D E A T H L E S S

where: pride fest, dell rapids.

when: open

who: open

there was no need for an enchanted beaded necklace. astarte has her own lapis lazuli ring. for the last three thousand years she  uses the same. a permanent adornment on her body. she loves parties. the sense of freedom was contagious: displays of affection in public. some rather scandalous for a such small city in south dakota. however it could never reach pompeii or other old cities, now destroyed by time.  but no one could quite beat the greeks in the arts of the alcove.

equality between women and men is preached. acceptance of our inner selves is encouraged. so much is said about it. and yet society fails to welcome who they consider different from the norm. make no mistake, there is still a long way to go. but small things just as the pride fest do matter.   many  opposed the festival. protesters were seen. the vaymprie rolls her eyes. small gestures to act like a human.

her guards and entourage were keeping their distance. she was proud to admit that they were behaving and blending in with the crowd fairly well. if you could ignore the fact that they looked too perfect to be real. marble statues out of the workshop of a renaissance sculptor.

“ not bad for the first pride event in this city. i wonder if we will have another next year. by the looks of it we better make it a tradition.”

parties are one of erzsébet’s constant attendances.  a rich joy of hers, watching every species fall apart and turn into one living mass, a writhing body where the individual becomes the consciousness of tens of thousands that want just the same as they do.  she could walk among them and sink her teeth into anyone, and they’d just think it was a kiss.  earn the cheers of everyone surrounding her as she darted from target to target.  breaks only for the euphoria of beautiful, delicate creatures pushing their bodies against hers to dance and seek a true kiss with their lipstick wet mouths.

she loves the freedom.  holding a young woman to her and knowing there will be no fight for it from anyone else around her.  consider that a drunken state for erzsébet, her face raw with a smile both feral and serene.  too much teeth and yet still soft mouth, a fluctuation as she meanders her way through the crowd towards a scent more powerful than hers, a scent she knows as dominion but cannot recall having been with privately, intimately, not since individual moments after erzsébet ripped her sire’s throat out and drew the dominion’s eyes.

astarte is a vision as always.  just her presence alone puts those of the children that erzsébet has come to know as hers to shame.  

old , coarse hands reach out to shake hers.  he wonders how old she is.  is she younger then him ?  older ?   there really was no way to tell , save for the eyes.  older vaympires had a look to them like they’d watched as civilizations rose and fell.  he wondered if he had that same look.  even so , no one expected him to be the age he was.  he should’ve been dead and fully decomposed by now.  if only his rage hadn’t gotten in the way.    

mustached lips widen.   ❝   lucan.   ❞    friends with a vaympire wasn’t the worst thing he could do.  it was smart.  they may be enemies with centuries of war behind them , but with information of their existance in human hands , wouldn’t it be better for them to unite against a common threat ?

he digs the old wallet out of his back pocket and tosses the bartender the first bill his fingers find with instructions on what to make.  he takes another sip.   ❝   what made you come to nocturnal ?  i’m sure it doesn’t smell all that great to someone like you.    ❞

her smile is faint and fleeting, vanishing with moments once their hands have connected, the deal made and sold through that exchange of hands.  he is something odd.  this man is not prey after all, his blood would be too poison for her.  a sickness that would knot her stomach and leave her sick around the bar, if not bleeding her own vitae out before she could even make it to the door.  so it’s a different game.  a far more entertaining one when the ending is unclear.

     “isn’t that a befitting name, sweet thing?”  lucan, lycan, she would tease more if she had the interest to do so.  but there are drinks to be bought and an evening to be filled; the more she can coax out of his the better.  already one drink down.  money tossed to a bartender that eyes them up cautiously, slides it across to her waiting hands without trying to his his bafflement at the pair coming together before him.

or perhaps it’s that she’s here at all.  lucan is right in that, there’s nothing about this place that speaks to her preferences, her enjoyments and comfort.  grime fills the air.  a taste hinted at even beneath the drink she sips.  settling onto her skin even if she avoids touching furniture beyond what she must.  so she laughs, bright and then gone again, a star through the sky.  just as burning and destructive.  

Elyse knows how power wytches can be once they rise through the ranks. She had witnessed pure power before, the ability to strip power from others coming to mind immediately. This woman feels as though she could strip anything bare, make it the weakest version of itself. Elyse doesn’t think poorly of her, the blonde is just disarming. It surely isn’t her fault that Elyse feels so pleasantly intimidated. It was as though every word the young wytch offered was predetermined to be wrong as not impressively prophetic as that of her company. 

Darling. She is darling in her own isms but to be called darling by the feat of femininity next to her is nothing short of national acclaim. Elyse feels atop a stage next to her, as if any passing oceanarium lover is an audience full of attentive eyes. The blonde is a classic beauty and Elyse is just giddy to be in her company. She doesn’t deserve such pleasantness from a woman who is the embodiment of greatness but she takes the kindness gracious; her face flushing and her grin wide. 

“I think that the taboo is for really smart people. Like super super smart people.” That was why Elyse didn’t tend to make waves. Though candid in the secrets she let slip brainy individuals seemed to be able to get their mouth around difficult topics. They weaved their thoughts together to blanket those they spoke to by way of creating comfortable conversation. Even with the very evident tingling throughout her whole being just standing next to the woman Elyse didn’t think to leave. Intelligent had ways of making people stay. 

“I like philosophical things.” That was a lie that she couldn’t keep. “No, okay, that’s a kind of a lie. I really just like listening to people talking philosophically. You know, like they know the whole world, I really like that.”  Her sisters had the same qualities, able to recall and retain everything that had ever happened. At least that was how it seemed to Elyse’s cluelessness. They could tell her that underneath it all the sky was a shade of deep green and she would run to the streets to start spreading the news. Why would she ever think for herself when surrounded by such esteemed minds? 

“Is that why you’re here? For like peace?” Elyse had been there to see the pretty fish, her depths never pushing past the shallows. 

     “intelligence is itself a taboo, is it not?”  erzsébet offers as a delicate retort, the corners of her mouth turning upwards.  these conversations are saccharine, the young woman’s words match her body language.  reminding erzsébet of petunias and other such tiny flowers, the types to fill a garden bed and runneth over the sides before summer manages to arrive.  that’s who she is.  a flower bed far too full, the abundance of spring, the virility and brightness of those colors.  with her youth she must attract hounds of those hungry for a taste of joy.  addicts to purity and naivety, looking for their quickest fix with the highest quality available.  “they cause the most destructive wars, they burn the largest holes in our society.  great gifts and great damage from them in an equal measure.”

she would know, after all.  manipulating the greats of society -- and slaying those, after needles and snow and the hungry bites of bugs -- until the hole that erzsébet left behind her mortal self was so massive and terrible that historians speak of her now.  intelligence.  a weapon.  no better knife to slide between someone’s shoulder blades when they turn their back.  

     “well have you ever tried to read it, sweet thing?  paper or spoken through tapes, i have found books of philosophical meanderings to be particularly fascinating to read.  also,” erzsébet adds like a secret, winking as she leans closer, “it’s excellent for falling asleep to.  not a falsehood if you say you’ve read one of those books, even if you’ve slept to it instead.  surely the mind reads better when wide open for dreams.”

she stands taller and shrugs, the rich fabric around her shoulders rippling with the motion.  “of course, in audio books the person reading doesn’t truly understand what they’re saying aloud.  hearing a person truly speak about it... that is different.  i understand you, it’s far more beautiful.”

ah, but here is the key question.  if erzsébet is a hook, this question is bait offered up by her very prey, and she takes it with ease.  pretending to consider for a moment with soft eyes, a solemness that carries through the silent moments that she lets grow between them.  there are, erzsébet knows, ten thousand answers to this question.  all of them could result differently, bring joy or bitterness.  a lure.  a stench.  she knows what she wants, but it’s a more proper question of what the sweet thing besides her wants instead.  finally, erzsébet turns to face her properly.  now careless of the fish and great glass displays besides them.

     “i’m here for company.”  she says, low and soft.  a secret between them.  “someone who would like to speak in depths with me, for i am terribly lonely.  all things i love were left far behind when i came here... all people.  perhaps that is why you drew me, little darling.  you feel so kind.”

    The air was saturated with an essence that the wytch new too well. Lust stained the street; it’s musk pungent yet fleeting, coming and going with the breeze. The sweltering heat of the summer only built upon this essence, rainbow flags flapping and coloring the setting with nothing but acceptance. It was beautiful as it was distracting, since Killian felt like he wasn’t in control of his body. The beads of sweat dripping down his neck, being lost in the curves of his chest was the price he paid for being a pawn for Pride. He bounced between and stall after stall, smiling and indulging on everyone that bloomed with infectious energy. Being psychically inclined, his magic had no barriers today and he was just a sponge absorbing anything that resonated with him. Joy lept out to him, ecstasy followed, while the music in the streets created a rhythm that ushered him down the street until a particular beauty stopped him in his track. 

    Whatever she was, she was drenched in something sinful that flowed like a river and down the street until it surged through the wytch. She was tantalizing and the taste of iron swelled in his mouth. A split second he wondered if she was a vampire, but like a crashing wave her drunken state overwhelmed him. Sanity left his body, only to be replaced with a false aspiration. The whole event felt like a dull buzz compared to what the elder vampire was giving off (unbeknownst or not), that it pulled him towards her with ease.

    “That’d be an understatement.” he replied, his chair turned around and placed under him as he straddled it. “Definitely drunk off something but it’s hardly liquor.” Killian licked his lips, his eyes glazed over as his manner was that of a puppy dog eagerly wanting her attention. “Thought I did need a break from the heat…it smoking hot today.” 

erzsébet is a hunter, and these streets are built for hunting.  there are hundreds to thousands of people crowding the sidewalk and asphalt, drunk off of liquors and lusts and the joy of entities that desire the same things as them.  even she is drunk in her own way.  licking at her lips with a dart of tongue, the red color staying but staining her tongue as well.  teeth bare with something of a smile at the young wytch before her.  he shows up far too easily, like her words summoned him before he had even understood what was spoken.  oh, he is drunk, just as he says.  off of magic and that very joy of all the others around him.  part of the cacophony then, part of the chaos.  

does she like that, or is it just the chance that she may sink teeth into a wytch that sparks like a firework moments from bursting into the sky?  all the options feel equal, tidal wave after tidal wave.  it makes her laugh sweetly, rich as she sits forward to catch his chin between her slender fingers.  turning his head from side to side.  “oh darling,” she says as she releases him.  touches those fingers to his cheek instead and leaves them there for a moment, cool against the thrumming heat of his skin.  “you speak of yourself like an amalgamation.  smoking.  i could breathe the fumes from you.”

and then like nothing at all, erzsébet leans back into her seat.  space between them once more, her legs crossing until the fabric of her dress falls apart to reveal legs lashed with fishnets forming the most delicate of diamonds.  

     “beautiful thing, do you have a name that i may know you by?  for this is company i’d like to keep.”

AMBROSE.

HE HEARS THE WHISTLE of the wind from his perch , hand resting on the balcony railing as he takes in the view below . it seems so small , seems like another world rests below them — and it was a view he very much liked , especially in a metaphorical sense . 

ambrose knew he was destined for something great , something grand to bury whatever past he still runs from . there were so many new things that came with his vaymparism but it seems the ghosts of his past will always find a way to haunt him — no matter how much blood he’s spilled , he will never forget his own blood staining silks or carpets .

the lady who’s called for his audience speaks up , voice cutting through his thoughts and making him turn to look . he blinks before a grin splits across his face . the young vaympire approaches , re - situating himself on the other end of the table , fingers ghosting over the glass of wine . ‘ the job has it’s horrors but i’ve grown accustomed as the years go by , ’ he responds with a shrug , bringing the glass to his lips and taking a sip . 

‘ but these days , it’s more poor them that poor me . ’ another grin , fangs peeking out . ‘ it’s.. thrilling if i’m being honest . ’ 

     “poor them,”  erzsébet croons with a wicked smile, “poor them, the ragged mortals and foolish others that think to stand in our way.  and yet some still stand there, like they are an immovable object against the great force that we are.”  

how cheap, we.  a common dominion, as though they always focused upon the same goals, had agreements more than bickering arguments where teeth were bared and blood would spill without a table set between them.  oh no, erzsébet does not feel a we beyond the mask that she wears around any and all who surround her.  it encourages a safety.  a trust or distraction -- for who would be cruel about their status in the dominion unless they wished for death to come early?

it also makes the youth of their species even easier to manipulate.  they’re new to the immortality, new to their vaympirism, always looking for things and people to look up to as gods as much as creature who offer guidance.  even ambrose, she thinks, is a sucker for this weakness.  just one more soul that cannot yet stand alone.

poor youths.  erzsébet wishes she could pity them.

she’s never attended something of this magnitude.  not in recent history anyway.  it was difficult for her to even pay attention to the transforming social norm for more than a few reasons.  getting back on her feet after her imprisonment had taken over a decade.  she had several issues , many still not resolved nor expected to ever be.   on the other hand , she’d publicly hid her sexual preferences for so long that even today she had troubles. 

the world had come so far , yet in some areas she felt like she’d never left home over two thousand years ago.  she thought that perhaps the world would’ve progressed past gender and the color of ones’ skin.  she’d been wrong.  

yet as she walked around in a simple rainbow tee she couldn’t help but smile at all the people expressing themselves.  this was how the world was supposed to be.  what did it matter who one loved ?   why couldn’t she have led this kind of life ?    though she couldn’t discount everything.  without her husband , she wouldn’t have her beloved children.  

her mind flies as she walks through the crowds.  she finds herself almost out of breath and slightly dizzy.  all she sees is a beautiful colorful dress and an empty chair.  it itsn’t until she sits down that she’s next to an acquaintance.

❝   no alcohol  ,  i just  —   ❞    she takes a breath , eyes closing for a second.    ❝   i’m overwhelmed.  i’m amazed.    ❞  

to be bold and careless was to make her true self keenly aware of those within the castle that was her home and soul, so long ago.  erzsébet had the lucky servants, the ones that she would take apart in other ways and spare so long as they brought her pleasure.  another week of life within those great stone walls that would never release them.  what would the judge have thought, she wonders sometimes, if he had known that she was more willing to take his wife home for all of her provocations rather than him?  a husband is a unique shade.  she kept one for the disguise as much as the interest of what would occur.  

it’s easier to be true now, at least in the one way that erzsébet is particularly content with letting all the world see. plenty of years have passed away -- her children, whomever they were, have long since been taken to the grave besides her rotten partner of marriage.  

all of them.  only one still lingers in her mind when she peers into the crowds around her, sometimes imagines to see her where it is others, beautiful things that could have come out of erzsébet’s soul.  even the dragyn makes her think of that daughter so long gone, no matter the age difference between them.  it’s in the eyes. the flush of the cheeks.  erzsébet would pinch her cheeks and bring her to shade if she was willing to allow her.  

instead, erzsébet laughs brightly.  taps the tip of her heel against the dragyn’s ankle, a temporary connection as heated as the scalding air surrounding them both.  “is it far too much for you, darling?  the endless celebration is... maddening in many ways.”

should this entertain her so terribly?  the chaotic events that have taken over an entire town draw nothing but dry smiles to erzsébet’s red stained mouth.  at time she finds herself drawn into laughter.  after all, humans and supernaturals alike seem to have let go of themselves.  lost to the euphoria perhaps.  the blatant flaunting of societal norms and legality that a festival allows.  dancing with near bare bodies.  a press of mouth to mouth broken up by giggles, pink cheeks and bright eyes.  the liquor flows easier than even the food, erzsébet notes the longer that she lingers within these massive crowds.

something to parch thirst and lure the celebrations to continue longer than any, no doubt, expected they’d be planning to stay.  she finds her own joys in walking through the crowds.  a necklace given to her, identical to many of the others worn by all species keeps her safe from the sun.  healthy.  strong even, enough so that erzsébet catches hands on those tipsy enough not to argue when she tugs them into an embrace.  within these places, a bite looks enough like a kiss for all eyes to keep far away from them beyond a brief glance.  some whistles.  sweet, erzsébet thinks to those.  foolish, sweet things.

drunk herself now on blood, gorged and yet still hungry with an entire day left to feast, erzsébet sinks into a nearby open chair.  tucking herself beneath the shade umbrella as her skirts flow around her, neatly shifted to present the fabric and colors as beautifully as she can manage.  privacy is nearly nonexistent in these events -- so she doesn’t expect the table to stay empty.  instead peers at all those walking by over the compact mirror in one of her hands, the lipstick tube in the other.  eventuality.   erzsébet makes room for those in life no matter how much she dislikes them, if only to keep her face steady when another seat is taken not moments later.

he doesn’t believe her. he doesn’t believe her because he has spent long enough in close proximity to the high council. rafael listens to the rumors, and rarely does he believe them, but he takes them into account. he takes everything into account in that way. so his smile curls just a little more pointed, and a little worse, strategically so. “usually i dislike being too forward, but i will say that i doubt debates on the written word are what you prefer to take up your time. they would interest me very much, but i would hardly wish to take up your time with something that you probably view as… trite at best.” he sounds like he doesn’t care much about this fact. it’s just something else to take into account.

of course, it’s a little more than that. it’s like battle lines between them. here is where you end and here is where i begin.

he tilts his head. “quite true. i wouldn’t blame a wytch - at least, not one that is still a wytch. although you never know what they were before joining our ranks. it could be a leftover predilection. or they could have no motive beyond attention. some do have a flair for the dramatic.” bathory would know, he’s sure. there are only two reasons to keep a book like the one she so desires. either as a meticulous record, neurotic and obsessed, or to luxuriate in the memory of each and every kill. he can guess which one she is. she does not come off as neurotic. but she is someone who likes to luxuriate - in the blood of young women, if the stories hold any truth.

he thinks they do, to a degree. no story is entirely fact. but no story is entirely false, at least none of the good ones.

there is a way he likes to set himself up with each and every high council member that he meets. each version of him is different, fine tuned to stroke egos in the right way. the exception is, of course, astarte. the rest meet rafael as he likes himself to be perceived - quiet, thoughtful, educated. he does not overextend. he knows boundaries. he certainly does not engage in slaughter, as if he has simply forgotten the person he was after everything fell apart.

sometimes you can hold yourself and your worst impulses together, like two sides of a coin, and each day weight it so that the coin comes down on the correct side. he reaches for the wine instead. “that may be true,” he says, “but those feelings are fickle and certainly trade places across moments.”

of course she assumes he wants something. incorrect. he wants nothing right now. there is always later to want. then he laughs, light, and takes a sip of wine. “firstly, he owes me a favor anyway. i helped him obtain a painting he was quite interested in a few years back. and secondly, the idea of such a text interests me. not as much as it interests you, i’m certain, but nevertheless. consider me intrigued.”

her smile is almost feral, stretching a bit too wide and holding for a bit too long.  fork tongs scraping across her plate before she lets him rest from the sudden, cold white noise.  “oh, you’re a brave little bambi aren’t you?  i admire that, darling.  admire all of your confidence as you try to read my mannerisms.  please, endear to me in a game of sorts and guess what written words would fascinate me.  what do you think i’ve read and taken joy in, what sort of papers have fallen apart in my hands from being touched over and over again?”  she says it like a challenge, almost like a threat.  

it’s what he’s drawn from her.  if he wants fire, there’s no reason not to give it to him.  children, older or not, need to learn lessons.  it seems that his mind and common sense haven’t developed as much as his age should have allowed them to.  erzsébet wonders if that helps his mother keep him in place.  a broken minded child is a worthy child, the only kind that’s safe to stay in the same reality where you exist.  

clever astarte.  she almost admires the woman for it.

     “we are a dramatic species, are we not?  built around it for the sake of our survival.  life is cheap. and dull.  when you live as long as we do, there is no time or sanity for things that are dull and cheap.  were this not true i would be horrified by this beast of our sibling, but alas.  i can claim understanding of them -- we all can.”   erzsébet gives no options for his denial of this.  setting her fork down and flicking her fingers as the waitress shifts, her scent changing at the motion.  nervous.  eager, as well, always good to tell when she’s hungry for another creature to sink her pretty little fangs into.  “it is their refusal to hide such things that i damn.  tell me darling, do you prefer seafood?  i’ve chosen such for our entree.”

on command, the young woman returns.  lobster tails presented to them as other plates are taken away no question if rafael has finished his appetizer or wishes to keep it.  fresh forks.  erzsébet hums as she lets her fingers touch the waitress’s swinging braid when she walks away, vanishing quickly into the darker lighting of the restaurant.  

she shrugs dismissively.  taking to the meal before her carelessly, tearing the shell as she brings meat to her mouth and chews.  swallows.  “all things are fickle.  vaympires more than most.”

❝  natural.  i have a million things within my mind at once.  ❞  and for her , it was torturous.  she did not have thousands of years of memory to look back on with nostalgia.  she had hell.  ❝  the job numbs it.  ❞   

truly , what had she been thinking when she agreed to this job ?  other millennia - old creatures around town had made a name for themselves.  popular night club owner , pack alpha , dominion member.  yet she was a bouncer.   the difference between them and her , however , was that her middle years were missing.  she didn’t have the influence or community for such things.  and so , she stood her most nights guarding a door.

surely this woman had seen more than a century.  she was sophisticated and put together well.  zahra could see the wheels turning behind her eyes.  the dragyn smirked and closed the distance between them , blackened heals clacking on the cement.  a silk scarf was pulled away from her neck and handed to the woman.    

❝   i’m not a fan of such places.  too many people and too confining.  ❞   dark brown eyes follow the line of blood from her chin to the vaympire’s eyes.  it’s only as she flashes fangs that zahra allows an echo of the fire that burns within her to echo in her pupils.

     “it’s certainly a choice, though more distinguished than retail or waitressing.”  if barely at that, erzsébet decides.  “at least i can imagine it would send your poor enemies into a tizzy trying to find you, searching high but never looking outside of today’s palaces and mansions.”  

there’s almost a humor to it, at the twitching corners of her mother and the wicked edge of her faithless laughter as she flutters fingers at the street and its emptiness.  clever, if in a wasteful way.  what a cost for safety and confusion, what a thing to suffer through.  erzsébet could never manage it.  has been there, has seen so many years locked behind stone walls beating at them with her torn raw knuckles.  no one thought to look for her there.

perhaps not the same.  but wasted years are wasted all the same, a cost erzsébet won’t pay no matter in what form of currency.  

she takes the scarf.  silken and delicate in her fingers, it’s almost a shame to tap against her chin and guide higher.  cleaning delicate strands of blood, spilled droplets away into a fabric well suited for touching her.  there is an urge to tie it around her own neck.  keepers, with a sweet laugh and a turn of heel as she vanishes down the street.  but no.  a creature like this -- whatever a creature this is -- isn’t worth irritating quite yet.  not with anything more sharp than a needle.

     “you just prefer to guard the poor bastards within.”  erzsébet keeps her voice steady even as that fire suddenly burns, a flash of light within deep eyes that she has never seen before.  not wytch -- oh lords and ladies would clutch their pearls to see a wytch with such power.  a vaympire would rather tear out their own teeth than face such a powerful gift.  what, then?  erzsébet tilts her head.  offers the scarf back, and grins.  “but you could always create quite the pot roast with them all packed inside, no?”

not even a guess.  just another needle.

keeping to yourself is a skill, isn’t it?  erzsébet considers herself particularly talented at seeming such, a better skill than actual demure tones and eyes cast away from the secrets and explosions of others.  a clever creature knows nothing, but a cunning one has everything hidden behind that mask.  as such, she knows some things.  has met ambrose on multiple brief moments that she recalls as handshakes or kisses to the back of her knuckles.  a guardian to their meetings.  executor of their will, if necessary.  how clever for his mother to keep him close, as astarte with her favorite.  as someone should have been, had he truly desired his life and his will to continue it.  she finds it all too amusing that only female sires are keen enough of the danger their children possess against them.

men are overconfident.  perfect to twist, terrible when giving birth.  they chafe under protection and guidelines yet fail to give their own even for their safety.  it’s a blatant failure.  pus in the wound.  yet she prefers it as such for the gifts it gives her.  

an example before her.  handed a glass of wine by her preferred waitress, a sweet thing with doe eyes that erzsébet will have vanished and buried before the summer ends.  she smiles at mistress and guest alike -- more love for her employer.  a distant kindness for ambrose, but kindness all the same.  she tilts her glass towards him once the waitress leaves and hums.  lets the sound be swallowed by rushing air.

It was strange but exciting to be in the company of someone who’d known Yelena before she’d become queen of Russia. To be standing next to a person that was as near and dear to her as her own maker had been gave her dead heart a jolt. They’d spent a lot of time together, the three of them, basking in blood and ravishing all they could out of her royal courts. Erzsebet had even been present at a few of her husband’s deaths–their poor untimely demises.

Being in her home was like being thrust into the past. Absinthe would be stocked at her bar, of course. Their drink of choice. No one had touched her cheek so familiarly like this in quite some time, no one had ever dared. Most could gather that under her sleek and beautiful exterior was a monster set to rip their heads off and drink until the body was twitching on the floor. And she wanted it that way.

She raised her eyebrow in anticipation, already her mouth watering for the excitement of a hunt. “I’ve had to be so buttoned up lately. My job entitles me to punish those of us who feed so freely from the population while trying to cover up my own indiscretions. And I won’t lose a throne again. Of that, I am sure.” She takes the drink of Erzsebet and drinks it down, closing her eyes at the familiar burn it takes down her throat. “I have a feeding relationship with a witch…have you ever had witch blood? It is a very divine experience. Though…nothing beats a hunt.” She turns to where she can hear hearts beating, her breathing picking up, her face already becoming savage like, her beautiful visage falling away, her long fangs making themselves known. She holds her hand out towards her friend. “Let us do this together. Just like old times.”

     “Well a throne always suits you, doesn’t it?  Our type are so wild and brittle... though I can hardly damn them out of it with my own preferences to the hunt.”  What a wicked smile that she sends to Yelena, dragging her fingertips across the bar to collect imaginary dust.  She’s all too fond of her darling Russian queen, no matter if Erzsebet sees them as equals.  Roles matter not in the world of humans anymore -- but to have a companion who owned one so powerful is fascinating.  Queen.  No wonder that Erzsebet loves her so richly, wants to taste her across her own tongue one of these rich and drunken evenings.  To drink from a fellow vaympire would be cursed and wretched to others, but gods, sisters cannot be halted can they?  

But for now, the blood of others.  A room to the side always locked and enclosed away, with gags within the maws of fresh prey and wounds to silence the older ones.  Humans, the all of them.  Supernaturals she rarely keeps longer than for one pretty feeding, one torture session brutal enough to break them wholly.  Far too dangerous for Erzsebet’s tastes to keep longer than that -- what if the bastard tears her to pieces?  Tries to fight back more than she prefers?  

    “Wytch blood has spilled past my lips in ancient years, but never so recent.  I’ve found so many wolves that the wildness is drawing me to bare my fangs at theirs jugulars.  Poor things.”  She takes Yelena’s hand without any hesitation.  Laughter spilling out of her mouth, tugging hand in hand as Erzsebet gleefully pulls her darling towards the scarlet stained, gilded and locked door.  “But come darling, we shall do as you desire.  The tools are the same, if not better than in our older days of romp and play.”

A key, a door.  Gliding open to a room where the lights turn on with a flick of a wrist, revealing the chains and silks and bodies nearly entirely bare.  Three options, less than in the past but plenty for a day so paranoid and bitter.  

Erzsebet smiles with far too many teeth, to the sound of muffled whines.  “Pick, my love and soul.  We shall take them to the table.”

Elyse was easily moved, both physically and spiritually. Easy to guide and even easier to beguile. 

The soft brush of knuckles against her cheek sent a shock down her spine, feeling a legion of goosebumps standing to salute the hand which had been charitable enough to grace her. Elyse wasn’t familiar with intimacy and it became even more strange in the company of new friends. Between her and her sisters, there was very little space for anything but true and pure intimate knowledge of another. Her childhood had been fraught by parents who thought to love her by pressuring her. She was to metamorphose from coal to diamond under the weight of their love but they hadn’t managed to make fruit from their labor.  Elyse relished in Amara and Irelia, always the smallest, the neediest and simplest of their little posse. Her hands had clung to her sisters’ shirts and still did, impromptu sleepovers enforced when her own bed seemed more like an isolated void than a space of comfort. 

The wytch giggled thoughtlessly at the observation, the information dotted around the oceanarium never being a port of call for her. 

Though the creature they were both looking at was formidable and impossibly large, something far more terrifying loomed right beside her. Powerful elegance was surely a weakness for everyone; women who seemed to be able to rule strangers on a whim.  An incantation that Elyse would never be privy to, a higher version of deadly femininity that didn’t seem to register with her usually cutesy aesthetic. 

“I try not to be picky.” Her self-suppression was impressive in some ways, pickiness a synonym for being opinionated. “I don’t think any conversation with you could be wretched.” Her mouth moved without her brain’s approval and her cheeks were left glowing. Wordsmithing was a fine talent to have, but it wasn’t one that she possessed. When the woman spoke Elyse felt as if she was under the lure of a syren, surrounded by an encased ocean yet still floundering. “If I had the chance I would, but I won’t hope that it comes to that. He seems happy being able to swim around. Do you think he’s happy?” 

One touch -- that’s all it ever really takes to sink herself beneath the skin.  A fish hook in the cheek just on the right side of numb, so you never feel that ache and burn until it’s far too late.  All Erzsébet’s prey ever feels is the tug pulling them ever closer to her open arms.  She smiles down at the young woman.  Traces the veins beneath her skin with her sharp eyes until they vanish beneath silken skin and the delicate softness of flesh beneath.  At times, Erzsébet thinks she can see all the way down to her prey’s heart.  Watch each ventricle, every thundering pump of a muscle that never stops working, beating, forcing life to continue for the body wrapped around it.  

She feels a venom, a bitterness sinking into her eyes as they turn back to the great fish.  Now circling, turning away from them towards the deepest shadows of its enclosure.  Not unlike a cage, really.  He’ll never get out of there alive to see the world around him.  Is this pretty thing caged as well?  Her brightness and the bubbles in her throat are bars if so, a brutal thing to be hidden behind.   Erzsébet has never been there.  Has never allowed herself into that world when so keenly aware of the monsters and bastards that would want to keep her within those gilded locks while burying the keys.  

     “Oh little darling, you honor me particularly.”  Dipping her head, Erzsébet coaxes a demureness to her face.  Just enough to seem humbled, nothing near a true submission.  Not to her, not to anyone, and if that is her allure then she surely cannot destroy it.  “Don’t worry though, I doubt he’ll do anything but live a long and pleasant life within this habitat of his.  Just consider me curious, always about these things... the taboo is something someone must say.  Even as a hypothetical.”

At her question, Erzsébet takes a moment.  Pretends to consider where the answer is truly nothing, matters barely at all to her beyond means to an end.  What sort of wolf worries about sheep?  But if the sheep see one another, if their empathy comes to life, well.  Erzsébet falls silent and watches as the great behemoth crawls its way from left to right.  Missing an eye, a hole there that has been healed over.  Damage, she thinks, from another fish perhaps.  Smaller yet daring and willing to take the risk of death for a bite of the untouchable.  Yet still he swims, and somehow, she admires that.  

Or sees something too intimate in there.

     “I believe he is.  That wound healed over, it would have led him to slaughter in the ocean.  Small fish of all kinds would have swarmed him to bite him to pieces... or a shark to tear him in half.  But here he healed and found his peace.”  Laughing softly, she tucks hair behind her ear.  Looks back at the young thing besides her.  “Or I am poetic in inappropriate, philosophical ways.  But aquariums are places of peace so we may only hope the fish are peaceful as well.”

she keeps thinking about that. burning and damning. the two words keep circling around her skull, slamming up against things. things she’s seen on screen, things she’s read. makes her skin itch. in one of her classes, they talked censorship and watched _the passion of joan of arc_, a 1920s french silent film. she thinks of that last scene - of joan burning, but the flames protecting her soul as it ascends to heaven. maybe it’s just a moment’s turn of phrase, there and then gone across seconds. people say weird shit all the time, consciously or unconsciously. there’s a tendency towards the dramatic every so often that infects us all.

for god’s sake, the woman wears a fucking cape. if there’s someone around hill city who is going to talk about damning people in the biblical sense, then it’s probably her. so florence tries her best to shake it off, as difficult as it is. “hitchcock was a bastard who made actresses’ lives hell,” florence corrects. no real venom. just an absence to her words, like it’s something that is automatic to her. “made good movies. if he had lived too much longer he probably would’ve ruined people’s lives. i think… it’s okay that he died early. a film student sin to say that, i know, but i don’t have a problem with it.”

florence chuckles as little to herself as she unlocks the register. “um. yeah. god, cheap movie posters… suck. i hate them. i don’t get how more people don’t notice how… bad they are. all orange and blue. shitty. i have a copy of the poster for rosemary’s baby in my room. that one’s good.” even after being told directly to take her time, florence still focuses on her work. she can move fast enough when she’s focused. besides, there’s something calming about the process, about the repetition of it.

she’s in the middle of ringing up a matinee ticket for one adult, only half-listening to whatever the woman’s saying. says something about _beautiful women_ and florence almost agrees on principle, only for a slender hand to suddenly cross the very intentional and professional distance between them to wrap around her wrist. the instant result is panic - and not even a good kind of panic. the woman’s skin is cool against hers and florence’s brain charges through about a dozen panicked thoughts. is she running too warm? does she have a fever or something? she’s not sweating or anything, and vertex is pretty cold all the time.

no. it’s her freaking out. some people just run cold. it’s fine.

then the woman pulls back and it’s over across seconds florence stands stock still for a second, like a mechanical toy not yet wound, eyes tracing the pattern on the opposite wall until something shocks her into motion. she slides the card over towards her, swiping and pushing the card back over. “i, uh, don’t think anyone should have a taste for anyone’s blood, lilith or otherwise, even if adam was a shitty husband. i like my life pretty bloodless, all things considered.” an awkward little laugh as she waits for the ticket to print, drumming her fingers on the counter.

so she’s a defender of the people, has a heart for the little ones instead of herself.  that’s a tragedy almost worth tears, erzsébet thinks.  pretty little things like this one aren’t taught to spit in the eye of the world around them, and have no inspiration to go after it themselves.  she’s heard that her life is now used as a cautionary tale against mad women as much as something told to children to insure they go to bed on time.  not a source of inspiration like it should be; who took control of something with blood and fire like she did?  damn the queens and the princesses and the royals -- erzsébet did it only for herself.  selfishness is a proper lesson, as is violence.  it shouldn’t leave this young creature before her looking nervous and squirming between her oddly bold sentences.

hitchcock hurt women to brutalize beautiful performances out of them.  that, erzsébet thinks, is absolutely worthy.

still she bats her eyes, pretends to look shocked.  “oh, what a monstrous man.”  she leans her elbow onto the table with chin in palm as she peers hard into the young woman’s eyes.  almost unblinking -- just the right edge of too long between the mechanical motion.  “your sin is my interest, what sort of things did he do to the fawns and bambis in his control?  i will confess that in his old photos he looked something of a career eater.  ill fond of anyone, i imagine, except for his favorite and most obedient little ones.”  

lipstick kissed lips curve upwards as she takes in the fading of voice.  how this girl freezes and remains there, rooted, before instinct kicks back in and has her moving through instinctual old motions.  her voice ever so distant.  that heat from her skin lingers on  erzsébet’s fingertips like the tingling of blood loss.  a numbness trying to fix itself and failing as the temperature shift fades.  cool returns to her, and she laughs as sweet and bright as she can fathom force out of her corrupted lungs.  “don’t underestimate yourself, mouse.  even rosemary had a taste for blood in the end -- she just fell for madness before it took root in her.  women...”  erzsébet raises a shoulder and lets it fall.  shifting fabric as she chuckles.  “we’re creatures built to bleed.  i imagine that crimson should be easiest for us to cope with than anyone else.”

in this, an odd moment of sincerity.  a truth to her grin.  

“it would be strange if i wasn’t. i generally find myself to be more well read than most, though i freely admit i have had the advantage of time.” the intricacies of language are something rafael thinks about often. though he is more concerned with the act of collection than examining texts, they often arrive hand in hand. and the woman in front of him makes him think of the word saccharine, but in a sickly way. too much sweetness, like something used to disguise the bitterness of poison. “perhaps in some regards,” he says, as evasive as most people would expect from something as old as he is. “but i don’t believe her influence is quite as wide-reaching as you think.”

in the end, his choices and their consequences are his own. he accepts this with all of the responsibility that it entails, and the fact that he is never quite alone while being self-sufficient. it is a careful dichotomy that he works within. he knows the exact boundaries of his position - has tested and studied them in the way a scientist examines slides under a microscope, and now he simply thinks of ways to escape them.

it’s just so even in this conversation: acquiesce if only to subvert. he takes care in how he maneuvers around the high council, in the way that anyone should.

younger vampyres sometimes dislike the influence of dominion. it isn’t a surprise. anything that gains power will dislike the bonds that hold it. he knows that quite personally. it’s why sometimes he looks at the high council and that bitterness rises in him, slow and undeniable. going nowhere.

“personally, i doubt this is as simple as one rogue vampyre. we would have caught them by now if it were the case, and the murders would be less… complicated. less ritualistic. less purposeful, even. this isn’t carnage for the sake of it. it would be a mistake to underestimate the mind behind it, whether that mind is deranged or simply unique.” he’ll admit that much. of course he has put thought into it. it has been a topic of discussion. there is no need to teach the person behind this to be clever. they are already clever, or they believe themselves to be so.

he glances over as the waitress approaches. no choice. of course. that, too, is a symbol of his position. he can read the way that this dinner, too, has been constructed, just as ritualistic as the killings. everything is about the little rituals that keep things stable.

still, he laughs a little to himself as he lays the napkin across his lap. “i can enjoy them and be nervous about their loss at once.” rafael’s fork pauses partway to the plate as he considers the question. “i’ve heard rumors of this text, though i haven’t seen or encountered it personally. however, i know a slovakian collector who is notoriously private about what he has in his archives, and from what i do know about his predilections, he may have had interest in such a thing. i can see if i can coax a confirmation out of him.”

     “so you do -- so we all do.  a befitting use for mornings with bright sun, i suppose.  but then we no doubt has different tastes, and as such any debates of the written word we have would be far more interesting.”  as though the idea of any such conversations truly interests her, but pretending is no harm.  he’ll have to clue in sooner than later that any small talk is nothing but false niceties to draw him along as far as she wants him to go.  a monster is a monster.  let her be cunning and clever, so long as he goes along with it everything will be fine.  have the conversations.  eat the meal.  stay in his position on the ladder without gunning for any thrones.  

que sera, sera.  he’s left himself up to the fates the moment he chose not to chase after his mother’s throat all those hundreds of years ago.

a good enough agony for erzsébet to take particular joys in, to swish through her mind as wine in the mouth before swallowing.  slide it across the palette, she thinks.  let it touch every bit of you before settling into your insides and festering to its rotting death there. 

     “i wouldn’t consider it ritualistic; at least there’s no religious intent behind it if it’s one of our fellow fools.  if one of our bastards have chosen to do such a thing then they choose this ritual out of the same reason a serial killer does.  we kill,” erzsébet adds almost dreamily, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “to as they say... ‘get off.’  rituals i believe would have more displays around them -- candles and gems or herbs.  but you speak like you wish to blame a wytch for this trauma, not our own kin.”  

she raises an eyebrow over her fork and the raw meat clinging to it.  redder than her mouth, it stains her pink lipstick a darker color in splashes and shades.  it’s nothing compared to the taste of prey or the freshness of it.  raw, yes, but gods there’s no heartbeat still reverberating through the muscles.  just the reminiscing burn of a knife’s cold cut from the chef who prepared their appetizers not moments ago.  it reminds her of anna.  so does rafael in some ways, were he more cunning and cutthroat.  more likely to cut than to talk his enemies to death; anna was never quite afraid of blood.  

whether she was hungry for it, erzsébet can’t be certain.  never truly gave a damn enough to ask, and has no care for it now.  but she acted far more than she imagines rafael ever has in his long, ancient life.  at least anna smiled when erzsébet commanded their evenings like she knew what was happening.  this sweet fool, she notes, tries to hide it.  

It’s a fact that Ahreum looks and sounds like a naïve child who doesn’t know her own species despite all the centuries spent among those like herself and the woman walking right next to her, but the reality is that she isn’t as innocent as she may appear — she does carry a few tricks up her sleeve, and she knows how to use them when necessary. After all, she has been either cursed or blessed with the spirit element and all of the abilities it provides her. She will know what your intentions are before you yourself acknowledge them.

And for that reason, she is safe in her actions when she locks their arms together after Erzsébet’s offer, the smile doesn’t leave her lips not even for a second and she allows herself to walk closely next to the other woman, and that action itself brings her a feeling of nostalgia for the years she would walk through the streets of Paris like that with the few friends she had made in the music university — she only had good memories of those times, when she was a young and truly naïve vaympire.

She chuckles after listening to the woman again and squeezes her arm a tiny little bit when she does so. “Oh, they are! Foolish and weak, totally blinded by what their eyes can see only. Little do they know what lays underneath all this beauty.” She says, even though she isn’t the best person to talk about mortals once she is married and deeply enamored with one of them. Of course, her husband is not going to be a mortal forever, but still… It is what he is, and Ahreum isn’t bothered by that at all.

But once she hears the name of her new friend, she can’t help but raise her eyebrows in surprise. She tilts her head and looks at the other woman with a sudden interest that she doesn’t quite need to explain.

“Erzsébet,” she repeats with softness in her voice. “I’ve heard about you before, Erzsébet. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, it really is.” Her smile gets a bit wider, and she nods her head a few times without breaking the eye contact they have been holding for so long. “I’m Ahreum, but it must be the first time you hear about me.”

Visible blurred and shifting in old rain puddles across the ground, their silhouettes are striking when mixed with those oil spills and midnight lighting.  Two deadly weapons in silk wrapping, Erzsébet thinks with a secretive and delighted smile pulling at her lips.  Even full and drunk upon the sensation of it, she finds herself hopeful that someone foolish will wander their way and take they as someone worthy of attack.  An easy mugging perhaps.  Knife present, demands for money, and Erzsébet would watch what her dear companion chose to do before ripping the criminal apart with her own nails.  

There’s not much known between herself and this other vaympire.  It’s the choice of presence that matters right now though, she thinks, how this beautiful creature was in the right place at the right time.  Nothing else is currently worthy of Erzsébet’s consideration.  “Oh very much so,” she agrees in a lilting tone that almost feels dreamy.  “Though their words are so inappropriate for what’s beneath.  Monster and beast are far too cliched and familiar.  To think that mortals used to be so creative with their word choices.”

And oh, there is the look some part of Erzsébet -- some large swath of her heart -- has been waiting for.  Coy is the smile that she sends her companion.  Sickly saccharine in so many ways that she hopes it’s somewhat nauseating to behold.  So obviously fake; the lies for her prey.  The truth for her fellow creatures of night.