Cobain was the very reason he had never crafted his own progeny in all these years. For the fear whomever he sired in that fashion might turn out to be as entirely useless as the red-eyed immortal teenager whom glared gloomily at him through the crowd. To tie himself to such an individual, to dare present such a creature to Risque with his brand of Maker upon it, would be almost dishonourable, he was sure of it. Risque, he knew, often inclined to regret Cobain in turn. The mistake child. Every family surely had one didn't they? The one who should never have been. The accident. Darcy so hardly blamed Risque for the boy. No, she was perfection itself. Infallible. Beyond mistake. Rather, he blamed Cobain for simply...existing in that sad little fashion he did. For squandering his privilege of having been made by Risque's own hand. A privilege he himself had been denied. How his own Maker had paled in comparison to his Beloved Mistress. How rarely he even cared to consider Beau any longer. The man had been nothing but a mongrel dog. Young, stupid, ill-bred, incapable of raising Darcy in any in sense even though he had...tried. Maybe that was why he disliked Cobain so very much. He reminded him of Beau. In a way. So.....young. Those disparaging thoughts, for now, were tossed easily aside as Darcy so at last allowed his boots to return to the floor, that glass now drained of what remained of his whiskey, Cobain having been made to wait long enough. The little wretches words were all but ignored, Darcy uninclined to heed the yapping of such a little dog as he strode down those stairs to join the younger vampire upon that dance floor.

Whatever task Risque had assigned to the boy was clearly beyond his ability to complete alone. Darcy so apparently required to watch over him to make sure it was completed. In the very least he had made more than his share of the money tonight. A lost hour or too would hardly prove to determinantal and yet how very loath he was to waste his time with this fucking child. Cobain so choosing that terribly poor time to speak once more. Redneck? It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. Little more than a singular, soft snort erupts from within the Southern vampire. Darcy allowing the tip of his tongue to fiddle idly with one fang as if contemplating those very words. That faintest hint of a simper tugging at the corner of his lip all the same. A sure sign of that cunning mind so turning within itself in that near erriely pregnant pause.

"Yar got sumthin' ta say, Cobain?"

How very dangerous a question it was despite that near innocent fashion in which it was asked. A more ready smile finding Darcy's features then as he turned to face that vampiric child more directly. Little kindness of any kind lingering within that simper, those falsified notes of pleasantness nothing short of a ruse. His feet shifted upon that floor, stepping closer to Cobain, pressing into his space- because he could. Because Cobain was beneath him. His hand lifted easily, smoothly, gently, his fingers catching just beneath Cobain's chin to tilt the boys head up toward his own. Darcy content to hold it for a moment, his eyes narrowing in an...examination of sorts. Though just what he looked for remained to be seen. His hand pressed slightly, turning Cobain's head to the left and back to the right, several other patrons around them having paused to watch that show. They were hoping for a fight. He could feel it in that adrenaline around them, that the stench that leaked from their human pores. A vampiric brawl to sweeten their nights. How disappointed they were about to be. How unworthy Cobain was of that effort. Darcy's fingers momentarily tightening agianst the boy's chin and jaw.

"Ya wanna play cards, Cobain? With da Rednecks? Yar'd be all outta place wit dat city-boy way o'talkin. I can fix it if yar like, eh? I can snap ya jaw in a few places. Make a real slack-jawed yokel outta ya yet. Ya might 'ave a 'ard time feedin wit a busted jaw but dat might amuse me ta see. Keep talkin, Little Weasel, I dare ya."

His mismatched gaze so easily met that flaring red of Cobain's own. How easy it would be to end him here and now. It would only take a look. A second. A moment in time. How lucky Cobain was to be crafted by Risque herself. His one and only protection. How he scorned the woman whose praises he should have sung for keeping him alive. Darcy's hand abruptly released its hold, that near infamous temper content to crack like the lash of a whip before reining itself back in. Without Risque's tormenting to drive him to the edge so over and over the vampiric man remained surprisingly....capable of that control. When he chose. That command for Cobain to tell him what this evening was about prompting that younger vampire to show him his cellphone. Darcy eyeing that picture upon the screen. Someone picking off their customers was indeed bad for business. Darcy hardly caring for those patrons themselves, rather, that loss of business was...undesirable. It would hardly take long for word to spread that a Hunter party was camped somewhere outside and with that notion alone came even less business.

"I'm always t'irsty. Come."

That Cowboy vampire turned to stride easily into the crowd then with the clear expectation that Cobain would follow. That swarming mess of bodies that danced and drank upon that floor parted easily around him. Human and vampire alike hurrying out of Darcy's way. He had been Syn's Manager so long there were precious few who did not know him. His height and stride alone affording him that air of importance all at once that saw most scurry aside. Darcy easily reached that front door then, his hand thrown up agianst that heavy steel to cast it aside before stepping out into that front parking lot and the cold embrace of the night just as several more patrons headed in behind him.

"Do we know were dis fella and 'is gang is 'iding out?"

They could hardly be far, not if they were watching who came and left that club. One of those back streets or alleyways most likely. Darcy, for now, content to shift into that near business-like demeanor. The vampire reached easily into that leather jacket then as he strode towards the street, one of his treasured pistols taken from within. The click and slide of that gun barrel echoed down the street as his fingers moved expertly to load those bullets. That gun ready within a manner of moments with another satisfying click. Darcy pausing then at the beginning of that near empty road surrounded by little more than trees and shadows. He could hardly scent anything in the wind and yet, for an ambush, with a view of the club, this road was nearly perfect. The vampire willing to take his bets that this was where that Hunter group was lingering.

"Alright den, off ya go boy. Start walkin'."

Darcy gestured with the gun barrel down that road then with the clear intent of having Cobain play that part of sacrificial lamb, as it were, to lure those Hunters out of hiding. If the boy died- so be it. It would hardly be any great loss.
"Dun worry, I'll cover ya......maybe."

We are rough men and used to rough ways.