A/N: This is a rewrite of an old fic that I started and then forgot about almost a decade ago (sorry Lizzy!), the old fic was titled All That Jazz, I'm gonna delete it sometime over the next week just to avoid confusion.

There was nothing like a New York speakeasy. Well, except a Chicago one. Or a Boston one. The New Orleans ones were swell, too, and Sylvia had even been to one in Alaska that had been a whale of a time. But she made a philosophical point of living each moment to the fullest, and for that moment, she was in New York. So, therefore, there was nothing like a New York speakeasy. Gangsters rubbed shoulders with movie stars, doctors danced with starving artists, and Silvia had her pick of 'em all. Which was just how she liked it.

Best of all, how could it ever be reported to the law? What sort of idiot strolled right up to a cop to tell them that their buddy had gone missing in a place like this? Prohibition was the best thing that had ever happened to Silvia, with pretty much no downside. Her particular beverage of choice, after all, had always been outlawed.

This place was one of the fancier ones. Some gangster, or maybe a politician, had funnelled a hell of a lot of money into it – the only difference between the two professions, in her opinion, being that gangsters were paid better, and were more inclined towards honesty. The grand, warm wooden bar was polished to a blinding gleam and didn't have a single chip on it, the stage the band played from was lined below with tiny individual lightbulbs like they were at the opera, and the place was given the illusion of being far bigger than it was thanks to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined most walls – which also gave the patrons a perfect view of their own debauchery.

Her sister, Carmela, was around here somewhere. Probably. Younger, impulsive, and impatient, she always jumped into the fray almost as soon as they arrived, chose her mark, and was either elsewhere in the city toying with them, or had even already drained them, by the time Sylvia was only just striking up conversation with whoever her own lucky contender was for the evening.

Tonight? Tonight she was drawing a blank. It happened. Her heart wasn't in it, she was tired, and had Carmela not convinced her otherwise, she'd have spent the night wandering the city on her lonesome instead. Sometimes on nights like this one, she'd set out to start a problem. Charm some girl's man away from her. Find a couple of pals drinking and alternate her interest between one and the other, until whichever one she didn't choose was so mad that he'd no doubt be suspect number one for his friend's mysterious disappearance come morning.

But she couldn't much be bothered with any of those games tonight, either.

"Only one thing for it, then," she sighed to herself.

Pressing her cigarette holder between her crimson-painted lips, she began to make a show of patting down her gorgeous but pocketless silver sequined dress for a lighter. One was being held before her within five seconds. Not a new personal record, but still not bad at all.

Leaning forward, she inhaled 'til the tip of the smoke burned amber, then leaned back, exhaling through one corner of her lips so that she could take in her new mark. A man – a damn handsome one – around her own age, with cool blue eyes and messy golden-blond hair. Stubble marked his cheeks, and while his clothing was dishevelled, it was expensive. The waistcoat was real silk, and so was the dark red tie had been loosened about his neck so his top button could be undone. The earring in one of his ears was real gold, too.

Not quite a dandy, but maybe a rake. She could more than work with that.

"Got another one of those?" he asked, unbothered that she didn't thank him.

"Afraid not," she shook her head, and then offered hers to him.

He eyed the thin golden holder it was fixed into, lip curling a little with distaste. Grinning as she breathed a laugh, Silvia crooked a red-tipped finger at him, taking in another draw of the cigarette and leaning towards him. The stranger didn't blush, nor did he hesitate, instead leaning forward, lips parted a little so she could gently blow the smoke into his mouth in the imitation of a kiss. Though she closed her eyes when she did so to avoid any stinging from the smoke, when she opened them again, he was watching her intently. When he pulled back he kept his eyes on hers, he inhaled, held it for a few moments, and then slowly exhaled.

"I was worried it'd be menthol – aren't those all the rage with broads these days?"

"Might as well huff a breath mint," she snorted. "You here alone?"

"Nah," he nodded in the direction of the booths across the room.

It took her a moment to realise which one he specifically meant – her eyes first landing on one that housed an older woman in a grand fur coat, which didn't seem his speed, then the next, which played host to two guys that seemed to be roundabout his age…as well as what could only be described as a gaggle of very pretty women.

"How about you?" he asked.

Silvia idly scanned the room once again for her sister, and found no trace of her. "Looks like I am."

Rather than immediately laying on the charm, he seemed more or less content to stand by her barstool, watching her quietly smoke her cigarette. Only when she slowly crossed one leg over the other, the silver sequins of her flapper dress highlighting the movement beautifully, did he speak again.

"Those stockings real silk?"

"That's an ungentlemanly question."

"This is an ungentlemanly place."

Silvia chuckled, inclining her head as if to say I'll give you that. Extending one long leg before her, she admired it and then replied.

"Of course they are."

She'd killed some rich flapper not two weeks prior just for them. The trick had been getting her fangs into her throat without a struggle causing any snags.

"Hey, the hair's clearly fake. Doesn't match the eyebrows. Had to wonder," he nodded at her peroxide blonde do.

If he'd expected her to take offense – or fall over herself to try and earn a compliment in response to his words – he'd be sorely disappointed. Instead, she laughed.

"You should try it. It'd suit you."

Now it was her turn to be surprised by his reaction. She'd anticipated a scoff and an insistence that it wasn't for him – he was well dressed, but he didn't have the look of an all-out dandy. Instead, he shrugged and passed a hand over his dirty blond hair, already a little dishevelled. He must've been here awhile.

"I'll try anything once," he said simply.

"Is that why you're here lighting strangers' smokes instead of partying with your friends? Done that one time too many? Bored of it?"

"I wouldn't say that," he shook his head. "Nothing exceeds like excess, right?"

Hear, hear.

"Well, so far you've admired my legs, and my hair. What next?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

Silvia breathed a laugh that was far too genuine for her own liking – because this guy was really something. And handsome, to boot. Although the handsomeness was probably how he got away with his behaviour. There wasn't a single doubt in her mind that he knew that fact fine well, too.

"Dance with me," he said.

"No."

"Why not?" he asked – unfazed, verging on bored. "Don't you think I'm good looking?"

"You are. Worse still, you know it too well, so you've got no manners."

"Manners are boring."

"So's dancing with guys who think they're owed it."

Rather than stamping his feet and complaining about it, he mulled over her words and then nodded as if begrudgingly agreeing.

"Fine. Dance with me, please."

"Close, but no cigar."

At that, he gave a long-suffering sigh – but it, strangely, seemed more amused than truly exasperated.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Silvia."

"Well, Silvia, I'm David. Would you please dance with me?"

After guiding him through the process of asking so utterly painstakingly, it'd just be downright uncharitable to turn him down. Discarding what was left of her cigarette into some unfortunate's drink, she smirked when he followed suit, and allowed him to lead her onto the dancefloor.

There were two things she'd suspected, if not feared, in how his demeanour might translate to his dancing. The first, was that he'd be boring. Too aloof to actually make an effort, leaving her to dance around him while he essentially stood and occasionally side-stepped. The second was that he'd be handsy. Sure, he was handsome, but there was nothing that had her forgetting a man's good looks faster than behaviour that was too slimy to be intriguing.

But David did neither. He danced well, without trying too hard, he led her around the floor with a quiet sort of easy confidence that more that seized her attention, and when his hands did stray from her waist, it was a fleeting brush of a touch that was more amusing than uncomfortable.

Oh, but she liked him. So far. The night was definitely picking up.

The next time she looked at his buddies, she found them both watching her – the dark-haired one with muted amusement, and the blond openly smirking. When she met his eye, he winked.

"Your lackeys are watching," she commented.

"Don't call them that," David replied.

There was no bite to his words, but he spoke firmly. It was, maybe, the most serious she'd heard him get all night.

"My bad, sorry," she said.

"Don't worry about it," he said, and seemed to mean it, before he added in clarification. "They're my brothers."

"Not in blood-terms, surely."

There was no resemblance at all between the three of them – even if they only shared one parent between 'em, she'd still struggle to believe it. But, in response to her question, David chuckled like she'd made a very funny joke, mulled over his response for a second or two, before shrugging and returning his gaze to hers.

"In a manner of speaking."

Now, that…that was interesting, actually. Even if she did her damnedest not to let it show on her face. Because it was exactly the sort of joke she'd make. The one that'd have mortals frowning in confusion, wondering what the hell she was talking about before brushing it off, since there was no way they'd ever guess what she really meant. And they never wanted to appear dim – or worse, tedious – by asking.

They continued to dance, and as they did, Silvia took a deep breath in. Sometimes, with mortals, she could smell the blood. Only sometimes, though. When she was famished, and the conditions were right. But she'd been overindulging as of late, something that would necessitate moving on soon, in all likelihood, especially if David and his brothers were what she thought they were. Two lots of vampires going ham in one town would draw all kinds of wrong attention.

The setting was wrong, too, since the booze hall they currently occupied reeked of cigar and cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, and of the countless sweaty bodies packed in around them. The most she got from David in particular was his cologne – and it was nice cologne, but it wasn't what she was trying to figure out.

When they fell back onto their barstools, some innumerable amount of songs later, she was still doing her best to hide her distraction. If he noticed, he didn't show it – but she was a very good actress.

"So…Silvia," the way he let her name slowly roll off of his tongue made it sound like he'd been the one to bestow it upon her, "you rich?"

"Excuse me?" she blinked, an amused smile still toying at her lips.

"You give daddy owns a diamond mine kinda impressions," he shrugged lazily.

"You don't think I'd be wearing some of those diamonds if that was the case?"

"Maybe you were worried it'd attract the wrong sort."

"I manage that all on my own."

"You didn't answer my question."

"…Sometimes."

"Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes I'm rich," she rolled her eyes.

"You're a party girl, then?"

"How quickly I went from diamond heiress to prostitute in your estimations – your mind must be a hell of a place," she snorted.

David grinned – a handsome, boyish grin, at that – as if to say you have no idea.

"So, not a hooker, and not an heiress. One of Fagin's gang, maybe?"

"And he reads," she gasped in exaggerated delight. "Hopefully you're better at reading books than people, David."

"You think you can do better?" he challenged, one eyebrow rising slightly.

Silvia smiled – for this was a hell of an opportunity. Leaning forward, her elbow on the bar, she peered at him carefully. As she did so, David stared back, utterly unflinching. She'd have to be careful about this, she knew. If he wasn't the same as her, this would only confuse him. That wasn't something she cared much about. But if he was a vampire, and he was trying to toy with her now the same way she'd toyed with so many, night after night, she had to be subtle about this. If she made it too obvious, he'd suspect something, and then her fun would be over before it even really started.

"You're a night owl," she threw out.

David scoffed. "Oh, please."

"Am I wrong?"

"No – but I'm here in the middle of the night, and I ain't exactly tanned, sweetheart. It's all obvious."

"Fine, fine," she remained where she was, leaning towards him, narrowing her eyes. "You move around a lot. You and your brothers. You're nomads – and you aren't afraid of danger. Lots've the time you end up in some pretty rough towns, but it never bothers you."

Now everything she said about him also applied to her. Because what sort of idiot would go to pristine, crimeless suburbia and start shedding blood? No, the smart thing was to go a place where the bodies you left were just another ten or twenty in a stack of thousands. David squinted at her, visibly caught between laughing off her assertions and questioning where they'd come from. But the latter would ruin his cool and above it demeanour, wouldn't it?

"Hey, you're the one in a New York speakeasy, alone. Doesn't danger scare you?"

"If it did, I wouldn't be talking to you."

"That your next guess? That I'm dangerous?" he smirked – visibly pleased – like she'd called him charming or handsome."

"Oh, I think you're downright deadly," she practically purred.

When had they gotten so close? Literally, physically close. Somewhere, over the course of this conversation, they'd drawn in and in until they were practically nose to nose.

"What else?" he challenged.

His attention flickered down towards her crimson-painted lips, but she kept her own gaze squarely on his eyes.

"You're…an old soul," she said slowly, lifting a hand so she could ghost her nails beneath his jaw, turning his head this way and that for her mock-inspection. "You've got the boyish looks, but you're not a boy. But…"

Her hand fell away and he turned his head back to face her squarely, raising one pale eyebrow when she trailed off. Now it was time for the kill.

"…I don't see you growing old. Does that sound strange?" faking a laugh, she leaned back a little and took a swig of whatever drink someone left sitting at the bar. "Maybe you're doomed to die young."

"Or stay young forever."

Now she was certain she knew what he was. Earlier, it had been barely a hint, even if that hint had sparked gut instinct – instinct that was bolstered just by how he was. The way he prowled through this bar like a lion amongst sheep. Now, though, after this conversation, she was certain. Like knew like.

"A regular old Peter Pan, huh?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer. There was something in his gaze that had turned from humour to purely analytical now as he took her in. Silvia stared back, and then mirrored his signature move of arching one eyebrow at him.

"I know what you are now," he said finally.

"Oh?"

How she hoped he didn't. Not really. That would end all of her fun long before she was ready to let go of it.

"A con-woman," he replied. "You're a good talker. You find a detail or two, jump on it, charm your mark, and get what you want outta them."

"And what is it you think I want from you?" she tilted her head.

"I've got no idea," he said. "But I can't wait to find out. You wanna get out of here?"

The fine fur coat draped over the nearest chair wasn't hers, but she took it anyway. And David knew it, too, because he snickered and did the same with the men's coat that was beside it.

And to think, she'd assumed this night was going to be a bore.

A/N: tumblr – esta-elavaris