Title: Dead Man's Party
Rating: PG
"Josef is a dead man," Mick stared at the room full of flush costumed humans and sans the vampire he'd come with. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be drunk like a respectable vampire at a dark bar far from the maddening crowds with the blood and sweat and sex, all so close to him.
As the limo had taken the twists and turns through the L.A. streets, Mick had been listening to one of Josef's legendary stories, Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis in another limo long ago. When the door opened, the roar of the crowd told him they weren't at the secluded vamp bar he'd expected.
Josef rummaged in a bag at his feet and pulled out a feathered black mask, then threw a simple silk mask at Mick.
"I need to see a man about a dog. Mingle a little, find something to snack on. Give me 20 minutes and we'll hit Dreaming Darkly," he disappeared into the throng inside The Music Box.
Mick had waited. And waited. And finished off half a bottle of Josef's best Scotch. And then drained the rest of the vodka. After 30 minutes, he grabbed the damned mask and fled the limo.
Josef's trail led straight into the crowd, the pungent smell of decay and desire mingling. Mick pushed and pulled, the crush of humanity pulling hard at hungry fangs. His friend was somewhere in the thick of it all, probably some part of him sunk into a tasty female.
Mick pushed through angels and devils and school girls and monsters of all sorts, even a few old-fashioned, plastic-fanged vampires. The music wasn't his music. It was pounding and aching and a throb of muddled guitar and words that had no heart.
He froze. Josef's scent was forgotten. There, underneath layers upon layers of mortality, at the heart of it, was Her. A scent he'd first caught 18 years ago.
The push and pull of bodies drifted away from him. Mick closed the gap between them in an instant. He couldn't help himself.
Her familiar blonde locks were hidden under a brunette wig, its familiar waves a little disturbing in their similarity to the woman who'd snatched her years ago, but the vintage dress suit, the seamed stockings, the pill box hat brought this very modern woman back to his time. A press pass, a steno pad. All she needed was a little rescuing to complete the image. Mick took in the scent of her, a great gulp of hope.
"I'm not waiting around for Superman to finish circle jerking with his frat buddies!" he heard her yelling over the crowd at a sympathetic brunette flapper. Beth spun on her heel unexpectedly and crashed into Mick.
"Excuse me," Mick stumbled back, her sudden touch sending him reeling. He could smell the booze on her breath and reached out a hand when it seemed that she wouldn't get her balance back.
"Thank you," came her breathy tone, a smile. At him. But this wasn't her voice, not the high sweet tones. This was velvety with liquor and sex. He forced himself to drop his hand from the small of her back.
"I ran into you, it's my fault. My apologies," he was caught in the tide of her ocean eyes. Those were the same. The girl he'd saved, she was gone. But something of her remained. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just fine," Beth's eyes were trapped in his, peering from behind the mask. "Do I know you?"
Her hand rose to his face, inches from pulling it away, but Mick took a step back.
"I think I'd remember a pretty thing like you," he smiled and ducked his head. "Where were you rushing off to?"
"Leaving. My date is an ass."
"So soon? It's not even midnight," Mick glanced at his watch. 11:50. "Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?"
"No, but I am still waiting for my dance with the handsome prince," she leaned into him just as the music settled into an instrumental piece, a slow song. He hesitated, but took her hand, led her to the dance floor.
He pulled her in tight, his hand at her waist as they bobbed in time to the music. He felt her warmth against him, a fine sheen of sweat under her heavy clothes. His fingers itched to touch her, to push their two bodies together until they were one. She was infinitely fragile and suddenly so very, very real.
Her arms wrapped him and she tilted her head up, eyes on him and lips parted. Mick stared at the bright against her pale, the sweet scent of her coming at him in currents.
"Take off the mask," she whispered. "Show me who you really are."
Mick's hands itched to rip it away. To show her, to see her. But the buzz of the booze was fading and he realized what he was about to do. To touch her life again, bringing her life into a dead man's.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. A cold one, a dead smell overtaking her live one.
"Come on, man, let's get out of here," Josef was behind him, eyeing the drunk blonde, who looked less that thrilled that her dance had been disrupted. "Unless you've found something fresh here."
"No, I'm …" Mick looked back at her. He leaned in, brushed lips lightly against her cheek, taking away the faint taste of her. "I hope you find your Superman."
He fled into the crowd and into the night as he heard a faint whisper behind him.
"I think I did."