| Lessons Learned |
[09 Sep 2006|12:52pm] |
Fuck.
Fuck.
A lawnmower woke her up. Matthew’s neighbor opened the shed at seven a.m. on the dot and rolled out the old, green Craftsman. A couple of scrubby, brown patches had grown longish by the porch. The woman huffed and shuffled around like she‘d been counting the minutes to rev time. The drone was one thing -- something Rhiannon could doze through -- but hearing the machine grind, putter, and almost die every time she hit a landscaping brick was a bit much.
Rhiannon was crammed into fetal position in her chair. Simply turning her head had been a chore. “Ow.” She rubbed her neck and looked around. It took her eyes a few to cooperate, but she could tell there was no motorcycle. No watcher leaning on the rail, wondering what the hell she was doing camped out on his porch. Rhiannon couldn’t explain it.
Well. She could‘ve. But the reason didn’t sound very good. ‘Yeah, thought I’d crash out because your new lay was hanging around and I felt territorial. She’s a skeez, Matt. Did she get past fourth grade? What about showering, is that negotiable?’
Yeah, confrontational.
The beers weighing heavy on her bladder were the impetus to move. She was starving, too. Even the Nugget’s wares seemed edible the morning after a joint that potent. Rhiannon had trudged down the steps and only stopped when she spotted Grace’s cigarette butts.
That tickle ran down her spine again. The one that told her something wasn’t right about Grace. If her brain hadn’t been stoned to shit the night before, she probably could’ve put her finger on it. What it took was Rhiannon turning around and standing where the woman had, with her foot braced and an elbow on her knee. Lingering just off the porch, just out of reach of the chair where she mocked Grace with waiting ’til dawn.
How the fuck could her subconscious be so smart and her conscious so idiotic?
The look on Grace’s face when she left... not relieved to hear ‘watcher’ instead of ‘lover’, and not curious. Of course not, because the bitch was a vampire. A goddamn vampire waiting around to screw Matthew and rip his neck open the minute he let his guard down. He could spend the whole depraved event pointing a stake at the vampire’s chest and it wouldn’t make a difference. Sooner or later, everyone dropped their weapon.
It wasn’t a question of ‘if’ she’d bite him; it was a question of ‘when’. That’s how they operated, every last one of them. If they liked you, they only wanted to drain you more. What better way to be gluttonous in you, to experience you right down to the core, than by knowing the way you tasted when you were dying? They wouldn’t settle for anything less. They were animals taking possession, and they got selfish when they thought about eternity.
And for Christ‘s sake, wasn’t she walking proof of that? Matthew was the one who listened and told her how reckless she’d been. He was the one who asked if she could kill Tristan if pushed. He saw the toll it took, and he was there to watch when she got it out of her system. He was proud of her. How could he turn around and do something this stupid? It wasn’t a thrill; what Rhiannon had learned was that nobody really found themselves in darkness. What they found was the next thing to suicide, and it was easy.
By the time Rhiannon got to her car, she was fuming. No one could’ve stopped her from dialing Matthew’s number while she smoked a gray streak down the sidewalk.
“Matthew, it’s Rhiannon. You said you wanted to talk when I got back. Well I just stopped by your place. You weren't there, obviously, but I did have some company. Imagine my surprise to meet your new jump-off with the sharp teeth. What I’d like to know is why you think that‘s such a goddamn good idea. I hope to god you have an explanation that makes sense.”
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| When your boy's not at home and you've verbally bitched at a slayer, who're you gonna call? |
[09 Sep 2006|06:19pm] |
She was trying very hard not to shake herself to pieces. Some weird combination of elation and nervousness had settled into the marrow of her bones, and the rareness of the event had her nearly bouncing off the walls. If her heart still worked, she would probably have been experiencing palpitations.
Knock, knock, knock...
Hopefully Deanna had some smokes, because she was down to the last two in the crumpled pack in her shirt pocket. And damn if she didn't still itch.
"Shiny."
The diamond was as big as the knuckle on her index finger, but damn if Deanna didn't deserve the finery. After all, it wasn't every day you pulled off the coup that she had done.
Cheerleaders were easy. Cheerleaders willing to smoke crack? You'd swear it was on the entrance exam. But find the above two who'd dine on human flesh, that was the hard part, and the redhead had nearly given up the search.
Buoyed as she was after her meeting with Rico Suavé Darian, she was still apprehensive about nailing the trifecta for her client. Yet give a blonde, doe-eyed, pom-pom chaser enough of the rocky substance, and they'd happily take a few bites. Especially when they were convinced what they were really dining on was a lively version of steak tartar.
She owed him a thank you phone call. But as it was three in the morning, she suspected that little ding-a-ling could be interrupting quality time with Beth. And she didn't want him pissed enough to take back his gift. Not that the vampiress thought he would. But good relations was a plus when you ran a dungeon in the basement of one of Sin City's most popular establishments.
The knock at her door was unexpected, and the person behind it most welcome.
"Gracey!," Deanna yelped. "Good to see you back on your feet."
( Stop me if you've heard this one before )
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