One heartbeat stuck out to her tonight, rushed and listless at the same time, and her feet carried her toward it, and the owner of it. The person seemed to be struggling with getting a lighter to spark, and she approached easily, pulling one from her own pocket and sparking it for them, holding it out toward the man to light the thing hanging from their lips. Cigarette or perhaps something a little more, Juliette could care less. She was simply being a good Samaritan.

“I’ve heard that smoking might kill you.” She offered the words with a playful tone, teasing as she rested a hip against the wall beside her, foot crossing the other, eyes roaming the other. A vagabond, perhaps. Some kind of shady back alley dealer. Pretty eyes, nice jaw, lean and lanky. It was something. “Then again, I suppose in a place like this, that’s a minor concern. Tell me, is the lighter not working a trick to lure in beautiful strangers to help you, or was it just genuine bad luck?”

The silent affirmation never helped on the worst days. The worst days were the early mornings, when people streamed in and out of Common Grounds on their way to and from work in the most zombie like fashion, grunting out orders and barely offering an eye to the poor beleaguered barista simply trying to keep up with everything and not offend anyone with the quick tongue that she had to bite often.

On some days like this one, she wondered if zombies were real, too, and thought that she could come up with some pretty solid evidence to prove the theory. It kept her spirits up as she slid another cardboard cup across the counter and called out a name that she could barely pronounce, offering a smile and a two finger salute to the person who clearly couldn’t be assed to even acknowledge her as they shuffled out the door. Shuffling, simply adding fuel to that zombie theory.

 A small pause in the flow was a relief, enough to set Percy off wiping down the counter where milk and espresso had started to form sticky puddles everywhere, shoulders easing from the tension that always came from the fast paced environment. She really wasn’t cut out for customer service.

There was a reason she had a masters degree in music, after all.

The sound of someone coming in caused her to pause in her cleaning and glance up before moving (admittedly, slowly) toward the little register to rest her hip against the counter, one eyebrow quirked just slightly. “Morning, darlin’. Might I suggest a direct IV drip of caffeine? If that doesn’t suit your fancy, we also offer more normal caffeine distribution. Lattes, cappuccinos, even a nice macchiato if you’re feeling feisty.” 

Carrington’s general consensus on his current state was that he was well and truly fucked. Trapped in a town full of fucking monsters that he was supposed to exist alongside? It was ludicrious to say the least. He was a hunter. He killed monsters. Or would have. If he had any bloody resources to buy a decent weapon. Even a half-decent one would suffice. 

It made his skin crawl to see Vampyre walking around in public like they were even remotely human. Yet no one could lift a finger to harm them. That made him a bit obsolete, didn’t it? Which was an entirely different sort of problem. So he’d made his way to the town’s information hub and got in line for general information. He had to find a place to stay and a way to make  money. What he had was quickly running out. After than, well... after that he’d have to see.

A small scuffle seemed to break out near the front of the line, and Carrington sighed. Fucking monsters. He took a step back as the queue  of people tried to move out of the way, and ended up trodding on someone. “Watch out,” he snapped, glancing behind at the person in his way. 

Time: Mid-afternoon

Who: open

   One of the perks of working at the Town Hall as a File Clerk is that most people left her well enough alone; she wasn’t forced to deal with her boss that much, and most of her work was handed down to her and she could hide either in the stacks moving files around or at her ancient computer making sure that everything was filed in properly. It didn’t mean she never dealt with people — no job is perfect, after all — but it meant that at work she could stop her smiling routine; she didn’t have to hide the pervasive sadness that permeated her being because no one was around to see it.

   Patricia usually took lunch at her desk, squirreled away with a home-made sandwich or something else, but unfortunately her sister had decided food experimentation in the middle of the night was more important. Not only had her sleep been interrupted by smoke alarms, but it meant that the kitchen was not safe for use in the morning when she got up to make her sandwich. She’d assured Celeste it was fine and offered smiles and pecks on the cheek, but it meant that now Patricia — a woman who didn’t play at hiding herself away but still managed it — was forced to seek food outside of her own little space.

   Standing in front of the food truck and looking at the near-caligraphy writing on the black board in front of her, she opted for Jerk Chicken to be on the safe side; she wasn’t that familiar. It wasn’t until she backed up to make room that she realized there was someone else there, and though she didn’t ram into them like a complete klutz, she did let out a squeak of surprise that sort of killed any notion of remaining anonymous, “You scared me,” internally, a fuck was uttered, “I’m so sorry.”

Anthony wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting of Ashbourne as it finally came into view. He didn’t feel anything change, no wash of magic as he crossed the final threshold to his new prison. Swapping one for another. Stopping on the edge of the sloping road that led into what he could only figure as the main town raising a hand to wipe away the droplets of sweat beading his pinched brow. Glancing up at the cloudy sky the fast shift in his gaze caused his vision to swim momentarily and the world to rock under his feet or was he the one who swayed? There was no differentiating the two. He was fitter than this, it was a fact, a hike shouldn’t have got him feeling like he lungs were about to give up in his chest or that he might upturn the already empty contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk despite how it growled and cramped in need of nourishment.

The nicely painted on his way in hadn’t really give much hint about what to expect here. Not even a population count, not even a cheerful little strap-line for what the town might be origin of. Perhaps something, perhaps nothing at all. Though if it was anything like the other sleepy towns he’d passed through he doubted that he would be staying here for long. Little places just weren’t his thing. Little places didn’t offer the anonymity that allowed you to cruise down the sidewalk without turning heads because everyone else was too absorbed in their own self-worth and interest to pay you any heed. Shielding his eyes as he surveyed the town he was left to hope that perhaps there was some dingy B&B that he could end up crashing at. He needed to assess the damage done, pulling the jacket he’d nicked from the cabin tighter around his body, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder and wrapping a steadying arm around his midriff he trudged on towards what he only hoped was the town centre.

Stopping outside the first cafe he saw he checked his reflection in the window, scrubbed a hand back through his hair to make himself look a little more presentable before heading inside to joint the queue. At least here he could grab a bite to eat and stop to figure out where the hell he was supposed to go from here.

Location: Black Diamond Time: Late evening, Day 4 in Ashbourne

Carrington wondered what he’d done to deserve this living hell he found himself in. Was it the killing? The taking of life? Was it the hatred in his heart for vampires? Was it his failure to save his wife and child from the very monster he’d hunted his whole life? Was it because he’d tried to die by his own hand because he couldn’t live with the guilt anymore? 

Was this to be his Purgatory? His punishment for all the sins of his life? All the failures. All the shortcomings. It couldn’t be anything else. Carrington was convinced. Especially after finding her. Finding her - the only sane face in a world gone mad - and then realizing he’d already lost her. To the same fucking parasite as everything else he’d ever loved. 

The tragic irony of his current existence was that as much as Carrington hated vampires, as much as he loathed and despised and was disgusted by them, they had something he needed. Something he told himself was a necessary evil, and not a slowly growing addiction. 

Blood. 

Vampire blood. 

It took less than a week for Carrington to start to feel the ache in his chest again. The tingling crawl along his spine. The coiling heat in his belly. The throb of his head and the cold sweat that coated his brow. He told himself he needed it for the chronic pain of his old injuries, but that was a lie. Carrington told himself a lie almost every day. He didn’t lie to others, but to himself... to himself he was more untrue than ever. 

He wanted it. 

Which is why he was sat listening to a beautiful woman sing a beautiful song, and trying not to think of her as a monster. He’d heard her name whispered here and there over the last few days. At least once he’d started paying attention. He’d heard about what she was. Where she worked. It wouldn’t be the first time Carrington had struck a deal with a Vampyre. So he sat by himself with his cheap whiskey, eyes locked on the immortal, and waited. 

She had what Carrington wanted. The question was, did he have anything to give in exchange? 

@txliabites

After the curious old journal had arrived on her doorstep, Fleur had poured through every page of it. It was obvious it was old and had not been kept in the best condition over the years – whoever had been its keeper prior to her, she had no idea. No one had been around when she had opened the door, not even a trace. It almost felt like a hoax. Why leave this on her doorstep? What was so important about it? The way that it was written, the fog... it was undoubtedly about Ashbourne. She could piece together that much on her own, and some man named Henry’s family. But that didn’t give her much to go off of. Henry wasn’t exactly an uncommon name. She would have to do more digging to get her answers.

Perhaps some kind of a witch could have gotten her answers more quickly, but she wanted to come across them on her own terms. That was why she had come to the library. Perhaps one of the chained books would hold an old answer. If Willow liked to write down the stories of the townsfolk, who was to say there wasn’t one who did the same who came before her?