Things had changed since they came out to the world. For one, they didn’t kill their own kind as much. There was definitely no sparkle to a vampire’s skin, but as it turned out, they could drink the blood of animals. By the mid-2000s, vampire vegetarianism was all the rage, but with consequences. It required more blood more often, their senses were dulled even when fully fed, and it was rumored their lifespan suffered as a result. Not enough time had passed to test that hypothesis, but it had created an anti-vegetarian movement in the vampire community. Since it was mostly younger vampires turning vegetarian, and their parents adhering to the dietary norm, it was a generational struggle. Since I was part of the food supply, I made sure I knew every St. Vincent’s bloodsuckers’ dietary predilections.
Makaylah was firmly in the vegetarian camp, but she was also a crusader. Whatever the latest social justice reform was, she jumped in whole heartedly. The t-shirt on beneath her white blouse said meat is murder. She was active on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and had a passionate interest in everything she fought for. Her only problem was her flightiness. She switched causes more than people switched profile pics. Meat might be murder today, but after our conversation, I expected some petition against the patriarchy to pop up on the school’s intranet sometime soon.
Together, me, Jerome, Brad, and Makaylah were the four musketeers; entertaining each other from the boredom of high school life since 2016. Little did we know things were about to get a lot more interesting.
Chapter 3
Like a king, I held court under the bleachers, and each of my friends was a minister of something. Jerome had the drug connection, but none of that hard shit. Even though shifters and other supernaturals tended to have higher tolerances, and less chance of addiction based on their healing abilities, Jerome had a conscience.
The Whitepaw pack primarily resided on reservations where the reach of local law enforcement was limited, and federal enforcement was underfunded. Those policing the reservation could be easily bought, or were members of the pack and in on it from the start. They operated grow houses and fields where they grew powerful strains of Mary J. Only in the last few years had they started to go legit. Now, they shipped their products to hospitals and private dispensaries all over the country. Unfortunately, that brought them into competition with the southern cartels.
The pack could handle it. With nearly a thousand shifters, humans, and other supernatural support infrastructure, they had the bodies. They also had the entire United States between the cartels and the pack’s center of operations. So far, there hadn’t been anything they couldn’t overcome.
All of that was on top of their profitable casino business and tax-free earnings guaranteed by federal treaties close to two hundred years old. They had some of the best lawyers in the country working for them, as well as several politicians and lobbying firms fighting for their interests. Like most packs, the Whitepaw’s engaged in a long-term strategy. They’d set the groundwork for their empire half a century before the Revelation, and they were now reaping the rewards. Jerome was a small part of that as he sat under the bleachers and sold pre-rolled joints. Everything from a gram to an ounce was neatly packaged in little baggies with cartoon illustrations for the particular strain. The entrepreneurial runt made more in a day than a normal kid’s yearly allowance.
While Jerome handed out Pineapple Express to eager customers stressed about upcoming midterms, Brad and a group of likeminded people were jacked into one of the power outlets around a steel pillar. I considered myself pretty handy with a computer, but Brad had taught me everything I needed to know. The only difference was, I was willing to use my skills for unsavory purposes while him and his group were fighting against the corporate-villain flavor of the week. Today, it was some mega-church whose minister was anti-gay but might be in the closet. Brad and his hacktivists were digging through data to expose the hypocrisy.
Like with Makaylah, I didn’t really care about their SJW activities. I was more worried about taking care of number one. The vamp in question drew more like-minded warriors to her cause, whatever that might be at the moment. People tended to rotate frequently as she lost interest and found a new target. Today was a frequent target of her frustration: the WRA. The group around her was one of the largest yet, and they were painting signs to stick on two-by-fours for the coming protest they were spontaneously holding in front of the school’s administrative building.
Since the school administrators had nothing to do with the WRA, other than allowing the UN to set up a recruiting booth at the yearly job fair, I wasn’t sure why they were targeting them. It was probably because they were the “man”, and the easiest target at which the students could vent their frustrations.
I watched everything going on around me from my spot in the center of the group. The people who came to see me came and went quickly; handing over a roll of crisp bills in exchange for information. With midterms coming up, business was booming.
“Dupree,” a voice called out, drawing my eyes away from Brad’s giddy reaction to finding a treasure trove of pictures on the cross-dressing minister.
“Kon'nichiwa, Eiko-san,” I got to my feet and bowed to the boy approaching me.
He was just slightly taller than me at 6’1”, but ten pounds lighter. His black hair was stylishly spiked and his uniform was made of the highest-grade material. He wore a
