Swan Song [Lyonel]

[Blaize]

This was it. Or, as close to it as Blaize had got, so far - but, still young, still with other cities to conquer. He had reached the edifice of Harper Rock’s ballet elite; he had scored the lead swan in the all-male Swan Lake, as choreographed by Matthew Bourne. It was a big deal -- or as big as it was going to get for this small city.

Although the lead Swan makes his appearance mostly in the second act, barely to to be seen in the first, Blaize was not at all perturbed. The role of the Prince had never appealed to him; the man was weak, as far as Blaize was concerned, often in emotional turmoil. The Swan, on the other hand, had authority. He had gravitas. He had a presence that overtook the stage, with fierce alpha overtones. The lead swan was the strength of the performance, and the most coveted role. All Blaize’s gruelling training had led him to this -- eight hours a day, six days a week. It showed in the way his muscles flexed, in the way he could leap the stage in effortless bounds.

For the weeks leading up to the opening night, they’d done smaller performances here and there - out on the street, and in smaller vendors. Snippets, to rustle up the interest of the public.

Saturday nights were mostly Blaize’s nights off -- the nights that he would sometimes allow himself to get completely wrecked, and Sunday to sleep. Only sleep. If Swan Lake was an allegory for mental illness, then Blaize was a perfect student; he was steadily heading down a winding path that he was sure he was going to get lost on, and he would never find his way back. Friendships were sacrificed for his career. Relationships were non-existent. His family supported him; they invited him to dinners and lunches and birthday parties and though he sometimes made an appearance, they’d grown accustomed to his distance.

These rebel weekends were enlightening. The nightlife was peculiar. Vampires -- oh, yes, he knew about them. Fascinating creatures, dangerous creatures. Blaize had the common sense to keep his distance, especially after one close encounter that left him with a tiny scar on his upper lip.

It added character.

But even the knowledge of the supernatural couldn’t sway Blaize from his course. Dancing was his life; it showed in the way he walked, even when he got drunk and fell. Every move he made was grace epitomized.

And here he was, opening night; it was a Friday, and it was a full house. Sold out. No tickets at the door. Blaize could hear them, chattering out in the audience; he heard the hush when the house lights went down, and the mournful clarinet signalled the slow ushering of the stage lights. Blaize remained in the dressing room; he dressed in the faux feathered tights. He applied the white powder to his face, and only a little to his neck, chest, and arms. The tattoos had been professionally covered (swans didn’t really have tattoos now, did they?) Leading up to the show, he was told it would be better if he did not get a tan -- the whiter the better. His platinum hair was slicked back with the white paint, the black paint sliced down the middle, a sharp point leading down his nose. Intense blue eyes were smudged with black, the effect striking.

Act two, Scene One. The Prince’s suicide attempt is interrupted by the swan; by Blaize, who bursts onto stage, the music swelling to accommodate the leaps and twists he performs around the confused and fascinated prince.

Now, in his element, Blaize is not Blaize. Blaize is the Swan, down to the core.

[Lyonel]

Beneath the cool lighting the business man walked into the one place few would expect him to be. Even those who knew him well would likely place him several other places before heading in to catch a ballet. A rock concert perhaps, a private jet heading to somewhere the sand and water were plentiful. But to the ballet? Swan Lake to be precise. Hardly not.

The vampire believed there was no need to share every indulgence with those close to him. Ballet was a pleasure he indulged in for the peace and enjoyment it brought him. His first experience was with his father and grandfather to celebrate the career officer’s retirement from the police force. The eldest was asked what he would like to do now that he had all the time in the world on his hands. His answer was simple and farthest from expected. To catch the ballet. And that is exactly what the three generations did routinely from then on.

The brush of a lean strong hand down the charcoal vicuna wool against his body was more out of habit than necessity. Wrinkles didn’t happen. Not with full canvas Black Label Armani. It was unheard of. The floating fit was due to expert interior stitching which served him well as he moved through the sea of mingling and sparkling bodies that were creating a cloud of excess in all forms. He created his own path through the middle using his height and presence to move him towards his private seat. It was the one indefinitely reserved thanks to the fact he paid for that convenience yearly.

“May I get you anything else, Mr. West?”

Celadon eyes were pulled from the stage below to the one asking the question as well as pointing out his empty seat nearby. It was not the impressive Opéra Bastille by any means but it was certainly a start. The usher dressed in the black on white rented tux waited for an answer. It was delayed while the taller than average killer assessed what was not working with the man’s suit.

The gorge was far too deep and part of the beefy thirtysomething copper topped male was threatening to spill over if the buttons failed to perform as they should. As soon as his arm moved outward the whole jacket went with lifting upward like he was dangling from some coat rack that had been fixed through his ears. It was not working and the small amount of color appearing across the human’s cheeks said as much. Lyonel figured an anonymous package would likely be sent the place he was now seating himself in. The contents would be an invitation for the employee to get a free fitting and suit that would do the man far more service than what was currently on his portly frame.

“No thank you.” The words were enough of a signal that it left Lyonel waiting in the wings waiting for the the lights to dim.

Act two, Scene One. The burst of rising tempo in the music carried with it the appearance of the swan strikingly pale and flying as if he was born on the wind beneath his body. A flawless example of ballon graced the stage and it was enough to transfix Lyonel. His eyes tracked the dancer with appreciation and something close to that of a cat watching a brilliant bird set loose from an otherwise well guarded cage. Even the couple in front of him leaning inward to each other, whispering in the way that is considered rude was easily ignored. He was fascinated by the swift brisé volé. So effortless and yet powerful. His tongue traced the hard line of his upper row of teeth behind his lips. He felt the stirring of each muscle that was in use in the dance working beneath his own skin, He might as well be on stage himself.

[Blaize]

The dance was all.

Blaize paid no attention to anything but the music, to his partner, and to the freedom of his body. If a dancer paid too much attention to the moves, the dance became stiff. If they paid no attention to the moves, the dance became messy. It had to be an amalgamation of the two. It was like acting. He was playing a part, and he had to feel the part. He was the swan, and he had found a new toy. A forbidden toy. A toy the other swans were wary of, but one that Blaize must have.

And he was an alpha swan. He had power. He would wield that power over this human who’d stumbled into his lake -- he would save this human who’d sought to kill himself. This sad, sad creature who needed to be revived. And yet, it was more than just a game of power. It was something more. It was love.

The hours upon hours of practice were like oil to Blaize’s limbs. The music tugged at him like a marionette, and he tugged back. Act two was well underway when there was a disruption at the front of the stage; Blaize was aware, much like he’d be aware of a bee buzzing somewhere nearby. It was, to begin with, easy to ignore.

It was in the middle of a leap that he saw the red flash across the stage; a colour that did not belong. It started and distracted. The landing was important. The leap was one that untrained ballet dancers are advised not to try until ready. Blaize had been pulling it off for years already. And yet -- that flash of red. He turned his head in a direction it should not have been turned. His foot hit the ground before it should have while his body still spun with the force of momentum.

The swan crumpled. At first his eyes were wide, his lips parted in shock. His hip hit the stage, elbows and wrists following suit. At first there was nothing but rage. And then there was pain.

Those who were closest would have heard the snap. Blaize did, too, but it was only much later that he’d understand what it was. That sound would haunt his dreams. A shuddering breath was taken before it was let out in an anguished scream, Blaize twisting in horror to look down; his leg was broken. There was no question. There was no doubt. He couldn’t even be a little bit hopeful that everything would be okay. Not when bone protruded from skin.

There were petite screams from the female members of the audience up front. The music abruptly halted, and there were shouts from the other dances, calling into the wings, calling for help. Beside Blaize there lay an innocent red rose, blooming and at it peak. It might have been beautiful, if it had not been the cause. Blaize might have taken it and shoved it stem first through the eye of whoever threw the ******* thing -- except he was far too preoccupied, trying to swallow his scream.

[Lyonel]

If there was anything that could capture the celadon orbs in the audience it was the flight of the swan in all his glory. Flawless, born to the air that enveloped him or so it would seem. The music that that continued and appeared to lift the male higher added to shock of the sudden appearance of red that suddenly seemed to drown out the music, put a sudden stop to all movement that flowed so fluidly. In the appearance of a rose the beauty was marred by the sound of what the killer’s finely tuned senses could gather even at such a distance. The twist of bone and the sound of the subsequent spiral fracture shattered his enjoyment of being where he was. The swan was taken down by an offsides foul of an otherwise perfect rose. He felt robbed and disrupted needlessly. All of it at once was more than he was willing to accept.

The tall killer stood up from his reserved seat. As his body turned on his custom tailored heels he found himself thrust into a scene he not planned on being a part of. Again it was another senseless intrusion on his time that he took seriously and he looked forward to away from everything else. The screams, the bustling of warm richly wrapped bodies found their place in his path. He tried to be respectful, to be as human as possible but it was requiring more energy than he was interested in investing in the situation. He didn't pardon himself as he got closer to the stage. The ease of him jumping on it likely appeared as if he too had some sort of formal training for he landed on his feet from a considerable distance below.

“Excuse me.” One frilly hipped and tights clad male was gently guided to step aside. The scent of blood was strong as was the scent of the inner marrow that was evident the closer he got to the broken swan. “Pardon me.” Another dancer was in the way but easily moved with a glance down to the fine chiseled features that oddly perked up when they light blue eyes found his waiting for a reaction. “I am a pretty sure this is a break that needs immediate attention.”

Lyonel tugged at his pant legs as he kneeled down to eye the wounded swan without giving in to the sweet lure of the fresh blood between them. He was no doctor but he had a crash course of sorts in broken bones. Being a West sort of meant one became familiar quickly with a variety of breaks and injuries. Typically it was the women that he was related to that delivered most of his first hand experience. So for whatever reason he felt compelled ...or perhaps drawn in like a moth to a bleeding flame of temptation. His hand reached out, the cool surface of his palm likely comparable to cold water. His ability to charm humans, calm those around him came out and gave him the opportunity to focus back on the swan who dived bombed the stage.

“Allow me to get you where you need to be?” Lyonel was entirely sincere. He would most certainly take him where the killer felt he needed to be.

[Blaize]

The house lights eventually came on as the dancers gathered around Blaize; they cooed at him, they offered their sympathies, they stupidly asked about his wellbeing when Blaize knew it was all an act. They didn’t care. They would be leaping with joy on the inside. They could see that their premier dancer would likely never dance again, which gave them all a shot at the limelight. They all wanted to be the principal dancer. They all wanted to be the face of the company. Staring at his mangled leg, Blaize could see his future going up in flames, crumbling to ash, trod on by those that gathered in a hazy circle around him.

The circle was broken, the white faux-feathered tights and painted white skin parting to reveal a primly dressed male, black, at odds on this stage amongst the dancers. A member of the audience, leaping to the rescue? Except, Blaize didn’t see it as a rescue. Tears of agony danced in his eyes, sweat pouring from skin that had blanched from the pain, lips a sickly white as they parted to suck in a needed breath.

“I need a ******* ambulance,” he said through clenched teeth. Anger and fury were the initial response, those bright eyes watching the extended hand like a rabid dog ready to bite it off if it even dared to touch him. And yet, his anger was tempered, his defense mechanisms weakening as a wave of exhaustion washed over him, any violence toward the stranger immediately quashed.

“... I’m never going to dance again,” he gasped, the words unbidden, the fear spoken in a whispered gasp -- they were for the man who’d crouched down beside him. They weren’t for the ears of the dancers who were now too busy gossiping with each other, the small crowd parting to the director through. Tall, clad in a black turtleneck, his sinewy fingers squeezing Blaize’s shoulder.

“The ambulance is on its way,” he said, as if he cared, when Blaize could see the way the veins popped in Gerard’s neck, could see the twitch at the corner of his mouth. His show had been ruined. His principal dancer was ruined. To him, Blaize was merely a possession, a trophy. Blaize flinched, tensing as he pulled away from the director’s grip, a shout unfurling from his throat as even the smallest movement caused the most excruciating pain.

[Lyonel]

Receiving and registering the whispered fear was all that Lyonel needed to act. Of course it was a possibility and he couldn’t blame the dancer for seeing it for what it could be, a career breaker. Likely even more than that given the passion and life dedication went into the training to reach the level of ability that the dancer obviously had.

Celadon eyes glanced up as the scent of a heavily cologned male nearly robbed the stuffy area of the sweet scent of blood. Blood that had Lyonel focusing on the open wound and the visible break of bone until the turtle necked clad director tried to offer his support. The delivery of news and clench of an unwanted hand on the wounded man's shoulder was all it took for Lyonel to rise to his full height which left most looking upward.

“Please may I have a moment with you to the side?”

Lyonel pressed his hand to the director’s shoulder and patted firmly then clenched down with enough pressure to leave no question which of them had the upper hand. Something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way and he just saw him for the first time. He knew how to get rid of the annoyance for the time being. It was rather simple. And the way he had it planned out it would have him back to the wounded swan and making a stage exit left before the sirens rolled up.

Less than a minute later the director was likely feeling foggy headed and on the other side of town. As for Lyonel, he was replenished enough to ignore the deeper hunger that was present thanks to the bleeding dancer that he now looked down at. He didn’t want to startle the guy even more than he was currently. Certainly not in in front of others. Thanks to the prompt thinking of the less than tasty director the clock was ticking away. Time was of the essence. He kneeled down once again and looked to the one who felt he might as well be the swan he was channeling with a broken wing.

“I can get you to help faster.” He extended his hands as if open palms on a stranger meant there would be no risk for harm. “Allow me?”

[Blaize]

The pain was all-consuming. It fogged Blaize’s senses. He didn’t even know that his cheeks glistened with the tears of regret and the realisation of a future lost. His vision didn’t need to be blurred by the natural salt water, as it was already blurred by agony. Too many times did he feel his head spin, threatening to pass out, and the bile rise in his throat only to swallow it back down again.

All he could smell was his own blood and it smelled like failure. He should have been able to land regardless of distraction. He wasn’t good enough. He hadn’t practiced hard enough. The rose should not have succeeded in stealing his focus. He was a failure.

At this point he could have been manhandled by the well-dressed stranger and he wouldn’t have even known that it wasn’t the medics. He would have assumed that he was being carried to a stretcher, to an ambulance. And once he was laid out on the stretched, as soon as he closed his eyes he knew he’d hope for something more fatal. A traffic accident, perhaps? There was no point in living if all that he had worked for was now going to go swirling down the drain.

There was inquisition in the stranger’s voice and all Blaize could do was grit his teeth and nod. A low groan was all he could manage before another hiss was sucked past his lips. He might have sworn, he might have said there was no point -- that nothing could help him now, beyond a miracle, except he couldn’t… except…

He reached out, whitened knuckled curling into the lapel of the stranger’s collar. His eyes were bright and delirious as he stared into otherworldly eyes.

“Vampire,” he gasped. “Find me a…” but he couldn’t finish the sentence. He’d lost blood. The pain was too much, the exhaustion of it. He passed out.

[Lyonel]

M U S I C


With one word the space around he and the defeated swan was swallowed up with the slide of his long arms beneath the broken body. A bold solid six feet and seven inches at the top to spare rose without an explanation in front of those standing around ready to protest. Ready to that is until he sharpened his celadon focus on each mouth that was entertaining the option of opening to voice a concern. A gentle shift of the warm body in his arms took very little effort. They would be leaving and there was no stopping them.

“Step back.”

Lyon felt the firm grip of the pale hand holding tight to the lapel of his jacket loosen as the blonde swan went limp succumbing to the effects of the excruciating injury. The aroma of blood sweetened the air around his head and his mind swam through the sensation of being powerful enough to do what he was caught up in. Body heat seeped through the material between them and he felt suddenly responsible for what he had taken on. It was an insidious onset that transformed into being oddly protective when one fellow dancer tried to step in. It was initially hunger, curiosity and maybe thirst with a design for the questionable that pulled him forward. Now it called to him deeper than all of the above.

“There are medical responders coming.” The pale leotard clad body protested. “You probably shouldn’t…”

Whatever was going to be said was paused when Lyonel brushed past the sharp cut dancing gods with a smooth step through the small crowd. He glanced down only once at the face that contained pools of refreshing, haunting blues. Depths he wanted to explore and drink in that were sedate in his arms. He felt it then. He was committed to seeing this intervention through in more ways than one.

The movement of his long business like stride was not interrupted any further as he guided them through the back of the building to reach the backstage area. A shift of the weight in his arms allowed him to produce his cell phone which gave him the seconds needed to hit a name and then send out the text to meet him in the back of the building.

“Trust me.” He said a low deep whisper meant for the weak ears within range of the message. “This vampire is not your main concern.”

The promise of the male was impossible to ignore. The killer’s body welcomed the power that radiated from the dancer’s heat into the layers of cool flesh that had penetrated through the black tie attire. Something he had not felt in ages. He didn’t dare part his lips again. To taste what was at their surface was a temptation even one as strong as he was would find difficult to ignore.

An exit sign glowed in the otherwise dark corridor as he arrived to what appeared to be the end of the interior of the community building. A brush of his shoulder as he twisted just enough to do so popped the door open and the night air only deepened the appreciation of the bouquet of pain, sweat and blood beneath his nose.

The sound of a black 2016 Bentley Mulsanne driver’s door opening as expected was followed by the light but ominous foot fall of his shoes to the cement steps beneath them. While Lyonel made his way to the left rear passenger's side Jolie Sweet, his curvaceous tuxedo wrapped driver, adjusted her black drivers hat. She was about to nod to her boss as usual but was taken aback with the body in his hands.

“Are you…”

Jolie started in immediately on his intentions while shooting her focus to the door of the building Lyonel exited from. Her hand was ready to reach for the custom weapon that he had made her fit securely at her side beneath her jacket.

“Not now.”

Two words from him cut the woman off. Dutifully she pulled the door wide for Lyonel to fold his tall body down enough to glide into taking the bleeding dancer with him.

Jolie’s cocoa skin sparkled as her face winced at the obvious injury. There was no question the damaged limb was hardly her employer's work. Lyonel was built to kill not snap a leg to get a wing or two to gnaw on. Once the door was closed the business woman who was bewitched several years back took her place in the driver's seat and had the car gliding away before the door opened so a few bewildered dancers could spill out.

Sounds of material rustling had the driver's dark eyes lift to the rear view mirror. The music playing was what he had chosen for the evening before he arrived. Powerful sounds of the symphony built with each dance of the bow across a string that he could easily separate in his mind. The rise of the wind instruments flowed in and raised the energy of the collaboration of Hans Zimmer for a soundtrack that stuck with the killer long after the thrill of the movie was gone from the public acclaim. Increased speed of the machine carrying them sent the weight of their bodies back. The jacket that he removed was draped over the wound that did no favors to the situation at hand.

“I trust you know where to go.” His statement was dry while he removed his tie with one hand and pulled down the laptop with the other.
“Of course I do.” The glow of the screen fitted into the back of the driver's seat had her sigh. “Let me guess...You going to take up orthopedics as a hobby .”
“Drive.”

Lyonel’s eyes found her own in the rear view mirror as his hand closed the laptop sending it back into it’s place in the back of the seat in front of him. Her eyes returned obediently to the road ahead and stayed put.

While he stretched the length of his legs as much as possible he leaned over to his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone briefly to shut it off. Once he filed it into his left side pocket he focused his attention back to the one that would dominate it for the rest of the evening and quite possibly beyond the next. The sound of respirations was audible over the music that could be felt vibrating the fine black leather beneath their bodies. He felt the coolness of his own skin return from the lack of contact and was reminded how fragile the one beside him was given the condition he was in. Soon that would change.

[Blaize]

The darkness was not bereft of its pain. All manner of visions flared to life in Blaize’s half-baked dreams, and every single one of them involved his leg being hacked off in some gruesome way. The trip to the car, though as gentle as it could be, sent rivulets of lava-hot agony shooting through all the nerves connected to the break in Blaize’s leg, the skin tearing just that tiny bit more.

Sweat layered a thick sheen over the dancer’s skin, slicked back in his bleach blonde hair. His skin, though still peppered with the make-up that made him look whiter than normal beneath the glaring stage lights, was a sickly pale. While his eyes were closed, his body worked like a machine, the pain triggering all the instinctive responses. It had to heal. It had to fight to survive. His breath came in short sharp gasps, sweat beading and rolling down the planes of his bare chest, cutting through the powder that had been applied.

When the green eyes fluttered open it was with a groan; the car went over a pothole, jostling the broken leg which Blaize had simultaneously tried to stretch as he went to straighten up, out of habit. The groan widened into an agonized scream, teeth slamming down and cutting through the flesh of his tongue. But that was the least of his worries -- he barely noticed the taste of his own blood.

Stars danced at the edges of his vision, but he was lucid enough to be aware of his surroundings. He was aware of the fact that he wasn’t laying down, that there were no medics, there were no bright lights. This was not an ambulance.

Slamming back into the leather of the car’s seat, he swallowed the next scream that threatened to break free.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked through gritted teeth, his fingers clawing at his thigh, He couldn’t. Again, his body slammed against the car seat, bloodstained teeth parting to allow another cry to crawl from his throat. He just wanted it to end.

[Lyonel]

A cool hand extended in the space between the two. As soon as contact was made it felt as though he was touching a cool damp sponge with a core of heat on reserve. Coolness from the shock, the pain but the simmering of life still rushing beneath. The killer's hand retracted and that is when he felt prepared to let the man’s pain work for him. He could offer the comfort to make everything better than it was before but was that something the dancer was willing to accept?

“I will not ask about the pain. I know it is there. It is a break that likely will set your regimine back at least six months after repair and recovery. I am not an orthopedist but it is a fair guess given the type of fracture and the location.” His voice was matter of fact and business like. Cool and detached as if he did this all the time. It was hardly the case. He wanted to make sure that the one beside him understood how serious the near future events were about to be. “You are brilliant by the way.” He removed the cufflinks at his wrists and pocketed them. “Flawless. I find it surprising with your talent you are not with the New York City Ballet or abroad. Or is this a generous appearance on your part and an unfortunate one all at once?”

The car slowed as it took the final turn into the farm and coasted up the long drive. Jolie parked at the front of the house and promptly opened the driver's door then closed it. Once she did that he made sure to lock the passenger door next to him as a clear sign to her that she should wait outside until he tapped on the window.

“You asked where I was taking you.” He looked pointedly at the blonde swan then beyond through the tinted window. His left hand lifted and tapped at the dark surface.“This is one of my properties where I can tend to your wound. The rest will be discussed inside.”

Jolie pulled the door open and stepped back with it firmly in hand. Lyonel did not worry about resistance or question that would come from his passenger. He simply slid his arms behind the man’s back and beneath his legs and scooped him in close guiding him over his lap and swinging free of the car as he stood tall.

“You are free for the night.” He dismissed Jolie leaving her behind with a slow rising brow.

Once he was into the farmhouse and the front door closed the sound of the luxury car faded down the drive. The fireplace was providing heat that warmed the coolness that spread once again over his skin now that he had placed the wounded swan on the white sofa. With his hands free he made use of the nearby bar and poured the amber liquor from the most expensive bottle he had in stock.

“I think you may want this.” He suggested as he returned with the full crystal glass.

Lyonel waited for the glass to be accepted or refused. Either way he was prepared to reveal his full intentions on bringing him to the farm. He would be repaired and his wound would heal in record time. He would not only dance again but there was a very real possibility that he would eventually fly. The man’s fate rest in his cool hands and he would make sure it reached it’s full potential. That was the role he was fully prepared to step into opposite the wounded swan currently on his sofa.