An Aubade [LaPieta & Victor Hawk]

[Victor Hawk]

"This city is hiding something. I cannot see it but it's there. The foul stench in the air, so wretched it fills my mouth and I can taste it. The loud whispers speak of unforgivable misdeeds and nefarious schemes. The wind blows against my skin and carries with it a warning from something unseen.

"It is strange to me. Towering buildings in every direction. The streets crowded with vehicles moving rapidly in every direction. The bright lights that illuminate even the darkest night. The people in the clothes they wear and the tools they use. I knew it would be different. I didn't imagine it would be like this. At the same time, it all feels so... familiar.

"People go about their business throughout this city. They are like ants, finding their way through cracks and crevices, lost among the others, just another one of many.

"Their lives? Ordinary. Their dealings? Insignificant. Their impact will long be forgotten just as those who became before them.

"But there are others. Individuals whose lives carry significance only because of their selfish wants and desire. I know they are here. I do not need to see them. I do not need to hear them. I do not need anybody to tell me of their existence. I can feel their presence. And I can feel their sin.

"I am in a new world. The sights are strange, carrying with them danger around every corner. If I had any sense, I would rightfully assume I was not meant to be here. There is something else though. A goodness I once felt before.

"That is my purpose. I will carry the oath I have made so long ago. No matter what vulgar wretchedness stands in my path, I will find the light once again..."

He crouched on the edge of the rooftop and looked down upon the city as he thought to himself. He was a gargoyle who made it to the top before the sun went down, hidden from curious eyes. The traffic moved along the streets like any busy night. The sidewalks were lined with people enjoying their Saturday night. Groups of girls with their hair and make-up done wore their most flattering dresses and skirts to garner attention from the opposite sex. Men were dressed to impress for a night out on the town and hoping not to spend the evening alone.

Nobody would have thought there was anything special about this night. Without any signs, there was no way to tell this city from another. But for Irvin Thorne, he knew Vellum was different. Every fiber in his being told him. He hadn't been drawn here for no reason, finally awoken from a long slumber.

The night breeze blew through his short black hair. His pale skin seemed even brighter from the moonlight shining on him, though nobody would be able to see him from how high up he was. His eyes were a deep blue and when the light hit them just right, they shimmered like jewels. They shifted left and right, scanning the crowds and various establishments below. He'd been searching this whole night, from one roof to the next. For something or someone, he wasn't sure. There was only a presence he could feel and for someone like him, that was enough.

He stood up and moved to the other side of the rooftop to look down on the opposite street. Clubs. Restaurants. Shops. Taverns and pubs and bars. They all began to look the same to him.

"Where is it?" His jaw clenched and his pointed eyebrows furrowed in frustration. He would have given up at this point if he weren't so stubborn. "Wait..."

He caught something out of the corner of his eye and crouched down to look closer. The Pink Rose Lounge. It was a wonder how he missed it with how bright and neon the sign was. He examined the outside line of attendants. It was nearly all female, all of them wearing provocative dresses with short hems and tight tops that left little to the imagination. Anybody else would have chalked it up to coincidence. There were women who looked no different at every other club in the city. But the longer her stared, the stronger he felt it. Something stirred in him that he could feel all the way to his blood and bones.

Irvin stood up and ran a hand back through his dark hair. He wiped his smooth jawline with two fingers as if to calm himself. "It's there." He straightened his black coat then fixed the collar of the matching dress shirt. Along with a pair of black slacks and leather dress shoes, he would blend-in with the rest of the crowd. He had to blend-in as much as possible. If he found what he was looking for, he would stick out more than anybody else in the entire city.

 

[LaPieta]

Julia Dwyer's lips drew into a thin line as she regarded the Pink Rose Club, its bass trying to breach her ribcage even from the line outside. This type of scene—this whole part of town, really—was not among her usual stomping grounds. Despite her best efforts at camouflage—in the form of a black, low-cut romper cropped at her sides—the young woman felt eyes upon her. And her senses could not parse how much of that feeling was from her own anxieties, how much came from desirous eyes, dangerously desirous eyes, or eyes that might wish her ill for her mission.

The deficiency of her disguise might also be contributing to her anxiety: heavier makeup, updos, skirts, large jewelry, and high-heels were favored here—the latter three she would not abide when at risk of physical engagement. Flats and the romper were the best compromises she could manage while remaining at least somewhat confrontation-ready, though her chestnut hair remained draped in loose waves down her shoulderblades. A clumsy balance, but the gun tucked against her thigh would hopefully right those scales. Guns had a tendency to even out a lot of things.

A sheet of rain had begun to drape over the city, drenching the darkened pavement in a reflective sheen that captured the light of the neons in a humming haze along brutalist-brick walls and asphalt. Despite the club's name, its signage was shining red from above over the pavement. Red. . .

Her mind bolted to the scene she had witnessed not two days ago. Clothed in carmine, a woman had been murdered, last seen entering the club before turning up exsanguinated half a block away. Mitzi Novak, her name was. Office assistant by day, though Julie speculated an additional source of income: she had questioned the woman's landlord, and her rent had always come in cash.

In fact, she had been the first interviewer the landlord had even received. The police's investigation had evidently been more lethargic than usual. It was part of why Julia had begun to look into the murder—one of three in this vein. So far. Public pressure would be needed for anything resembling an earnest response from law enforcement, and that could only come from a substantive enough report, released in a sufficiently prestigious publication in such a way that evoked public sympathy. Thus, her job as reporter brought her here—these girls deserved the basic respect that was a fair shake at justice, the families their share of closure.

Thankfully the line moved quickly enough that she was let in before the rain could drench her. A bouncer's cursory scan of a fake ID saw her descending an exterior staircase, concrete choking from either side intaglioed with weather-worn posters, cat-scratch graffiti, and festooned with neon pink fairy lights. Charming. Black double-doors awaited at the bottom, and when Julia shoved her way through, a humidity thick enough to cut a hole through greeted her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust; her hearing would need more from the bass like a fist through her ears.

Black was the color and many the number, it seemed. A writhing, leather-clad crowd had occupied a dance floor of black marble, the material far more lavish than the low ceiling and concrete walls warranted. The surrounding laminate seemed to be coated in a waxy film that clung to the soles of her flats and looked to creep up the walls. Flanking one side of the venue was a lengthy bar of that same black marble for the body, white for the countertop and underlit by a strip of neon. On the other was a series of booths a level up, tucked against the walls and divided both between each other and—for some—from the greater dance floor by red damask curtains.

Silhouettes slunk in the darkness into and out of the sheltered booths, forms only loosely visible save when the occasional beam of red spotlight cast their way.

Julia tucked herself against a wall as thoroughly as possible without making contact, merely observing the staff, for now.

 

[Victor Hawk]

Irvin moved along the sidewalk with measured strides through the rain. Ignoring the line, he moved right to the entrance of the club. As soon as his hand hit the door, someone else's hand grabbed his wrist.

"Hey!" The man glared at Irvin from behind a pair of shades. Bald head. Goatee. Traps instead of a neck. The man was bubbly with muscles and his tight black shirt had only accentuated it. "You can't waltz in here."

Irvin paused for a moment, staring back at the man who wasn't angry but was likely a few seconds from it. The doorman wasn't someone he would have trouble with. The problem was dealing with him in front of a line of witnesses.

"Blend-in..." Irvin reminded himself as he reached into his pocket. A wad of bills big enough to fill his palm extended out and found its way into the bouncer's other hand. The doorman's smirk was accompanied by the loosening of his grip on Irvin's wrist. As Irvin made his way through the entrance, he could hear the complaints of the people in line outside.

The bass of the speakers greeted every patron. The floor. The walls. Even the ceiling seemed to vibrate with the repetitive thump. And within the reverberations, a tangle of bodies meshed together, arms extended to the sky in a prelude to some carnal ritual. The lights were low but not enough for to hide the scene.

It was what he expected but Irvin still grumbled. The pungent odor of liquor clashed with the combination of fragrances and recreational drugs. There was no point in trying to make a sense of it all, let alone complain about it. Nobody would've guessed there was a woman who was enjoying herself here just a few days before she was brutally slain. "At least I'm in the right place," he thought to himself as he scanned his surroundings.

As he walked through the crowd, Irvin narrowed his gaze. His heightened senses amplified all of the noise and aromas around him. There were sinners in every direction. But he was only focused on the one who committed the most unforgivable sin. They had to be here. The stench was too strong.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!" A high-pitched complaint came after an unexpected bump in the shoulder. Irvin turned to see a pasty-looking man in a mesh shirt and a leather jacket glaring at him. The man had a flourescent-colored drink in his hand, almost if he were ready to throw it.

Irvin's brow furrowed and parted his lips just enough to bare his teeth. One canine extending was enough. "Gah!" The man's expression changed from aggression to wide-eyed fear as if someone had flipped a switch. There was no point in giving him any more attention than that.

There weren't many options at this point. Going to the bar and asking questions would have been too obvious. His senses couldn't adjust to the overwhelming stimuli in every direction. The only thing Irvin could do was keep looking.

The work on the victim was too sloppy. It was so obvious you'd think that they wanted to be caught. If they were as messy as they were killing, they would be careless enough to move out in the open again. That was Irvin's only lead.

He moved to the side of the bar, posted against a wall. It wasn't the best but it provided him a good angle to the rest of the club.

"Patience. Just be patient—" Irvin's thoughts were interrupted. A sudden sensation washing over him. A scent that wasn't like anything else in the club. White. Clean. Pure. It was unmistakable, overpowering everything else. He thought his senses were mistaken. But when he turned his head, he realized they weren't.

A woman stood leaning against the wall just a few meters to his side. Her skin was fair even when the ceiling lights weren't flashing on her. Brown hair cascaded down the sides of her face without a strand in the way. She was overdressed for a club like this but Irvin could still make out the shape of her body. But it wasn't her appearance, as striking as it was to him, that caught her attention. Nor was it her failure to remain inconspicuous. A woman with her aura, alone, in a place like this. She was a diamond in a den of thieves.

Something was wrong.

He paced over to her quickly. Before he even got her attention, he spoke to her with his voice low but with enough urgency for her to hear.

"You're in danger. You need to get out of here."

 

[LaPieta]

Some time was spent idly observing the clientele; the goth theming seemed a lot more pervasive amongst them than she had expected. Leather corsets and thigh-high boots that surely cost as much as a car payment marked the women, latex pants and straps the men. Dealers scampered about the venue, swapping bills for blotters or poppers or molly or ex. Mostly party drugs, it seemed: small scale, low stakes petty dealing it'd be unlikely to be exsanguinated over—especially considering the sellers were clearly too unprofessional for organized crime and too decentralized to be under the club's auspices. One of the bartenders might, however.

Sex work also seemed to be prevalent under the club's roof, judging by the ebb and flow of individuals through the sealed booths—perhaps that was an angle. Mitzi and the other women all seemed to have an unmarked source of additional income, and it'd be a commonality between them beside their age, gender, and attractiveness. A traceable one. Further inquiries were warranted.

Julia jolted as she was approached, running a scrutinizing glance over the man who had just warned her. Inoffensive, if a bit uncanny. Did he know what she was, aside from an outsider? Unlikely; he was not a regular here, given his tailoring—suitable for most conventional nightclubs, but stiff in one as themed as this.

As the woman looked Irvin over, that scent of snowfall and jasmine would only grow more obvious to the vampire. He, too, could get a closer look at her.

Grey-as-rain eyes met his, corners angled just level enough to look either upturned and sharp or dreamt and doe-like, depending on factors she herself did not know the breadth of. On the job and under lighting this harsh, they were flint-keen, wideset enough to impart a fae delicacy to the knife-clean sculpt of her chin and jaw.

Fine-boned, she had been called by schoolteachers; filigree, by a suitor with a taste for the poetic. Gentle tapers and slender limbs marked her body, borne with a straight-backed pride.

"Am I? Why's that?" Perhaps he knew of some figure or operation in this club that preyed upon young women here. Hell, he may have known the victim—or victims. Her voice lowered in volume, but she regarded him with more than enough intensity to be heard.

"If it's not safe for you to tell me about it here, there's a cafe open late a block down. I need to know what's happening in this club." It might be a dead end—or mental unwellness—but better she check than a lead be neglected out of cowardice. Besides, keeping the route and interview location public should shield her from the worst of possibilities; the gun yet more so should it come to said worst.

 

[Victor Hawk]

Irvin's eyes narrowed in a focused gaze as he stared at the woman in front of him. There was no mistaking the aura emanating from her. The lighting of the club only seemed to amplify it, a sunray on a lone daisy growing in the shadow of a forest.

He lowered his head to avoid drawing any attention to himself. Even with the music, conversation, and energy in the building, he didn't take any chances. His appearance alone would have made people curious if they stared long enough. It wasn't the long black coat or the dark hair that seemed to be mussed in all the right places. It wasn't the strong and smooth jawline. It wasn't the intensity of his blue eyes, always narrow from years of squinting at the sunlight. It wasn't even his presence, tall and lean, athletic in a way that his outfit seemed to be tailored perfectly to him even though it wasn't. Nor was it even his posture, rigid and firm, a soldier trained to stand on-guard. It was none of those things that one could simply observe.

It was something else. An odd presence. A reason for a hunch. An inequity of reality.

He was misplaced.

Where he was supposed to be, no one could say. It could only be described simply as a vibration that any normal person would feel if they looked at him long enough.

He paused for a moment. But then he quickly shook away the absurd thoughts of getting lost in her ashen eyes.

"There's no time to talk. Just get the hell out of here." Chiseled-cheeks tensed as his eyes became slits. "You're in more danger than you realize—"

"Hey!" The interruption came from the left.

Irvin turned and saw a man approaching them. He was dressed in a tight black tank-top. His pair of black leather jeans were so form-fitting it was a wonder how he managed to fit in them. Matching leather boots seemed appropriate. His head was shaved bald, drawing more attention to the thin mustache groomed neatly over thin lips. He wore a pair of circular-lensed glasses that were pitch black, hiding his eyes completely.

"There you are, asshole. You think you could just buy your way into the club, huh? Some rich punk can just throw his money around? This isn't your place."

Irvin only glanced at the man for a second before turning back to the woman. "Go away." He said it in as firm as a tone as he could.

"No. You need to learn some respect." The tone wasn't firm enough for the man to stop his inquiry.

Irvin wasn't looking at the man. He wasn't even looking at the woman. His eyes moved to his right, his only focus now to stop his frustration from boiling over.

The man held his arms to his sides, his gaze narrowed as he moved his attention to Julia. "This guy bothering you? You okay?"

"She's fine." Irvin exhaled hard through his nose, reminding himself to keep his composure.

"I think the lady can speak for herself." He took a step closer to Julia but Irvin took a step closer to him to block him.

Irvin peered through the dark lenses of the man's glasses to try and get his point across. "Fuck. Off." His jaw was clenched so tight, the words came out like a ventriloquist's.

The two were now face to face, though Irvin was a few inches taller. That didn't stop the other man from backing away as he looked Irvin up and down. "You wanna take this outside?"

Irvin could only stop from rolling his eyes halfway. One finger in this idiot's neck and removing his head would've been a simple movement. Of course, he couldn't do that. Not because he didn't want to though.

The man frowned as he stared back at Irvin. "Pretty boy. Look at you. You're on the wrong side of town. Why don't you go back Uptown and go take your money elsewhere."

"How about I—" Before Irvin could finish, he felt someone standing next to him. Just as tall as him. A tight black t-shirt to accentuate his science-assisted physique. Shaved head. Tattoos up and down from his arms to his neck. And a cold demeanor to match. Why did all club security look the same wherever you went?

"No aggression in the club." The security guard crossed his arms and switched between Irvin and the other man.

"It was him!" The man in the black glasses pointed at Irvin like a child in primary school. "He started this! It's true! He was threatening me!"

Before Irvin could respond, a hand was on his bicep. "Come with me." The security guard stared at Irvin, who responded in kind. For a moment, he respected that the man was willing to die. That day wasn't today though. At least, not by Irvin's hand.

The security guard turned his attention to the man in the black shades. "You're next if you try anything."

The man put his hands up and sheepishly walked to the bar.

Ideas began running through Irvin's head. He wasn't sure where the security guard was taking him. But he wasn't going to be able observe the crowd like he'd wanted. So much for blending-in.

As Irvin was led away, he turned and looked at the woman still standing next to the wall. There was someone else though. Another woman approaching Julia. Before Irvin could make the stranger out clearly, he was forced to turn the corner.

 

[LaPieta]

Hm. He might be attempting a scam of some sort; it was a common tactic amongst salespeople and scammers to press for urgency without a legitimate need for it. Nevertheless, as this stranger was approached, she attempted to press her card into his hand, blank except for her work cell’s number. It wouldn’t do to risk sources being compromised; a different, more informative set of cards was kept at her home to see use for more official networking ventures. The woman gave what she hoped was a placatory smile to the instigator, replying,

“I’m okay; thank you though.”

It must be nice to feel powerful enough to pick fights—or escalate them. Julia wouldn’t know. She was disregarded anyways, her role as less a person and more leverage in their conflict evident from the start. As the bouncer approached, she skirted away from the brewing fight, unwilling to risk either compromise or a stray fist.

And bumped right into another woman. A small one; if she was not here under the auspices of a fake ID she had to have been barely 21. Shaking hands belied a smile that on further scrutiny seemed desperately wide. Heightened cheer suffused her voice as she addressed Julia, “Becky! Oh my gosh, it’s been so. Freakin’. Long. How’ve you been?”

The confusion that drew across Julia’s features was not faked, but the subsequent smile was, as a looming gentleman soon approached to linger at the edges of their conversation. Ah. The reporter dropped readily into the patter.

“It has! I’ve been doing well; what’ve you been up to?”

Over the course of a lengthy conversation, an entire fabricated history was woven between the women: Julia was now “Becky”, who had been a teaching assistant in the still-unnamed woman’s Psych 101 class. Despite the difference in rank they had struck a fast friendship, though the change in semester and courses had reduced the opportunities to meet up.

Things continued in that vein as the outsider lurked. It took an extended anecdote on Julia’s part about the lengthy and convoluted woes of her fictional cocker spaniel’s numerous and protracted health issues to finally banish him to the greater dance floor.

Yes, it must be nice to feel confident in one’s ability to risk conflict and come out unscathed.

Their talk continued for a token time after, and it was only after making sure that the loomer was not in eyeshot that Julia dropped the facade.

“Be careful getting home; if you’re parked, ask a bouncer to escort you to the car. If ridesharing, make sure it’s the car in question.” The younger woman gave a grateful nod, and after another look across the venue, darted to the exit.

Julia wished the youth well, whoever she actually was. And hopefully the conversation had helped establish her presence in the club; there was still business to attend to. She strolled along the edges of the dance floor and approached the bar, leaning casually atop the cold marble of the bartop. Laminate floors and marble counters—strange priorities.

A man closest in appearance to that of an uncooked pancake served the drinkers with an avuncular cheer, lingering in conversation with some. The reporter waited for a lull before signalling him.

“Hey, were you working three nights ago? I need to ask whoever was a few things.”

The bartender assessed her with a chill that seemed so at odds with the earlier friendliness she had seen him dispensing to the customers. His next words came out slowly. “I wasn’t, but Krissy was; she’s on break, having a smoke. I’ll bring you to her, let you gals talk out what you need to.”

Something sat ill about how quickly he had made the jump to Overreacting—or more unlikely, reacting appropriately—to the feeling of something being off would only shut down avenues. Oddness was too plausibly deniable, made it too easy for the protestor to be painted as an unreasonable persecutor. The commonality of the latter certainly did not help in having one’s concerns taken seriously. Made that young woman take the approach she had.

Julia followed. They wound through a small and tidy kitchen, then a storeroom, before exiting to a backlot enclosed by the backs of unfeeling brick buildings, tall enough to cage the sky. One outdoor light shone above the steel exit door, and leaning against the wall to its side was a woman, smoking. With a slow drag from the cigarette, she gave a confused smile to the pair of them.

And then Julia was ruptured. A vice-grip from behind wrapped around her throat and choked like a flesh-wrapped bar of iron. But that was ancillary to the pain that gouged at her very fundaments, an intrusion searing cold fire and lancet-sharpness into her back.

Her heart’s blood was leaking from her, a sticky warmth seeping from her skin to soak her clothes and the bartender behind her. Consciousness began to leak with it. Even the sparse movement of her hand to her pocket, through the cut within to grab the thigh-strapped gun was heavy. Gauze began to fall over the world.

But in one final heave that had her chest juddering with deep sea-diver sounds, the brunette managed to heft the gun from its holster and twist her arm to fire at the mass of muscle and sweat behind her. For four shots, she managed to hold on as it rattled up her wrist.

She did not see who or what they hit. If anything.

 

[Victor Hawk]

Irvin was escorted down the darkened hallway by the security guard. He was still thinking about the woman, so distracted that he didn't even notice the second guard that had moved to his other side. Not that it mattered. It could've been one or dozen and he'd have to play along with it regardless.

There was a noticeable amount of cameras in the hall along with more roaming guards. Secrets were being kept here but there was plausible deniability considering all of the clientele. Irvin stopped trying to sort out the possibilities in his head, instead waiting for his trip to the opposite end of the club to come to an end.

They finally arrived to a door near the end of a hall. One of the guards pushed it open. A sleek office. A luxurious open space. An indecent sex dungeon. A tasteful sex dungeon. Irvin was prepared for anything. Anything except for where he found himself.

A storage closet. It was nearly empty except for a few racks with cleaning supplies. There was single ceiling light that gave the room an amber hue. And it cast shadows over the face of the man standing at the center of the room.

The stranger was in a gray suit. Vest. Pocket square. Blood red tie that matched his shirt. And it all fit his slim frame too well, so it was clearly tailored. His hair was jet black, wet and slicked back over his head. The lighting gave his pale skin an almost golden color that matched the intensity in his eyes, which had deep bags amplified by the light hanging right above him.

The guards jerked Irvin forward, holding each of his arms as they stood him right in front of the well-tailored man. The man had an arrogant air, looking down his nose at Irvin. His eyes shifted up and down but his head didn't move as he gave a thorough visual examination.

"What are you doing here?"

There were a dozen ways to answer the question. The truth wasn't going to be one of them.

"What?" It seemed appropriate. Technically, Irvin's response was truthful. A question so open-ended deserved an open-ended response.

"What are you doing here?" The man in the suit continued to play the game. If there was anything Irvin hated, it was playing games. Even if they were necessary.

"I'm just looking for a good time." Any response was as good as another.

"Is that right? And does a good time include threatening my patrons?"

"I like it rough." Irvin couldn't help himself. He thought it was funny even though nobody in the room was laughing.

The other man was unmoving. He continued staring at Irvin as if wondering what to do with him. Whatever his decision, it was unlikely that it would be friendly. His eyes suddenly peered down to Irvin's hand and noticed it was cuffed slightly. He reached out and snatched the card in it. Irvin was so distracted he didn't even realize he was holding it this entire time.

The man in the suit looked at the card. It was just a phone number but he examined it like it was the key to an ancient puzzle. It took him nearly a minute before finally turning his attention back to Irvin.

"I don't appreciate anybody giving my place a reputation for violence. Get him out of my club." The order to his guards came with a blank stare.

There was a moment's hesitation. Irvin had a choice. Violence was an option. It always was. But violence wouldn't get him any of the answers he was looking for. Neither would pleading. And neither would the truth. He'd had his moment to decide and it was gone as the security guards tugged his arms to take him away.

Another long walk down another series of hallways led to another door. It was pushed open and Irvin was shoved outside. As Irvin regained his footing, the steel door had already slammed shut behind him. The stench of the alley filled his nostrils, amplified by the soft drizzle. He looked up at the night sky and sighed.

If the answer he was looking for wasn't in that club, there was at least a clue. He needed something—anything—to give him a lead.

He looked left and right to see if there were anybody else in the alley and only found a couple of cats digging through dumpster scraps. He scaled the brick wall with his natural agility and moved to the top of the building opposite of the club. His watch began again, taking his sentry position and scanning for anything out of the ordinary.

It didn't take long before he felt it. It was a smell. It always started with a smell. A pungent aroma foul enough to draw his attention. He jerked his head just as it happened.

Four gunshots ringing into the night. A figure black as the night itself moving through the darkness of the alley.

"Shit." His muttering was as instinctive as the rest of his body as he moved into action.

 

[LaPieta]

The attacker dashed Julia against the concrete with an enraged "fuck". No longer was the knife intruding between her ribs, but that only let her life spill more freely. More blood than just hers filled the air now, the scene playing out beneath Irvin's gaze.

"Jesus Christ Alan; the fuck?" Jolting from a lean, the smoking woman's—Krissy's, presumably—gaze darted between the wounded bartender and the dying Julia. He clutched at his shoulder, pained but unperturbed, before responding.

"Get the boss—we got her. She's done. Just gotta take care of the body."

Krissy nodded, darting back into the club—closely followed by a bleeding Alan.

This was lost on Julia. The world had been reduced to the trench that had been gouged into her back. Stones weighed down her limbs, sat in her belly; they bore her down so that merely dragging her body those few inches into the dark wrought the weariness of miles. Conscious thought could no longer be sustained.

Panic flooded her as the pain began to numb, but that, too, was distant. Painlessness in such a state meant that there was too little life left in her to feel. Her soul was beginning to untether.

To Irvin's hearing, the drumming of her heart feebled, slowed; palsied. Julia turned onto her back to look to the sky, though sight was nearly beyond her. A puddle pooled beneath her, hair fanning and floating atop the water whose depths now held a bloom of red. Rain soaked through the woman with a wet-bone cold, and in the chiaroscuro contrast of the club's light and the backlot's dark, one might mistake her for an Ophelia painting. Her eyes twitched with each drop of the storm that hit them.

There was a figure on the roof. Perhaps a psychopomp, or a comforting hallucination. Either would be nice. No one should have to be entirely alone when death took them—only alone in the ways that all things are at that time. Even the latter was cruel though. Too cruel.

Those quicksilver eyes had dulled to lead, but they fixed onto Irvin. With the dregs of her strength, Julia reached a slender, faltering hand in his direction, desperation shining in her eyes.

Though Alan's blood sullied the air, to the vampire, Julia's was nigh-narcotic.