Queen of the Fasionably Damned

Four a.m. in Key West. Barflies tipped off their stools. Vacationers trudged back to their hotel rooms to sleep off a tequila haze. The buzzing of streetlamps was audible, now that the island music had drifted away. Time for a dreamless sleep.

Rhiannon's shoes scuffed along the pavement. Closing time was a good time to patrol, just in case a vamp got the bright idea to munch on a bleary-eyed tourist. The paper landed on her doorstep every morning. Mysterious deaths increasing. Stabbings and strange neck injuries. Yeah. Right. It was Searchlight all over again. The difference was, Key West had an inexhaustible supply of necks.

She read the storefronts. 24 kt. gold! Tanzanite! Diamonds! Kites for toys and sport! Key lime pie! A beer bottle rolled in the gutter next to Captain Tony's Saloon. Duval Street was a weird part of town, she thought. The brightly painted shops looked like Candyland and smelled like a mixture of suntan lotion, beer, and seafood. Behind the famous street, a narrow alley was strewn with garbage. Palm trees, not tall buildings, blocked out the light. Roosters and rats scuttled in the garbage looking for scraps. A homeless man barged into her shoulder and kept going, mumbling under his breath. Because he didn't ask her for change, Rhiannon knew something had scared him. She stood at the mouth of the alley for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. A breeze blew a strand of hair into her eyes.

( The Alley )

( Can you? )

( 2602 )

Note: takes place before Rhiannon's wish.

( Bookends )

( Read more... )

When Avery chose to do something, he really liked to get into it. For instance, breaking into the coroner's office meant, to him, that he'd need a suitable outfit. Lamenting his rather blue wardrobe, he found the single pair of black jeans that he owned, a black hoodie and work boots. On his unruly brown hair, he had put a black ski cap. Not the kind that covered his face; the vampire found those itchy.

After jimmying open a first floor window, Avery slipped inside quietly, crouching low. He had lucked out; he was in one of the office areas off of the lit corridor that led to the morgue. His shoes squeaked quietly on the linoleum tiled floor. Pulling out an office chair, he fired up one of the computers. He was now grateful for the limited computer skills he had accrued in the past few months.

Now came the tough part. The vampire didn't suppose it would be like Google, where he typed in his second cousin's name and a whole host of results came up. He frowned in concentration as the machine booted up. Maybe he should have worn gloves.


Password Protected.

The words popped up on the screen. Feebly, Avery typed in 'password'. He had read in a book that people, feeling clever, liked to make that their password. No such luck for him. He tapped his fingers on the metal desk, the cogs in his head turning quickly. Then it hit him: paper files. The city still had to have things in hardcopy, and a filing cabinet lock was a lot simpler to bargain with.

The vampire stood from the chair and began walking down the corridor. Trying the first door on the right, it swung open and he was affronted with harshly bright light, a sterile white room and...a woman in a labcoat?


The ammonia offended her nostrils. Antiseptic cleaning fluids, bleach... it was worse than being stuck in a Japanese garden in full bloom. If you wanted to disorient the undead, throw them into a greenhouse. Not that she needed to breathe, but Deanna liked presenting a 'human' face in unfamiliar territory. You never knew when someone might walk in on you while cadaver diving.


"I thought I asked for a little privacy!", she hissed, turning around, fully expected to see the aging security guard who'd nearly obstructed her access five minute earlier. She stopped when she caught the figure staring back at her. "Oh great,", the redhead moaned. "Is it take your whiny brat kid to work' day?"

His brow furrowed, trying to suss out exactly what he was witnessing there. Something was off, but he, too, was thrown off by the combined olfactory assault that was the room. Was she talking about him? Avery knew he looked young, but he had been nineteen when he was turned; a little bit older than someone's 'whiny brat kid.' "I didn't know coroners worked after hours," he said, stepping further into the room.

And then it hit him, taking a moment to process. She was a vampire, too. He took off his hat, trying to peer over her shoulder, all previous thoughts about finding his cousin's death records forgotten.

"Oh for the love of..." Deanna's voice trailed off as she realized. "This is my scene, Edward," she grumbled. She took her hand off the handle of the cold drawer. She took a few steps forward, high heels clacking against the tiled floor. "You're not gonna find your Bella in any of these drawers."

Avery had a stake in his sweatshirt pocket, the one Connor had returned to him, but he was trying to assess the situation first. After the incident a few months back, he was reticent to cause yet another stir in a public place. For one, the restraining order that he had presented the news anchor, Carly Gaither, was expired.

"My what?" His gaze flickered to the stainless steel compartments, then back to the red-haired vampiress. "Trust me, you can have this 'scene.' I'm fairly certain I'm not into whatever it is you were doing."

As an afterthought, he added, "And I don't know who you're mistaking me for, but my name is Avery, not Edward."


Wow. Wow. Deanna had met some ... different vampires in her time, but this one ... "How long exactly have you been a vampire, Edward? Do you normally go out of your way to give up such personal information to everyone you meet because ... wow."

The elder vampire turned around and walked over to the metal table. The cool steel sent a shiver as her fingers traced its length. So many bodies had been opened up and explored, hearts removed and weighed, spleens severed and bagged. This, she made a mental note, is the kind of room Victoria needed back at Fang Noir. If she ever desired to rebuild.

"Oh gods, this is..." And she stopped herself again. "Avery? Avery, the vampire from the news?"

"I suppose I don't consider first names a precious commodity," he replied easily, watching her. The room brought back a long-dormant memory; his roommate at Princeton had been pre-med, and was taking an anatomy class. Late one night, Avery and his friends had had a round or two, and his roommate suggested he give them a tour of the medical lab that contained the class' cadavers. The then-human had thrown up on the floor, the combined factors being the smell of the room and the alcohol in his system.

He didn't suppose he'd be so afflicted this time.

"From the...oh. That." He wondered how many vampires had been angry over him killing one of his own on live television. He remembered Grace's disgust over the fact that the vampire he staked had been one Avery himself sired. It wasn't exactly endearing to the undead population.


Deanna reached upwards to fondle the water hose. The imagery wasn't lost on her, but anything that played in Avery's mind was entirely misplaced. "You've gotta have giant, brass balls to make yourself a target like that. Most vamps wouldn't think twice about showing how to kill one of us, let alone the betrayal underneath it all. Very Lord of the Flies, if you ask me."

The redhead turned her attention back to the task she'd been interrupted from, opening and pulling out a body from a nearby cooler. She pulled back the sheet and grimaced. "Ugh. Too clean."

Avery rolled his blue eyes, hands resting in his hoodie pockets. If she thought he was bizarre, that was nothing to what he thought about her, poking around dead bodies like she was Tom Petty in Mary Jane's Last Dance. "It isn't exactly a huge secret," he informed her. "Insert sharp piece of wood into heart, lather, rinse, and repeat." He shrugged his slim shoulders.

The vampire raised an eyebrow at her comment. "And you're looking for a...dirty corpse?"

"Noooooo, a gruesome corpse!" she giggled, closing the drawer and opening another. "It's for a friend. She's not quite herself at the moment and I wanted to find just the right gift, you know? Something that says 'thinking of you'. And flowers just won't do the trick."

She peeled back the sheet of an older, bald man. "Nope, not you." She slammed it shut and opened a third. This body was of a young female with signs of heavy trauma. Possibly a vehicular accident. The right side of her face was caved in. "Perfect..."

The redhead turned and scanned the room. "Now if I were storing body bags, where would I put them?" She began her search and paused, turned back to Avery. "Hey, I once sired three -- or was it four? -- bikers to go on basically a suicide run, so I don't care what you do. Unless you wanna help me look around, that is."

He wondered about the ethics of watching and doing nothing as the female vampire rifled through the bodies. Sure, they were already dead, but she couldn't be up to anything good; something told him this 'friend' wouldn't appreciate the gift, especially if she was of the human variety. But Avery didn't want to arouse the attention of security before he got what he came for. While it was true he could call up his cousin -- who already treated him with unadulterated contempt -- somehow he suspected asking Zach how his son died wouldn't go over so well.

Partly because he had the paranoid fear that he may have been the culprit, back when humans were still part of his diet. Irrational, yes; impossible, no.

"Well, I always keep my Hefty bags under the sink, and those are kind of like body bags, right?" Avery walked over to an industrial sink, noticing a locked cabinet beneath it. He pulled off the padlock with ease, flung open the doors. "Mmhm."

The elder vampires sighed mournfully. "Tell me you don't body dump with hefty bags. I mean, first of all they leak, and second, ew!" The new generation had so much to learn...

"Look, Avery." Deanna perched herself on the edge of the steel table. "We're vampires, and better still, people know we exist. Their not trying to hide it any longer. So what's wrong with just leaving your food after playing with it? It's not like they're going to create CSI: Vampire Squad any time soon." She reached up then to take hold of a microphone beside the hose. "And if Jerry Fucking Bruckheimer thinks he can steal that idea, I'm coming after him for the royalties!" she shouted into the mic.

"No, Avery. Body bags as in the coroner arrives and stuffs the body inside the zipper bag to take the stiff back here." She shook her head.

He was busy inspecting a bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant and wondering if it was more effective than Lysol. One of the many traits that had carried over with him as a vampire was his slightly short attention span. "What? No. I don't dump bodies." Avery stood up and tossed something heavy and black at her. "Well, except this demon awhile ago, but that was so kids wouldn't stumble across it. Like, you know how they'll play with abandoned fridges and stuff? The kids, I mean, not demons."

The vampire pointed at her. "Okay, now your turn. Where would you keep death records?"


Deanna hopped off the table and began unfolding the bag, yanking the zipper until it spread open like a butterfly. "Probably in the records office next door? You did look at the sign plates as you were passing through."

"Actually, I just went into the first room I found," he admitted. "Then you distracted me," Avery accused, crossing his arms indignantly. After everything he had experienced lately...mystically becoming a high school student again, being stabbed through the heart with a letter opener, and being confronted by an elderly version of someone he had grown up with, he still had never expected...this.

The vampire put his cap back on, tufts of hair sticking out over his eyes. He began turning toward the door, then hesitated. Maybe ignorance was bliss. "Not like he'd ever accept my apology," he muttered to himself, momentarily forgetting the other vampire's presence.

The redhead hefted the corpse from her temporary resting place and dumped it on the table, taking little care to stuff the legs into the black bag. "We're vampires, Avery, we don't apologize. Jeez, wet behind the ears much?"

"I'm not wet behind the ears," Avery insisted, frowning at her. "You try getting shoved temporarily into a body with a fully functioning soul, and not have some residual guilt. Even if it's possibly imaginary and/or misplaced." The vampire sighed an unneccesary expulsion of breath. "Not that you'd understand. You're obviously perfectly content, robbing morgues and being snippy."

With that, he turned the silver doorknob, throwing her one last look over his shoulder. "Also, I wouldn't wear that coat for too long. Unless you want to smell like formaldehyde for days. Although, as a signature scent, it kind of suits you."

"Typical," Deanna snorted as the boy passed out the door. "Thinks he knows how the world works. Try going a few centuries and then come talk to me."

"Hey... It's me. Guess what kind of night I just had..."

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/city_limits/256797.html

The night was dry and mild, an early-March anomaly for Chicago. For once, when Rhiannon wanted fresh air in the modest, third-floor apartment, she didn't have to freeze to accomplish it. The windows were open. Thin curtains skimmed the windowsills, those few surfaces she hadn't painted erratic colors in an hour of boredom. Back in the moderate winter climate of Nevada, she had forgotten what it was like to be cooped up, and this season had dragged for what seemed like twice its due.

She sat on the carpeted floor, the narrow length of her spine propped against the couch. The television was tuned to a black and white film. A cigarette burned in an ashtray beside her. As she dipped her fork into a cup of microwaved noodles, she looked relaxed, an ordinary twenty-seven-year-old in faded jeans, a tight band t-shirt, and bare feet, crossed at the ankle.

The heavy, long coat had been dispensed in her hotel. Despite never truly feeling the cold a city like Chicago could produce in winter, dressing the part helped the redhead blend with the populace. Vampires were now a known quantity and most stood out like a sore thumb. Deanna'd learned a long time ago how to pass herself off as human; but soon enough, the vampire reasoned, she would be recognized no matter the season.

She entered the building, careful not to touch the railing as she climbed the stairs. A layer of dust clung to the bannister, the building's recent history telling a story within its granules. The redhead approached the door, pulled on the edge of her blouse to tuck into her skirt. Presentation was everything.

( What, no knock-knock joke? )

There was a proverb about being careful what you wished for. There was another one about how living in interesting times which could be interpreted as a curse. For Victoria Foxworth, business owner, writer, producer, director, actress, part-time accidental traveller through time and, yes, even vampire, there was a recognition that 'interesting times' could also be very much of a blessing, too. She had experienced far more and on a much greater scale, than she ever had while human. Granted, there were certain, select episodes in her unlife, which she would have preferred never happened, although a lot more she cherished.

The trip to New Work was... She was unsure quite which cetegory that belonged in. It could be annoyingly difficult trying to orchestrate and plan such a thing, when having to factor in exposure to daylight. In the old days, catching a plane might have been a good answer, but airport security was no longer the easiest of things for an average vampire to make her way through. So, Victoria was left with having to effectively hop between destinations, time her hotel bookings in advance and then recalculate, if one of those nearest available happened to be full up.

By the time she had arrived, however, one would not have known it. She would have been well-rested during the day, telephoned in advance and dressed for the prospect of meeting her fanged maker for the first time in a while. With a knock on the elder redhead's door, Victoria only worried that yet another long-lost bloodied 'sister' had not taken her place.

Or a new one, come to that.

Paper cuts on her fingers. Sunova but that hurt. Despite modern technology, Deanna favored the old fashioned approach to writing and rewriting. Notes in the margins, scribbles and cross-outs. Her book rewrites were taking longer than planned and she was quite the grumpy vampire. It didn't help that she'd kept clicking on the web address her nemesis provided on the back page only to find some trifling story of Slayers in Searchlight. She'd expected... more of Rhiannon. That was a weird thought.

The knock brought the redhead's focus back to her room at the Waldorf Astoria. Padding lightly across the plush carpet, Deanna peered through the peephole and let out a squeal as she saw her childe rocking on heels on the other side.

"Password?" she teased.

( Catching up )

"Yes, Maury, I got the Fed-ex, so you can breathe."

She stood on the docks of Dover, briecase at her feet. Luggage had been taken at Customs check-in, passport stamped. They promised she'd receive it again when the Norweigan Jewel docked in New York. "It'll be fine," she told her literary agent. "I've got a laptop and the proper power converter and an external hard-drive with a back-up of the manuscript just in case. You'll get the rewrites on time."

A look of consternation as the voice on the other end of the trans-atlantic call blathered. "Maury-- MAURY!" The man was impossible; salivating over his commission and making sure nothing happened to his meal ticket.

Now that was funny. Deanna as a meal, instead of the reverse.

"The only way I'm stepping out at Reykjavik is if they're experiencing eternal night and sorry but Newfoundland can kiss my ass. I'll be fine.

"I'll see you in 11 days. Relax."

She snapped the cell shut, then re-opened it and typed a quick message.

"Vicky, will b in NYC in 11 days, staying at Waldorf Astoria. Come find me. Mum."

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/city_limits/166656.html

Good gods, the woman could pace.

Sixty-four minutes now, east to west, west to east. The hardwood floors in her London flat would need buffing before the night was done.

"Maury, you're my goddamned literary agent!" she snarled. Shame he couldn't see the vampire through the microphone. Deanna'd considered installing one of those digital doo-dads to hook up to the wide screen computer monitor. Since submitting her manuscript to Random House (thanks to a bidding war with Penguin Books), it seemed everyone wanted face-time.

Soon enough for that.

"Just ... I don't know! Argh! Fact-checking?! Really? I've been around for well over two hundred fucking years! What are they gonna do," she grabbed her silver cigarette case and took out the last smoke. Her ashtray was a hotbed of anger, "dig up the bloody bodies and carbon-date them?"

The heavy-set man, safely hidden in his office in New York, was thankful that fear and sweat didn't translate digitally. He was on his third drink. "N-n-n-noooo, they're asking about more... recent events. They're worried about being sued for slander."

A long puff of smoke stroked her fingers as Deanna exhaled. "The water thing was a dream, Maury."

"Well, yes I get that. But uh," he paused far too long, "it's just this, what do you call her, a Slayer? She takes up two chapters of your book. They're nervous is all. Surely we can come to some sort of... compromise?"

West to east. East to west. West to east. "I have no idea where she is now. Last we tangled was in Las Vegas. Hire some idiot to track down Rhiannon Lee -- I'm sure she's got a social -- and figure it out."

Cool, slender fingers pressed the talk button and the call was ended.

This isn't Anne Rice's idea of a vampire story.

There are no beautiful, gauzzian-laced versions of Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise drifting through history. (And really, Tom Cruise? Who in their right-fucking minds would cast him as Lestat? I've met my fair share of the undead over the past few centuries and TRUST ME, there ain't no such thing.)

Romantic vampires get staked, pure and simple. In the dark days, you killed to survive. You lived in shadow. (Okay, not exactly lived but you get my point.) You could try and pass as human, and if you were lucky, most believed you. But you never stayed in one place too long. Nosy snoopers wondered why you never showed up for mass, or visited the market. You robbed or prostituted yourself just to have enough money to rent a room with heavy curtains. (On that part, Anne was half-right. Vampires are sexually fucked-up. At least I knew who I was before being turned.)

Coffins filled with dirt from your burial plot? Bullshit. Sure, 99% squat in a crypt, because newly-turned vampires don't know better. They can't hide behind the mask of civility, or smile at a child without showing teeth. That takes concentration, restraint. Time.

Crosses? They wicked burn. It's the power of Belief. Not because of a guy who had a bad day 2,000 years ago.

Blood? Yum. Yup we need it to survive. We can eat and drink other stuff, but we can't really taste it. Which really pisses me off. I could drink a roomful of wrestlers under the table but not appreciate the burn of tequila on my tongue.

My name was Marie. Now I go by Deanna. This is a no-holds barred account of life, death, and life after death.

Most of it is true. Some of it is gonna be bullshit, just to piss off Oprah. Got a problem with that?

Didn't think so.

Strap in kids.

I'm your worst nightmare, and you can't wait to know more.

- Chicago, 1924 -

Secrets in this town came with a price. Some were trivial; a few trinkets could get you into a low-stakes poker game with a few undesirables on the waterfront, or a brown paper bag with slightly used giggle water.

The local constabulary didn't make things easy for a tourist. They were wired into the game, taking orders from those who bought and sold larger secrets.

Anyone with jack and the right combination of knuckle-wraps and words could put on the ritz in some of Chicago's swankiest back rooms, where jazz, poker chips and bathtub gin flowed with equal abandon.

"Once more, Johnny." She sat at the bar, allowing her hemline to drift just above the knee. The freedom of fashion. Corsets were out and comfort was in. Something told the redhead with the new bob haircut that she was going to enjoy the twentieth century. "And see if this time you can misplace the pieces of cork."

Sweat beaded on the temples of a piano player as he tinkered with the keys, the melody slightly out of tune but lively. A pair of clunky shoes set a rhythm for him on the hardwood. The dancer's heels kicked high, a string of pearls swaying against her breasts with each bend and bounce of the number. Only once did he strike the wrong note, leaning back on his bench to take a gander at her gams.

When the last measure was played, Rhiannon kissed the bald spot on his head and caught her breath. "You're a doll, Benny." She leaned against the instrument and fanned herself, taking note of the other faces. Rhiannon's body made an 'S' against the polished black. When it was offered, she lit a cigarette.

A redhead by the bar caught her eye. "Who's the new Jane?"

Benny followed the tip of her head and shrugged. "Don't know her from nothing."

"He was hitting on all cylinders, wouldn't you say?", the redhead commented towards the piano player. Johnny nodded in agreement as he put down a refreshed glass in front of the woman. He wasn't much for the gift of gab, and she wasn't complaining. Attention was the last thing the redhead was after; unfortunately the act of slipping an Old Gold from her purse brought out the worst from three nearby wet blankets armed with flint.

"Boys, boys, if I wanted your peepers on a three-sixty, I would've put on better glad rags. Go find yourselves another pushover." With that, slender fingers cupped the warm glass sloshing with newly-filled gin and the woman turned away.

Some mooks, however, couldn't take no for an answer. The closest pawed her arm. "Don't be a Mrs. Grundy," he growled. "We just wanna show yas a good time is all."

"Didn't you hear the lady, Nick?" The dark-haired woman appeared on the scene and leaned an elbow on the tough guy's shoulder. "The bank's closed. Now scram before you dig yourself a six-foot hole." Rhiannon's finger twisted lazily in her necklace. She waited to see if he'd put up a fight. The bartender's rag quit polishing.

( Two dames and a private dick )

A cool, sixty-degree breeze rolled in off Lake Michigan. It flapped the pages in Rhiannon's lap, the sound of which awoke the brunette from an accidental nap.

The promise of fresh air had drawn her out of the hotel, the linens-and-room-service scent of which had begun to nauseate her. Outside at night, at the far end of navy pier, she had found a secluded place to sit and sketch. Slight sounds came to her, of carousel music and upraised voices, but more closely she only heard a food wrapper taking a skittering journey along the sidewalk, and the buzz of a streetlamp overhead. She had used its base for a back support. Ultimately that noise must have ushered her into a doze.

Rhiannon breathed in a waking breath and rubbed her eyes. Peripheral view was slightly obscured by a hoodie she pulled on to protect her from the air coming off the water. Such disregard of her surroundings had left her wide open. Realizing her vulnerability, she hurriedly nudged the hood back from her forehead and looked to her right. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Chicago rose towards the cloudcover, their scattered, square windows twinkling light, their size making miniatures of everything else. No one was there.

A page ripped off the pad. Forgetting the reason she'd looked up, she blindly reached for the paper and missed it. It flew off towards the park and made scruffing somersaults on the concrete.

The soft brush of grass against the balls of her feet had lulled Deanna into a sense of serenity. The walk had been so long, so peaceful. The sounds of gulls suggested water nearby. Sounds of music and laughter carried aloft on the wind, a sing-song of another life.

With half-opened eyes she pushed forward, slightly surprised as the lushness underfoot changed to concrete and gravel. Sensitive ears picked up the scratch as pebbles skittered with each step, as well as the flapping not associated with wings. Paper circled her ankle before continuing its journey.

And then... breath. Measured, even. She wasn't alone. A figure no more than 10 feet ahead, draped in warmer clothing, head covered. Too relaxed to be homeless.

How long had it been since the vampire had fed on anything so substantial? There was no doubt; this was her reward for patience and devotion.

"Thank you," Deanna whispered into the air.

The half-voice sparked a pinprick of unease at the base of Rhiannon's neck, a feeling that trickled down the length of her spine. The sound assured her that despite looking, she wasn't alone. As in her girlhood, she found herself stuck, seemingly unable to command her muscles to investigate the noise behind her chair, behind the shower curtain, in the closet, outside the back door.

Move. Why are you afraid?

The Slayer's chin began to turn, creeping towards her shoulder in increments. Her eyes followed along the sidewalk to a pair of bare feet. They were pale, the golden hue of the streetlamp unable to inject color into the dead flesh, as blue-white as the moon peeking from between clouds.

All was silent, except the water lapping against the pier.

Rhiannon raised her eyes.

( You Don't Belong Here )

She'd missed the debut; if there was a golden ticket inviting her to the premiere Deanna wouldn't have received it. Between the time spent healing at Grace's abode, and returning to the Wynn to find out her belongings had been placed in storage and the suite given to another couple (the hotel manager hautily announcing it was bad publicity to have a vampire in residence), the redhead had missed more than a few momentous occasions.

Deanna slipped into the theatre just after dusk, popcorn purchased from the concession, and settled into her seat for what was truly a marvel of cinematic delight. While most of the audience debated after the final credits whether the actresses in Carmilla were truly vampires or not, she knew better. And, she also knew, Victoria had finally created her own childe.

She slipped by the departing throng and paused to admire the poster. Development Hell. That brought a smile to her face.

Thread open to Star and Victoria.

Deanna hadn't faced a lynch mob in over a hundred years. She'd learned to hide herself in plain sight so well, she allowed herself the luxury of believing she'd never be on the pointy end of a pitchfork ever again.

And then she had the bright idea to burn down a decrepit building, pretend to play hero (truthfully, she followed Rhiannon inside to make sure the woman didn't croak, that was something she wanted for herself) and then, when the Slayer called her out to the gathered masses, thought she could scare them off with a growl.

Humans fear the shadows. Anything could hide in them. But show them what that darkness was attached to, that was something they could fight back against.

The blows rained fast and furious. She'd been knocked to the ground, stomped on, bludgeoned with bricks. A gaping head wound, broken ribs. But clearly not a true bright among them, as they tried to lynch her rather than jab a piece of wood through her heart. Vampires didn't need to breathe. They chanted and scowled as she twisted from the bark of a hanging branch, until three police cruisers arrived on the scene. They cut her down and forced the throng to disperse.

Then they pulled out their own billy clubs and took vengeance. Because she still wore her face.

Severely pissed off, Deanna lashed back, gutted two of the officers and shot the rest with one of their own handguns (not before receiving three slugs herself, two in the stomach and one in her shoulder). Limping and bloodied, she commandeered a cruiser and high-tailed it back to Las Vegas, hoping to find refuge.

She prayed Grace would be home before dawn.

"For the laaaaaaaaand of the freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee..."

The display was amazing. Sparks across across the sky, scattershot explosions that threatened to rip more sensitive ears had they been closer to the action.

And the screams. Oh gods yes, couldn't forget those.

By anyone's standards, the decrepit building was a tinderbox begging for a match. That it was a tenement abandoned by the previous owners and then Henderson County city council (as part of their now-abandoned Beautification project) only added to the fun. Deanna could filter nineteen, maybe twenty, separate cries for help.

Tonight was a celebration. It was all out in the open. Upon waking, Deanna'd turned on the television, expecting to watch Angelina Jolie promote her new film on Ellen. It had been pre-empted with a non-stop news cycle of a 'former' government spook going public on the existence of boogeymen.

That was enough to get the blood pumping (out of the neck of a hapless maid at the Wynn Hotel, and down the redhead's throat) and put her in the mood for an early Fourth of July celebration. It was Independence Day for demons everywhere.

And that called for fireworks.

"And the hoooooooooooome, of the braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaveeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!"

Why was Rhiannon in Henderson?

The old, black Nissan down-shifted and rounded a curve in the road. Its speakers were blown out, and they crackled on a muted bass thump. Behind the wheel, Rhiannon smoked a cigarette and waited for the office building that fronted the Project to come into view. She had driven down to get a visual; She was 90% convinced it would be boarded up or just plain gone, which would be good. If there was no evidence of the supernatural to be found on the premises, there'd be nothing to back up the media stories, and maybe this shit wouldn't get out of hand after all.

Traffic was bad on that block. No big surprise hours after Josiah Markowitz spilled his guts on network television. What she did not expect was the road blockade, or the press frenzy outside headquarters, which were still standing after all. The spotlight shone bright on Project Integration's exterior. Rhiannon felt in her gut it wouldn't be long before the interior, with all its hostages, was spotlighted too. Every cop in the county was out there, trying to control an enormous crowd of reporters and angry citizens. No doubt the National Guard was on its way.

Rhiannon cut onto a side street and drove in the opposite direction. No need to get any closer to see what was going down. Her route meandered while she searched for access to the highway. Eventually a sign pointed the way.

It also pointed to an orange haze rising above the rough side of town, where an old neighborhood was waiting for renovation. "Shhhhhit." The brunette jerked the wheel in that direction and sped up. She dug through the junk in her passenger seat, feeling for her cell phone. Her 911 call was brief and to the point.

Near the building, Rhiannon tugged the emergency brake up and got out of her car. In the street, neighbors banded together in a variety of housecoats and pajamas and blue-collar uniforms. They all seemed to be stuck in place, listening in horror to the pleas for help. One loud, out-of-tune voice rose above the rest. It was singing the national anthem.

Spotting the redhead, Rhiannon stormed up behind her and grabbed her arm. "Deanna!"

( Into the fire )

Bitch stole my thunder on Oprah! I'm older, scads prettier, AND I would've eaten her for free. Public service and all.

What a fucking cunt. I hope Victoria's alright. Maybe I should check in on her...

"Well it's about fucking time."

The redhead was on hold for forty minutes. So much for feeling like a "valued member" of a government task force. "Yes," she continued, attempting to hide the demon from the remaining upright patrons of the tavern. "I need a clean-up crew in here. There are six-- no seven expired illegals."

She took one of the few unbroken glasses off a table and swallowed its contents. Deanna didn't care what alcohol it contained.

"Oh yeah, I'm gonna need a new partner. I'm well aware this is the third who's bought it in as many weeks. So, get me someone who can keep up, for fuck's sake!"

She slammed the receiver shut and growled.

Friday came far too soon. A week slaughtering the innocent and internal monologues. Sometimes, she'd delay the kill to get their opinion.

But here it was. And there Deanna was, sitting in Agent Ballantine's office.

"Let's talk."

Protect yourself, protect your friends if you had any. The only rule Grace ever really unlived by. And the government fucks knew who Deanna was. How they knew was anyone's guess, but the Council had always had long arms. Look at her, forty years dead, and they could still reach out and touch her. Maybe she should look into that.

She took the elevator up to the redhead's floor, the card Agent Rimes had given her burning a hole in her shirt pocket. Not good, not good, not good, this feeling like she was being followed, even if she wasn't. Made her itch.

Her knuckles made sharp contact with the wooden surface of the closed door, and she tried not to think about surveillance cameras and wire-taps while she waited. She'd walked into fucking Watergate, apparently. Hopefully she could walk out unscathed.

Where Grace was fueled with paranoia, Deanna was dead calm. A certainty had overtaken her sometime in the last three days, a conviction she adopted every several decades. It came with the introduction of the steam engine; the first flight by two brothers from Kittyhawk; a computer that could beat its maker from chess.

Change.

The redhead stayed one step ahead by sensing which way the wind blew and learning to adapt. Someone brought a knife to a fight, you brought a gun. (They just didn't make great films like The Untouchables any longer. It was all Miley Cyrus concerts and loosely-based 'ideas' from countless reality shows.)

So when the government decided they were interested in you, you took interest as well. Not that the vampire wasn't wary of the meaning behind the business card, but this Purvis person was a recruiter. If the government wanted her in a cage, they would've sent a platoon of Navy Seals without advanced word.

The knock against wood caught her attention and she casually strolled to the hotel room door, fully expecting a sweaty fat man in black.

( Not exactly the Man from G.L.A.D., are you? )

So fragile, the ego. One childe lost to an enemy, a second expelled from her loving bosom. Deanna wanted to punish the world at large, but she didn't. She wanted to rape the landscape, set fire to children and expel fire from fingertips.

But she couldn't.

She was adrift, lost in a sea of purposelessness. It wasn't so much the world outside that defined her as it was how she affected the world. And that came from who she created. Reflections in her cracked mirror. Celine was polish and scorn; Victoria soft and gentle (if vampires could be such a thing). Two sides of a coin that she just couldn't get in amalgam. There was a third once but that was not to be spoken of. And Leatherneck and his ilk didn't count. They were means to an end that fell off the earth just as the small-minded had hoped Christopher Columbus would when he set sail for the new world.

The world was round because people wanted it to be so. The darkness hid unspeakable horrors because people didn't want to see.

Deanna lived in the darkness because it was comfortable.

But now a light was shining through the cracks. And it came on cardstock, with raised embosed lettering.

Someone wanted to make her into something new. Reflected as something else.

She had a lot to think about.