forced out of retirement.

     He walked down the street. He didn't like the cities, but sometimes it's where you needed to go. Seeing him, a vampire leans over, and whispers something to another. They cross the street, giving him a wide berth. 'I wonder what they see when they look at me?' he wondered.

     He had arrived. It was one of the few buildings in this area, surrounded as it was by tall symbols of urban decay, that had a courtyard. It was style Greek, and had a walkway along the perimeter, with cushioned couches around a picturesque pond. Flowers abounded. This was a hospice, where many spend their last days, the beauty of the place more for comforting the visitors then the occupants, who were usually bedridden. He set the groceries down on the kitchen counter, and checked in at the nurses station. He smiled, I'll be fixing cabbage rolls, and Mrs. Ovars pancakes, bacon and gravy. Oh, and of course the usual fresh bread. 

     "oh," said the nurse. "You won't need to make those pancakes".  Cayenne swiped a tear away. Last week she'd been so full of humor, and full of life, bordering on boisterousness. He was glad he'd gotten a chance to talk to her, to hear some of her earliest memories. He'd carry them with him, now.

     He made the meal anyways, enough for several people as he'd usually done. He ate his with a few of the other visitors and told them the stories she'd shared. Later while the bread and cabbage rolls baked, he visited some of the occupants who had no, or few visitors. 

     Later he made his way to the retirement home, where spent the remainder of the day, talking and spending time with some, reading or playing cards with others. He walked out onto the empty night streets despite the constant warnings against it. Soon they came, two ancient vampires to walk silently with him to ward off any younger vampires, that didn't have enough sense or the correct gifts to identify Cayenne's danger. 

     He nodded to them as he entered the parking garage, where they separated. Soon he'd be in the country, and someone else's problem. He climbed into his truck, a 1940 Ford COE with a crew cab. It was nicer then his house. 

      An hour out brought him home. It was small, rustic, self made from logs, and mostly one room. He stretched, dropped his keys on the counter, grabbed a robe and pajamas, and headed on the back porch, where the large bathtub was at. It was heated manually, by wood, and he let it heat as the water poured in. Lighting his daily cigarette, he looked out into the darkness and listened to the night sounds, an occasional werewolf howl getting a little close and causing everything else to go silent before resuming again a few moments later. He knew it wouldn't come for him. They never do. They instinctively knew when they're in the presence of a predator greater then themselves. Ironically, to normal people, he barely looked intimidating. Short and not overly stout, only his face seemed to exude any sort of machismo, A Van-dyke and beard stubble surrounded by leathery skin. The almost constant smile didn't help. He generally was unhappy, but didn't want to infect others around him with it.

     Finally he checked the temperature, and turned off the water. It'd take a few more minutes for the water to heat. Walking out into the yard, he tossed around a tractor tire, occasionally trying to just hacky it with his feet. It was a small one, only about 300 pounds, and he was kind of embarrassed when he was winded by the time he judged the water to be done. choosing a mineral blend, he emptied it into the bath before getting in, himself. Expect a visitor, a voice called him as he soaked. This disappointed him. At his age staying up later then usual took a toll. He was in his early 50's, after all. He stayed in the bath longer then usual, before closing the vent to put the fire out, and draining it. Pajamas and a robe later found him on his front porch waiting for a visitor. Upset now, he had another smoke. A few minutes after it was done, he heard him coming. A motorcycle. Was it his brother in law? He rarely rode a motorcycle. That would mean Cayenne's sister wasn't with him.  He stood up walking into the yard, waiting, apprehensive now. Soon the '48 knuckle was pulling in, and Steve, in his excitement, almost laid it down, springing off it. Steve was Sages husband, Sage being Cayenne's little sister.

     "Cayenne" he said, "Sage has been kidnapped. I wrote everything down in a note in my pocket!" Steve got ready to die. He knew trying to block would be futile, and he knew he'd betrayed his promise to protect her.

     "Don't be so dramatic. If she's been kidnapped, we'll go get her. And if worse comes to worse... you'll have time to run while I take care of business. Roll the bike into the house, we're taking the truck. You can tell me what you know in the truck, but there's already friends investigating it. They'll know far more then us by morning."

     In the truck, Cayenne continues to explain, "They were probably my enemies, Steve, so I can't blame you. In fact I owe you an apology. I knew I had enemies, but had hoped my retirement would appease them."

     "What's it all about, though? Who hates you so much? and why? weren't you just some sort of underground brawler?" Steve was everything Cayenne wasn't. Tall, well built and with a handsome, sensitive face. Where Cayenne was obstinate, Steve was intelligent, and where Cayenne was brooding, Steve was thoughtful and encouraging. Cayenne enjoyed his company, but was always unsure whether Steve enjoyed his.

     "Most of those fights, being unregulated, are run by either crime syndicates, or ancient blood lines around the world trying to prove their style or heirs are superior. Most of them are fixed, to a small degree, offering just enough advantage for their people to make a good showing, or to affect the gambling odds. I married together two disparate styles, neither of them particularly effective on their own. Once together however, They made an ideal fighting style to... no not just compensate for, but to channel my small stature. I never lost a fight, and that roiled them almost as much as never taking a dive or accepting money to  cancel. I didn't notice until It was too late. Two of my sensei's and their students all had accidents in a very short time."

     "Sage said you'd mastered three martial arts..." Steve speculated as Cayenne paused in his narration.