Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

A Meeting at the Marquee: Part One

London, 1965

Isabeau

The atmosphere was electric.

Isabeau Aguillon leaned against the wall inside The Marquee club, watching the band on the small stage. Only a few weeks had passed since the club had moved from its old location in Oxford Street to Wardour Street, and the smaller stage didn't seem to affect the band's performance.

The 60s were changing everything, and Isabeau embraced every second of it. She was actually happy, in a way she hadn't been for a long time.

The horrors of World War Two were starting to fade. London was shaking off the lingering scars of the Blitz, and the whole country felt like it was moving on from war-time austerity and bomb-blasted streets, and though wartime-debt was a constant presence, the air felt rich with the possibility of better times ahead.

These last few years had seen revolutionary changes in music and fashion and social attitudes, and London was fast becoming the cultural capital of the world. It seemed hard to believe that not so long ago, the city had been burning, devastated by endless air-raid attacks.

Isabeau shook those memories away.

The war was over.

Life in the city was better than it had ever been – at least, better than Isabeau had ever known it. Even for vampires.

In this new world of rock and roll, sexual freedom, and recreational drugs, no one noticed that she was different, and if they did notice, they didn't care.

Sometimes Isabeau felt like she'd stepped out of a cave and into the light.

The band finished their set with a resounding crash of drums, and Isabeau cheered along with the rest of the humans, lifting her arms into the air.

She felt like she could come here every night and never grow tired of this place – the rotation of new bands, ready to ride the building wave of the British Invasion, the mirrored panels on the walls that created the illusion of a larger space, the red and white striped backdrop on the stage, matching the awning at the front of the club, imitating the marquees of its namesake. And most importantly, she'd never get tired of all the people.

Men and women surrounded her, talking, laughing, smoking, and to Isabeau the women were like a freshly picked bouquet of flowers, with the tiny miniskirts that were taking the city by storm, the bright colours and bold prints, stiff vinyl dresses that skimmed thighs, knee-high boots that drew her attention to their legs. Their eyes were heavy with false eyelashes and dark liner, their hair fluffed up and voluminous, sharp with the smell of hairspray.

She wanted to breathe them in – if she could still breathe, of course.

The crowd parted, just for a moment, and suddenly Isabeau thought she could breathe again, because it felt like a soft gasp had caught in her throat.

The most beautiful woman she had ever seen stood on the other side of the room, quietly watching the stage as the next band assembled.

Her hair was a sheet of pale, liquid gold, hanging straight down her back, not a strand out of place despite the jostling people all around her, and her skin was the colour of fresh cream, with eyes that glittered like the first winter's frost, and a soft, unsmiling mouth.

A young man approached her, probably asking her to dance, judging by his hopeful smile, but she dismissed him with an icy look and a wave of her hand.

Maybe that should have put Isabeau off too.

It didn't.

She studied the woman.

Whoever she was, she didn't quite seem to fit in here. Instead of the short skirts and baby doll dresses that were so common in the Marquee – and that Isabeau had grown very fond of – this woman wore dark Jax slacks that hugged her narrow hips, and a white silk blouse that cinched in at the waist. A small brooch glittered at her lapel. Aside from her clothing, she showed no inclination to join the crowd as the music started up again. She just watched, one arm draped around her stomach, the other elbow resting on her hand.