This prompt entitles the receiver to one free day, to be used any time out of sequence of the normal prompt list when the receiver deems it necessary or just already has a really awesome ministory idea that has nothing to do with they day’s prompt but has to be written right now.
[Thank you for this prompt. It doesn’t count on the Official Tally, but, damn, I want to write the heck out of this…]
There’s a million stories in this city. More than a million. There’s one for every sad soul in this fog-shrouded labyrinth of brick and mortar. Some get more than one.
Mesi was trying for Desdemona in Othello. It was one of the few roles where she actually had a chance at something approaching lead female. Almost all of the others trying for it were typical pale blonde wannabes who dreamed of a life of glamour and frequently found a world of disappointments.
This theatre, Bainbridges Entertainments, allowed the Gentry free admittance on casting and rehearsal days, so she had an audience to play to. Not that she never played as if the audience was there anyway. She acted her socks off for them.
And was sent away in favour of a pale, blond wannabe because they wanted someone more ‘feminine’. More 'beautiful’.
Sometimes, she could cheerfully commit murder and then dance all the way to the gallows.
She was plenty beautiful! And exquisitely feminine! And she would gladly dissect any objectors with a spoon if they dared object in her presence!
“Miss Blackamoor, ma'am?”
She glared him down. “My name,” she iced, “is Miss Mesi. I made that perfectly clear.”
“Yes’m… only? A gentleman sent this for you?” He had a card in his trembling fingers.
“Thank you,” she restrained -barely- from snarling as she took the card. The boy fled. It could have been worse. He could have called her 'Miss Nigra’. She shuddered.
It was an invitation card. High-class stuff. M'seur Arthur D'Raigun would be honoured by her gracious presence at such-and-such an address at her earliest convenience. Someone, presumably M'seur D'Raigun, had written, _You are vastly under-appreciated_ underneath in neat, pencilled letters.
She decided she would walk. It would give enough time for the gentleman to be home by the time she found the place.
*
Arthur was in several degrees of The Jitters. And worse, he was hungry. If he was still famished by the time she got there, he would scare her off. Vampires tended to give off a predatory miasma if they were underfed in the presence of the living.
Which left him the eternal quandry of how to stave off his ever-present hunger-pangs without causing alarm and suspicion. It had been two weeks since he’d last sated himself with a cup of blood from the butcher’s below 'for his experiments’.
Would they ask? Would they want to know? What the hell was his excuse the last time? Something about removing bloodstains?
He had to think. Why o why did he have the masochistic desire to live conveniently near a place that stank of blood? He was far too lightheaded and he had to think. And his right arm still hurt from the last time he’d ebbed his base desires…
Therefore, Arthur carefully rolled up his left sleeve and bought the vein to his sharpening teeth… and bit.
His knees trembled and he found the wall helpful in keeping him upright. Too long. Too long between drinks. His own blood did little for him except curb his eternal hunger to the point where he was no longer on the brink of being wild.
Enough to remain civil to a lady unfairly neglected. And maybe, this time, finally, make himself ask for her living blood.
A knock came at the door. Too soon. Far too soon. He bound the bite with a kerchief and covered his arm anew with his sleeve. He answered the door.
O. My.
She was even taller in person. A full two inches above his own, moderately impressive height. Statuesque and goddess-like, even in a dress that didn’t quite fit. He was stunned. Simply stunned.
“…uh…” Damnit, man. Speak up! “Do come in, M'lady,” he bowed prettily for her. “I don’t believe I caught your surname.”
She entered with the smell of lilacs, sugar, and warm summers. “I rather expected something… bigger,” she said. Trying not to sound disappointed.
He fought off the grey pall of dizziness. Leaning on the wall for support. “Yes. Uh. Well.” This was not the time to fall to mumbling! “My family home is… uh…” Damnit damnit damnit damnit… “quite a distance away… This place is more… convenient.” He found himself looking at his shoes during this speech. Like a schoolboy caught swiping apples.
*
Mesi raised an eyebrow. This 'gentleman’ was acting like a teenager trying to hire a street molly[1] for some necessary education in a back alley.
“Sir, if you’re aiming for the kind of 'appreciation’ I think you’re aiming for… you can forget it. I sing, I dance, I act, I even have a comedy routine… but I do not entertain gentlemen in any boudoirs!”
“No! You… mis… und'rsss–*” his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid ungraciously down the wall as his legs gave out.
O joy. A fainter.
He was far too old for this sort of first-time fling… Mesi checked his collar and waistcoat. Not that tight. She picked him up to move him to the bed, and caught more than a glimpse of fang.
She almost dropped him from surprise.
Mesi propped him in the only chair and double-checked. Yes. Those were fangs. Those were indeed fangs. And judging from his emaciated frame (goodness, half his clothing was stuffed!) he had not had a chance to feed.
He returned to lfe with her fingers in his mouth and stumbled away. Slumping on the floor and battling another fainting spell.
Well. She could procure raw, fresh rabbit for Jemima, she could do this, too.
“Hold on for a minute, I’ll be right back…”
*
She knew! She knew! She knew what he was and now he was doomed. She’d be back, all right. She’d be back with an oaken stake. Or bulbs of garlic. Or a golden crucifix[2].
She didn’t even need to bother. All she had to do was open the curtains!
AIE! Here she came! He cringed in on himself, dreading the first, searing touch of the fatal sun.
“Here. Drink up.” A heavy thud. The rich and appetising smell of… Ogoodness… Fresh! Blood! An entire bucketful! “There’s a butcher’s downstairs, and I figured maybe it doesn’t have to be human, so…”
The rest of her words faded to a soft and pleasant babble as he quietly and fiercely adored her from his proper position on the floor. He thought he’d fallen in love before…
“My sweet lady,” he breathed, “I am perpetually in your service.”
She handed him his mug. “Drink, you fool. You must be half-starved.”
[1] hooker
[2] Traditional vampires can be killed with an instrument of gold, since it’s incorruptible.