Day 6 part 5

Sands was aware of Abberline's discomfort and had a difficult time hiding his amusement. The clan's namesake was at the moment looking with distaste at the clothes rack, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. They stood a few feet apart in a trendy West Side boutique which catered to male and female tastes. There was the distinctively strong smell of leather, bus exhaust, patchouli incense, and of course humans. Without turning his head, Sands knew which of the women behind him was having her time of the month. He resisted the urge to turn around and entice her into a fitting room for a quick bite.

"Find anything you like?" Sands ventured as he moved closer to Abberline.

Frederick causally looked over to Sands, the look controlled. He was obviously not pleased with the selection, Sands thought "No, not really." Frederick flipped a few more hangers across the metal ring that held the garments, the noise repeated by the three women behind them also shifting through hangers. "People actually like these sorts of garments do they?"

As Sands moved even closer, he could see Abberline was scowling at a pair of leather pants. Sands found the smell of the new leather actually pleasant. For a brief moment he thought of his leather couch at home and what he and Victoria had been doing on it. Regret was quickly pressed down as he addressed Abberline. "Well, you see, everything has to be dark and sensuous, therefore a lot of leather. Or Pleather for those who can't afford or chose not to wear the real thing You need to get into the mind of these goth club goers. In their fantasy, vampires always wear black," Sands continued.

"So I assumed." Abberline gave him a pointed look, eyeing Sands' wardrobe. "But I can't help but wonder where they got that idea," he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"And leather, spiked collars and all that, it's just the punk way. Left-over from the sixties," Sands finished his thought.

Abberline folded his arms. "Well then, since you are the expert in this matter, you pick out the attire." His dark eyebrows rose in a look of surprise, his gaze clearly on an object over Sands' left shoulder. Sands turned to look at rack of piercing jewelry. A smirk spread across his lips.

"Unless you had holes before you were turned," he said under his breath, "I'm afraid they won't work on you." He grinned. "Lucky for me, I had my ears pierced. Was a fashion at the time. I talked a Duchess into buying me an incredibly expensive pearl earring once." Sands looked down at Abberline. "We're about the same size. I'll find you something. Leather, right?"

"If that is what will help us blend in, but you will not mention this to anyone." Frederick said the last in a very hushed voice. He pointed his finger firmly in Sands' direction. "I'll go pick out some foot ware." He looked decidedly unhappy, the corners of his mouth set in determination as he passed Sands' shoulder heading for the wall containing boots and shoes.

It was all Sands could do to hold back a gleefully wicked smile. He pulled out leather pants, then went to the shirt rack and found a dark burgundy silk shirt. For himself, he found black jeans and a black turtleneck. Carrying the clothes over one arm, Sands wandered down to the coats. Long black leather for both of them. They'd say they were brothers, he decided. Of course, Abberline would be the elder, since he obviously looked older. Turning, Sands looked around and spied Abberline holding a pair of heavily soled black boots with buckles up one side. The clan leader's expression was one of puzzlement.

Sands snickered. He was enjoying himself. Next he headed towards a rack of spiked and studded belts and, after selecting a few, headed over to Abberline.

Frederick sat on a small bench pulling on the boots with the buckles.

"Honestly, I can't believe people choose to wear these things," Abberline said under his breath. "I'm sorry. I have to draw the line somewhere. These look like something Boris Karloff wore in 'Frankenstein. What is the point of all these buckles anyway? They just make noise.'"

Sands let out a laugh. "Humans don't hear that often. Too much ambient sounds. Maybe they want to look like Frankenstein's monster, who knows? Now take a look at these." Sands held out the garments for Abberline to look over.

Frederick's brow wrinkled. "Sands, you can't tell me this is what they think we're like?" he questioned earnestly. "Are we all utterly shallow to them?"

"No, we're fantasy, not real. Well, a few believe. Try them on." Sands gestured with a nod of his head toward the fitting rooms. "I agree, though, those boots are a lost cause. Have you ever worn western boots?"

"You must be kidding," Abberline stood, carefully setting the ugly boots down on the chair beside him. "Cowboy boots? What do you think I am?" Abberline grabbed for the clothes that Sands held out for him and stormed off in the direction of the fitting rooms.

"No seriously, I think you'll like them better." Sands called after him. "I'll go pick out a collar for you."

Abberline stopped dead in his tracks and turn around to glower at Sands. "Listen," Abberline closed the distance between them until they were almost nose to nose. "No collars. I am willing to go to great lengths to go undercover for this operation, but not collars. No." He straightened, looking every inch the English gentleman. "One must draw the line somewhere." With that he turned and walked back into the fitting rooms.

Before Sands could move, a petite very young sales woman appeared at his elbow. Her hair was an unnatural red on tope and black on the bottom. She had almost white facial makeup on, loads of jet black eyeliner and mascara, and her t-shirt had a bat and castle motif on it that read: "What happens in Transylvania stays in Transylvania."

"Are you finding everything you need?" she asked in a very Cockney accent, her eyes going up and down the length of him. She smiled.

"Yes, thank you." he replied taking a small step back. The girl stepped forward. "Are you sure?" she question and flicked the stud in her tongue against her teeth.

Sands looked down at her name badge. "Yes, thank you Darling. Tell me, where can my brother and I get some decent fun around here? We've been living in Argentina for three years and we're out of touch, you see."

She smiled and turned toward the counter, bending a finger, beckoning him to follow. He did. Once there she reached behind the glass display case and pulled a flyer off the wall and handed it to him. "Here, this place is the best! Best bands, best hook-ups, best everything." once again her eyes were glued to him and she was flicking her tongue-stud against her teeth and lips. A habit, he assumed. She must have been all of seventeen.

Studying the flyer, Sands ignored the young sales woman for a moment. It advertised the "Fang and Flyers Club." Sands shifted the clothes he still held from one arm to the other, then laid them on the counter. "Hold these for me." His eyes met hers as he held up the flyer. "Can I keep this?"

"Definitely. And I'll hold these items for you also." She pulled the clothes off the glass display case and put them on the back counter. Sands turned and rushed back to the dressing room Abberline had entered.

"How ya doing, boss?" he asked playfully.

"Well, the fit is good, but this is just not what I'm used to." The curtain slid back and Abberline stood there wearing the burgundy shirt and black leather pants. "I guess one costume is as good as another. And don't call me boss. Our cover is brothers, remember?"

"You look quite the vampire," Sands assured him, "though rather on the romantic side. I suggest you shave off your moustache. It's not the in thing for vampires in clubs."

"What?"

"Shave. Your moustache."

"I heard you. But why?" Abberline's dark brown eyes were wide.

"They think we can't grow beards, you see," Sands whispered. "It's part of the legend. They don't understand the whole come as you died thing."

Abberline ran his fingers against his moustache. "It'll grow back." Sands urged.

"Do you know how disappointed Lilith's is going to be?"

This statement surprised Sands and turned his thought momentarily to Victoria. Then to Lilith. Women were such lovely complications.

Unaware of Sands' inner musing, Abberline continued. "I guess there's no help for it then. Yes, it does grow back. Very quickly. I will have to shave often." He stopped suddenly, his head up, his eyes suddenly looking far away. "In your time, no one had facial hair much, did they?"

"What?" Sands asked, looking around for an explanation.

Instead of answering, Abberline's look became softer, his eyes closing, and silence lay between them. Something told Sands not to ask questions.

"It's him," Abberline said. "He wanted me to ask you." Abberline's eyes blinked and he focused on Sands. "Do you dream?"

"What?" Sands was baffled.

"Do you dream?" Abberline asked plainly, "You know when you sleep?"

Sands blinked. "Yes, always," he responded still puzzled.

There was a moment's silence as Abberline apparently communicated with Zack. "He just wondered. The older you get, the more your dreams will become just replays of your memories," Abberline told Sands. "I dream, too. My master does not. He lives in his memories."

"Fascinating," Sands said, not sure if Abberline was pulling his leg or not. He decided not.

"The older we get, the more memories we have, obviously, and to keep them, our brains begin to take us there when we sleep. You and I must be too young to do this," Abberline continued as if he was talking about something mundane. "Of course, you were turned, what, in the late 17th century? You're a good 200 years my senior."

"I don't think anyone I know does not dream," Sands told him. "Even Lilith, and she is older than either of us."

"Yes, which proves we must be well over two thousand years old before we stop dreaming." Abberline looked down at his clothes. "I guess it will be dark in these clubs." It was half statement, half question.

"Always is, "Sands quipped before quickly changing the subject. "I think I have a lead for us," he said proudly holding up the flyer for inspection.

"Fine. You still need to try on your clothes, Sands."

"No I don't," he smiled slyly. "I have the same ones, same brands even at home. Global economy and all, you know."

Abberline looked at Sands' empty hands. "What outfit?"

"They're holding it for me." Sands looked toward the sales counter. The sales woman with the two-tone hair was watching him, even though the three customers were getting closer to the check out counter. She smiled as she saw him look her way.

"I want to see your clothes," Abberline demanded.

Sands opened his mouth. "You don't trust me?"

"If yours are better, we're swapping."

Sands laughed and put up his hands in defeat. "All right, all right." He turned and headed to the counter. "Excuse moi, Darling, can I have those clothes? My brother insists that I try them on." He leaned forward to collect the items. "He's a bit of a stick in the mud."

The sales woman looked over at Abberline, who stood wearing the clothes he was trying on. "Oh, nice stick in the mud," she said wistfully. "I see the resemblance."

"You do?" Sands frowned.

Abberline, who could hear the entire conversation with his vampire-enhanced hearing, smiled. Sands rolled his eyes and returned to the fitting room. "In," Abberline pointed.

Sands dutifully went in and put on the black jeans and turtleneck, then came out to show Abberline.

"They look pretty normal to me," Abberline said, "In fact, they look like what you pretty much wear every time you're over." He folded his arms. "You can keep the pants, butt you have to find a different shirt." He turned his head and searched the room. A smile appeared as his eyes fixed on an object. Abberline turned and went to a near by rack. He quickly returned carry a black shirt made entirely out of black fishnet and sheer black material with lacing up the front. "This will be better." Abberline handed the garment over to Sands.

"Since when did you become the goth expert here?" Sands asked.

"I'm not," he said pleasantly, "I just don't want you looking better then me." He smiled.

Sands took the shirt. "Even in this, I will look better. It comes with my the package and, of course, my innate sense of class."

"Which is why I moved to America," Abberline told him, "to escape the old class system. We're all equal in America. Except me, of course, being special." Frederick smiled, as if he had told a joke.

"Special?" Sands asked, not following Abberline's line of thought.

"In that for thousands of years my master turned no one, then he chose me. That sort of special."

"Humm," Sands grumbled and retreated into the fitting room. He returned wearing the sheer black and fishnet shirt his hands out to both sides. "See, I look still look better."

"I will not encourage you," Abberline said. He had donned the long leather coat Sands had set aside for him. "But we shall dazzle them, laddie."

Sands smiled. "Then lets get started." He returning into the fitting room and gathered their original garments and followed Abberline to the cash register.

"No clunky boots," Abberline told him as he arrived.

"Agreed," Sands nodded. "You're paying."

Abberline rolled his eyes. "Fine."

11