ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔢: 𝔏𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔟𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔚𝔬𝔢 || ƒeral x Praxis

[ƒeral]

Season 1 of Chalice had been a resounding hit.

Gale Lockhart could not have been more pleased. The highbrowed director had burst onto the cinematic scene out of nowhere and taken the world by surprise, his debut show airing during primetime and available over every streaming service imaginable. The truth of such a meteoric rise was far less flashy; he had money aplenty to throw at this latest venture of his, and, with his family name at his disposal, tugging a string here or there had required effort, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

It helped that while he was not as old as his many siblings, he has had plenty of time in his immortality to sharpen a literary acumen far keener than any human’s. But Chalice was more than that. Gale had never intended to produce just a show. No, he wanted to create a sensation. Chalice was a bold experiment. Instead of filming an entire season and releasing it incrementally, he pushed both himself and his employees to the utmost - each forty-four minutes episode was simultaneously filmed and edited in under just shy of a week and aired on the same Sunday. The breakneck pace meant that there were little breaks, and, but for just how good the compensation was, it wouldn’t have been surprising for a riot to have taken backstage.

There was a method to this madness. Chalice was more than just well-advertised; it promised an unprecedented level of audience engagement. The show engaged with streamers, with social media, and offered its own app. With naught but a few taps upon your smart phone, you too could weigh in on what happens in the next episode! It was a spin on a familiar genre of choose-your-own-adventure, but directed with such precision and executed with such polish that each end product was worthy of critical acclaim.

At its inception, Gale had been met with skepticism, if not open hostility. Had he not had the resources to fund his own production, this level of insanity would have never hit the silver screen. A gimmick, his critics decried. Doomed to fail and to flounder below even typical mediocrity. But, to the consternation and astonishment of his naysayers, he captured the world’s eye in less than three episodes, and from there, launched a hailstorm of excitement and hype that was near unparalleled. Defying all expectations, the show, and at its helm, Gale, had kept his grip on the reins of that ever tempestuous mare known as zeitgeist and forced her to yield, to bow her proud head and to canter to the beat of his drums as he himself kept his eyes only upon the heartbeat of the cutting-edge, commanding his faithful mount always one step ahead of the ‘what’s next.’

The genius himself was lounged upon one of the pristine white sofas of his urban penthouse, causally sipping a viscous red that could have been wine. It was dark out; the sun had long set and the floor length windows lining two full walls suffused the main living area in the dazzling lights of the city skyline. But even that was drowned out by the red-orange ambient light that covered the room floor to ceiling. This was the afterparty for the successful season, and only his staff had been invited. But of course, he was not cruel - they’d each been allowed a plus-one if they so chose. His penthouse had everything one might expect, pools, jacuzzis, a private DJ, one full-sized bar indoor and a mini bar outdoor. And of course, enough booze to knock out several elephants and, if you knew who to ask, plenty of drugs too.

“Ma chérie, come dance with me.” A ravishing French blonde in a cocktail dress that left little for the imagination, his plus-one for the night, was sprawled across his lap. Her well-manicured fingers traced adoring lines across the sharp cut of his jaw, down his well-muscled neck, and across the broadness of his shoulders and chest. Despite his lack of a tie, his outfit spoke only of pedigree and good taste - black suit, black shirt, and black belt, contrasted only by a startlingly scarlet pocket square that peeked out, the same color as his eyes. His hair was done in its usual modern blowout, his natural waves soft and textured where it rose from his angular face, a luxurious burnished brown that was nearly black. But it was kept tight and neat behind his ear, nothing more than a few fine umber curls at his nape.

“Later,” he promised. His voice was rich but not overly low, as magnetic as his gaze. One of his arms was wrapped around the small of her back, presumptuous but lacking in any overt carnality. He did have a soft spot for his French girls, but this party was about his crew, and it would be unseemly for him to retire much too early. In any event, he was a cunning businessman at his core, and while the night was still young, there was no other environment than this that he preferred to negotiate in.

People (and not quite people) shuffled from room to room, dressed to the nines or at least, to their best imitation thereof, but he paid them little heed. There was only a matter of timing; the target of his meandering thoughts of wealth and prestige was ever so late in arriving. But then again, he supposed it was only expected for next season’s star to arrive fashionably late.

 

[Praxis]

There were a few things every girl needed in this world.

One: a simple, black dress. Nothing flashy unless that was her mood. It wasn’t the runway or the frontpage you were going for, so long as the right heads turned at the right time. Understated. Streamlined. Something with a plunging neckline and a slit up the side that whispered a bawdy joke to the imagination without grasping desperately at low-hanging fruit that’d just ruin the whole moment. Nothing obscene. Certainly nothing ostentatious. Only that: the culmination of form and contrast, presented with the understated grandeur of a silk sheet over to-be-displayed artwork.

Simple.

Two: a strong, foundational healthcare regimen. The world is commanded by simple creatures. Those that see a thing, desire a thing and – despite all efforts toward reason – must possess a thing. It is chemical. It is fundamental. It is the best and most true indication that, deep down, tucked beneath layers of conditioning and societal restraint, all things must feed. And if the eyes are the window to the soul, then surely the mouth must be the gateway to the heart; the lips and tongue but the modalities with which we experience what we crave most. A bite to assure authenticity never hurt anything of real value. So, why shouldn’t those that experience the world, teeth-first, have some authority on the matter?

And, last, but not least…

Three: the acumen to use both to utterly devastating effect.

That part came easily to Lily Mal'roux. True that the blood of the old gods didn’t run through her veins. Just as such nothing of sacred or divine beauty had breathed its life into her lungs. No, those marks of pedigree were reserved for creatures of a higher breed. Demons and angels and monsters and things that once filled the pages of storybooks and now graced the covers of magazines or towered, godlike themselves, in dedicated monuments around the world. She’d seen the hind legs of a massive and rumored to be anatomically correct minotaur being erected in New York harbor during her last visit and supposed there was some merit to having one’s ancestors – bait and tackle included - commemorated in such a way.

There’d be no such monuments to succubi, however. A crudely drawn comic, perhaps. A live-action, cloak and dagger soap opera from the 70’s – when big hair and horns had made a comeback – still existed as reruns. But nothing that carried the allure of, say, elven or angelic blood. Nothing that'd promise her a seat in the lap of luxury while other, lesser, creatures filled in as the supporting caste. Desired, sure. Something exotic and dangerous to be kept in the home as a sort of live-in concubine-slash-pleasure maiden. A beautifully lethal addition to the menagerie the way some eccentrics keep jungle cats or venomous snakes.

Look, but don't touch.

Admire, but never partake.

Well, that was all well and good until one of them realized their constitution was a skosh too shy to compete with the utter bliss of having tasted ambrosia personified. Simple creatures. Dictated by what their eyes see and their hearts desire. Groping and riding themselves to a heart attack and what made for a very rough six months for a struggling actress. Not that anyone could blame her. Man jumps into tiger pit, man gets mauled. A simple equation that even simple creatures could grasp. Next only to the eye roll that usually preceeded a story as old as Hollywood itself.

Still, it was really no surprise that she was harboring a sparkle addiction that edged daily toward problematic and realized just as the penthouse elevator doors slid shut that she'd left a pair of black, suede pumps in the town car downstairs.

Damn.

"Where have you been?!" Steely little fingernails dug into Lily's arm no sooner than she'd stepped into the packed hallway of the penthouse. She was being pulled, quickly, out of view, by an adorable, redheaded thing in a shimmering, emerald gown and bamboo inspired wedges by the name of Claire Goodlight. "And what is all over your face?"

LIly stared back at her in dumb silence for a long while before realization dawned. "Oh, shit, am I all glittery?" She went looking for the nearest mirror, only to be tugged back by Claire, who was much stronger than Lily might've guessed.

"You're the last one to arrive, you know." Claire hissed, digging through a small clutch for a mirror that she handed off. Her eyes went around the room, darting this way and that, settling on a conversation taking place before reassessing the predictable patterns these sorts of get togethers usually took. Somewhere, a champagne cork went sailing while voices shrieked over the mess being made. Heads turned, chuckled at the commotion and resumed. There was beauty in the systematic chaos of it all. Esoteric math just waiting to be rationalized by a keen pair of elven eyes and rapier sharp perception.

Ever the big sister. Even behind the camera. How she'd come to form something like a friendship with Lily was everyone's guess. Opposites attract and all that, one could figure.

"This is a really nice place," Lily mused, squinting at herself in the circular mirror before calling it good enough. "What's it for again?"

Claire sighed and snagged a pair of passing champagne flutes that trotted by on an animated, oak platter. "Nothing gets by you -- thank the gods you're pretty -- it's a wrap party. We all pat each other on the back on what a good job we did, drink too much champagne and let the boss-man foot the bill." Somewhere, a glass shattered followed by more high-pitched giggles. "Speaking of..." linking her arm with Lily's, she'd lead them further into the depths of the party, "he noticed you weren't here. Where are your shoes?"

The succubi's eyes went wide. "He was askin' about me?"

Claire scoffed, "No, honey. It ...doesn't work like that." Sipping, she'd gesture lazily with her glass toward the main audience of the room nearest the large windows. "One of his," she grimaced, "followers inquired a bit ago; asking if everyone had arrived."

Lily blinked and downed a quarter from the brimming flute. "So?"

"So there's a doorman keeping track of who's arrived. You didn't just think you could walk into one of the most elite private residences in the city, did you? No. Guest list, honey. CCTV. Armed guards ready to show party crashers the exit, head first." She finished her drink just as eyes and pointed ears started twitching for another. "Someone noticed you weren't here, and inquired." She shrugged, "kind of a big deal."

"Oh..." Lily whimpered out, finally realizing the scope of what nearly blowing off this party mightve meant, "dang."

"So," Claire announced with a small swat to Lily's backside, "finish your drink, get another, and be social." She leaned in to whisper, "and ...don't embarrass yourself."

 

[ƒeral]

“This is bullshit. I won’t work with her.”

Michael “Wolfy” Balfour was a lot of things, but he was not subtle. In keeping with the theme of not being subtle, he was most well-known for playing werewolves in cinema. Chalice’s success had already bumped him up to B-list, and his popularity showed no hints of stopping. He’s got the look too. At 6’4’’, he was considered tall even by Hollywood’s standard. With dirty blonde hair kept just a touch too long to be considered gruff, a dark beard that verged on scruffy, and eyes that were so startlingly blue that the combination thereof earned him the nickname as America’s new heartthrob.

The muscles helped too. He was jacked in the best of ways. His shoulders and biceps stretched the meshed gray henley taut, leaving very little doubt about just how many hours he spent at the gym daily. Visible veins covered the back of his large hands, veins that disappeared under his sleeves but doubtlessly progressed higher, converging with corded muscles that covered every inch of him. The shirt was loose enough to not quite convey the full definition of his washboard abs, but tight enough to wrinkle where it mattered, offering just an inkling to how much power he could exert, and how easily.

And right now, in his agitation, they bunched and strained. That, combined with the angry glint of his eyes and his knotted brows were more enough to terrify a lesser man. Except Gale was not a man. And most definitely not less than.

The vampire was almost infuriatingly calm, remaining seated in the wing back executive chair even as the standing werewolf towered over him. His date was off somewhere freshening up, leaving him alone with Wolfy in the study to go over some business propositions. Wolfy had flipped out all too easily upon being presented with the main points for season 2. Citing this and that and eventually hinting at a past fling that he didn’t quite get over. All extremely boring stuff.

“You are a professional.” Gale underscored almost offhandedly, his cool voice gliding like silk, his gaze and his jawline sharp enough to cut paper.

“I can’t, I--” Came the retort, anger-husked words dipping so low that it was nearly a snarl.

“You will.” The cut-off was just as curt, colder than arctic ice and just as emotionless. “Or,” he tapped his fingers on the contract laid out before him, right on the dotted line, “I will replace you faster than you can waste another breath and you can go back to small-time sitcoms and the show will carry on. Am I understood?”

Wolfy’s jaw clenched hard enough that the tendons on his neck stood in high relief, looking so deliciously taut that they verged on bursting. Except werewolves tasted like manure and Gale was most definitely not interested. With a hand that trembled from rage, Wolfy grabbed the fountain pen and signed his name twice, grabbing the copy and leaving without another word. He knew better than to slam the door, but his haste spoke volume enough. The vampire’s smirk behind his back practically branded into the back of his neck.

“That fucking bloodsucker,” he grumbled under his breathe even as he traveled down the hall and back to where the music pounded. Shoving open the door with too much force and letting the thudding bass drown him and his thoughts. Or that had been the plan. Except he’d opened the door and found her but a feet away, nursing a glass of champagne and looking so fucking enticing in that black dress of hers that he wanted to howl his approval to the moon. Maybe if he turned and left quickly though -- she turned a fraction and their eyes met, and all he could do was to affect as much indifference as he could manage and grunt her name in a curt greeting.

"Lily.” He nodded, moving with the intention of crossing the room and past her. Just being near her hurt in ways he refused to acknowledge. A pain embedded so deep in his brain, coursing through every vein. She hurt like fucking wolfsbane and he refused to allow her to see his wound ever again.

 

[Praxis]

Claire was like a life raft.

If one found themselves adrift in a sea of faces, names, drinks, anecdotes and polite re-introductions – there really was nothing better than an elven goddess to latch onto and hold on for dear life until the storm subsided, and the familiarity of land could be seen. Land, in her case, being a California king bed, all to herself, and maybe fourteen or fifteen hours of good, heavy rest. Once the highs of a sparkle rush began to wane, that kaleidoscope of colour and vibrance would start to go dim, she’d get a headache, and the world and she would do best to text back in a few days; see if there was still any magic left and try again later. Adrift, and badly, Lily continued to sip what tasted like overpriced champagne from a glass that had likely been chosen for the riff-raff and their proclivity to break things, and wondered how wise it was to add further libations on top of an already potent cocktail of pre-party hors d'oeuvres.

“Lil’!”

Uh oh, being pulled again. The boney clutch of ordinary, human fingers found her arm and she was being introduced to a large, beastly man that they told her was a producer. He grinned down at her from behind rose-tinted lenses and extended one, meaty paw. Lenses or not, she caught the unsubtle inventory yellow-slitted eyes took: tits, hips, legs, tits, before eventually rounding out somewhere near enough her lips that it could have passed for eye contact.

“Miss Mal’roux. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Can you believe it,” the human was asking, that same, boney hand finding its way to her hip and inching south; displaying her like some sort of ventriloquist’s dummy in silk and victory rolls. “kid’s gonna be huge! Huge! What're ya wearin’ tonight, darling – you. look. delicious!” He snarled and mimed like he might take a bite of her bare shoulder, treating Lily to a stale waft of perhaps a gallon or two’s worth of martini. "Where's your shoes, hun?"

“Ahh-ha, that’s – that’s very flattering…” she said, forcing a laugh, knowing it wouldn’t really matter what she said. Between the din of the party, whatever conversation they were having about her, but not with her, and the strobe like flashing of another sparkle wave, she felt herself slipping gracefully from being grasped and was off looking for another drink.

She'd been carried home before. Claire would keep an eye on her, in that way she seemed to keep an eye on most things.

Grabbed, again, she was pulled into yet another re-introduction/conversation with a gaggle of cast members that'd banded together near a balcony.

"Monument?! It's a forty foot bull cock! How's that any good for -- Oh, hey, Lily! Wow, you look great tonight!"

Tits.

"Oh, that's cute! Sort of a ...hippy-granola-mother earth meets bride of dracula vibe! I like it."

Legs.

"Gods, I would kill for their hair," whispered in passing. From who, Lily hadn't seen. "She can keep the tail."

"I like it. I've heard that if you grab 'em by it, they--"

"Don't let 'em bully you, love." Advice from Alexander "Just Xander" Goodlight -- Claire's older, smirkier, often-late, always-dashing, seldom-demure, brother who'd inherited the bloodline's good looks and bank account that could crack the sky, earth and all involved. He was wearing a three-piece, cobalt number that probably cost more than her entire apartment and silver embellishments at his cuffs in the shape of ivy leaves that jangled as he placed an arm around here. Their semi-circle of partiers included the cast's upper echelon. Those whose names generally drew a crowd, and thus, got top billing.

Her name -- for the minimal, insignificant part she'd played toward the end of the season -- had been tucked somewhere in the credits.

Near the bottom, in fact.

"They're all just blinded by their jealousy."

Lips. Tits. Eyes. In that order.

Twice.

Difference being, she didn't entirely mind when he did it. It was Xander fucking Goodlight.

"So, lady of the hour -- how are your nerves?" He asked, that trademark glitter of gold in his eyes flashing the way it did in his own sister's when she had an especially juicy piece of gossip. They must've made for horrible liars, elves, but Lily found herself grinning quite stupidly despite it.

"Wait, why -- what's he talkin' about?"

"Don't bully her," said Claire. "She'll be in after..." the same as a glitter, Lily recognized the briefest flash of contempt behind expressive eyes, "oh -- what's his face. I imagine they're in there, discussing even now." She took a long, purposeful drink from her flute and set it, once empty, on a nearby table. "I don't know what you saw in him. Didn't he clog your drain when he'd stay over? Do you own a lint brush?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "Don't be mean -- he was sweet. He's just..."

Claire waved her hand in disinterest. "Honey, I don't care. We all make mistakes and there's certainly no accounting for taste."

"Well! That's a nasty rumour to start."

A snap of the elven woman's fingers shut Xander up. Though, he was sure to offer his quick goodbye's as the little cell they'd formed broke apart and sought out other avenues for life. Claire filled her hands with another drink -- she'd moved on to something stronger than champagne -- and gestured toward the back of the elaborate flat. "I'm off to find that Max," she paused and sipped again, "Max ...something -- he's in talks for a sister-series and desperate for capital." She winked. "My favorite."

---

A bump.

That was all she needed.

One teeny, tiny, little sniff of sparkle and she'd be golden. Better than golden. Prismatic! Able to find joy and beauty in the radiant colour on display all around her. Free to allow herself to be enveloped in the slow, steady thrum of bass for a song that seemed not to end; but to shift.

Instead, she felt her heart pounding and dizziness beginning to set in as she slunk away to a portion of the home she assumed to be emptier. Crewmembers she recognized by face and scent, but not by name, had gathered in a wing of the flat and were discussing a bottle of red that could have been wine when the big, bad wolf himself pushed into the room.

Her face lit up.

Because of course it would.

Because she wasn't aware of just how badly her claws had gotten into him. Because pain, for him, had been silent. Lily, try as she did, had never been especially good at listening beyond what was said.

"Hey! Mikey!" Tiny, dagger-points clutched pleadingly at his arm as he went to brush by. "Hey, no-no-no-no-no -- don't leave me!," she whined, "these people are all high on somethin' I can't afford and this whole place feels like an art museum." Still clutching, she anchored him in place and wiggled out a bit of excitement. "You look really handsome! And you smell amazing, what is that?"

He wasn't a life raft. He was better.

A desert island, rich in the necessities of life and removed from the ugliness of the world. A safe, untapped, sanctuary where only good memories had managed to bubble up from the tide. Someplace warm that'd been her own while voyaging.

She was the storm.

Hurricane Lily. Back again. Scented in lavender and honey, nearly glowing in moonlight.

"Were you just in there with..." head and horns gestured down the darkened hallway from where he had come, "the boss man? Whad'ja guys talk about? It's really good to see you! Clair -- er, um -- yeah, Claire said you might be here." She tittered out a sheepish laugh, "she says 'Hi'."

 

[ƒeral]

Despite the fact that her fingers couldn’t even curl around half the circumference of his bicep, Wolfy stopped mid-step, turning to regard the troublesome succubus with a hint of a frown. Again with that atrocious nickname. Almost everyone called him Mr. Balfour, and barring that, Wolfy. She was the only one who insisted upon some kind of bastardization of his first name. But then again, she was also the only one who would grab at him like this. Frown aside, the look he gave her was not angry. If anything, it verged on concern.

“Fenrir’s anus, woman, how much have you had to drink?” He sighed and slipped a hand around the small of her back, interpreting her wiggling as wobbliness and offering a steadying touch. In spite of his gruff exterior and propensity towards cursing, Wolfy could be surprisingly considerate. It was not a trait he consciously played up though. His motto might as well be ‘fuck, don’t feel’ with just how many fangirls and not quite fangirls he slept his way through.

If anything, that notoriety only made getting laid easier - girls seemed to love the idea of trying to ‘fix’ him. And he, well, he just liked their tight cunts and shapely asses. Or at least, that was what he told himself. It was never a good idea to feel anything more than lust, to want for anything more. The reason for that was staring up at him. It was beyond ironic that he, an infamous ladies’ man, just had to go and catch feelings for a succubus of all creatures. He denied it of course, even to himself, but fuck did he not nearly burst a vein when he caught her on some other man’s arm. They had never talked about exclusivity but he had assumed--

Water under the bridge. He reminded himself. ‘They’ ended the same way ‘they’ began, with few words exchanged. She was just a girl he fucked a few times too many, nothing more, nothing less. And, as a girl he had fucked, he supposed he had some responsibility to make sure she was alright. “Come ‘ere,” he said, gruffly, half-dragging and half-escorting her over to a nearby countertop, before picking up a whole bottle of water, no glassware, and shoving it towards her general vicinity. “Drink.” It was a big ass bottle too, some pretentious posh shit. Water was water, packaging it in such a fancy bottle was such a waste of time. He stared at her with those intense blue eyes of his, making it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

When she mentioned Claire though, he scoffed, his arm tensing with irritation. “Please, Ms. My-Pointy-Ears-Are-Better-Than-Yours did not say ‘hi’. We’ve been working together for nearly half a year and she still acts like she doesn’t know my name. Bloody elves.” He grunted the last part under his breath. “Anyway, you’ll find out soon enough. Congrats by the way.” He tugged at his arm, indicating that she should let go, but did not have the heart to yank it from her.

Good timing too. He was barely done speaking when a pretty redhead showed up, the faded puncture wounds decorating her throat and her glassy eyes marking her as one of Gale’s thralls. “Ms. Mal’roux,” she said, with an incredibly plastic smile, “Mr. Lockhart will see you now, please follow me.” Despite her polite word choices, her tone made it clear that she wasn’t asking.

“Sober up, Lily, I gotta run.” And with that, Wolfy was off.

-----

The study was not really a study. Sure, there was a desk and a chair, with a few plush seats tastefully strewed about facing the desk, but that was about where the similarities ended. For one thing, it was much too big, easily one of the biggest rooms in the entire penthouse. Secondly, there was a Koenigsegg in one corner of it, sleek and black and entirely out of place. Why was it there? The blonde all but draped on the car hood answered that question. It was the same French woman from earlier, the only exception being that she now sported fresh bite marks, and, from the way she had a pocket mirror out and was admiring the injury, entirely consensual ones.

Gale, on the other hand, stood by floor-length windows, gazing down at the city. That the penthouse had so many windows in the first place was a mystery in and of itself. Although there were quite a few incorrect myths about vampires floating around, vulnerability to the sun was not one of them. Which begged the question, was the vamp that arrogant? Or just insane? The reality was probably a blend of both.

When Lily inevitably showed up though, and she will - this was his domain and his word was law - he would be all smiles. Not even a hint of the frosty malice that plagued his meeting with Wolfy. Only a cavalier grin that went so well with his blood-red eyes and sharply handsome features. There was a pleasant color to his otherwise light-complexion, no doubt courtesy of his recent feeding. Where Wolfy was attractive in a beefcake sort of way, Gale redefined the meaning of the word charismatic. Everything from his self-assured gaze to his magnetic voice was intentional, but not lecherous in the way that seemed to afflict so many powerful men. He was so well-mannered and smiled so genuinely that it was almost enough to miss those fangs. Almost.

“Ah, Lily, so good to see you. Enjoying the party, I hope?”

 

[Praxis]

It was an odd thing being the object of so much fascination. If it wasn't the doting on, or the pandering, it was the fellas like Mikey. The big, bad wolf and his habit for watching out for her that was two parts endearing and one part concerning. Moreso for the astute observers like Claire, who knew the dangers of the sort of infatuation a girl like her could inspire after too many long weekends and staycations in the sheets. Both if which Mikey and Lily had been fans of during that vague, are-they aren't-they, did-they will-they debacle.

A lot, was the simplest answer to his question. A flute of champagne upon arriving. Another that'd been fed to her while she'd been mingling. A sip of Claire's powerful tonic -- just to see -- and now, finally, water. It wouldn't do quite the same good as it might for a normal girl -- one without foul sorcery in her veins -- but it did help to wash away a bit of the haze. She drank, rolled her eyes, and guzzled a bit more for good measure when he seemed like he'd insist. She knew that he knew that this was mostly for show. Good ole H2​O was essential on some level to most creatures, sure, but nothing quite like a healthy snack. An athlete, maybe. One who was up with the dawn and running a few miles before most people even hit snooze. One with a low body-fat percentage and broad shoulders that she could really sink her claws into.

Now that sounded nice. Especially as the sparkle began to wane into it's final, blue shift and everything started getting sleepy. Mikey had been great for that; the shoulders and the subsequent sleep that followed when she'd curl up next to him and drift to the rhythm of his breathing. Better than any human athlete she might find, Lily wasn't sure any amount of her would be enough to leave him dry, dessicated, the way so many others would. He'd know her well enough to read what was being written behind smokey eyes while she watched him; chin in hand, tail swishing idly.

In that one way, he might've been perfect for her. It was just everything else that caused a problem.

She could feel him itching to leave, and couldn't really blame him. Like always, being around him ran the gamut of emotions, and much too quickly for someone nursing a drug addiction and an especially flimsy heart. It all seemed terribly unfair, that she should be such a victim to the whims of that almost-human part of her that reached always for the familiarity of touch that didn't threaten more. To love and be loved were devices meant for other things; fairer things with cleaner blood and more pure motivations.

So, why should it be that she could see it but not touch it?

Why should she have it, if wouldn't ever be hers?

"Congrats for what?" She asked, his abrupt phrasing enough to pull her from the dreamy place she's started to sink into. "Why's everyone got a secret tonight?" He was already leaving, offering the swiftest of goodbyes while her attention was pulled by a tap on her shoulder and small gasp from Lily when she saw the owner of the finger and those strange, glassy eyes. "Bye, Mikey!" She called, already being pulled further into the inky depths of the penthouse. The storm had rolled out for Wolfman, but it would be hours before poor Lily would see daybreak.

Best she could hope for was that the myths about drowning were true: that it was painless. Just close your eyes and descend.

---

Lavish. That was the word for it, Lily thought as she was led into the study. The sensation of her very bare feet on the cool, dark wood beneath her sent a wave of panic through her. Even if everyone else had casually laughed off the foible, he was certain to notice where tiny, painted toes glared out from beneath the trails of her gown, right? Her brief and largely inconsequential interactions with him while on set had been anything but an indication that he'd not. She was mentally cursing herself for it all over again when the fledgling woman of his turned over a shoulder.

"Oh, nothin'," she said, hurrying after.

Did they all move this way? Like their feet only touched the ground as a courtesy to gravity, leaving all other bipeds to walk in comparative clumsiness in their wake? Gale Lockhart, the boss, the big man, she'd only seen lounging from the regality of his director's chair, and somehow, that all seemed just about right. Picturing him doing much else felt like imagining a wildcat loose in the food court.

The woman turned and left, leaving Lily to pad, quietly into the study, head swiveling to stare curiously at the woman, the car and the trance like repetition to the way the woman's bare leg worked out a rhythm of some invisible ecstasy Lily couldn't hear. Double taking, she'd chuckle out a short, nervous laugh at his question, one naked foot tucking behind a calf in a desperate attempt to obfuscate the evident.

"Ha -- oh, yeah, absolutely! You have a really," her throat was suddenly very dry despite all that overpriced water, and she was swallowing a lump, "a really nice place." Subconsciously, her tail had begun to pick up on the way her heart was thudding in her chest; flicking first one way, then another in cat-like preturbation. "And," again her words halted as she slipped, "I really wanted to thank you -- SO much -- for giving me a shot."

She was an actress ...right?

"Everyone has been so nice and welcoming -- Claire, I love her -- she's like the big sister I never had." Her nose scrunched up, "I actually have a lot of sisters, but that doesn't matter." They reproduced in broods, Succubi. So, really, Lily probably had somewhere in the neighborhood of hundreds of sisters she'd never met. She found herself thinking about this for some reason as her attention drifted, despite itself, back to the bitten woman on the hood of the car who'd emitted a high wine of abject pleasure.

 

[Praxis]

ᴄᴀɴᴄᴇʟᴇᴅ​