Roleplay City
Infusco => DOMICILES => INFUSCO: Enter The Shadows => Detour Motel => Topic started by: Trillian on January 23, 2012, 01:49:16 PM
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HE WAS STANDING BESIDE THE pool, though it had no water in it. The gate had been locked shut with a padlock but he'd ripped that off in order to get inside. The sunloungers hadn't beckoned him with invitations of comfort - the looked torturous and therefore he'd ignored them. Standing like a modern statue, with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, he watched the hotel. He'd noticed that in some of the rooms they had shutters, not curtains. He liked this fact. Shutters were better at keeping out the sunlight - not that he was going to sleep here during the day. He was considering hiring a room here, in order to have a place for rendezvous. He'd never actively sought one before, though he'd always had places available. It was different, seeking out a location in order to have sordid meetings. Sex had always been a dalliance for him, something to quench when the desire rose every now and then, not something he wished to glutton himself on. This city made things a little more difficult along that respect. There were multiple energies here; supernatural energy through the leylines, sexual energy thrumming in everyone. He didn't know if the former was causing the latter, or if it was merely coincidence. Coincidences such as this were rare, and he thought there must be something to the leylines because they were affecting him, personally, compelling him to change his behaviour.
Curtains twitched at a window on the second floor. His eyes found their target in the form of a young human male, who stared at him without realising he was being watched himself, and then left the window to do something else. More movement, here and there, as people moved around inside their rooms. There weren't many within the hotel's rooms, regardless of their limited vacancy. It wasn't like a hotel room was something a lot of people wished to hang around in.
Time passed and he noticed movement here and there on all of the floors from the ground floor to the very top, the fourth. The detour wasn't an overly large building, nor a pretty one, but he liked it for the anonymous face it presented him. He liked it even more for the fact that he, a stranger, could stand here for hours on end, and nobody would question him. That was the best kind of sign.
Until, of course, he was finally approached.
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There was a certain amount of creative energy here too, stemming from the row of 5 ground-floor rooms which housed the local riot folk band surrounding the pool area. Only one of them was at home now, though, and her room was oddly silent. But she'd been watching Cicero through a sliver in the blinds for about twenty minutes (and 2 cigs smoked to the filter) now.
Because seriously, who the fuck left a mannequin just sitting around like that? Especially one that nice-looking. Normally Ami was a live-and-let-live sort of person, but seriously. It was just begging to be stolen. And who was she to deny such a request?
Not that she needed a mannequin. Right now, anyway. But one never knew when a mannequin might come in handy.
Moving away from the window with a rustling of blinds, she pulled a pair of jeans on (tight and black, to go with her T-shirt). It was a bit chilly by the looks of the clouds, so she pulled her motorcycle jacket on too and slunk out the door. The slinking continued all the way around the perimeter of the pool until she came within about five feet of the statuesque creature. She turned her head from side to side to check that no one was watching. Ami didn't know much about mannequins, but Goddamn, that was a nice-looking –
Nope not a mannequin. It just moved to look at her.
Well, this was awkward.
"Sup." She straightened out of her sneaky pose and stuck her hands in her pockets, looking for all the world as if she had never had any intention of picking up and absconding with the man in front of her.
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He'd listened to her thoughts when she'd approached, intent on stealing him away. He was somewhat amused at her mistaken idea that he was a mannequin, though the assumption had been made before. Admittedly it was usually made whenever he was in a clothing store, rather than standing around elsewhere.
I should've let you steal me away, he said into her mind, and she would be able to sense his amusement with his words. I'm sure I could've held up the pretence for a few months.
He'd doubted she would've been able to lift him. His choice to reveal that he wasn't an inanimate object was simply for that reason. He wanted to see what the rooms were like in the Detour, after all.
He stared at her, watching as she came to terms with his speaking into her mind and also sending emotion along with it.
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It was only through sheer force of will that Ami managed not to bring her hands up to her head as it was infiltrated so rudely. In fact, her only outward reaction was a faint muscle twitch under her left eye.
Inside her brain, however, was another story. Much like her speech, Ami's mind worked fast, in flashes of movement and emotion rather than fully-formed words. Sparks of indignation and anger (and no small amount of fear – instinctual and otherwise) sparked bright under a blanket of caution – she knew enough about vampires to know that when they looked this absurdly perfect they were old enough not to give one single fuck about her. Amongst the turmoil, an image stood out as well: the last time she'd been spoken to telepathically was when she'd confronted Archer, and the look on his face was what flashed into the forefront of her mind when Cicero finished his statement. Her teeth grit behind her tight lips, willing that away. She hadn't thought about him in weeks. Fuck.
"Don't think that would end well." Needing something to do with her hands, she took a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket and flipped up the lid, extracting cigarette and lighter from within, and went through the practiced motions of lighting up.
"Feels so weird when you guys do that," she said, referring to the telepathic speech, her eyes lowered to her hands. She'd never liked it when Archer did it, but she'd tolerate it when she had to, even from strangers.
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Cicero's eyes narrowed when the image of a vampire came to him. Not just any vampire, either, but the one who'd had no survival instincts and insulted him, an Ancient. So she knew of their kind intimately enough to know the name of one.
He liked the flash of energy and emotion in her mind. It reminded him of artists. She must be one, but he couldn't smell any media on her. Not a painter or sculptor of clay then, for that stuff got into their pores and stayed there. She looked as much an artist as she thought. He'd learned to appreciate such culture. It was the only thing that had real staying power. The older paintings and sculptures were familiar to him. Like friends.
He wasn't sure what she meant about things not ending well. For her, or him? If she knew about vampires, then she would know that the idea of her threatening a vampire was laughable. She hadn't said it aggressively, and he'd felt the caution in her mind. He decided to accept her comment as a wise one, and moved on to assess the next comment. He chewed on it for a while, investigating the idea of what might be 'weird' to her, as an artist. He watched as she smoked her cigarette, thinking about her as he studied her, and it occurred to him - as she began to fidget - that she hadn't felt the need to fill up the silence with nervous conversation.
He liked that very much.
I like you, he told her.
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As his voice infiltrated her thoughts again, Ami looked up from her cigarette – which she'd been idly flicking with her thumbnail, though any ash was long gone – into his face. She cocked a brow. "You don't know me," she asserted, then snorted. Of course he knew her. Her mind was like an open book to him.
The thought raised goosebumps on her arms, and she was glad that her jacket covered them. Not that that mattered to him, either. Ami realized that she had never felt more naked.
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Immediately after her argument he felt her mind shift into agreement. Clever girl. He scared her, but she was smart to be scared. He liked her casual manner, her disregard for social authority (for who else would wish to steal a wayward mannequin?), and her wariness. He liked her bursts of fear and insecurity, and the quick connections she made, and the emotional starbursts of colour that they created for her. Typical artist, but one of the gifted ones. Only the truly gifted thought like that, and though he'd come across it before, he was appreciative enough of the rarity of such a thing to like that he'd found another.
I won't hurt you, he informed her. Of course that might change, but she'd earned herself at least a warning if it did. I want to keep a room here.
Perhaps she would help him organise it. It didn't matter if she knew what room he arranged for himself, considering it was only going to be a rendezvous point for sexual release. He wondered if she would help him with that, too. He looked her over, properly, taking his time as he always did.
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The vampire's assertion earned him another quirked eyebrow. He'd have to forgive her for not believing him just yet. But he hadn't been aggressive toward her yet, so she gave him that. Surprisingly, she was also starting to get used to their method of conversing -- though the constant reminder of her powerlessness was never not going to chafe.
She took another deep inhale from her cigarette and then tossed it on the ground. If he cared to notice, he'd see that she'd smoked it to about a milimeter above the filter. Even as she crushed the butt with her heel, though, she was taking another out of the pack. "I've been here awhile. 'S alright. Cheap and the cops don't come around." She spoke around the cigarette as she lit it.
She didn't ask him why he -- an ostensibly old and powerful being of the night -- wanted to rent a room in a scabby, inner-city motel. If he wanted to share his motives with her, he would. Even then, there were some things she didn't want to know.
Unnerved by his stare, she shoved her hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
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He liked her description of the hotel even more. He was fairly sure if there was a dead body on the premises, the cops would come around, but he wasn't about to leave dead bodies in places that he was renting. He took his time again, watching her smoke her second cigarette, noticing that her fingers and teeth were already beginning to go that putrid yellow colour that came with cigarettes - the kind of colour that didn't wash or scrub off. The smell of her was of old cigarettes beneath the scent of new, and her blood would have that strange petrol-like flavour. He wondered if she got bad headaches, chain-smoking the way she did.
Artists. He mentally sighed.
He turned his body towards her and walked. His movements were liquid and graceful, his steps soft - though he didn't look like he was walking in a particularly light-footed way. Over the years he'd had to ensure his walk didn't change too much from what was considered normal. He was fairly sure people would notice if he started gliding down the city streets.
Ami, he reached out mentally to her again, his voice warm in her head now, the emotions he was sending with it were calming and soft. I don't want you smoking in my presence. He reached up to take the cigarette out of her mouth, but did it at a regular speed so that she could pull away and remove it herself if she wished to.
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The bassist's eyes had been centered somewhere over his left shoulder, but when he started closing the distance between them her gaze jerked back to his face, suddenly wary again. He moved like a snake. Or a big cat. Hypnotic and dangerous.
She didn't stop herself from taking a quick step back as he reached toward her, even though she felt that his intentions were harmless. Something at the back of her mind was snapping like a chained dog at the intrusion; at being urged to feel something she wasn't meant to be feeling, even if she didn't quite understand it.
Despite this, however, she took the cigarette from her lips and tossed it to the concrete, extinguishing it like she had its brother.
Call it a gesture of good faith.
She raked her tattooed fingers through her hair. "What's your name?" she asked. He knew hers; it was only fair she knew his.
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When she stepped back, he lowered his hand, watching as she hastily completed his intended manouvre. He'd expected her to be skittish around him. He still liked her, the vibrancy of her thoughts, the fact she respected his authority even though she didn't respect the institution of authority. Her respect was more survival-savvy.
Cicero, he informed her, uncaring if she knew his name. The sound of it was soft and sibilant, and it came with the image of chickpeas. She would be left with the impression that it had not been his birthname, but it was the only name that mattered to him, and he'd been known by it for longer than she could imagine.
Show me a room, he asked of her. It was a request, but it came out sounding like an order because that was his nature.
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The sound – no, feeling – of his name sent a shiver up her spine. Her breath hitched, slow on the exhale. There as such power there, such age.
She could never, ever hope to comprehend a being like the one before her.
Her face showed none of this, of course – but what did that matter to him. She pushed at one of her lips piercings as he made his request, a show of both contemplation and minor annoyance at being ordered around – but she shrugged nonetheless. There was a motel manager for that, but...whatever. It's not like she had anything better to do, really.
Without saying anything further, she loped off toward the room she'd come from as if fully expecting him to follow her – but stopped at the one directly to its left (which she knew to be unoccupied) . She grasped the door's knob and jerked upward, turning to the left. The door stuck for a moment, but the cheap locking mechanism disengaged with a sharp pop. The chain lock on the inside she dispatched with an open safety pin fished from her jacket pocket, hooked into a chain-link and tugged out and up. The door swung inward to admit the pair.
"Standard security's shitty," she informed him as she stepped back to let him enter.
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He entered after observing her display of practical application. Yes, security was a slight issue, but while he was here, he could mentally cast an aversion blockade. It would take some of the enjoyment away from his leisurely activities, however, and Risk's private rooms were better for that.
And there was that smell. Something had long since died and decayed in the walls - or perhaps in the pipes in the bathroom. There was a lingering odour of old fur, but he could no longer tell if it had been a rat or some other larger creature. The room was furnished, as he'd expected, and clean, which had come as a pleasant surprise. He couldn't fault the hotel for some animal skulking into its walls, not when the smell of its death was likely unnoticeable to human senses by now.
He turned to look at her.
Show me another room, on the top floor.
Once again, it was a request, one that she would be permitted to refuse, but once again it sounded like an order.
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As an image of Renfield from an old production of Dracula rose unbidden to the front of her mind, Ami knew she had to draw the line somewhere. She knew the whole spider-eating man-bitch thing was a myth (well, hoped, anyway), but she couldn't spend all night traipsing around the motel at the beck and call of this vampire – no matter how perfect. If she had to spend much more time following orders – all while not smoking – she was going to lose it. So she decided to test her boundaries.
"Show yourself," she suggested. Her flat tone implied flippancy, but this was also merely a suggestion. Ami's tone was rarely anything other than flat – belying the colorful shimmer of her mind. She unhooked the safety pin from the security chain, closed it, and held it out for Cicero. When it came down to it he probably wouldn't need it, she realized, but it couldn't hurt. "403's open. I gotta shower."
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He stared at her for a while, liking the parallel she'd drawn in her mind before refusing his offer. He liked the fact she wasn't refusing for the sake of refusing, that she was trying to establish herself as 'not a man-bitch', and the idea of it had Cicero liking her even more. She was downright funny. He wasn't the kind to laugh out loud, but he was feeling a happy warmth filling his chest and head. Yes, he liked her very much. Shame about the smoking.
He took the safety pin from her, with another command.
Go have your shower, and waited for her to leave.
Once she was gone, he would follow where she went first with his mind, then with his body, until he found her place. He wasn't so much a peeping tom as a home invader, for her mentally shifted the tumblers in the lock upon her door until it clicked open and went inside, knowing she was already in the shower. He took a moment to survey the front room before slipping into the bathroom and then standing in a corner, awaiting her exit, watching her all the while.
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The command earned him another snort, annoyance flaring across her brain. Yep, time for a break. If she were lucky, it would be an extended one. As far as she knew, though, all the rooms in this place looked the same, so she wasn't counting on it.
Without another word exchanged between the two of them, Ami stalked away, shoulders hunched.
Once inside her room, she shucked off her jacket and tossed it on the bed and went into the bathroom to turn on the hot water. As she was waiting for it to heat up she lit another cigarette, sucking it down with record speed as she undressed – throwing her clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor – and turned on the iPod-powered speakers resting on the cluttered bathroom counter. She took the switchblade from her boot and her phone from her jeans pocket and set them both on the edge of the sink, in easy reach.
The Pietasters' "Out All Night" began piping from the speakers at a decent volume as she tossed her cigarette butt in the sink and stepped into the shower, water too hot for most people to deal with. Something about the sting of the heat comforted her. The dull pain kept her grounded. In this town, it was easy to lose track of what the truth meant.
Cicero would find the front room cluttered with discarded clothing (90% of it black) and a few stray empty beer bottles, but not actually dirty. Though there were plenty of dishes piled next to the sink in the kitchenette area, they were all clean. There was an ashtray on every surface, however, and a collection of small toys lined her dresser. Her machete (bearing the legend '+3 AGAINST UNDEAD' in bright red) lay on the bedside table, next to a well-worn copy of Max Brooks' The Zombie Survival Guide. The only light in the room came from under the bathroom door.
Blissfully unaware of her visitor, Ami washed herself fastidiously with a bar of unscented soap and forewent washing her hair, preferring to simply stand under the hot spray for a few extra moments before shutting the water off. Before she left the steamy warmth trapped by the shower curtain, she reached out to grab the towel hanging from the rack and dried herself, wrapping the towel around her waist as a man would before throwing the curtain aside and stepping out of the shower.
Upon her exit, she knew immediately that something was wrong – but it took her brain a moment to process that that wrongness was the presence of another person in the room; he was just that still. Before it was even done processing that, however, her switchblade was open in her left hand, her right fisted and raised in a classic defensive position meant to protect her face, body turned slightly away from Cicero.
Cicero.
She knew she didn't have a hope of fighting him, but her reptile brain wasn't listening – it was too busy pumping adrenaline through her veins. Conditioned toward self-defense, her body was nearly vibrating with the effort of suppressing her fight or flight response. She managed to lower the knife, though she kept her hold on it, and crossed her other arm across her exposed breasts.
"What. The. Fuck?" she asked through gritted teeth.
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Cicero had powered down, in a way, standing still and using very little mental activity while he listened to her shower. When the water shut off, he started up his thoughts again, intrigued that she would dry herself with moisture in the air surrounding her. When she stepped out, he had a good view of her body and breasts, and was disappointed that the towel had been cinched around her instead of loose and about to be hung up on a railing.
She moved fast for a human, but still slow for him, and he remained where he was, not yet offended that she would raise a weapon his way. When she had time to think about it, she lowered the weapon with some trouble, and covered up her breasts. Cicero was pleased with this outcome, though his face showed no emotion.
He was considering paying her a compliment on her body, but knew it was likely not to be taken well. People were strange in this day and age, where the majority wore as little clothing as they could, yet be offended when someone commented on their physique. He hoped it was a passing fad. The contrary attitude had only begun some twenty five years ago. One generation. Perhaps the next wouldn't be so uptight.
I'm not done with you, yet, he declared into her mind, and though it didn't sound or feel aggressive in her head, it certainly sound firm and like a real command. It would only be upon hearing this one that Ami would realise in hindsight that every other time he'd supposedly ordered her, he'd just been speaking. Are you upset about being naked in my presence? he continued.
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I'm not done with you yet. The phrase echoed in her head, blotting out all other thought, and another shiver passed through Ami's body. There was that one part of her mind rebelling against the idea of someone keeping her at their beck and call, and it rattled the bars of its cage of reason and survival instinct. The lock holding it there held fast and the punk sighed, looking away and shutting her switchblade with her thumbnail. Her breath slowed as she regained control of herself, stuffing down her base instincts.
His next question earned him another raised eyebrow, accompanied by a tight lipped glare. A terse headshake was his answer.
Ami liked her body well enough – puckered gunshot scars and all – and she didn't particularly care who saw it (and it was quite nice to look at – well proportioned, with lean, hard muscle tight underneath skin that was pale and smooth where it wasn't covered by tattoos). She was more upset that he'd forced his presence on her while she was naked, but didn't know quite how to put that into words. Even more even than that, though, Ami hated the being caught off guard, her tone implied such as she commented: "Startled me."
As if that wasn't clear enough.
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You felt vulnerable, he explained to her, more than startled.
Now that he'd clarified this for her, his gaze moved to the bathroom door.
Plus three against undead, he told her as he began towards the front room, moving past her in order to wait where she wouldn't feel as vulnerable. He wasn't concerned about the knife, for even if she stuck him with it, he would heal quickly enough to do her more damage in return. Entertaining.
He would ask her to quit smoking, so he could drink from her.
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Of course she felt vulnerable. She was naked, utterly bare to him in more ways than one. He didn't have to rub her face it in, though. She also had no idea of his intentions, at this point, and that ignorance did nothing to settle her.
Ami snorted and dropped her knife in the sink, opting to snatch her shirt up off the floor and yank it on over her head as her guest turned his back. Her panties and jeans followed quickly after. Watching him as she buttoned her jeans, she explained: "Zombies." Jeans buttoned, she hooked her thumbs through her front belt loops, "Best offense is a good defense."
Maybe he didn't have to worry about the day the mindless horde rose up to feast on human flesh, but the people made of human flesh sure did.
Though her outward demeanor was calm, there was still a minute tension in her muscles that belied the residual edginess of her mental state. She followed him into the front room, but none too closely – flicking on the overhead light as she went.
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He looked at her sharply when she said it was for zombies. It could be sarcasm, of course, but she hadn't sounded particularly sarcastic, and the book alongside the machete seemed more like a manual than a work of fiction.
Zombies aren't real, he told her, not wanting to hear more on the matter. A lot of things were real, a lot of things that he preferred to stay away from because he didn't understand it, but for all the years he'd existed on this planet and the strange things he'd seen, not one of them confirmed that zombies could happen.
The sudden light surprised him and he screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away from it until he could adjust in the next few seconds. The flare had been uncomfortable, and he growled deep in his chest and also in his mind at her. It was the only sound he'd made so far.
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Well three years ago, vampires and werewolves hadn't been real, either – and look where her disbelief had gotten her. For once in her life, however, she left the issue alone. Arguing with this guy was going to get her nowhere.
She was even less inclined toward arguing after he made that noise. Like an actual, real sound. It seemed strange to hear anything from him, and the nature of the sound was even more unsettling – enough so that it had her grimacing and immediately moving to flick the light back off. Until she saw his eyes open again, ostensibly having adjusted to the sudden light. She gathered that that had been her warning. "Shit," she said, sounding like she was genuinely unhappy with her seemingly innocuous decision, "My bad."
Which was about as close as she'd ever gotten to 'sorry'.
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He looked at her for a lingering moment, and considered her ignorance. She needed the light to see, for her eyesight was ineffective in the darkness.
Turn the light back on, he told her. It wasn't an order, he believed she would prefer the light and he was letting her know she could have it on. Now that he knew it would be coming on, it wouldn't bother him. Do you answer to a vampire master? he asked.
He doubted it, for she didn't have the smell of one on her, which was surprising since she pictured the vampire Cicero had destroyed in her mind. Archer, was the name/emotion that had come with it, and he might've plucked it out of his fledgling's mind also because he recognised it. He didn't think she belonged to a vampire, not with her wariness and attitude. She didn't seem the type to bow down easily. Still, she could've been abused by one of his kind. That would explain a lot, also.
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Shrugging for perhaps the thousandth time that night, Ami flicked the light back on. She knew the layout of the place well enough to get around – she was more interested in having the room lit to get a bead on what Cicero was up to.
As if in answer to his question, she choked out a laugh, and – inspired by the word master – that image of Renfield popped up again, gamely snatching a fly off a leaf and stuffing it into his mouth with a manic expression. "No."
Ami knew there were humans out there that called themselves 'pets', but they were so far removed from her that the thought was truly laughable. What her and Archer had had was different. When they were together, she'd never considered herself anything other than Archer's equal – even if sometimes he sometimes made it obvious that he felt differently. Interacting with Cicero, however, showed her the real gulf of power that had always existed between them.
The punk leaned against the bathroom doorway, thumbs still hooked in her belt loops. That chapter really wasn't worth thinking about right now.
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I want to see what your relationship with him was, so continue thinking about him.
Cicero didn't bother to find a place to sit, for he was comfortable standing. He'd been lightly touching her mind and she'd thought of Archer again. Whatever had happened between them had been fairly recent. He couldn't care less about the fact he'd destroyed a vampire she knew, but he was interested in any interaction she'd had already. He didn't want to pull all the memories out of her head either, even though it would be extremely easy - like taking a file out of a cabinet, opening it up, and seeing everything within it. He would show respect enough of her to let her show him her thoughts in the order she thought them, even if it was haphazard. If she was terrible at it, he would likely ask her to let him look.
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Cicero didn't need to clarify who exactly he was. The punk knew instantly. Lips tight, Ami shook her head. She didn't want to think about Archer. It had been months since she'd seen him, and over a year since he'd left her, why would she possibly want to think about any of that? It was over.
With another grimace, she looked away. Of course, in trying so desperately not to think of the vampire, he was the only thing in her head, each moment captured in perfect clarity by Ami's uncanny memory. The memories carried a dull pain with them, like a picked scad or a popped stich. The night they'd gone to Echelon. The first time she'd been bitten. The meeting in the park. His fist slamming into the bar at Risk, and the look of utter defeat on his new fledgling's face –
Segued jaggedly into a memory of her sixth birthday party as she willed the thoughts away. There were things he didn't need to see.
"Why?" she asked, gaze once again searching her guest's face.
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Cicero received the memories she recalled without wanting to. He knew mentioning him to her would cause him to appear in her surface memories. It was the power of suggestion. He only got the ideas of the meetings, the feeling of them, their general gist. The Echelon dinner had been too complex to read properly, so something had happened there between them. The meeting in the park was straight forward. Her seeing his frustration, and then the fledgling. So she knew the fledgling that Cicero had spared as well. There had been a triangle then. Had he wished to sire Ami as well? Had he wished to drink from her regularly? Had the fledgling been jealous?
The question hung between them until he gave her the truth he hadn't anticipated on sharing with her right away.
Because he is gone.
When he spoke to her, she knew what 'gone' meant, because he sent her the understanding of the word he used. Destroyed. Vanquished. Dusted. He didn't share the details how, or how he knew this, but she was smart enough to guess he may have had a hand in it.
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All at once, Ami's mind was completely blank. No fear, no anger, no doubt, no flashes or memories, just a blanket of overwhelming shock. Her mouth hung slightly open.
Archer had been like a universal constant in her mind; always there, waiting around the next corner to open those wounds, to grind her face in her choice like he had at Risk. Until the day she died, he would be there, as perfect as the day she met him. She'd dealt with that, and moved on. She knew, of course, that he could die – but the thought had been an abstract concept. It had never occurred to her that he would.
A long pause passed until finally, "Why?" She asked again, voice soft. It wasn't accusatory – she had no way of knowing that Cicero had killed her would-be sire, but Archer had never been the type to befriend other vampires. And she seemed too lost to accuse anyone of anything in that moment, looking at Cicero as if he could explain to her why fire burned, or why everything had to die.
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Her question hung like an open wound between them, festering in the silence, bleeding possibilities. He wasn't the kind of vampire to debate whether or not to tell her, though he had counted on keeping that information close to his chest in case it caused him trouble later. It seemed vampires were well connected in this town, and that one in particular perhaps had a lot of mortal women peppered around the city for convenience. Cicero could understand that.
He was insolent and arrogant. He challenged me. What other outcome was there for him?
He watched her process this information in slow motion, knowing that although he was at the top of her 'be wary' list, he'd just risen a few more spaces.
Quit smoking for me.
He figured it would be the best outcome for him if he made this demand on her now, while she was processing the range of her fear versus her anger.
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What other outcome was there for him?
So he had killed Archer. Ami questioned the severity of Archer's so called "insolence and arrogance" that it warranted annihilation. Either Archer had fucked up big time, or she was dealing with someone that had no problems ending a life – even that fo one of his own kind – over nothing. She looked away, preferring to look at her shoes as he brain stumbled over this information and what it might mean for her. Fuck, she wanted a cigarette.
On the heels of that thought came his next request – and it didn't really sound like a request at all, this time. That had her eyes narrowed, and back up on his face. Twenty minutes ago, she would have refused outright (in fact, she would've had to fight to keep from laughing at him). She was one of the few addicts who'd never even tried to quit. She liked smoking. She liked the smell, and the taste of cigarettes. She could afford it, and it gave her something to do with her hands. She'd never planned on living to see 40, anyway, so why the hell shouldn't she do what she wanted?
But his recent revelations had her wondering what exactly constituted a challenge for the vampire. She pushed her outrage and burgeoning sorrow aside, for now, in favor of finding out what would help her live through this encounter.
"If I don't?" she asked after another long pause. Her tone was neutral. For now, the question was hypothetical. What she really wanted to know was why (though she had an inkling as to what he was after, there) but she didn't want to sound like a broken record. Not, of course, that that would matter to him.
-
He watched her, and her mind, ticking over, the thoughts mellowing into a low strumming of colours. Her artistic mind seemed to coil thoughts like a painter swirled paint upon the canvas, mixing together events that gave a brand new outcome. She was thinking about testing him, but what she gave voice to wasn't anything like a challenge.
Once her question was asked, the silence became an open wound; festering with possibilities, bleeding with baited breath, aching with a potentially bad outcome. He let her ride the silent wave, not hurrying to speak, and then, when he sensed she was going to move or speak or react, he replied.
Then I will be disappointed.
-
Ami felt the quiet on her skin, tightening like a guitar string.
Or a garrotte.
It was minutes before her brain kicked into gear. He was waiting her out. As she pulled in a breath, however, he spoke, and the words she'd had readied left her in another snort.
She pushed at one of her lip piercings with her tongue, noting that something was wrong there. With a spark of realization, it occurred to her that she hadn't put any makeup on yet. Fuck. Not that there wasn't a good reason for the disruption of her routine, but she hated letting others see her without her face on.
Stalling, she straightened her back slightly and stretched an arm behind her to open one of the drawers under the sink and fish around in it. She looked away from Cicero only to transfer an eyeliner pencil, tube of lipstick and compact mirror from hand to hand as she located them. Once she had her tools in hand, she slumped again.
The silence before he'd 'spoken' had said volumes more than his actual words. Disappointment was something someone could deal with. The kind of disappointment preceded by a pause like that wasn't something you wanted to mess around with. But she couldn't give up the ghost that easily.
Could she?
She was at an impasse, not wanting to make the vampire angry, but also not wanting to entertain the idea of actually giving up her addiction.
"Won't be easy," she told him, finally. It wasn't a commitment, yet, but a statement of fact. The withdrawals alone would be hell. But she also didn't doubt for a second that he would put her through worse, if he felt like it.
-
His answer came more quickly, this time.
Meaningful gestures seldom are.
She would sense his amusement and warm pleasure in her mind, and might even feel a trickling effect from her neck to her toes, depending on how much she allowed his emotions to speak within her. If not receptive, then only his words with a hint of his feelings, but allowing herself to be open to his messages meant she would receive a lot more from him - whether he meant to send her everything or not. It was similar to how another's smile can buoy a person's emotions, so too could Cicero's thoughts affect his counterpart depending on what he was feeling at the time.
I will return later
And with this remark, he turned and made to leave.
-
A gesture of what, Ami couldn't help but wonder. Submission? The thought made her skin crawl, but she couldn't think of anything else. Except friendship, maybe. That thought was laughable. This Cicero didn't want want to be her friend any more than she wanted to be friends with the food on her plate. What he did want – with her, specifically – was still mystery.
Her mind as tense as it had ever been, only the barest sliver of his warmth and happiness crept through – but she was eased by it nonetheless. She'd finish off the carton of cigs in her bedside drawer and see where she was at, then.
Seeing that she'd been dismissed, she flicked open the compact mirror and held it up, lowering her eyes to her own reflection as she pencilled on a layer of black liner below her eyes.
"I'll be here," She told him. Maybe not here in this this room, but in this city. She wasn't going to run from him. Besides, it's wasn't like he couldn't find her if he really wanted her – no matter where she went. A cold lump settled in the pit of her stomach. She let him leave as he wished, speaking again only if he did.
-
He said nothing. Ami looked up from her compact, and he was gone. Her breath left her in a heavy sigh. She'd make time to process later; tonight she had shit to do.
The next night, after band practice, she went out to the lighthouse where she'd spoken with Lefty. She sat on the steps like she'd done the night she'd seen Archer for the last time. But there was no shifting of the light this time, no comforting arm around her shoulder, no smell of new leather and old swamp. She knew even as she called the Nightmare's name that she was alone. Alone, head bowed, heel tapping, she lit a cigarette and smoked it to the filter. She did that until the pack was empty. And then she stood up, walked to the edge of the cliff and hurled the empty package into the sea.
Ami never quite made a conscious decision to ignore the vampire's request; aside from the moment of doubt that had brought her to the lighthouse seeking advice (How deep could his ire run? What if he came after her friends?) Ami had never considered quitting a viable option. It wasn't the quitting itself that was the problem, but what it would mean if she did it, just for him, just because he asked her to. If she gave him this, what else would he see fit to take from her?
Ami spent the rest of the week getting her affairs in order, though she didn't think of it as that. Pen cap in her teeth, she revised the handwritten will she kept in a notebook in a bedside drawer. Just in case, maybe, Cicero's disappointment was as dangerous as she feared. Then she had a smoke. She slept less than she should've. She spent time with her friends that would have otherwise been devoted to frivolous things: she braided Vivianne's hair, because the other girl asked her to, even though she sucked at it; she went train-jumping with Morgaine; she jammed with Joe; she got into a fistfight with Chance. Maybe it wasn't that different from a normal week, but in her own way, she said goodbye to them. She played their weekly show at Risk with a cigarette between her lips.
On the last night of the week, when Cicero still hadn't come for her (and she never allowed herself to think that he wouldn't – though she had no way of knowing when it would happen) she tended to her instruments – polishing the lacquered wood of her acoustic, tuning the electric, touching up the black-and-white stripes painted across the body of the double bass.
Then, for the first time since Archer had stopped returning her calls, she took her banjo from its case. She paused, blinking down at the case as she held the instrument. The cover of the case was covered in a thin layer of dust, disturbed only now by her the smudging of her fingertips. Had it really been so long?
She sat down on the edge of her bed and ran her fingers over the strings, then plucked out a simple phrase. Her lips tightened into a grimace at the jarring notes that came out of the banjo's belly. Yes, it really had been that long.
As she set about tuning it, she forgot about Cicero for the first time since they'd met. Her hands went through the motions of lighting up automatically, barely interrupting the familiar rhythm of her task. Tuning fell easily into playing once the instrument was singing with its real voice, and Ami sang with it – though the words weren't hers – voice low and throaty around her cigarette.
Was there ever a winter so cold and so sad
The river too weary to flood
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
I was looking for trouble to tangle my line
But trouble came looking for me
I knew I was standing on treacherous ground
I was sinking too fast to run free
With her scheming, idle ways
She left me poor enough
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
I would not be asking, I would not be seen
A-beggin’ on mountain or hill
But I’m ready and blind with my hands tied behind
I’ve neither a mind nor a will
With her scheming, idle ways
She left me poor enough
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
It’s bitter the need of the poor ditching boy
He’ll always believe what they say
They tell him it’s hard to be honest and true
Does he mind if he doesn’t get paid?
With her scheming, idle ways
She left me poor enough
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
This is how Cicero would find her when he came – seated on the end of the bed, one leg – bare except for the frayed black denim shorts clinging to her thighs – propped up, head bent so her shaggy hair shielded her face, with the song dying in her throat as her fingers found a new melody. She paused only to light another cigarette.
-
He'd heard the song in its entirety, listening to it in her mind, as well as the imagery it invoked. Her imagery, of course. He often wondered, since he'd begun to use mortal minds like television sets (far before televisions were ever invented or even considered) if he'd lost the ability to utilise his own imagination. By enhancing his mental powers in this area, was he stunting the growth and wilting other areas? He remembered there'd been a time when he'd analyse different scenarios in his mind and play them out, to see which decision might harvest him the best reward. He didn't do that anymore. Was it apathy or was it inability?
At least he had thought like these; as useless as they were, he cherished them, for they made him feel connected to the world. Perhaps only by a tendril, but a tendril was enough to a drowning man.
If her door was unlocked, he let himself in silently - only because he didn't know how to be any other way. He stood near the door and waited for her to discover him. In that time he knew two things; her mind was as beautifully vibrant to him as ever (perhaps even more so when there was music playing), and she hadn't quit smoking as he'd requested, because he could smell a fresh layer of the vapours on her.
When she finally noticed him, regardless of whether there was surprise on her face, resignation, or something else entirely, he spoke into her head.
Do you purposefully wish to disappoint me?
It was said more with a tinge of curiosity than hostility, but it was always silly to poke a shark.
-
It was awhile before she glanced that way, tossing her head to get her hair out of her eyes as her fingers picked out an aimless tune. A fresh bruise had blossomed along her jaw since he'd seen her last, all ugly purples and yellows; a product of her fight with Chance.
"Shit!" she exclaimed, catching sight of the vampire. Her fingers stuttered on the banjo strings, causing a jarring jangling of notes. She slapped her palm flat over the strings to silence them while her other hand choked up instinctively on the neck of the banjo, like a baseball player getting ready to swing.
His words entered her mind over the clamor, however, and she forced her muscles to relax. This was it.
Her eyes drifted to the pack of cigarettes on the bedspread as he mentioned his disappointment, but she stopped herself from lighting up. He'd asked her not to smoke around him; her pride allowed allowed her to acquiesce to that much, at least.
In answer, she shook her head tersely, eyes back on Cicero's face. Now was the time to choose her words carefully, "Just really like smoking."
-
He watched her for a moment, then breathed a small amount of air in order to expel it quickly through his nose. The soft sound would be enough for her to know he wasn't impressed.
Those who I drink from are always grateful
The response might not make sense to her but it did to him. He wouldn't get close to her if she smelled and tasted like ashes. He understood she probably preferred it that way and it had been a conscious and carefully considered risk to not quit. He wouldn't search her mind for the answer, but he liked to look at her thought processes. He could see she was on edge, that he intimidated her, and she was behaving like he wasn't.
That impressed him.
-
Was he annoyed with her? She pushed at one of her lip piercings with her tongue. No, not annoyed. Something less harsh, maybe. Even so, she could deal with annoyed. Annoyed wasn't murder-mode; not yet, at least.
Sweeping the vampire from head to toe with her gaze, one corner of her mouth twitched upward as she suppressed a nervous laugh. The expression was gone in an instant, however, replaced by her usual mask of indifference. She knew her heartbeat gave her away, and the knife's edge of fear glinting at the edges of her mind, making her thoughts crystal-sharp, but no less bright. He was perfect; admiration sang white across the sharp caution-drawn lines of her perception.
But it was a predator's beauty. Her blood wouldn't even stain those hands – or those sharp, white teeth.
She was glad, finally, to have his motive out in the open, at least. One of them, anyway. She sincerely doubted a little sustenance was all he'd expect from her.
"I believe it," she said.
The rest of her sentiment hung in the air, unsaid, as she searched that sculpted face.
But at what cost?
There was no meeting of equals here; and she could envision no scenario where he got what he wanted and she kept her life, limbs and integrity intact.
-
Don't be afraid of me, he sighed into her mind. The sentiment she received with those words were only of the briefest of exasperation. It is wise for you to be cautious, but if you insult me I will leave, I will not tear and shred and destroy.
He lurked closer to her, pushing himself off the wall liquidly, looking a great deal less human because of the silky way he moved, as though he were floating. It couldn't even be described as leonine, or feline at all. He was closer to her faster than he should've, though slow for him, but her eyes would decipher his action even though she wouldn't be able to fully react. He sat beside her on the bed, and reached for the stringed instrument in her hands. His icy fingers brushed hers lightly, and her sent her mental emotions of delicate intention.
If she allowed him the instrument, he would hold it by its neck, and the bottom of the head, so that the head of the banjo was aligned to but not touching his chest. His forehead would rest on the 12th fret, and Cicero would breathe in deeply through his nose, as though smelling it as though it was a glorious rose to behold.
-
After a moment's consideration, She let out a breath in a soft, almost canine 'whoof' sound and shrugged one shoulder. The bright edges on her thoughts softened slightly. Deal. He'd kept his word otherwise; he hadn't acted particularly threatening toward her, only invasive and unsettling.
But it was hard not to be unsettled by someone when they moved like that.
One moment he was leaning against the wall, the next -- well, he was moving, but she felt his weight on the bed beside her before her brain could tell her what to do with that information, and her breath caught in her throat with a strangled growl. His light touch sent a shiver up her spine, and her fingers instinctively tightened on her instrument as he tried to take it. But his message of good intent reached its target and she let him lift the banjo from her arms, curiosity overcoming her caution.
For a second there, she thought she was having a moment of deja-vu – another vampire on her bed, playing her banjo. But then Cicero made it clear he had no intention of making music. Not yet anyway. Suppressing her urge to scoot away from him, Ami instead brought one leg up onto the bed, bent close to her chest as she watched the vampire rest his forehead against the frets, and take a deep breath. Her question presented itself as a raised eyebrow and a bemused expression. What?
He would smell Ami mostly on the instrument – her scent predominantly cigarette smoke, with hints of patchouli and motor oil. Beneath that was Archer – though that was years old, now. He would scent Risk on it, too, all sweat and sex and blood.
-
He was smelling the memory of music. He'd grown so old that he could now pick up lingering emotions from anyone who had intimate touches with objects. Musical instruments were always wonderful to Cicero; one night he'd lost himself at the city's University of the Arts. Watson, if he recalled the name correctly. He'd stumbled onto the musical department and found their cache of instruments. He'd gone from one to the next; touching, breathing, recalling vivid and vague memories and patterns from those who'd played them.
Cicero could smell Ami on it, and the few who'd handled the instrument as well, but his senses went much deeper. In this, he was vulnerable to her. He had to actively set his mind upon this task, and had to shut down other awarenesses. If she moved completely off the bed he would know it and pull himself from his reverie, but if she spoke or fidgeted, her words and slight actions would be lost to him. He was delving in her emotions - the ones she'd felt when she'd just played now were most prominent, of course, and below that were her other thoughts and feelings that she'd poured into the banjo while performing at Risk. He got glimmers of her bandmates - any who'd even idly strummed were touched on but dismissed. The memory of Archer was there, or more so his feelings while he'd played. His arrogance still came through enough for Cicero to recognise him. He gave a passing thought to Archer's fledgling he'd left alive (and who might've vowed to kill him in revenge, but that was expected) before moving on to deeper memories. Another strong beacon were the persons who made the banjo. Two of them, a master and apprentice. Both with very strong passions. The apprentice for the master and the master for his art. Once again, expected.
He opened his eyes after flitting through these musical memories and gently held the banjo towards Ami. He had no concept of how much time had travelled while he'd gone fishing - a few minutes could've passed, or a few hours, or anything in between.
Do you read literature beyond zombies?
He wondered if she'd finished that peculiar book that had been beside her bedside table when he'd been in her room last.
-
Welp, looked like she wasn't getting that unasked question answered. Not that she'd really expected one; Cicero operated on a different level. At least she'd only lost a couple minutes on the exercise.
With a snort, she accepted the instrument, putting her foot back on the floor. Following through on the motion, she stood and moved to put the banjo back in its case, opening the door to the cramped closet next to the bed where she kept her arsenal.
If he looked, he'd see that that same book was still there – though now it was resting open on the tabletop, flipped to the chapter on holding a position under siege. The angular, slanted handwriting in the margins was completely indecipherable.
Ami shook her head as she crouched over the banjo case, turning her back to him. "Brain's not wired for words." A flicker of what she saw when she glanced at a page of text ran through her mind – letters all switched around and running together; recognized and comprehended singly, but unconnected to sound when shoved together.
"Stories are good though."
-
He was zinging with inspiration when she made that small but simple comment. It was almost dismissive, flippant in tone.
Brain's not wired for words.
Of course it wasn't! He knew this on an instinctive level but hadn't met anyone who'd identified their own artistry so plainly before. Not only was she creative with a colourful and scenic mind, but she was also frank and entirely unpoetic. It was refreshing and made him happy.
Happiness wasn't something Cicero experienced a lot of, anymore, and he wanted to sweep her up and spin her around and laugh and cover her with kisses. Being as restrained as he was by habit, however, meant that he did none of these things, but he did smile quite broadly at her and was unable to remain seated. He stood, then mentally shared with her the warm glow of joy she'd given him with her words. Any disappointment he felt earlier about her decision to continue smoking evaporated entirely.
You should paint. I want to paint with you. I want to paint you.
All three of his desires pushed into her mind at once.
-
Ami had had multiple ideas simultaneously before, but they'd always ben her own. As it was, the thoughts that pushed into her mind sparked a series of images (earlier that night, painting the stripes on the stand-up bass; an imagined image of cicero in a beret, standing beside her at an easel; Morgaine drawing intricate henna designs on her palms – that memory didn't even fully materialize before her brain corrected itself, replaced the image with a scene from a film – a nude woman lying on a couch paint me like one of your french girls) and the bassist tilted her head to the side as if listening, freezing in the motion of snapping the banjo case shut.
The requests were almost as odd as the sympathetic happiness that suddenly blossomed in her. She hadn't pictured Cicero as the painting type.
As she was suffused with his warm fuzzies, she realized he hadn't really struck her as any type. Beyond his name, his obvious age and his tendency to creep up on her in her vulnerable moments, Ami knew absolutely nothing about Cicero as a person. Unperson. Überperson. Whatever.
She stood and turned in the same motion, surprised to see him smiling when she looked at his face. Her eyes automatically fell on his mouth, showing all those straight, white teeth – but just for a moment. Her gaze caught his again before she looked away, foot tapping as she pushed at one of her lip piercings with her tongue, thinking.
It only took her a moment to consider his requests before she shrugged, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Sure." She didn't particularly not want to -- in fact, she found she'd rather do that than what she was doing before – and he was off the cigs thing, so whatever.
Her eyes returned to his face. She did want one question answered, first: "Why me?"
-
His smile twisted wryly as he shot her a dry response.
You're a colourful person
His play on words was ironically serious. She was a colourful person; full of music and colour and life, while on the contrary dressing like death. She didn't behave like she wanted to die, however, she was a survivor, and if he came at her he had no doubt she would fight him with every ounce of strength she had, even knowing it would be futile.
He reached over to her again, and cool fingers tickled the soft flesh beneath her chin, much like one would caress a purring cat.
Let's go.
He was wanting to paint her, and as far as he was concerned, there was no time like the present. He could wait, of course, he'd waited lifetimes in some cases to do as he wished, but she struck him as pliable.
-
"Cute." The punk's mouth twisted upward in the most smile-like expression she'd given him since their first meeting. The irony of his statement was mostly lost on her, though, because she had no reason to believe other people's brains looked different from hers.
The smile died with the touch of his fingertips – which she instinctively shied away from, lips tight. Ami had never been an affectionate person by nature, and touch did not come naturally to her. The familiarity inherent in his gesture grated, unwelcome. It painted a jagged line in her brain. After a moment (long enough, she thought, for him to get that message) she shook it off and replied.
"Gotta do some shit here first. Won't take long." If she was going to be without smokes for any length of time, she was going to have to have something to take the edge off – coffee would work, but she didn't have any brewed, "Can I meet you somewhere?" Wherever he wanted to get to, she could get to – provided it was in the city. Which raised the question of 'Where?'. His house? She couldn't really picture him in a house.
-
He looked at her for a lingering moment, trying to picture her best. Somewhere out of the city, for she was an urban creature, busy just by herself. She needed a simple background, and the simplest backgrounds were nature. A field, a forest, a beach.
A beach.
He sent her the image of the place he wanted her to meet him, and if she'd ever been there, she would recognise it as the portion of Glitter Beach that was shetered by the cliffside. If she'd never went there, what he was sending her would certainly help her find her way - provided she had a good memory.
Wear what you wish
He doubted she'd be in her clothes for long.
-
The image she received was immediately overlaid by an identical one, though the beach she remembered was lit by the sun. She'd been there with Lefty, a few months back. "See you there."
Wear what you wish. Because she'd been planning on wearing anything other than what she wanted to. Ever. She nodded her assent, and the vampire took his leave, moving more quickly than her brain could register and leaving nothing behind but a lingering feeling of warmth.
Ami shivered, made her preparations, and followed.