Red

Sangria

Scarlet draped her body as she glided through the bar, making a beeline for the counter stool that had belonged to her for centuries, that old barroom stool more a second throne than a simple seat after so many years Her fangs pricked lightly against her lower lip as she slid onto the stool, making eye contact with the strange, lovely bartender—insane, of course (she's heard about those "comedy shows" of his and can only conclude that a witch placed a curse on him)—but lovely to look upon and speak to all the same. The kind of person that would either thrive in the shadows of the Nightlife, or be eaten alive by what he found there.

She wasn't sure if she wants to see him fail, or if she'd rather he succeed and become something new and strange and magnificent in the presence of the shadow-creatures like herself. His grin was dazzling as ever, the kind that would fell any woman with less experience and less life in her than she. "Your usual, Ms. Crimson?"

Ms. Crimson. It's the name she put down every time—she heard them call her "the lady in red", knew that they knew it was an alias, quite liked the drama and mystery it created. She enjoyed hearing them wonder—enjoyed, for a moment, the idea of them finding out what she truly is. Cherry-red lips pulled into a slow, sensual smile as she leaned forward slightly, dark hair spilling down her back as she braced dark arms against the pale marble of the bar. "Two olives as usual, Don-o-van." It was fun, watching his cheeks flush as she pulled apart his name with her tongue—and a thousand times more effective for getting what she wanted than his amusing, naive customer-service smile.

"Of—of course, Ms. Crimson." She kept her eyes on him even as the music pounded in her ears, calling her away to play—she'd never been able to resist a dance, not since she was a slip of a thing first learning what music could do. The Roaring Twenties—now those had been the days to be in this city, before all went to hell and she decided it was time to disappear until everything was calm and easy once more. Constant music, wild energy, an age of new life and new magic, when the Nightlife and the creatures like her had not had to hide but from the self-proclaimed of "best" of humanity (who were quite often the worst those Daylighters had to offer). It's an ache in her, the loss of those strange and wonderful times, but the drinking and the dancing remind her of what she is. Who she is.

Eternally young. Eternally beautiful. Eternally deadly.

Avaritia Rubrum. The Lady in Red.

The vampire queen that ran New York City--and all of North America.

"Here you are, miss."

Dark eyes flicked up to Donovan's face, and she let her smile widen, showing teeth that shine just a little too bright to be human. He didn't jolt back, though he did look unnerved as he stepped away to tend to another mortal come to drink their night away. She hummed low in her throat as he did, taking a sip of the drink and closing her eyes to relish it. For centuries, I've been alive, she mused, savoring the flavor, and yet no place has ever made a Bloody Mary quite like this one.

Perhaps it was because of the nature of the storefront—founded by a warlock, run by a demon that fed off of positive emotions, home to a dozen Nightlifers she could feel eyeing her now. Ones, she knew, could tell from the hum of awe and fear that hung over them, who knew exactly who she was. Or perhaps it was simply that this place was one where the Nightlife and the Daylight truly meshed, monsters and mortals mingling together as though it didn't matter that one side could die tomorrow and the other never would.

Or maybe Avaritia was getting sentimental in her old age.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Ms. Crimson?"