(!)ATTENTION: I decided to transfer this story into 3rd-person.
Chapter 1
Autre temps, autres mœurs
Translation: Other days, other ways
"Claire"
Claire looked up from the bowstring she had been adjusting and let her eyes slide towards the door frame across the room. A woman with shallow eyes and shiny black hair smirked back at her with crossed arms.
" 'Ello, Margaret," she said, trying to think of the last time she'd seen her. Her short, spiked hair was still the same, but her skin had paled from its previous bronze. A long time ago she'd been Claire's only trusted friend, the only girl she could rely on without fear of being sold out or mistreated. However, over the years since their childhood, they'd grown apart because of their conflicting occupational choices.
"Been a long time, girlie."
Claire smirked and turned the tuning peg a bit before setting the violin down on the dresser. She stood and leaned one hand on her hip, assessing Margie with calculating eyes. "How's the gig going?"
The posh woman sighed and pushed off the threshold, throwing her hands up in dramatic emphasis.
"Oh, it's a bother as always. I've got customers who've seen better days and men who think they own my shop every time they walk into it."
"You set them straight, don't you?"
"Who do you take me for? Of course I do." She laughed, falling back into an overstuffed leather chair that was for guests, her dress barely covering her toned thighs. "The shop is great now, a steady influx of income has set my mind at ease, ya know? The bills get paid and there's food on the table, there's not much more I can ask for. Though, there is this sweet little thing that wanders into my humble adobe every now and again, and girlie, you know how I have a sweet tooth." She grinned, her eyes dancing. "But enough about me. How's show business treating you?"
The girl sat back down with a sigh, crossing her legs and leaning far back into the comfort of the backrest. The violin's wood was too dark to really shine under the dressing lights, but it caught her attention anyway.
"It's fine," Claire told her honestly. "I've days off, but the hours get late. I worry about Alexi sometimes, he still has that rebellious streak in him like he did as a tot, and I wonder if he isn't in some trouble." She rubbed her temples, easing the headache from the back of her eyes.
"But the pay is brilliant, right?"
"Yeah." she conceded. "It's brilliant all right. A lot better than that bleeding mess we used to do, that's for sure. I almost have enough for Alexi's school fund, assuming he doesn't intend to spend ten years in university."
"You worry too much. And that's not what I was asking, anyway." Margie gave her a hard look. "I meant how is the gig going for you? You'd always had a fancying hand for music and the likes, and everyone loved the way your fingers danced around on the violin. But does this make you happy?"
Margie, despite her appearance, had a relatively insightful take on people around her. And as much as Claire hated to admit it, she raised a question that had haunted her for some time now.
"It doesn't matter whether I'm happy or not," she told her, "I'm earning a straight living, making clean money, and I can support Alexi like this." She met her eyes. "That's all that matters."
For a moment she thought Margie might scowl. Instead, she rolled her eyes with a sigh and smirked.
"Typical Claire." She said, amused. "I suppose if that's what matters to you…" She trailed off.
"It is."
"Fine, girlie, fine. You're a big girl now, we both are. Do what you want." Folding her fingers in thoughtful silence, she waited before asking, "Do you think you'll go on tour again?"
"No. It'll be too hard on Alexi, especially considering this is only his second year in high school. I want to try to give him the stability I couldn't provide when he was younger, make his childhood normal enough."
Claire was never able to finish school. It was a choice she'd made when bother her and Alexi ended up on the streets, when she'd known that school didn't pay for meals and clothes. As young as she was with a small child to take care of, she decided to take a different place in society, a place that she would be able to control. Both she and Alexi came from somewhere dark, too dark to survive in on out their own and without help or guidance. There wasn't much place else other than the ghetto, and although she wasn't overly proud with what she'd done, nor her lack of education, she never regretted her choice.
"Giving him what we lost out on, hm? You're such a noble sister," she mused. Leaning further back into her chair, she rested her head while shifting in her seat. "Hey, Claire."
"Hm?"
"Do you think we're really okay?" She asked. "Are we really better than we were, or are we in the same place, just with a different look?"
"We're the same as everyone else, Margie." Closing her eyes again, Claire crossed her arms to stop the nerves from jumping. "Dying to work, working to live."
"Living to make our keep, keeping our make to die with food in our bellies." She laughed. "Same old same old. Sometimes, Claire, I wonder.."
She couldn't help from grinning, nor could she help grabbing the chair cushion and chucking it at Margie. She squealed with laughter, catching it before it could hit her in the face. Her shoulders shook while she tried to contain herself, gripping the pillow with manicured nails. Suddenly, she sobered.
"Claire…about Alexi. I-"
"Hey, you're on in five!"
Claire glanced over at the open door, finding the stage director, Max, grinning crookedly.
"Aye, Captain Max," she saluted lazily, standing and taking the neck of the violin. "Be there in a sec."
"Cool, wrap it up then." He added before disappearing back around the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, there was a brief silence and then a crash, shattered glass echoing off the bare walls and ringing inside her ears.
"Watch it!" Max's voice wailed.
"Whoa, sorry man."
Both she and Margie regarded the open threshold, watching as an errand girl skipped by, holding what was left of a tray and soiled flowers. Her bandana looked as if it were about to slide off her short, toffee-colored hair, and her overalls were spattered with paint, its cuffs soaked with water. She threw a lazy glance their way before walking away, leaving only a seething Max to growl menacingly and stalk the opposite direction with muttered curses.
"Nice director you have there," Margie smirked, her lips twisting sardonically.
"He tries," she sighed, shaking her head. "I have to get going."
"Yeah, yeah. Stardom calls and all that, I get it," she waved her away. "Say, want to grab some drinks later, for old time's sake?"
She couldn't find it in her to smile, so instead, Claire made her way to the hall.
"Claire, did you hear me?" Her voice coiled sharply. "Drinks?"
She slid a hand along the door's wood frame, lingering a moment without looking back.
"I wonder about that…" she murmured.
"What was that?"
"Sure, that sounds great," she repeated, looking back to her friend over her shoulder. "How about this Sunday?" Margie rolled her eyes dubiously but laughed, standing and straightening her outfit.
"I'll hold you to that, then," she told her, her eyes hard.
"Excuse me," Margaret whispered, nudging past knees and clunky dress shoes, sifting her way down the row to her seat. She was given mildly annoyed glares, though, they didn't bother her in the least. She'd grown into the woman she was with more than just dirty looks thrown her way. When she fixed her way to her spot, she nestled in and crossed her legs, her view not being bad for how far from the stage it was.
The theater was the largest room Margie had ever been in, its red velvet curtains and delicate chandeliers richer than what she was normally accustomed to seeing. Women in little black dresses and full-length gowns sat regally next to men with ties and tuxes, nodding to one another with razor sharp eyes. It was cold in the room, much too cold for her taste, and it took most of her self-restraint to keep from bringing her legs up to her chest. In fact, if she didn't know any better, she'd have said there were little puffs of white smoke curling from her breath.
So with a slight shiver, she rubbed her arms in an attempt to chase away what cold she could. The audience's murmurs died away as the curtains rose, their lengths seemingly heavy enough to rip the rod holding them up from out of the ceiling rafters. Margie flicked a strand of hair from her face as she was met with the sight of Claire, all legs in the dress she wore. It was something Margie had recently grown accustomed to seeing on her low-key friend, her normal state of attire usually being just simple cargos and tanks.
However, tonight she wore an apple green dress, its chiffon flare adorned with slight ruffles that reached to the tips of her knees. Its strapless bodice hugged her, and Margie noted that it hugged her quite well, with flecks of the same colored green as well as spats of tinted orange, white, and brown, a single broach clutched endearingly between the crest of her chest. Her dark curls were pulled messily back, a typical Claire trait that was welcomed among the stranger, newer accessories.
The accessory that she really meant was the Pierrot eye mask, its black lace tied tightly behind Claire's head of hair. The trim was made of a black and flaxen threadwork, little green glass beads stitched within their patterns. The eye holes were lined with curling gold, half the mask painted to illustrate an aged church steeple, the other side an off base crème. She knew Claire wore it to hide her face, as masks are usually used to do, in order to draw the line between her work and her life with Alexi. It was a valiant attempt, Margie thought.
Said woman watched as her longtime friend stood in the middle of the stage, her eyes closed and her torso moving with calm, easy breaths. The accompanying orchestra sat behind her, nearly hidden in the shadow of her spotlight that glared melancholy lavender. The people around her applauded a welcome to the stage, a greeting from the eyes and ears of her masters. The woman among the throng of strangers stared down at the performer as her eyes opened, glassy green orbs visible even from behind a mask and so far away. At least, to Margie they were. The performer's hands brought up a single violin and bow, adjusting each to their proper position before the soft accompaniment started behind her.
And then she began to play.
She always knew Claire had been different from the rest of them; both she and Alexi had always appeared out of place among the filth of the street, no matter how ragged and grimy they looked. There had been an air to them, and it scared some of the others into bullying them, especially when they'd first stumbled into the alleyways of the slums. Margie, being a few years older than Claire, had decided to take them under her wing, despite what the others had whispered and plotted. She knew better than anyone else how hard it was to adjust to that kind of life, and she definitely didn't have the right to judge where anyone came from, not even the alien siblings.
So really, when Margie thought about it, she didn't know a thing about Claire, other than that she was good at taking care of her brother and herself, and that she had the most agile fingers she'd ever seen or heard. It had taken Claire a long time to open up, and even after two years of living in the gutter she still hadn't talked much, other than the occasional greeting or mild conversation. But nothing was ever personal, never inviting, other than the sound of her music. She'd began playing for them after one of the others found an old, terribly scratched up violin in one of the dumpsters, strings just barely intact. The bow was found later, in dreadful but usable shape.
It had been as if a single beam of sunshine reached their hellhole, as if a restful summer breeze just drifted in and coddled their hearts content. It had been the warmest feeling Margie had ever experienced. And really, it made some of them even wearier of Claire.
But now, as Margie sat watching the girl, she found that she couldn't grin happily at how far she'd risen, actually, she found she couldn't even bring forth the tiniest smile. Because the woman on stage was ice, a moving statue playing the most longing, searching tunes. Margie's arms dropped into her lap as she swept her eyes over her the other watchers, all of them entranced by her music despite its lack of cheer. Actually, they seemed to love it all the more for it.
And as she sat among those bewitched, she couldn't help but notice something once she brought her gaze back to the focus of attention. There was no trace of the warmth she'd felt on the streets, no sign or whisper of the joy Claire had once played.
In fact, Margie couldn't feel a thing.
Frigid air clung to Claire's coat, reaching with aching fingers past the buttons and zipper of its folds. It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and drenched you from the inside out, all warmth stolen in a single sigh. It was a terrible night to be wearing heels outdoors, but Claire had little choice in the matter at the moment. She'd forgotten her boots at the apartment earlier in the evening, so it was either heels or bare feet, and of course the latter was inconceivable.
The streetlights that shuddered with electrical protest against the cool night air provided her ample amount of light, because on this particular night the sliver of a moon was deeply buried behind dark winter clouds. Honestly, she could have taken a car or even a cab back to the apartment, but walking home from the theatre was one of her only solitary moments in which she could really think. It was a moment she could steal for herself among the chaotic rehearsals and shows that she seemed swamped with as of late, and she couldn't help but grasp for a time to be with just herself.
Her heels clicked hauntingly against the sidewalk, the only sound besides the occasional car that would whizz by every couple of minutes. The lack of activity was due to the fact it was bordering on 1 AM, and not many people moved around at that kind of time, despite the nightlife downtown usually harbored. Though, winter was an off season, so not much could be expected.
Claire's thoughts were on other things, though, things that primarily revolved around her younger brother, Alexi 'Ndrangheta, or just Rangheta according to the private school roster. Claire didn't know what it was, but lately he'd been distant, reclusive, and rather sharp with her. Was it just a phase he was going through? Maybe some trouble in class? Or maybe there was something else, something more private going on with him…?
She couldn't really tell, as frustrating as it was to admit. She never had the luxury to go through such a 'phase', never had the friends or opportunities to struggle in relationships or school. So when Claire admitted that she was lost, it could be surmised that she was maddeningly, thoroughly, and heart wrenchingly lost. She'd meant to ask Margie back in the dressing room, but the surprise at seeing her there had struck a usually frozen chord in her, and the visit had warmed a part of her.
Maybe she'd be able to ask one of the stagehands, they might know something about teenage boys. There were once ones themselves, right? Or maybe it would be better to contact his teacher, he might know of what was bothering her beloved little brother. And of course, maybe she could just ask him herself, assuming he didn't clam up like he usually did.
Oh, why did this have to be so difficult?
And while Claire fretted over her current predicament, a shadow in an alleyway just across from her turned its gaze her way as the sound of her footfalls caught its attention. It watched as she passed under a streetlamp's stream of light, her dress's skirt just visible at her knees, where her coat ended. In her hand she clutched the handle to a small shapely case, a violin case. Her dark unruly hair was pulled back into a mess of curls, a few just touching the back of her neck and framing her angular face.
The shadow was more than just a collection nighttime ghosts, more than just a figment of illusion brought on by the foreboding obscurities that thrived in the darkness. Rather, it was a man, a man dressed in red and black and adorned by a scar that stretched across his face in a fashion that left him striking. Just as striking was his neatly kept orange hair, combed back from his sharp features.
One wouldn't necessarily call him handsome, though, he certainly wasn't repulsive. If anything, he might've been labeled rugged, regardless of his cultured state of attire. His eyes regarded the woman across the street as she clicked by. What was it with human women and those damnable, useless shoes? What's more, how simpleminded could one woman be, walking out so late, alone and in that kind of dress? Though, another thing flashed across his thoughts.
In a word, she looked forlorn.
"Hm," he murmured to himself in thought. The expression on her face didn't betray much of her thoughts, but as she looked up into the sky, the shadow known as Larten Crepsley felt as if a terrible loneliness suffocated whoever the girl was. She paused in a step, and in just that same moment, her face fell into a frown as she swiftly turned her head his direction. She couldn't possibly see him, not with the gloom that cloaked him and not with such dull human eyes. And yet, she seemed to be looking right at him!
But then her eyes trailed away, losing focus once more as she continued in her steps, disappearing around the corner. Larten didn't bother stepping into the lit street, lingering in the alley that he'd been in for most of the night, passing out the occasional Cirque flyer to a passerby.
Things had changed since he was human, changed drastically in both culture and behavior. They went hand in hand, as did most of trends when people were concerned, but it never ceased to astound Larten just how much these people could change. There were cities now with glittering lights, taller than mountains and buzzing with more activity than was comfortable. Sweltering summers brought swarms of humans, especially to the popular city; however, it was winter, and just as Claire had surmised, it was an off season that left many roads empty and summer homes vacant.
It was the perfect time for a vampire to be about, and an even better time for a mysterious Cirque to play its cards. Said Cirque would only be in said city for but another week, but Larten had an itch that told him this week might be a bit different from most weeks. Whether it was due to the new moon that was scheduled to rise in the next few days, or that fact that Mr. Tiny had paid his good friend, Mr. Tall, a house call but a day ago, he didn't know. Desmond Tiny had left them a brief and vague premonition, and also a feeling of intense disgust, as he usually did. But his warnings did not go unheeded, especially considering how terrible and true they were.
"Ah, Larten, how good it is to see you…again so soon," the stout man snickered, referring to a time that made Larten want to scowl. However, he reserved himself to a mask of indifference, leaving only a curt nod to affirm Tiny's greeting. The man turned away from Larten and bobbed to the sight of the other body in the room, "You too, Mr. Tall."
"Desmond," Mr. Tall conceded. "What can I do for you, on such a late night?"
"Nothing, of course," he snickered. "You can't do a thing. I only came to give Larten here," and with this he swung his heart-shaped pocket watch in a neat are, "a bit of forewarning, and a dash of the past."
"Oh?" Mr. Tall hummed, "And what might that be?"Larten crossed his arms, staring down at the grotesque little man as he twirled around to face him.
"I'm calling up a bit of intrigue, if you will," he eyed Larten suggestively and plopped down into a red cushioned seat. "Come, come, take a seat! We don't want your legs falling asleep, because we all know sleeping while one is talking is quite rude," he paused. "And if they fall asleep, I might just have to chop them off."
It was in a good-natured voice that he said this, and that made it all the more frightening. Both men seated themselves, waiting for the little man to begin.
"I've always loved a good poem," he started, "tricky to write, but oh so fun to perform. I think I prefer Lay and Lyrical, maybe even a bit of a ballad, but sonnets are quite the bore. You know, mostly about love and wretch-worthy notes of happiness." He waved his hand dismissingly, "Ah, but Limericks, those are a trove!"
Larten wanted to question what exactly his point was, but he knew better than to trifle with Desmond. Larten himself was considered a monster by those of literature and film, vampires forever condemned as the hated undead. So if he was a monster, just what exactly was Desmond Tiny?
"In fact, I believe this would be a fine way to relay my message, don't you think?"
Larten thought to himself, No, it is not. Of course, Desmond didn't expect a verbal rebuttal, nor did he receive one.
"Let's see…" he mumbled.
"There was once a prodigal son
It was from Destiny that he was spun
Two sides of a coin
But neither was joined
And now it has all once begun."
There was a heavy silence that followed until Larten decided to speak.
"And what exactly is meant by that?" He'd never been any good with riddles, and that was surely what was just presented to them.
"It is for you to decipher," Tiny said cheerfully. "Though, I doubt you will." With that, he jumped out of his seat and patted himself down, as if he'd just snacked on some delicious morsel and had left bits of crumbs all over his person. He waddled on over to the door of the trailer, pushing it open as both Hibernius Tall and Larten Crepsley mulled over the poem with large regard to the master of fate exiting the room.
Larten despised the man, but could not stop himself from asking yet another question to the infuriating rhyme. The poem itself sent a pang of sadness and loss through his soul, leaving no trace from which it had come. A heavy feeling of nostalgia shivered in his stomach, making feel as if he'd forgotten something rather important.
"You said this is a warning, but you also mentioned the past, Desmond. What exactly does this prodigal son have to do with it?"
The man at the door curled into a grin, smiling wickedly back at them as if they were the funniest things he'd ever seen. "Now Larten, it all depends who is listening." He plucked a hat from a nearby table and took a step outside, poking his head in one last time to utter fathomless words.
"A bit of déjà vu, wouldn't you say?"