Author's Note: I took a bit of risk with this chapter, but as for this week's episode, I feel that James can be... vulnerable. Know that this chapter is incredibly long. Sorry, not sorry. I don't know why or how I do it, but I can't write a short chapter to save my soul!

One last thing, I have a Tumblr. Check it out: nefariousundertakingsDOTtumblr Also, I have a Pinterest account which is my inspirational art board of sorts. Take a glance, it's really quite nice pinterestDOTcom/culturalescape

VampWolf92: You are a woman of few words. I like it.

Ngome055: Thanks for your comment. You have no idea how much enjoyment I received from you mentioning Rosa as being a part of James' former life. Wow. Just... wow. I definitely think things would have been different had she born in his time, but as the story unfolds you'll realize that everything happens for a reason. After all, this a revival!

Eserechia: Thank you for your messages and enthusiasm.


A Colorful Frenzy

Unseen James continued to lean against the café window, the smoke from his cigarette blending in with those at the table nearest him. For the past few days, his mind had been in a bit of an uproar and all because of one woman, Rosaline Cortez. It still didn't make such sense to him. After being dead for centuries he thought he had seen and done it all, but alas, he was wrong.

Eyeing the small crowd as they drank their drinks and made merry conversation, he searched for a spark among them. Dark hearts popped out at him, not black, but a murky blue or rotted green. Envious, depressed, lacking... So many things, but not a single one of them truly evil.

That's where he went wrong with Rosaline.

So moved was he by her beauty and that sudden shock, that he didn't even think to focus on her person, to try and see her aura, her true nature. Not that it would matter as most individuals had only two specific colors, red or blue, but still, it was worth a try.

Now mind you, it wasn't going to change anything. After all, he wanted a challenge and every twist and turn that came from her made for a more spirited chase. Smiling softly, he had to admit that he liked the feeling. It made him roar in frustration, yes. Sometimes to the point where he wanted to slam his head into the wall, or quite frankly someone else's, but it also made his nonexistent blood flow and his heart race. It... she... renewed his vitality.

Taking another long drag of his cigarette, his pupils began to dilate. Lowering the cigarette from his face, he exhaled smoke and inhaled roses.

The bell chimed.

The warmth of the room along with random bits of conversation, laughter, and the buzz of blenders greeted Rosaline as she stepped into the café.

The Rise and Grind was a fairly large building, modern in design, and divided into two levels. The first held the sales counter, the kitchen, along with elaborate glass casings that displayed what the café was most famous for, their pastries. As for the second level, which was made accessible by a black metal staircase, it was roped off.

Hooking the strap of her purse higher over her shoulder, Rosaline tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and eyed the patrons looking, searching, for James. Standing on the tip of her navy heels, she tried to peer over the crowd, silently cursing her short stature when she couldn't see past the third table.

Resting fully on her heels once more, she spied movement from the corner of her eye.

Turning slowly, her midnight eyes fell to a table tucked away in the corner by the window. Sunlight filtered in and she swore she saw wisps of pale smoke rising up in the air, seeming to come from the window itself. Eyes widening, she watched as a faint silhouette began to take shape. It appeared as if someone was leaning against the glass.

When the barista called out a name, Rosaline snapped back to attention. Staring at the window once more, she no longer saw wisps of smoke or the figure. As the male customer moved she saw the man's reflection in the glass and quickly dismissed the earlier figure as a trick of the light.

Withholding a sigh she gnawed at her lower lip and smoothed out the folds in her dress. Her dress was white with a bateau neckline and blue-gold floral embroidery along the hem and across her waist, perfectly accentuating her curves, appearing flirty yet modest. Glancing down at her watch she wondered if James had even arrived. "He doesn't seem like the type to be late," she muttered to herself.

The rhythmic clicking of heels stole her attention.

Looking over to the right, she spied brown oxfords that were polished to a shine and making their descent down the staircase.

"Hello, Rosaline," James greeted in his smooth baritone with a twinkle in his eye. "Thank you so much for joining me."

Once again he was dressed handsomely in charcoal grey trousers and a starched white shirt, along with a black pinstripe waistcoat, and black ascot. As he closed the distance between them his waistcoat opened revealing dark plum suspenders. At that Rosaline's smile widened; she always had a thing for suspenders.

Used to his manners, or should I say, expecting another kiss, she held out her hand to him.

Taking her hand in his, he pulled her toward him, his other hand coming to rest on the curve of her hip. Rosaline inhaled sharply when she felt his lips press against her cheek. "Forgive me," he whispered along her skin, the action sending a shiver down her spine. "I was taught to greet one with a kiss when all proper formality had been taken. So if I may..." He kissed her again.

That small kiss had quite an effect.

Flames danced along her skin. Standing so close as he was she could smell the pleasing scent of his cologne along with cigarette smoke; it made her head spin, but in the most delightful way possible. Swallowing hard, she struggled to reign in her emotions and to keep her knees from buckling. Yet as his kiss lingered, the flames along her body began to spread, burning her from the outside in.

Just the same as Rosaline, James was also affected by the seemingly innocent kiss.

Standing with his lips still pressed against her skin, James swore that he had just been hit by a freight train. Far more than a shock, this was like a bullet to the brain. More than anything he wanted to trail his lips, further along, her velvety, smooth skin, to inhale that pleasing floral scent, but he didn't dare. This was a staged performance and he had a role to play.

"You look lovely," he declared as he pulled back. Truly she looked a vision, especially now with that luxurious crimson blush governing her cheeks and her midnight eyes littered with his favorite constellations.

"Thank you, James." She returned, surprised when her voice didn't shake.

Gifting her with a charming smile, he took her hand in his and led her toward the staircase.

"I didn't know what you would prefer," he began as they started up the stairs. "So I took the liberty of having them prepare their very best, which to my surprise was a vast assortment of baked goods. Nevertheless, I am more than certain that you will find something to your liking."

"Oh, there was no need for that. Really, James, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

Pausing at the top of the landing Rosaline stared in shock at the scene before her.

Adorning every table was a modern rectangular vase with calla lilies positioned in such a way that they formed a circle, with one or two extending out of the vase itself. Around the vases were various pastries: cakes, scones, muffins, tarts, a few of which she had never seen before.

"D-did you plan all of this?" She asked, unable to take her eyes off the flowers.

"Most certainly."

Gripping her hand more firmly, he guided her further inside. Rosaline's eyes wandered over the white calla lilies and sweet treats, a moment before they fell to their own private table. It was small and circular, sitting right in front of the large windows were dazzling rays of sunlight filtered in. It was like being inside a movie or a dream.

"Allow me," he said pulling out her chair.

Resting exquisitely in a short ceramic vase and arranged with grasses and wildflowers, were bright magenta roses. Unable to help herself she leaned forward and ran her fingertips along one's edge. A smile came to her lips at the feel of its silky, smooth petals. "I've never seen a rose like this before," she confessed.

"It's a rare breed," he told her as he took his seat across from her. "Known as the Darcey rose, it is noted for the formation of its petals along with its vibrant hue. However, the true rarity is that unlike other roses which wilt and lose their beauty, this rose grows more striking over time." Pausing for a moment, he looked over the flowers and murmured, "Even in death they possess an ethereal beauty that can leave one utterly captivated."

Placing her elbows on the table, Rosaline leaned forward and closing her eyes, inhaled its light fruity fragrance.

The simple action put him in a bit of a predicament.

Having been born in the time that he was, it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to remove her elbows from the table and that such a display was quite lacking in propriety. However, the very sight was rather... endearing.

Staring at her with his brow furrowed James tried to think of a time where Elizabeth had done this. He couldn't think of a single instance that wasn't forced or for a show, not during their brief courtship, marriage, or even after his death. Not once had Elizabeth been so pleased as to innocently, impulsively, inhale the fragrance of flowers as Rosaline did. Why the two women were like night and day.

Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter. "How do you..." he trailed off. 'How do you like them?' He was going to ask until he lost his voice. 'Are they your favorite flower?' He would have inquired next. All of this and more would have been said if he could only find the words.

Shimmering rays of sunlight struck her person making him speechless. Dark eyes rooted to her figure, James watched as magnificent golden rays of light morphed around her body giving her an angelic appearance, casting above her head a rare halo of sorts. Never, not once had he ever seen a... soul... like hers.

The longer he stared dumbfounded, the more relaxed she became, losing herself in her own little world. When she opened her eyes, her gaze rising to his own, she smiled revealing her aura's color to him. James' mouth fell open.

"Sorry to interrupt," the barista began making his way to their table, "but would you like something to drink now?"

"Do you make mocha cappuccinos?" Rosaline asked, slightly oblivious to James' newfound plight.

If Rosaline wanted them to make water into wine, it would have been done that day. James had already paid them a small fortune to cater to her every whim and they would not disappoint.

"We sure do." The barista answered, green eyes sparkling. "Would you like it topped with whipped cream?"

"Please."

Nodding his head, the barista looked toward James. Damn, this man is sprung. "And for you, sir?" he asked, unable to hide his grin over James' state.

Pulled from his stupor, James answered, quite breathlessly, "I'll take a coffee—black." As the man turned to go, James spoke once more. "Also, do be so kind as to," he motioned to the various baked goods around him them with his hand, "...put together an assort of your pastries for the lady, please. Thank you."

With the barista running off to do his bidding, James pulled himself together. In less than thirty seconds flat he had gone from being cool and sophisticated to a besotted schoolboy. Granted that what he had seen would take anyone by surprise, it was still a bit of a carbuncle to witness, a sort of low blow to a man who was always in control.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" He asked.

Rosaline shook her head. "No, go ahead."

It was the wrong thing to do. Sunlight merely reflected off his gold cigarette case and hit her form, making her all the more striking. Damn it all to hell.

Tapping his cigarette against the case, he regarded her with a sharp eye. That color was rare, far too rare to be seen. While he had come to the café to tempt her, to murder her for curbing his indignation from days past, he was now... curious. Placing his cigarette between his lips he lit a match.

It would seem that death would have to wait until his curiosity was satisfied.

"Here are your pastries," a red-haired waitress informed as she set down a tiered serving tray.

The same barista from earlier came up with their drinks, as another girl trailed behind with a smaller tray of freshly prepared fruit tarts, cream, and sugar. "One mocha cappuccino and black coffee, coming your way."

Of course, they had been trained, scratch that, the demand had been made for expert service. That being said, they all served on the left, making sure to keep their heads and arms from blocking James' or Rosaline's view.

As the other two set up their table, the younger barista set out to make herself useful and reached for the pot of cream.

With an air of superiority that could not be feigned, James immediately held up his hand, palm facing outward, a silent gesture that roared, 'STOP!' Inhaling sharply the girl froze in her movements, a lock of her brown hair falling over her face as she jerked like a locomotive. "My order was for black coffee," he reproved, shooting fire at her with his eyes.

"I'm s-sorry."

Knowing that Rosaline was watching him like a hawk and seeing the mild contempt that was forming in her eyes at his mild chastisement, he immediately put on a smile, forcing it to reach his eyes. "No need to apologize. Accidents do happen." He sang cheerfully.

Had this happened in his hotel James would have sent her down the chute alive, making sure to toss the damned pot after her, so that if she survived the fall it would knock some damn sense into her!

Taking in his smile, the young woman could see no malice or his true morbid thoughts and smiled. "Really," James continued, selling his merry tune for all it was worth, "you have all gone above and beyond with your expert service. Truly, I for one couldn't be more pleased."

The girl's smile widened even more but still she didn't move.

Applying gentle pressure on the pot, James set it in the upright position, and pushed it, along with the barista, away from him and his drink. "Thank you," he droned, dark eyes giving off sparks. It appeared that the old phrase was true; good help was most certainly hard to find.

"Beth!" The barista whispered fiercely.

Snapping to attention Beth took her eyes off James and looked at her two superiors. Blushing to the roots of her brown hair, she stammered, "L-let us know if you need anything else." And with that, took off like a rocket toward the staircase with the others.

Gazing after them James concluded that the pot of cream wouldn't be enough. No, he would have to toss the coffee pot after Beth as well. Quite possibly even the sugar dish. That would be an awful lot of dishes, he thought to himself as he rubbed his jaw. Goodness, Miss Evers would need to have a serving cart on standby!

Taking a tentative sip of her mocha cappuccino, Rosaline eyed James from above the rim. While one could easily misplace his actions and label him as a rude customer, or quite possibly dismiss it altogether, she had seen that tiny gesture of his hand and knew it was second nature. James was used to having things go to plan, performed to his liking. Then again, how many times had she bitched when she took a sip of her coffee and discovered that it wasn't what she ordered? While she didn't make it a point to grumble to the baristas face, it did momentarily ruin her mood. Perhaps that's what happened now.

"Tell me about the outside world," James asked of her suddenly. "How was work?"

Setting down her cup she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "Nothing too eventful, just a mountain of paperwork at the office. What about you?"

"Oh, I don't work. I'm retired."

Taking her eyes off the chocolate muffin, she looked up at him. Briefly, her eyes darted over his face. "'Retired?'" She repeated, unable to mask her surprise. "How can you be retired? You're what, twenty-eight, thirty at the most?" As she waited for his answer she remembered what he said that day in the park.

"Unlike you, I did not have a knack for design, a love for architecture, not yet. So I studied business like my father before me and I did well. Very well."

Though it wasn't that surprising in this day and age, as more and more people were reaching that pinnacle of success early in life, it was still odd to meet someone in person who had achieved such a feat.

Tilting his head this way and that, James scrunched up his face as though he were trying hard to remember his age. "I am neither twenty-eight or thirty, but 120 years old. What can I say, there must be some forces at work keeping me alive," he told her with a wink.

Rosaline snorted, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Well, if you're 120, then I'm 140!" She teased.

A sincere grin graced his lips. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were," he told her honestly. "You have a very... old... soul." Eyeing her up and down he asked, "How old are you really, twenty-five?"

Rosaline nodded. "And you are...?"

"Your first guess was correct," he answered. So he was twenty-eight. Eternally.

A comfortable silence lapsed between them then.

Leaning back into his chair James smoked his cigarette watching as she reached for all of her favorite pastries, converting them to memory though he didn't know why. Polite to a fault she always asked if he wanted something, nearly making herself sound like a broken record. Though unlike a broken record that would make one annoyed, it tickled him.

"You have a penchant for fruit and chocolate," he remarked when she took another raspberry Mogador.

At that she blushed. If left to her own devices, this tray, and the tables behind her would be clear in no time. No doubt she was gorging herself and her cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel, but caution and formality be damned! "Yes," she returned, reaching for another chocolate caramel muffin as well. "Always have. Though you don't seem to like anything that's being offered."

"Correction, I like you."

That deep vibrato sent a shiver all the way to her thighs. Licking her lips, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "Sadly, I'm not offering myself in that manner."

A cheeky smile came to his lips.

Rosaline's words didn't mean that she was uninterested. The underlining message was simple, 'I know my worth and it is far more than what you implied.' In that moment she had schooled him expertly, making it known that she would not be an easy woman to bed.

"I stand corrected," James told her. "Though understand, I meant no disrespect. I can see your value," he went on to say, his gaze roaming along her aura, "and you are priceless."

Sincerity. His words were laced with the utmost sincerity and it broke through the wall she had been quickly forming.

"Now that we understand each other better, tell me why you don't prefer sweets."

All through her light meal, James had merely smoked and taken sip after sip of his coffee. The truth of the matter was that in life he had been fond of chocolate, however, death made food taste either like cardboard or intolerably bitter. While his mental state had improved to allow his senses to be tricked, eating was still something he couldn't fully grasp the concept of. Not only could he feel the texture in his mouth, but he felt it going down his throat and into his nonexistent stomach. Where it went after that was beyond him. Needless to say, eating made him a bit iffy.

"Chocolate was always my treat of choice." Tapping his ashes into the ashtray he went on to say, "Chocolate, ice cream, Coca-Cola... All of that and more was a rarity in my home. If one was in possession of it, fights would ensue." As the words left his mouth he wished he could take them back. How had that bit of truth come from him and why?

Rosaline's lips curved into a smile. There was only one reason why a fight would break out over candy. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"

Clenching his jaw tightly, he saw their faces. While he wanted to deny it, he couldn't. "Yes," he answered, voice slipping into a monotone. "Sadly they've all passed away."

Immediately she was contrite. "James, I'm sorry. I had no idea..."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he interrupted. "Such is life."

The statement was said in such a way to imply that he was over their deaths, but looking into his eyes, Rosaline knew better. There was an underlying sorrow lingering in his tone and a haunting misery lurking within the depths of his eyes. Something tragic had happened. Something he couldn't let go of.

Wanting to make up for her blunder as well as to expunge that look from his eyes she put on a smile. "So tell me, James, what do you do in your spare time, other than renting the top floor of café's, of course."

"Ha-ha," he laughed, pleased by her jest and for the smooth transition in the topic. "Let's see, when I am not tending to roses," he began, looking slyly at her, "I enjoy listening to music and reading." Not to mention mass murder, he silently added.

"Favorite artist?"

Taking a sip of his bitter and much beloved black coffee, he muddled it over. "Sidney Bechet and Bessie Smith. You know," he said leaning forward as he grew excited, "I once saw her perform in person, Bessie, voice like a dream; so much strength and pain. Why it was..." He trailed off when Rosaline arched a brow. "Now what is that look for?" He questioned.

"You said you saw, Bessie Smith, in person."

"I did!" He declared with so much honesty and gusto that she laughed.

"Bessie Smith died in 1937, James."

Blinking hard, he immediately realized his blunder. "Oh, well, about that..." Clearing his throat he tried to find a way out. What had Liz Taylor remarked to watching one afternoon? Ah, yes! "Ha-ha, so silly of me. What I meant to say, was that I saw a documentary about Bessie Smith on the You Tub! ...or was it a new tube?"

"Hahaha!" Rosaline threw her head back, laughing at him.

Tears came to her eyes and when she finally got herself under control, she saw his embarrassed facial expression and laughed heartily once more.

"YouTube. It's called, YouTube." Wiping the moisture from her eyes she chuckled again. "Now that I know you are not a modern man, why don't tell me some more about your favorite Jazz artists."

It took everything in him not to duck his head in embarrassment or to lean across the table and kiss that mouth of hers. Licking his lips, he twirled his sapphire pinky ring on his finger revealing, for the first time, his very own nervous gesture.

"Why don't you tell me one of your favorites," he returned. "Seeing as you watch the most YouTube," he drawled with a wiggle of his brows, making her laugh, "you should be quite the expert."

"Hmm, I was always fond of, Robert Johnson."

An old soul she was. "I too like him. Such a shame his life was cut short; he would have been one of the great ones."

"You know," she began, voice lowering slightly, the husky tone driving him to the brink of distraction. "It's believed that he sold his soul to the devil to achieve success."

James resisted the urge to arch a brow at her words. Had Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, he would have become an honorary member of Devil's Night. Though still, Rosaline brought out a playful nature in him, so he allowed his eyes to widen.

Letting out a shocked gasp, he sat up straight in his chair and shouted, "Horsefeathers!"

Taken back by the old explicative she stared at him in shock. Then her eyes began to twinkle, lips curving upward, shoulders shaking as she tried to control herself.

"Oh, go ahead and laugh," James told her in mock disappointment as he shrugged his shoulders. "I won't take offense," he added, turning away from her. "Really, just go on with it. Make me feel like an old man for saying... horsefeathers."

That second time did it.

"Hahaha!"

It took some time for them to come down from his joke, primarily because he was so moved by the sound of her laughter and she was smitten by his boyish smile. So each one kept repeating the word, determined to see that smile linger, for the laughter to echo.

Chuckling one last time James rubbed at his brow. Horsefeathers. That saying probably went out the same year that it was introduced.

Turning back again to face her, he saw that lovely aura. "Tell me something, do you believe that one can see another's soul, their aura?"

Well, that was a quick way to sober up.

Biting her lip, Rosaline thought it over a bit in her mind. "No."

"Why not?" He inquired further, genuinely curious.

Resting her elbows on the table, she placed her hands under her chin, another move that was completely lacking yet utterly adorable. "People change," she stated simply.

"That is true, however, I'm speaking of your soul, what lies at the base of your being."

"Only God knows that."

A believer. Rosaline was a... believer. If there was a god, then James would have laughed heartily in his face for making such a soul and allowing her to fall into his clutches.

"Alright so as a believer..."

"A Catholic," she corrected.

This was just too perfect. "A Catholic," he conceded. "As a Catholic, you no doubt believe in miracles, prophets, angels and demons, even certain mystics such as your Saints. So, why not an aura?"

"When it comes to angels and demons, you know that an angel serves God, protects man, and a demon does the exact opposite. As for miracles, I'm sure you don't need a definition of that. Though when it comes to Saints... Saints are not mystics, but men and women of faith who persevered, and prophets were chosen specially by God to share His word and guide His people. So, why a belief in these things and not a person's aura? It's because the color of someone's... being, does not equate to what they can achieve or foretell what they will do." Pausing for a moment, she stared into his eyes. "Life changes us. We can start out innocent and sweet, yet one wrong choice or series of events can lead us spiraling out of control."

For so long he paused reflecting on her words that the cigarette burned his fingers.

Silently he allowed himself to feel the heat, to burn. The first part of her speech he could ignore, as it was just more rhetoric that he had heard throughout his years, however, that last portion... That last piece had struck a nerve.

Before he could ponder her words further, before a series of faces could pass by his eyes, she spoke. "Though that's just my belief. Now tell me," she told him, taking the last sip of her cappuccino. "What color is my aura?"

What had been intended to be a soft approach into the topic, was now a personal vendetta.

Allowing the cigarette butt to fall into the ashtray James wiped his hands on a napkin so that the wound could heal out of her sight.

"Do I need to...?"

"Just be silent," he instructed. "I just need you to be silent, to relax."

Rosaline tilted her head to the side. He's serious. Setting down her cup she crossed her arms over her chest and waited. For what, she didn't know.

Time passed them by. Slowly the mindless chatter downstairs was drowned out and Rosaline started to daydream, her mind wandering off to a plain only she could venture. James saw it then. Around her body a faint glow began to emerge, radiating outward and blending with the sun.

"Violet," he spoke. "Your aura is violet. However, there's a lighter shade of lavender just above it which means your prone to fantasy, daydreaming."

When Rosaline's eyes widened a fraction he knew he had her.

Lips curving into a devilish grin, he continued on. "Regal by nature which explains how you move about the crowd with your head held high, you have an innate confidence. It's not a saying for you or sign of personal respect, it runs much deeper. This confidence allows you to know your true worth. But your nervous system troubles you, yes?" At her blush, his grin widened into a smile. "Sensitive. People with violet auras are very sensitive."

"Sensitive to what?" She asked before she could stop herself.

"All things. Highly intuitive, no doubt you've been called a visionary," he said laid leaning back into his chair, in control once more.

"That could be said about many people."

"True, but the kicker is that you know they are speaking the truth; you can feel it in your blood." A wicked gleam came into his eyes as he added, "Sensitive not just with your nervous system, but the mystical aspects of life and death as well, perhaps you've experienced things that are beyond reasoning. Perchance you may have felt something, or seen something that can't be explained."

Immediately her mind wandered back to that day at the mansion. Pulse racing, she reflected on that cold kiss along her skin, that heavy presence that made her stomach churn, and most of all that malevolent shadow. That shadow was the cause of a few nights spent tossing and turning.

"Though that's just my belief," he said turning her words back on her, watching as she nearly fell inside herself.

Licking her lips, she tucked hair behind both her ears. "That's... pretty good," she remarked. "How do you do it?"

James gave a short laugh at her fast interest. "It takes time and patience."

"Tell me."

Tilting his head to the side, he eyed her seriously. As her aura was violet, mystical, there was no end to what she could achieve, what they could achieve together. Far from corruption, he wanted to utilize this gift of hers, to see what great heights she could reach and he could benefit from.

Though still, a test needed to be done. Was she a weak mystic or strong?

"Very well." Sitting up straight, he stared deep into her eyes. "First, I will relax and you will have to look at me, really look at me." Waiting for her nod, he continued. "In the beginning, you will see a faint outline of white, that is not my aura, but sunlight, overhead lamps," he said pointing to the light fixtures above them. "You'll have to be patient to wait for another color to appear."

"And when it does?"

James couldn't hold back his smile at that. She was so damned cocky it warmed his heart. "Then you will tell me what you see and how it makes you feel." Pausing he saw that stubborn point of her chin and the look of determination come into her eyes and knew she wanted to hit him hard, too quickly label him as he had her. Damn, she was an interesting woman.

"Ready?" He asked. Rosaline nodded. "Then let's begin."

For the first few minutes, Rosaline had thought, believed, it was something simple. After five minutes or more had ticked by she knew that not only was it impossible, but she was dealing with an absolute lunatic! Gritting her teeth, she crossed her arms tighter over her chest and gazed at him with fire blazing in her eyes. It was hard enough to think with all the chatter going on downstairs along with that ringing of the bell at the door but far worse than that, he was being smug. It was like he knew she wouldn't be able to get to him. That she would admit defeat sooner or later.

Little did James know, it wasn't in Rosaline to give up, to surrender.

"Hold still," she instructed, uncrossing her arms and trying to regroup. "I'm still trying."

James didn't say anything. He didn't have too. His eyes were doing all the talking; quite literally they seemed to say, 'See, little one, it's not as easy as you thought, now is it?' Followed by, 'So much for your earlier beliefs.' It was that silent statement that gave her added zeal.

Resting her hands in her lap, she took a deep breath in. Exhaling slowly, she stared into his eyes. Though he hadn't told her where to look, she knew that the eyes were the gateway to the soul. That if she wanted to know his true intentions, his damned aura, she would have to look there.

Dammit, that was, even more, distracting. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she tried to stare past the rich brown hue and to see something more. How in the hell had he done it?

"Would you like to stop now?" He asked softly, the gleam in his eyes growing.

"No," she nearly growled.

Knowing he had done that on purpose to throw he off, she tried to shake it off, to relax. That was it! She was thinking too hard. When he had looked at her, he had waited for her to daydream, to relax. By doing so, he had to have been relaxed too, right? Alright, Rosaline, it's time to go off the grid.

A change was in the air.

Staring at her as he was James could feel it.

Rosaline looked into his eyes and focused on the brown hue, taking the shade of color with her as her mind wandered, jumping from thought to thought, plain to plain. Brown. It made her think of... chocolate. How she couldn't wait for the day after Valentines to splurge on all the marked down candy and also of... the seasons and how much she loved autumn.

Staring off into his eyes, her mind elsewhere, she twirled about that rich chocolatey brown. Earth... The ground... Slowly she envisioned the great outdoors and working with her hands on a...

"Farm," she said suddenly.

Pulled from his sensual frame of mind, James took his gaze off her rosy mouth and met her eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"A farm," she repeated, her newfound spell making her voice like the wind, barely there. "I see brown and it reminds me of a farm. Even though your success came early in life, you weren't always wealthy or put together, were you?" Not waiting for an answer she continued on saying, "That's how you achieved your status; you worked hard for it. So hard you would have broken your back or your hands, the cause of your fame, to get what you wanted, to be where you wanted to be."

Now it was James who stared in shock.

It didn't matter that her aura was violet, that she was in her own sense a type of mystic, it shouldn't... It shouldn't have come to her mind. More importantly, she shouldn't have seen that color, she should have seen... "Black," she stated next.

If he had drawn in a breath he would have choked on it.

Locked in a trance, her eyes left his own and fell lower to his chest. "It's so dark," she whispered. "Your heart is as black as the ace of spades."

How many times had he used that line on others and himself? Too many to count. Licking his lips, he made to interrupt, not wanting to know what she would say, yet too enthralled to pull back now.

"Just like your solitary hobbies of reading and music, you once found solace in the outdoors; you were free. Free from your troubles, your problems. That's why it's so dark now; you let your problems take over you." Not even aware of what she was doing, she placed her hands flat on the table and leaned forward slightly. "Once controlled, you now take control to mute, block out everyone around you." Tilting her head to the side, she sighed. "That's not all you do, is it? Not only can you darken a color, you can transform it."

Suddenly Devil's Night makes more sense, doesn't it reader? As they say, misery loves company.

"A flaw in your carefree façade is your inability to forgive, to forget. That lack of forgiveness has you carrying so much weight, so much anger, and pain. So much... grief."

Blinking profusely, she stared at the empty chair before her.

"J-James?" she whispered, slowly coming out of her meditative state. "James?" She called louder.

Eyes falling to the table she saw his cigarette case along with his jacket still draped over the back of his chair. She saw all of this but no sign of the man who owned them. Not only could she not remember him leaving, or moving, but she couldn't even recall what she had spoken of. And so she sat there wondering what on earth had happened to make him run off, to vanish into thin air.


Just blocks away in room 64, James was in a frenzy.

Vividly he saw those barren fields, saw that shack, and his... father.

"You will not step one foot into this home until you've brought in everything that can be taken from those fields," his father, Elijah March, instructed, his voice razor sharp and cutting James in all the right ways.

"B-but paw, my hands are..." James couldn't continue, not with his father looking at him like that.

Increasing his glare, Elijah leaned down until he was eye level with his son. Looking down at James' hands, he saw the callouses, the cuts, and didn't care in the slightest. So what James was only ten years old, he had a job to do.

"This pain," Elijah stated, grabbing James' hand forcefully and squeezing hard enough to make him cry out, "is only temporary. Now git out there and into them fields, boy, and you do what the Good Lord instructed and respect and honor your father!" He roared spittle landing on James' cheek.

Staring fiercely at James with black, soulless eyes, he added, "You will honor me, boy. 'Cause if you don't, there will be no forgiveness for you, no salvation, or eternal glory!" Squeezing James' hand so hard that bones threatened to break, he finished by saying, "Now you git out there. You git out of this house, into them fields, and you work these tired hands until they can't work no more, and honor me by making them bleed."

A chair was hurled at the wall.

In the background, some innocent hotel guest was crying, clutching at her abdomen, trying to make the bleeding stop. All her cries did was spur him on, becoming nothing more than morbid theme music.

Roaring in frustration, James threw a bedside lamp next. It was quickly followed by crystal glasses, a full bottle of brandy, and a wooden end table.

Panting he stood in the center of the room, his old office, which was now a complete ruin. His once neatly combed hair was in complete disarray, pointing every which way, with a few locks plastered to his forehead with sweat. Tugging his black ascot loose he made to throw it on the ground and paused, looking at his hands. Though faint he could still see the scars. He knew that even more were there, that they had just... healed. True to his father's command, he had bled that day. He had bled profusely.

"A flaw in your carefree façade is your inability to forgive, to forget."

Clenching his jaw tight, he balled his hands into fists.

"HOW CAN I FORGIVE THAT?!"

The force of his shout caused the woman to quiet, letting out just the slightest whimper.

James turned sharply toward her. "How can I forgive that?" He asked, his eyes glazed over. "How?" He asked once more, voice growing firmer, harder as he went on. "What... god, would allow for that to happen to a child, hmm? If you know the answer dear, speak up, I'm waiting to know it!"

Frightened the young woman pressed her back into the wall, crying out as the movement caused more pain to flow through her.

Stepping toward her James saw her little crucifix. That won't do.

Her whimpering began when he picked up the knife.

Crouching down before her, he brushed back the hair from his face. "May I?" He asked, politely. Not waiting for an answer he lifted her necklace and stared down at the crucifix. "Do you still believe?" He asked her. "I know you're crying out for him on the inside, but look around you. He, god, is not here. All your crying, your whimpering, and he hasn't brought anyone to save you." Letting the crucifix fall back down on her chest he shook his head, rubbing at his eyes as though the image alone had burned them.

She murmured something.

Brow furrowed he leaned down, coming in closer. "What was that?"

Praying. After all this she was still praying, crying out to a deity he had never seen, not alive or even in death. How fucking pathetic!

"I'll tell you what since you're striving so hard to be a good disciple, I'll stab you twelve times. One for each of his Apostles!"

Just like that, the frenzy began again.

Worse than Rosaline revealing the colors of his aura or mentioning his past, she had cracked his walls. In so few words, in such little time, she had revealed an astonishing secret: that he wasn't born evil. Furthermore, just as he had broken down the others, all of his victims and Devil's Night guests, she had made known that he too had been down and out, broken and controlled, completely, and utterly helpless. In so few words she had made known that he was not at all the God he believed himself to be.


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