Author's Note: I promised myself I wouldn't fall back into this Twilight hysteria, but I find myself drawn to the villains like Victoria and James, and the "Rebellion Years" of Edward. Bella is very...irritating.
Like most things I write, this is a product of boredom and my excuse to avoid homework and my friends. So.
The Red Angel
The Angel flies through the thick underbrush of the damp forest, revelling the force of her own grace. The branches of trees seemed to pave way for her, as the Red Sea had parted for Moses. At least, she liked to think it was so.
From this distance, the miles and miles she were from living, bleeding humans, she could hear their laughter, their petty arguments, and the drunken shouts of victory. A casino, perhaps?
She smiles. Alcohol does wonders for the blood, so she hears.
The Angel quickens her pace, and glides towards the feast.
XxXxXxX
She leans against the bar stool, and the Angel waits.
She does not entertain the thought of herself being a predator. It's too...repugnant. It was displeasing to the tongue. Like black coffee. Bitter.
No...she lured them too her. It was their own doing, their own weakness, that they met their fate. She was merely the executioner.
A man, stumbling and smelling of vodka, nearly fell against bar, smacking a bill against the fake marble table top and turning to her with a crooked grin, "Buy you a drink?"
The Angel smiled, curling a piece of red hair between her forefinger, "I'd be delighted."
XxXxXxX
The Angel, her pallid skin edged with ruby, walks from the alley way, fingering a loose fitting Rolex and licking her lips.
The moon hung in the sky like an eye, watching her indignantly and casting what little light could be seen against the streets.
She imagined the moon as a person, a parental figure to rebel against, and she grinned defiantly at it.
The twang of country music filled the air, and she followed it.
The Angel, covered in red, found herself in a bar. A red juke box filled the room with the throaty voice of a man she was not familiar with, acoustic strings strumming into harmony. Two men played pool in the corner, cigarette smoke gliding in wispy clouds into the stiff air. The Angel flipped her hair from her sharp eyes and took a stool at the bar.
The bartender, flabbergasted at the Angel's beauty, asked her order. She loomed, allowing her lips to twitch into a sultry grin, sending him off with a nod of her head.
A man sat beside her, and she smiled. Dessert.
His breath was calm, even. He smelled of night air and evergreens. His face was smooth, and his hair was blonde, and he was beautiful.
"Where are you coming from?" he asked in a steady, lyrical voice that drifted into the Angel's ears like a lullaby.
She said nothing, looking forward and speculating his motives.
He leaned in closer, and the Angel smelled nothing human.
"What is your name?" he asked, and his smooth finger traced a pattern into her own stone arm.
She looked at him sideways and narrowed her eyes.
"I'm James," he whispered, his guttural voice making even the simple statement sound vulgar. She stretched her lips, and spoke softly;
"Victoria. I'm Victoria."