Attempt numero… 3? Previous attempts to get back to the warehouse were thwarted by people or by events, but this time, Josephine has prepared for everything. Everything apart from cab money, this month's finances already drained and help is not exactly on it's way, as becomes apparent when she crosses the street while talking softly into her cell. In a language that could be anything from German, to Dutch, to Danish, depending on how close he can pinpoint it. "Kom op Freddie, ik heb cash nodig. Niet morgen, niet overmorgen. Vandaag. Today, begrijp je?" She listens, pausing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and sounds like she's threatening, "Nuh-uh, als ze dat artikel nog een keer cancelen doe ik je wat. Persoonlijk." Frustrated now, she closes the phone, actively killing the connection. And she listens again. This time to what's in and outside the dark, ominous building.

The darkness holds another creature, this one moving fast enough to be largely unseen by the human eye. A quiet rush of shadow moving through the streets, flitting from one end of the city to another. Still, it has a target, and the rush of air that skims past Josephine is much more noticable than the incredibly fast black blur. The blur does stop, though, barely twenty feet past the woman, and standing there, facing away, is a short, lithe figure, well-toned arms showing from beneath his black tee.

The figure turns, and studies the mortal impassively. A far cry from last time he was seen, he is well-groomed, expressionless and generally languid of movement as he starts to take quiet, measured steps towards Josephine.

She was about to stride towards the door when the rush of air begged her to differ and the woman has to work her muscles hard in order to turn her head sideways, one hand now gripping the front of her jacket, about heart height, in a telltale sign of fright. She needs more than the time he gives her to compose herself and the laugh she breathes out is startled more than anything else as she recognizes him. Less and less certain though, her resolve crumbling visibly.

Slowly, the vampire does bring forth a smile, vaguely humoured but largely pleasant. He stops a polite distance away, standing with hands clasped before him as he finally speaks. The faintly Southern drawl usual to him, without emotion. "Good evening," says he. "There is nothing in there."

"And you made sure of that," her alto, with that thick northern European accent, blurts. There's a quick glance at the doors in front of her, but she's unwilling to lose sight of the vampire. The tensing rise of her shoulders, the hand falling into a pocket and the fingers curling around an object there are proof of how much she trusts him.

"Had anything untoward occurred in the warehouse, I am certain that there would be evidence," Will replies, voice threaded now with gentle humour. He even flicks a brief smile towards the woman. Eyes shift down to her pocket, back up to her face. "You are perfectly safe with me," he tells her, pleasantly. "Have you been contacted by anyone regarding that evening?"

Josephine raises an unbelieving brow, the 'But…' forming on her lips, but she doesn't put air to the denial. "Perfectly safe," she repeats in a soft mutter, easing back a step before she can stop herself. She snorts, her eyes gaining a hard gleam and she demands to know, "Why would anyone do that. To convey the sheriff's heartfelt gratitude for saving his neck, or to settle a score for vampires killed?" Someone's clearly been wondering.

Something has clearly amused the vampire, as his smile drifts towards the sardonic. "I will never understand why people attempt to show anger and defiance in the face of fear. Especially when such fear is unfounded." He is motionless now, eyes locked on to Josephine as he continues. "Perhaps," he says, "it would be to compensate those involved for their time."

Josephine doesn't immediately connect the compensation to something positive and to give herself the time to make the proper translation, she scoffs, "What else is there, neh. I'm sure y-" But she swallows the rest. Deep breath in. Slowly breathe out. She checks her state of mind and states, less on edge, "I killed for you."

"I do not believe you killed for me," Will responds, "since we had not met, nor had you the faintest idea who I was. I am yet to determine why you did kill." He continues to look on her with faint interest, though it's more a sardonic, even teasing amusement. "You have two choices. The first is physical, fiscal compensation. The other more intangible, and subject to my approval when you request my assistance."

"Eh?" Frowning with rising frustration, she tells him curtly, "I did and you bloody well know it. You wouldn't be standing here if… And Chloe neither." The last pointedly. But she's yet to win the argument with herself. "Meanwhile." The tilt of her chin is a little more defiant now, "If you can stop talking like a politician and speak English, I might get an idea of what you're saying." There. Oh, and in an afterthought, "And could you just stop smiling like that…" A finger waves to that sardonic twist of lips of his.

The head tilts, a faint, "Ah," trickles from Will's lips. "Allow me to rephrase. I do not yet know why you were present, what your personal reasons were, but I doubt they were centred around me." His smile doesn't go just yet, instead growing wider and towards something really very amused. "Two choices for how I pay you for your time. Money, or a favour. The favour not necessarily given, depending on what you ask."

It rather annoys her and to keep from completely losing face, Josephine folds her arms, one hand taking with it a small can of pepper spray. Not threatening, just something to keep hold on to, possibly making her feel more safe. "Alright Why do you think I was there," she demands to know. The offer itself gets no response, not yet anyway, but she's clearly thinking things over, her eyes got brighter the moment he mentioned the word 'money'.

"As I said," the vampire continues, "I do not know. Yet." his smile finally fades, replaced by a completely impassive mask. He takes a further step forward, offering a hand to Josephine for shaking. "Perhaps we should do introductions, to put you more at ease. I am William Grant. Will."

"I know," the woman blurts, working to keeping the increased tension from her shoulders as he nears. Her eyes follow his hand and after a second she nods, shifting the can to her left hand to meet his empty and open in a display of more confidence than she actually feels. Once met, her gaze travels back to his face. "Josephine van den Bosch," she introduces and adds automatically, "Jo."

"Has someone been talking about me?" Will wonders, idly. The vampire's handshake is firm, businesslike and cold. His eyes do flash up into his head briefly; a freaky sight for those unaccustomed to seeing a white-eyed, centuries old creature staring blankly at them. It is only for a moment, though, before Will withdraws from the touch. The look levelled on Jo now is appraising, calculating and penetrating. "Hello, Josephine. How long have you known what you are?"

He can feel the pull of her hand when his eyes move back, the woman no doubt startled. She refolds her arms to at least keep a form of composure and draws herself up to her full height. All of 1 inch taller than he is. "People talk," she shrugs and continues more guarded after she's processed the new appraisal, "Since I signed up for the school," she answers tightly, inching back. "Didn't Chloe tell you…" Fishing.

Will is accustomed to facing people a lot bigger than he is. His usual response comes; he does not tilt his chin to give her the satisfaction, just moves his eyes to lock to hers, a dark and foreboding look from under dark brows. "She did not." He continues to appraise, seeming to be attempting to see into her very soul. "What are you able to do?" Not exactly subtle.

The growing concern is hard to miss even if she tries to mask it, her lips tightly together, the green growing darker as she narrows her eyes. If anything, she starts to reach inside her jacket and pulls out a business card which she simply hands to him. "I write, of course," she tells him evasively. If he takes the card, it will tell him her employer, Time NL, her name and cell phone number (American). "My ability… To have an interview with the sheriff of Dallas?"

The man does take the card, sliding it into his pocket and failing utterly to offer one in response. Even the interest in his eyes dies now, instead totally impassive. His tone is level, unyielding. "I am no longer Sheriff of Dallas," he tells her, "therefore I would be unable to offer an interview, even were I of a mind. I would advise staying away from the record when speaking to any of our kind. Especially the higher echelons. Be aware that if I find my words in print, I will not be amused. You did not answer my question."

"Promotion, or…" Jo probes, the familiar robe of the journalist falling around her shoulders again and with it comes an equally familiar if false sense of comfort. "You - and so many others. But you forget. You can't just stand up, yell 'surprise' and then shut the hell up. It just doesn't work that way." She considers him for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Aks around," she continues, a hint gentler, "You'll find me surprisingly objective. I'm not about to 'get' anyone." And is still not answering his question.

"There has been no silence," Will tells her, still emotionless and level. "The American Vampire League are available to answer any questions, and regularly issue press releases regarding the ongoing efforts to integrate the vampire and human populations." The blank look in his eyes begins to glint with darkness, the faintest hint of threat in his gaze. "You are talking to the wrong person."

"There's an article about MacKeirnan and the AVL ready to be printed as we speak," she informs him, her own expression not getting any friendlier, "Which in fact could've made it to the stands already if 'somebody' hadn't interfered to keep glamour from getting a new, public meaning." Three guesses how she feels about that. She openly studies the changing sentiment and stubborn curiosity makes her ask, "Why are you the wrong person. We apparently weren't the only ones figuring you were worth saving.""

"Why, whatever do you mean by glamour," Will replies, flat and toneless, and attempting to give the impression of completely unhelpful. "How is it," he wonders, "being a psychic, picking through the most intimate and private thoughts of a person to get your story?"

Josephine hmpfs, annoyed at his helpfulness, but she actually winces when he hits the nail on the head verbally. "How is it," she retaliates, "That a vampire knows this by touch."

The smile that touches at Will's lips is amused again, though shot through with cruelty. There is no overt threat though; he does not move at all, in fact ensuring he is completely and inhumanly motionless. "They call us parasites? Your very existence is defined by the privacy you can invade, and the difficulties you can cause people. What happens when you start spouting about vampires in the general media? Trouble, is all. For all involved, especially those of us _trying_ to maintain peace between the races." Slowly, his head shakes, his tone waxing towards pity, whether it is genuine or not is unclear. "It is a shame that you are a reporter, and thus I must be careful my words cannot be twisted beyond their meaning. Lucky guess, perhaps? That is how I knew."

"Mm-hmm," the woman regards him, her guard back up. "You're not maintaining peace," she finally murmurs. "You probably intend to," pursing her lips, "I'll give you that much, but all I'm seeing is another Berlin wall. That's not peace, William Grant, that's an illusion. Peace can only come through understanding. Mutual. Nothing else." She starts for the warehouse, but after only two steps, she turns to face him again, "And for the record? On the record. The trouble I cause is usually my own. No one else's. I happen to believe in factual. Objectivity. Both sides of the story. If you can't see that, I suggest you give Jerry Springer a call. MacKeirnan's a fan…""

"Understanding will come slowly and carefully, as the leaders of both races decide when to release information for the best reaction," Will replies, snatching his tone back to level again. "Not when some intrepid reporter decides to inflame hatred with a careless and ill-timed expose." He shakes his head, glancing towards the warehouse once more. "You invite more trouble than you know. I will deposit a sum of money for you. The moment I see Time give a report on the truth and proof of psychic activity, the moment you can stand up and admit the distasteful nature of your own reporting, I will concede you have something valid to offer. Otherwise, you are simply the worst kind of hypocrite, prying towards the secrets of others while keeping your own."

There's a moment in which her expression softens, but any willingness to do it his way is extinguished before it can mature, replaced by cold, cold anger. "You will keep your money," she tells him tightly. "It will be as misplaced as my decision to help you in the first place." Her fingers curl around the can of pepper spray a little tighter, "We'll talk distasteful /after/ you've tasted my brand of reporting." She snorts. "And then you will feel free to apologize."

The vampire shakes his head again, voice staying level and dispassionate. "No. You assisted, and for that there is gratitude, regardless of my distaste for your vocation." He glances once more towards the warehouse. "It matters not what your brand is, you are a supporter of exposing secrets that are best left for leaders to fathom and control. The warehouse is clean, it would be unwise to leave your marks upon it. As unwise as prying."

"For fuck's sake!" Josephine stamps on the ground, furious beyond reason. Nothing to kick. Kicking him out of the question, that much at least registers. "Prejudiced much?! Listen already. You will keep it. I don't want anything of yours, begrepen." She takes a few steps back to him, a finger pointing at his chest. "You know /nothing/ about me, or you would be singing a /totally/ different tune. And you will, once you realize. Will."

"If you wish, I can insult you back in a different language," Will replies, mild and dry. Still not bothering to move. "You have already expressed distaste at the hushing of a secret, have refused to acknowledge the necessity of taking time. In addition, my hypocrite comment stands. Should you be able to deal with me completely off any record, then things could be different. My experience of reporters is that they are not capable of always staying away from their job."

"When did /I/ insult you." Actually shaking now, Josephine shakes her head, raises both hands, as a result the pepper spray as well, before her in surrender. "Which only shows how little you know. I'm not wasting any more time or energy on you." At which she turns her back on him and starts to walk away. Not to the warehouse, in fact, but in the direction she came from, the long walk back to the hotel. Maybe some part of her was listening.

"So perhaps I misunderstood 'begrepen'," Will muses, his pronunciation exactly as Josephine's. He allows her a final, amused smile to her, idly pondering if he's successfully managed to dissuade her from continuing. Then he is suddenly away, a dark blur of shadow that heads down the street, past Josephine once more.

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