Favorite Kind of Sin [LaPieta and Morathor]

[LaPieta]

Alma did not stop singing as a waiter dragged away the corpse. She could not afford to.

Such events were not uncommon in this speakeasy, anyways; the overlap of the criminal element and vampiric clientele made for a volatile establishment at the best of times. At least this time it was just an exsanguination, a made man against a nobody, silent, and tucked away in one of the VIP booths—it was about as clean as these things could get.

The bile rising in her gut made maintaining the proper breathwork a tad difficult, but the redhead persevered, the amber stagelight cloying at her skin like rancid honey. This life had not been chosen by her.

Scarlet fever had taken her sisters, rotgut her father. Melancholia her mother. In that vile, wretched period, both her parents had taken loans from creditors both legitimate and otherwise. Doctors and grocers must be paid, and neither process men nor school-teachers were paid enough to support three dying children, let alone to watch them whither. With no others of the family yet living, the eye of the mob had turned upon her to pay down the debt, and she had been plucked to work it off at one of their classier joints.

So she toiled. Whatever task the establishment needed of her, she was on hand: cook, barkeep, maid, bookkeeper—for the clean books, anyways—mule, and yes, singer for some of the bands. The manager had thrust the role upon her when she had been scrubbing the floors, one of her mother's songs upon her lips. It was one of the better jobs—she genuinely did find solace in the music and the bands's company—but she knew full well that the scope of her duties would grow more and more each day. Particularly as the ostensible end date of her indentures grew closer. The bar had no shortage of blood donors and sex workers whose ranks she knew she would be forced to join eventually, and with each job, her labor was only valued at whatever arbitrary number they would deign to throw her way.

It's hardly as if they had given her an itemized ledger—refused to, in fact. She knew full well that the numbers were only nominally rooted in reality, as well as the 5-year term of service she had been assigned. There was only the vague promise that at the end of each week the vague and looming number had been reduced, and when that time was up there were no guarantees that they would not just invent another. Interest, expenses, any number of convolutions could be fabricated to keep her indentured further; it was all pretense for the fact that by the arbitrary virtue and vice of birth she had been chosen for exploitation. There was no recourse, not when she could not bring greater violence to bear than they would against her. Only escape.

Thus she squirreled away whatever pennies she could, sold gifts from would-be suitors taken with her singing, ate only scraps from the kitchen, knit lace for sale.

At least it was a nice enough building—though her own lodging within it was little more than a broom closet. All brass and gold and warm lacquered woods arrayed in stately geometry, all polished to a mirror-gleam she knew personally the effort it took to achieve. It would be sullied by the end of the night by the wastrel crowd, but for now she stood above it, high upon the stage whose lights burned hot and clean.

Management was easier on her around performance nights, for what that was worth. When it was the jazz band performing it was almost something of a break, given the focus was more on the musician's work with their instruments. Alma just had to sway prettily on stage whilst the saxophonist belted out a high-energy solo. Just had to look pretty for the crowd, be a lissom package of flesh and blood for them.

The girl's appearance seemed an exercise in pleasing contrasts: sculpted jaw and chin, soft cheeks; narrow mouth, full rose-bud lips. Copper-colored hair rolled just past her shoulders in waves that spoke of hearth fires and home and framed upturned, wide-set eyes as blue as innocence. Her trim frame lay sheathed in a navy gown, cap-sleeved with a heart neckline, bouncing rhythmically from one foot to the other in time with the tune.

Too soon she had to chime in with a final chorus, key changed to wrap up the number on a crescendo. Her eyes lay fixed upon the staff dragging out the body, out the door when another man walked inside and something in her shattered. Polite applause signaled the song's end, feeling outside of her, outside of everything.

A new awareness made itself known, then, a hidden ache so long-suffering that she had incorporated its presence as status quo years ago, the itching that marked a wound beginning to heal. Remembering something she had lost. How did she know him?

Though she was not barred from relationships, she could not in good conscience drag someone into her situation, even vicariously—the mobsters had no issue dragging anyone even tangentially associated with their marks into their misfortune. God, why was that something she was thinking about now?

Her breath had stopped. She staggered. A gloved hand flung to her chest as if to dig out the source of this yearning, fingertips leaving divots in the flesh.

But the next number was starting, duty dragging reality back to the forefront. And when she sung it was in a haunting voice, more meant for dark forests and battle cries and other worlds than any shitty little gin mill.

And her eyes never left the man who had now entered.

 

[Morathor]

The man was tall, lean, and impeccably dressed. Black on black on black--trousers, jacket, vest, and shirt--were interrupted by a tie of white silk and gold embroidery. A bronze colored kerchief was visible tucked into his jacket pocket, and the amber lights of the speakeasy glinted off his golden cuff links and the pin on his lapel, a stylized symbol of a rising sun. His black homburg cast his tanned face in shadow, though it failed to obscure the jawline that could cut glass, and the hair that poked out from beneath the hat was a pale blonde, nearly white.

He walked in with purpose, confident strides carrying him towards the corner of the room, heedless of the performers, aware of the other staff and patrons only as he had to avoid them. It wasn't hard; everyone gave a made man a wide berth. But, when the singer's voice rang across the room, he stopped in his tracks. He turned his gaze towards the stage, and beneath the brim of his hat, his dark eyes flared red like burning coals. He stared transfixed by the woman there--he didn't know how long.

Finally he was shaken from his trance by a hand on his arm. Even as he tore his eyes away from the stage, a part of his mind still lingered there. He gazed down at the man holding his arm, looking up at him with agitation.

"Are you gonna stand there all night?" the other man demanded. "We got business to attend to."

"Of course," the man murmured, dazed. Even when he spoke softly, his deep voice seemed to rumble through the floor and the bodies of those around him--a voice that was felt more than heard. "I just... never mind." He reached up to adjust his hat, then followed the other man to the corner that had held his attention so completely when he had first arrived. It had only been minutes, so why did it feel like a lifetime ago?

 

[LaPieta]

The setlist ended not long after; she had lost track of the mystery man in the shuffle of the crowd—dancing had restarted in earnest for the last few high-energy songs. Then it was just a matter of helping the band load their instruments and sending them off.

With the equipment packed and the band on their way, she finally had a moment to herself. The nightly ritual of glass-cleaning and floor-mopping was suspended on nights when she was called to sing—for her, at least. For now. Thus, she could partake in her own ritual, outside and tucked away in a niche along the wall of the building’s loading area. Quiet was rare in her position, as was solitude, but before she shuffled back to her broom closet bedroom she allowed herself the span of one cigarette in the night air.

One cigarette. Only one a night. It would be easier to quit cold turkey, but no; this was about control, mastery over the addiction. To be able to look it in its face and every night have just that taste and not be drawn deeper in. There was so little control in her life, as it stood. 1260 more days, hypothetically. God knew how much longer in terms of either reality or how long it would take for her to squirrel away enough for a new life in a far-off place. She would need to check again.

A sheet of rain had begun to drape over the city, drenching the darkened pavement in a reflective sheen that held the light of the neons along walls and streets. Red shone over the backlot, the rays from a sign for a hotel that loomed ten stories above. Red. . .

Her mind turned to the man in black. Smoke drifted in a thin and idle stream from her cigarette as her free hand burrowed into her chest again, massaging as if that would soothe.

Just the look of him was trouble. Then there was the vampirism, the mob affiliation he wore pinned to his chest and—

Effective assailants did not announce themselves and this one was no exception. A vice-grip choked her exposed wrist and yanked her from the safety of the nook, twisting her so that another arm took her waist and pressed against another's vile form.

She was about to protest that she had no money to be taken, before stopping. There was always something to be taken from one’s body, the young woman knew. Instead, she screamed.

A gloved hand crushed against her mouth and stole her air, but still she struggled, the heat and stench of the body behind her seeping into her skin like a foul sludge. For a moment, she was able to break from its grip and launch herself away. There was only enough time for her to swipe a stray bottle from the concrete and lash it in the attacker’s direction. It shattered against a bandana-masked face, buying her a grunt of pain and a few steps further before the arms had hers again. A few more screams. Another moment.

 

[Morathor]

The first thing she saw were the eyes.

Two points of red light shining in the dark, before a figure emerged from the shadows behind her assailant. It seemed almost as though the shadows themselves had coalesced into a tower of a man, clad in black, his face hidden in the shadow of a had, featureless except for those burning red eyes.

Her attacker's first warning of the man behind him was a fist colliding with his lower back, a spike of agony through his body and the feeling of something breaking inside of him. He collapsed in an instant.

"You picked a bad place to pull this shit," the shadow snarled, his voice reverberating through the alley. Those eyes flickered to Alma. "And you picked the wrong target." He turned his gaze back to the man at his feet; he tilted his head back, the light from the streetlamps casting just enough light on his face to show his nose crinkling. A ruptured kidney befouled the blood so quickly; the man stank to high heaven. It was almost enough to kill a guy's appetite. But then, a vampire's appetite was bottomless.

Or appetites, rather. He looked up at the woman. The woman he'd seen on stage, the woman he struggled to look away from. Her screams had reached him from the other side of the building, through brick and mortar and over the din of crowd and musician. It should have been just one more voice in the cacophony, but he had known--it was her voice. And she needed him.

"You alright?" he asked. "This ain't exactly a place for a girl to hang around, is it?"

 

[LaPieta]

Coiled arms were released in a single motion, falling limp in time with a meaty thud. She could breathe again. Another thud followed.

Alma looked down at the assailant, his form seeming so. . .small, now that he was curled in on himself, helpless. So small. Delayed relief flooded through her, muscles liquefying; the girl turned to her savior, eyes teary. It took a moment for the other presence to register, let alone his voice, the words. Those were felt in her bones more than heard.

Her body chose at that moment to fall into her savior; she caught herself against him, soon enough, her hands unfurled against his chest like pale flower blossoms.

"I'm sorry, I'm okay, I'm okay. God, thank you." Those sky-wide eyes looked up at him, a strange serenity washing over her as she took in the sculpt of him. Something lost now found. One hand moved in the direction of his cheek before drawing back just before contact.

Propriety got the better of her. Something in her wailed in pain at the act of pulling away, and yet she managed it.

"If it were up to me I'd be in a cottage far away, but your lot has seen to it that I have to stay here." She gestured broadly to the pin that marked his affiliation. An odd idea, a criminal organization broadcasting their members; perhaps it was merely a measure of how much law enforcement they held on their payroll.

"I. . .we should call the police, right?" Her voice held more question than it should; the mob tended to be very particular in how they dealt with incidents both on and off their properties.

The bar was closed now, nigh-empty; they could just go inside, leave the wretch to crawl back to his den, and she could at least treat him to some gratitude drinks.

 

[Morathor]

His breath would have caught in his throat when she fell against him--if he'd been breathing, anyway. And he could swear, in his chest, he felt his still heart fluttering. As she pulled away, his hands twitched, and it took all his strength to stop himself from grabbing her, holding her close. What was this? Had a woman ever made him feel like this? Maybe when he was alive... those days were so fuzzy, though. The man he remembered being felt like a stranger, and a contemptible one at that.

Speaking of contempt... as the girl asked about the police, his gaze slipped down to the wounded man. "I don't think we need to disturb the police this late at night. This is taken care of, right? He knows better than to bring trouble to our doorstep, right?" He was addressing the man as much as the girl, but even so, it was for her benefit. There was not a lot of overlap between "men desperate enough to rob a woman in an alley" and "men who could afford a doctor for their ruptured kidney." This guy was a corpse waiting to happen, but the lady wouldn't have to watch him die. And it was more convenient for the family if he were allowed to slink away and expire elsewhere.

He looked back up at the girl. He never wanted to look away from her. "Let's go inside... get you something to settle your nerves." He looped his arm around the girl's shoulders and led her back into the speakeasy.

 

[LaPieta]

A short nod followed; the man may very well find a doctor—charitable or otherwise—and perhaps he would think twice before attempting to assault young women. Perhaps.

“Something for you too! We keep some pre-prohibition stuff for special guests and you’ve more than earned it.” And one bottle would be easy enough to vanish from the ledgers.

Alma nearly shivered as his arm draped over her, though not from the cold of him. Something in her chest seemed to shift into place at his contact, and she nestled into him as they walked, a small smile lifting at the corners of her lips..

It was rather cold though. Outside of her smoking nook, the rain fell freely upon her, sticking her hair against the pale skin of her neck and shoulders and driving a chill into her bones. This time, she did shiver.

But soon enough the warmth of the speakeasy engulfed them, the dining room empty save for the debris she would be cleaning come morning. She traipsed to the other side of the bar, sliding a single finger along the varnished corner before dipping beneath. When she rose again it was with two cut-crystal glasses in one hand and a faceted decanter of whisky in the other. The smile had turned playful now.

“Whisky okay?”

Just looking at him sent a giddiness bubbling through her. God, what was coming over her? Even as a schoolgirl she had never been so besotted.

 

[Morathor]

"Whiskey's fine."

He was glad to see her cheer up. It was surprising how quickly she could go from fearing for her life to such a playful smile. Was she that used to danger? Or was she just comforted by his presence? He hoped it was the latter. He wanted her to feel safe.

He wanted her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and never let her go. He wanted to bend her over the table and ravish her. He was trying to stay calm but he couldn't help drumming his fingers on the table. What was he going to do with her?

He thought about taking the whiskey, pouring it himself. Making sure she got plenty, enough to sooth her nerves and lower her guard. But that would be rude. And rudeness reflected badly on the family--even if the family owned this place. So he waited for her to pour, then took his glass, swirling it under his nose. He tried to savor the scents, the complex medley of oak and rye and caramel. But the only scent he could concentrate on was hers. It was a shame--smell was most of how he enjoyed liquor anymore. His tongue only knew the taste of salt and iron. Of flesh and blood.

He took a sip regardless. The burning in his throat was pleasant, and it helped him focus. He gazed at the girl across the table; she was close enough now that the dark green of his eyes was visible under the shadow of his hat. "I'm Angelo," he said. "And you are?"

 

[LaPieta]

She kept the mass of the bar between them, not out of fear of him but fear of what actions she may take if left too close to him. Only a touch of the drink was poured for herself, an average amount for the gentleman: the bottle had been the ruin of many a poor sod and she did not want to count herself among them. The temptation to dull the world would be too strong, she knew. Would leave her too vulnerable.

The redhead slid him his glass and the bottle should he want more—she did not know the specific peculiarities of his condition—before leaning over to meet his gaze. Those eyes. . .deep and dark enough to drown in. A mossy well one could not help but look into.

“I’m Alma, Alma Leitner. Been indentured here for a year and then some”. Her voice had been roughened from drink and singing and screaming, but that lush musicality still marked it. Alma and Angelo—it had a pleasant ring to it.

Despite her initial efforts, she found herself moving back around to sit next to him; any distance seemed to be growing less and less tolerable. Jasmine and bergamot the air around Angelo, the bright and sultry scent of her rising above the venue’s smoke and sticky booze.

“I know I’d have remembered if I’d seen you here in the past year; are you new to the, ah, family? Or just new to here?”