Sorceress Nights - The Night Is Alive

Music pulses around their bodies, flowing like mercurial fluid through their veins. Through the sweat that gives their skin a glossy sheen as they move, a school of fish, undulating in the throbbing waves of sound, through and through their bodies like a narcotic. So many gather to cleanse themselves in the motion of slick bodies, to release the tension of the standard workweek.
An imposing figure stands on the balcony above, glass of amber liquid in his hand. He is the watcher, always in the shadows above the dancers, an admirer of sorts. He watches; he waits. There is only one who can lure him to the dance, and it is the dance of blades. He watches. He waits.
Still, he stands, perfect and motionless. He can see, though, the pulse of music, of man, of lust.

It is eleven PM on a Friday. The night is alive.

Leaves rustle and quiver as the sanguine monster emerges. Its teeth drip acidic crimson, its eyes roll, a wild burnished gold. Its blood does not flow like that of a man. This creature is magic, will fade away as the cloud above when its energy is depleted. This creature is strong. It will not be easily defeated.
Black hugs him, clings to his flesh like the caress of a lover he will never accept. The leather and silk he favors, and the cold metal that bites into the pearl of his neck, his wrists, they bring him pleasure. He holds courage in his hands, but ice shelters his heart.
He faces the fearsome beast with an iron spine. He can see, though, the promise of his blood to be drawn this battle.

It is eleven PM on a Friday. The night is alive.

Cool air slips silken fingers down into crevices unreachable by man's fingers, rousing shadows that lie dormant. The breeze tosses leaves. They dance with a spirit of festivity. They do not know any better than to be joyous. They have no inkling of what will take place tonight. They do not know that soon they should grieve in the gutters, rather than spin and twirl like ladies in dance.
The leaves blow by his denim covered legs, but he pays the bits of debris no mind. He watches a woman as she rides by. She is adorned with silver and silk. She is the one whose life he will take tonight.
It is eleven PM on a Friday. The night is alive.

Have you ever killed someone? Felt their blood run warm over your fingers, down your wrist in a trail of crimson heat that cools only too quickly? Seen the fluid splatter on the sidewalk, or the walls? Have you ever had to listen to them as they plead for you to spare their lives, and known that in your place, they had never spared anyone? Had to hear bone splinter, had to listen to the crack of the gun and the only-too-audible sodden thud of their body and their blood as it hits the ground?
Of course, you haven't. Innocence. But I have.

There is a cold light flooding the room. Gauze curtains with no visible fastenings to the ceiling cast faint shadows against the black marble of the walls. There is a vanity, and a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the large, plush bed. Wind makes the leaves outside whisper, and whistles faintly against the balcony doors. The soft scent of ocean spray permeates this place. There are no personal items lying around. This place is a void.
This place tastes of spirits. This place tastes of violence. This place tastes of death.
The doors to the balcony stand open, the silver scrollwork glinting in the light of the full moon. Curtains of blood wave so slightly in the breath of cool air that passes through them. It is a large balcony, of stark black and white.
She leans on the rail, her dress flowing silver in the wind. Night shaded hair remains still, fire opals taking unnatural depth in the light of the moon. Eyes of the same color and depth gleam with anticipation. Her breath comes in short gasps as she watches through second sight.
She tastes blood this night.