There are certain known facts about vampires. They revile change. They are obsessive-compulsive. They are illogical. They are cursed. They will burst into flames in sunlight.
They are dying.
With less than a hundred vampires left in the world, Yas...
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The East Coast Cage was an unassuming brownstone from the outside. One story, reasonably large, it kneeled amidst thirty acres of poorly-trimmed lawn, hemmed by a ring of tall, iron fencing long-ago claimed by the relentless assault of native vines and kudzu. Like an abused child hiding behind his fringe of uncut hair, it shyly asked for the ignorance of its neighbors, the sleepy-eyed suburbians of Walsh Street, and with more than two hundred years to soften their curiosity, they were more than happy to oblige.
Yasuko didn't know who had come up with the title 'Cage,' but it seemed an apt choice of word. From within, the building was constricting, heavily guarded, and gilded to its rim with all the toys a vampire needed to distract herself from glorified imprisonment. The only thing missing were literal bars, but they were an unnecessary feature, when the birds within could hardly make it far with clipped wings.
Not that she was interested in leaving. There was not much of the outside world—vibrantly and violently dynamic—that would interest a vampire. In fact, her kind preferred the shelter that their cages afforded, finding security and safety in the confined, controlled spaces. The only thing Yasuko needed from the outside world was forever out of reach, and so with only mild resentment, she remained obediently inside her enclosure. Better to brood within, where she could be blind to the world's changes and pretend that the era of samurai and oiran had never ended.
