Status: coming back in september. here be vampires.
Ex Nihilo
DROP ELEVEN
“Why is it necessary for us to wear this? It’s not like anybody can see us in this dark.” Most of the time now, Raymond feels like he’s talking to the coarse brick walls; hard enough to bruise, way too hard to even move. He tugs at the sleeves of the hoodie he’s been given – Peter’s, large on him, and comically large on Anya.
Said woman, no pardon offered, pushes the hood over his head, then pushes him forward. The force of it nearly sends him stumbling.
Raymond’s been around their kind before; he’s talked to them, been friends with them, hung out with them. He’s done a lot of things. So far, he hasn’t lived with one, but he wasn’t sure how important that was to his entire story. The point being is; he’s spent a lot of time around vampires, and around Peter more than others. Never had once Peter been anything but gentle with him and, if there ever even was some kind of display of strength, it wasn’t like this.
It was careless, it was pushy. Peter never treated him as if though he’s an object to be tossed around.
God knew that Anya could toss him around.
“It would not do well for you to be seen skulking around here, priest.” She says in the accent that Raymond’s nearly grown used to. Her voice is neutral, something he didn’t think possible, not for her – she looked a lot like Peter, that is true, but she was his opposite in everything else. He was, for one, reserved, a trait that Raymond appreciated a lot.
The resemblance, however, was startling—especially now that her hair was blonde, nearly white again. The glasses were an unnecessary prop, but God forbid Raymond be the one to let her know that her disguise doesn’t work, not with the almost permanent scowl and her habit to frequently voice her displeasure.
“Dress shirt and hoodie, a combination to behold!” Peter laughs out. If somebody else had said it, then Raymond could’ve imagined a large gesture to follow; but this was said by Peter and his sort-of-awkward shrug seemed to be just in place.
“And a goddamn white collar, too.” And after her none too quiet statement, Anya makes a choking sound, something to get her displeasure across. Raymond ignores it to the best of his ability. “At least pull the hem of the hoodie over it. The other vampires will have a blast if they see.”
It’s not hard to ignore her, not really, when he’s shuffling behind Peter and in front of Anya, his steps measured and uneven, through the dark streets. Neon lights are the only visible thing, and his head hurts just from looking at them for too long. He doesn’t pay attention to the titles and the ads until Anya pushes at him again. He collides with Peter’s back, and the man turns around just briefly to stabilise Raymond.
Raymond is grateful, but he only expresses this through a tight-lipped smile. Peter understands.
“That’s here.” Anya’s here sounds more like hear, and with a hard r at the end. Truly, he only needs to listen to her for few more hours, and it’ll become natural, something he connects to her.
Instead of dwelling on her accent, he looks upwards, to yet another neon sign, light spilling nearly ominously. There’s nothing fancy there – the lights in the pseudo-drawing of teeth don’t work so the only thing shining out here is the text, clear and large NIGHTSCAPE printed in deep blue. It takes him a minute to realise that lights that coil beneath are not the decorations – it’s more text, small and cursive. Bad blood runs dry, it says, and he nearly scoffs at how cheesy that is.
“So you’ve brought me to a vampiric night club. Nice.” His sarcasm was stronger than Anya’s, probably.
“I have used up most of Peter’s blood. And I need more. And he needs more. Nightscape are one of the best providers in town.” She says it as if though she’s explaining it to a child. He knows this expression, though he’s never seen it on Anya personally.
“I know how these things work. No need to explain them to me.” He says in the end, resigned, and follows right after her into the inside of the club.
It’s even civilised – there’s no difference between the vampires and those are not, all of them scattered around the large space. The music is loud, although the rhythm is mellowed, and most people standing are swaying and following the lyrics off-key, slurring. Raymond has been to enough of these clubs to know alcohol has nothing to do with it.
Mainly, everybody is sitting, though. People of various age on leather chairs, some covered with thick blankets – humans, gotta be humans – and some of them smoking, others drinking. There’s red liquid everywhere and it might be wine, but it’s most likely blood. At one table, three men are playing monopoly. Next to them, two women are reading newspaper in Eastern language that Raymond cannot discern from their distance. Even the death never managed to make the two of them pale.
“Anya!” Somebody calls to their right and Raymond moves around, turns as if though it’s been his name that was called. The woman calling out is small and lean, definitely smaller than Anya, with softer features. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She doesn’t approach them, doesn’t seek comfort from them even though she looks as if though she needs it.
“Father Raymond.” Anya says instead of answering her. Several heads turn in their direction, but all of them seem to be amused. “This is who you need to help. This is Farida.”
He puts the name away for later use, then looks her up and down. She looks like a teenager, nineteen at most. If she’s a vampire, however, he isn’t sure he’d be able to help her at all.
Said woman, no pardon offered, pushes the hood over his head, then pushes him forward. The force of it nearly sends him stumbling.
Raymond’s been around their kind before; he’s talked to them, been friends with them, hung out with them. He’s done a lot of things. So far, he hasn’t lived with one, but he wasn’t sure how important that was to his entire story. The point being is; he’s spent a lot of time around vampires, and around Peter more than others. Never had once Peter been anything but gentle with him and, if there ever even was some kind of display of strength, it wasn’t like this.
It was careless, it was pushy. Peter never treated him as if though he’s an object to be tossed around.
God knew that Anya could toss him around.
“It would not do well for you to be seen skulking around here, priest.” She says in the accent that Raymond’s nearly grown used to. Her voice is neutral, something he didn’t think possible, not for her – she looked a lot like Peter, that is true, but she was his opposite in everything else. He was, for one, reserved, a trait that Raymond appreciated a lot.
The resemblance, however, was startling—especially now that her hair was blonde, nearly white again. The glasses were an unnecessary prop, but God forbid Raymond be the one to let her know that her disguise doesn’t work, not with the almost permanent scowl and her habit to frequently voice her displeasure.
“Dress shirt and hoodie, a combination to behold!” Peter laughs out. If somebody else had said it, then Raymond could’ve imagined a large gesture to follow; but this was said by Peter and his sort-of-awkward shrug seemed to be just in place.
“And a goddamn white collar, too.” And after her none too quiet statement, Anya makes a choking sound, something to get her displeasure across. Raymond ignores it to the best of his ability. “At least pull the hem of the hoodie over it. The other vampires will have a blast if they see.”
It’s not hard to ignore her, not really, when he’s shuffling behind Peter and in front of Anya, his steps measured and uneven, through the dark streets. Neon lights are the only visible thing, and his head hurts just from looking at them for too long. He doesn’t pay attention to the titles and the ads until Anya pushes at him again. He collides with Peter’s back, and the man turns around just briefly to stabilise Raymond.
Raymond is grateful, but he only expresses this through a tight-lipped smile. Peter understands.
“That’s here.” Anya’s here sounds more like hear, and with a hard r at the end. Truly, he only needs to listen to her for few more hours, and it’ll become natural, something he connects to her.
Instead of dwelling on her accent, he looks upwards, to yet another neon sign, light spilling nearly ominously. There’s nothing fancy there – the lights in the pseudo-drawing of teeth don’t work so the only thing shining out here is the text, clear and large NIGHTSCAPE printed in deep blue. It takes him a minute to realise that lights that coil beneath are not the decorations – it’s more text, small and cursive. Bad blood runs dry, it says, and he nearly scoffs at how cheesy that is.
“So you’ve brought me to a vampiric night club. Nice.” His sarcasm was stronger than Anya’s, probably.
“I have used up most of Peter’s blood. And I need more. And he needs more. Nightscape are one of the best providers in town.” She says it as if though she’s explaining it to a child. He knows this expression, though he’s never seen it on Anya personally.
“I know how these things work. No need to explain them to me.” He says in the end, resigned, and follows right after her into the inside of the club.
It’s even civilised – there’s no difference between the vampires and those are not, all of them scattered around the large space. The music is loud, although the rhythm is mellowed, and most people standing are swaying and following the lyrics off-key, slurring. Raymond has been to enough of these clubs to know alcohol has nothing to do with it.
Mainly, everybody is sitting, though. People of various age on leather chairs, some covered with thick blankets – humans, gotta be humans – and some of them smoking, others drinking. There’s red liquid everywhere and it might be wine, but it’s most likely blood. At one table, three men are playing monopoly. Next to them, two women are reading newspaper in Eastern language that Raymond cannot discern from their distance. Even the death never managed to make the two of them pale.
“Anya!” Somebody calls to their right and Raymond moves around, turns as if though it’s been his name that was called. The woman calling out is small and lean, definitely smaller than Anya, with softer features. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She doesn’t approach them, doesn’t seek comfort from them even though she looks as if though she needs it.
“Father Raymond.” Anya says instead of answering her. Several heads turn in their direction, but all of them seem to be amused. “This is who you need to help. This is Farida.”
He puts the name away for later use, then looks her up and down. She looks like a teenager, nineteen at most. If she’s a vampire, however, he isn’t sure he’d be able to help her at all.