Getting into the party had been easy. She hadn't expected it to be, but she'd grabbed the arm of the nearest gentleman on his way in and he'd been so taken by her looks that he'd smiled and introduced himself, and allowed her to sidle in past the doorman with ease.

It wasn't long before she was bored of him, of course, but that was just the kind of woman she was. Humans didn't hold her interest, and she knew virtually none of her own kind, here in London. America, sure, but this was a different matter. And in America, they'd been a little easier to find. The fish swimming just underneath the big millionaire sharks - they'd all been her kind. Pulling the strings, pocketing money, staying in the shadows, where they wouldn't be noticed by the common man. But America was becoming inhospitable, and the conflicts weren't the same. The war had been a beautiful thing, with low hanging bounty just waiting to be harvested, but the conflicts brewing these days were often bloodless, yet just as damaging. Her violent break with her partner aside, she needed a fresh start. So here she was, dressed to impress in a scarlet gown, cinched in tight at the waist, courtesy of her breathing habits (or lack thereof), with rubies adorning her throat, and her hair pulled up in the fashion of the age. She stood in an alcove off the main hall, where the majority of the partygoers were, a glass of champagne in her hand, admiring a tapestry on the wall which must have dated to the 1500s.

He had first seen her two hours after the party had begun. She had been wandering through the crowd- a novelty in a sea of familiarity- carrying a drink like a lily and smiling charmingly at whoever she passed. He had motioned two of his men to Moriarty's side, then, and slid after her. His feet were silent on the thick carpeting of the rooms, and he managed to approach quite close without her noticing, even isolated as she now was in a corner. "Fine party, wouldn't you say?" he asked, leaning against the wall beside her.

A normal woman would have jumped at a strange man suddenly appearing by their side while they were alone, but Lorna's gaze didn't waver from the tapestry. "I've seen better, to be perfectly honest," she said, shrugging lightly, a delicate movement. She took a sip of champagne, and looked over to meet his gaze, where she was pleasantly surprised by the sight that greeted her. A smile spread across her face. "Well, well, well, here I thought there was nobody worth looking at at this gathering. What's your name, sir?"

"Careful, the elite will hear you," he responded with a slow smile. "Many of them have rather delicate egoisms." He reached up to adjust his collar slightly. "The name is O'Rorik. And you?" He enjoyed playing with food. It broke the monotony.

"Armetti," she smiled, giving a small curtsy. "And what do I care if I offend a few delicate sensibilities? What shall they do to me?"

He smiled, inclining his head slightly as she curtsied. He made no particular effort at manners beyond that. She didn't deserve them. "Armetti... Now there is a name I have not heard in far too long." His eyes glinted. "Any relation to the New York Armettis?"

That surprised her. She didn't know that Vincent was well known past America's borders. And... Perhaps he wasn't. She looked at this man with more appraising eyes. The likelihood that he was a being like her was slim, yet... Underestimating him would be a fatal mistake. She smiled a little, nodding her head slightly. Time to lie, to test the depth of his knowledge. "My husband. You know him?"

"We've brushed elbows," he said, straightening and eyeing the woman up, adjusting his waistcoat down slightly as he did so. "It's good to hear that he's found someone to keep an eye on him. Where is he? I should pay my respects." His eyes glinted.

"Not with me today, unfortunately. He had business to attend to. I, however, was bored," she smiled. That was also untrue. She and Vincent had had an ugly separation.

He raised an eyebrow, certainty a warm flame kindling in his gut. "I'm surprised. It's not like Vincent to let his women off of his arm. I would have thought he would be even more possessive of his wife."

Something like bitterness crossed her face before she forced a smile, shrugging delicately. "He's a strong-headed fellow, yes, but even a woman occasionally needs her independence, no?"

"A sentiment I can agree with." He offered her his arm. "Allow me to show you around?"

She smiled, taking it graciously. "Absolutely. I've been bumbling about on my own, apparently making a fool of myself."

"I find it difficult to believe that you would make a fool of yourself," he said, walking from the alcove out along the rim of the dance floor. "You strike me as much more deliberate than someone who steps first and thinks second."

She smirked a little at his flattering. "Perhaps that's my ideal self. Sometimes I can live up to it, but other times, I think I get a little sick of such strict restraint. But I guess the real question is whether or not I judge myself more or less harshly than my peers, isn't it?"

"A dividing trait among people, I find," he responded pensively. "I find I far prefer those who judge themselves more harshly. Much more tolerable egoism." He turned to enter a small hall off of the dance floor. It was dimly lit by beautiful gas lamps in sconces on the walls, and richly (if subtly) decorated. Fine gold tracing spread across crimson wallpaper, etching elegant spiderwebs which extended the length of the hall. Small jewel spiders glinted here and there on the web. "The back rooms of these places always seem more elegant, don't you think?" Sebastian hummed.

"Only in the places worth visiting," she replied easily, eyes tracing the spiderwebs on the wall. It was a unique aesthetic. Something the common person wouldn't think to mimic. "It's beautiful. Who designed this?"

"The owner of the building employs several artists and architects to create the atmosphere he desires. It changes frequently." He stopped in front of a dark wooden door about halfway down the hall, pushing it open. "Here. Let me show you one of my favorite rooms." He motioned for her to proceed him.

Had she not been a creature of the night, she would have been suspicious, having been led away from a party and asked to enter a room first. But the odds were unlikely this man was her kin, and she was confident in her abilities regardless. She smiled and entered, unsure as to what she would discover.

This room was a stark contrast from the elegantly furnished rooms outside. Though the wallpaper and carpet were both beautiful, the room itself was empty apart from a bare, though lovely, solid wooden desk, and two chairs. Moran shut the door behind him, and turned the key in the lock, slipping it into his pocket. When he turned to face her, his gun was drawn. "Do have a seat, Mrs. Armetti."

She sighed, disappointed. "Alright," she said calmly, walking over to sink carefully into one of the chairs, posture rigid. If her heart had still beat with any regularity, it would have been steady. So he was human. Best not to play her cards too soon. "Is there a reason you're holding me at gunpoint?"

He slid his thumb along the black enameled grip, relaxed, as he walked around the desk to sit at the other chair. "I don't think too highly of party crashers. It puts my charges at risk."

"And so you point a gun at a harmless young woman? Mr. O'Rorik, that's a bit of an overreaction," she chided, gloved hands resting in her satin lap. "And an acquaintance of Vincent, too. A pity."

"I find that overreacting is much more sustainable than underreacting in my profession. I'll de-escalate as I decide it's necessary. And are you just an acquaintance now? Whatever happened to wife?"

"I was referring to you, Mr. O'Rorik," she chuckled, shaking her head. "Believe me, if you were to call him right now, I believe he would very much insist I to be his wife."

He shrugged. "See, that's the odd part... Mr. Armetti is usually so cautious to inform Mr. M. when he intends to enter his turf. So either he is safely back in New York- in which case I'll be happy to ring him up and inform him of the whereabouts of his darling wife- or he's here unannounced, in which case, the gun is very warranted. Giving you the benefit of the doubt... shall I ring him up?" He opened a drawer and picked up a telephone handset with his free hand.

She shrugged. It was true, Vince was in America. But he would still help her get out of this. That was just the depth of his love. "Call him. Tell him where his wayward wife is."

He raised an eyebrow, interested at that response. He picked up the telephone, pressing it to his ear and reaching out to dial... But instead he vaulted up and over the desk, letting the phone fall aside as he grabbed the woman by the throat, propelling them both passed the smashed remnants of her chair as they moved with surprising speed to be pressed against the wall. "Or I could just kill you anyway," he growled with a grin.

Her fangs snapped out in reflex, her hands going to grab his throat, nails digging into his skin, pupils dilated to the max, and a laugh bubbled up out of her as she pressed back with equal force, straining off the wall. "Iwondered if you were like me! You're the first new vampire I've met since I was born, you know that?"

He smiled at the fangs as well, but didn't let her drop, ignoring the hand at his throat. It wasn't as though either of them needed to breathe. He flicked a silver knife out of his belt with his right hand, the handle carefully bound in cloth. "Charmed, I'm sure. Now, Mrs. Armetti... Why don't you explain your presence here?"

Her laughter died out, eyes on the knife, the amusement dropping out of her expression. "It's Harrison, actually. Miss. We never really got married, you see. He said it was to protect me, and the longer we were together the more I was happy about it. I'm in England to avoid him finding me and trying to win me back; I'm sick of it, and I simply don't have the energy for it. I came to this party tonight unaware that it was being thrown by my kin. I was simply looking for an easy meal, perhaps a more permanent residence. I apologize for encroaching on your territory, Mr. O'Rorik. Would you mind setting me down, now?"

"The name's Moran, actually. Perhaps Armetti has mentioned me, or my employer." He ignored the bit about setting her down. "Now... Let us play a logic exercise. A very good reason I should not kill you right now would be...?"

She shook her head slightly. His name rang no bells. Vincent had limited her knowledge to keep her close, regrettably. "Allow me to enter into your service. I'm sure there must be something you can use me for. I only ask not to be sent back to Vincent, should you decide to let me live."

"What use could you be to me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, not uninterested. Armetti had kept this woman around for at least a decade, if she was who he thought she was. She had to be more than a decorative piece.

"I'm an accomplished smuggler, among talents given to me by my bloodline," she said hopefully, aware that she'd piqued his curiosity and now trying to reel him in. "Vincent did offer me a little training. Mostly in telepathy."

He raised an eyebrow, lowering her slowly to the ground, though he kept the knife in hand, waiting for her to release her own grip. "I suppose I could give you a trial run... I'm never one to waste a good opportunity."

She let go of him and immediately sighed at the state of her gloves - splits in the ends of all her fingers - and pulled them off, grimacing slightly. "Well, I'm glad we've come to an agreement. Thank you, Mr. Moran, for not killing me outright. I rather like living and I'd hate to prove Vincent right. So what do we do now?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Now we bring you to my employer. He'll decide whether he agrees with my decision to keep you. Come along." He slid the knife into a sheath sewn into his jacket. It disappeared seamlessly.

She nodded and clasped her hands together in front of her to try and minimize the fact that she wasn't wearing gloves, supremely uncomfortable. A lady always wore gloves, and she wasn't interested in becoming shunned from society just because he'd attacked her.

He headed for the door, pulling the key out of his pocket and unlocking it. "Oh, and Ms. Harrison? You are, of course, free to run off if you like. I have absolute confidence that you will get no farther than I want you to. I trust I am being clear." He opened the door.

She smiled a little, giving a slight shrug. "Mr. Moran, where could I possibly run off to?"

"Perfectly clear, it seems," he smiles, opening the door and motioning her through. It was a small matter to find Moriarty. The boss had a private back room which he kept stocked with people important to him- for various reasons- and which filtered out the necessary-but-dull riff-raff. Moran nodded to the men at the door as he passed, and both bowed slightly in respect, though their eyes remained on the party around them.

The room beyond was smaller by far than the main hall, but still spacious for the thirty or so people milling about. The atmosphere was smokey, but warmly lit by red-tinted gas lamps. The walls of this room, too, were traced in gold, though here the inscriptions were sigils and dark texts from across the known world, a long collection of the occult displayed for all to see. The theme was continued in the decor- rare books and artifacts on display in the weird lighting.

Most of the room's inhabitants were men, though there were several high-society women as well. There were also a half dozen dark-eyed escorts of both sexes: women with skirts that stopped at the knee and were slit to reveal thighs and garters of all sorts, and young men in very little more than waistcoats. In the center of it all- a head shorter but a world higher than any of the highly-influential attendees- stood the host himself. James Moriarty, resplendent in a crimson suit, stood with an air of command near a gilded chair near the head of the room- though he rarely sat. Instead he paced, watching over those in attendance and occasionally entering a conversation with a quick word. He was lively, eyes bright as he tracked dozens of conversations and transactions, dogged carefully by the dark-suited men Sebastian had left to protect him.

Moran approached, nodding when the boss caught his gaze. His employer needed no signal, simply flicked his hand toward a door in the back of the room which led to a private office. Moran motioned for Harrison to follow him, and lead the way.

Her eyes lingered on the escorts first, and then the men and women around them, wondering what kind of place this was that could be so open with its true being. She no longer felt self-conscious about her missing gloves. Vincent had held gatherings for the New York kin, but those had been less outwardly salacious than this, although a sight bloodier, and she was getting a tingling feeling that told her Moran's employer was similar to Vincent, in more ways than one. A collector of the extraordinary, a member of the fiends of night, and a man with ambitions, if she was guessing correctly; and she often did.

Moran waited for James and Lorna to enter the room, then closed the door. Moriarty turned to eye the woman up and down, and smiled slowly. "Ms. Harrison... you've wandered a bit far, it seems, just to crash our humble party." He walked over to a cushioned chair, and sat. "How was your crossing? I hear the Britannic is a splendid vessel, though I'm afraid to say my schedule has rather prevented me from trying the passage for myself."

She raised her eyebrows, not expecting to have her story told by someone other than herself. Was he telepathic? In a more useful way than herself? She decided to just roll with it. "It was an interesting crossing. And I didn't mean to crash this party in particular, just a party. May I ask your name, sir?"

"I don't see why not," he said, flashing a smile. "I'm either going to end you, or hire you, at this point. I am James Moriarty. A fact which- repeated- will result in your immediate termination." His tone was cheery, but then he sobered and glanced at Moran. "I want the city turned over for Armetti's people. Start a corpsefire. He'll have sent people to follow her. I want them eliminated." Moran nodded.

She bristled slightly at the idea she might be being tailed, pressing her hands to her bodice, posture straightening as much was possible. "If I can help draw them out, I'd appreciate being allowed to help. I was very clear to Vincent I was done with his help."

James glanced at her, then shrugged. "I'll leave that to your discretion, Moran. See that our new guest is properly housed and fed, and made aware of the rules." He stood, considering Lorna for a moment. "And tag her." With that, he left the room, returning to the noise and music of his domain.

She looked over at Sebastian, confused. "Tag.. me?"

He nodded, motioning for her to have a seat in a wooden chair that was much plainer than the one Moriarty had used. "It won't take long." He walked over to a cabinet in the corner.

She did as told, although somewhat hesitantly, satin skirts rustling. "What does tagging entail, Mr. Moran?"

He returned a moment later with two thick leather straps, each with iron buckles. "It is a protection measure for Professor Moriarty's people. It ensures your safe passage through the city. Put your hands and arms face up on the arms of the chair." He waited, straps in hand, for her to comply.

She did so, more hesitantly, eyes on the straps. "I feel you're leaving out some important details, sir."

He layed one strap across her left arm, buckling it snugly beneath the chair arm, and did the same on her right side. "You know what you need to." He straightened, and, stepping back slightly, removed his jacket and began meticulously rolling up his left sleeve. His bared forearm was scarred extensively, if oddly. Carefully spaced, neat marks along the outside of his arm that were roped with repeated rehealing. He pulled another knife from his jacket, this one different than the first. It was small and wickedly sharp, made of bronze rather than silver, with black enameled tiger stripes slashing across the back of the blade. He glanced up at Lorna for a moment, as if evaluating her, then chose one of the scars on his left arm, and opened it precisely with the blade, dark blood oozing out.

She recoiled slightly, surprised, her eyes growing wide. She'd been taught enough to know that this was taboo, and she pulled slightly at the straps. She could probably break them, given a desperate enough moment, but it didn't seem worth it for now. "Mr. Moran, please, at least buy me dinner first," she jested weakly, nervously. She'd never drank of another vampire's bloodline before. Vincent's, yes, but it was clear to her by now he was not a Luxurian.

He smiled up at her, calm. "Take a deep breath, Ms. Harrison. You won't need to drink. This is a simple procedure." He walked closer, the blood pooling slowly in the wound, as his arm was still raised. He knelt beside her, and without further explanation, sunk his teeth into her left wrist. He kept the bite small, just one fang, which extended quickly and punctured deep, leaving a deep, circular wound. He pulled away, the hint of her taste on his tongue as he lowered his arm. Gravity did its work, and blood flowed faster now and dripping into the wound. This all happened in the span of a second- he had learned to be quick.

She jolted, startled, pressing up hard against the straps for a moment before it was over, taking a deep, unnecessary breath. "Well, that was violating," she said acidly, setting her teeth, and fixing him with something just short of a glare.

He sat back on his heels, and then stood, tucking the knife away. He pulled a roll of gauze out of his pocket and bound his arm with precise movements. "You'll be given food in a few minutes, it will be mostly healed by the time you're finished."

"You couldn't have explained a little further before, Mr. Moran?" She huffed, ignoring the part about being fed. "I would have consented, had you just explained yourself. Instead now I'm upset and discombobulated. I'm a rational woman, believe me."

He smiled, flashing one fang. "Relax, Ms. Harrison. I know what's best for you.

A rush of anger flooded through her, fueled by bitterness of Vincent's making, and she rose to her feet, snapping the tighter of the leather bands, her fangs extending. "Do not presume to know what's best for me, sir. I alone know that, thank you very much. I swear to God, I'll tear the throat out of the next man to presume such.'

He laughed, genuinely amused and intrigued by her display. "No offense was meant, Ms. Harrison. Allow me to explain. You are laboring under the very American presumption that you have rights. This is, regrettably, inaccurate. You have bought your life with your autonomy. We shall see when and if you earn it back." He reached out to undo the other strap before she had the chance to break it.

She snatched her hand back, still incensed but not really in a place to do much about it. "I'm not American, Mr. Moran, I would have thought the accent would tip you off to that," she snapped, though her fangs were once again hidden from view, and her gaze was less iron than before. "Apologies for my... Display. I have a history with your previous statement."

"You were born in America," he pointed out. "Your former self may have been British, but not here. You know nothing of our kind in Britain, that is clear, or you never would have made so many mistakes in dealing with us. You're lucky I found you." He ignored her apology, content to let her stew in unimportance. "Come. The boss wants you fed."

She gave a slight nod, looking away from him, her anger bouncing around in her head with nowhere to vent, and she wondered if there would be recompense for her making a kill while under their roof.

He motioned for her to stand, and headed for the door. "There's a bloodbar downstairs. You can eat there."

She wrinkled her nose slightly in distaste behind his back, not relishing the thought of cold blood, but following him dutifully.

He led her out of the office and back into the inner room. Jim was back to socializing, and didn't look their direction as Moran led them past another set of guards and down a flight of stone steps and through a thick wooden door. Beyond the door was a low-ceilinged, expansive stone crypt of sorts, extending hundreds of feet in all directions and supported by slim pillars. The place was oddly warm, heated by fires which flickered near a few of the pillars, enclosed by screens, blocking most of their light. Outlined by the faint orange glow which escaped the screens was a gridwork of sofas, centered between the pillars, dozens of them. A few figures walked between the sofas, just visible in the dim light. Moran motioned for Lorna to follow and walked down an aisle between columns, stopping eventually by one of the couches. The flickering light made perception difficult, until a young woman seemed to materialize out of the couch, wrapped in blankets. Moran smiled and spoke. "How many have you had?"

"Just two, tonight, sir. Still go' a few more in me."

"This one is hungry. She will finish you for tonight. Serve her and go home, and mention Moran to the hostess. She'll give you a gift from me."

"Of course, sir. Thank ya' sir." She smiled expectantly at Lorna, and bared her neck. Moran motioned Lorna forward. "Do take care not to drain her entirely, Ms. Harrison."

That picked up her mood drastically.

This hadn't been what she'd thought it was going to be at all. A smile snuck onto her face, bidden by the attractive young thing in front of her. "Of course. It would be a shame to waste beauty such as her, would it not?" She said smoothly, taking a few steps forward and outstretching her hand for the woman to take.

She did, kissing Lorna's knuckles with a smile and pulling her down onto the couch with a gentle but insistent tug. "You're too kind, ma'am."

She smirked, following her down onto the sofa, leaning forward to kiss the woman on her cheek, her other hand lifting to brush her hair away from her neck. "Close your eyes, darling..."

"If that's 'ow you'll have me," the young woman said pleasantly, closing her eyes and tilting her head. There were already two bruised sets of marks on the tender skin there, her pulse flicking away brightly beneath her skin, accented by the flamelight.

She leaned forward without further ado, the excitement of close blood tingling beneath her skin, and sank her fangs into the woman's neck.

Oh, blood. Blood, blood, wonderful blood. She shivered visibly as the stuff rolled across her tongue.

Moran watched as she drank eagerly. He'd known she was hungry- had felt her need the instant he had touched her. He wondered how hard she had had to ration herself aboard the steamer- it had only gotten in earlier that day. The party had likely been her first attempt at a hunt. It was interesting, the glint she had gotten in her eyes when she saw the girl. More than hunger. Lust, perhaps... He let it slide for the moment.

She drank until the first hint that the girl was beginning to weaken, and then she drew back immediately, well aware of watchful eyes on her, and of the vulnerability of the moment. Really, he was committing yet another taboo, hovering while she fed; such a vulnerable moment was best left to privacy. She wiped her mouth as she drew back with a handkerchief drawn from her dress pocket, glancing up at him, her lips stained red, eyes dark. "Alright, I'm sated."

He nodded slightly, looking Harrison over. Her skin was flush with the barest hint of pulse and movement, and when he looked at her wrist, the puncture he had left there was beginning to clot and scab. It hadn't been a large meal, but it would rejuvenate her a little. It would also circulate his blood through her body more thoroughly. Already, she smelled like one of his. He'd be able to follow her anywhere if she decided to make a break for it. He nodded his approval to her, and bent down to their willing victim. The girl was sprawled lazily across the couch, resting, exhausted. He reached out and dabbed a dribble of blood off of her neck with his finger, bringing it up to his lips, before turning toward the exit. "Come with me, Ms. Harrison."

She nodded and stood, a spring to her step, her poor mood fizzled away with the sweet taste of blood. "How do you hire anybody to do this? What's the process?" She asked curiously, a step behind him.

"You'd be surprised how many people are willing to make a little money for their blood." His tone was almost bored, as if this were an explanation he had given many times. "Most are prostitutes or street waifs. They provide blood twice monthly, and keep silent about our practices. In exchange, we keep them fed and give them access to doctors, along with a small stipend. We almost always have access to more people than we need."

She nodded thoughtfully, wondering why Vincent had never bothered to do the same. His "blood bags," as he called them, were simply criminals plucked from the jaws of justice to spend the rest of their lives serving the creatures of the night. Usually, they were too grateful to have escaped execution to protest the occasional draining. "Very neat."

He smiled just a little. "It's a good system." It also provided them with eyes and ears almost everywhere in the city, but she didn't need to know that. They passed a set of guards, and he stopped. "Mr. Glim, Mr. Scott, if you will please escort Ms. Harrison here to the guest's quarters? See that she is not disturbed in any way." The men nodded, stepping out of their posts. "Ms. Harrison, this is where I leave you for now," Moran said with a smile. "I have a city to turn over."

She nodded, smiling slightly. "Good hunting, Mr. Moran."

Moran returned to his chambers, changing quickly out of his party clothes and into a more subtle uniform for the dingy streets of London. He needed to walk unnoticed in any street. The answer was a dark wool suit, just poor enough to pass in back alleys, just neat enough for main streets. He tucked his pocket watch into his waistcoat after checking the time. He had six hours before dawn. He loved the winter- long nights and short days. He headed for the surface.

Lorna was shown her quarters, and was pleased to find them up to her expectations. She'd grown used to a life of comfort living under Vincent's wing, and she would be loathe to give it up now.

The first tendrils of dawn were threatening to give him a headache when he finally returned to the network. He let out sigh of relief as he entered the light-sealed building and descended, off to find his new acquisition.

She was reading in her quarters, a book about the cruelty of hunting birds solely for their feathers, having figured that she was confined to the one space for the moment.

Moran approached her door, and knocked briskly. Giving her a moment to object, he opened the door. He didn't want her losing the knowledge that she was still under observation. He nodded to her as he entered. "Ms. Harrison. Good morning. How are you finding your stay?"

"Surprisingly comfortable, Mr. Moran, thank you for asking," she said, shutting her book and looking up at him, her hand resting on the hard leather cover. "I assume you're here for a reason?"

He nodded. "Armetti has sent men after you. They're staying down by the docks for the time being. It seems he already had a few men here on business, and re-purposed them."

"Oh, Vincent," she said quietly, her eyes cold. "You never could just leave me be." She had left America, her home now for twenty-odd years, just to escape his overbearing ways, and yet he still couldn't resist intruding upon her independence. He'd always been possessive. She looked back at Moran, her eyebrows lifting slightly. "And you want me to lure them in, is that it?"

He nods slightly. "That would be the general idea, yes. You will be escorted down to the docks, then left on your own to locate the men and bring them to us. I don't care how you do it, but they must be alive."

She sighed. Alive? It would be so much easier to kill them. "Yes, alright. Any further directions I should be aware of at this time?"

"Come back," he said, giving her an amused smirk. "Other than that, you're free to act however you will."

"Hard to deliver my quarry without returning, isn't it?" She asked, a little surprised to find that even after the recent events she still found his smile charming. That was inconvenient. She did not smile back. "I assume I'll be escorted out as evening returns, right?"

He nodded. "You have a little over eight hours. Enjoy your stay." He gave a cocky wink, and with a slight bow, left her to her devices.

She tapped her finger on the cover of her book for a moment, trying to figure out what his game was, then shook her head slightly and opened it up to begin reading again. There was no need to guess. He would reveal it eventually.

A/N

If you enjoyed this, leave us a comment so we know to keep going! (I mean we'll write it no matter what but if there's no interest might just not update this.) If you're interested in learning more about this world I have some resources that I can make available to those who care! Most of it will eventually be referenced to, if not outright explained, in the story to come.