DISCLAIMER: Oh for God's sake, I don't own the newsies! Let's make this easy, though. I only own Runner Conlon, Morning Dew, River, Malakai, Micah, Jeshua, Ahdi, Neeko, and Father Romanik. ^_^ Newsies are owned by Disney; everyone else owns themselves. Oh, and the song lyrics featured in some chapters don't belong to me but rather are the property of various artists.
DISCLAIMER: The lyrics featured in this chapter are from "Bye Bye Miss American Pie" by Con McLean.
~*ETERNAL AVENGER*~
Chapter Four: Divisions and Reunions
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London, England; 1594
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack flash sat on a candlestick, because fire is the Devil's only friend. Oh, and as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fists of rage. No angel born in hell could break that Satan spell. And as the flames climbed high into the night to light the sacrificial right, I saw Satan laughing with delight…the day the music died…
London was the heart of England, and England the richly-cultured heart of the globe, where the arts flourished like spring flowers in an immortal garden of life and the words of playwrights made every diamond in the night skies worthy to look upon. It was like drinking a swig of bubbling and refreshing wine every evening, or submerging one's self in a warm pool of honey after a day's load of labor and unfavorable circumstances. It was the city that charged energy-filled blood through the veins of the world, and though it was but an expression to those who populated the Elizabethan villages under the reign of the unmarried Queen, this 'blood' seemed to beckon vampires who suddenly put on the guise of poets if only to win an unsuspecting admirer by the night's end.
William was coming home from another successful night at the theatre company, which he had helped form under the patronage of the Lord Chamberlain, with lips slightly upturned into a small smile as he mused over Burbage's characterization of the lead player in Henry IV. "Perhaps once I've garnered enough money," said the man, who was upon his thirtieth year, "I might build a theatre like none other upon the south bank of the Thames. Oh, that I would be a shareholder in the enterprise!"
He stroked his well-groomed beard at the thought and even let a light laughter escape his lips as he analyzed the possibilities. For months now he'd been considering proposing a suggestion to his current acting company, an idea laden with his desire to build a new theatre in the suburb of Southwark. Its stage would be nearly fifty feet in length, and five feet high; the Frons Scenae doors would reach towering heights of eleven feet and it would roughly be a domed-shape building with twenty sides. Ah, such an innovative man was he, always spawning radical notions the people only proved to love.
He headed home with a new bounce in his step as muses raced within his mind with creative agility and zeal. "Perhaps I shall author a comedy," thought he aloud, raising one hand in a clenched fist as he began to enact in a rather loud volume the basic plotline that would serve as a backbone for this farcical play. But moments later, he discontinued his knavery and became serious while traversing the dark alleyways that would lead him to his home. "Ah, but tame thy heart, fair muse, for we shan't forget the present work upon which we've so labored for weeks."
And so resigning himself to refrain from pleasantry so long as he was caught up with the writings of dramatic romance, he furthered on his way. It wasn't until he was within mere yards of his humble abode that he first heard the footsteps. They were self-assured but hard upon the cobblestone walks, and William knew with little contemplation that it was a man who followed him, no doubt with dire intentions to rob him of the money which he did not have. He spun around in one quick motion in hopes of catching the perpetrator beforehand, but all that was to be beheld were the shadows upon the streets. Bothered by this, the young playwright hurried on.
Once inside his home, he lighted two candles and set them upon the wooden windowsill of the parlour; his wife Anne and the children were already fast asleep upstairs, as it was well past midnight. Though plays usually were performed in the afternoon, William and a few of his comrades had decided to drink the night away in celebration of their prosperity, and time had quite escaped them in the hours that had passed. Now, the young playwright was back into a focused state of mind as he made his way to the desk where scores of plays, sonnets, and epics had been written for the pleasure of those who would entertain him as his readers. He plopped down anxiously into the chair that had for years served him well and took up a quill to begin just where he had last left off.
But as he was about to bring the quill's point to the parchment, he realized with much confusion that this piece of vellum was not the one he had used last night, for he distinctly remembered having stopped three-fourth's the way into his outline for his forthcoming tragic story at the top of a sixth page, and the bare article before him showed nothing of this testament. "Bloody hell!" he yelled, shoving everything off the face of his desk in a fit of rage. Thrice already had this happened! Thrice had some confounded thief snuck into his home, successfully stealing one of his near-finished manuscripts. He could hardly believe it was happening yet again!
He jumped from his chair and began to pace the study frantically, combing tense fingers through his hair, often biting at his nails as if he thought the act of doing so would bring his outline back to him. "Wretched guttersnipes!" he cursed, taking a book from one of the many shelves lining up the room's walls and throwing the hardcover across the room with another shout of indignation. Then, no longer in the mood to breathe life into his literary characters, he stormed out the study and back into the parlour he went. A discomforting sentiment befell him; the blood-curdling feeling of someone watching him with sinister intents.
"Show thyself!" he ordered, in a voice that though bold, wavered in its courage. His gaze darted from the upholstered chairs of the sitting area, to the piano forte situated in a corner, to the twin candles upon the windowsill. A sharp gasp escaped him. Lounged against the glass pane of the window sat a shadow, its large hazel eyes staring at him and showing nothing of what they felt.
"What art thou, that thy malefactions should reek through thy very countenance?" William took a step back, and then stood firmly in place. He would not cower away from this scoundrel, this foul swindler who'd undoubtedly robbed the playwright of several of his works. "Thou would make me a fool!"
"Calm now, fair Shakespeare," returned the shadow in an urbane drawl. Eyes affixed onto the dramatist, the mysterious stranger touched each of the flames aside him with index finger and thumb, putting the lights out and delivering the atmosphere into darkness. "I shall let thee look upon myself as I truly am…" And suddenly, a soft blue luminosity enlightened the room, its origin not apparent but blatantly of magic.
William Shakespeare could not hide his fear upon looking at the creature that stood before him. "Blessed Saints! Thou art…thou art damned!" He took quickened steps back, tripping over a discarded book and landing harshly upon his back. His features made evident his trepidation as his skin turned to a most pallid shade and sweat dotted his forehead in transparent beads. "Stay back, devil!" He crawled to his feet and dashed to an opposing wall, whereupon he took up a displayed saber and held it lengthwise toward the vampire.
"Ah, Shakespeare, always did I imagine thee to be of quaint character, but thy manners toward me this evening are contrary to such assumptions!" The vampire laughed a melodious tune, his lips parting to show the long canines characteristic of his kind, and the large front teeth that were not. He too, much like the mortal man he taunted, was of pale complexion-but only because this was more than natural in the face of light, and yet…something about his airs would make one think he was not passionate about this infantile pursuit to waken a mad frenzy in one of England's most admired gentleman.
The vampire was tall and lean, with a youthful face that sought merrier times, and the faint sigh he released spoke more of his despair than of his utter boredom. "Rest assured, man! I've no hidden desire to steal from thee thy plays! Oh, that I could write like thee, that I could stir man to feel passion, to weep like a trained spaniel, to laugh when folly bids him so, and to cry out in rage when injustice hath bid him. But nay, 'tis not my gift to implement, nor mine to steal. I actually come here this night out of interest of thy newest work…this Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet which thou hath begun to write. I'm not quite content with the ending. For thou hath made the 'star-crossed' lovers return to one another's arms by the end…and oh, how sickening to read! Make it a tragedy, man! Make them taste the bitter sweet honey of death. Not all things in life work for the better. Many a man must learn this."
"A tragedy?" William looked terribly disgusted by the mere notion. "They are but teenagers! What reasons have they to take their own lives?" His grip on the saber's handle loosened not, but he did lower his guards to some extent.
"Hast thou not lived, Shakespeare? Hast thou not seen the drudgeries of life?" He took from his back pocket those pieces of the playwright's outline which he had momentarily stolen and held it out to the mortal, then, with a genuine desire to return the work to its rightful owner. "Change it," said he simply, locks of brown hair slipping over his forehead.
"I shall do no such thing! Who are thee to charge dictates as if thou were a prince?"
"Change it!" the vampire snapped, his temper unleashed into a daunting yell. But more than anything, the order had been a plea, and as Shakespeare looked upon the damned creature, he saw those saddened hazel eyes beg of him to write a story as the vampire had known, a story that would see no happy end because of the misfortunate choices that had been made in life. The fledgling of night had a countenance that drastically changed, from suave and sinister executor of hideous crimes to downtrodden and miserable sufferer of an evil master's afflictions, as if the vampire were no more than a Dark Angel mourning for a heaven it had once known. His face became more boyish than beastly, his aura more apologetic than callous. "Change it," he said again, this time in a whisper like words sewn together by a wisp of wind.
William could not bring his mouth to form speech, but at last, the saber he had so feverishly been clutching dropped to the floor with a ring of metal, and the young playwright found that he felt no need to retrieve it. There was no threat here. He received back his six pages of outline, eyes ever glued onto the vampire, and thought for a moment a dream had enslaved him. How surreal, that one of God's outcast should appear upon his doorstep and guide his writing! But was the nightly creature in fact in exile from paradise? For his manners seemed quite gentle and even repentant at times, and what a shame would it be should this mysterious immortal be wrongfully damned alongside those who really did deserve death. "Hast…hast thou enjoyed it thus far?" He didn't know why he was prompted to initiate conversation, but by the time he'd begun to contemplate such, the words had already been uttered.
"Oh yes, very much so," replied the vampire. "Tybalt reminds me of my lord…Benvolio of myself…" Again, that strike of pain blatant across his face as he inwardly bewailed his manifold sins and wickedness. William almost believed the creature to have tears in his eyes, but perhaps it was only a hallucination, for those spawned from evil were incapable of tears, weren't they?
"And what of the love between Romeo and Juliet? Too quick?"
"Most definitely not, fair Shakespeare. It only further elaborates what fools these mortals be! No offense, milord."
William shook his head, even laughing gently. "Oh no, none taken. Indeed, this night proves to me only further the peculiar effects of mead and ale on one's mental capabilities. Ay, a fine tale I shall have tomorrow eve, when I speak of devilish apparitions and none will there be to take belief in my professions."
"My sincerest apologies, then, that man has forsaken the wondrous possibilities of his dreams to become the puppet of a realistic cesspool." The vampire nodded at the young playwright, turned quickly on his heels, and began to show himself out the abode with hands clasped behind his back. His work here was finished. Shakespeare would undoubtedly alter the play's end, thus garnering success from actors and audience, and one vampire's grateful approval.
"Wait!" he heard William call out, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "I haven't even a name by which to call thee."
Hazel eyes void of life became soft in the blue light that shone in the parlour, and the dark creature's lips almost upturned into a smile. "Snitch," said he kindly. "They call me Snitch." And with that, he was off into the streets of London, hands tucked into the pockets of his breeches as he whistled a tune of love, loss, and the everlasting misery of which he'd always know.
While he ambled through the city, passing drunkards, prostitutes, and homeless children, he reflected to nearly two centuries earlier when the last Decadal Meeting of the Immortal Confederacy had taken place. After Spot's announcement of his uniting with Jack Kelly and Lord Combat Bailey, and halfblooded Runner Conlon's denying Spot's challenge and instead storming out the theatre after a brutal attack from his elder cousin, there was no more cooperation among the ageless. Brother had turned against brother, and the pillars of a foundation built to uphold everything virtuous and just had been torn down by the claws of the purebred, all morals and laws the flesh vampires had gnawed upon between their bloodied teeth.
Even allies had seen division. The halfblood's no longer had a leader, for Runner-both out of humiliation and fear-had sought solitude in the monastery of an undisclosed cathedral, wishing to no longer bear any affiliation with his demonic kindred. "Perhaps hiding behind the draperies of memories," said he once to Snitch, at a time when it hadn't mattered whether your sworn nemesis was, for the day, the closest companion you'd have for years, "will take me to another world. Perhaps disengaging myself from the bloodbath will lead the others to see the lack of purpose behind their atrocities."
How Snitch had longed to see truth in Runner's fallacious creed! If only life worked as so. If only immortals could indeed close their eyes and see evil pass away like an evanescent shadow, never to return and impose its ugly face onto the helpless. If only refusing to fight would make the war stop! How Snitch would denounce his vampiric nature and refrain from the lust of warm flesh and blood if it meant he wouldn't have to see another from his brood fall to ash. Sighing because he knew such things would never occur, he thought to hitch a ferry ride and sail for the undiscovered lands of the West, hoping to bury himself in a casket leagues underground where he knew sleep would ever drug him and horror never find him.
He began to sing a lament, then, his voice morose and without hope as his grief-stricken lyrics flew to the heavens like fallen angels attempting re-entrance into paradise only to be denied such access and sent back to the hellacious wasteland of the earth.
And in the streets, the children screamed.
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken,
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admired most,
The Father, Son, and The Holy Ghost,
They caught the last ride for the coast…the day the music died…
Snitch grimaced. Such cynical words…such true ones. He momentarily paused one last time to gaze upward at the constellations, before making his way to a new life.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Salem, Massachusetts; 1692.
Mayfly smiled brightly and pushed her spectacles further up the bridge of her nose as had become habit ever since she took up the 'studious' look, as she liked to call it. Under the bonnet she wore, her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, not a single strand astray, but such specificities ended there, for inside she was failing miserably at restraining her bout of laughter. At last, she gave in to her jollity and let loose a few delighted giggles. "Gypsy, you look like the headmistress of the school house! All you need is a few gray hairs and an apple. You already have the unfavorable personage!"
Leaning against the fence of a vacant cottage, Gypsy glared at the girl wordlessly, blue eyes blazing with controlled anger. She utterly despised the garments she was forced to don for this little rescue mission of which the halfbloods were about to take part. There was nothing adventurous in wearing ankle-length skirts, peasant blouses, and confounded bonnets! She would sooner burn them at a stake than see them upon her very body! "Hold your tongue," said she to Mayfly, "while you yet have a tongue to hold."
But Mayfly went on, oblivious to the warning. Yards away stood Itey and Rebel, holding hands and whispering sweet nothings into one another's ears as they spoke of their engagement and the wondrous beauty their nearing matrimony would fulfill the day they were married. They'd been acquaintances for a century, friends for a few decades, and a couple for a length to rival the former two! Love had eventually intertwined itself into their relations, though, and now sat they on the brink of an execution, caressing and embracing lip to lip.
"I pray we'll be able to borrow a horse-drawn carriage," Rebel daydreamed, as she sat upon Itey's lap and wrapped his arms around her waist. "And we must be married in a country church…none of this cathedral nonsense. They were always too intimidating to me."
He laughed softly at this. "Too intimidating?" He planted kisses as soft as a rose's petals onto her neck and then smelled the fragrance of her hair, taking in all of her should something go awry during the mission that awaited them. "Whether it be in simple cottage or classy accommodations, all I look forward to is having you as my wife."
Hades was the misfortunate one to whom all the schmaltzy dialogue of hopeless lovers was being played on and on. She was lying on the grass within earshot of Rebel and Itey and appreciated nothing of their pitiful exchange. Love! A complete waste of energy as far as she was concerned. She rolled her eyes upon seeing the couple kiss, and tried to meditate upon other things.
Bumlets was preoccupied with his own relationship problems. It'd been two years, six months, and thirteen days since the fair lady Lyf had last written to him…he'd been counting every hour with the fervency of a passionate artist. In his hands he tightly clutched a silver locket of Elven make which inside bore the likeness of his beautiful maiden. But what had become of her? Had she returned to the realm of her people? Had she forgotten him…abandoned him? Had she perchance found love in the arms of another…in the arms of the First Seeker of the Zion Sect…River? He knew of River's feelings for the Elven maiden, but would Lyf accept a proposal to wedlock when she'd already given her heart to Bumlets?
The halfblood felt need to weep. He wouldn't be surprised if the king of Naphthalene had forced his eldest daughter to choose a suitor already and be done with it. After all, Lyf had come of age long ago, and she hadn't the leverage to dally back and forth between princes willing to love and secure her, and halfbloods who weren't even of royal descent. He closed his eyes tight, ordering the tears to leave him to his own forms of grief. "Farewell, my love," he whispered. He looked once more at the locket in his hand, and then let the silver object fall to the ground below, to be forgotten.
Gypsy grew impatient, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. What was left of their brood had traveled to the America's in the mid 1600's in hopes of seeking a life more peaceful than the commercialism of a fastly growing European society. What they'd happened unto were Puritan towns, with fierce religious bigots who'd accuse one of devilry if you were caught showing illusionist tricks to youngsters. For the halfbloods, it'd definitely been a change in norms.
What had brought them to Salem this particular day, however, was quite contrary from anything typical. In a dream a fortnight ago, Gypsy had seen a vision in her dreams, a vision of false accusations and innocent young women being tried and found guilty of a witchery they'd never practiced. There were two individuals to be exact, and their auras had called out to the hybrid vampiress from that night on, as if begging the fellow immortal to save them from such cruel end.
And that's when it had dawned on Gypsy…fellow immortals…They weren't human at all! Of the immortal race, this magic the commoners confused for witchery was in fact an innate gift the two had been born with, and one of which they couldn't rid themselves. Apparently, the girls had grown careless in their practices, though, and an envious or bitter 'friend' had espied their deeds, deciding quite instantly to charge them of having signed the Devil's Book. Soon enough, this perpetrator had her comrades supporting the story as well, filling the town ministers with lies about having seen spirits of the dead accompany the pair and having been tortured by the voodoo performances of the confounded witches.
No longer able to bear the screaming pleads of the two who haunted her dreams, Gypsy had shared the foresight with her companions, and the brood had decided unanimously that it was naturally their duty to save those of their confederacy, though this confederacy had died centuries ago. "Can we go now!" she snapped to the others with hands on hips. "Two spellcasters are about to be hung and here we are lounging about like damned academicians. More action and less talk, guttersnipes. It's no wonder Runner abandoned us."
Bumlets was thoroughly offended by the comment. What did Gypsy know of Runner's reasons for leaving? Confound it, she was among those who constantly drove him mad with her complaints and her belaboring infantile matters so long as her opinion was ranked most imperative! "If you feel so highly about the situation," he said, trying to control the unrest in his voice, "why don't you take the initiative and lead? I'm tired of you laying onto the altar your supposed plans for victory and glory only to take a step down and watch someone else fail as a leader simply because you lack the courage to shepherd a flock yourself! This was your mission, you take charge!"
"That's quite fine with me! You are, after all, too consumed by the fading beauty of a princess to rationalize properly. With thoughts of Lyf on your mind, you'd probably lead us to the very gates of Hell! Wake up, wretched sewer rat; the Elven maid has left you for the First Seeker."
"You know nothing of love, blasted wench!" It had boomed from his lips like thunder, all the pain he'd felt from parting with Lyf building within him until it had accumulated into a mountain of destruction. The others had drawn close to the confrontation, watching Bumlets and Gypsy lash at each other with words that were as sharp as any Roman soldier's leather whip.
"I know far more than you would fathom, swine, but I haven't the heart to share."
"A heart! Ha, now there's a paradox to rival all others! Are you sure it isn't a rock of ice housed within your ribcage?"
"Were it, I would gamble my immortality that this rock, as you call it, would be a hundredfold less dense than you!"
Bumlets smiled sardonically. "And who are you to compare geniuses, milady? One must have a mind of her own first before having the capability to judge others."
"Oh I assure you, star-crossed lover, I indeed have a mind. I suppose you being unable to recognize that further illustrates your idiocy and furthers my merit." She curtsied with the utmost sarcasm, her mane of hair cascading past her shoulders in tresses darker than her feelings toward him.
Mayfly came between them, then, as she had grown exhausted by the needless repartee and was quite sure the others had as well. "As much as I'd love to entertain this circus sideshow you've both begun," said she, with the hint of a smirk on her face, "I feel it imperative that we focus our attentions on two specific spellcasters…?"
"Yes, of course," Hades offered, though her tone quite closely bordered nonchalance. She leaned her frame against the carriage upon which the halfbloods had traveled for miles simply to fulfill this would-be self-appointed quest and yawned lazily. "Preferably, I'd like to leave Salem by nightfall if that's well taken with the lot of you."
"Where has your humor escaped to, friend!" Mayfly called out playfully, performing a jig for no apparent reason other than to make a fool of herself if only to invoke laughter in the others. Yet her usually comedic actions weren't found humorous by her comrades this time around, for the tension between Gypsy and Bumlets was far too strong. She shrugged it off easily, not bothered by their lack of enthusiasm, and instead decided to tune her senses into the happenings of the town.
It wasn't a minute's time before her heart skipped a beat in anticipation, her first alarm that something was going unplanned within the parameters of the village. It excited her more than worried her, though, and she pressed her ear against the wooden doors standing between herself and the town; Salem had very much locked out any outsiders, choosing rather to build a wall around itself which it hoped none could penetrate. "Does anyone else hear that?" she asked of her comrades. "It's the sound of…"
"…racing horses," Hades finished, her forehead furrowed in confusion. The noises were growing louder as they approached the doors to the town; it was like the reverberating thud of a stampede on the move, followed by screams of anguish and the shouts of men who wanted to see justice done. "Mayfly, jump back!"
And no sooner had Mayfly done as was bid her, the wooden doors barged open as if a great flood gushed out the village, two horses and their riders dashing away like arrows released from an urgent archer's bow. Yards away, an angry mob could be seen in the distance, holding scythes, pitchforks, and torches of flames. Gypsy's first instinct was to slam the doors back shut, and this she did with an astounding speed that would make one think she'd flown on angel's feet. Then, she turned back to the others. "We must follow the ones who fled!"
The halfbloods didn't need further explanation. Within an instant, they'd loaded onto the carriage, Bumlet's urging their Clydesdale horse on to its maximum speed. They'd lost the crowd in an hour's time, and this gave them much to be proud about, at least on Mayfly's part, who began to sing songs of victory and prosperity while waving a decanter of apple juice in the air. "Well, the supposed witches obviously made their own great escape. Why must we follow after like cat and mouse? Let's return up north; it was rather pleasant there."
"Swallow a bone, Mayfly, and rid us of your stupidity." Gypsy didn't even look at the girl when delivering the order, making Mayfly feel ten times more obliged to break her decanter to shards upon the bitter one's head, but she crossed her arms and pouted nonetheless, wishing for happier times when Runner was leader and not some totalitarian dictator who outlawed optimism every five minutes of the day.
At dusk, the halfbloods reached a clearing in the forest through which they'd been traveling and finally caught up with the two horses and the riders they'd been tracking for hours now. They were obviously women, as was evident through the styles of their maiden cloaks. Two sat by a fire; the third tended to the horses.
One with shoulder-length curly brown hair stretched her hands out to the fire and sighed in content as the red dancing flames warmed her. The other female was relaxed against the trunk of a tree, a blade of grass between her lips, and her eyes distant as if in deep thought. "Will you not greet us?" the latter asked of the halfbloods (who thought they'd hidden themselves from sight quite well).
"I told you it wouldn't work," Bumlets hissed at Gypsy.
Gypsy only rolled her eyes and came forth from the shrubbery behind which she'd been taking cover. "We weren't aware that you'd like to be greeted. My name is Gypsy and these are my kindred. We're hybrid vampires, but you've nothing to fear from us. We don't prey on blood as our counterparts do. We came to Salem to save you and your friends, but as is blatant, you three were quite capable of saving yourselves."
The second girl again spoke. "Quite on the contrary, vampiress. My friend, Spritzer, and I didn't save ourselves. Rather it was the kindness of this maiden here," she nodded toward the young woman feeding the horses, "who set us free from the shackles of our oppressors."
"Then we should very much like to meet her!" exclaimed a grinning Mayfly, pushing past the crowd to confront this mysterious heroine. She rubbed her hands together briskly and approached the one in question. "Good day," said she. "Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on successfully undermining the mortals."
The maiden kept her back turned to the others, still focused on the horses. "Oh, 'twas nothing."
Spritzer smiled warmly at this. "Or so she would have you believe," she explained to the halfbloods. "But if it weren't for this brave lady, Chipper and I would've been doomed to strangle to death before a mocking crowd." Her eyes saddened ever so slightly, but returned to their grateful state.
Chipper nodded. "Ay, but she's of humble character. Bless her heart."
"I'm touched by the act," Gypsy said, of course not meaning a single word. She was actually quite upset that glory had been stolen from her. It was she, after all, who was supposed to have saved the spellcasters from their untimely death! How her plans had been ruined! She stepped up to the young lady, whose back was still to her. "It was a fine deed you executed earlier. Will you not let me behold the face of such a noble achiever?"
There was a moment of silence on the heroine's part, which was in turn shattered by a most delighted laughter. The young lady did in fact turn around, drawing back the hood of her cloak as she did so, a devious smirk on her lips. "Why, fair tidings, Gypsy. Never did I think we'd meet again."
The halfblood was aghast. "This is no maiden!" Gypsy exclaimed, jaw dropped in disgust and shock. "This is a damned whore! Kitten, you foul intemperate beast…who's been under your skirt as of late?"
"Unfortunately, none," answered the other with smooth calmness. "I've actually renounced my prostitution among the purebred and aristocracy…fornication no longer has the melody it once did." She shrugged as if discussing no more than a conversion from flavors of ice cream and then sighed. "But thank you for praising my deeds, Gypsy. It means the underworld to me. But alas, where's my darling Runner Conlon? Have you driven him away with your carping?"
"Hardly…his cousin has driven him away. But you should know of such; you were Spot's whore, were you not?"
Kitten only smiled. "I've had a rendezvous or two with the brat, but never an attachment have I forced myself to make with him. His spirit is unruly, his temper most outlandish. And as truthful to Runner as I've always been, my once friend, you were quite mistaken in having accused me of espionage back at the last Decadal Meeting, for my allegiance lies with the halfbloods, as it always will."
Gypsy could only stare at her in return.
~*~*~*~*~*~