Chapter Text
Malcolm Grimm was not a man who enjoyed getting his hands dirty.
He had of course, and on several occasions, but it did not mean that he liked it. To ascend to the position that he had risen, Minister of State for Security, meant to be certain that there were no skeletons in his closet. Unfortunately for him, the Pitch estate in Hampshire had more than its fair share of skeletons cramped into closets, it had a mausoleum. This had required some creative thinking and, yes, a certain level of unsavory conduct. But while Malcolm Grimm did not like it, that did not mean that he was not good at it. He knew exactly what it meant to wield power and precisely how much he was willing to do to obtain it.
This was how, on an otherwise lovely Sunday afternoon, he found himself face to face with Simon Snow.
The dog of Lancaster himself.
Malcolm prided himself on being the kind of man that prepared for even the most casual of meetings. He enjoyed research and especially enjoyed the leverage it provided him over his guests. But, try as he might, he was not able to find out much about Simon Snow beyond the reputation that had attracted him in the first place. Simon Snow was a mercenary, possibly one of the best. Beyond that, Simon Snow, and this was the part that particularly mattered to Malcolm, was a mercenary willing to kill. Not only willing, but skilled at it. Very much so.
Malcolm regarded Snow, who sat languidly in the ornate chair opposite the desk in his study.
Snow was twenty-nine years old, the same age as Basilton, and visibly muscular. He was wearing a black long sleeve t-shirt and dark jeans, which Malcolm appreciated. He’d need Snow to blend in, to be subtle next to his ostentatious son. His hair was a bit of a mess and there was a scattering of moles and a few scars here and there on Snow’s face and neck. But it was the eyes, blue and staring right back at Malcolm, that sent a chill down his spine. They were not the eyes of a young man interviewing for a job. They were the observant and calculating eyes of a predator hungry for his next meal, absolutely ravenous.
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Snow.”
Snow’s expression didn’t change, he only nodded slightly.
“This job, I won’t lie to you Mr. Snow, it won’t be easy and my conditions are non-negotiable. And extreme.”
Snow didn’t hesitate.
“That’s not an issue, as long as the pay is good.”
Malcolm smirked.
“Pay will certainly not be an issue.”
Snow leaned back in the chair and raised an eyebrow at Malcolm, as if silently challenging him to go on.
Malcolm did not like Simon Snow. His distaste for all things desperate, loud, and gruff was well known. And Simon Snow was all of those things even as he sat silently and patiently in Malcolm Grimm’s study. But the guard dogs you chain outside of your estate can be as useful as the guests you invite to eat at your table. After years in politics, Malcolm was well aware of that. Even strays could be put to good use.
“You are aware of the increased attacks on vampires in the country,” Malcolm stated plainly.
Snow tilted his head, appraising Malcolm with an expression that might have been amusement or might have been irritation.
“You know that I am.”
So Snow was prepared to be honest, that was a relief. Malcolm didn’t have the time or the patience to dance around the subject.
“Yes,” Malcolm acknowledged, “I suppose I do. Well, in any case, are you aware that my first wife, Natasha Pitch, was a vampire?”
Snow nodded.
“My son, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, is also a vampire by birth. You can imagine how, in this climate and in my position, this puts me at a high risk.”
The history of vampires and humans was by no means a completely peaceful one. Vampires survived off of blood and humans had plenty of it. Humans were not keen on those they deemed other and vampires, by the very nature of their existence, were very much other. But they had, for the last several hundred years, managed to coexist relatively harmoniously. Until about thirty or so years ago at least, when the raids and the preaching began. A man who referred to himself as ‘the Mage’ began to proselytize to the weary and the frustrated in the streets of London and, as the years went on and his followers grew, transformed into a band of vampire hunters who murdered without discernment. The movement had become so popular, in fact, that there were even those in parliament who sympathized with the hunters and held secret ties to their group. There were plenty who would like to see Malcolm deposed, or worse, for the crime of having a son who was a vampire.
“It sounds like it puts your son at risk,” Snow said.
Malcolm felt a surge of irritation and worked to control it. This was a business transaction, Snow did not need to understand his motives or how deeply he cared for his son. Even if he could never express it in the natural way that Natasha once had.
“Any risk to my son’s safety is a risk to me,” Malcolm said, simply.
Snow shrugged, as if to say if you say so.
“So you want me to guard him, yeah?”
Malcolm steepled his fingers under his nose, observing Snow’s bored expression. He did not seem to grasp the extent of what this job would entail, how high the stakes were. This was not just any other job. He would pay to make sure of it but, in return, the price Snow would pay would be equally expensive in its own way. Malcolm was not afraid to spend a good deal of money where it would count, but he would certainly get his money’s worth in return.
“You will guard him night and day, right by his side. Even when you sleep, you will guard him, ready to spring awake at the slightest provocation. There will be other guards, of course, but they are a safety measure, a warning alarm. They will not survive a full scale attack and it is your job to succeed where they fail. You will become my son’s shadow.”
Snow’s lips twitched slightly, the first sign of true interest since he had arrived.
“And if they get through your guards and face me? Am I to restrain them?”
Malcolm grinned at this.
Snow was likely not very smart but he was certainly no fool. It would not be wise of Snow to be the first in the room to bring up the subject of murder. When you are being interviewed for a position by the Minister of State for Security, even off the record, evasiveness is key to survival.
“You are to kill them, on the spot. I do not want witnesses and I have no use for prisoners. I know what they want and I know exactly who is sending them.”
Malcolm put emphasis on the last words, wondering if Snow’s prior relationship to ‘the Mage’ would be an issue. This was a small bit of research, though extremely important, that he had managed to glean and it had nearly changed his mind about inviting Snow to his estate. But he had the distinct impression that there was no one on the planet more dangerous to the false prophet, this mage, than the young man sitting across from him.
Snow didn’t flinch, didn’t even appear to react.
“That won’t be an issue, will it?” Malcolm pressed, asking more than just one question.
Snow nodded fractionally, a silent confirmation that there would be no conflict of interests. At least none that would harm Malcolm’s son.
“I don’t dispose of bodies,” was all he said out loud.
Malcolm doubted that was true. He was sure that a man with a reputation as storied and long as the young Simon Snow had dealt with his fair share of corpses. But this was, at this stage in the conversation, a negotiation so he was willing to play along.
“That’s fine. My staff is capable and experienced with cleaning up messes.”
“Good, fine. I accept then.”
Malcolm leaned forward slightly.
“I am not finished outlining my terms.”
Snow raised an eyebrow at him.
“Perhaps this goes without saying,” Malcolm continued, “But I feel I must be extremely clear with you. Basilton has been under the protection of personal bodyguards since he was five years old and none of them have survived. This isn’t a job you can just quit and you will not have the option of walking away from a fight should it find you and my son.”
“And so?”
This was the condition that Malcolm was somewhat uncertain of. There had been plenty of men, strong and experienced fighters, who had grabbed their things and walked out of Malcolm Grimm’s estate without another word upon learning of the final condition. He did not think that Simon Snow, who burned so brightly with need he nearly glowed with it, was that kind of man. Simon Snow struck him as the kind of man who sold his soul long ago and was now a dead man walking. He hoped he was correct.
“And so, you will need to pledge your life to my son. You will lay down your life to save his, in every possible scenario. Including, and this condition is key, by his own hand.”
Snow snorted.
“Your son might kill me? What, is he that bored?”
Malcolm did not want to think about how bored Basilton might be. In fact, he did not want to think about how Basilton felt about any of this. It would only give him a headache.
“No, that is not what I meant,” Malcolm said, “My son will probably do his best to ignore your presence entirely. But that is not the point. Mr. Snow, I told you from the start, my son is a vampire. We have the house stocked with as much blood as he could ever need and most establishments have it on tap, even in these dangerous times. But there may be situations where, facing an attack, you have to retreat. You might become cut off and have no other resources. If that happens, you need to be prepared to do what must be done.”
Snow stared blankly at him.
“Let him feed on me, you mean. Even if he drains me.”
Malcolm did not flinch or give any sign of discomfort.
“Yes, precisely.”
Snow took a sip from the water he’d been given by Vera upon his arrival before setting it down on the mahogany side table, a few inches away from the coaster.
“How much are you paying?”
Malcolm pulled out several large stacks of banknotes and laid them out on the table in front of Snow. He watched as Snow’s eyes drank in the tender like a dying man eyeing an oasis in the desert.
“Consider it a signing bonus. I’ll pay the same sum,” Malcolm said, “weekly.”
Snow’s face snapped up to meet Malcolm’s gaze.
“Weekly?”
“Yes.”
Snow, for the first time in the entire exchange, smiled widely. It was not a happy expression. Malcolm’s mind conjured up the image of an animal with its teeth bared, a warning of the violence it was capable of.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Snow said, rising to his feet and offering his rough hand for Malcolm to shake.
Malcolm took his hand and shook it firmly, admiring the strength of Snow’s grip.
While he did not care for the wildness in Snow’s expression he did appreciate what it signified. He needed a beast at the door, one who could take a beating, so that he and his son could move about the world in peace. And Simon Snow was the kind of man who seemed capable of taking an innumerable amount of beatings. He looked like he already had.
The dog of Lancaster indeed.