Queen of the Fasionably Damned

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 )