by: Brandon/Arturo for Sanguinus Curae |
Arturo, Carmine, and Lalita walked into the alley. A Nosferatu independent gang had agreed to meet the elder vampires. Arturo grasped the hilt of his sword. Carmine tensed to call upon her inner beast. She was a Gangrel. Lalita ran a hand through her pink hair. She was the leader of a Brujah gang.
So the three entered the alley in downtown Chicago. Four Nosferatu emerged from the sewer behind them. Arturo spun around as Carmine's teeth lengthened and her nails became longer and sharper. Lalita smelled blood. She hadn't fed in a while and was in danger of blood rage. Arturo placed a hand on his lover's shoulder. Lalita smiled at him. Her left eye twitched.
The Nosferatu spoke Spanish in front of them. They launched themselves at the three.
Arturo swung up with his sword as Carmine leapt up and clawed the largest Nosferatu in the face. He was no longer recognizable as he hit the ground, his face a mass of blood and oozing brains. Carmine's nails were sharper than expected.
Lalita could no longer hold the blood rage down. She leapt at the dying Nosferatu and pulled him up by his hair. He screamed.
'Listen, punk' Lalita enjoyed playing with her victims. 'I may be of the Camarilla, but Arturo has managed to get pardons several times for me. And when the Prince says no, the other elders usually find her body in a gutter somewhere. I'm going to enjoy drinking from someone who kills for fun.' Lalita drank so fast and so deeply that the Nosferatu was soon dead.
Arturo impaled one and caused him to fall into the sewer. Arturo heard the crack as the Nosferatu's skull impaled on the ground deep below.
All three were splattered with blood. Carmine had single handedly ripped the hearts out of the other two. The first to fall and Lalita's special treat was paler than vampires usually were. Her stomach bulged a little. She blushed. 'Sorry. I'm still not comfortable with feeding' Arturo smiled and kissed her on the lips.
Police sirens sounded. Someone heard the screams. Quickly, the three left.
The following night, Arturo got his hands on a newspaper. He smiled when he saw the headline:
Street gang has shoot out-one member drained of blood.
He chuckled and continued to wonder at the mortals' lack of imagination.
by: LadyChrys for Sanguinus Curae |
The night air was chilly. Azarel shivered, not because she was cold, but because the air held something in it tonight. Chill.
She had long since lost the feeling for seasonal cold or change.
She leaned against the back of the warehouse. Standing in the partial shadows, she watched the kids in the parking lot across the street, and she smiled. Oh, such sweet innocent youths - even the ones who looked for the most danger and were strung out on drugs, or the drunk who was slumped over behind the front wheel of his beat-up pick up truck.
She always watched these kids, their youth mocking her, speaking to her in rhymes in her head. She looked up at the face of the worn building, its paint and siding falling off. Rain still dripping from the eves, she stared up at the roof, listening with her keen nocturnal hearing. She pulled the trench coat she wore closer to her, the sword ever ready at her hip in case some cutthroat thought he could take her or some fool neonate thought she was prey. She thought to herself, 'Do they ever learn to tell the difference?'
A grim line appeared on her ruby lips. She was a knockout, but in a creepy sort of way. She was no Miss Sunshine, and she tried to fit in with the punks, freaks and goths out here, but the only thing that stood out were her touch and her eyes. People had told her, especially guys, that both made them feel like they had just looked at and touched Death.
Born of strange Irish blood, her mother always said the fae was in her. Her mother had been a hedge witch in rural Ireland way back in the 1500s. But it wasn't the witch hunters who had killed her mother - it had been Zealot, her Sire.
She paced in the fog that was now rising off the humid lake just a street beyond her. She liked the fog and how it made her feel inside. She had always liked fog, even though they had ridden away with her into it back in those dreary days of Ireland.
She walked up the street to the only Kindred club in the city, or at least the only one she had ever heard about and been in: The Black Rose.
True, it was a Toreador dive, but a lot of good ones were here. The singers and the rock stars. The painters and sculptors. The models.
Azarel skittered in among them, stepping into the shadows in her usual place. She did not like the light or the limelight of being in it. The shadows and cool darkness were her home.
She looked left and right, leaning back against the cool wall, feeling the cement of the wall scrape against the material of her trench coat.
'Why do I always come here?' she thought to herself. 'What have I to gain?'
She frowned. She never understood it. The music, the wine, and the elegance and all the pain of society, not to mention its angst, called to her like a scream that can pierce dimensional walls. If it was night and she was not out there in some way 'touching it,' then she felt depressed and lonely.
There was never a night she was not walking one of those streets, pacing in the shadows, feeling chill and some wasted emotion in the air. This got old and tiring, yet every night, it called to her and pulled her to it, like a moth to a flame, like a lover. Like a chain.
Right now, she felt desperate and alone; she didn't even want to feed. She felt broken, she felt weak, she felt drained.
Are you also the slave of the blood of a Toreador?
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