A New Beginning, Sort Of-- 01
The sweltering late summer sun was slowly disappearing behind the Mississippi, painting the water a deep, flickering red. The irony was not lost on Claire- they were having dinner on Death Row, after all; everything here was red.
Officially, Death Row was known as Luna Street-only locals called it Death Row. Almost all of the businesses on Luna Street were either owned by or featured vampires or lycanthropes. Currently Claire was having drinks with her two closest friends, Cass and Sari, at La Belle Morte, a burlesque bar that featured women of all shades and supernatural persuasions. On weeknights, Sari tended bar here, and so she could get amazing discounts-which is why the three girls always visited La Belle Morte whenever it was Girls’ Night Out. They usually left before the shows started-the only girl of the three who might have been interested in the dancers was Sari, and she’d seen it all before.
They were out on the back patio, which was open during the dinner hour. Empty plates of pasta had long since been bussed away; now the white lacquered table was covered in a variety of glassware. Claire was nursing a dessert martini that was more cream and sugar than gin and vermouth; Cass and Sari, sisters, were going toe-to-toe in Midori Sours. The goal wasn’t drunkenness so much as a sugar high; so far Cass was winning, with five empty glasses. Being roughly the same mass as a good-sized paperweight, one would have expected the tiny woman to be on the floor by now-but Cass held her liquor exceptionally well, having lead somewhat of a rebellious youth.
Her sister lit a cigarette; the smoke curled around her fingertips as she put it to her lips. “So Claire, whatever happened between you and… what was his name?”
“Eric,” offered Cass, who was upturning another glass.
Claire began to stir her drink with her finger and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Absolutely nothing.”
Sari blew a stream of smoke towards the burgundy sky. “Nothing?”
“Well, nothing that counts for anything. He definitely fell asleep before it became anything for me, at least.”
“Well, that’s just plain rude.”
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t stood me up the last time.”
“Asshole!” Cass exclaimed, finishing off her sixth drink. “He’s totally not worth your time.”
“Oh, I know,” Claire agreed, nodding. “Which is why tonight, I am back on the prowl.”
Cass made a sound that was supposed to be a howl, but was more squeak than anything else. “That’s my girl!”
Sari smiled, and blew smoke towards the sky once more. Tonight they would be hunters, hunters among the hunted.
Amara arose to the sounds of La Belle Morte above her-the wood-creaks from footsteps, the clangs of dishes, the dull roar of conversations. It made her smile-she was what the papers referred as a “new generation” vampire, which meant she was more interested in bottom lines than bloodsucking. Vampirism was very lucrative these days, if you knew how to spin it. But for Amara, it was less about the money and more about the independence. She needed to be in charge of her own affairs; she had lived much too long in the servitude of other vampires.
Amara rolled out of her plush, oversized bed, pushing white satin sheets aside as she sat up. The bed was mostly for show- she could feel nothing when she slept. There is no tossing or turning in death, and that is exactly what happened to Amara every morning as the sun rose. But Amara had always preferred the look of a bed over a grim coffin, and once she gained her independence, it was among her first purchases.
Amara wrapped herself in a dark gold robe-it was her favorite color; it matched her eyes-and began to file through her closet. It was Friday, one of her busiest nights, and so she had to look her best for the customers. La Belle Morte was gaining in popularity by the night, wholly expectedly-beautiful, exotic girls in various stages of dishabille was always a crowd-pleaser. Furthermore, Amara made it a point to have girls of all species and persuasions working in her bar-not only did it draw diverse crowds, but it ensured neutrality amongst the various clans, vampire and lycanthropes alike. Amara wanted no part of their politics.
She was trying to decide between dresses and pantsuits when she felt a stirring in the hall, a raw, powerful energy slinking towards her bedroom. She knew the bearer before he could knock at the door.
“Come in, Jonathan,” Amara spoke, almost in singsong. Of all of the men she fed on, Jonathan was one of her favorites-he was also the most eager. Were he not a wereleopard, it might have been a problem. As it was, he healed from her feedings effortlessly and usually asked for more.
The door opened soundlessly. “Good evening, Lady Amara,” came Jonathan’s rumbling bass. He grinned, almost devilishly. She was in her robe, and he loved how it draped across her tiny frame-it made him want to rip it off of her, to feel the flesh underneath that was surely just as soft.
“You know you needn’t call me that when I’m not onstage.” Amara could taste the young leopard’s lust from across the room. It used to make her uncomfortable, at first-Jonathan was young, and she didn’t want for his lust to turn into something more complicated-but it was just Jonathan’s nature. He reacted to Amara as he reacted to most women. “I know. But you’re the sort of woman who deserves a title.”
Amara ignored the comment. He thought he was being clever, and it didn’t really suit him. Jonathan was best seen and not heard. He stood over six feet tall, with sun-tanned skin, white-blond hair that fell just below his chin, and startlingly blue eyes. His body was well-muscled, with the sort of definition that only comes from hours of devotion. Jonathan didn’t need to be clever; he just needed to be there.
“Come now, my little pet,” Amara said softly, in a tone that one would use for a small child. “I’ve got a busy night tonight.” She sat on the edge of her bed, stroking the plush comforter with one hand and beckoning him with the other. “Close the door behind you.”
Olivia Ramirez checked her lipstick in her rear-view mirror once more before she exited her car. It was over an hour until she would have to be in stage makeup, but Olivia was the sort of woman who never went out in public looking less than presentable. She wasn't vain so much as insecure; her mother had always told her, growing up, that for a woman to find a good man, she must always look good. Olivia was beginning to question that logic. Of all the men she had met since moving to the city, only one of them, Lucian, could have been considered "good." And that was a relative statement.
Olivia had met Lucian over a year ago, through a guy she used to date, Jesse. The two men were in the same line of work-- they were bounty hunters, though it was questionable for both whether they were more into the bounty or the hunt.
Olivia met Jesse one night at La Belle Morte, while she was dancing. She'd noticed him among the crowd-- rather, she'd noticed his eyes. Unlike most men who came to the club, Jesse wasn't watching her body, or her costume as she stripped it off. He was watching her eyes. Jesse returned each week for about a month before he approached her, and he seemed nice enough. They began dating not too long afterward.
It was during their relationship that Olivia met Lucian, who was sometimes Jesse's partner, and his total opposite. Jesse was the strong, brooding, silent type; Lucian was very talkative and charming, and full of Southern charm. Olivia couldn't really picture Lucian doing the work that he did; she couldn't picture Jesse doing anything else.
Olivia didn't see Lucian too terribly often during the relationship; it wasn't until after her un-acrimonious breakup with Jesse (more of a drifting apart, really, but what did he expect? The man never knew how to express his feelings) that she began to see Lucian at the club. He was always a perfect gentleman, and tipped well-- Olivia suspected that he really just came in to get information, and used their friendship as an excuse to be there. She didn't really mind; she liked seeing a friendly (and non-lustful) face every now and again.
Olivia slipped around the back of the club, passing the patio area, which was full of patrons enjoying the drink specials. Around midnight, that patio would be empty, save for a few smokers eager to get back inside. She knocked on a knobless door-- the employees' entrance, guarded by a couple of lycanthropes, usually a werewolf and wereleopard (Olivia hadn't even known they existed, until she'd moved to the city). Tonight it was Diana and Mercer, respectively. Olivia nodded to each of them on her way in, heading to the dressing room. She liked to get there a little early to claim her space. One of the downsides of being one of a handful of human girls working there; you were always at the bottom of the dressing room totem pole.
Officially, Death Row was known as Luna Street-only locals called it Death Row. Almost all of the businesses on Luna Street were either owned by or featured vampires or lycanthropes. Currently Claire was having drinks with her two closest friends, Cass and Sari, at La Belle Morte, a burlesque bar that featured women of all shades and supernatural persuasions. On weeknights, Sari tended bar here, and so she could get amazing discounts-which is why the three girls always visited La Belle Morte whenever it was Girls’ Night Out. They usually left before the shows started-the only girl of the three who might have been interested in the dancers was Sari, and she’d seen it all before.
They were out on the back patio, which was open during the dinner hour. Empty plates of pasta had long since been bussed away; now the white lacquered table was covered in a variety of glassware. Claire was nursing a dessert martini that was more cream and sugar than gin and vermouth; Cass and Sari, sisters, were going toe-to-toe in Midori Sours. The goal wasn’t drunkenness so much as a sugar high; so far Cass was winning, with five empty glasses. Being roughly the same mass as a good-sized paperweight, one would have expected the tiny woman to be on the floor by now-but Cass held her liquor exceptionally well, having lead somewhat of a rebellious youth.
Her sister lit a cigarette; the smoke curled around her fingertips as she put it to her lips. “So Claire, whatever happened between you and… what was his name?”
“Eric,” offered Cass, who was upturning another glass.
Claire began to stir her drink with her finger and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Absolutely nothing.”
Sari blew a stream of smoke towards the burgundy sky. “Nothing?”
“Well, nothing that counts for anything. He definitely fell asleep before it became anything for me, at least.”
“Well, that’s just plain rude.”
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t stood me up the last time.”
“Asshole!” Cass exclaimed, finishing off her sixth drink. “He’s totally not worth your time.”
“Oh, I know,” Claire agreed, nodding. “Which is why tonight, I am back on the prowl.”
Cass made a sound that was supposed to be a howl, but was more squeak than anything else. “That’s my girl!”
Sari smiled, and blew smoke towards the sky once more. Tonight they would be hunters, hunters among the hunted.
Amara arose to the sounds of La Belle Morte above her-the wood-creaks from footsteps, the clangs of dishes, the dull roar of conversations. It made her smile-she was what the papers referred as a “new generation” vampire, which meant she was more interested in bottom lines than bloodsucking. Vampirism was very lucrative these days, if you knew how to spin it. But for Amara, it was less about the money and more about the independence. She needed to be in charge of her own affairs; she had lived much too long in the servitude of other vampires.
Amara rolled out of her plush, oversized bed, pushing white satin sheets aside as she sat up. The bed was mostly for show- she could feel nothing when she slept. There is no tossing or turning in death, and that is exactly what happened to Amara every morning as the sun rose. But Amara had always preferred the look of a bed over a grim coffin, and once she gained her independence, it was among her first purchases.
Amara wrapped herself in a dark gold robe-it was her favorite color; it matched her eyes-and began to file through her closet. It was Friday, one of her busiest nights, and so she had to look her best for the customers. La Belle Morte was gaining in popularity by the night, wholly expectedly-beautiful, exotic girls in various stages of dishabille was always a crowd-pleaser. Furthermore, Amara made it a point to have girls of all species and persuasions working in her bar-not only did it draw diverse crowds, but it ensured neutrality amongst the various clans, vampire and lycanthropes alike. Amara wanted no part of their politics.
She was trying to decide between dresses and pantsuits when she felt a stirring in the hall, a raw, powerful energy slinking towards her bedroom. She knew the bearer before he could knock at the door.
“Come in, Jonathan,” Amara spoke, almost in singsong. Of all of the men she fed on, Jonathan was one of her favorites-he was also the most eager. Were he not a wereleopard, it might have been a problem. As it was, he healed from her feedings effortlessly and usually asked for more.
The door opened soundlessly. “Good evening, Lady Amara,” came Jonathan’s rumbling bass. He grinned, almost devilishly. She was in her robe, and he loved how it draped across her tiny frame-it made him want to rip it off of her, to feel the flesh underneath that was surely just as soft.
“You know you needn’t call me that when I’m not onstage.” Amara could taste the young leopard’s lust from across the room. It used to make her uncomfortable, at first-Jonathan was young, and she didn’t want for his lust to turn into something more complicated-but it was just Jonathan’s nature. He reacted to Amara as he reacted to most women. “I know. But you’re the sort of woman who deserves a title.”
Amara ignored the comment. He thought he was being clever, and it didn’t really suit him. Jonathan was best seen and not heard. He stood over six feet tall, with sun-tanned skin, white-blond hair that fell just below his chin, and startlingly blue eyes. His body was well-muscled, with the sort of definition that only comes from hours of devotion. Jonathan didn’t need to be clever; he just needed to be there.
“Come now, my little pet,” Amara said softly, in a tone that one would use for a small child. “I’ve got a busy night tonight.” She sat on the edge of her bed, stroking the plush comforter with one hand and beckoning him with the other. “Close the door behind you.”
Olivia Ramirez checked her lipstick in her rear-view mirror once more before she exited her car. It was over an hour until she would have to be in stage makeup, but Olivia was the sort of woman who never went out in public looking less than presentable. She wasn't vain so much as insecure; her mother had always told her, growing up, that for a woman to find a good man, she must always look good. Olivia was beginning to question that logic. Of all the men she had met since moving to the city, only one of them, Lucian, could have been considered "good." And that was a relative statement.
Olivia had met Lucian over a year ago, through a guy she used to date, Jesse. The two men were in the same line of work-- they were bounty hunters, though it was questionable for both whether they were more into the bounty or the hunt.
Olivia met Jesse one night at La Belle Morte, while she was dancing. She'd noticed him among the crowd-- rather, she'd noticed his eyes. Unlike most men who came to the club, Jesse wasn't watching her body, or her costume as she stripped it off. He was watching her eyes. Jesse returned each week for about a month before he approached her, and he seemed nice enough. They began dating not too long afterward.
It was during their relationship that Olivia met Lucian, who was sometimes Jesse's partner, and his total opposite. Jesse was the strong, brooding, silent type; Lucian was very talkative and charming, and full of Southern charm. Olivia couldn't really picture Lucian doing the work that he did; she couldn't picture Jesse doing anything else.
Olivia didn't see Lucian too terribly often during the relationship; it wasn't until after her un-acrimonious breakup with Jesse (more of a drifting apart, really, but what did he expect? The man never knew how to express his feelings) that she began to see Lucian at the club. He was always a perfect gentleman, and tipped well-- Olivia suspected that he really just came in to get information, and used their friendship as an excuse to be there. She didn't really mind; she liked seeing a friendly (and non-lustful) face every now and again.
Olivia slipped around the back of the club, passing the patio area, which was full of patrons enjoying the drink specials. Around midnight, that patio would be empty, save for a few smokers eager to get back inside. She knocked on a knobless door-- the employees' entrance, guarded by a couple of lycanthropes, usually a werewolf and wereleopard (Olivia hadn't even known they existed, until she'd moved to the city). Tonight it was Diana and Mercer, respectively. Olivia nodded to each of them on her way in, heading to the dressing room. She liked to get there a little early to claim her space. One of the downsides of being one of a handful of human girls working there; you were always at the bottom of the dressing room totem pole.