extra rare. ( jason )

He spent his prime fighting for the legal rights of the paranormal—and look how he was repaid. Being treated like a second-class citizen by people who had benefitted from his hard work. Ezra knew that the vampires in the restaurant were glancing his way, wrinkling their noses at the changeling. Vampires could tell from a single sniff. The best and only way of getting his own back was by acting perfectly civilised, he knew that. He caught the eye of one of the swanky establishment’s undead patrons and shot them a chilling smile. Oh, one of the reasons he wanted the truce to end in the first place was so that he could get one over these superior, ghastly twits.

And speaking of the devil—the post superior and ghastly twit of them all.

“Mr. Lefevre,” he said with a mingle of distaste and warmth, flashing his bright white teeth at him in a wolfish smile, only just glancing up before turning his attention back to straightening the fork. He knew that Jason would sit down no matter what he said—and anyway, as though Ezra would refuse. According to all sources, the two of them were the power-couple of the supernatural world. A werewolf and a vampire, running the city for the good of the people. Et cetera, et cetera. People were so easy to play. But it did mean they had to stand each other’s company for appearance’s sake. Oh, well. “I thought I would drop in and check on you. I know it’s been a while—I’m afraid my nights are generally quite busy. And during the day, well…” His narrow shoulder rose and fell, a sweetly sympathetic tone cloying his words. The poor baby couldn’t come out when the sun was up.

The fork now in prime position, he rested his forearm against the pristine tablecloth and propped his chin on his hand. He hummed a little at the… ‘joke,’ but didn’t seem unduly bothered. “Now, now, Mr. Lefevre. You know that I don’t like crooked things. That picture on your wall, by the way…” He nodded to one of the fine pieces of artwork decorating the place. “Get one of your staff to straighten it a touch, mm? It’s rather distracting.”

And the steak arrived. Oh, he’d been anticipating this. There weren’t many places Ezra could get his hands on raw meat; often he had to make do with sushi, because that was a form of raw life that was acceptable for some reason. And as much as he was renowned and respected among the mortals, they still gave him funny looks for the things that natured had dictated he had to eat. Brats. Ezra could smell the human blood stashed in this place—tsk, tsk, Jason, playing dirty, are we? But he wouldn’t take him to court and slam him, as much as he’d like to. The two of them were such good friends, after all.

Even though Ezra was very, very good at keeping himself under control, the hairs on the back of his neck rose at Jason’s order of wolf blood. Oh, he did this every single time, but it still made him feel sick. He cleared his throat lightly. He thought he’d gotten away with it. But then Jason brought up his sister and Ezra’s eyes narrowed, just for a moment, but discernibly. Bastard. “Yes, she is, isn’t she?” he replied in a soft but cold voice. “She’s just fine, my good friend. Just fine. But I wouldn’t bring her to this place. Some vampires have trouble controlling themselves around mortals… you understand, I’m sure. And it would be a terrible scandal to break the laws of the truce.” Drop it, Lefevre. Ezra smells that blood.

“I’m so glad you do,” he said emphatically. “I think that must be part of why we get along so well, Mr. Lefevre. We have an understanding, don’t we?” He sounded sugar sweet, hyperglycaemically sweet… and they did have an understanding. That false, smug smile was entirely a part of it. They’d pretend to be buddies for the press and for their careers, furthering their own agendas—but when life as the mortals knew it ended, the whole game would change. Of course, with his peaceful passing of several pro-truce laws, Lefevre probably had no idea that Ezra was on the side of the uprising; and, despite the sly shipments from hospital blood banks, Ezra had no idea that Jason was the leader of his own side’s fight for freedom.

Obsessive compulsion as a coping mechanism wasn’t fun—especially for a werewolf, a changeling no less, who was dropped into a world of chaos and uncontrolled sensation at least once a month. It felt like the only grip on reality that he had. Ezra smiled tightly at his so-called friend and the waiter sent to fix the picture. He knew that the boy probably wouldn’t do a satisfactory job… but he was in the public eye. He would not cause a scene. Instead he’d just deal with the slightly—very slightly—leftward-leaning picture. “Thank you,” he said politely, but he sounded a lot more forced than before. He could smell dead wolf pouring at him from across the table. Borderline cannibalism in his eyes, giving him goosebumps and completely demolishing his appetite. Damn it, his meal was ruined. He cut dispassionately at the steak on his plate. “Only the best in your restaurant,” he said, trying not to sound too queasy. “And you treat your customers so well. It’s commendable, really. So sensitive, you are.”

Ezra was wearing a pair of black kid gloves made of thin but impermeable material. He almost always wore them, because keeping his hands clean was something he was extremely focused on—but also because of contact with silver. He’d known that tonight he’d be faced with cutlery made of the stuff. He’d learned his lesson the first time he’d come here, when he’d blistered his fine fingertips on the damn things. His eyes widened a bit behind his metal-framed glasses at the jolt to the table, shifting things all over. Then he looked straight at Jason, chin lifted haughtily. Then a flicker of a smile as he tried to refrain from twitching. “I know, I know. A complete accident,” he said in that false-friendly voice they always used. “People think that vampires are so graceful, but it’s really just Hollywood bending the truth, mm? Many vampires I’ve met have been quite oafish.” Yeah, he was looking at you, Mr. Clumsy.

Not amused at the talk of his sister, Ezra took his time considering the question. Just for show, he finished cutting his steak and popped the small bite into his mouth, chewing delicately and then swallowing. Then he smiled quite brightly. “Oh, it’s wonderful,” he reassured him, knowing that two could play at the word-game. “I simply adore a good steak. It gets me right in the heart.”

An utterly despicable failure of a friend is what you’d be, Ezra thought grouchily. If you were my friend at all. Thank goodness you aren’t. Honestly, the response straight afterwards wasn’t even subtle: calling him a mongrel? Really? Ezra had heard all of the names. Even some of the other werewolves—the ones born into it—looked down on the bitten ones that lost control once a month and caused most of the bad press that the species got. But how was it their faults? Ezra hadn’t been asked to be mauled in any alleyway when he was twenty-six. It had happened. There was no cure. All he could do was live with it… and after all these years, learn to accept it as part of his identity.

To be proud of it.

Jason’s petty remarks were making him more and more inclined to go and find the very root of the werewolf uprising. Just so that he had more a chance of tearing the man’s goddamn throat out someday. It didn’t matter that Jason wouldn’t die from it: the pain would be enough. Ezra leaned forwards slightly, putting down his silverware and lacing his fingers together to rest on the edge of the table. His expression was perfectly agreeable, looking friendly from afar. The real poison was in his words, which he said very quietly. “And a childe is the only spawn that naturally comes straight out of their mother’s womb stone cold dead. A physiological miracle, really. Or… what’s the exact diametric opposite of a miracle again?” An abomination. A hideous error of nature. A blood-sucking parasite on the entire world.

Ezra got zero kicks from messing around with people’s feelings, provoking reactions out of them. Ezra wasn’t a feelings kind of man. Arguably, neither was Jason, but Ezra didn’t even have a passing interest in emotions. For him it was winning that mattered. That was why he was such a tenacious lawyer. The only satisfaction he gained was at the end. He couldn’t wait until the end of his and Jason’s relationship. There would only be one. “It would be a terrible shame,” he said with false sympathy. “I know you don’t have many friends, after all. The privilege is all mine.”

Ugh. Twilight, and every other film and novel that romanticized vampirism and lycanthropy and god-knows-what horribly, did not hold a dear place in Ezra’s heart. “And the original depiction of vampires, far before Hollywood, more accurate still,” he said with quiet, barely-repressed glee as he found a way in. “Rabid. And I mean that in the most literal sense. Some people say that’s where vampirism evolved from, you know. Rabies. Hypersensitivity to strong light and garlic, inability to sleep normally, passed on with a bite…” Ezra clicked his tongue. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Lycanthropy is genetic, vampirism potentially came from animals with brain disease.” Another pause for effect before he smiled brightly. “Fascinating.”

Of course Ezra was a science sort of man, and a man that read up on paranormal conditions obsessively. It fit with the OCD.

Speaking of, Ezra was less than impressed by the attempt to throw him off-guard by using his psychological issues—again. He knew all about finding weak spots and aiming for them, but this wasn’t going to trigger an episode. It was just annoying. “I’m afraid I don’t share your pious zeal for the number three,” he said. “It sounds like a problem to me. Perhaps you should consider seeing a shrink.” Jason liked threes? He must be mad. The four fingers on Ezra’s left hand each drummed the top of the table—four times each.