Arriving behind the rest on a rumbling Harley street cruiser, Billy Mac, Pander, True Sabbat and Beast of the Feral Heart, took his time getting downstairs. His movements were slow and careful as he parked his bike at the curb and slid from the seat, then pulled his black leather jacket tight across his broad shoulders. To him, there was no early or late, there was only the successful meeting between hunter and hunted; if he missed an opportunity now, there would be one at a later time. Not for him the mad scramble for any mission that might see him rise in rank or prestige, which many other Panders made a trope of their clan. He had all the time in the world to satisfy his ambition.<br/><br/>Slowly scanning the rundown area, he slid one bare hand over his chin to smooth the close-cropped beard there, the other checking the nine-inch blade of blackened steel sheathed on his broad belt. That held up his stone-washed denim jeans, neatly cuffed over tight-laced black combat boots. To top it all off, he positively reeked of Old Spice. The entire ensemble was the stereotypical outlaw biker costume, the same sort of thing he would have worn while living, but now of much higher quality; his urban disguise, as comfortable to him as naked skin would have been, but far more useful given his current hunting grounds.<br/><br/>Turning his eyes on the Brewery, he inhaled deeply, taking the scent of the bar and its patrons, ignoring those signs which were not useful to him and casually separating each of those he wanted. Fear, of course, mixed heavily with human lust, a smell he thought of as greasy, not robust or attractive. Personally, he despised any edifice controlled by his kind as they were imperfect feeding grounds; certainly, one could find a meal easily enough. Too easily, since all you had to do was snap your fingers and a dozen blood dolls would throw themselves on your teeth. That might be the best of pleasures for some Cainites, but the creature known as Billy Mac found himself incredibly bored by the prospect, and he hadn't even taken his first step toward the front door.<br/><br/>He was attracting attention, a lone biker standing there, statue-still as he stared at the bar's facade. No good. Unhurried, he started moving, walking towards the door with a loping stride. Inside, a short pause as he turned his invitation over to the watchdog, down the stairs, past the trembling female without a glance, and into the meeting room. He flicked his eyes around, making no introduction of himself as he scanned the group and the Bishop in her chair. To this last he gave a faint nod before sliding to the fringe of the meeting, patient to let others have their turn and reveal what might be vital information to him. He was not all that late, after all, as the very air spoke of an unanswered query. He had no way to respond, so he would let others do it for him.