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maderrI really really really like this. Granted, after about a week I'd probably start bitching about housework.
But it would be good-natured bitching. This is the life I want - staying home and writing. Flexible hours that let me control each day when I get up and when I go to bed. Balancing writing with work that makes me feel useful. I like having my own house and the energy to maintain it. I've written more in the past few days than I have in the past couple of months. I'm dreading going back to work Thursday.
I guess this means I have to work that much harder at becoming a published (and highly successful *snort*) writer.
*A/N* These are all pretty rough, so forgive errors and any inconsistencies that I haven't fixed yet ^^;
Sworn Duty
This is part of an anthology-esque thing I'll present once *all* the stories are done. I was toying with the idea of putting it in print, but I don't know yet. Would it sell? And I still don't know how yet to go about it. We'll see - I'll probably just cave and put it online, as I abhor taking money from people I know.
The Cathedral of Twilight was carved from white marble. Every day it was meticulously cleaned, until looking at it directly while the sun was high singed the eyes. It was built on a cliff, overlooking the world below, far from the reach of all but those who truly sought to visit. Far below was the rush of a waterfall, falling into the Lake of the Lost Princess.
Carved into the front, just below the window that displayed the Lost Princess in colored glass, were two stars and a crescent moon, forming the three points of a triangle. One star was gold, one black, the crescent moon was white. The Guide Marks, denoting the three landmarks that were the pillars of the kingdom - the white Cathedral of Twilight, the gold Aurora Palace, and the black Castle of Midnight.
Up the steps, past the doors carved from the same tree that made the doors to the throne room of the royal palace, the Cathedral was darkness. The antechamber between the entrance and the sanctuary ensured that sunlight never invaded.
The pews that filled the sanctuary were carved from a rich, dark walnut. The walls and floor were carved from black marble, the tapestries and altar cloths made from dark violet silk. The candles lining the isles were muted by violet glass, and throughout the chamber was the smell of incense, sweet with a hint of something sharp and bitter.
On the altar was a bowl of black marble; it seemed almost alive in the strange flickering of violet light. Halfway between the altar and the doorway stood a man in long, dark violet robes. A black silk cord cinched the robes closed, though a heavy ring of keys weighed it down. His face and hair were almost entirely hidden by a cowl, his hands respectfully tucked into the sleeves of his robe.
Beyond him, right before the altar, was a woman.
She knelt on one knee, her fingers splayed to give her balance, head bowed low. Her words were the only ones spoken, the only to break the somber silence, too soft and distorted by echoes for anyone to understand them.
Her hair was bright gold, neatly plaited and wrapped three times around the back of her head. Jewels sparkled between the plaits where the weak light caught them, shreds of starlight in the dark sanctuary. Matching gems shimmered at her ears. Around her pooled a cloak of deep scarlet, a contrast to the violet that surrounded her. It hid from the light her breastplate, and the plating that covered her fore and upper arms, her legs.
Even in the unrelenting gloom she was beautiful. Her eyes were dark, perhaps blue or brown, set into a face that looked as though it was lifted from a painting, or perhaps a statue. Her lips moved as she prayed, pleading with the Princess whose spirit was said to dwell in the Cathedral that never saw the sun.
As her words faded into silence, the bowl on the alter shook, shivered, before silver flames erupted from it, burning so brightly that the monks hiding in the darker recesses turned away to shield their sensitive eyes. Only the woman and the man behind her did not flinch, waiting in unmoving silence as the silver flames burned, flared brighter, and abruptly died.
The sanctuary felt colder than it had before, but tension eased from the woman's frame as she rose to her feet. Her sword clanked against her side as she stood straight, and she allowed the High Priest to assist her, his fingers curled around her arm in an attempt to steady her. She ignored the clink of his ring against her armor.
"It actually worked…" her words were soft, for loud words never carried in the Cathedral.
The High Priest's deep cowl bobbed, as if he were nodding. "Yes. But it comes with a heavy price."
"I am naught but a shield and sword. If I have it within me to pay the price, then that price I must - and will - pay," the woman whispered. Her face was heavy as she gazed at the altar, eyes full of trepidation and old sadness. "I knew the price the day I was named the 112th Duchess of Ebonholz."
The cowl moved again; the priest was shaking his head. "Would that we all were as brave as you. We will pray your death is painless and swift." He stepped up to the altar and took from the black bowl a small, tear-shaped stone. It shifted in color as he turned it in his hand, one moment green, the next rose, then violet, now blue. Gingerly he pressed it into the Duchess's leather-clad hand.
"That would be appreciated," the Duchess said in another quiet whisper as she turned from the altar, secreting the stone on her person. "Though I fear they will go unheeded. My enemies wait in the woods below."
The priest's voice, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere in the large chamber, was full of regret and pain. "Is there none to help you?"
"There is none," she said. "To take a guard would have slowed me down and given me away too soon." She looked at the High Priest. "And in these times there are few I still trust. But all will be well; the Lost Princess ever protects her descendants. And should I fall, another will rise to protect him."
A pale hand reached out to her, offering. Hesitating a moment, the Duchess nodded to herself and stripped off the glove of her left hand. On the middle finger was a silver ring, set with a white stone much like those in her hair and ears.
It matched the one on the priest's finger. "Isabella…"
She shook her head, ignored the tear that traced down her cheek.
He nodded, deep in the shadow of his hood, squeezed her hand and stepped away. "I will pray, and someday I will see you again, and perhaps then you will not be made to love another."
"Goodbye, Vale," the Duchess whispered, pulling her black leather glove back on. "I will see you again, and then I promise you will be the only one." She turned away before he could keep her longer, scarlet cloak flaring out behind her as she left the cool dark of the Cathedral of Twilight.
He loved the smell of the forest in the morning. It smelled fresh, of dew and earth and early sunlight. Only a few birds chirped, intermingled with the swishing of the leaves in the cool morning breeze. Sunlight was only a hazy, grayish light, and he relished it. The solitude, the cool, he felt alone in paradise.
Certainly none of the others ever bothered to get up before they had to, the lazy louts.
Sheba hummed an old hymn as he continued to walk, occasionally reaching up to brush back strands of his chin-length dark brown hair. His green eyes were clear, bright; he loved the earliest hours of the morning, something that confounded his schoolmates, who preferred the night hours - though only because carousing before breakfast was a tad more difficult than after work.
He came to a halt at the sound of a crash, waiting to see if it would be a bear or a deer that came through the brush.
It was a woman.
Sheba gasped, choked, as the woman stumbled toward him. She was bathed in blood, more than a bit of it dried and sticky on her clothes and armor. The emblem, beneath the grime, was unmistakable. A white star, a gold star and a black diamond forming the points of a triangle, the diamond in the lower left.
Her hair was matted with blood and dirt, filled with twigs and leaves; barely anything was left of the neat plaits it had once been in. Her blue eyes were dark, hazy. Sheba caught her clumsily as she stumbled forward into his arms. He knelt, holding her against his chest. "You are the Duchess…"
"I am dying," she choked out, holding a hand to her side. "I could not stop them all; not so many." She coughed, blood coating her lips and teeth, mixing with that which had already dried from a cut on her cheek. "You…you must…" She lifted her other hand, forcing whatever she held into his palm. "Take it to him."
"But-but I am not fit!" Sheba shook his head, mind frozen and broken in panic and fear. "I am but a student, a poor peasant."
"I was but a peddler's daughter!" the woman cried, and suddenly Sheba could see the tears mixed in with the blood. She gripped his hand, fingers slick with her own fresh, bright red blood. "I was but nineteen, and engaged to a priest." She released his hand and grasped the rough material of his tunic. "We do not choose it, student. The Duty chooses us." Her eyes were half-wild as she looked at him.
Silence fell and slowly Sheba nodded. "As the Lost Princess wills it."
The Duchess was still crying. "I came before."
"I will come after," Sheba said, not knowing how he knew what to say.
"I was one hundred and twelfth."
"I will be one hundred and thirteen."
"I protected him," the Duchess whispered.
"As will I protect him. I swear it on the Black Stone of Ebonholz, and the soul of the Lost Princess."
The Duchess nodded, and her face seemed to ease of pain. "They are a day behind me; it was the best I could do."
"Rest, Isabella the peddler's daughter," Sheba said softly, holding her close. "Rest and be at peace." He remained there several minutes after her last breath had ceased, broken mind coming back together in a way that was more confusing than ever.
All knew the stories that surrounded the Ebonholz, sworn protectors of the royal family.
But that's all they were - stories. Stories of their humble origins, their mysterious appearances, how one could not die until the next was found.
"Only stories…"
But mere stories could not explain the knowledge that suddenly filled his mind, the familiar way his hands worked to undo the sword belt from the dead woman's hips, to strip her of the other things he would need for his unexpected journey and wrap all in her cloak. The prayer that set her body aflame as he fled.
How he knew where to go in the forest, when he had never before strayed from the path created by the school.
Nor how he knew that somewhere, many miles and several days travel away, a man with pale amber eyes and a sad smile waited in a bed of pale cream silk for his return, his life draining away a little more each day.
His heart hurt, to know that man was in pain. Rumors had flown about the prince being ill, but until that moment Sheba had not known he was dying.
It was his duty to save Prince Eduard of the House of Dammerung.
He paused as he came to a brook and knelt to drink, hoping the motion and water would calm his nerves. It didn't, not really, but the cold washed away some of the fog lingering in his head. Standing, he stripped off the dark brown robe that was the mark of a student. The long, shapeless robe would only get in his way. In just faded leggings and a homespun, threadbare shirt, he unwrapped the cloak and laid out the objects he'd taken from Isabella.
A black leather sword belt, which he wrapped twice around his hips with a practiced motion that scared him. He lifted the sword, filled with a mixture of confusion and pleasure. It was a beautiful sword, the blade long and double edged. The pommel was black crystal, overlaid with silver wire. The scabbard was black as well, tooled with the diamond crest of Ebonholz.
A skin of water, materials for building fires, and a sack of foods suitable for swift travel. Settling all on his belt, double-checking his sword, he reluctantly swung the bloody, mud-soaked scarlet cloak up and around his shoulders. He set off into the woods again, ever attentive for the sounds of those who would be after him when they realized that though the Duchess was dead, a Duke pressed on.
Midsummer's Moon
This comes after the last snippet I posted. Still really really rough >_> as I don't know quite how I want to go about the whole thing. It'll get better as things settle in my mind.
Peter was simultaneously startled and soothed by the familiar click of claws on hardwood and linoleum. He looked up and smiled, nostalgia mixing with the excitement of seeing a new wolf.
And Lowell made for a pretty wolf, just as Peter had known he would. It wasn't just in the fact that he was plenty handsome. It was in the muscles and the discipline, the way he'd seemed almost half-wild in his fear and nervousness, the way he laughed only when everyone else was laughing. All of it no doubt built by the hard life that was painfully familiar to far too many werewolves.
Peter slid off his chair and knelt on the floor, stretching out his hands as the wolf approached. In its yellow eyes he could see an awareness that wasn't natural to wolves. Lowell wasn't entirely himself but he wasn't completely wolf either. So his tonic had worked on Low with no problems.
Wolf Lowell was a mix of cream and a reddish-brown, the fur rough but softer than that of a truly wild wolf would be. On the large side for a wolf, but because of the tonic as friendly as a puppy. Lowell butted at his hands in a sort of acknowledgement, then made for the back door.
Peter opened it before the wolf could do any damage, snatching up his coat before following him outside. He glared once they reached the front yard. "I thought I told the two of you to stay inside."
Sally beamed, clutching a plate of raw steak like another woman would present a tray of cookies. "We wanted to come say hello."
Jordan pointed at his wife. "She made me." He grunted as his wife stamped on his foot, and fell silent.
Ignoring the two men, Sally kneeled on the grass and set the platter down in front of an inquisitive Lowell. "He's so cute!"
"I bet you say that to all the wild animals," Peter replied.
"Only my husband and this cutie here." Sally stuck her tongue out. "You're passable I suppose, Mad Scientist."
Peter rolled his eyes, "Isn't it time for you to leave yet?"
"Speaking of yets," Sally said as she stood up, brushing grass and dirt from her bright green and yellow skirt. "Have you said or done anything yet, or are you just giving him little looks when he's not paying attention?"
"Sally!" Peter hissed. "Behave!"
"What?" Sally flicked her fingers at him impatiently. "Forgive the pun, but all this mooning isn't going to get you anywhere."
Peter flicked his gaze to Lowell, who had finished his meat and was exploring Sally's skirt in the hopes of finding more. "Good, because I'm not trying to get anywhere. He can't be more than 20, 21. Stacey was my last mistake, I won't do that to Lowell. And whoever said I was mooning?"
"Oh, please." Jordan snickered. "He's exactly your type - and you never deliberate. You're the fall fast type."
"And you have room to talk how? Or did you forget, Mr. I Will Wander Aimlessly Forever, that while Sally wasn't giving you the time of day I gave you a place to crash?"
Jordan just grinned. "How do you think I recognize the type? He is awful cute; one little word from you and you'd have a keeper I bet. Not like Stacey. That boy always did reek of trouble."
"Yeah, yeah." Peter's voice was bitter. "He would have stayed if I hadn't dragged the experiments into it."
"He would have stayed longer, but in the end, Petey, he'd still be gone."
Peter let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Anyway. I don't want to give Low one little word - he shouldn't just settle for the first good thing to happen to him. He can do far better than a mad scientist." He shook his head suddenly and glared darkly at the vampires. "Why am I discussing this? He's been here barely three weeks. It's not an option. Jeez, he may as well be a kid."
Sally stooped to pet the wolf that had was still searching for more food, having gone back to make sure he'd licked the plate completely clean. "This doesn't look like a pup to me. He really is a pretty one, isn't he?"
"Yes," Peter agreed reluctantly. "A full-blooded werewolf."
"Aren't they all? Sort of the problem with the curse?"
"Not necessarily." Peter shook his head. "My father was human. That's why my brother was a wolf but I wasn't." He looked as though he would say something else, but opted not to in the end. "Connor's wolf form was a bit smaller than Low's."
Jordan looked thoughtful. "So size is indicative of…purity of wolf?"
"Well, it’s not much different than a dog that's half wolf - almost but not quite as good as full-blooded wolf. But yes, size is generally an indication of the strength of the blood. I doubt Low has a single drop of human blood in him."
Sally lifted a brow at that. "Is that rare?"
"Quite." He watched as Peter began to pad across the yard toward the street. "I had wondered, but given what little I know of his history I doubt he knew."
"Is it relevant somehow? Or just a professional curiosity?"
"Relevant," Peter said tiredly. "It means that even if I do find a cure, it probably won't work on him."
Sally and Jordan winced. "Poor thing," Sally murmured. "He wants so bad to be normal - werewolves really have it rough. I've never seen a species so determined to wipe itself out."
Lowell hit the street and picked up his pace, tongue lolling as he quickly traveled away from the house. Peter cursed and chases after him, calling over his shoulder to the vampires. "Don't do anything while I'm gone! I mean it!"
It was about two miles into town, and lord only knew how much traveling Lowell would do once they reached town. He'd once spent an entire night wandering around following Connor - they hadn't gotten home until a good three hours after sunrise. He really hoped they wouldn't be gone that long.
He looked up as a beat up red pick up slowed down to a crawl beside him. "Ev'ning, Doc. That your new boy there?" A man with bushy blonde hair and a beard to match motioned to the wolf that was ambling several yards ahead, though periodically he stopped to wait for Peter to catch up.
"Yes, it is." Peter smiled. "Coming back from the city?"
"Yep, we just finished delivering." The man looked at the wolf again, speaking idly with the driver, who looked like a younger, beardless version of him. "Stop on by the house later, Doc. Les had a pie she wanted to give you, and we could find a snack for the wolf. What was his name again?"
"Lowell," Peter said. "And that's kind of you. I'm sure we'll be out your way before the night is out. Tell Leslie I said hello."
"Sure will, Doc." The man nodded to himself. "Nice wolf - good to see a real one 'round again. See you later, Doc." With that, the two men waved and took off down the road, turning right at the intersection.
Peter shook his head and laughed softly to himself. "Poor Low. There's no way they're going to let you hide away now." He continued to walk idly behind the curious, eager werewolf as he led them into town.
Midsummer's Night was small, only a few thousand people. And as they reached it, more than a few were already in the street, hanks of meat in hand to feed the werewolf that eagerly approached.
"Y'all are acting like you've never seen a werewolf before."
An older woman with curly gray hair laughed as she petted Lowell's heavy coat. "We haven't, not in a long, long time. That other one you had for a bit never came out. Petey, he's lovely. Even more amazing than your mother was. Is he going to be staying awhile? It's been so long…"
Peter shrugged. "I've told him to stay as long as he wants, Vee. It's up to him."
"We'll make sure he stays. Won't we girls?" Around Vee, several women of varying ages nodded.
"If you keep stuffing him like a turkey," Peter said dryly. "He'll certainly be unable to go anywhere."
A man of about twenty laughed as the wolf licked his hand for any remaining traces of meat. "Lots friendlier than that other one - he always had a mean look. This one is as bad as a puppy. Your doing, Petey?"
"Yeah," Peter said softly.
An old, balding man nodded approvingly. "Even when you were little, you helped make things easier for your family. It'll be good to have a werewolf around again. Too many of those damned creatures from the hills have been picking cattle off again. They smell the wolf, they'll back off."
Peter laughed. "I'll be sure to tell Low that you'll be putting him to work. He'll be happy to be of help." His laughter faded into a smile as the wolf wandered his way, nose pushing at his hand. "He doesn't like being idle."
"Then tell the boy to stop hiding away in the house and come visit as a person."
"Yes," a whispy voice said from behind Pete. "We've been dying to meet him."
"Ha ha ha." Peter rolled his eyes as he turned. "Ghosts shouldn't make dead jokes, Cherry."
The ghost in question, a pale, faded image of the living young woman she once had been, gave a whispy laugh. "Who better to make them?"
Fire and Ice
Playing with Mickey and Tybalt before I go back and add Tyb's POV to Eyes This may eventually get scrapped, I don't know. I'm toying with the exact nature of their friendship - I know at least that they'd never go further than this.For all that they give each other holy hell, they're really good friends. The shots they're doing, same name as the title, is one a friend had me try a while a back. Technically you do a shot of something cinnamon - we used goldschlager, followed by a shot of mint - peppermint schnapps is what we used (I think). It's very *very* yummy and I thought it suited these two.
Mickey let the woman in red satin and lace take his coat and brush his cheek with a welcoming kiss. She smelled like roses, cigar smoke and her breath had a taste of amaretto. "Hey, Julie."
"Mickey. Didn't know you were coming to the club tonight. Something wrong?"
"Only the usual. My man Shakespeare will be coming shortly. Show him to our table, yeah?"
"Yeah, babe. Sure thing." Julie gave him a genuine smile and watched wistfully as Mickey left the entry way. Brushing away an errant strand of dyed mahogany hair, she hung up his coat, pressing a sleeve to her nose and inhaling deeply of his cologne, something spicy with a hint of some strange sweet - she'd never known another guy to wear anything like it.
Inside the club, Mickey took a deep breath and released it a slow, weary sigh. Around him the club was vibrating with bass and music that urged you to rub and grind against the nearest willing partner.
Mickey wasn't in the mood. The glitz and glamour of the club wasn't his flavor tonight - it really only was as a matter of business. Tonight wasn't business. He'd had enough of that. Tomorrow morning would see him tracking down one more problem and putting a stop to it. So tonight he got a break.
Everything was dark, shadowed. Purple and silver was the general impression, with dark woods for the bar and tables. Carefully arranged lights lent the stunning women on stage a mysterious, untouchable air as they danced for the men watching them. Girls in lace floated, offering drinks and the occasional touch to the customers. Smoke lingered in the air, mixing with perfume and cologne and sweat.
Mickey bypassed it all, heading through a door at the back into much quieter rooms. Only the bass, a distant, quiet throbbing, made any impact in the space. Carefully arranged, secluded tables dotted the room, which was like the front room arranged with purples and silvers. The room was almost black, nothing more than small lamps at each table lending light. Who the various occupants were, no one could or would say.
The general policy at Decadence was no questions asked as long as no trouble was caused.
Nodding at the waitress who appeared ghost-like before his table, Mickey murmured for his usual and gave her a smile. After she'd gone, he slouched in his seat. Their usual table was a booth in a back corner, circular and almost entirely cut off from the rest of the room. The bass throbbed in his chest, only adding to the other-worldly feel of the club. In here, he was as far away from out there as he could get. Decadence managed it better than any club to which he'd ever been. It was the reason the Azura Syndicate had placed it's name and protection over the club.
And why they felt perfectly safe and content to take a break.
Mickey looked up as a man slide into the booth and around to sit right next to him. Dropping his head, Mickey placed a soft kiss on Tybalt's cheekbone. "Hey, Sugarsnap."
"Hey, yourself. Thought you were supposed to be headed for the Caribbean."
"Not until tomorrow morning. Flight's at six forty five."
Tybalt laughed softly, the sound a rare one for the too-serious young man. "Mick, it's almost one am."
Mickey grinned and shrugged, "Yeah, well. If someone's flight hadn't been behind schedule, we could've gotten together sooner."
"Yeah, yeah. I control a lot, but not the airlines. Mores the pity." Tybalt smiled faintly, and fell silent as the waitress reappeared. Before them she set down two heavy bottles and two shot glasses.
Rebecca winked, "On the house boys."
"Thanks, sweetie." Mickey winked back. "Would you like one for the road?"
The waitress laughed. "Not while I'm on the clock, and anyway you know my boy will get jealous if he hears I took a shot from you." Winking again, Rebecca scurried off to attend to other customers.
Tybalt shook his head, tsking softly. "Can't you go five minutes?"
"Why bother? There's no harm in flirting."
"Whatever."
"So how'd you get off the Boston job so soon?"
Tybalt gave a soft snort. "His daughter was responsible. Open shut affair, no real brains necessary to figure that one out."
Mickey grimaced, "How droll. But I guess I shouldn't expect too much. That much good looking, there's bound to be an absence of intelligence."
"And what about you?" Tybalt asked with a short laugh as he latched onto the bottle and shot glass nearest him. Twisting it open, he filled the shot glass with a clear alcohol. The sharp, cool scent of mint filled the air around them.
"What about me?"
"You're hot enough most wouldn't have let you leave your mother's side. But you've got brains aplenty when you want to use them."
Mickey laughed. "A compliment, sugarsnap? You haven't even imbibed yet. And all my looks and talent, I get no life. That's the price I pay. Same as you." Into his own shotglass, Mickey poured a clear alcohol - but if you looked closer, there were flecks of gold in it. Mingling with the mint now was the hot, spicy smell of cinnamon.
"I'm paying for something else."
"Yeah, but it'll end eventually. And then you'll find a sugar daddy romeo and I'll have no one left to mope with."
Tybalt's laugh was bitter and sad. "You really need to brush up on your plays, idiot. Tybalt dies a backstabbing bastard - and alone. Tragedy means no happy ending. Speaking of tragedies - how goes things with your Romeo?"
"Not well, same as ever."
Tybalt nodded. "I'm sorry."
"You and me both," Mickey muttered. "I have exquisite taste in everything but love. But enough of that sad, boring tale." He lifted his shot glass. "To you and me, Tyb." Tilting his head back, he downed the shot. The taste of cinnamon filled his mouth, burning as it slid down his throat. He grinned at Tybalt and refilled his glass, setting the full shot aside for later.
Tybalt licked his lips and refilled his as well, relishing the icy wash of mint. He leaned forward right as Mickey did, hand reaching up to curl around the back of his neck, fingers grasping at the so-soft curls of Mickey's fine blonde hair. A warm hand curled around his waist as their lips pressed together, nibbling, playing, sharing a breath before kissing deeper, tongues sharing and mixing the tastes of cinnamon and mint, fire and ice.
"Life would be easier," Mickey said as he pulled away just far enough to speak. "If we could just fall in love with each other."
Tybalt reached up to twin his other arm around Mickey's neck, dragging him further down, pressing them both deeper into the deep, plush seats of the booth. "Life is never that easy. 'Sides, anyone can be your lover, Mickey. I'd rather be your friend."
"You too, Tyb." Mickey kissed him hard, deep. "Pulling back slightly, he downed his second shot as Tybalt reached for his, then leaned back down for another kiss, hot clashing with cold and leaving them both breathless.
But it would be good-natured bitching. This is the life I want - staying home and writing. Flexible hours that let me control each day when I get up and when I go to bed. Balancing writing with work that makes me feel useful. I like having my own house and the energy to maintain it. I've written more in the past few days than I have in the past couple of months. I'm dreading going back to work Thursday.
I guess this means I have to work that much harder at becoming a published (and highly successful *snort*) writer.
*A/N* These are all pretty rough, so forgive errors and any inconsistencies that I haven't fixed yet ^^;
Sworn Duty
This is part of an anthology-esque thing I'll present once *all* the stories are done. I was toying with the idea of putting it in print, but I don't know yet. Would it sell? And I still don't know how yet to go about it. We'll see - I'll probably just cave and put it online, as I abhor taking money from people I know.
The Cathedral of Twilight was carved from white marble. Every day it was meticulously cleaned, until looking at it directly while the sun was high singed the eyes. It was built on a cliff, overlooking the world below, far from the reach of all but those who truly sought to visit. Far below was the rush of a waterfall, falling into the Lake of the Lost Princess.
Carved into the front, just below the window that displayed the Lost Princess in colored glass, were two stars and a crescent moon, forming the three points of a triangle. One star was gold, one black, the crescent moon was white. The Guide Marks, denoting the three landmarks that were the pillars of the kingdom - the white Cathedral of Twilight, the gold Aurora Palace, and the black Castle of Midnight.
Up the steps, past the doors carved from the same tree that made the doors to the throne room of the royal palace, the Cathedral was darkness. The antechamber between the entrance and the sanctuary ensured that sunlight never invaded.
The pews that filled the sanctuary were carved from a rich, dark walnut. The walls and floor were carved from black marble, the tapestries and altar cloths made from dark violet silk. The candles lining the isles were muted by violet glass, and throughout the chamber was the smell of incense, sweet with a hint of something sharp and bitter.
On the altar was a bowl of black marble; it seemed almost alive in the strange flickering of violet light. Halfway between the altar and the doorway stood a man in long, dark violet robes. A black silk cord cinched the robes closed, though a heavy ring of keys weighed it down. His face and hair were almost entirely hidden by a cowl, his hands respectfully tucked into the sleeves of his robe.
Beyond him, right before the altar, was a woman.
She knelt on one knee, her fingers splayed to give her balance, head bowed low. Her words were the only ones spoken, the only to break the somber silence, too soft and distorted by echoes for anyone to understand them.
Her hair was bright gold, neatly plaited and wrapped three times around the back of her head. Jewels sparkled between the plaits where the weak light caught them, shreds of starlight in the dark sanctuary. Matching gems shimmered at her ears. Around her pooled a cloak of deep scarlet, a contrast to the violet that surrounded her. It hid from the light her breastplate, and the plating that covered her fore and upper arms, her legs.
Even in the unrelenting gloom she was beautiful. Her eyes were dark, perhaps blue or brown, set into a face that looked as though it was lifted from a painting, or perhaps a statue. Her lips moved as she prayed, pleading with the Princess whose spirit was said to dwell in the Cathedral that never saw the sun.
As her words faded into silence, the bowl on the alter shook, shivered, before silver flames erupted from it, burning so brightly that the monks hiding in the darker recesses turned away to shield their sensitive eyes. Only the woman and the man behind her did not flinch, waiting in unmoving silence as the silver flames burned, flared brighter, and abruptly died.
The sanctuary felt colder than it had before, but tension eased from the woman's frame as she rose to her feet. Her sword clanked against her side as she stood straight, and she allowed the High Priest to assist her, his fingers curled around her arm in an attempt to steady her. She ignored the clink of his ring against her armor.
"It actually worked…" her words were soft, for loud words never carried in the Cathedral.
The High Priest's deep cowl bobbed, as if he were nodding. "Yes. But it comes with a heavy price."
"I am naught but a shield and sword. If I have it within me to pay the price, then that price I must - and will - pay," the woman whispered. Her face was heavy as she gazed at the altar, eyes full of trepidation and old sadness. "I knew the price the day I was named the 112th Duchess of Ebonholz."
The cowl moved again; the priest was shaking his head. "Would that we all were as brave as you. We will pray your death is painless and swift." He stepped up to the altar and took from the black bowl a small, tear-shaped stone. It shifted in color as he turned it in his hand, one moment green, the next rose, then violet, now blue. Gingerly he pressed it into the Duchess's leather-clad hand.
"That would be appreciated," the Duchess said in another quiet whisper as she turned from the altar, secreting the stone on her person. "Though I fear they will go unheeded. My enemies wait in the woods below."
The priest's voice, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere in the large chamber, was full of regret and pain. "Is there none to help you?"
"There is none," she said. "To take a guard would have slowed me down and given me away too soon." She looked at the High Priest. "And in these times there are few I still trust. But all will be well; the Lost Princess ever protects her descendants. And should I fall, another will rise to protect him."
A pale hand reached out to her, offering. Hesitating a moment, the Duchess nodded to herself and stripped off the glove of her left hand. On the middle finger was a silver ring, set with a white stone much like those in her hair and ears.
It matched the one on the priest's finger. "Isabella…"
She shook her head, ignored the tear that traced down her cheek.
He nodded, deep in the shadow of his hood, squeezed her hand and stepped away. "I will pray, and someday I will see you again, and perhaps then you will not be made to love another."
"Goodbye, Vale," the Duchess whispered, pulling her black leather glove back on. "I will see you again, and then I promise you will be the only one." She turned away before he could keep her longer, scarlet cloak flaring out behind her as she left the cool dark of the Cathedral of Twilight.
*~*~*~*
He loved the smell of the forest in the morning. It smelled fresh, of dew and earth and early sunlight. Only a few birds chirped, intermingled with the swishing of the leaves in the cool morning breeze. Sunlight was only a hazy, grayish light, and he relished it. The solitude, the cool, he felt alone in paradise.
Certainly none of the others ever bothered to get up before they had to, the lazy louts.
Sheba hummed an old hymn as he continued to walk, occasionally reaching up to brush back strands of his chin-length dark brown hair. His green eyes were clear, bright; he loved the earliest hours of the morning, something that confounded his schoolmates, who preferred the night hours - though only because carousing before breakfast was a tad more difficult than after work.
He came to a halt at the sound of a crash, waiting to see if it would be a bear or a deer that came through the brush.
It was a woman.
Sheba gasped, choked, as the woman stumbled toward him. She was bathed in blood, more than a bit of it dried and sticky on her clothes and armor. The emblem, beneath the grime, was unmistakable. A white star, a gold star and a black diamond forming the points of a triangle, the diamond in the lower left.
Her hair was matted with blood and dirt, filled with twigs and leaves; barely anything was left of the neat plaits it had once been in. Her blue eyes were dark, hazy. Sheba caught her clumsily as she stumbled forward into his arms. He knelt, holding her against his chest. "You are the Duchess…"
"I am dying," she choked out, holding a hand to her side. "I could not stop them all; not so many." She coughed, blood coating her lips and teeth, mixing with that which had already dried from a cut on her cheek. "You…you must…" She lifted her other hand, forcing whatever she held into his palm. "Take it to him."
"But-but I am not fit!" Sheba shook his head, mind frozen and broken in panic and fear. "I am but a student, a poor peasant."
"I was but a peddler's daughter!" the woman cried, and suddenly Sheba could see the tears mixed in with the blood. She gripped his hand, fingers slick with her own fresh, bright red blood. "I was but nineteen, and engaged to a priest." She released his hand and grasped the rough material of his tunic. "We do not choose it, student. The Duty chooses us." Her eyes were half-wild as she looked at him.
Silence fell and slowly Sheba nodded. "As the Lost Princess wills it."
The Duchess was still crying. "I came before."
"I will come after," Sheba said, not knowing how he knew what to say.
"I was one hundred and twelfth."
"I will be one hundred and thirteen."
"I protected him," the Duchess whispered.
"As will I protect him. I swear it on the Black Stone of Ebonholz, and the soul of the Lost Princess."
The Duchess nodded, and her face seemed to ease of pain. "They are a day behind me; it was the best I could do."
"Rest, Isabella the peddler's daughter," Sheba said softly, holding her close. "Rest and be at peace." He remained there several minutes after her last breath had ceased, broken mind coming back together in a way that was more confusing than ever.
All knew the stories that surrounded the Ebonholz, sworn protectors of the royal family.
But that's all they were - stories. Stories of their humble origins, their mysterious appearances, how one could not die until the next was found.
"Only stories…"
But mere stories could not explain the knowledge that suddenly filled his mind, the familiar way his hands worked to undo the sword belt from the dead woman's hips, to strip her of the other things he would need for his unexpected journey and wrap all in her cloak. The prayer that set her body aflame as he fled.
How he knew where to go in the forest, when he had never before strayed from the path created by the school.
Nor how he knew that somewhere, many miles and several days travel away, a man with pale amber eyes and a sad smile waited in a bed of pale cream silk for his return, his life draining away a little more each day.
His heart hurt, to know that man was in pain. Rumors had flown about the prince being ill, but until that moment Sheba had not known he was dying.
It was his duty to save Prince Eduard of the House of Dammerung.
He paused as he came to a brook and knelt to drink, hoping the motion and water would calm his nerves. It didn't, not really, but the cold washed away some of the fog lingering in his head. Standing, he stripped off the dark brown robe that was the mark of a student. The long, shapeless robe would only get in his way. In just faded leggings and a homespun, threadbare shirt, he unwrapped the cloak and laid out the objects he'd taken from Isabella.
A black leather sword belt, which he wrapped twice around his hips with a practiced motion that scared him. He lifted the sword, filled with a mixture of confusion and pleasure. It was a beautiful sword, the blade long and double edged. The pommel was black crystal, overlaid with silver wire. The scabbard was black as well, tooled with the diamond crest of Ebonholz.
A skin of water, materials for building fires, and a sack of foods suitable for swift travel. Settling all on his belt, double-checking his sword, he reluctantly swung the bloody, mud-soaked scarlet cloak up and around his shoulders. He set off into the woods again, ever attentive for the sounds of those who would be after him when they realized that though the Duchess was dead, a Duke pressed on.
Midsummer's Moon
This comes after the last snippet I posted. Still really really rough >_> as I don't know quite how I want to go about the whole thing. It'll get better as things settle in my mind.
Peter was simultaneously startled and soothed by the familiar click of claws on hardwood and linoleum. He looked up and smiled, nostalgia mixing with the excitement of seeing a new wolf.
And Lowell made for a pretty wolf, just as Peter had known he would. It wasn't just in the fact that he was plenty handsome. It was in the muscles and the discipline, the way he'd seemed almost half-wild in his fear and nervousness, the way he laughed only when everyone else was laughing. All of it no doubt built by the hard life that was painfully familiar to far too many werewolves.
Peter slid off his chair and knelt on the floor, stretching out his hands as the wolf approached. In its yellow eyes he could see an awareness that wasn't natural to wolves. Lowell wasn't entirely himself but he wasn't completely wolf either. So his tonic had worked on Low with no problems.
Wolf Lowell was a mix of cream and a reddish-brown, the fur rough but softer than that of a truly wild wolf would be. On the large side for a wolf, but because of the tonic as friendly as a puppy. Lowell butted at his hands in a sort of acknowledgement, then made for the back door.
Peter opened it before the wolf could do any damage, snatching up his coat before following him outside. He glared once they reached the front yard. "I thought I told the two of you to stay inside."
Sally beamed, clutching a plate of raw steak like another woman would present a tray of cookies. "We wanted to come say hello."
Jordan pointed at his wife. "She made me." He grunted as his wife stamped on his foot, and fell silent.
Ignoring the two men, Sally kneeled on the grass and set the platter down in front of an inquisitive Lowell. "He's so cute!"
"I bet you say that to all the wild animals," Peter replied.
"Only my husband and this cutie here." Sally stuck her tongue out. "You're passable I suppose, Mad Scientist."
Peter rolled his eyes, "Isn't it time for you to leave yet?"
"Speaking of yets," Sally said as she stood up, brushing grass and dirt from her bright green and yellow skirt. "Have you said or done anything yet, or are you just giving him little looks when he's not paying attention?"
"Sally!" Peter hissed. "Behave!"
"What?" Sally flicked her fingers at him impatiently. "Forgive the pun, but all this mooning isn't going to get you anywhere."
Peter flicked his gaze to Lowell, who had finished his meat and was exploring Sally's skirt in the hopes of finding more. "Good, because I'm not trying to get anywhere. He can't be more than 20, 21. Stacey was my last mistake, I won't do that to Lowell. And whoever said I was mooning?"
"Oh, please." Jordan snickered. "He's exactly your type - and you never deliberate. You're the fall fast type."
"And you have room to talk how? Or did you forget, Mr. I Will Wander Aimlessly Forever, that while Sally wasn't giving you the time of day I gave you a place to crash?"
Jordan just grinned. "How do you think I recognize the type? He is awful cute; one little word from you and you'd have a keeper I bet. Not like Stacey. That boy always did reek of trouble."
"Yeah, yeah." Peter's voice was bitter. "He would have stayed if I hadn't dragged the experiments into it."
"He would have stayed longer, but in the end, Petey, he'd still be gone."
Peter let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Anyway. I don't want to give Low one little word - he shouldn't just settle for the first good thing to happen to him. He can do far better than a mad scientist." He shook his head suddenly and glared darkly at the vampires. "Why am I discussing this? He's been here barely three weeks. It's not an option. Jeez, he may as well be a kid."
Sally stooped to pet the wolf that had was still searching for more food, having gone back to make sure he'd licked the plate completely clean. "This doesn't look like a pup to me. He really is a pretty one, isn't he?"
"Yes," Peter agreed reluctantly. "A full-blooded werewolf."
"Aren't they all? Sort of the problem with the curse?"
"Not necessarily." Peter shook his head. "My father was human. That's why my brother was a wolf but I wasn't." He looked as though he would say something else, but opted not to in the end. "Connor's wolf form was a bit smaller than Low's."
Jordan looked thoughtful. "So size is indicative of…purity of wolf?"
"Well, it’s not much different than a dog that's half wolf - almost but not quite as good as full-blooded wolf. But yes, size is generally an indication of the strength of the blood. I doubt Low has a single drop of human blood in him."
Sally lifted a brow at that. "Is that rare?"
"Quite." He watched as Peter began to pad across the yard toward the street. "I had wondered, but given what little I know of his history I doubt he knew."
"Is it relevant somehow? Or just a professional curiosity?"
"Relevant," Peter said tiredly. "It means that even if I do find a cure, it probably won't work on him."
Sally and Jordan winced. "Poor thing," Sally murmured. "He wants so bad to be normal - werewolves really have it rough. I've never seen a species so determined to wipe itself out."
Lowell hit the street and picked up his pace, tongue lolling as he quickly traveled away from the house. Peter cursed and chases after him, calling over his shoulder to the vampires. "Don't do anything while I'm gone! I mean it!"
It was about two miles into town, and lord only knew how much traveling Lowell would do once they reached town. He'd once spent an entire night wandering around following Connor - they hadn't gotten home until a good three hours after sunrise. He really hoped they wouldn't be gone that long.
He looked up as a beat up red pick up slowed down to a crawl beside him. "Ev'ning, Doc. That your new boy there?" A man with bushy blonde hair and a beard to match motioned to the wolf that was ambling several yards ahead, though periodically he stopped to wait for Peter to catch up.
"Yes, it is." Peter smiled. "Coming back from the city?"
"Yep, we just finished delivering." The man looked at the wolf again, speaking idly with the driver, who looked like a younger, beardless version of him. "Stop on by the house later, Doc. Les had a pie she wanted to give you, and we could find a snack for the wolf. What was his name again?"
"Lowell," Peter said. "And that's kind of you. I'm sure we'll be out your way before the night is out. Tell Leslie I said hello."
"Sure will, Doc." The man nodded to himself. "Nice wolf - good to see a real one 'round again. See you later, Doc." With that, the two men waved and took off down the road, turning right at the intersection.
Peter shook his head and laughed softly to himself. "Poor Low. There's no way they're going to let you hide away now." He continued to walk idly behind the curious, eager werewolf as he led them into town.
Midsummer's Night was small, only a few thousand people. And as they reached it, more than a few were already in the street, hanks of meat in hand to feed the werewolf that eagerly approached.
"Y'all are acting like you've never seen a werewolf before."
An older woman with curly gray hair laughed as she petted Lowell's heavy coat. "We haven't, not in a long, long time. That other one you had for a bit never came out. Petey, he's lovely. Even more amazing than your mother was. Is he going to be staying awhile? It's been so long…"
Peter shrugged. "I've told him to stay as long as he wants, Vee. It's up to him."
"We'll make sure he stays. Won't we girls?" Around Vee, several women of varying ages nodded.
"If you keep stuffing him like a turkey," Peter said dryly. "He'll certainly be unable to go anywhere."
A man of about twenty laughed as the wolf licked his hand for any remaining traces of meat. "Lots friendlier than that other one - he always had a mean look. This one is as bad as a puppy. Your doing, Petey?"
"Yeah," Peter said softly.
An old, balding man nodded approvingly. "Even when you were little, you helped make things easier for your family. It'll be good to have a werewolf around again. Too many of those damned creatures from the hills have been picking cattle off again. They smell the wolf, they'll back off."
Peter laughed. "I'll be sure to tell Low that you'll be putting him to work. He'll be happy to be of help." His laughter faded into a smile as the wolf wandered his way, nose pushing at his hand. "He doesn't like being idle."
"Then tell the boy to stop hiding away in the house and come visit as a person."
"Yes," a whispy voice said from behind Pete. "We've been dying to meet him."
"Ha ha ha." Peter rolled his eyes as he turned. "Ghosts shouldn't make dead jokes, Cherry."
The ghost in question, a pale, faded image of the living young woman she once had been, gave a whispy laugh. "Who better to make them?"
Fire and Ice
Playing with Mickey and Tybalt before I go back and add Tyb's POV to Eyes This may eventually get scrapped, I don't know. I'm toying with the exact nature of their friendship - I know at least that they'd never go further than this.For all that they give each other holy hell, they're really good friends. The shots they're doing, same name as the title, is one a friend had me try a while a back. Technically you do a shot of something cinnamon - we used goldschlager, followed by a shot of mint - peppermint schnapps is what we used (I think). It's very *very* yummy and I thought it suited these two.
Mickey let the woman in red satin and lace take his coat and brush his cheek with a welcoming kiss. She smelled like roses, cigar smoke and her breath had a taste of amaretto. "Hey, Julie."
"Mickey. Didn't know you were coming to the club tonight. Something wrong?"
"Only the usual. My man Shakespeare will be coming shortly. Show him to our table, yeah?"
"Yeah, babe. Sure thing." Julie gave him a genuine smile and watched wistfully as Mickey left the entry way. Brushing away an errant strand of dyed mahogany hair, she hung up his coat, pressing a sleeve to her nose and inhaling deeply of his cologne, something spicy with a hint of some strange sweet - she'd never known another guy to wear anything like it.
Inside the club, Mickey took a deep breath and released it a slow, weary sigh. Around him the club was vibrating with bass and music that urged you to rub and grind against the nearest willing partner.
Mickey wasn't in the mood. The glitz and glamour of the club wasn't his flavor tonight - it really only was as a matter of business. Tonight wasn't business. He'd had enough of that. Tomorrow morning would see him tracking down one more problem and putting a stop to it. So tonight he got a break.
Everything was dark, shadowed. Purple and silver was the general impression, with dark woods for the bar and tables. Carefully arranged lights lent the stunning women on stage a mysterious, untouchable air as they danced for the men watching them. Girls in lace floated, offering drinks and the occasional touch to the customers. Smoke lingered in the air, mixing with perfume and cologne and sweat.
Mickey bypassed it all, heading through a door at the back into much quieter rooms. Only the bass, a distant, quiet throbbing, made any impact in the space. Carefully arranged, secluded tables dotted the room, which was like the front room arranged with purples and silvers. The room was almost black, nothing more than small lamps at each table lending light. Who the various occupants were, no one could or would say.
The general policy at Decadence was no questions asked as long as no trouble was caused.
Nodding at the waitress who appeared ghost-like before his table, Mickey murmured for his usual and gave her a smile. After she'd gone, he slouched in his seat. Their usual table was a booth in a back corner, circular and almost entirely cut off from the rest of the room. The bass throbbed in his chest, only adding to the other-worldly feel of the club. In here, he was as far away from out there as he could get. Decadence managed it better than any club to which he'd ever been. It was the reason the Azura Syndicate had placed it's name and protection over the club.
And why they felt perfectly safe and content to take a break.
Mickey looked up as a man slide into the booth and around to sit right next to him. Dropping his head, Mickey placed a soft kiss on Tybalt's cheekbone. "Hey, Sugarsnap."
"Hey, yourself. Thought you were supposed to be headed for the Caribbean."
"Not until tomorrow morning. Flight's at six forty five."
Tybalt laughed softly, the sound a rare one for the too-serious young man. "Mick, it's almost one am."
Mickey grinned and shrugged, "Yeah, well. If someone's flight hadn't been behind schedule, we could've gotten together sooner."
"Yeah, yeah. I control a lot, but not the airlines. Mores the pity." Tybalt smiled faintly, and fell silent as the waitress reappeared. Before them she set down two heavy bottles and two shot glasses.
Rebecca winked, "On the house boys."
"Thanks, sweetie." Mickey winked back. "Would you like one for the road?"
The waitress laughed. "Not while I'm on the clock, and anyway you know my boy will get jealous if he hears I took a shot from you." Winking again, Rebecca scurried off to attend to other customers.
Tybalt shook his head, tsking softly. "Can't you go five minutes?"
"Why bother? There's no harm in flirting."
"Whatever."
"So how'd you get off the Boston job so soon?"
Tybalt gave a soft snort. "His daughter was responsible. Open shut affair, no real brains necessary to figure that one out."
Mickey grimaced, "How droll. But I guess I shouldn't expect too much. That much good looking, there's bound to be an absence of intelligence."
"And what about you?" Tybalt asked with a short laugh as he latched onto the bottle and shot glass nearest him. Twisting it open, he filled the shot glass with a clear alcohol. The sharp, cool scent of mint filled the air around them.
"What about me?"
"You're hot enough most wouldn't have let you leave your mother's side. But you've got brains aplenty when you want to use them."
Mickey laughed. "A compliment, sugarsnap? You haven't even imbibed yet. And all my looks and talent, I get no life. That's the price I pay. Same as you." Into his own shotglass, Mickey poured a clear alcohol - but if you looked closer, there were flecks of gold in it. Mingling with the mint now was the hot, spicy smell of cinnamon.
"I'm paying for something else."
"Yeah, but it'll end eventually. And then you'll find a sugar daddy romeo and I'll have no one left to mope with."
Tybalt's laugh was bitter and sad. "You really need to brush up on your plays, idiot. Tybalt dies a backstabbing bastard - and alone. Tragedy means no happy ending. Speaking of tragedies - how goes things with your Romeo?"
"Not well, same as ever."
Tybalt nodded. "I'm sorry."
"You and me both," Mickey muttered. "I have exquisite taste in everything but love. But enough of that sad, boring tale." He lifted his shot glass. "To you and me, Tyb." Tilting his head back, he downed the shot. The taste of cinnamon filled his mouth, burning as it slid down his throat. He grinned at Tybalt and refilled his glass, setting the full shot aside for later.
Tybalt licked his lips and refilled his as well, relishing the icy wash of mint. He leaned forward right as Mickey did, hand reaching up to curl around the back of his neck, fingers grasping at the so-soft curls of Mickey's fine blonde hair. A warm hand curled around his waist as their lips pressed together, nibbling, playing, sharing a breath before kissing deeper, tongues sharing and mixing the tastes of cinnamon and mint, fire and ice.
"Life would be easier," Mickey said as he pulled away just far enough to speak. "If we could just fall in love with each other."
Tybalt reached up to twin his other arm around Mickey's neck, dragging him further down, pressing them both deeper into the deep, plush seats of the booth. "Life is never that easy. 'Sides, anyone can be your lover, Mickey. I'd rather be your friend."
"You too, Tyb." Mickey kissed him hard, deep. "Pulling back slightly, he downed his second shot as Tybalt reached for his, then leaned back down for another kiss, hot clashing with cold and leaving them both breathless.
no subject
Date: 2005-06-29 03:05 pm (UTC)And I absolutely adore what you do with werewolves and vampires (even if you don't like vamps).