(Untitled)
"Deeeeeessssperado. Why don't you come to your senses?"
The Eagles song, by way of Clint Black, Johnny Cash and now Grace Hanadarko, bounces off cinderblock walls and swirls down the dim, nondescript stairwell, husky and full-bodied like a fancy stout.
"You've been out ridin' fences, for so long now. Oh, you're a hard one...Boots scuff the ( Read more... )
The Eagles song, by way of Clint Black, Johnny Cash and now Grace Hanadarko, bounces off cinderblock walls and swirls down the dim, nondescript stairwell, husky and full-bodied like a fancy stout.
"You've been out ridin' fences, for so long now. Oh, you're a hard one...Boots scuff the ( Read more... )
When she looks back, she sees him sitting on the stairs. He's leaning back on his elbows, white shirt sleeves rolled up. He sports suspenders above black trousers, long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles.
It's a genteel look for him, but he's always had to adapt quickly to his surroundings. He is his own brand of time traveller, one might say. His boots are spotless. His long hair is slicked back and his eyes are hidden by dark blue glasses. Some things need not change.
"I have seen stranger things here -- than a floor between floors."
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(Glock: check
Knife: check
Cigarette: waiting to be smoked)
and the man studied, all in the space of seconds.
"Yeah. I've seen some damn strange stuff." Cocking her hip and head to the left, she blows a smoke ring in his direction. "You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."
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"In a single day, I met both an angel and the devil himself. Alas, I have met -- no God."
He gives a little shrug as if to say 'typical no show.'
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She looks up with an irreverent grin, focusing on those glasses like she expects to discern what's underneath through will alone. Typical no show is right, her expressions answers. He's like the guy who makes plans with everyone and only shows up to one party.
"All work, no play."
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He has only to look at her to know her blood will taste like fire and the sweetest sin. She is spectacular.
"All the better for us to enjoy ourselves, wouldn't you agree?" There is a hit of the old country in his voice. Old, old country, where they still wear their crucifixes to bed at night of necessity.
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The last word is exaggerated, calling attention to her own accent. His is not something she hears much (if ever) in Oklahoma, and Grace doesn't like to be outdone.
"Nice suspenders."
She punctuates it with a quick, startled-sounding laugh.
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"Do you like them? I only wore them at Bar's insistence. I usually prefer something a bit more -- formal."
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If she notices the shifting shadows, or the change in decor, or even the way the smoke she exhales his way seems to shape itself around him and curl away in delicate wisps, Grace doesn't let it show on her face. She hums another bar of Desperado under her breath and walks back to the banister, shaking it, testing its sturdiness.
"What angel?"
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"The bookseller. Tall and thin." The lie comes easily to his lips. He saw the man for a moment, and gleaned his nature.
"I'm curious why should ask. Is there more than the one?"
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"A whole host."
Beat.
More laughter bubbles up from deep inside -- cynical and wry, faintly challenging. She straightens and takes a long pull on her cigarette. The words escape in a raspy tone before the smoke does.
"You wanna meet him? God?"
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"No. I have no desire." He licks his lips, his expression clearing. The wicked smirk returns. "I suspect I would find him tedious and overbearing."
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But that would be far too revealing.
"A real pain in the ass," she agrees.
The corner of her mouth tilts up in a smirk around her smoke. Quick and rabbit-like, she darts by him, up to the next landing, and throws a leg over the railing like she means to slide back down.
"Gotta name?" is tossed over her shoulder, as she shifts and gets comfortable with her perch.
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The light flickers again. Bright and dim, quick, like the fluttering of a failing heartbeat. Something about the whole building shifts and settles.
"Perhaps," he confesses, licking his lips and letting his head fall back to watch her.
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Suspenders guy is nowhere near as desperate, but she stares at his mouth (nice lips) and drops her gaze to his crotch, anyway.
"Feel like sharin'?"
Only then does she lean back on the banister, slow and controlled, and squint up at the ceiling.
"Shit, man. You'd think this place would've figured out the electrical crap by now."
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It's mesmerising.
"Vlad. Vlad Tepesh," he intones, watching as she stares at the light.
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Staring at the light show, Grace is acutely aware when her own heartbeat quickens and falls out of sync. Suddenly she sits up and slides down the rail until it levels out and stops her an inch from the edge, leg within arm's reach of where Vlad's sitting.
Her toes curl in her boots. The knife presses against the outside of her ankle and calf.
"Grace," she offers him, absently. "Bet you got teased in school. Vlad."
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