Queen of the Fasionably Damned

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.

- 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.