A Time for Destiny [Danior Gray]

[Henry Craven]

WEARING

A familiar ping sound announced the arrival of the elevator and the young Allurist, Henry Craven, sauntered his way through the silver doors as they opened. Of course, Henry was no stranger to the odd quirky party being hosted by an eccentric Earl looking to bolster his own reputation, but it was the first time he’d been to such an illicit affair being held in the basement of a manor house. While his exterior was confidence and corruption dressed in Maestrami’s finest navy suits, the core of him was a gelatinous mix of nervous excitement. Before those doors had opened, his mind was awash with nightmarish visions of stonewalls, wrought iron, and far too much red velvet that would take him back to a time when the carnival masters got too ambitious with their haunted houses.

The next ping announced that he’d reached his destination. Stepping out of the elevator, Henry was greeted to a light and airy space and a wonderful fragrance that danced its way into his nostrils. The jasmine, cedar wood, and bergamot perfume felt strangely familiar to him and he was sure that it had certainly been present in the foyers of only the best hotels in England. Following his nose, he found the scent was strongest as he passed a pair of sculpted glass basins; each one poised at either side of the hallway upon a wooden pedestal. The unique turquoise and rose colours, and the unusual way the sculpture bent and curled in on itself, reminded him of a plume of smoke. Upon closer inspection, Henry could identify a small hole at the top of the glass where a thin mist of perfume was being continuously pumped into the room.

The background humming of people chattering merrily away indicated quite clearly in which direction Henry needed to go if he was looking to join the party and not just smell the roses. If, that is, the twin suited gorillas standing either side of a set of golden doors weren’t enough of a clue. Henry swivelled on the shiny tiled floor and strolled casually towards the entrance, a wry grin sneaking onto his face. As Henry was a guest of Madame Julia Daphne Romanoff, he wasn’t expecting to be held up by the security guards for very long. Still, there was a queer feeling in his gut, like an invisible corset tightening around him and pushing his still-beating heart into his throat. Henry learned what it was like to taste his own lungs when the goliath to his left asked his name and the goliath to his right instantly groaned.

“He’s not on the guest list. But. He’s on the guest list.”

“Right.”

There was a nod and a look of understanding between the two before their jet black and judging eyes centred on Henry again. The Vampire had certainly never felt this insignificant before and he made his disapproval clear in the way his full brows leant into the bridge of his long nose.

“Go on through, sir,” said the first goliath.

“Have a pleasant evening, sir,” said the second.

Well that was a little different, he thought, but the doors were thrust open and he finally joined the party.

The ballroom was light years ahead of Henry’s dreaded expectation of Medieval Britain meets Rocky Horror Picture Show. Instead, the room was bright and sparkling and the décor sharp and fastidious. Both the ceiling and the floor was polished marble and finished to a mirror shine, which created a fantasmal illusion from head to toe. The entire east side of the room was made of glass where a projection of the Milky Way Galaxy flickered in full view of a crowd too important to care about the marvels of the Universe. Gilded chairs, crystal champagne glasses, chandeliers, and embossed damask wallpaper added to the lavish appearance and quite obviously, the bill. Madame Romanoff had mentioned that the party was one of those hush-hush affairs, but Henry hadn’t expected that it was specifically for the purposes of showing off this year’s arm candy to competing housewives.

His brown eyes roamed freely, trying to absorb as much information as possible, as he made his way through the crowds. Beneath the glistening chandeliers stood dozens of smiling people nodding their heads in overblown gestures of agreement to the person standing next to them, all while flashing their pearly whites to show just how happy they were to be in the company of such wonderful guests. One thing that instantly struck an ever-observant Henry was that the overwhelming majority of the guests were dressed alike. The women were like Stepford wives with their perfect hair, all neat and tidy, plastered with excessive makeup, while the men were generally fiddling with their ties and adjusting their suits. The men were dressed fashionably and well, but somewhat out of character as if their mother had hand-picked their outfit for the evening. Not a one of them looked to be beyond the realm of 30 years of age while the women - the majority anyway - had left those years behind them nearly half a century ago. Of course, with the amount of plastic surgery available and the continuous improvements in that department, they still looked absolutely stunning and certainly not past their prime.

Continuing his sweep of the venue, eyes constantly peeled for his companion for the evening, Henry soon spotted exactly the person he was looking for. With a stunning face like thunder that seemed to be screaming “get me the hell out of here”, the woman with flowing crimson hair who was slumped against the bar on a worryingly high stool, instantly caught his attention. Her outfit was fairly unconventional in a sea of satin and lace, with some kind of flowing blue dress draped over her skinny frame, lifting to reveal a pair of stork-like legs then tapered perfectly into a train behind her silver heels. Fingertips, also expertly finished in chrome nail varnish, toyed with a glass full of something bubbly while she appeared to gaze, vacantly, into space, mumbling to herself. She stood out as a ruby amongst diamonds; for better or for worse, Julia Romanoff always stood out.

Narrowing his eyes, Henry stalked toward his target. There was little need to employ his Vampiric stealth when the music filled the pockets of space left between exaggerated gasps, scathing laughs, and monotonous small-talk. Henry felt the moment of her surprise and elation when the fair skin of her shoulder turned to gooseflesh under the graze of his fingertips. The sweeping movement from left shoulder to right trained her to turn and face him. They traded smiles before Henry placed a kiss on the apple of her cheek - grateful that for once he was not having to duck his tall frame to reach it. Somehow, despite all his years living among the elite, it never failed to surprise him that the most innocent and harmless looking people in the room could be some of the most deadly. Of course, it was all fun and games until her husband - descended from KGB agents and himself a veteran of the Afghan war - found out about her little affair with her personal trainer and physiotherapist. It was as cliche and tacky as it was exciting, and since Henry had little else to do with his eternity, it would be fun while it lasted.

[Danior Gray]

1 & 2

Child. She had said, with her voice of tar and smoke. It had this naturally husky, velvet quality which Danior had inherited, though at a deeper range. It was the sort of voice which seemed to drift around someone, which they could get lost in. It could pull a person lower and lower until they found ancient things of which men could only dream. Child. She had said when she first taught him not to trust the gadjes. She had whispered to him after telling a man she knew the shape of his future and that she could use her cards to set him on the right path - but only at a cost. Every man must eat. Danior’s grandmother had said to him. It had been a long summer living on once a day peanut butter sandwiches, and dollar store ice pops in the evening. Her wisdom filled his soul as the fruits of her labor filled his belly - they ate out that night. It had just been a local fast food place, but Danior had understood who he was a little better through her words.

And that too was a kind of sustenance.

”The elusive Danior!” He heard his name called and he turned slowly, champagne flute in one hand. Most people called him Don or Donny, but he preferred when working that people embrace the ‘exotic’ mystique of his full given name. He was only newly in town by a few weeks and the story of how he’d arrived was a comedy of errors. He’d been driving south to attend a music festival when his car had broken down, and he was far enough away from the event that he’d decided not to risk hitchhiking. Instead, he’d gotten a bus ticket, abandoning his car (or possibly someone else’s he’d borrowed) in favor of making good time. He hadn’t realized he was meant to get off of one bus at some point, so he could get on another. In fact, he’d slept right through what was supposed to be a pretty pivotal change, and ended up going north instead of south. That was how he’d ended up with no money to his name in a town he didn’t recognize. This was not the first time Danior had stacked the odds against himself by letting fate run its course without intervening.

“Mrs. Imhelda Carter. You’re looking radiant today.” He said of the woman who was in her late 70’s. Age had been kind to her for the most part, and it was clear she’d been beautiful at one point in her youth, with excellent bone structure. A little nip/tuck action had ensured that one could make out her bones, the flesh of her face having been pulled taut enough times that it had removed any jowliness. That combined with what was likely some botox gave her the illusion of being ageless, with only some crow’s feet and a wrinkled neck to hint at her true age. Her hair had been dyed black, though very poorly, and she must have lapsed in getting the roots touched up, because she had it up and twisted together in such an ornate way that it seemed almost wig-like. Dani probably would have thought it was a wig if not for the thinness of it and how it had to be layered and folded in on itself so that one didn’t see through it to her scalp.

”Horseshit, young man.” She said, her voice more of a croak than anything else. Though that didn’t stop her from pressing close to him, so that a lone arm could hook with one of Danior’s and the other could stretch into the space behind him so she could squeeze his ***. This didn’t seem to bother Dani, though. He merely smiled to the older woman as if they were in on some joke together before he downed the rest of his champagne.

“You know I’m not here for that, Mrs. Carter.” He said, though he made no move to remove the woman’s hand. She did that herself with a larger smile than she’d worn when she first stumbled upon him.

”That’s a shame. A young man like you should not be putting his life on the line trying to gather...well. You know. You are too pretty to lose in some kind of horrific fight hor accident. You should be spending your days doing the backstroke across the surface of my indoor pool. Preferably in a pair of speedos. I have just the-” It was at this point that Danior peered sidelong to the woman at his side. He placed the flute of champagne on the bar as he led her away. His steps were calculated though they did not seem quite so. It looked almost as if he were meandering about without intention or purpose, though he pulled her away from the better lit parts of the room and closer to the areas where shadows clung.

”Speaking of gathering, I trust you have something for me.” She asked as she shifted her weight and let the arm she’d been using to cross his back slip to take the place of the one she’d tucked into the crook of Danior’s arm. Her newly freed hand moved across the young man’s chest as if she were searching for something. ”I feel something solid, but not the product. Did you store it lower, Danior?” She asked, her gaze dropping meaningfully before Dani lifted one of his palms to grip her wrist and draw it away.

“Alas, my pockets are empty and they will have to be filled quite a lot before any of those ashes you’re after will appear.” He said.

By trade, Danior was an artist, and he could work in virtually any medium with at least some moderate amount of skill. However, economy was a tricky thing, and when people didn’t want to buy his paintings, then he had to be more resourceful. He could have sold himself to get at least a somewhat more comfortable life, but that would have entailed giving up too much freedom and too much of his own power. So instead, he sold otherworldly goods to wealthy clients. He abused his heritage as much as possible, making it seem as if he had some sort of natural connection to the spiritual world, and some ability to get the things these people wanted in ways nobody else could. The very first time he’d met Mrs. Carter, he’d told her that she’d once been a gorgeous woman with thick hair the color of a crow’s wing. In truth, Danior just had a gift for the dramatic.

People thought they were buying any number of things from him. In Imhelda’s case, it was vampire ashes. He had convinced her that they would help to restore her youth. And because a vampire had to be slain to get them, he charged an absolute premium - enough money for him to live luxuriously for a few months. Of course. It wasn’t going to work. He had no clue if vampire ashes had any special properties, but he was certain the ashes scooped out of his fireplace absolutely had no abilities what-so-ever. As such, he was hitting up as many of these high end parties as possible in a short period of time, so that he could accumulate clients, funding, and hand over ‘product’, then blow town before anyone realized his ashes weren’t actually doing anything.

Imhelda reached into a clutch at her side so she could free a thick sleeve of bills and push it into the pocket inside of Danior’s jacket. She then leaned to press a kiss against his cheek. She whispered ”Child. Go get me what I’m paying you for, or I’ll have your pretty face beat bloody and blue.” It came seemingly from nowhere, and Danior’s throat tightened slowly before he pulled away from her with another chuckle - albeit a nervous one.

“I have some secured in a private place. I’ll go get it for you now.” He said, and rushed away.

[Henry Craven]

"I'm so glad you're finally here, Henry my dear."

Julia spoke quietly, but had a presence that was anything other than meek. Her accent was thick despite extensive culturing - a matter of pride and respect for her Vladivostok heritage, she had said. She had a voice for singing Memphis style Blues, but she certainly wasn’t the type to hum a lullaby or even whistle the odd tune. She was a strong woman; firm, rather than rigid. She was a cliff face that stood the test of age and despair, yielding only marginally even to the wind and the sea. Despite being nearly twice his age, Henry thought Julia was one of the most captivating women he had ever met. She held her hand out to him as she invited him to sit and he took the order to place a kiss on the hem of her knuckles as he settled in beside her; the diamond of her engagement ring was like a disco ball smattering rainbows around the room.

"This party is so boring," she added. "I think that Gloria Webster is a heart’s beat away from death.”

Henry followed Julia’s line of sight to the crone in the corner of the room. Dressed in fringes of purple velour and fenced in by four oil-slicked bachelors – each one shirtless, but still subjected to the formality of a black dickie bow, slacks, and shoes – the old widowed Webster had seen better days. Her purple-stained eyelids drooped over her eyes like a certain famous cartoon dog, but she gave Henry the impression of an old marionette with the way her frail, stick-like body sagged in the arm chair. He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but as he watched her and his pupils contracted to pins, he felt that he could hear that withered heart struggling for life inside her bird-like chest. The sound was like a dying cricket with each chirrup pursued by unnerving silence. Maybe Julia was right after all…

“Perhaps when she croaks, we will have something worth celebrating.”

Henry smirked a bit.

“And who does she think she is kidding with those toy-boys? It’s pathetic.”

Like every other wealthy, bored housewife, Julia Romanoff loved to gossip. She also loved to hear that she was correct in all matters, which was about the only time that she allowed Henry to talk in her presence.

“Oh my word,” she said, exaggerating every consonant. “Mrs Carter has a new boy.”

And as she broke into a fit of laughter, Henry was busy trying to divide his attention between scanning the crowd for the old hag and watching Julia. He couldn’t quite understand what had tickled her funny bone, but he slipped his arm around her back to make sure she didn’t fall off her seat as she rocked back and forth in hysterics.

“He looks…” she gasped. “He looks like…” another gasp-chuckle.

Henry finally locked eyes with the target.

“Oh, Henry!” she laughed, leaning on his shoulder as her eye-liner mixed with tears at the corner of her emerald orbs. “He looks like he could split her in half.”

She didn’t notice, but Henry was not laughing. In fact, Henry was deathly still. Recognition had given him a cold, hard smack to the face when his brown eyes found Danior in the crowd. They always kept running into each other like this, like there was an invisible and elastic thread which had them tied together so that no matter where they went they’d eventually rebound and wind up in each other’s path again. So the same questions formed in Henry’s mind as it always did; he wondered why the other male was here and just what exactly he was going to do to take advantage of the situation. Henry wouldn’t just ignore Danior. He couldn’t. That would be like ignoring a rash that appeared on your body once every couple of years. It didn’t hurt, but he had to scratch the itch.

When he noticed Danior leaving the vulture’s side, he leant into Julia’s ear, made up an excuse about needing to use the bathroom, and followed the other man at a distance. He thought he would wait to see just what the other man was up to first and then decide on how he was going to play it.