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Cathy Dawn wrote:Cathy looked back at the man. "I am not sure I think I would like to sit down but I am a bit intimidated and I do not think I am wearing the right thing." She had looked at her outfit as she did that and then back at the man. She waited for him to reply and he showed her to a small table where she sat and looked at the menu she was not even sure what she would order since she could not eat anything. This was the wrong idea she should not even be in here she could not eat so could not tell if the food was good.

The maître d’s lips pull into a thin line as the woman expresses her insecurity. Of course no good restaurant would ever turn away a paying customer. It didn’t make good business sense. The maître d’ smiles warmly at the woman in the 50’s style outfit, bobbing his head someway and pulling on the traditional French charm.

“Oh not at all, you look wonderful, Madame. You are welcome to sit and dine as anyone. You are our guest this evening, and Chez Leroux is honoured to have you.”

The maître d’ steps from his booth and with a wave of his hand, invites the woman to step away from the foyer and onto the restaurant floor. He guides her to a table that is closest to his station, but in a comfortable nook so that she doesn’t feel overwhelmed by the crowdedness of the restaurant itself. Determining that she is timid, he pulls out a seat for her and offers her his winning smile.

“Here is the menu,” he says, offering the black leather book as she is seated. “Your waiter will be Vicci his evening.”

He indicates a young lady who is currently serving another table. Her chestnut locks are pulled back into a pony tail, revealing the fullness of her face – dormouse like and delicate. Vicci is not unlike Amanda Seyfried in her general appearance, but her eyes are as brown as her hair.

“She will be along shortly,” the maître d’ adds with a flourish. “However, if you need me at all, my name is Christophe and I am just at the station near the door. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Madame. Do not be afraid to ask anything.”

As Christophe, the maître d’, returns to his station to address the new customer who has just arrived – a beautiful lady in a sheer blue dress – he barely registers the male in the trench coat. The male passes through like a ghost and sits himself with the woman in the 50’s style outfit. Although his presence wasn’t immediately noticed, he wouldn’t go unnoticed entirely. Vicci would be at the table in a few moments to take their orders and Christophe was constantly checking on his guests.

“Good evening,” the maître d’ says in a thick French accent to the latest arrival in the blue dress. “Welcome to Chez Leroux. How are you tonight? Are you looking to be seated?"

Nishaa wrote:She lifts the menu up to her eyes then and begins to scan it over. Not that there is any point. She can’t eat or drink anything here, without throwing it up. So, she might just order wine to give the facade that she could at least appear human. With a scratch of her chin, she looks at the wine list and couldn't make head or tails of the damn thing, but her browsing was interrupted by Pierre, her french waiter.

”I have. Though, I’m not feeling food tonight. I am thirsty though, what would you suggest. Pierre.”

Onyx hues looked at her waiter, a coy smile etched across her lips. She wondered what he would suggest, she was eager to know. Whatever he suggested. She would have, she wasn’t picky.

Pierre smiles his most impressive smile as the onyx-eyed female makes a declaration, or rather, a challenge. The Madame does not want to eat and yet she is in a restaurant – people are always so complex. The waiter nods quietly and decides that he is up for the challenge. Ordinarily he is given the quest of pairing wines with particular food items, but this Madame has given him nothing to work with at all. He gets the feeling that he can easily fail her expectations and with a flawless reputation like his, the trepidation makes him hesitate if only momentarily.

“Chez Leroux has a selection of wines from all over France,” Pierre offers confidently. “We have 52 bottles available, a variety of Pinot Noir, Riesling, Chardonnay, Syrah, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon as well as a number of Champagnes. I can talk you through these if you are interested, though we do of course have other beverages available.”

Pierre is aware that he hasn’t actually followed her command. She’d told him to suggest something and he is listing the types of wine they have. The Frenchman pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose with a deft finger as he tries to gauge this customer and her possible tastes and preferences. He doesn’t want her to think him rude, so he offers a small negotiation.

“Does anything strike your fancy?”

The Frenchman stares dumbstruck for a moment; blue eyes gawk at the woman in front of him as though she has cast a spell on him. It only occurs to Pierre that he is staring when he realises that he has been looking at those onyx eyes for so long that he could go away and paint a room the same shade. She is imprinted on his mind, even as he blinks and turns his eyes down to his note pad, he can still see her exactly. This woman has such a presence. It’s almost magical how she can make him remember the angles of her face – these sharp, symmetrical lines that give her the look of a Grecian Goddess; the whiteness of her skin – like moonlight caught in the immortal beauty of a pearl; the depths of her eyes – as unforgiving and tempestuous as a sea squall; and the curves of her lips – perfectly composed to kiss and to tease. Even the face of his own Marilyn is being lost to him right now. She is a blank canvas in his mind; a mannequin not yet brought to life. Pierre recalls the frosted peach tones of Marilyn’s skin under the tight curls of strawberry blonde hair, he remembers her favourite red tartan sweater, her grey felt pencil skirt with the thick slate tights that disappear into her prized ruby slippers. Pierre can vaguely remember Marilyn’s sweet yet floral perfume like walking under a shower of rose honey, but her eyes… her face even! He can’t remember his own Marilyn!

Pierre’s glasses threaten to fall once again, their weight shifts along the bridge of his nose; Pierre pushes them back with his finger and coughs into his fist. He tries to come back from the brink of confusion and angst – or at least distract himself from it. It’s unsettling how easily he can forget the important things about his lover at the sight of this one woman. Feeling distressed, the Frenchman nods his head to her order, tells her he will be right back with an appropriate drink, and flees toward the bar. Pierre is not aware of his expression or the light mist of perspiration that clings to his brow. It is only when he catches his reflection in the mirror above the bar that he take the small handkerchief from his pocket and begins to blot at the evidence. The hulking bar tender, Damien, looks over to Pierre with concern shaping his face. Pierre can feel those suspicious obsidian gaze burning a hole in him and he tucks the handkerchief away into his pocket like he is hiding a body.

“Everything ok, Pierre?” Damien asks in those dulcet tones, the warmth of his French-African accent makes his question both appealing and irritating.

“Yes,” Pierre says, lifting his tone as if he is confused by the inquisition. “But of course. Uh… I need a suggestion for the Madame over there. She doesn’t want anything to eat, just to drink, and would like… whatever I would like.”

Damien looks over to the table that Pierre has just been waiting on. He eyes the woman in question, his brow wrinkles for half a second and then he shrugs his shoulders.

“Does she want milk, then?” Damien teases. “Why doesn’t she just come to the bar if she only wants a drink?”

Pierre waves away the question. “It doesn’t matter. What can you suggest?” Pierre asks in a hushed tone. “You at least drink alcohol.”

Damien’s attention wanders once more and then he hums to himself. “Don’t worry about it. I think I know exactly what a girl like that is into.”

Pierre’s brow furrows this time, his naivety is worn clearly on his features. Damien chuckles to himself and potters around behind the bar, preparing a drink that Pierre has not seen before. He takes a black bottle from out of the mini refrigerator. The label is worn and crinkling at the edges; Pierre cannot make out the text. The glass of the bottle is so dark that Pierre cannot make out the contents either. He tries eagerly to watch what Damien is making, but the man seems to deliberately turn his back and conceal his actions. After 20 frustrating seconds, Damien finally reveals his concoction. A martini glass is presented to him, the ring lined with a sugar and salt mix, the liquid content of a strange burgundy colour; so deep, so dark and so thick and glossy that it looks like lacquer. Pierre leans forward to take a sniff; there are bitter notes, a sweet perfume, a definite presence of brandy. Pierre straightens and fixes a frown onto Damien.

“What is this?” he asks.

“It’s… off the menu. For special clientele.”

Pierre continues to frown, but he trusts Damien enough to know he wouldn’t make any customer a drink they didn’t like. He’s still nervous about presenting a drink that isn’t wine because that’s the extent of his knowledge really, but he decides to go with Damien’s recommendation. Pierre has no idea that he is presenting some kind of blood cocktail to a Vampire. Damien watches with interest – a glint in his eye.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, Madame. Our bar tender has prepared a special drink for you,” Pierre says. He waits to put the drink down before continuing. “I hope you enjoy your drink. Do you require anything else?”

Pierre waits nervously for a response. Onyx eyes press on him, their gaze as sharp as a knife to the throat. This woman has some strange power over him. Pierre has dealt with unusual customers before, with some unruly patrons and hard-to-please clients, but he’s never felt this… threatened before. At most he felt that perhaps his pay could be docked, he might not get a healthy tip, or he would get a stern word from the boss. It was different with the Madame; she made Pierre fear for his life. It is like trying to appease a panther with a steak on the end of a stick, all the while trying not to become a meal yourself. Worst of all, there are no bars between them and despite the fact that she is in his territory, he feels like he has stumbled foolishly into hers. The anxiety is so tangible in the moment he is waiting that he feels like he’s been caught in a bear trap. The pressure around his lungs is excruciating; his back is tight, squeezed as if by iron jaws. Pierre can hardly catch his breath, but he does all he can not to gasp for air when she smiles at him. She likes the drink, but there is something else she would like. Pierre almost drops his notebook when she comments further.

“Uh… I…” he stammers hopelessly.

This isn’t the first time he has been asked a salacious question like that. Ordinarily the request comes from young women who have drowned their manners and senses in copious amounts of alcohol. There has been an occasion or two where the request came from a man – perhaps Pierre’s boyish charms were too effective for his own good – but the result was always the same. Pierre deters them with a handsome smile and polite rebuttal. He explains – expertly – with all the light-hearted innocence of a child refusing to play a cruel prank, that he is unable to give them everything they would like. Certain items just aren’t on the menu…

“Uh… I’m actually in a relationship right now,” Pierre confesses; the tremor in his voice would not go unnoticed by either party.

He feels an utter fool for saying such a thing – perhaps this Madame was not interested in him at all and he is clearly too proud to think otherwise. Pierre’s silky beige skin flushes softly.

“But, you… err… can smoke outside if you’d like. I can show you the way.”

It takes Pierre about two seconds to discover he’s made a grave mistake. By rushing to account for his inability to give her what she wants directly, he finds that he is still agreeing to go with her – outside, alone. He might as well grin at the Madame and tug her out to the seclusion of the patio for the way he has been acting. The last thing Pierre wants to do is encourage this Madame with any lewd intentions, but he really has no idea what he is letting himself in for…

As Stryge sat and chatted with Cathy Dawn, he had been eyeing the crowd that had assembled that evening at LeRoux. His large, dark eyes had a habit of drinking in his surroundings, absorbing, analyzing, and saving pertinent information for later. Truly shadow was the path he was meant for. Even in public like he was now, he had a habit of simply fading into the background, rarely alerting those around him to the fact that he was observing and documenting.

He had spotted at least two vampires among the restaurant's clientele this evening, and one in particular held his attention. The dark haired woman with darker eyes. The one who was hunting. He marveled at it, as he watched her secure her prey. Stryge's preferred method of hunting was to use his powers of darkness, to find a corner, an alley, someplace that only showed up in the corner of the eye, and obfuscate it even further, so that when he took his victim into the darkness, anyone in the vicinity would not even be aware the darkness was there. It was also useful as Stryge was disinclined to kill his prey, and though he knew the feed usually wiped their memories, the less chance of them being able to see him and therefore remember his face, the better.

But this vampiress was audacious. She stalked in public, in the middle of a crowded restaurant no less. She eyed her prey like a cat eyed the mouse it knew would momentarily be slipping down its throat. Whether the hapless waiter realized it or not, she was seducing him with her eyes, with her smile, with her words. And now he was actually going with her! Stryge wanted to facepalm. He knew there was nothing he could do for the poor young man. Stryge had no idea how old this vamp was, but chances were pretty good she was older than he. Even outside of the fact that it would be considered a major faux pas to interrupt another vampire's feed, he doubted there was anything he could do if he wanted to. Sorry buddy, you're on your own.

As the fateful pair exited through the rear, Stryge turned his attention back to Cathy, and realized he had missed half of what she had been saying. He smiled sheepishly. "Uh, sorry, what was that?"

Pierre wants for the world to swallow him.

“Apologies, Madame,” he manages with a bob of his head. “Right this way.”

Despite how he feels, he cannot let his charm and professional demeanour fall any further. Pierre makes confident strides toward the exit, past the bar that leads onto the patio. The sage canopy provides adequate shelter from the rain; it gathers at the corners and dribbles off the edges like a drooling mongrel. The constant stream pounding the pavement below like a waterfall on limestone comes as a great distraction from his own damning thoughts. Pierre does not want to leave her right away so he pauses for a moment by the door, awaiting her to pass him and head outside for a smoke. Pierre does not smoke himself, but he has a small number of tools and items on his person at all times. As such Pierre carries a lighter in his breast pocket and is ready to light her cigarette should she ask. He notices, however, that the rain hasn’t gotten any better. The plump pearls of rainwater pellet the Earth and everything on it, distilling the scents and the sounds of the restaurant behind. It is almost as if they have walked into their own little world by passing through the small threshold. This small matter presents Pierre with the opportunity to apologise. Again.

“I am very sorry for assuming, Madame,” he offers as blue eyes search his shoes for some pride. “Do you require a light?”

As the woman approaches for a light for her cigarette, Pierre tenses. Although the reflex is not necessarily visible to the average Human, the Vampire before him would have certainly been aware of his discomfort. Maybe this is why she looks to him with knowing, anticipation and want. Those onyx eyes reveal little but a twinkling of intention to Pierre, but he cannot make out exactly what she means to do with him. The only thing he is sure of is that it is bad. Those onyx eyes are peering into his soul and he stands there hypnotised like a fish awaiting the jaws of an Angler. She steps into his space even more and all Pierre can do is freeze, accepting his fate with dignified civility. The smell of cigarette smoke makes his nostrils flare and he arches his head slightly away – big mistake. With a lick of her lips, the woman pounces. Her mouth presses to the side of Pierre’s neck, along the cord of muscle that runs down to his collarbone. At first Pierre is too shocked and confused by the sudden assault – by her cold, wet mouth on his hot, vulnerable neck – to recognise her actions for what they are. But then he feels the teeth.

This is no feisty kiss, a nip of pearly whites to tease; the woman means to pierce his throat. Her canines slice through his skin with unnatural sharpness and before his body can convert the shock of pain into action, Pierre can feel his blood being suctioned out of him. He makes a small sound of surprise and puts both hands on the woman's shoulders, trying to push her away. Although he can feel his strength rushing out of him, Pierre is still surprised to find that shoving at her shoulders is like trying to talk a mountain into moving. She budges only to grip him harder, bring him closer, and draw from his neck with greater pressure. Pierre’s vision hazes and blackens sharply and before he knows it, his legs are buckling. He’s unable to hold himself up anymore, dropping to the ground with all the power, grace and control of the rain that falls around them, yet she handles him like a rag doll. She inspects the wound before making the snap decision to cut her wrist and bring it to his lips. Pierre – lost to a world of blurry darkness and being too tired to fight survival for the face of his morals – responds on instinct.

He latches onto the offered appendage and suckles like a babe. The first shallow mouthful hits the back of Pierre’s throat and he almost coughs, but then there is a second mouthful, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth… On and on it went, filling the man’s mouth and then his stomach and then somehow instantly igniting his brainstem. The more he drinks, the more he becomes aware of the world again. There is a coppery tang on his tongue at first; the liquid is so much thicker than anything he is used to, and has a much stronger flavour – but to his great surprise, he finds he quite likes it. It is as rich and sweet as hot cocoa made with milk, tasting mostly of cinnamon and clove, but with a spicy undertone like that of gingerbread, the delightful cold of a peppermint stick, and a hint of the bitterness of dark chocolate – and what else could he possibly do but swallow?