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On the other end of the line, Whistler let out a derisive snort.
"It's just like you said. Those sons of bitches are scared out of their minds. They even sent an elite squad—one that was supposedly trained specifically to hunt Blade—to ask for a truce.
"They want to work with Blade to deal with this new breed of vampires. Watching those bloodsuckers grit their teeth in hatred while the man they want dead is standing right in front of them—and they can't lay a finger on him—that's one hell of a sight."
There was no need to comment further on the old man's twisted sense of humor.
"So Blade agreed?" Henry asked.
Whistler's good mood vanished, and he reverted to his usual cynical self.
"I don't like it either, but these new bastards are a whole different level of trouble.
"Back in the day, if a vampire wanted to infect someone, they had to leave some blood in the victim's body. They couldn't drain them completely. A person who was drained dry might survive, but they'd become something even worse than a regular vampire.
"But these new things..." He paused grimly. "They're terrifying. Human or vampire—it doesn't matter. As long as you're infected with their virus, you'll be transformed.
"We've tested it. Garlic extract doesn't work. Neither does the serum used to treat people after a vampire's bite. Once someone changes, there's no bringing them back."
"And while they're still technically vampires, they have fewer weaknesses. Garlic, silver... none of that works anymore. Sunlight, UV flashlights, and ultraviolet ammunition are still effective."
"If there's one piece of good news, it's this: these new monsters are far hungrier than ordinary vampires."
"They don't just drain your blood—they devour your flesh and organs too."
"And if all that's left is a skeleton..." Whistler chuckled darkly. "There's nothing left for them to turn."
Henry immediately asked another question.
"Can they infect anything besides humanoids? How often do they need to feed? How much do they eat?"
"Hey, kid, this is the first time I've run into these things too."
Whistler grumbled.
"I've already told you everything I know."
That was more or less identical to what Henry remembered from the movies.
If so...
That was actually good news.
At least it didn't look like they were facing a full-blown T-Virus apocalypse.
"I understand."
Henry nodded.
"Need any help over there?"
"Just worry about New York."
Whistler snorted.
"Assuming you're really in New York."
"Watch your back around those vampires."
Henry warned.
"I hope Blade isn't naïve enough to think a temporary alliance means they won't stab him in the back."
"I know that, kid."
The old hunter barked a laugh.
"I was tricking and screwing over my enemies before you were even born."
"Fuck you, old man."
Laughing, Henry hung up.
---
After putting away the specialized equipment and stepping out of the private room, Henry discovered John Wick waiting outside.
Nearly everyone present had their eyes fixed on him.
Some of the more impatient ones had gathered just a few steps from the door.
Winston Scott stood neatly between the two groups.
He wasn't crowding near the entrance.
Nor had he joined the curious spectators.
The moment Henry emerged, Winston maintained his usual gentlemanly composure, though traces of anxiety still crept into his voice.
"Any good news?"
"I think..."
Henry said slowly.
"I know what we're dealing with."
Neither John Wick beside him nor Winston across from him bombarded him with questions.
Instead, they all returned to the table where John had been sitting.
Winston even personally poured Henry a glass of red wine rather than whiskey.
Apparently, he still remembered the small detail that Henry disliked hard liquor.
Henry wasn't in the mood to savor it.
Neither was anyone else patient enough to wait.
He drained the entire glass in one gulp before speaking.
"I contacted a vampire hunter I know.
"Based on the information he gave me...
"Our enemy is most likely a new breed of vampire."
"What?!"
"What do you mean, a new breed of vampire?"
"What the hell is that supposed to be?"
Questions erupted from every direction.
Ignoring the commotion, Henry simply repeated everything Whistler had told him, including the creatures' weaknesses.
He also added a few details Whistler hadn't mentioned but that Henry remembered from elsewhere.
The monsters—later officially classified by vampires themselves as Reapers (R-Mutants)—shared several distinctive characteristics.
Every one of them was bald.
Prominent veins ran visibly beneath their skin.
Their complexion was deathly pale.
Their blood was green.
And instead of a normal mouth, they possessed a horrifying insect-like feeding organ that split open into multiple sections.
Despite Henry's confident explanation, most people remained skeptical.
Winston Scott understood exactly why.
For assassins, accurate intelligence wasn't merely important.
It determined whether they survived a mission.
If the information proved false...
The cost could very well be their lives.
As hotel manager, Winston reluctantly voiced everyone's concerns.
"Henry...
"Do you have any evidence supporting what you've told us?
"Or perhaps you could tell us who this vampire hunter is, so we can verify the information ourselves?"
That gave Henry pause.
Revealing Whistler would inevitably expose his own Black Superman identity as well.
Just as he hesitated—
"Are you talking about this?"
A group of newcomers entered the restaurant.
One of them casually tossed something resembling a burlap sack onto the floor.
Henry focused his gaze.
It really was one of the creatures he'd just described.
A Reaper.
The only difference...
Its arms and legs had been severed.
Its lower jaw had been removed.
Reduced to little more than a limbless torso, it resembled the infamous ancient Chinese punishment known as a human stick, barely clinging to life.
Henry shifted his attention to the woman who had carried it in.
She wore a black business suit without a tie.
Her shirt collar hung open casually, exposing a thick, bronze-colored neck.
Her appearance leaned masculine, and her facial features carried a certain rugged sharpness.
Yet there was no mistaking she was a woman.
Nor was she deliberately dressing androgynously.
The long braid hanging over one side of her head alone made that obvious.
Leading the newcomers was none other than Charon, the Continental's concierge.
Following behind the woman came several figures cloaked in medieval-style hooded robes, their appearances deliberately obscured.
What truly caught Henry's attention, however, wasn't the robes themselves.
It was the pointed, beak-like shape of their hoods.
And the compass-shaped clasp decorating their belts.
Those symbols looked strangely familiar...
As their guide, Charon stepped forward to make the introductions.
"Mr. Scott."
"This is an Elder of the High Table."
"The gentlemen and ladies accompanying her are members of the High Table's direct forces."
It wasn't that Charon was unwilling to provide more information.
Rather...
People of that rank were far beyond someone in his position.
He wasn't even qualified to know their names.
The fact that they had revealed their affiliation at all was already an extraordinary courtesy.
All he could do was escort them directly to the hotel manager.
Truthfully, Winston Scott wasn't much better informed.
However, just as Continental gold coins were recognized throughout the world, the High Table possessed its own methods of verifying identity through official insignias.
Otherwise, legendary figures such as the Elders of the High Table existed only in stories as far as Winston was concerned.
He had never seen one in person.
Without proper authentication, how could he simply accept someone's claim at face value?
Before Winston even had a chance to greet the visitors, the female Elder—who looked no older than thirty—spoke first.
Her gaze settled on the mutilated creature lying on the floor.
"Is this..."
"...the new breed of vampire you were just describing?
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