LUSTRANT.

His voice -- both soothing her mind and causing an itch underneath her skin -- brought her back to the present. His question evoked an immediate answer: "Of course I did. How could you even ask that?" Her eyebrows furrowed at him, a half truth. Half lie. She'd missed parts of him; the times that were good. She missed some of the attention that he'd give her, the devotion. "It took decades for me to feel something other than sadness." Other than fear.

Nisha doesn't even relax as he releases her hair and takes several steps away from her. She's trying to figure out this game -- his next steps. His plans for her. She hadn't expected him to let go of her and walk away. "I was able to distract myself." She corrected him. Move on, well, she'd done that too. It didn't mean that he had to know that part, though. She wasn't going to admit to it. Not now.

"You're assuming, Mehrzād." Her voice hardened as she met his gaze with her own glare. "You've been gone for so long that you have manifested truths that aren't even real about me. About us." She refused to admit that yes, she had a plan. That if the hunters hadn't attacked them at that time, within the week, she would have tried to drive a stake through his heart. "It's been a century. I watched you die. At least, I thought I did. You can't expect me to not be shocked by your presence. To not have... tried to move on." Her voice was raised now, showing her frustration. "If it were me, if the situation had been turned around and it were me who died, I would have wanted you to try to move on. To try to create some life without me."

Nisha ran her free hand over her face as she let out a sigh. She couldn't believe that this was happening. That the life she'd created for herself was crashing down around her, all because she'd assumed that her sire had fucking died. And now, he was there, standing in front of the stage, expecting... her. The old her. The obedient her. Her eyes drifted towards the flowers, her lips dipping downwards. "We've both changed over the years, Mehrzād." It was an assumption, really. She had no idea if he was the same person as before. "I'm glad you made it out alive." For Julieta, at the very least. "But I've been a widow for a century and I don't know where that puts us, currently. What, exactly, do you want from me?"

His loud, angry voice echoes throughout the auditorium. Something of a yell, but what it truly is, is the frustrated cries of the weary. How many times will she try to make a fool out of him? She's trying to unravel her unreasonable actions, as if she spins the thread through and through, somehow reason will magically appear. It won't. Excuse after excuse. How tiresome. How boring. Frankly, how untrue.

A tale as old as time, the people you love are bound to disappoint you.

Muscle memory must've taken hold of her tongue, but not her eyes too? Why don't they look at him with adoration anymore? Compassion? Love? Where is her love?

It's absolutely heart wrenching.

"Distracting yourself?" Mehrzād repeats, a concoction of both disbelief and bitter drizzled on his tone. A thin scoff flares out of his nostrils. “Putain, mais bien sûr. Tell me, sweet Nisha, how have you been distracting yourself? Hm? I'm dying to know, in what ways you have dried the tears you've cried for me?" They gesture to the entire theater. "This theater can't be the only thing you've built in my memory, is it?"

Humorlessly, drenched in sourness, a laugh lunges from his throat.

"My God, Nisha, all of these centuries and yet, you are still a fool!" He shakes his head and his black curls bounce with it. "What modern nonsense is that? Moving on?" His brown eyes narrow at her as he lets her nonsensical sentiment linger in the air. "There is no moving on, not when you and I are of concern. We are fucking eternal."

Muscle memory catches up with his own body, with one swift motion, he lunges his arm in her direction and captures her throat with his hand.

"Believe me when I say," Mehrzād continues, not easing his grip by a centimeter, "There is no me without you, no you without me. I would have been happier to hear word of you digging a wooden stake into your heart rather than witnessing you moving on. If you believed me to be dead, then dead you should have been too!"

As his desperate shouts echo back to them, there's a moment of silence. In this silence, against the shaky breaths of the tormented soul that is Mehrzād, he has a sinister thought.

"Perhaps," he begins once more, "I haven't asked the right question. Is it not what is drying your tears..." His grip tightens around her neck. Should I ask, who has been drying your tears instead?” His voice is softer now. "Tell me Nisha, is there someone else?"

Instead, she seduces the neighbor – a gorgeous woman with dark eyes and sinful curves who reminds her of someone she thought she might have loved in Chile in ’72. Julieta makes the husband watch as she drains her completely, then compels the man into believing he’s the one who killed his wife. Julieta steps out into the rain to the sound of desperate wailing, then a gunshot – smug satisfaction radiating off her in waves as she strolls through the neighborhood oh a chaotic afternoon, casually licking the last bit of blood from her nail.

“Father? Did you finally kill him?” Julieta muses, stepping through the kitchen door and grabbing a hand towel to dry off. “Hours of practice can only take one so far if the natural musicality is lacking.” She speaks of violence so casually, nothing more than the creature they created. Julieta makes her way into the sitting room, and leans against the door frame, towel drying her hair as she watches with elegant disinterest as the woman desperately scrubs the floor. “When will she be here?” She can’t yet bring herself to say the word mother, and a tiny scowl flashes across her face, brows puckering in a way that Nisha had once scolded her for, warning of early wrinkles. “I need to change.”

Memories of being locked in her own room -- and in a coffin -- for years, flooded to the forefront of her mind. She absentmindedly rubbed at the new brand underneath her long sleeve -- against her will, of course. A consequence given by her sire for leaving him after believing he was dead. The heat radiated off of her skin, pressing into the cloth of her shirt. She was getting better at ignoring the pain, though it was quite irritating.

With a clenched jaw, Nisha walked up the steps of the house and opened the front door. She waited until her sire noticed she was there and watched as he comepelled a woman to invite her inside Nisha's eyes narrowed at the human, her nose snubbing at her as she closed the umbrella, left it outside, and walked past her and into the home.

Her eyes caught sight of her daughter. There were no hugs offered, no smile, and no comments of adoration. "You haven't seen your mother in a century and this is how you decide to present yourself?" Nisha shook her head in disappointment. "Go change. Now." She'd never been the best mother but Nisha had taught Julieta how to present herself correctly. Nisha expected more from her. She also expected her to be with her husband and not still attached to her father like a fucking infant.

Nisha sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she turned towards her husband. Ex husband, in her opinion. "You should have killed the humans the moment you decided you wanted this home."

Mehrzād finds himself standing in the living room mirror, rustling his hair to give it just the right amount of tamed vs untamed. Mehrzād hears the sound of tire tracks from miles away. He knows its Nisha's car, he has a sense about these things. "She'll be here soon," he explains to her. Julieta will have to forgive Nisha for selfish endeavors.Mehrzād found his peace against Nisha through violence, it was the only way to kill the elephant in the room. Julieta will have to spear hers in the way she feels fit in order to forgive Nisha.

The car approaches outside, Mehrzād hears the engine shut off and a pair of heels hit the gravel. He claps his hands together. "She's here! She's here!" Mehrzād announces to the entire room.

Mehrzād greets Nisha at the door, takes her hand and places a kiss on it. Then another. He places a trail of kisses that lead up her arm. "My love," he muses something of a whisper, as if the only two would be able to hear what he says. He scoops her face into his hands. "Don't be so hard on our beautiful Julieta. She's... dealing the best she can." Mehrzād swipes his finger against her cheek, an attempt to comfort the wonderful motherr.

A sheepish smile sprouts on his lips as he sets Nisha's face free. "Ah, Nisha, you brute! Why would I kill them when I can make good use out of them." He laughs. "The husband is the poorest piano player on the planet, but the wife puts elbow grease into the way she mops the floor like nothing I've seen. She's magnificent! I don't have it in my heart to let her go...." Not yet anyways.

They're dancing on the surface. Mehrzād turns around and reaches for Julieta. "Darling," he calls to her, "Come say hello to your mother."

"Painfully." She answered, finally. She'd like to believe that him dying wasn't painful for her, but she had missed some comforts that he'd provided her. The lavish lifestyle, the good attention, the amazing sex. But that had come with the manipulation, the isolation, and the expectations.

Nisha was tempted to lie. To tell him that she did, in fact, go after the people that she thought killed him. But she also felt like it was a trick question of sorts. If he hadn't died -- and it was clear to her now that he hadn't -- then the Zād she knew would have killed them himself. She chose a different lie, instead. "I thought about it. But... I was afraid. I didn't want to die."

She nodded at his words, aware of what he would have done if someone had tried to kill her, or even take her away from him. He'd have massacred them. Ensured that they wouldn't be able to touch her ever again. He'd done it before and she'd witnessed it. Nisha had even been turned on by it, at one point. "Well, I wasn't as strong as you, at the time." She said, her voice soft as she spoke to him. "Now, though. I think I would have." Another lie, easily rolled off the tongue.

"Like we used to." Nisha furrowed her eyebrows slightly, searching her mind for the memories that she'd buried years ago. The ones that would help her move on from the life that she had once lived, in search for a new and better one. "Oh. Yes." She nodded again, his words tugging at a string of memories, dragging them towards the forefront of her mind. Going out together, dancing the night away, killing and slaying and satiating themselves with blood and their own bodies. Yes. She remembered now. It was something she had hoped to experience with Reid, at some point.

Maybe they were never meant to have that chance.

She swallowed hard as his fingers brushed her hair out of her face as he confirmed a fear of hers. Him still believing that they were together. That she was his wife and he was her husband. "I haven't been a wife in some time, Mehrzād." She stated, as if reminding him that she'd lived a different life after him. "It might take some time for me to... adjust."

Of course, those hunters did not exist. She'd be looking for figments of her imagination in the physical world. Strangers would've pegged her as confused, then finally mad, if she pressed on it. Then mad she should've been. She should've been absolutely bathshit over the loss of him. She should've relived that night every night in her mind. She should have regrets. Right now, she should pulled out the list of what she could've done better, what she could've done to save him the middle of the forest. She should be groveling, kissing his feet, reading Mehrzād this list of her shames.

She does none of this. She stands, a little proudly, a little too chummy, for his liking. He was mistaken what he said earlier, perhaps drunk on hope because the reunion with Nisha, Mehrzād had spoke complete nonsense into the air. Her punishments could wait. It's clear to him now, they cannot. It wouldn't be fair to him, but it wouldn't be fair to his Nisha either. A wall is built between them, and if he moves his feet just right, he could see her clearly. Yet, each word she says, she might as well position herself in direct view of the rock. Why dance around the wall? They should hack it to smithereens! That way no hard feelings linger in his chest. Forgiveness can grow him a new heart.

Retribution must be paid so her sins can disintegrate. They should get it all out on the table, in this case the stage, and leave it there, so they can enjoy eternity hand in hand

"Did you miss me?" His voice is velvet and its as if the sadness from his eyes made way to his tongue. "Being away from you was pure agony. As if someone was holding my head underwater for years. As if a hot branding iron was placed on my chest, of every day, of every second, for an entire century."

Mehrzād releases her locks of hair and begins to step away. He walks downstage, as if he's getting a closer look of the entire auditorium and deeply sighs. "It looks like you were able to move on," he notices, his voice lower now. He turns his back to his beloved Nisha. Beloved. He wonders if the feeling is mutual. He wonders if it ever was.

"You are embedded into my skin like a injury that will never heal. You're scar tissue, melted in my soul for as long as I haunt this earth." His eyes hover with darkness. "In order to heal from me, you put on the smallest of bandages. Moved on before you could blink." His head cocks to the side. "When we were together, before the hunters whisked me away, did you pray for my downfall? When we slept next to each other, husband and wife, did you have dreams of wedging a stake into my cold, dead, heart?"

Nisha did her best to remain still as he circled her. A lion and it's prey. Her jaw clenched as she stared out at the hundreds of empty seats. "No. Of course not. Not a mirage." A pause. "A ghost... Perhaps. But--" Her whole body tensed as his fingers grazed her backside. There'd been a time when she craved his touch. When she'd lean into it, beg for it. And as much as she hated to admit it, part of her still wanted that attention. The other part, however, knew that it came with rules that she no longer wanted to abide by. For her to be a woman that she had broken free from a century ago.

"I don't understand." She said as she turned until they were facing each other. She didn't feel comfortable with him behind her, where she couldn't see him and what he was doing. Nisha forced herself to meet his gaze, to not shy away from it. "I thought you were dead, Zād." Nisha insisted, spinning the story that she'd had in her head for so long. "I watched them drive a stake through your chest. I watched you fall. How was I supposed to know that it was not real? How was I supposed to know that you had actually lived?" Her voice was desperate and much more emotional than she'd allowed it to be in a long time.

Your consequences can wait. Her stomach twisted as he thrusted the flowers out towards her. He wanted her to take them from him. He wanted her to thank him. Appreciate what he'd done for her. So she took them, carefully wrapping her fingers around the stems and pulling them from his grasp without even grazing his skin with hers. "Thank you, my love."

Whatever Nisha had seen on that treacherous night wasn't real. It had been a decent attempt at good theatrics. Simply put, it was make believe. It was a tall tale, a fervorous lie, someone conjured up to make her believe Mehrzād was done for, so she wouldn't come looking. And by God, did she eat it up! She couldn't scarf down the lie fast enough!

Her questioning, her pining for truth, melts away his friendly demeanor. Mehrzād and that temper. He's trying to be good for her. Oh, he really is. But each question is a harsh reminder, she did not come looking for him. She did not seek revenge on his part. Did she even care he was gone? Did she shed one single tear for him?

"And how did you mourn for me, love?" Poisonous softness coats his words. You catch more bees with honey, but his curiosity is genuine. Being without her was agony. For an entire century he had lived with an open, hollow chest cavity, bleeding and oozing sorrow, because his heart had been ripped out of his body.

"Did you go searching for these hunters? These ones you say that killed me?" Mehrzād cocks his head to the side. "Did you try to avenge me?" His eyes scan her face, trying to find any lie that may hide in her expression. "I know if anyone had stolen you from me......" his voice trails off. It'd be redundant to finish that thought. They both know what would become of those who dared to hurt Nisha. Cities would've burned. Family lines would've gone extinct. If one Brotherhood hunter had hurt a single strand of black hair on her perfect little head, the Brotherhood would cease to exist. Hell, anyone with a tacky tattoo would've been mangled to pieces, just by Mehrzād's sight of them.

It's supposed to be a good night. A grand night! Nisha does this to Mehrzād, she makes him crazy. One moment its pure chaos, the next its pure bliss. Ah, but isn't that how love is supposed to make you feel?

His lips stretch into a smile. "I was hoping we could celebrate like we used to," Mehrzād muses. "This town is no Paris, but perhaps, we can find a nightclub with good wine and good music. Dance all night. Make a feast out of the fellow patrons. Fuck on the floor with their blood smeared on us." Gently, he swipes a piece of hair out of her face. "The things husbands and wives do."

And yet, Mehrzād was standing just twenty feet away from her, speaking to her as if none of that had happened.

The confident and independent woman that she'd built herself up to be was slowly receding in his presence; being replaced by a subservient and dutiful wife that knew her place. Nisha found herself shaking her head back and forth without even thinking, pushing away centuries old emotions that threatened to resurface.

"You're dead." Nisha insisted. "You're dead. I saw you die." She replayed the memory in her head, over and over again. There had been so much blood and the stake had sunken so deep within his body. "How..." Her eyes darted past him, the memory of their child coming to the forefront. Nisha expected Julieta to, somehow, crawl out from underneath one of the theatre seats. To latch herself onto her father and to smile up at her.

The two of them had always had a close bond. One that Nisha never quite managed with Julieta. "Is she with you?" Nisha asked, desperately trying to remain on somewhat safe conversations.

For years, Nisha had been able to anticipate what her sire had wanted from her. What he wanted her to say and do. How she was supposed to behave. But this was the first time in her life that she had no idea what she was supposed to do or what was expected of her.

She ignored his words. Not intentionally. Not really. Nisha just couldn't get over the fact that he was standing in her theatre with roses, no less. "How did you survive?"

Before she can blink, Mehrzād appears on the stage with her. Now, they are the stars of their own little show. "So what am I then?" he wonders, questioning what she thinks is true as he steadily paces around her, only stopping when he stands behind her. So close, his breath could be felt on her delicate skin. Close enough to touch, how badly he wants to. Just a little touch. "A mirage? A ghost?"

Fingers so gently trail against her collarbone. "A ghost couldn't do this," Mehrzād murmurs. A touch so simple but how intoxicating it is for him to feel Nisha,herself, is real. She's not a mirage. She's not a ghost. Once again, the lovers have found themselves together.

"I have my ways," Mehrzād answers smoothly. Why bore her with the gritty details? Tales of his torture? Bleh! Uninteresting. He was more interested what Nisha had made of herself in his absence. Who is this new woman that stands before him? Who is Nisha Eleazar?

Is she with you?

Mehrzād snaps his neck towards Nisha giving her a nasty look. A glare. Is he not enough? How dare she not be satisfied. The undead comes back to life and her mind is clouded of thoughts with Julieta. Nisha didn't watch Julieta die; No, she abandoned the fatherless child as soon as she believed him to be dead. Now, suddenly she concerns herself if Julieta lives or dies?

"Of course, she is," Mehrzād snarls at Nisha. "Darling Julieta knows a thing or two about loyalty. It's something she did not learn from her mother, that is for damn sure," he continues on, bitterly, turning his back on her.

His temper, it's always been such a terrible thing. Mehrzād slaughtered cities just from a particularly foul conversation with Nisha. He doesn't want anger to consume him, not tonight. It's a special evening. It's her birthday for God's sake!

"I..." Mehrzād faces her again, "I don't want to fight with you. Not tonight. It's your birthday, my love. We're back together again. I'll shelve my anger for the evening, I can do it. Your consequences can wait!" He pushes the bouquet of flowers into her direction. They're her favorite kind. "Tonight is about you and I, my love." Hasn't it always been? Hadn't the stars written it? Hadn't Mehrzād himself?

When: 10:23

Playing: When I’m Small by Phantogram

Thera was no stranger to clubbing alone. It was a good way to connect with clients her grandmother had always said, and, despite what AJ always intimated, the Wendell’s’ had wealth that in other circumstances could’ve afforded Thera the socialite lifestyle. But letting lose was dangerous, being herself was inviting peril.

But this mocktail was intoxicating. Lemon and thyme, Fates did AJ know how to put together a drink. And then the subtle tones of one of her favorite songs started emanating over the speakers. Thera, while a sober party girl, had always enjoyed the dancing at clubs most. As Thera stood and entered the dance floor she was aware of the way her dress road up on her person. She took her place in the middle of the relatively crowded dance floor and proceeded to sway her hips and dance to the Phantogram song she had constantly requested at clubs all over the world. The slow electronic pace left sweat trickling down the side of her neck and trailing between her décolletage. As the rhythm neared an end Thera tilted her head to the song, lifting hooded eyes her eyes met another’s. Trance broken, Thera returned to the world still moving around her.

In the meantime, Mehrzād will drink the liquor. When he's ready, he will drink from the veins of whoever he deems fit. He will mingle with the crowd. Have a reunion or two (So many familiar faces in Port Leiry!). He will scan the crowd. He will watch her dance her little heart out without a single care in the world. He will admire her beauty, in both face and body, because he is not blind.

She's a witch. He likes to think he's keen on these kinds of things, which in a sense, is true. The dead giveaway is the blood trickling in her veins. Though they stand a good few feet away, they can smell it on her. The whole room is etched in it, the smell of magical blood fills the entire party. Yet, when he focuses on her, the way her body moves, the way droplets of sweat trickles down her chest, its like the sweet nectar smell of her blood is the only one that exists.

When the vampire's eyes meets the witch's, a small smirk rises upon his lips. Mehrzād raises a hand and a wave trickles off of his finger tips.