Tea for Two I
Everything happened for a reason. Whether or not the oft-repeated adage was true, it was one to which she adhered.
Something had compelled her to look up when he walked into the room, and that same something had compelled her to engage him in conversation.
Never had they been close, though always on good terms as far as she could remember. In that moment, however, she had made a conscious effort to get to know him for the first time in their history.
He was skeptical of her motivations.
Why now?
Why not?
The upshot? A date later that week at The Angel’s Wing Tavern.
He departed, and she couldn’t shake the strange sensation of excitement. She was finally making good on her goal to put herself out there, showing her face around RavenBlack City again.
She hadn’t stayed long after him.
Downing Sprint Potions to expedite her exit from the unseemly side of town, she wandered the streets until just before dawn, accompanied by the music playing in her mind. She made several stops before returning home for the day, delivering two Perfect Dandelions to a revered former Ferryman leader she had finally met earlier that night, a forgotten SIE warrior and teacher she had encountered serendipitously the night previous, and the Rogue who had just set her plan in motion.
After all, her siress was the Mistress of the Dandelions.
Another melody interrupted her mind’s rendition of “‘Round Midnight.”
Her cell phone was ringing.
“Finally made it to Angel’s Wing,” he said confidently. “But you aren’t there!”
She thought she heard disappointment in his voice. “I am headed there,” she offered, silently cursing herself for taking the long way. “I might burn a SoTel to meet you then.”
His answer was self-effacing. “Oh, don’t do that. Conversations with me aren’t worth that much.”
“Oh stop that!” she chastised him. She was saddened by his offhand comments devaluing himself. “I just didn’t think you’d be there for a few days,” she explained with a sigh.
“No big deal,” he reassured her.
She bit her lip, not knowing what else to say, and not wanting to ruin his positive impression of her. “Still, I am sorry.”
“Heh.”
She knew she wouldn’t be able to get there unless…
“So you aren’t going to be there for…?” He trailed off.
She didn’t waste another moment. Luckily she had stocked up on Sprint Potions.
Oppression and 45th was her destination. The Angel’s Wing Tavern was only a few blocks from her usual haunt, The Broken Lover, on the southeast corner of Qualms and 43rd.
Arriving at the entrance, she glanced at the brass plaque before passing through the doors. She grasped the brass railing as she treaded down the stairs, her heels clicking conspicuously against the hardwood surface. She surveyed the room. He had already taken the liberty of claiming a place at the bar. She waved as she approached, her expression alight as a smile formed upon her lips. Sliding onto the red leather barstool next to him, she reached into her purse, producing two Dandelions. She looked down as she presented the flowers to him, embarrassed that the tips of its petals were stained with the faintest tint of brown.
Wordlessly, he gave her a Fading Black Orchid, its stamen, just beginning to brown, crushed against the purple petals. She hadn’t expected reciprocity.
She turned the flower between her thumb and forefinger, admiring the fragile beauty in its gradual destruction. “Truly, it’s the thought that counts, dear…” She pulled the flower through the topmost buttonhole of her blouse, tying its stem securely. Considering her handiwork, she nodded contentedly. Then she looked up to him, catching his eye. “What’s your fancy?”
–Gallagher
Cross-posted to Heaven’s Gate.
Familiar Faces
She felt a tug at the dormant dregs of her humanity.
She blinked, unnerved, and straightened her posture. The sensation was unmistakable. She had severed all of her bonds, and yet someone was reaching out to her. She dared not move. Her eyes scanned the periphery, and she entertained the idea that her acute senses had misled her as the call came again, her eyelids fluttering to a close. This time, her balance gave way under the influence of vertigo and she fell sideways against a storefront, grasping desperately at the metal grates pulled across its face.
In her mind’s eye, she saw a face she recognized immediately.
It had been years since they had been in contact. Her initial reaction was bewilderment, then alarm. Their bond had been forged in blood, it was true. However, she had been a mere mortal then; as such, she had been unaware that such a connection could endure in unlife.
Relying on her power of Perception to assess why she had sensed the girl so suddenly, a flash of blinding white assaulted her mind’s eye, forcing her back. She slid down with her back against the wall, assuming the prostrate position of the girl herself. As she placed the detached expression to its corresponding emotion, she gasped, not wanting to believe.
She had a choice.
Cognizant of pain and peace emanating from the girl, she decided to fulfill this sense of obligation, so overwhelming as it was. Holding fast to the lattice, she pulled herself upright, glistening with the exertion of great effort.
She could vaguely make out the outline of her condominium complex just ahead at Zinc and 44th. The hours of the night were waning, but she had to take her chances. After all, if they had been sworn sisters in life, why not also sworn sisters in death?
Slipping the scrolled parchment from her purse, Gallagher whispered the words that would take her where she needed to go.
The girl was slumped in the corner, a razor blade at her side tinged with the same scarlet substance that had started to stain the tiled floor a stark crimson. The same blood that had been ceremoniously shared between them now spilled freely from fresh cuts in a coarse checkerboard pattern drawn up the girl’s alabaster arms. For a moment, bloodlust flashed in the vampiress’ eyes, blotted out in the next instant by the realization of the scene before her. She had been unprepared to deal with the gravity of this situation.
The girl’s smile was effusive in spite of her weakened state. “Gally!” came her choked exclamation. She had read the five people you meet in heaven, and felt immense pleasure that her blood-sister was her first. “So I’m dead?” she asked in distant wonderment.
She herself had recommended the book to the girl, and so she innately understood the girl’s reaction. “No, not yet,” she answered, shaking her head sadly.
The girl knew that this threshold shouldn’t have been crossed already, from her other failed attempts. Not enough blood had been let. But she was having trouble justifying the presence of the woman from her past. Never before had she hallucinated.
Gallagher felt guilty for parsing the girl’s inner thoughts, but she couldn’t deceive her. “This is real. I am here with you now,” she said softly, moving to the girl’s side and taking her delicate yet bloodied hand in her own, a show of reassurance.
So many questions formulated in the girl’s mind. Why had she left? Where had she gone? How had she known? Why had she come?
The vampiress had to dignify her with an explanation. “I felt you, through our bond…” She trailed off, her silence palpable, unsure how to reveal her true nature to the girl
“You aren’t alive either, are you?” the girl observed astutely. “You feel…cold,” she said, squeezing Gallagher’s hand as she shifted uncomfortably.
It was a fitting dichotomy: the vampiress lacked the physical vitality of the living, yet thrived in unlife, whereas the girl, her physical form until now full of life, felt so dead inside.
The vampiress nodded and parted her lips to reveal her fangs, and the girl’s vacating eyes betrayed a glimmer of intrigue.
It was said that the line between brilliance and madness was thin. Never was that truth more clearly demonstrated to her than now. Gallagher watched the steady stream of blood trail down the girl’s arms like the rivers of blood the Ferrymen navigated.
An idea struck her.
“I can grant you a second chance at life.” Her voice was steady yet pleading, and she was shocked at how fervently she desired to bring the girl into her Embrace.
The girl caught her eye. “I won’t fail again.” The finality was evident. “You should go, before someone hears us,” the girl managed in hushed tones.
Gallagher felt the swell of regret as she removed two coins from her purse, placing them in the girl’s palm. The vampiress slipped her arms around the girl then, a tenuous embrace, as if afraid to further harm her fragile form. “You live on within me,” said the vampiress, before she rose to her feet. She turned from the girl. Trembling, she looked over her shoulder one final time.
Then the girl was still, impervious to the constraints of life.
It was all she could to to hold back the tears. She needed to see familiar faces. Or even just faces.
She needed to feel alive.
Billy had a framed prayer on his office wall which expressed his method for keeping going, even though he was unenthusiastic about living. A lot of patients who saw the prayer on Billy’s wall told him that it helped them to keep going, too. It went like this: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom always to tell the difference.” Among the things Billy Pilgrim could not change were the past, the present, and the future.
–Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five
She paused just outside. Her last memory of the place felt like forever ago.
It was winter 2006, after an Enforcers run, and she had shared drinks and laughs with Hesu and sangfroid.
The dynamic of the city had changed so. Change was inevitable.
Her fall had been extraordinary. Her rise would be an uphill battle.
She was stronger now, and she carried her crosses proudly. She had learned to accept that which she could not change, and had accumulated the courage to change that which she could not accept. Time would tell if she had the wisdom to tell the difference.
The difference now was that she could control her future.
–Gallagher
((Notes:
About Gallagher:
Technically, Gallagher has not been RPed in the RBC Hall proper, although I have posted RPs in the RBC group. Just to make sure everyone is aware, Gallagher is a continuation of Gringa, as I had the name changed in spring 2007.
About the topic:
I write what I know. My “lil’ sis’” in my former sorority took her life last Thursday, and this post is dedicated to her enduring memory. I am not asking for your condolences. She is at peace now. However, writing is my catharsis. Please respect this.
Choose love, choose life.
Thank you.
–A))
Blackout: Burned ((Part 9))
She set the pen to the next blank line. Her letters linked gracefully, filling the remaining white space with blue ink. Before long, inkstains accented the alabaster of her fingers passing down pages upon pages. She wrote with passion. The words escaping from the nib of her pen had long festered within. She recorded her strange happenstances, waking up on fire escapes and in abandoned warehouses–and of course in dark alleyways–in the night and day alike, not remembering long expanses of time. Pausing for a moment, she sighed, as if preparing herself for some inevitable…
* * * *
She smelled fire. It burned, the mere scent of it. The faint lingering of wood turning to ashes, paint being licked off walls, metals melting. Acrid, toxine-filled, thick smoke. Oxygen burning, carrying everything in the enviroment along. Gas. Just about everything reached the woman’s nose, and it overwhelmed her sharpened senses, for a moment making her stop dead in her tracks, forcing expression on her features. The eyes widened beneath the inexpensive sunglasses; her eyebrows rose into arches. Just what the hell was happening, exactly? Not that she cared. Really. It must’ve been just stupid humans blowing up their own homes. Yes, that was it; there was no need to worry. And so, after convincing herself of this fact, she continued walking; shoving her black gloved hands in the depths of her coat’s pockets, reaching for her pack of menthol cigarettes. That was just what she needed, get her mind off these things that were no real concern of her own. Just humans. She had to ignore the smell of delicate fabric in flames, and…flesh. Oh, but it wasn’t flesh. Not just any flesh—it was a vampire’s. She could just sense it, and it made her tense. Literally, every muscle constricted, waiting for an order as apprehension took over.
* * * *
She was vaguely aware of lights flickering all around her. A warm, light wind brushed by her, kissing her flawless cheek. She was walking amongst tall trees, the branches rustling gently in the breeze. By now the sun had risen, peeking through the porous shade of new leaves. The dappled light cast brilliant shades of green throughout the wood. A log lay rotting into the earth encompassing it, crawling with bugs which scuttled along its length. She emerged into a less densely packed area; looking behind her, a mist had overtaken the wood, muting its varied verdance. She could see the mist floating in midair, swirling haphazardly. The warmth of midday and the humid air drenched her in an earthy glow. She arched her back, the cotton sticking to her skin. She raised a hand to wipe the sweat from her brow.
Her hand twitched. The pen rolled away from her fingers onto the floor, where it was consumed in a mangled mess of plastic and metal parts.
* * * *
The female ran down the streets, carelessly pushing away humans and vampires alike, containing a growl of exhasperation building in the back of her throat. She wasn’t one to show emotions, and given they were complete strangers, they didn’t need to learn about her non-emotions either. Good. “Good?” she screeched mentally. “Nothing is good at the moment, you twerp.” She recognized the scent: the faint aroma of ink, the perfume of something fresh and sweet like citrus and flowers and… It really wasn’t going to help if she remembered how attached to the other woman she was. Then again, there was also no way she would allow this to happen. She refused to. “Now just where the hell did this woman get into?” Stepping up onto a staircase emptying into the alleyway, she promptly climbed her way up the side of a two floor building, digging her blade-like sharp nails into the stone, registering the air for trails. Clues. Just about anything.
* * * *
She smelled fire. The distinct scent assaulted her senses. She stopped, looking around wildly. The sky had changed, transforming from a brilliant blue peeking through the verdant vibrance to an ominous orange. Smoke. Burning. Fire. She ran. The vivid environs flashed past her as she moved through the trees, hurdling over moss-covered fallen trunks and ducking under low-hanging ivy-adorned twigs. There was no end in sight. The air was becoming denser, with a faint charcoal haze. The flames were gaining on her. She wouldn’t make it out.
The flames were inches from her face, threatening to engulf the precious pages of her notebook beneath her head as she lay in troubled slumber.
* * * *
She wasn’t helping, and the smell of smoke was everywhere, so she couldn’t— Or perhaps she could. It was then when she saw the large orange waves. The heat met her skin, and her eyes widened once more; her breath caught in her throat. This was it, then, she thought desperately. She needed to make her move now. After this realization, she launched herself at the building on the opposite street, feet giving her the needed impulse, and body arched into an almost animistic instance, hands reaching forwards as her knuckles impacted against the glass of one of the windows. CRASH.
* * * *
Her eyes opened. She lifted her head, heavy from interrupted slumber, and turned to look over her shoulder. The fiery scene she saw elicited a frightened gasp. In moments, she, too, would burn. The fire surrounded the old oaken desk, trapping her in its midst. An errant flame licked at the carved legs, weakening them beneath her weight. The desk collapsed then, and she hit the floor; at impact, her eyes shot wide, awakening her entirely. She attempted to fathom why the room was filled with thick, black smoke. She waved her arms wildly, trying to clear a path, only to be met by the bursts of orange. As she comprehended just what was happening around her, her hazel eyes betrayed her sudden realization and mounting fear. Then the crash of a fire breaking through a window in its quest for fuel.
* * * *
Glass pierced her flesh; going through the barrier of fabric of her coat and shirt, sinking into her skin; opening wounds, dripping blood. It didn’t matter, though. The mere thought of her about to… No. It would not happen. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t, she would not be impotent while the other burned. She was too important, and the idea alone of her perishing made her almost panick; making her fingers itch inside the thick leather of her gloves. She made sure to get the best aerodynamic angle possible, sailing through the sky once she jumped to land directly inside the room. Through the flames, she had managed to locate the other female. Her high heeled shoes kissed the ground, and, as she decided to ignore the pain creeping along her seemingly endless long her, an infernal heat and the smell of toxic gas greeted her, along with pitch-black smoke. Then the roof almost fell directly on top of her. Great. She lost her. “Where the fuck are you?” she screamed, her deep voice slipping from her lips, emanating from the very top of her lungs. As she did this, she removed her coat, ready to put it around the other once she was able to find her in the middle of the ruckus. “Hey! Answer me, woman!”
* * * *
The blast of breaking glass. The crunch of shoes on broken glass. The collapse of the roof. She heard a voice above the cacophony, familiar but distant. She couldn’t see anything past a circumference of several inches all around. Collecting all figments of concentration, she reached out with her mind, sensing the presence now in the room with her. Vampire. She could not gather anything more. ‘Had this been staged?’ she asked herself, panicked. ‘Who is here with me now?’ A sudden sense of urgency overcame her. As the flames crept ever-closer, she stepped up onto the desktop in a vain attempt to see the vampire who had come. She had nothing to lose. She raised her arms over her head and shouted, “Over here! I’m here!” As sweat poured down her body, she thrashed, albeit her movement was limited, her clothes plastered to her body and her hair matted from the intense heat. She mentally debated her options: she could make a mad dash through the flames towards the statuesque figure in front of the window where the flames rushed towards the new source of oxygen, or she could go for the door though she was unaware what lay beyond. Either way she would face possible death–fire was fatal to vampires, after all. Despite the force compelling her to run, she could not move.
* * * *
It was then when she spotted her, among the flames. Now or never. The woman ran her way through the flames, uncaring of them igniting her clothes, and threw her jacket over the other vampiresse’s form, wrapping the fabric securely around her, before literally sweeping her off her feet, pressing her hard against her taller, deceptively thinner form. “Hold on tight. ‘Tis gonna be a rough landing, Holly.” she smirked widely at her.
* * * *
Squinting her eyes against the bright glow of the fire, she desperately tried to identify the figure approaching. At once she knew who the lithe vampire–no, vampiress–was. She threw her arms around the neck of her savior and held on for dear unlife.
* * * *
She smiled softly down at her, and held her as close as she could, ignoring the bite of the fire against her cool flesh. Collecting her whole strength to propel herself, she moved at full speed. Taking a deep breath, she flexed her legs… aimed for another window… and ran.
* * * *
Shutting her eyes against the fiery surroundings, she gasped as her rescuer broke through the barrier of the inferno. She clung to the woman, though she was weaker than usual. Not feeding had taken a toll on her strenth. Her grip began to falter around the vampiress’ neck, beaded with sweat.
* * * *
The rescuer (or knight in NOT-so-shining armor, we could call her) merely grunted as she finally stepped in the window frame, pushed, and, finally… jumped. She gathered the other in her arms as strongly as she could, refusing to let go without completing the task at hand, and bit down on her lower lip, preparing for the impact. “Don’t let go,” she hissed. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
* * * *
She was cognizant of a sensation she had only once before felt. She was flying. She braced herself–mentally–though she physically braced the imposing vampiress, scorched thoroughly by her courageous feat. Looking up at her in sheer wonderment, a moment passed where she straddled the notions of fantasy and reality, ultimately deciding to let the impending fall decide for her whether this was truly happening or just a product of her strained imagination hallucinating.
* * * *
For just a moment, time stopped for her. She merely stared down at the other’s hazel eyes with her own deep, cold crimson orbs, and she let herself be suspended just for a second, feeling warmth in the otherwise frozen night. Why? She didn’t know—but there was something, emerging from the deptht of her chest; spreading across her whole being and shooting electricity through her veins, tickling against the very tips of her long, leather-clad fingers. Her hair was a lionine mess at that moment, falling through the night.
* * * *
Her hair trailed her descent, flying into her rescuer’s face, lashing her concentrated expression. She felt cold, supremely cold. She hadn’t felt the bite of temperature in so long. She peered down at her clothes, hanging tattered, charred. And then her eyes met the vampiress’.
* * * *
They were no more than a dark spot on the sky, approaching the ground as fast as gravity could take them, but it didn’t matter. She breathed and smiled. “Hello, there.” A brief respite. And then, there was it. Pain. Impact.
* * * *
The force of momentum collided with the force of inertia. Her body crumpled as the form of the taller woman tumbled over her. She still smelled burning. She rolled out from beneath the other vampiress, examining her for the source. The remnants of fire smoldered upon the attire of the vampiress with crimson eyes, searing through to her skin. At once she reached into the pocket of her jacket, feeling the jagged edge of a shattered glass vial cut her forefinger. She pulled out the shards, then another broken vial, pouring the contents over the molten fabric, dousing the flames with the remaining holy water. She would deal with the burns of the toxic liquid later; her priority was making sure the vampiress who had just saved her unlife would not sacrifice her own unlife.
* * * *
She hissed as her feet dug in the pavament, shooting searing pain all over her body, provoking her to arch her back into an almost inhuman angle, a sharp gasp leaving her lips as all the force of the collision hit her. And she sunk. She sunk, deep into the ground, howering over the form of the smaller vampiress, dealing with the damage and protecting her, like she felt it was her duty. She didn’t really mind the sting of the Holy Water anymore—she was excruciatingly used to it. It formed her routine, her daily life, and it was the cause of many of her scars. But the muscles—she felt like she was ready to tear her own limbs out. “…Bloody hell,” she gasped, shutting her eyes, and setting her strong jaw, gritting her teeth and inhaling sharply. ‘Suck it up,’ she reminded herself. ‘Just do it, soldier. Breath in, out, in, out…’ “Are you okay?” The woman merely looked up at her… and smiled.
* * * *
She clenched her jaw, unsure whether to laugh or to cry. There was this overwhelming sense of confusion. ‘How had she known?’ she wondered to herself, eying her protector in awe as she kneeled before her. She remembered then that the vampiress had asked a question. ‘Was she OK?’ She wasn’t quite sure, and thus didn’t quite know how to respond. Then that smile. The vampiress’ teeth glinted in the dim light. She knew the proper response. Throwing back her head as she descended into laughter, and from her peripheral vision, a salvaged item caught her eye. Somehow, she had managed, in her confused horror, to grab the notebook. Its pages now singed, it lay in the street just out of her reach. Her eyes fixated on the leatherbound book. She remembered then that she had been writing. Her next recollection was of wandering through a wood, at peace–almost alive. And then the fire had consumed her. Had that idyllic memory and its fiery demolition all been a dream? The laughter struck her again.
* * * *
Taking a long, pained breath, shaking, she rose to her feet and weakly made her way towards the notebook, picking it up with all the grace and elegance she was able to muster after standing a fall of three floors carrying not only her weight but the other woman’s as well. Remaining quiet for the time being, attempting to collect herself, she merely handed the item at the other vampire, smirking victoriously.
* * * *
Her laughter ceased as the other vampiress retrieved the notebook, really the only object of any consequence to her from that unfamiliar setting. She brought the bound pages to her chest, as if embracing an old friend, before turning her head wordlessly to look up at the building ablaze. Smoke billowed from the window, drawing in an unceasing supply of oxygen. Her view fell upon the female standing tall above her. Her throat was hoarse, dry from the ash. She mouthed to her, ‘Thank you,’ though knowing the words were not enough. She shook her head.
* * * *
To Tifereth, Gallagher owed her very unlife.
–Gallagher
&
Tifereth
Blackout: Blunt ((Part 4))
She wasn’t in the warehouse.
She wasn’t sure where she was. Then the sensations hit.
Wet. Beneath her, the ground was cool and wet. The water had drenched her clothing, seemingly having seeped into her very core. The water had a slight crimson cast. She craned her neck. Blood. Her blood.
Pain. She felt a searing pain radiating through the entire left side of her body. Her neck tweaked. Her arm stiffened. Her thigh ached.
Sharp. Glass shards pricked her hand as she propped herself up on her elbow. Holy Water vials; she knew them well.
She shut her eyes tightly and clenched her teeth, though it did little to stem the excruciation. Something was off.
Opening one eye, she noted her surroundings: she was in the shadow of a brick building rising into the sky. She lifted her head to trace its outline and lost count of how many storeys shaded her. The sky was a muted gray. Clouds obstructed what otherwise would have been blue sky. Daytime.
With much effort, she turned her head, eliciting a sharp crack from her neck. Staring blankly, she could make out an empty street at the end of the alleyway where she lay. She pulled herself to an upright position against the brick, glass and gravel embedding themselves into her hands and arms. She squinted and searched for a street sign: NCL. Northern City Limits. She had wandered a long way.
A belltower clanged the hour in the distance. She counted 10 tolls. She groaned helplessly.
She vaguely wondered what had brought her to the city’s north. What had possessed her to venture so far? The northern reaches were a punishing place where the scavengers of vampirekind roamed. She had become accustomed to her unlifestyle of prowling the mid-city streets for blood when she awakened, only to awaken in the old warehouse under the watchful eye of Reg.
And what of Reg, that elderly man who had taking to caring for her, despite her true nature? Her senses prickled, and she hoped fiercely that a worse plight hadn’t befallen the human for whom she had come to feel an almost fatherly affection. He had deduced that she was a vampiress, and had accepted her nonetheless. He often accompanied her, albeit at a distance, while she preyed upon his kin, not passing judgement, understanding her necessity. And when she fell into her fits of slumber, he recovered her body and provided shelter for the both of them. For his friendship, she was grateful.
She had tried to return the favor to Reg many times. She had brought him to Lonely and 27th, from which she had long been absent, and he cleaned himself up so much that she almost didn’t recognize him, his salt-and-pepper beard reduced to stubble and a houndstooth newsboy cap covering the bald spot in his wiry hair. She arranged an appointment with a human eye specialist to surgically repair his eyes, but, after thanking her for the effort, he declined the procedure. Though she had offered him residence, he claimed to prefer living on the streets. Indeed she had considered turning him to ease his arthritic joints, and each time, he shook his head sadly and turned her down. He was as stubborn and proud as any human, though she acknowledged maintaining his life was his way to uphold his dignity.
The sound of footsteps echoing nearby startled her from her wondering, and she attempted to sense who–or what–was approaching. Human. The pace was faster than Reg was capable of. Hunter. She rankled, plunging hands into pockets in hopes of finding a scroll. No scrolls, not even a Scroll of Turning. How could she have gone out defenseless?
She closed her eyes again and prayed to the gods to let her not be found. The sound of the vampire hunter’s steps changed direction, and then she heard the hollow sound of stairs. Voices conferred inside. Hunters? She winced. Mustering all her strength, she rose, awkwardly, to her knees, and, using the brick wall for leverage, got to her feet. She gasped. She staggered forward, unable to balance properly, and approached the back door of what appeared to be an abandoned shop. She tried the handle. Locked. With a pronounced limp, she started for the empty street at the end of the alley, careful to stay in the shadows. Regaining control of her senses, she Perceived two vampire hunters trawling the brick building. She quickened her pace, at last reaching the street. Two humans idled on the next block. Blood would bring her strength, but attacking also would reveal her location to the hunters were she, in her weakened state, not to make quick enough work of the pair and let one escape.
She couldn’t take the risk.
The street lightened: the sun had broken through the clouds. Looking skyward, the clouds overhead were less dense now. She shrank back into the shadows. She did have her cell phone on her person, but who could she call for help? Who would risk his unlife for her? She knew who. But she didn’t have the heart to call on him.
She bit her tongue so that it bled into her mouth. She could brave the streets, working her way towards a shop to buy a scroll–whatever had happened to her, she still had her money–or towards a station. Each posed its own problem: she didn’t know shop locations, and even if she managed to get to a station, where would she go from there?
She rocked back on her heels, undecided.
And then she sensed a vampire in her midst. The vampire was either young or inexperienced or both. Using the NCL streetsign as a marker, she made out that he had materialized just west of her, at the corner of the Northern City Limits and Larch Street. That would take her back past the brick building. Figures, doesn’t it? She huffed indignantly and stood tall–or as tall as a vampiress of her stature could–and smoothed her hair. With a nod to no one but herself, she turned and made for the street at the opposite end of the block. As she crossed behind the brick building, the broken glass from the vials crushed underfoot. So soon she had forgotten. She had forgotten about the strange circumstances that brought her to this remote region of the city. The hunters stopped short and she responded by cursing under her breath and breaking into a hindered run, at the risk of forewarning the vampire of her approach. In fact…
“Hey you! Yes, you!” she called ahead.
The vampire looked up from the coins he was counting and regarded her cautiously, dropping his coins and a few pieces of rolled parchment she recognized as scrolls. He must have discerned danger because he took an inordinately large step back. He opened his mouth as if to speak, his eyes widening as she neared.
“No, it’s OK–I’m one of you!”
She heard the hunters hot on her trail before she saw the vampire vanish. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she closed on the place he stood. She gathered his coins and errant scrolls–two Scrolls of Turning and one Scroll of Displacement, typical–and Displaced herself.
She felt her surroundings dematerialize, the world seemed to spin around her and she found herself standing in the middle of the intersection at Juniper and 79th. A perturbed man in a sedan honked his horn as she regained her balance and she fled into a shaded alleyway. The station wasn’t far.
A glance at the clocktower above Terpsichore Station informed her that an express train to Erato Station was only eight minutes away. She would rest and regenerate at her apartment until night came, then sort herself out–and find out what happened to Reg…
No, she wouldn’t.
Something hard and cold slammed into her back, knocking her to the ground. As she fell forward, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a crossbow arrow protruding from her. She closed her hands around the tip of the arrow, covered in Holy Water. She cried out in agony as her body burned. Shuddering uncontrollably, she closed her eyes and waited for death.
–Gallagher
Blackout: Blind ((Part 3))
Her eyes jolted open. And yet darkness.
Disoriented, she blinked wildly, trying to decipher her whereabouts.
Still darkness.
She knew was in a building–much safer than the fire escape where she last found herself–at what she sensed was just southeast of the intersection of Nightingale and 37th Streets. She rolled her neck to the side, eliciting a series of small cracks releasing the tension built up from having slept in an awkward position. This episode had lasted quite a while, it seemed.
As she pushed herself up off the floor, she noticed that someone had cushioned the cold concrete with newspaper elaborately placed beneath her. She knew in her state she couldn’t have had the foresight. She scattered entire editions of city newspapers laid out in a thick mass. Beneath she felt individual spreads rolled into a thick layer of crumpled cylinders, having been compressed by her weight. She had slept on a makeshift mattress of sorts. She silently thanked whomever had tried to make her slumber more comfortable. Still, the dark was disconcerting.
“Hello?” a shaky male voice asked out of the darkness.
She dared not answer.
A match was struck across the room. She hissed instinctively, averting her eyes from the sudden light source. There were crates stacked along the near wall, in various stages of rust and implosion. As her eyes adjusted, she turned back to the man. She could make out his grisled face aglow from the match, his wrinkles accentuated, rendering his features grotesque.
Human. Her mouth watered. How long had it been since she fed?
“Hello?” he called again. He stood with much effort, and carried the match to a similarly rusted storage barrel. A plume of flame erupted from within, bathing the warehouse in a dim, flickering light.
She noticed behind him an assortment of items: a toaster with a broken lever, a lopsided hotplate, a chipped mug and bowl, a bucket catching water dripping from a pipe above. And her eyes found a bed much like her own, a ratty blanket draped over it. He turned to look at what had caught her eye and turned back to her embarrassed.
“I put th’ blanket o’er yeh th’ firs’ nigh’, but yeh didn’ seem to be bothered by th’ col’, so I took it back,” he apologised.
Disarmed, she asked, “What happened?”
“Yeh’ve been ‘sleep for a’while now, miss,” he said, almost reverentially. “I didn’ think yeh was gonn’ wake up.”
Cocking her head to the side, her eyes urged him on.
“I foun’ yeh jus’ ou’side, a lil’ o’er a week ago?” He shook his head and went on to explain how he had arisen just before dawn and seen a woman facedown in the alleyway. He had thought she was dead, considering he couldn’t feel her pulse at her cold wrist and neck. Without thinking, he had brought her inside where he had rifled through her pockets, finding only a card saying “Gallagher” and a strange string of letters, numbers, and symbols for identification. Oh, and there were the gold coins he had used to buy newspapers to make her bed.
She smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she said. “I am simply known as Gallagher. And you are?”
“Call me Reg, miss,” he said, bowing and tipping an imaginary hat.
She didn’t want to kill this one.
She edged nearer to him, extending her hand as she reached him. “It’s a pleasure. Thank you for watching over me.”
“S’all mine, miss. Notta pro’lem.”
He wasn’t looking at her, she noticed. She examined him closely. His hair was graying and long stubble littered his cheeks and chin. A cataract completely covered his right eye, and another growth obscured the vision of his left eye. He looked to her and she looked away.
“They won’ered why I needed th’ newspapers,” he said with a chuckle, his good eye aimed right at her.
She laughed with him nervously. “How long have you stayed here?” she asked curiously.
“Coupla months. Mah pension wasn’ ‘nough to git by on no more.”
She nodded in empathy. She averted her eyes and happened to catch a glimpse of one of the headlines of a scattered newspaper.
At once a delicate droplet traced a scarlet trail down her unnaturally rosy cheek, raw from windburn. She shuddered as a gust swept through the broken windows of the almost-abandoned warehouse. She leaned down to mask her subsequent shivers and picked up the newsprint announcing various sirings and partner-bindings. Good for them. But this… She stared blankly at the page and then began to read. Her eyes caught certain words: bound, love, heart, forever. It wasn’t that long ago that he had used such words with her. He hadn’t wanted to rush, he had told her, and she had waited. But she was a fool to think he would wait for her. She had known, within her heart of hearts, that their dalliance was long over. He couldn’t stand her disappearances. And… ‘Nothing lasts forever, after all,’ she reminded herself with a sigh of resignation.
As she attempted to comprehend the precisely printed words, the bloodtear continued on its arbitrary path, clinging to the curve of her visage until finally it became unhinged–much like her mind as of late–and landed upon the newsprint, giving the impression of a starburst. The slight albeit sudden sound broke her fixation; had she stared any longer, her sanity likely would have imploded in the opposite manner. She wiped the bloodstain carelessly, crimson now streaked across her cheek, and turned away from the newsstand, disgust rising within. She deserved a “Dear Gallagher” letter at the very least, so she thought.
Reg adjusted his position so his good eye took her in square. The movement caused her to meet his eye. His eye flickered to the smeared blood on her cheek. She turned her face to obscure the mark.
“Yeh’re diff’ren’,” he observed.
She managed a bittersweet smile as he took a fearful step back. “I won’t hurt you, Reg. You’ve been good to me.” She made for the staircase, accessible by a doorway whose door hung by the wayside, held by one hinge.
“Where yeh goin’?” he asked protectively.
“Not far.” She descended the four flights before she knew where she was going. She set out still without direction.
Her unexplained disappearances had something and everything to do with it, she knew, and she lamented her strange situation as she walked soberly down Nightingale. But he had reassured her. Of course, men lie. ‘First one, then the other,’ she reminded herself derisively. She would be spending all her nights alone now. Except for Reg.
As quickly as her consciousness had been restored, it was ripped away again and she collapsed, unconscious, as she passed the doorway of another abandoned building on the next block, falling through the mesh screen and landing on the cement floor with a dull impact.
* * *
He watched her go. She hadn’t screamed; she had been gone before she fell. Puzzled by her peculiar behaviour, the old man shook his head and descended the stairs she had bounded down mere minutes before. Reg carefully surveyed each step as he approached the place where she fell, though he knew nothing had caused her to fall. At last he reached her lifeless body. He checked the pulse he knew wouldn’t be there. ‘Wha’ the hell are yeh?’ he asked himself more than her. As he lifted her and slung her over his tired arms, her mouth hung open. He saw the fangs. His heart went still for a fraction of a second then raced. He debated whether to drop her where he stood. ‘No,’ he decided.
Reg carried her slowly back to his humble hideaway, trudging up the stairs. propping her up as he fixed her makeshift mattress, nestling her upon the newspapers. As he made to return to his own bed, he saw the newspaper section that had affected her. He scanned the page, not recognizing any of the strange names, not understanding what had piqued her so, for there was no mention of her name and she hadn’t mentioned anyone herself. With a shrug, he tossed the entire section into the fire. He watched the flames engulf and mutilate.
He looked back over his shoulder at her, laying placidly on the bed of newspapers, questioning whether his eyes had deceived him. He had long wondered if the rumors were true. Vampires? He had passed peculiar transient shops with unfamiliar names like “White Light” and “Potable Potions”. Once he had ventured inside, feeling every pair of eyes on him. There were vials of Holy Water and cannisters of Garlic Spray. He had thought the concoctions were for the gullible, but perhaps he was an uninformed nonbeliever all along? Surely, if this Gallagher was a vampire, the substances could kill her. Destroying such evil would be easy, wouldn’t it? Considering she was weakened, afflicted by something unknown even to her… He pushed such thoughts out of his mind. She had spared him. He drifted into a dreamless sleep before the fire burned out.
* * *
Gallagher awakened again in a blinding darkness. She wondered how long she had slept.
–Gallagher
Tuez vous
Her mouth watered.
It was obvious why she chose this one. He was tall–almost obscenely so–and dark and handsome, with silken hair the color of midnight glinting in the moonlight and strong arms that likely could crush a fellow mortal without exerting much effort.
The stricken feeling had overcome her as soon as she saw him in the doorway. Had she been alive, her heart would have stopped. Her eyes, however, did not flash with recognition, and she sensed immediately his mortality. She decided then and there that she would end this…this “issue”. The likeness was so certain, and so this endeavor would be perfect in its symbolism. She would kill him.
He had left The Ferryman’s Arms just before last call, not paying much heed to the slight female who had slipped out of the pub just behind him. She stayed near the double-door entrance until he was a block away; then she took to stalking her prey.
The threshhold of inebriation had long since passed–he drank shots of some off-brand rum, she recalled with disgust, silently thanking the gods that she probably would not need to seduce this one–and he would be unaware of her presence as she followed him.
He crossed over east onto Yew, looking rather unsteady on his feet. Rather than keeping to the sidewalk, he wandered into the middle of the darkened street lined by parked cars, reaching out every so often to steady himself on a side mirror. The rangy man began humming some unknown tune out-of-key as he approached 28th Street, and the distraction took its toll on him as he continued on his way.
Apparently having reached the end of the ditty after several verses as he came to the corner of Yew and 24th Street, he clicked his heels and landed on his ass next to the curb. He wiped his hands on khaki flat-front slacks, the dark smudge detracting from the charismatic, gentlemanly aura he exuded, even through his drunkenness.
He backtracked, heading west on 24th Street to Vervain, causing her to wonder whether he was lost. He whirled around, obviously having thought the same, before she could react and slip into the shadows. As his vision focused on her, he squinted, jutting his squared jaw forward as he tried to figure out how he recognized her. So he wasn’t as smart or as suave. He was drunk. He would still do.
She pretended not to be concerned with him, crossing the street towards him deliberately. As if on cue, he slurred, “Hellllo!” Looking up with false alarm, she turned away acting as if she hadn’t wanted his attention; this performance would merit an Oscar.
Again, he called out to her, “Excuse me…..Miss?” That sealed it. She caught his eye then, stopping short, forcing her lower lip to tremble. “Oh gods, no! I’ll give you my money, just please don’t hurt me!” His expression was priceless, and he made the mistake of coming towards her. “No…..that isn’t what I…..”
In his not-so-sober state, he didn’t realize until it was entirely too late that she wasn’t cowering from him, rather springing to action; she threw him against a storefront, shattering the glass. He fell to his knees as she broke off a shard and sliced his neck, blood gushing forth freely. Leaning down, she suctioned her lips around the gash, drinking her fill of his blood, now tinged with terror.
He struggled to his feet as she licked her lips, and she grabbed the collar of his cerulean polo shirt that matched his ocean eyes, yanking his neck down to the vicinity of her mouth. This one was a fighter–she had figured as much. She tore into the tender flesh, sucking deeper from his lifesource, inadvertently snapping his neck in the process.
He staggered back. He hit the floor. And then he was dead.
She moved on to the next.
–Gallagher
Buvez vous
((I’ll post it…when I rewrite it. Sometimes I hate Internet interfaces.))
