City Of Black Magic

Prologue

 "Mama, We All Go To Hell."

-My Chemical Romance

 Lyla Darke could feel the music. She could feel the rising and falling waves of the trap-step that blared through expensive speakers course through her veins, pumping them full with electricity. It gave her a buzz—or, was that the drugs she was bringing into her lungs?—and god did it feel good. A lazy grin spread across purple-coated lips, smoke of the same, rich color flowing freely out of them in a deep exhale. 

Lyla's head swayed to the rather hypnotic beats, eyes closed in near bliss. Creating this club, The Gates of Hell, was probably the best decision the High Warlock of New Orleans had ever made. Not only did it bring her great wealth—the club was almost always packed with teenagers and young adults—but it surrounded her with what she loved the most. 

 Music, drugs, alcohol, and magic. Sometimes, even sex. It was a rather nice combination, Lyla thought. 

 Her thoughts of pride at her own decisions were interrupted soon enough, just as Lyla anticipated. It always happened—the Warlock came to expect it at all times. Eyes closed still, she listened as the voice carried her away from her home. "What do you think, Ly? Should I keep them black, or paint them red?" 

 After several seconds Lyla opened her eyes, keeping them half-lidded as she looked forward. In front of her, the thin, adolescent looking girl she had grown quite accustomed to held up the back of a slim hand, showing off shiny black nails. Lyla raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Don't you have better things to be doing, rather than your nails, Angie?" 

 Angelah clicked her tongue, waving the painted hand dismissively. "I have an eternity to do whatever I want; I think I have time to paint my nails. Now, black or red?" Lyla rolled her eyes. "Keep them black. Red looks horrible on light-skinned girls, in my personal opinion." She replied, taking a drag off of the odd, thick stick of a cigarette. Lyla wasn't completely sure if enchanted cigars were healthy or not, but she'd smoked them for seventy years and here she was still.

 As Angelah strode over to a mirror in a far-side corner, Lyla craned her neck a bit to examine the ridiculously 'mature' attire the younger girl had on today. Now, it was a tight, short black dress, matching knee-high boots and a spiked belt wrapped tightly around her waist. Lyla assumed it was an attempt to make it look like the slender girl had any hips. Lyla learned to accept the way Angelah dressed. She knew well it was all to show Angelah was not as young as she looked—Lyla knew very, very well that Angelah was not nearly as young as she looked. Why, Angelah Vryheid was an old vampire, originally having been a slave during the time of the Louisiana Purchase at the age of fifteen. And now—now the girl was the leader of a feared clan in New Orleans! Lyla admired the vampire, and was quite happy to have her as an acquaintance. A good friend, even. 

 The attire, though—Well, even Angelah often admits that she looks pretty slutty.

 But that was fine. Who cared how someone dressed, if what really mattered was their power?

 Angelah thought it mattered. She also complained about it often. "No matter what I do," Lyla could hear her mutter, "I'll always look like a child. An evil, demonic child with awesome hair, but a child." 

Lyla looked over to see Angelah scowling in the mirror, and the warlock sighed. "Angie, Kitten," Lyla purred, taking another drag. The smoke was yellow now. "Stop frowning like that. Your pretty face will get stuck. And stop moping! You have advantages others don't."

 "What?" Angelah replied. "Being able to keep my virginity for an eternity?" 

 "You can easily lose your virginity as a fifteen year old. Have you seen the hormones of teenagers these days? Look, you can gain trust easier than others, looking like a kid."