| Reassigned |
[18 Dec 2007|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.
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| Keeping the Undead Alive |
[18 Dec 2007|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..."
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