Re: Amadeus & Hounds
She had come. For the record, this was definitely not the best night ever. But hey, good news, a Toreador was there for distraction, to pull eyes from their seep on the fire, over to elsewhere. And a toreador was definitely making people look away. And making them think what they were looking at was the coolest thing ever. Because what they were looking at instead of the guttering of swooping ash and flame, was her. And she had, thankfully, somehow managed to have the impeccable intuitive urge to bedeck herself in something very subtle. Something, one might even venture to say, that had been understated. It did help keep the warmer, living bloodmeat from pulsing their big-eyed gazes where they shouldn’t be. They listened when she told them to fuck off. To go home. That they hadn't seen anything, really. Presence could be so fucking useful. In fact, it affected the entire city block like scented garden smoke, making anybody susceptible to it unable to escape the yank of the discipline. She felt like the pied fucking piper, but obviously way better dressed.
Of course, she’d gotten the call in the midst of sucking some stupid boy dry and telling him he’d forget everything and would start watching season one of Preacher, because the show was fucking amazing and the crazy vampire in it was definitely not hot, except he kinda was because he was crazy. Anyway. Claudia had shown up. Though, she was across the street. Helping with the mind-stuff.
She did, however, wave with the tiniest invitation of a mournful, understanding sullen-smile at anybody who caught a glimpse of her.
She’d liked this place, and the woman who ran it. A lot. But she had to pretend that the sight of the turmoil did not madden her, did not hurt in her tired, old bones.