Chapter 295 Unexpected Ally
POV: Callum | Rookeries operational building, then various
The morning light was just starting to filter through the grimy windows of the Rookeries operational building when Alteroni showed up. Seven AM. The kind of arrival time that screamed "no sleep" or "vampire nap"—either way, he looked like someone who'd made a decision and was here to execute it, not debate it.
I'd been camped out in this office since four AM, when Pip found me staring at the numbers: 24 hours, £220,000, the Mordaunt meeting, and the sickening feeling that I'd exhausted every option and was still £29k short of the deadline.
"Heard you're in some deep shit," Alteroni said, leaning against the doorway like he owned the place. No small talk, no "how are you holding up"—just straight to the point.
I looked up, rubbing my eyes. "How'd you—"
"Jack's network." He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, dropping a document on my desk that looked suspiciously like a bank statement. "Three people knew before you told anyone. Your security's fine; the network's just working." He tapped the paper. "£150,000. Personal funds. Not Parliament money, not community money—mine."
I stared at the document, then at him. Eight years of knowing this guy—this vampire who'd been fighting from inside the very institution that screwed over my community, who'd made the "survivable choice" when Valentina was executed and had been carrying that weight ever since.
"Why?" I finally managed.
"Because you're building something worth keeping," he said, his voice flat and direct—no political bullshit, just the raw honesty he only showed when it mattered. "And because the Vampire Parliament owes you. You exposed Mordaunt, saved those hybrid kids, defended London when Parliament couldn't defend itself." He leaned forward slightly. "And because fuck Mordaunt."
I actually laughed at that—like, a real laugh, the first thing that wasn't the crushing weight of the past 48 hours and £250,000 of debt.
"That's £150,000," I said, pointing at the document. "Still need another hundred."
"I know." Alteroni didn't even blink. "Couldn't pull £250k without questions that would take more than 24 hours to answer. But £150? That I could do quietly. The rest needs other sources."
I was dialing Cormac by 7:15, four minutes after Alteroni arrived. The remaining £100k needed the kind of conversation that starts with "what can you spare"—and I wasn't having that with Cormac until I had something to offer alongside the asking.
Cormac went quiet for about thirty seconds on the other end, the silence of someone doing lightning-fast math in their head.
"Fifty thousand," he finally said.
"And the other fifty?" I asked.
"I'll make some calls," he said. "Give me two hours."
Those two hours produced exactly what you'd expect when Cormac calls in favors from the supernatural community—packless wolves, community supporters, former Rookeries allies across six cities who'd been quietly watching this whole situation unfold. People who got that the Rookeries mattered for reasons bigger than just one neighborhood.
The last contribution came through at 9:05 AM—four hours and five minutes before the deadline. Total: £250,000, assembled from Alteroni's personal funds, True Pack reserves, and a network of people who said "yes" when asked.
I looked at the final number, then at Alteroni across the desk, then at Cormac's confirmation text. All I could think about was Mordaunt in that Bermondsey pub, the 48-hour deadline he'd given me, and what those 48 hours had actually produced.
The payment to Vermithrax went through at 9:45 AM—giving him three and a quarter hours before the deadline. The kind of timing that says "I solved this" rather than "I barely scraped by."
Vermithrax's response came through at 10:15 AM via Consolidated's financial channel—characteristically blunt, the kind of message where emotion doesn't even factor in:
Balance received in full. Contract fulfilled. Rookeries territory designation: permanent.
And then, as if he couldn't resist one last shot:
I was hoping you'd default. Oh well. Contract fulfilled. Rookeries is yours. Permanently.