now what the hell are you doing here?"

"Me?" Spirou pointed to himself. "I was... I just... heard someone here."

Zantafio crossed his arms. "And you just came in? Or were you here in the first place?"

"Oh, uh, yes, I happen to work--"

Zantafio grabbed his collar. With a powerful jerk Spirou came within an inch of knocking heads with the cop.

"Don't play bullshit with me," he said. "You're the richest kids publisher in the city, or one of them. Why would you need a second job, or third?"

The babyfaced redhead formed an awkward grin. The abnormally long canines nerved Zantafio. Not that he wanted him to say that sort of thing aloud.

"Huh? Is Daddy's money not enough for you? Unlike you some of us have to work, y'know."

The cop cocked his brow at Spirou's heavy sniffing.

"Spirou?"

"Yes, I know."

"What were you doing here? Tell me the truth."

Even with a closed mouth he could tell the shorter man was running his tongue through his mouth.

"Spirou..."

A quick lick of the lips. "Will you tell Fantasio the truth about what you've been doing?"

His mouth gaped. "How did you--"

Claws barely contained by gloves dug into his uniform. A slight pull forward rapidly evolved into a fierce push back. Zantafio landed on his back with a harsh "thud." In a daze he got back up at his feet, stared at the sweet faced, deceptively strong, boy.

It can't be... How did he--?

Spirou didn't seem too concerned that there was a gun aimed at him.

"How did you know about my so-called side business?"

The redhead remained calm. "I didn't."

Zantafio wanted to slap himself.

"I just knew something was up. I could tell."

He breathed deeply. "How?"

"Your vibes."

The gun shook slightly. Chill invaded the fingertip sized holes in his shirt. Okay, Fantasio's friends were never this weird. At least, not around him. Perhaps that was a good thing. This alone proved that.

"Who-what are you?"

"What am I?" He looked into space, absentmindedly chewing on his lip with fanglike teeth, as if in contemplation, as if he didn't know whether to tell the truth. If Zantafio wasn't hallucinating the lightest tinge of dull yellow ringed around his otherwise brown eyes. "What am I indeed..."

"Tell me what the hell is going on. Please. You're really freaking me out."

His blood chilled at Spirou's response, voice youthful as ever: "Good."

Zantafio did not comprehend when he actually pulled the trigger. He couldn't recall the actual action of his finger pressing it. He only heard the noise of the bullet discharging, and sight of the redhead recoiling back. The cop tremored.

Now I've gone and done it! He thought.

Beyond the initial recoil Spirou didn't drop, or scream in pain, let alone flinch. If anything, his disposition soured. He surveyed the bullet hole into his arm before giving his friend's cousin a stare that could be described as venomous.

"I didn't mean to! I didn't mean it! Really, really! I didn't..." He moved backward with each step the redhead took forward. Eventually he hit the granite wall in the lobby. His breath hitched as Spirou's arm neared him.

"You're damn lucky that's the truth you're spouting," he growled, hand grabbing Zantafio's wrist, "And that you're Fantasio's cousin. Otherwise..."

A swift twist. The gun fled to the floor. Zantafio's breath hitched deep. He fought all urge to scream over his sure to be shattered wrist until he finally gave in. Spirou let go and moved backwards.

"...Next time instead of your wrist it could be your neck. Stay good, Zantafio." With a frown he saluted him and turned around.

Zantafio shifted his focus on his screaming wrist before looking forward. Already gone.  His heart just about escaped his chest like the crippled bones in his wrist. He slid his body down to the floor, waiting for the co-workers, including possibly his partner, soon to arrive.

"Vampire. He's the vampire..." He closed his eyes from the pain, then opened from the fright.

"Fantasio!"

Fantasio was Spirou's closest friend, and his too. The two became roommates for a reason. They kept each other in check (or as much as Zantafio permitted his cousin). It was bad enough that Fantasio was now moving out to become this friend's live-in assistant. But this? Hearing this? This didn't assuage any concern he already had. What was Spirou scheming with his baby cousin, if anything? Did Fantasio even know Spirou's true nature? If he didn't...

His color drained. "Oh Fantasio..."

He held his arm tight and waiting for someone outside to enter any second now. Bright lights already washed the inside from the windows.

"...If he lays a clawed finger on you, baby cousin, he will pay. I'll make damn sure that bullet hits his heart, I guarantee you!"