|
|
|
|
| Potential |
05 Jan 09:42pm |
OOC: Please note this takes place before the Darian/Grace scene.
How Grace felt about her sire usually depended on her mood. The making of their bond carried a lot of weight with her, and they'd always maintained a rough sort of affection between them. Get her drunk enough or find her in a particularly perverse state of mind, she'd tell you that she got a kick out of the surface age difference. That in a certain light he could pass for her son if he tried.
They could also drive one another utterly batshit with very little provocation, but tonight they were pretty content with one another. She'd insisted on dancing, and the music thundered through the overhead speakers like the heartbeats they no longer had as Rob Zombie's Foxy, Foxy poured down on them like sonic rain. The overhead lights made the thrashing bodies around them look like a preview of hell, and he leaned in to put his mouth close to her ear from behind, one hand tugging on her belt to keep her close.
"What's an educated horse, anyhow?" "One with a college diploma." Reuben snorted, a rude sound. "Music today don't make no damn sense. When I was..." "Yeah, I know, 'back in your day'." Grace rolled her eyes at him over her shoulder. "Spare me the history lesson just for tonight, man. You're havin' fun, right?" "I suppose so," he allowed, a little grudgingly. She wondered suddenly if he'd be around to ring in the new year with her. December was already on them, the year's end just around the corner. It'd be nice to celebrate it with him for a change.
Bethany had slumbered for a long time, wrapped up in and around Darian. He had satisfied her, he always did, but there was a restlessness in her that had her back on her feet and wandering again. Her movements appeared aimless but there was some sense of direction to them, moving from place to place and tasting the sin of Las Vegas on the edge of her tongue.
She broke off only briefly to shower and change, stripping away the clothes from the other night and replacing them with clothes bound to get her noticed; a stark black dress against pale skin, held up only by thin spaghetti straps, and boots high enough to wrap and compliment her calves, with heels that looked like they might snap if too much weight was put on them.
It wasn't that she was looking for anything other than attention tonight, she'd had her fill with Darian after all, but there was a certain power in having people look at her and not being able to touch. She could easily switch moods, from sex to violence, it was all a trick of balance and it was a line that Bethany was walking with very unsteady strides.
( Newly-Unleashed Violence (Mild Violence) )
( Are You Okay? )
| [ |
mood |
| |
 restless |
] |
|
|
| The Masquerade |
03 Jan 10:47pm |
New Year's Eve
Excalibur
For the highly anticipated masquerade, management of the Excalibur resort had spared no expense in creating a medieval atmosphere. Outside the resort, the castle turrets were brightly lit, and so was the walk alongside the moat. Colorful flags cracked in the wind. Costumed men on horseback flanked the resort's entrance doors, while employees dreased as peasants took admission fees and ushered the masked guests to the banquet hall. The room was quite large, with space enough to have an eating area full of banquet tables on one side, and a dance floor to the other.
Light was provided by candle. Some of the wall and ceiling mounted candles were electric, while those on the tables were wax, to allow for ambience. The banquet tables carried a wide variety of finger foods, including meats, cheeses, loaves of dark bread, thick soups, and a few fruits and vegetables. Beverages included ale, water sweetened with honey, and a few more modern drinks. At the head of the banquet hall, a family of actors was seated at a large table. They played the part of royalty with more enthusiasm than historical accuracy, laughing and allowing employee musicians to play for them and courtiers to flirt with them.
At regular intervals, paid dancers put on elaborate shows, doing traditional group dances that had them clapping and twirling.
In the wings, there was an actual warlock paid by Excalibur to work a few glamour spells to help set the mood. Most of his work went into lighting and scents, though he succumbed to temptation once and set a rustic armored knight into temporary motion, just to freak a woman out.
At near midnight, the guests would be ushered outside to watch fireworks by the moat.
[Thread: Open to All]
|
|
| Stones in His Pockets |
03 Jan 10:26pm |
The last flights out of Baton Rouge weren't until later. But even at 9:30pm, the place got kind of empty. Here and there, passengers dotted the airport chairs, each waiting for boarding time, each reading a Tom Clancy book or watching CNN headlines until their heads lolled back. Shopkeepers rolled down the gates on their snack counters. Custodians ran vacuums over the carpet, sucking up crumbs that fell out of nab wrappers.
A solitary blonde hurried along the concourse, passing gates six and seven. Her carry-on bag traveled on tiny wheels. She tried to keep her ankles ahead of it, as if she couldn't afford a run in her pantyhose. At the eighth gate, she steered it into the row of chairs and sat down next to a waxy plant. She sighed and checked her ticket. Ten minutes until boarding call. "Perfect," she murmured. She was wearing a trim business suit, complete with blazer and skirt. It was a conservative shade of dark blue, but the details were too cutesy to be professional. For instance, there was a cat-shaped pin on her lapel, and her shoes had little bows on them.
Reaching into her neckline, she heaved an impressive mass of blonde hair over her shoulder. It was long and wavy and half-obscured her face. She rooted through her clutch and fished out a tube of dark lipstick, which she applied meticulously before loudly smacking her lips. "I hate late flights," she proclaimed to no one in particular.
Half absorbed in an issue of Navy Times that he'd been surprised to find at the airport bookshop, GW Robichaux hadn't paid the blonde any attention until she sat down beside him. The paper was something he hadn't read since he'd moved to Vegas and most of the issues of the niche publication hadn't changed much, mostly the same old gripes against the same people. Still, it had been something to read and enabled the former marine to indulge a bit of nostalgia about the 'good old days' back when he'd actually worn the uniform.
"I'm sorry?" he asked at first, then realized what she must have said and nodded. "They're no fun, but at least it's a direct flight. I always hated layovers myself."
Having now actually looked up to see who had addressed him, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in curiosity at the outfit. It was an odd mix of professional and whimsical; whoever she was, she definitely marched to the beat of her own drummer. She was cute, too. "Headin' out t' Sin City on business or pleasure?"
"Mmm...business," she decided, as if she'd just made up her mind right then. The blonde stowed her lipstick away and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She noticed a pick in her pantyhose and plucked at her kneecap. "Oh man. I can never wear these a full day without ruining 'em. I should just go without and look like a floosy." Back into the clutch she went, this time coming out armed with clear nailpolish. She unscrewed the cap and dabbed some on the little snag. "My grandma taught me this. Keeps it from getting worse."
She blew on the polish. "What were you out here for? Holiday visiting?"
"You pluck at it yer just gonna make it worse," GW observed. Helene had always had the same problem, he remembered with a smile. Fortunately she'd only had to wear them for church or other formal events, as she'd wear scrubs to work for her job as a nurse.
"Yeah, I came down to visit family. They're all down 'roundabouts Crowley mostly." There was something familar to GW about the way the blonde talked, but he chalked it up to his imagination. After all, he'd never met the woman before just now. One thing was for certain though; she wasn't from around here originally. "Business huh? Try not t' spend all the time workin'. Vegas is a town built fer fun."
( Going Home )
|
|
| The Blame Game |
03 Jan 05:40pm |
"Another beer?"
Darian cast a look at his surroundings and seriously considered it.
The air smelled thick and sweet, choked up with the grease of barbecue chicken wings and fist-sized hamburgers and french fries. He had a feeling he was actually wearing the air now. A football game blared from the nearest of several plasma televisions. Male roars and congratulatory fists rose in correlation with a touchdown by the Dallas Cowboys. The waitresses wore orange shorts and white tanks and slouch socks. Two of them, he had given breast implants. Not surgically, of course.
This was slumming.
He exhaled heavily and moved to adjust his tie, only he wasn't wearing one. It left him fiddling uselessly with the collar of his polo shirt. When in Rome.
Darian tipped up his beer mug and examined the empty bottom. "Why not."
While there were precious few things Grace missed about being human, she had always enjoyed a good plate of chicken. It didn't taste right anymore, of course, but the truth was, no one who came to Hooters was really there for the wings. Parked on a stool almost directly beneath one of the high-definition televisions, the vampire pounded her fist on the bar as the Cowboys scored six more points, idly examining the tank top of the closest waitress while they set up for the field goal. Exactly who designed those things, Lockheed? Not that she was complaining.
She ordered her fourth beer as the game switched over to a commercial, debating ordering a small plate of wings to go with it just for old times' sake. At least she didn't have to worry about the calories going straight to her thighs.
A whoop from across the room drew her attention away from the ad for salad dressing that was now blaring out of the speakers, and Grace thought she had to be hallucinating when she spotted Darian fiddling with the collar of his shirt before studying the bottom of his own mug. She glanced at her watch, then at the wall calendar behind the bar. Was it the End of Days and no one had told her?
She must not stare. She also must not laugh.
Well, okay, maybe she could at least snicker.
She flagged down the second bartender, tossed a twenty at him across the wooden surface. "For the guy at the end of the bar," she said, indicating the Dealmaker surreptitiously. "Tell him it's from a friend."
"Here you go." The curly-haired waitress put a cold one in front of Darian. "It's paid for. Friend of yours." She smiled and squeezed her breasts together with her arms.
"A friend of mine, huh?" Dubiously, the Dealmaker looked around the restaurant full of sweaty men. It was safe to say that Darian had no male friends. His only real charm was in arrogant flirting, a talent that wasn't doled out to same sex associates.
His eyes found Grace at the bar. "I see her. I'll be over there." He indicated the vampire with a tipped head and got up. It was good to stand up. The ordeal with Atia (particularly the part where he renigged on a deal and abandoned his client for dead) left him worse for the wear, physically. For some reason, it always hit him in the legs first. He figured it was because limping was a blow to his confidence. Made it harder to get around. He had to go slower just to hide it.
Darian navigated the tables and put his mug down next to Grace. "Paying me back for past slights? I hate to tell you, but you'll have to do better than Coors Light."
( Did You... Do That Thing? )
|
|
| Flight Of The Phoenix |
02 Jan 04:54pm |
[[Non Journal Entry]]
Nine lives given, five lives gone, and four left to hang in the balance. You'd think it would be enough to cause a man to tread softly and carefully, but living life waiting for disaster was no way to live; not when there was a world full of chance and opportunity waiting for you just outside of your door. Even if that chance and opportunity did nothing but screw you over at every turn.
Joseph slid up the fire escape quickly and agilely, ducking beneath a broken out window before slipping into the dark depths of the high rise building. He pressed his back against the wall and held his weight on the balls of his feet, crouched low and masking his presence in the darkness.
He drew his guns, in spite of the fact that they wouldn't do much good against his present foes. Joseph supposed it was their presence that reassured him more than anything else, they were his metal and the things that had seen him through God only knew how many battles that should have seen him dead.
The floorboards creaked, that much he learned and quickly. He paused and held his breath, waited for the guards to look away. And when they did, he moved again, slipping from room to room in the vain hope that he might stumble across Ben in one or other of them.
( Fine fucking mess you've gotten yourself into this time )
| [ |
mood |
| |
 working |
] |
|
|
| Steamy Surprise |
30 Dec 10:14am |
It had been a tense few weeks since the students for Atia's sacrifice she'd culled from the herd had disappeared and the history teacher fingered for the blame. Everyone had been on edge and Leah had kept a close eye out for any signs that people suspected her. When none were displayed by the time of winter break, the hybrid relaxed and continued her plans.
Everything was running smoothly. She'd built a small core of dedicated followers who truly worshiped her as a deity, including the Principal, Vice Principal, and Night Janitor in addition to the students. The school was practically under her thumb, and she was putting less effort into keeping up appearances, especially during winter break when the school was officially closed except for extra curricular activities.
The hybrid's head lolled as she lounged in the steam bath wearing nothing but a sated smile, with two students from the football team at her feet. The studs were exhausted from a feeding session that had gone a little deeper than she'd intended due to her being hungrier than she'd thought. Things were going well indeed, and it was just the first step on the road to godhood.
Denise Starnes, fifteen-year old sophomore, seldom used the steam bath in the gym of Comanche High School. She hadn't lost all of her adolescent chubbiness yet, and self-consciousness kept her out of the facility unless she was the only one there. But she'd managed to get an okay to use it during winter break, and so she let the door close soundlessly behind her before starting across the waxed tile floor. The small squeaks of her tennis shoes sounded very loud in the silence.
She was worried about her brother. Ryan had been acting weird for weeks now, and that was even before all those kids had vanished. Some of them had been Denise's friends, freshmen from her geometry class. A grief counselor had been called to the school after the history teacher, Mr. Avery, was arrested. She had been to see her a couple of times. Things were better now, but it still had her looking over her shoulder now and then.
The door to the sauna creaked a little when she pushed it open, and the girl stopped when she realized it wasn't empty after all. She vaguely recognized Ian Weathers, who was a fullback on the football team, but she didn't know the other boy. Ridiculously, she actually wondered why all three of them, including Ms. Anderson, were naked, and then she realized she was really wondering why the three of them were naked together. There was a rule somewhere about that, wasn't there? One that said a teacher shouldn't be naked if they were with two students.
"Umm..."
More of a sound than an actual word, indicating Denise's flustered state. Maybe it would be better to go away and come back. Or go away and not come back at all. Ms. Anderson looked at lot better without clothes than she did. In another situation, she would have taken the time to be embarrassed and self-conscious about her own percieved inadequacy.
( what are you doing here? )
|
|
|
28 Dec 08:51pm |
|
|
| Go to Girl |
28 Dec 11:16am |
Oliver ended up making more than one phone call after he stomped out of the Wolfram and Hart building. He realized in fairly short order that his initial plan was foolish, that he was barking up the wrong tree, and so he altered his plans accordingly. He knew that whatever he tried to tell Mallory, she'd never believe. But he knew who would take his word for it, if only on the surface. That was all he needed.
He was sitting in a coffee shop a couple of blocks away from the hotel, looking down at an open sketch pad as he finished up what he'd been working on. What better way to express what he'd seen - done - than to capture it on paper? He hadn't drawn anything in over two years, had let the habit go by the wayside. Maybe it was time to change that.
A cup of black coffee was cooling near the edge of the table, and he picked it up absently to take a sip. He would complete this one, then go on to another. Even if no one ever saw them, he knew what they were and what they meant. The lines of Hannah's pixie face had taken form on the formerly blank sheet of paper, and he smiled very slightly before his expression became characteristically solemn again. He had precious few things he cared very much about, but this was one of them. He wanted to remember why.
Julie entered the coffee shop and spotted Oliver sketching away in the corner of the establishment. Whatever it was that he was working on, he was paying complete attention to that rather than the outside world.
The werewolf shook her head slightly at the sight of the spellcaster seeming to be so distracted and moved to get in line for a coffee of her own before finding out what was so important that he called her. In the two years she'd known him, Oliver had never initiated contact. It had always been the other way around, and while she wouldn't call the man a friend he had never steered her wrong and always treated her with respect.
There was the one kiss they'd shared in the hallway of his hotel, but Julie never had been able to figure out what had caused that. He'd never shown any interest in her romantically, and truth be told he brought back too many memories of Judah for her to be interested in him in that way.
The short line moved and eventually she got her grande mocha before coming to sit down in the seat opposite Oliver. "Hello Oliver," she greeted the spellcaster politely, gracing him with a small smile. She glanced down at the sketchpad, but the cover had been closed and denied her a view of whatever it had been that he'd sketched.
"You're looking well."
( Message for Mallory )
|
|
| Leaving Las Vegas |
27 Dec 02:07am |
Don't know what to do anymore
I've lost the only love worth fighting for
I'll drown in my tear storming sea,
That would show you, that would make you hurt like me
Last Christmas was different. The apartment was filled with decorations and the tree stood proudly in the corner, decked out in every single cheap dollar store tchotchke she could find. There were never many presents under the tree, only one necklace. Only one Christmas spent in the company of another. These Vegas nights were lonely. The depression that had threatened to devour her since the first love of her life passed on so many years before had taken her over - the protective shield around her heart blocked everyone out. Even her.
All the same
I don't want mudslinging games
It's such a shame
To let you walk away
Last Christmas, she held a new beginning in her arms. There was no one to blame for why they had fallen apart. Two broken, dysfunctional people trying to forge a partnership. The one woman that was able to let her love again was again blocked out by a self-preservation technique perfected by years of women pretending to love her, then break her heart. Two women were able to break through - and they were both lost. There was nothing left for her here.
Is there a chance?
A fragment of light at the end of the tunnel?
A reason to fight?
Is there a chance you may change your mind?
Or are we ashes and wine?
The Christmas decorations had been boxed up and collected by the Salvation Army a couple hours ago. The furtniture had been given to the other residents of the complex. Her landlord got her kitchen stuff. The clothes fit in one suitcase. It would be too much trouble to travel with all of it all over again, especially overseas. She was to report to the Watchers' Council. They wanted to allow her back in, after all these years. The news shocked her. It was like a light shone on her again. It was a purpose. It could end up being a disaster again. She could end up in her flat, cradling a bottle of wine all over again. She could risk it, though. Death was not an option anymore - unless D'Hoffyrn found out about her defection. If the Council found her a Slayer who could live forever like they promised, then she would be happy. If D'Hoffyrn found her first and took away her immortality - or even killed her - then she would be content to die. She had loved two women with all her heart and soul and that was enough.
Don't know if our fate's already sealed
This day's spinning surface on a wheel
I'm ill with the thought of your kiss
Coffee laced intoxicating on her lips
The good times were wonderful, she thought as she gazed out the window. God, it was amazingly ironic that one woman could bring back her humanity. It was her love that allowed her to open her heart to the new job, to turn her back on D'Hoffyrn. The feel of her skin against Mallory's reminded her of her human outside, the casing that surrounded the demon enclosed. Love was a human emotion, blocked by the animalistic lust that had been part of the crust around her soul. Mallory was the balance, the only woman thus far who could look at each side of her, demon and human, and love them both equally. Alicia didn't know if she would find someone like her anymore - and she knew that she finally had to let her go.
Shut it out
I've got no claim on you now
Not allowed to wear your freedom down
She remembered the love triangle with a bittersweet smile. They could all have her now, those admirers of her red hair beauty. She threw up her white flag. Maybe she wasn't strong enough to keep her. The lure of the night, those darker than she, must have been too intoxicating.
Maybe it was just time. People drifted apart.
She couldn't blame her depression fully. The depression took hold of her, deadened her to the outside world, but the lure of her inner world was not the only obstacle.
There were probably plenty of reasons.
Is there a chance?
A fragment of light at the end of the tunnel?
A reason to fight?
Is there a chance you may change your mind?
Or are we ashes and wine?
The taxi honked, startling out of her reverie. A final survey of the now empty apartment brought tears to her eyes. This chapter of her life was finished. The new resident was due to move in soon, a newlywed couple who came here to marry and decided to stay. She knew, somehow, that they would soon follow her out of the apartment, like the rest of the tenants before and after her. All with their own stories. She wondered who would remember hers. The story of the beauty and the beast and the human who brought her back together.
~*~
I'll tear myself away
That is what you need
There is nothing left to say
But...
The taxi stopped in front of the last known residence she knew Mallory lived at. Hopefully some good person would pass it on if she was no longer here. She stood at Mallory's door and brought her arm up to knock. Bringing her arm down, she shook her head. No need to reopen old wounds that were in the process of healing. The paths had diverged. The fire was out. Still...
Alicia placed a small package in the mailbox, tied with ribbon. There was a card inside, with her name, her new address, and a short letter telling her where she was going. Below the letter was a brushed nickle pendant with a rose engraved in the middle. On the back of the pendant were the words "Thank you. ADW."
She climbed back in the taxi, watching as the man grumbled because she had him going out of his way. It was worth every penny. In mere hours, she would be flying across the country to a new chapter in her life.
She was closing the book, moving on from this dusty old town and the city of lights.
That didn't mean she wasn't allowed to leave a bookmark in it.
Is there a chance?
A fragment of light at the end of the tunnel?
A reason to fight?
Is there a chance you may change your mind?
Or are we ashes and wine?
The day's still ashes and wine
Or are we ashes?
| [ |
music |
| |
Ashes and Wine - A Fine Frenzy |
] |
|
|
| Home for the Holiday |
26 Dec 07:40pm |
'Twas the night of Christmas, and in the double-wide
A creature stirred at the stove, careful not to burn his hide.
His companion seated on a newly-bought chair,
While smells of vegetarian lasagna danced 'round her hair;
Rhiannon in her best, and Whistler in his hat,
Had just settled down for an untraditional meal (lean, not fat),
When from the fire detector, there arose such a clatter,
He sprang into action, to deal with the matter.
"Jesus!" Whistler grabbed the potholders and dove towards the gourmet offense. He threw open the oven door and retrieved the slightly burnt garlic bread. Unceremoniously the metal pan clanged onto the stove top, and he spun ninety-degrees using his right foot to close the metal beast while frantically waving the holders in the air to disperse the smoke and silence the alarm.
"Give me those." Rhiannon scraped a chair under the smoke detector and climbed on it. Instead of fanning the pot holders, she ripped the cover off and pulled the battery out. The eruption of noise stopped. "What're you, expecting a visit from the fire marshall?" The battery thudded on the floor and rolled under the fridge, alongside untold numbers of dust bunnies and formerly frozen peas.
The air reeked. She got down and went to the front door, then made an effort to push some air out of the trailer by opening and closing it. "Well... That's what you get for watching Wheel. You're making me feel 80."
"It was that or 'Pimp My Grandmother'," the Agent winked. Christmas fare on television was sparse at best and the idea of a fake yule log with muzak-muzzled holiday tunes ran shivers up his spine. Definitely a demon-spawned idea. Give people a sneak-peek of what awaits them in the afterlife.
The hatted man watched as the battery disappeared, made a mental note to retrieve it. Like he'd done when the first two spatulas were accidentally kicked under the stove, or the spilled change from the pizza he'd ordered last week. In the future, archeologists would puzzle over the time capsule contents in Whistler's kitchen.
If Gerald let them in.
He dug out the garlic bread from the pan and threw the edible pieces into a wicker basket laced with paper towels, and set it on the table. Most of his compensated check from Star went to refurbishing/renovating his trailer, with the main treat being an actual three-piece dining set. Whistler gave the contents a once-over: vegetarian lasagna (check), garlic bread (check), caesar salad (from a bag, check).
"Dinner is served. Can you make it back to the table," he asked with a smile, "or do I need a wheelchair for your geriatric ass?"
( Only Under the Car )
( Holiday Gifts )
|
|
| Conditioned |
23 Dec 01:28pm |
Debris of newspaper and scraps of rubbish tumbled haphazardly down the darknened street. Rustling omniously in their own language as the wind carried them to their new destination. Clouds, thick like swirls of smoke discoloured the sky. Creating an almost haunting haze between the moon and the melting violet night sky. In the distance, some animal scurred through the dust bins at the back of an alley.
Curiously, nothing seemed to realise it was supposed to be 'Festive'. There was no concept of the season here. Everything carried on blindly to what the norm was. Perhaps that was why she left Las Vegas months ago. Not permanently, by any means. At least until it was into the 'New' Year. Though nothing would be new. Everything tended to stay the same, only the days change. The dates.
Exhaling a slow stream of warm air, she tilted her head back to observe the rooftops of the crumbling buildings around her. It was an odd concept to realise that people stayed there willingly, they just didnt't care what kind of condition anything was. Old towns never really did.
Heavy foot steps of her boots sounded out on the derelict street as she slowly meandered further down. Some of the street lamps weren't working. A block away she could see one flickereing tauntingly. It was an epileptics worst dream. Shadows grew and shrunk like the tide, sweeping anything in its path darker into its pit. She quietly wondered if that was what had happened to the town. Had the shadows, the darkness, stolen the life from everything in the town?
Diamonds could have coated the side walk, though she was aware that it was merely frost, deviant in its deliberate manipulation of what it rested upon. Silently, her fingers caressed the air as her lungs pulled it deeply into her lungs until it burned. Lips were wetted by the tip of tongue as her feet slowed to a stop in front of a large building. Eyes narrowed to slits, jaw twitched ever so slightly as she looked around. Gazing to the sky again first before letting her vision focus on the old building.
"You took from us." It was whispered, low, almost frightening in its hushed viciousness. "Yet no-one has followed you here. This false sense of cheer. Greed and all its commercialisation forcing people into debt and causing stress while others buy like there is a famine coming. Harvesting what they don't need to over indulge selfishly. Belitelling anoyone who should decide not to follow so vigerously and questioning their morals. You made a mockery of something pure that belonged to us. Changed it so completely that you almost have everyone fooled. Except those of us who know better. There is no justification for the corruption that is conditioned into everyone to make them believe that they must join in or they must be terrible. People can say they don't like the war, or that they don't like children but for someone to say that they don't like Christmas they get treated like a leper. You have a lot to answer for, be thankful that I don't believe in you."
With one last look, she took a quiet breath, then turned and kept walking down the street. She would go back to Las Vegas. Exploring towns as she went on her way. Christmas was always a holiday she despised. Filled with dissapointment and lonelyness. What made it worse was the knowledge that all around her people felt the exact same emptiness, all for one miserable, un-thankful day.
Running her slender fingers through her hair, Purity shook her head and continued on her way.
| [ |
mood |
| |
 cold |
] |
|
|
| Accused officer on loose |
22 Dec 02:45pm |
By Logan Guevera | lguevera@ccbeacon.com
LAS VEGAS -- An unnamed source within the Las Vegas police department confirmed Friday that Samantha Blanchard was no longer in the city's custody.
Blanchard, a Las Vegas homicide detective who last month was arrested for the murder of Gerald Watkins, was being held in a regular-security prison awaiting her first court hearing -- a hearing in which it was expected that she would be formally charged with first-degree murder.
The source, who requested anonymity, did not get into specifics about how Blanchard might have left her cell or where she might have gone, and was even more careful not to call the disappearance an escape.
Las Vegas district attorney Mac Parsons, who is up for re-election in 2012, didn't mince his words quite as much.
"She was a murder suspect," he said. "And we had enough to charge her ... so why would we open the cell and let her walk out? Don't make a damn bit of sense; that [expletive deleted] escaped."
Michaela Starnes, the lead detective in the Watkins investigation, declined comment. Police spokesman John Luiz did not return several phone messages left by the Beacon.
The source noted a coincidence between Blanchard's disappearance from city custody and recent murders in the downtown area. In the past month, the bodies of Henry Shockley and Harmon Trask were found in alley dumpsters. No suspects have been found and Parsons said the city's investigation has gone nowhere.
He did not, however, discount the possibility of Blanchard's involvement.
"She's already proven she has the capacity to kill in cold blood," he said. "That's hearsay at this point -- who the hell is your source, anyway? -- but it wouldn't surprise me in the least."
Luiz released a statement Saturday morning, calling the supposed connection between Blanchard and the alley murders "nothing but wild, irresponsible speculation."
[Submitted by Jeff.]
|
|
| Two Mugs of Beer |
22 Dec 02:36pm |
At just after ten on a weekend night, with only three demons perched on the bar stools, business was officially slow in the Basement. It had been the same story the night before… and the one preceding. Justus, the proprietor, wore his perpetually untroubled face despite Rhiannon’s dry commentary about shit hitting the fan. Being the sort to profit off explosions in the demon population, he didn’t stand to lose much if it happened.
The Slayer wiped her hands on a rag. All the mugs had been washed, dried, and stacked neatly on their racks. The counter was clean and smelled vaguely of ammonia. There was nothing to do but sit and watch her share of the tips not appear.
Rhiannon swiped a book of matches with the bar’s logo. She lit a cigarette and put her elbows on the bar. It stung a little when the mixture of water and cleaner soaked into her skin.
“You think it’s true… about the hellhounds?” Rhiannon had her own opinion, as well as an idea of where they might’ve come from, but she bit her tongue to listen to Justus talk.
Mallory's stomach had been a ball of quiet dread ever since she'd gotten the two phone messages from Rhiannon. She'd packed a few things and gotten into the truck, leaving behind a note for Sonya before renting a motel room in Vegas. The city, at least, was bigger than Searchlight, which would give Deanna less of a chance of finding her. But days passed, and nothing happened, which was good. But she hadn't heard from or seen Victoria, and that was bad.
She just didn't know how bad the actuality was yet.
Regardless of its clientele, she knew that The Basement was a safe place, the de-militarized zone, so she went there to risk asking questions. Even if no one there actually knew the Slayer, someone would probably know someone who did. She'd find Rhiannon first if she could, see what had happened.
The door opened quietly, then fell shut. It must be closing time, the redhead thought. She spotted that vaguely familiar face as Rhiannon finished lighting her smoke, then hung back to raise a hand in uncertain greeting.
What had Vicky told her, if anything? Did it matter what the woman thought of her, considering that they didn't even know one another? Probably not. Mallory took a few steps, lowered her weight onto one of the vacant barstools. Not casual, but waiting in silence regardless.
Another customer wouldn’t go unnoticed, since it was such a rarity. Justus was halfway through his spiel about the unlikelihood of a hellhound when the door opened. Rhiannon’s attention drifted to the door. It took her a second or two of staring to place Mallory’s name with her familiar face. It had been something like two years since they met, and that was only once.
“Mallory?” The brunette’s question cut Justus off, and she apologized for it with an uplifted index finger. Hold the phone… Rhiannon picked up her ashtray and headed in the newcomer’s direction. She didn’t know if the other woman smoked or not, but she was certain that second-hand didn’t bother her in the diner where they met once.
"Rhiannon." Answering the question with a nod as the soles of her tennis shoes slipped on the bottom rung of her stool. She had already walked off most of the tread and could use a new pair.
"Do you have a few minutes? I got your phone calls but wasn't sure when I'd be able to reach you." The Slayer worked here? Well, at least it'd cut down on the chances of fighting on the job, she supposed. "Do you have some time? I could buy a round of beers if that'd help get a table."
( Not Paying for Drinks )
|
|
| Fulfilling |
21 Dec 01:49pm |
The Wolfram & Hart building was a monument of glass and steel, a temple of corruption. Oliver smoked his cigarette while standing on the sidewalk, reflecting on the irony that such a place should have a no-smoking policy in the lobby. If anything, the people within ought to light your cigarettes themselves, especially given the prices they charged. Just another service rendered by the local Junior Evil.
They were bugs.
He'd woken up alone, finding that Hannah had disappeared sometime during the night, and strangely he felt okay with that. Her warmth still radiated through the cold spot under his heart, and he was using it as fuel to get him through having to go into that building, where she was. She was a bug too, having become one of Them at some point. Just someone else for him to defy by surviving their betrayal. Never mind. He'd get through it. He always had.
He walked through the lobby, his shoes making hollow sounds on the marble tile. Upstairs to see Virgil, and then outside again. Maybe he'd go to lunch. He had to get through this first, though.
As mundane as it was, the case Jill was working on served as a respite of sorts. The lawyer was unsure of how to proceed in her quest for a promotion of sorts, ever since the Conduit decided to be typical Wolfram & Hart and saddle her with a morally-questionable request in return for what she wanted.
Oh, the Senior Partners would give her control of the Special Projects division, provided she killed a couple people. Which normally, would’ve been fine, but Wolfram & Hart, in its infinite bastarddom, decided the two people it wanted killed were Victoria and Oliver.
The vampire Jill always struggled with feelings for and her ex-boyfriend. Spectacular.
Not that Jill never thought about wanting an ex dead, but to actually do it? That hit a little close to home, particularly as time went by and gave the attorney enough perspective for her to know she might not have completely been in the right as far as he was concerned.
As for Vicky? Well, she was a vampire and Jill was no Slayer. Killing her would be tricky at best.
( How typical )
"Bitch."
Oliver pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at his nose, watching the numbers at the top of the elevator light up and then go dark. She wanted to play rough, did she? Fine. No one could play cold bastard better than he could.
"Oliver?"
Finally, the spellcaster thought, turning to face Virgil as if the lawyer saw him with a nosebleed all the time. "Where the fuck have you been?" he demanded, swiping at another trickle of blood.
"I was at a surprise meeting," the other man answered, indicating an open office down the hall. "Sorry I'm late. What ... happened to you?"
"Nothing. Nothing important." Oliver watched the numbers change from twenty-four to twenty five, letting his anger simmer quietly. "Nothing that can't be fixed with a simple phone call."
She was a bitch, but he was a loose cannon. A wild card. She'd see.
|
|
| Keeping the Undead Alive |
18 Dec 11:18pm |
The desert is a quiet place, especially at night. One would think there would be animal noises, or the wind rustling the sand, or the flutter of bat wings, or the slithering of a snake or lizard. Maybe on most nights those noises do fill out the silence. But not this night.
It is also common for a dying man to gasp, each breath harder to draw than the last. Or to moan or groan in pain, or plead for mercy, or to pray for help and salvation. Maybe he’d even struggle to crawl from the side of the road to the road itself, fighting not only to live, but in the hope of finding someone, anyone, to help.
Most men might, but Tristan was not any man. Many would argue that he wasn’t a man at all. He had no breath, as a vampire. But he had pain. His moans were stifled in his throat, though he wished he could cry. He was past crying in pain or anger or loss. Damas, his beloved cat, was dead. The same perpetrator of the cat’s murder also shot a poisoned arrow through Tristan’s shoulder. The poison leached into his blood, paralyzing him, making him weak, making him want to sleep. Tristan feared that if he closed his eyes, he’d never awake again. Worse, that he’d see, and then feel, the graceful warmth of the sun, frying him into ashes.
Tristan didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t sure how he could stop it. At least his worst fear wasn’t coming true. Tristan wouldn’t die alone. Damas was in his arms.
"Shhh... It'll be okay."
( It's Not Time )
"On a count of three," Hannah whispered. "One... two..."
|
|
| Reassigned |
18 Dec 07:29pm |
Elise filed her own nails. It was a menial task, she knew, and most such things she typically relegated to hired help. She paid someone to cut her hair. She hired someone to yank the occasional wiry black hair or two from her eyebrow. She had a quiet Scandinavian woman on permanent reserve to apply verbena mint facials and lavender oil mud masks to her porcelain skin, and a lanky, long-fingered young masseuse to knead the tension out of her neck and back. Doing her own nails was out of character for a woman of her stature and breeding; and yet it was something of a necessity.
By and large, Elise went about her days quite unnoticed by the general public. Of course, they saw her. It was difficult not to cast a glance at the petite woman, always impeccably dressed, raven curls framing an attractive heart-shaped face. But so far as they were concerned, that was all she was: just another pretty face. No one stared long enough to notice how infrequently she blinked her pale eyes, or the way her gaze would follow even the slightest movement in her peripheral vision. Few even saw how a sneer on her face could seem almost feral. So it was not terribly out of the ordinary that no one ever noticed her nails.
They looked normal enough, usually kept just long enough to be useful but short enough to avoid any problems with her work; she wouldn’t be caught dead mistyping in important document because of a long nail brushing the wrong key. When she bothered to type things herself, that is. She usually had someone else to do it for her.
She had tried to go the professional route, but the oddly resilient keratin refused to bend to the manicurist’s file. The dear young thing had worked for well over an hour on a single fingertip, managing only to roughen and sharpen the edge, something that annoyed Elise to no end. She’d made her grievance clear with the girl, carving a crisscross pattern on her face with that single nail tip. After that, Elise had taken to keeping her manicure grooming to herself. Small pruning shears, with force enough applied from her strong grip, were enough to cut them. Filing was more difficult, and required the use of an industrial needle file and a good deal of effort on her part.
Still, it had to be done. And in the quiet moments – of which there were far too many – in Hell’s upper real estate, as she had fondly dubbed Las Vegas, Elise found herself bored and relegated to commencing nail care at her office desk. Only the sound of the fax machine in the corner springing to life broke the silence, and the demonic lawyer perked up in her chair.
New faxes usually meant new assignments. When her half-manicured hand snatched the freshly printed sheet from the fax tray, Elise couldn’t help but grin at what it said.
( Faxed Away )
Grinning, Elise grabbed her briefcase from her desk and practically skipped out the door. Las Vegas had been so boring. It would be nice, getting her hands dirty again.
|
|
Back to Top
-History-
|most recent entries|
earlier
|
|
you, Joss!
pleased
