Note: This post has been included in one of the new Chapter drafts, please refer to the Index for the current draft of the story.
Please note, this is currently a very rough draft from NaNoWriMo 2007. There will be spelling and grammatical errors afoot as well as flat out bad writing, info dumps, plot holes, flat out contradictions, and uneven characterization and pacing. (Content is also subject to constant change as I take an editing chainsaw to the story.)
When he returned home from work he found Hunter waiting for him on the couch. He ignored her for a moment, to dump off his tools and change clothes. Thus he was startled when she walked through his bedroom door as he was changing.
“Hey! Privacy!” He shoed her back towards the door, scrambling into his jeans as he did so.
She just rolled her eyes and walked back through the door, leaving him to finish dressing alone.
“Stay out of my bedroom,” he complained as he reemerged, “I don’t care how long you’ve been dead, you can’t have forgotten that.”
She gave him a half-way innocent look and then pointed to the pile of random objects on the coffee table. “I have located the Hindsman’s location–”
“Yeah, well so have I.” Jon dropped a copy of the local paper on the table, flipped to the article about the dead teen. “People don’t just drop dead without anyone noticing.” Although he was really really hoping that the police never connected him to the crime. “So we know where he lived, so what? He’d dead.”
“True, but there should be additional clues in his residence.” She pointed to two objects he didn’t recognize. One was some sort of pocket watch that looked older than ancient and the other was a pair of chopsticks with small metal spoons attached to the ends. They were much too small to eat with, even a baby wouldn’t get a mouthful from them.
“And those are clues?” He reached down to pick up one of the chopsticks and spun it around between his fingers.
“Those are for the blood gifting ritual–” Jon dropped the spoon with a curse, letting it clatter onto the table and wiping his hand against his jeans in disgust. “– and this,” she picked up the pocket watch, solidifying her hand as she did so, “isn’t as old as it looks.” She popped it open and then pried the face of the clock open, showing him the digital displays hidden behind it. “It seems you have indeed found the organization I had spoken of.”
“The Dead Man Mafia?”
She frowned, “Yes, although I wish you would not call them that.”