Eviction

Russell Stone eyed the historic homes passing on either side of his car with a hint of amusement. This was one of Detroit's nicer historic districts, and none of the well-maintained homes came cheap. Though tasks like the one he'd been given by his patron were usually more annoyance than they were worth, he had to admit there would be a certain satisfaction in delivering an eviction notice in a neighborhood like this.

Melissa Grovesnor had been a bad Lick, and it was his responsibility now to inform her that she was no longer welcome to reside in the territory of Regent Tolstov Malocuse. The people he evicted usually weren't the childe of Inner Council members, which could complicate things a bit. However Grovesnor had been publicly disowned by her sire for her indiscretion, and the Malocusian had ordered him to pile on the shame for Marques De Coya, and he had his own obligations to fulfill.

He checked the address against the number at the curb as he reached his destination. Parking the car, he turned off the ignition. He wasn't anticipating trouble, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be prepared for it. He chambered a round in his pistol before returning it to its holster, and patted the long knife he carried with him reassuringly. He didn't bother concealing the pistol with more than his suit coat, but he took a moment to obscure the knife from sight. Grovesnor was a Savage, and he had no intention of bringing a gun to a claw fight, but no need to make her nervous about the knife's presence either.

Spoiler:

Feeling prepared, he exited the car and headed for the door to the home.

Light rain brushes you as you leave the car. The lights are on at Grosvenor's residence. The parts visible through the window look plush and cosy, lived-in, even. The front door is sturdy, and the old coal shutters in the ground are likely a cemented up cosmetic vestige. This is a quiet part of town without any vacant houses. There's no modern doorbell, only a brass door-knocker set into the stylized face of a lion. You can hear conversation and faint laughter from within the house.

Melissa had guests? This could be interesting. Raising his hand to the lion-head knocker, he knocked three times, harder than was strictly necessary.

A moment passes and a severe-looking woman, not Melissa, answers the door. She looks you over as though to gauge whether to say 'How may I help you?', 'Are you expected?' or to simply glare stonily at you. She settles on "Yes?"

The retainer casts a suspicious eye before fetching her employer. Melissa Grosvenor is dark haired and prim, dressed in a tasteful cocktail dress. Her brow raises, making her expression wry as soon as she lays eyes on you.

"So you're Russell Stone. You'll have to excuse me, I'm better with faces than with names. Come in off my doorstep. What does this concern?"

Her manner is impatient, as though you are stretching her hospitality.

"I'm to deliver a message on behalf of Regent Malocuse." He cast an eye towards the interior of the home where the sounds of conversation were coming from. "One probably best given in private."

Grosvenor folds her arms. "Yes, you've uttered enough private things in public already. Please, follow me." she retorts, wearily.

She leads you to an extension which seems to serve as a solarium. Guests are visible through the kitchen window. Breathing guests who laugh and eat. Russell even recognises one of them as the leader of a community outreach program.

"I suppose you'd better deliver your message."

Russell inwardly rolled his eyes. A name and a title that would mean nothing to anyone not of their kind, and she was getting indignant. He'd long felt that those who spent inordinate time among the breathers came to act more and more like them every night. And it was certainly not a compliment. It would make the delivery of his message more satisfying, though.

"Your regent has seen fit to terminate your lease. You have until dawn day after tomorrow to remove yourself and any possessions you wish to retain from his domain, or stand in defiance of him."

Spoiler:

"I'm getting an impression that you're enjoying this... and another of the outcome which you would enjoy most of all." Melissa ventures, peering at you like one would at breeding stock.



"But I'm afraid you're mistaken, the Malocusian has no control over property, only hunting and residence privileges. This building is owned by a holding company with whom a friend of mine retains control, not your Malocusian. Sit down. The way you want this to go will not be kind to you in the long run. My way is better."

Spoiler:

"You presume much, and I'll stand thank you." Though it wasn't hard for her to infer that he might get some satisfaction from this particular task, he had no intention of broadcasting any other information she might try to turn to her advantage.

"As to the ownership of your home, I don't care one iota. My only concerns are with delivering his message and confirming your compliance with it. Did you have something to add?"

Grosvenor glances out through the glass. Nothing's really visible except for the lit-up windows of the rest of the house.

"Perhaps you would care if you possessed a shred of perspective. It would seem that the Malocusian has made better choices than you have."

Spoiler:

Russell recognises another face at the table, a face belonging to Ron McGill, a local slumlord who'd managed to graduate to the cleaner label of 'property magnate' in the last twenty years. Most in the Estate attribute this to Grosvenor's help, which could be part of the reason she's so unaffected by your decree.

"I'm not without allies, nor places to spend daylight, Mr Stone. You can tell the Malocusian that I'll be leaving this property once my guests have left. A shame for you to cast your lot in with that hoary agoraphobe. Choices change us, do they not?"