Winter is Coming {Finley}

[Winter]

W E A R I N G

It was unseasonally cold for August in Canada, the gusty night wind bringing just enough of that chill with it to cause the slender German native’s face to ache with that old familiar pain, the scar that ran the length of her cheek painfully tight against the cool air. In spite of the pain, she smiled, thankful that she was alive to feel it.

Not a day would go by for the rest of her life that she wouldn’t remember the sheer terror that gripped her at the sight of a blade slashing for her face, or the way the knife-wielding lunatic had lunged at her with her teeth bared, like some kind of wild animal. It had all been surreal, like she was in a movie, and this crazed woman was out for her blood. Literally.

She could remember the rough rasp of her dry tongue against her cheek, even as Winter had tried to fight her back as her friend lay on the ground with a knife in her ribs, dying. She had never felt so powerless before, and had vowed that she wouldn’t ever feel that way again. That was the night that she stared to carry the gun.

It had been a sort of solace, being so far from the safety of the home she had left behind in the Old World, to feel the weight of responsibility that came with carrying such a weapon. To feel the power over life and death literally resting in her fist gave her a rush that she couldn’t describe to someone that had never experienced it for theselves. Back home, she would never have understood the way just having a weapon would make you feel. She felt like another woman from another world; a powerful woman in a land with no law.

That isn’t to say that Canada was a land of savages, that the Americas werea land devoid of any kind of civil protection, but in the cities growing as quickly as Harper Rock had been growing in the last few years, things were difficult to grasp, even for the best trained police forces. There was the matter of manpower, afterall, that the population outgrew by the day, even after pulling officers from surrounding overstaffed towns. And these Canadians, they were all so lax with their police. There was very little in the way of worry when one saw an officer strolling the street, little doubt that the official could do his or her job, and that competence was rarely in question, unlike officers from the neighboring lands to the south. No, here, there was a kind of peace that had settled over the people, until the last few years, when it seemed that all hell had broken loose, washing over this once tiny town in a black wave of murder and violence.

That was what really drew her here. Something about the chaos, about the sweet scent of gunpowder that always seemed to cling to the air, everywhere you went. The taste of blood in every drop of water, in every plate of food. This was a city of violence, a city of the dead and dying, and it made her feel alive. When asked, however, she would always tell her friends that she had moved for the carreer opportunities that had presented themselves in the exponential growth of the little city, and the surrounding areas like Chalktown and Tomkin. New buildings were being built everywhere, and she intended to have her name on as many of them as possible. Even now, she was managing to juggle two projects, while consulting on a third. Tonight, she had been meeting with a woman about a bid on a fourth, and she was confident that she had walked away with the job. The design she’d presented had been advanced, unique for the city skyline and offering an opportunity for the headquarters of a titanic bank’s new headquarters in the booming economy of the Harper Rock area to really stand out against its competitors, to really catch the eye with a sort of modern beauty that she hadn’t dreamed up since she was in school.

With her head held high and a small, pleased smile on her face, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing as she walked, she made her way down the quiet, lonely street in the dead of the night, in the middle of one of the most dangerous places she had ever visited in her travels, the only sound in the empty street was the sharp click of her heels against the sidewalk. With the pistol in her bag, she felt at ease. That, and the weight of the steel poster travelling tube that rested at her hip made her feel that anyone would feel confident walking the streets this late. This was fairly routine for her, however. A passtime of sorts, walking the night away, gazing up at the stars and seeing the skyline in the unique lighting that only moonlight could really offer. It gave her vision and clarity, two things that a city like this was sorely lacking.

Something inside of her, though, was telling her to avoid the streets tonight, however. She turned, and with one good eye, glanced back into the darkness of the empty sidewalk. The corners of her soft, pink lips twitched into a frown as she knit her brows, unable to put a finger on the feeling, but she could feel the hairs at the back of her neck go stiff, every nerve bristling in a warning that she was in serious danger, and that she was in so deep she would be likely to never see the dawn.

Here, at least, the tight space of the alley restricted traffic to straight forward, or back the way she had come. At the end of the alley was a club she remembered seeing during her last trip through that part of town. It was only prudent, she supposed, that such a personal victory be celebrated. She cleared her throat and lifted a hand, flipping soft, fragrant curls over her shoulder as she walked down the empty alley to where the club’s front door stood, roped off. She slipped past the line that huddled behind the velvet rope, milling about as they waited their turn for an hour in Paradise.

The tall mountain of a man that stood acting as a door glanced up at her approach, arm twitching to rise before he gave a pause, and offered her a smile. Pearly white teeth stood out against the dark ebony of his skin. “Oh, Miss Falke, I didn’t know that you were supposed to be coming tonight, please, right this way.” He stepped aside, letting her slip past as he offered her another smile. She returned with a smirk and a gentle shrug of a slender shoulder before she brushed past him and into the club.

Inside, the music was alive, a wild, animalistic pulse that surged through the whole room. Bodies moved in and out of place, the rhythm of each motion in time with the beat of that invisible heart. A few outliers managed to be off beat, flailing aimlessly against one another. Winter skirted the group of enthusiastic flailers, and made her way to the bar. Quietly, she shifted into a seat, fingers tugging at the short hem of her dress as she hooked her heels around the rung of the stool, and lifted a finger to summon the tender, her one good eye turning to glance over the room as she waited patiently.

[Finley Prim]

WEARING

Finley was living the high life. There were days she celebrated only because she’d had the foresight to run from the altar. Ol’ Bruce was better off without her – and she without him. Now, she didn’t have to marry anyone – though she assumed if she antagonised her sire enough he’d kick her out, fire her, stop paying her. As an employee she wasn’t the best. She was far too flighty, too addicted to fun. It wasn’t as if she could get drunk, but it was a mind over matter thing. She could drink all she wanted and she fit in, too. Clubs and pubs were her haunts. And she could do what she liked.

Before, she had used and abused men. She’d jumped from one to the other only for their money. It’s how she had survived; it’s how, when she ended up in Grant’s luscious home with her life turned on its head, she’d ended up with nothing. And everything. Her life had been one – and was still, in many ways – of a gypsy. Material possessions were not her bag of fish. She had very few of them – most of which was her growing collection of clothes and lingerie.

Sure, she went to work when she needed to, she did the bare minimum to secure her position. As an Allurist, especially, she was of some use to her sire; she could talk anyone into anything. Though, the last instance of such prowess had landed Finley with a slathering, bald-headed criminal underlord for a thrall. A thrall! She hadn’t even known such a thing was possible. If she had, she might have chosen someone a little more… attractive. Someone a little more fun. She was still trying to figure out whether it was something that could be reversed – and hadn’t yet tried to do it again.

Once she was free from work she headed for the club – Paradise, one of her favourites. She’d slipped past the bouncer easily, pushing herself to her tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek on the way past – they’d been good friends even before she was a vampire. She knew she could take liberties and he wouldn’t take advantage. Rodrigo was very definitely batting for the other team, though one might not guess it from looking at him. He would make someone a very… rigorous partner.

Inside, Finley garnered glances of admiration, sometimes of jealousy – she dances as hard and as long as the rest of them but never seemed to tire; her make-up didn’t melt, sweat now a completely foreign concept to the cool-skinned vampire. She danced freely, hips moving with all the litheness of a jungle cat, the constant smile sparkling in her eyes. Finley Prim was not biased. She danced with whoever would have her – man, woman, other – though she did gravitate toward the ladies.

She knew that she was not thirsty; not for alcohol, anyway. It was possible the thirst was rearing its head but it was nothing to be concerned about. Yet. In order to sate the itch, however, she slipped from the crowd and, laughing, made her way to the bar. Her hands found the cool edge, body following suit – as if the dancefloor had flung her at the bar and she’d landed gracefully, using the counter as a point of balance.

There was a woman beside her who’d just lifted a hand for the tender, but Finley had a better idea. She lifted her fingers to her lips and let loose a wolf whistle, a sharp distinct sound that cut through the din. The bartender hastily finished what he was doing and approached.

”Gimme a Jagerbomb!” she shouted, before turning to the woman with… a rather intriguing scar running down one side of her face. Finley let her gaze linger as her curiosity got the better of her. ”What’ll you have?” she asked, already reaching into the barely-there pocket of her skin-tight leather pants for her card.

[Winter]

Hand lifted, the small German woman pulled the black steel tube from its place at her hip, hoisting the shoulder strap over her torso and setting the long object on the bar beside her, one slender hand resting on the cool, featureless surface when what appeared to be a jungle cat made into a bipedal immitation of a human being pounced into the bar with all of the grace afforded the feline predator. There was an instant of tension in the air, a familiar spark of energy that caused a flicker of fear to rise and quickly die inside of her. She wasn’t that timid woman anymore. She could defend herself now, she reminded herself, and she immediately felt that flash of panic vanish beneath her confidence.

At the woman’s sharp whistle, she let a fair brow arch, and at her invitation for an order, she curled her fingers into a loose fist before turning her wrist and letting her hand drop to the polished bar. She tipped her head to the tap, and gave a wiggle of a single finger. “Ein Bier, bitte,” she managed in a soft rasp, someplace between a soft husky velvet and a rough gravelly voice. She cleared her throat and offered an apologetic shrug of her shoulder as she lifted her hand, pushing her soft, coppery curls over her shoulder and offered an English request of, “just a beer, please.” This time, however, she continued with, “Becks, if you will.” Try as she might, the woman’s accent was far from scrubbed from her English, her words laced heavily with a Germanic brogue that belied her heritage. She offered a slight twitch of her lips, the closest she came to a smile before she let her single emerald gaze drift back to the predator in their midst. She was likely being paranoid, she reminded herself, and let the uneasy feeling slip into the back of her mind. She had a hard enough time making friends, and constantly being suspicious of every person close enough to reach out and touch her made it almost impossible.

She was so tired of being at war with herself. Her confidence, constantly being subdued by her fear, it made putting on the face of a designer in control of her surroundings almost impossible, but, through tremendous effort, she was able to convey that air of confidence, that self-assuredness that put her clients at ease. It was all a lie, a mask she wore over her terror. The encounter had left her broken, and she knew it. Her therapist had told her as much. Cassidy burdened her with reminders every day. Now was the time that she set that broken part of her to the side, that she saw if, maybe, she could be normal again.

She offered the woman at her side a small smile, a real smile that, although miniscule in the eyes of another, was the most she had ventured in a long time, and lifted her hand to push her hair back over her shoulder. She rolled her shoulders back and let her slender figure lean against the bar, one heel unhooking from the stool and letting her leg swing freely. “It’s a common enough beer here in the New World.” She shrugged a shoulder, and dug a single nail at the bar top in an attempt to calm her nerves. She was never good with small talk outside of the office, not in years, anyway, and she had done even less of any sort of speaking in the time since. She was having to relearn how to be a normal human being, and it was coming a lot harder than she had expected. She licked her lips, tongue trailing slowly over her gloss as she did her best to right her nerves.

The woman next to her wore attire that had the Bavarian woman green with envy, her top definitely something she had an eye for, though the leather pants were common enough in her closet. She liked the cut of the halter, the deep line of the neck that displayed just the right amount of the woman’s chest, and the collar that would almost eliminate the need for her trusty lace choker, though she would have to try the piece on herself to see if the fit would allow her to discard the staple article of jewelry. She let her eyes lift to the woman’s piercing gaze and offered an arch of a single brow as the bartender returned with their drinks. She didn’t spare the man so much as a flicker of her glance as she took her beer in hand, hefting the glass as she waited patiently to see if the woman was going to stop short of buying her beer, or if she would treat.

Winter was hardly short on funds, but it was always nice to have someone take care of her needs. That much Cassidy had gotten right, at least. It was probably why she’d allowed herself to stay in that trainwreck of an engagement for as long as she had. Quietly, she let her hand slip into her clutch, delicate fingers sliding past her pistol to flick her credit card from her wallet. She didn’t want to appear to expect the woman to buy her drink, though she didn’t want to step on her toes with what appeared to be subtle generosity.

[Finley Prim]

The top wasn’t really a top. It could pass as a swimsuit if Finley so chose, and once upon a time she might have worn the piece to the beach. Still could, really, but no sunlight would be touching her skin. And if she went to the lake, she didn’t think the piece would last long before she stripped it free. Skinny dipping—as soon as it was tried, it was hard to stop. It was like sleeping naked. It was so freeing, so addictive, now Finley never slept any other way.

”Becks beer, schooner,” Finley repeated, though she assumed the bartender had already heard; he was moving around behind the bar already, skilled at his job. He’d probably been doing it a while. Finley wondered whether it was where he would always be, though bartenders generally had a way of slipping away, jobs changeable as they travelled the world or finished their studies, ready to move on to bigger, better things.

The blonde—though she wasn’t naturally blonde—waved away the other’s card and handed over hers instead, when the bartender was ready. The vampire took the opportunity to shift a little closer to the other women, making room for others butting up against the bar. Her elbow brushed against the other’s skin. There was something about the way she said ‘New World’ that had Finley wondering—but the woman was warm, hot even, like every other human in this place. She just had a strange way with words.

Foreign, though. The way the words rolled from her tongue, dripping like sweet, savoury syrup. The drinks were delivered and Finley’s card returned to her; she slipped it back into her pocket. In this club, the Jagerbomb was made traditionally. Rather than giving a glass of Red Bull with the shot of Jagermeister, she was given a glass of beer. Finley waited, however, before dropping the shot into the beer.

”German?” she asked, though it was obvious. ”I like that. ‘New World’. Makes Canada sound somehow romantic,” she said, then laughed. Clearly, she thought that Canada was anything but romantic. Her eyes dropped to the cylinder on the bar, the one the woman had caressed almost lovingly.

Finally, she dropped the shot into the beer and grinned as it fizzed, as it made the kind of mess the other woman seemed almost too timid, to closed-up, to appreciate. Life was a messy thing sometimes. Sometimes it could not be controlled. And that was the glory of it. Life was only fun because it was messy. Her fingers slipped through the icy liquid as it spilled over the edge of the glass and lifted it to her lips, throat undulating as she swallowed down every last drop.

[Winter]

Winter gave the woman at her side a small smile of thanks, not raising a protest at having her drink purchased for her, and the smile grew wide, into one of pride at the question of her heritage. She offered a quick nod in her excitement, and let her fingers slip away from her card, leaving her bag vacated, resting alongside the steel poster tube, her belongings laid neatly across the bar, well within her reach. She felt the woman brush against her arm, felt the chill of her skin and noted the lack of a drop of sweat from the woman’s porcelain skin and figured that she must have just arrived, as Winter had, after a much more lengthy walk, and that like her, she had forgotten a jacket in the brisk autumn evening. That much, she imagined, they had in common.

She liked the woman’s energy, though. Her friendliness, her excitement at what seemed such small things to the very level-headed Bavarian architect. She lifted her beer to her lips, taking a thorough pull of her own drink, finishing the glass without pause as the woman had demonstraited with her volatile mixture of two delicacies from her homeland, and set the empty glass down with a smile, one knuckle grazing the condensation on the exterior of the glass, exulting the feel of the cool flecks of water against her hot flesh. Something about these places made her feverish every time she came inside, the least of which was not likely to be the overtly erotic display of human flesh that pulsed and writhed between her and the freedom of the night air. Women of the era were wont to don as little clothing as was possible, in the hope of attracting another. It was a wonderful time to enjoy the feminine form.

She decided the woman had likely waited through her silent observations long enough for a verbal cue to her question, and the slender blonde had offered herself as the object of Winter’s attention for a time, so she had deserved small talk, in the very least. “Yes, actually. Munich proper. And I have always had a very romanticized view of the unknown. This world is new, in the scheme of human history. It is largely an unknown for those of us rooted in the old world; for me.”

She paused, and tapped her nail against her empty glass, studying the woman’s face. She certainly wasn’t ugly, her eyes a frightening color of blue that made her pulse quicken just looking into them, her lips were just the right shape for her face, her nose proportioned just so. Winter would be inclined to call her attractive. Beautiful, even. She gave another smile, something she hadn’t been known to do so often in a long time, and lifted her hand to idly pass the pad of her fingertip across the lip of her glass, slowly about once, twice, again and again, as she lost herself in her thoughts. She shook her head, reminding herself that she was in the presence of company, and she apologized with a glance of her good eye back to the woman’s face. “I am afraid you are not quite so obvious. You have a very erratic and dynamic nature that I find hard to place... and I cannot even think of the last place I found anyone that looked quite like you. So, where is it that you are from, stranger?”

[Finley Prim]

It was true, in the grand scheme of human history. There were continents deemed ‘new’ but were they, really? While the Norsemen raided Europe the native Americans, the Cree, and all their forebears were settled in these lands. They weren’t new, per se. Perhaps in regards to human endeavour, its stream trains and its technology, farming and architecture.

These were not topics that interested Finley, however, and as soon as the ideas came to mind they were banished again, the topic dismissed as one she didn’t want to pursue. The scarred woman was a foreigner, and Canada was new to her. That was the gist of what was said; the most important part.

When Finley laughed it was loud and boisterous, her whole body thrown into the act. Her throat arched, her teeth gleaming as her lips stretched into a broad smile. She’d never been called erratic or dynamic. She’d been called a ***** and a whore, a witch and a sly ****. To be called erratic and dynamic, she did not know whether it was a compliment or an insult.

”Me? I don’t fuckin’ know,” she said. If she were anyone else she might have tried to bring herself up short. She might have tried to sound prim and proper to match her conversational partner, but it barely crossed Finley’s mind. ”Canadian. My mother’s mother might have been British? I’ve never really paid any attention to my heritage,” she said. And nor had she. Again, it was the past. It didn’t affect her now, or her future, so what did it matter? It might have been interesting if one were curious about that kind of thing, but Finley had always been far too busy flirting with anyone who’d respond in kind, and figuring out how best to swindle a man for all the money he had. She’d stopped just before she’d stooped so low as to marry a man twice her age. But only because she didn’t want to have to deal with the prenup.

She’d noticed that the other had already finished her drink, just as Finley herself had. The vampiress stuck out her hand, nails painted a glittering black.

”Finley,” she said, cocking her head toward the bar and the bartender, who was only another whistle away. ”If you give me your name I’ll buy you another drink. Maybe even offer a dance, though…” she nodded to the cylindrical tube that the other woman seemed someone attached to. ”…it might be a bit awkward with that between us…” she said with an arched brow. It was a veiled enquiry.

[Winter]

Winter couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s response. She wasn’t so delicate that a little brashness would make her faint. She was a woman of the world, travelled all across the globe, from Mumbai to Beijing, from Moscow to Brazil, Paris, Milan, Cabo, Stockholm, Bern, Finland, South Africa, Vietnam, South Korea, Japan, Spain, Israel. She had seen the four corners of the earth, and still she found new things, new places every single day. She just had a habit of keeping her eyes as open as she kept her mind. Propriety was not a requirement for her company.

She couldn’t help but feel drawn to the woman at her side. She had a certain charisma, a joie de vivre that she had found sorely lacking in her life for some time. She ran a single nail across the nearly vanished indentation that had been left behind by her engagement ring, the smooth dimple of skin almost returned to normal. To the eye, it was almost unnoticable, but to her touch, to her anxiety, it felt like a beacon announcing her failure as a person and as a lover. If the woman had noticed, though, she hadn’t indicated so. She watched the woman’s hand as it was thrust at her, the glint of her nails decrying their recent maintenance. She took care to look good, that much was clear, and it was appreciated. Winter approved the black. She might have worn a pink dress to a meeting, but black was her color of choice, and it did wonders for the woman, Finley, as she’d now told her.

She lifted her hand and grasped the other with a gentle but steady grip once she realized she had been staring at the woman’s hand, and curled her lips into a smirk. She was certain that the woman would think her daft, and intended to rectify her dull-witted behavior. She knew how to have fun, and while she was small, but she would wager that she could probably drink Finley’s wallet dry. She had more couth than that, however. She’d come for a good time, not to end up hunched over the toilet making an absolute fool of herself in front of the first pretty face she bumped into. “Winter. Winter is my name, and this time, Finley, I think I will let you order for me. You seem to know what you are about.”

Her hand slipped from the blonde’s to flick toward her empty glass, with the shot glass settled at the bottom. The drink had been messy, sure, it had also looked fun. It was certainly something that she had never tried, no matter the times she had seen it. It had never struck her as desirable, until she had seen her drink it. If she knew how to make something she had already seen look fun, she was sure that she could make a hell of a time out of something new.

When the case was mentioned, she let her eye fall on the dark red of the steel tube, her free hand resting across it. She had hardly noticed how she had hovered over it, though she could believe it, considering the value of the design concepts within. She was right, though. It would be hard to have any kind of fun if she was toting the case around with her. She should have taken it home first, though she doubted she would have run into Finley if she had. She felt like the slip of her mind might have been a mistake she wouldn’t want to change. She flicked her gaze back to the woman and smiled. “I can leave this with the bartender, until we are ready to leave. I do not know the one behind the bar tonight, but I do know Bev. That should be good enough to get him to keep my things for a little while.”

She slowly trailed her tongue across her glossy lower lip before she grinned, perfect white teeth nibbling at the freshly moistened lip, worrying over the tender flesh before she spoke again. “So what will it be?”

[Finley Prim]

The smirk that twisted Finley’s pretty lips as the German suggested she order the drinks without consultation was as mischievous as they came. Finley did indeed know what she was about, as was indicative of the numerous times she’d woken up as a human without any recollection of how she’d got there. Even the night of her siring was a complete blur, both before and after. There were plenty of people who would have said that Finley needed help, that someone should organise an intervention. It was lucky that Grant had found her when he did; it was lucky she’d been made immortally perfect before the alcohol had had a chance to make her look like a deadbeat with thin greasy hair and no teeth. Youth still clung to her skin and sunk as deep as her bones; and she still enjoyed alcohol even though it had zero effect. It was a good thing.

The smirk only broadened when it was suggested the bartender could keep hold of Winter’s belongings until we leave. They’d barely just met and already Winter assumed they would be leaving together. This, Finley had no problem with. There was a reason she’d come to this bar. There was a goal in mind, beyond mere fun.

”It’s excellent to meet you, Winter,” she said before turning toward the bartender.

”We’ll have two Flaming Dr Peppers,” she said. She knew it was a strong drink, and it wasn’t veering far from what they’d already consumed. It was still on the beer spectrum, with just a little extra rum and amaretto for some punch. Finley almost wriggled in her excitement, though she managed to stand perfectly still, her body again half turned toward Winter, making zero effort to hide her admiration. A scar didn’t deter Finley. In fact, she thought it set Winter apart from her contemporaries. It gave her a story. Mystery. Intrigue. Finley would admit that she’d picked one of the stronger cocktails because she’d like to see Winter loosen up some more. She didn’t want her easy, no. But a little suggestibility couldn’t hurt.

”So you come here often, then? I’m surprised I haven’t noticed you before…” Finley said while the bartender filled two shot glasses with the amaretto and the one-five-one proof rum. The shot glasses were placed in bigger tumblers, which were filled to the height of the shot glass. The bartender arched his brow at the women, holding a lengthy lighter aloft, waiting until they were ready.

Finley herself was curious whether Winter would let the flame burn out, blow it out, or consume the alcohol flame and all. It wasn’t a question she would ask -- she would merely wait.

[Winter]

Seeing the look on Finley’s face, the slender woman suppressed a wave of fear that surged through her, causing her a tingle from the crown of her head down to her toes as she realized what she had insinuated. That cat was out of the bag, she supposed, as she swallowed back her embarrassment and gave a demure smile. She did her best to hide the pale of her face as she ran a hand back through her ruddy-blonde hair. Her eye shimmered like an emerald in the dim light of the bar, while the other stared with a dead, milky glare that never seemed to focus. She had only just become accustomed to judging distances with one eye, and while she was still not allowed a driver’s license, she had grown peculiarly accurate with her intuition. She reached out a hand as the bartender approached for their order, and pulled the cherished item in her custody close until the man was upon them.

She hefted its weight and held it out to the man as Finley gave him the order for what sounded to surely be a diabetic coma in a glass. Liquor always meant sugar, and Winter, sugar, and copious amounts of alcohol were a known equation for a very wild night that she was likely to genuinely not remember in the morning. Something about that prospect appealed to her, and she smiled. “If you would not mind holding on to this for me? I am a friend of Beverly’s.” The man gave her a warm grin and took the long steel tube in his hand, the dark red an appealing partner to the rich copper tone of his skin. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Any friend of Bev’s is fine with me. You tell her Kollin said hey if you see her later, alright?” Winter answered the man’s request with a nod, her hand rising to her aching throat, fingertips caressing the silk choker that she wore to cover the second scar she bore. One was enough, and it was difficult to cover. This one, at least, she was able to manage. She was afraid that people would get the wrong idea about her, that she lived some sort of violent lifestyle, or that she had done something to warrant such brutality. She sincerely hoped that, eventually, she would find someone that would just… understand.

She let her eyes follow the man’s hands as he went to work on their drinks, before she turned her gaze away as he pulled the amaretto away from the second glass and let her smile land on Finley. “I will be honest, Finley. It is a surprise to meet someone so… thought-provoking as yourself in this town. It is refreshing, to say the least, and very welcomed if I am to be honest.” She grinned, and worked a lock of her hair around a single slender digit as she watched the way the woman moved. Her body language was a little subtle but very provocative, and Winter was reading her loud and clear. She did nothing in the way of spurning the woman’s admiration. She was, after all, the most fun she had had in a long time. “I have actually never been to this place. I know the manager, and have been asked to come by a few times, but this is my first time actually walking out this way. So I suppose there is no way that you would have noticed me, nor I, you.”

She gave the woman a knowing wink, when she saw from the corner of her eye the drinks go up in flame. She turned to the glasses and her brows rose, before she turned back to Finley to see her reaction, only to see the woman watching her.

She didn’t want to wait too long, knowing that flame would burn off the alcohol relatively quickly, and knew beyond a doubt that trying to drink the flame itself was a mistake. The last thing she wanted was to make herself look stupid or inexperienced in front of the first woman that had piqued her interest in months, but she also didn’t wish to appear unadventurous.

Deciding quickly, she chose to do the reckless thing. The fun thing. The wild thing. She lifted the glass, the shot inside still flickering with flame as the vapor from the 151 burned a bright blue. She let her eye move to Finley and, with a wide grin, she gave the glass a tip to her before she knocked it back, flame and all, and drank as quickly as she could manage, until the drink was gone. Her throat burned with the heat, but the sweet drink was absolutely worth the risk. She felt like she’d made the right choice as she set the glass down with a thunk and a spirited bout of laughter, hand rising to her lips to mask the scent of liquor as she watched Finley make her move.

[Finley Prim]

There was more to this story than Finley had been told. This Winter had never been to the bar but knew someone who worked there. She’d said she didn’t know the one who was behind the bar tonight, as if she was aware who worked there otherwise. Bev, then—did she know her from her dealings with the manager, or was Bev the manager? Just someone who worked here who Winter was friends with, then, whom she hung out with outside of the bar. This was the conclusion that Finley came to and the questions she did not ask. It was not important, with the flames now flickering at their elbows, barely heard over the music overhead and the bell-like cacophony of Finley’s own laughter.

Thought-provoking? The compliments just got better and better, making Finley out to be some mystery seeking to be solved. She was anything but. At least, she assumed she was an open book when she was out to have fun; she made no attempt to hide her goals when luring her victims. Or her non-victims. Sometimes she lured for the sake of luring, just for the pure enjoyment. With Winter? She hadn’t yet decided. For now, her intrigue kept her thirsty canines at bay.

Following Winter’s lead, Finley’s slim fingers closed around the drink and she lifted it to her lips, swallowing the concoction flame and all. She did so without hesitation, like this was something she did on a nightly basis. It wasn’t nightly, though she was no spring chicken when it came to alcohol consumption. The vampiress waited for the buzz—even after all this time as a vampire, she still waited for the buzz. It never came, though the burn down her throat helped with the mind over matter.

”I am not nearly as thought-provoking as you appear to be,” she said, head canted to the side as she peered at the scar and the dead, whitened eye. She was forward in her stare, inquisitive even. But she knew enough not to ask the question. It was enough that Winter knew the question existed.

”Shall we dance?” she asked, though she did not wait for the answer. The drinks had been consumed, empty glass deposited back on the bar. The cylinder was gone, and they were free to do as they pleased. Finley’s hips swayed as she slipped from the platform upon which the bar was built, gliding back out onto the dancefloor. She spun, bodies buffeting her on either side though they didn’t bother her. She went with their rhythm, bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she beckoned Winter to follow.