Prince Midas' Throne (Night 3)

[Thee Independent]

TI

At the heart of every ripe fruit lies a core that contains its sweetest, juiciest spots. That center is the pinnacle of the fruit; it is what makes Georgia peaches chin-basting delicacies, what gives Florida oranges a tang on the tongue, and what makes imported kiwi electrocute your jaw with intense flavor. The lowliest worms know where to go to find the empirical center of perfection when they burrow deep into an apple core. They also know to abandon ambrosia’s hub before the rot sets in; for it is from the inside that it always begins, browning and decaying, leaving a mushy pulp ladled with poison beneath the tempting, colorful skin.

In Central Hollywood, right in the thick of that fabulous, walled bastion of popularity, Gold Street is not as well known as Vine, Hollywood, Sunset, or Santa Monica; it is, however, the city’s axis of affluence. Highrises constructed with size in mind for status streak up into the sky and by day become blinding monuments to Mammon’s glory; like the moon, they absorb the daylight and shine with yellow spotlights all through the night. Penthouse verandas overlook the gilded street that is lined with shaggy palms, completely contrived for the center of this urban sprawl but welcomed by the Wealthy, the Talented, and the Beautiful – the three families of people who make their homes in the suites and multiplexes lining Gold Street.

The Wealthy

Money makes the world go round twenty-three and some-odd fraction hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year; national theatres seating two-hundred and fifty people at $8.50 per capita thereby moves the world every twenty million dollar weekend – and for some of the Wealthy, this is only breaking even. Movie producers, agency executives, studio engineers and directorial pioneers populate Gold Street. In professional circles, these Wealthy people are in competition with one another, drumming up higher fees, larger payouts, and adding an additional zero to their annual income every decade. The amount of money they wield makes them powerful people, powerful enough to fabricate a fabulous world around them, one made of art deco lobbies, expensive commissioned murals, highly-qualified civil service engineers steam-cleaning the gutters and Residential Associations who dictate the most minute details of living on Gold Street. Household pets must be groomed once a week and made dog-show presentable, even if there are no plans for them to strut under a judge’s eye. Children must attend private schools and observe the rules of decorum: like the pets, they are to be seen and not heard over the pervading rustle of greenbacks through dusty palms. Living décor should exhibit, but not be limited to, styles popularized in Home & Garden, particularly if parties are to be hosted there. The rules of living on Gold Street may seem strenuous to some, but there is one way to ensure a comfortable living in this heart of Hollywood.

Once the Residential Association is shown that you are Wealthy, Talented, or Beautiful, you can truly belong no matter how you want to live behind closed doors.

The Talented

Propriety loves company, and what better company is there than the Talented? The Wealthy manage money; the Talented manage image with skill and aplomb. Screenwriters, playwrights, designers and movie stars abound on Gold Street; their presence ensures that the sprawling community has a heart grounded in the stuff of success stories. Fashion moguls outfit millions with a single style popularized by Julia Roberts, who somehow managed to maintain her dress size even after the twins. In doing so, they outfit Hollywood with the hand-me-downs of the gods, chiseling the Walled Wonderland into an Olympian paradise. Plastic surgeons maintain the status quo, that look managed by their neighbors, the Beautiful. These physicians-turned-beauticians have sculpted a powerful face for Hollywood, and it has paid them back in kind: Nip-Tuck has reached its final season after several years of prolonged success. The little-known Producer – an irony, since his name scrolls by in the closing credits of many box office smashes while somehow avoiding recognition – spotlights Hollywood for the rest of the world. His suggested dialogues reveal the Wealthy, the Talented, and the Beautiful as the witty people they are, and his dramatic scenes prove that life is just more exciting in the USA’s blockbuster capitol.

The Talented are Gold Street’s working class citizens. Yet over half of them are retired.

The Beautiful

Fantasy writers struggle with their own words when trying to describe the majesty of a pegasus, a unicorn, a dragon; they run the gambit of emotions from awed to overzealous to physically ill, dredging up some way to communicate the eternal vigilance of an unearthly vision. If they would only take a tip from the paparazzi, who every night manage to snap the perfect shot of Halle Berry looking like a mocha demigod, or Brad Pitt’s Grecian symmetry. There is more beauty in their syndicated and symmetrical flash-captures than in copious volumes of the writer’s descriptive treasury. A picture is worth a thousand words; catching sight of an elusive Beautiful imposes an immediate debt of words, rendering the observer utterly speechless. These phantoms flit in shafts of stolen moonlight and live at the mystical edge of every neon rainbow, existing more on camera, on screen, and in photograph than in our reality. The Beautiful are Hollywood’s Royal Family, more figurehead than power, but they contain the spirit, the essence of all that is central to Hollywood. We see them as legends of perfection that define Hollywood as perfect even when the city glitters in their shadow. Gold Street is Avalon, Summerland, the Elysian Fields, or Tir nan Og, the mythic hidden land where the fantasy people, the Beautiful, reside. There are its most noticeable citizens, and imbue this magical block with a timeless, aesthetic quality.

The Beautiful are at the Core of Hollywood, at the sweet, juicy center. No one can spit them out for fear of ruining their beauty or of losing a taste of the immortal and meaningful.

The Hollywood Sheraton rises in the middle of Gold Street where it splits around the glowing hotel into northbound and southbound traffic. This entire heart of Hollywood beats strong with the Toreador, and it belongs to the Clan of the Rose just as the barrios belong to the Rabble. All of Los Angeles is just a suburb to Gold Street; it is the Byzantium where the Elite reign supreme, the Hub of Culture that the Brujah lay down their lives for in the Barrios. All roads lead to Gold Street. And in suite 24K, the “Prince of Hollywood” stares out over his tiny empire while his gracious courtiers fawn, preen, and gossip about Hollywood’s bright future.

This is the walled bastion of Toreador supremacy. This is where one can find all that glitters.

TI

Some say it began with the Szardos, those sorcerors of Ravenna; no, they only found it, set foot on it and lived to tell of it. The power this path offered them tore the family apart. Mother slew daughter, son slew father. Blood ran thick in those ancient days, and the taint of violence is still in us, whom the world call Gypsy. By birthright, we can tread that immortal road until the day we die at its hands. It is the other road our people follow. It is the Winding Way.

Money, power, fame, influence, success, health, and happiness all ebb and flow on the Way. Make the right step, and you may find your House in order, with enough coin of the realm to please the greediest of kings. But one ill step will collapse your mountain of fortune into a chasm of debt, or render your reputation so vile that even your wealth means nothing. Nothing! Know ye this, girl; this first step is only that, a first. I can guide you, take you a distance, but my Way will soon part from yours. A man who hobbles the Winding Way with humility will find happiness, but his going will be slow and he may not find it until the End. A woman who beds her way will move along by the Want of others, and her own two feet will atrophy while raised in the air; do not become this kind of woman, for her ankles will break and she will fall from her quest.

The Winding Way can give you everything you want, if you know how to move. It pulses through the heart of the World, and with every lifebeat shifts and changes in rhythm. A steady step will surely falter at some point. Only a Grace that runs deeper than your body will guide you in the right direction. That is what it is to Dance, Jezzibelle! Not to please others or to work a pittance from their purses. What I am teaching you to hone in your body is only just beginning to develop in your soul, for that is where this Dance upon the Way will be: within. At times, you will have company, and others will walk with you. But if they do not Dance, drop them lest they drag you behind. And if they, too, Dance, be wary. The Way is kind to those with skill, but it can only grace so many. To others, it must deny them what they seek.

If you walk this Way, girl, you will be forever alone. You risk everything in the company of others, letting them guide your way. I know this will make you lonely, and I cannot expect that you will always have what you want in solitude. But only when you make this endless routine your one companion will you be safe upon the Winding Way.

So Dance! And never forget that where you walk in this World may not be where you walk on the Way.

Jezzibelle Romana looks down Gold Street from the air-conditioned back seat of a white taxi, her latest stop on the way. This time is different, however, from many other stops she has made in the past. Will it be her last? She walked with a man named Rex, one of the few who would actually Dance with her, but the Way has not been kind to him.

Or was it the world that was not kind? Or a mere man she knew only as Romeo? Had this tragedy been brought down upon his head by a fated misstep, or just the reality of misfortune and circumstance? Maybe Rex Harris wasn’t the real victim here. With the pang of loss still scratching at the back of her throat, Jezzibelle could claim that title for her own.

It is here that she believes she can find the truth, and maybe fight to get what she wants with the very same personal grace that has dominated her life. But these tireless creatures’ ways hover in the dark spaces behind the building. They can be strange, vexing, and at times dreadfully inhuman. Jezzibelle can only hope the thirty-dollar cab fare is worth it.

Jezzibelle Romana

She felt so many different things, listening to her mentors words in her head once more. Though she's not seen him in quite sometime, the words are still as fresh as the first day he spoke them. As her eyes lift to the building where her future was to be decided, she ever os softly wondered Is this what I should do or am I blinded by the wrong motivations into believing this is what I should do? The lonely road was hard, but she was used to that. She knew that her mentor's words were the wisest she may ever hear. That he would never aim to mislead her, but more so continue to guide her along the right path without being there beside her. An eternity is a long time to live...Or to be in that state between life and death. To be what they call undead. She had encountered so many, she even dared to lose her fear for them. Her frown deepened, bringing her attention back to the remaining words that left the mentors life, so then her lips begin to part, enparting with the last part of that lesson.

"And never forget that where you walk in this World may not be where you walk on the Way..." She closes her eyes, leaving a pause. "The Way."

She felt the cab come to a stop, her eyes opening. The point of no return is well on its way. She hears the cab driver.

"Thirty dollars even." Came his graveled voice.

She nods, a gentle gesture, but brings her hands to retrieve the money from her person. She hands it to him, producing also a five dollar tip. She gets out of the cab, shutting the door, and taking a deep breath. Please let this be the right thing to do, or steer me away from it now A shifting of her posture, she licks her lips, then continues for the building. Her heart pounding, she looks to the paper. 24K. She repeats in her mind, then puts it away, making sure she looks nice and presentable, she makes her way to the room. Her steps not hesistant, but contrarily confedent. She forced herself before the room and stood proudly before the door, bring her fist to display knuckles. She rapped on the door three times, then placed her hand back at her side, awaiting the response, hopefully from the prince.

TI

Since when does a Prince stoop to answer his own door, let alone a mighty Prince of Hollywood? It is too much to ask of those eccentric, dead rulers; they spend so much time worrying about who stands behind the door and what is wanted of them that it becomes too difficult to plunge headfirst into trouble by opening the door themselves. Layers protect the modern day Princes like they protected the medieval kings of Europe, but today it is layers of people, not finely tailored fabric and fur. A visitor often jumps through hoops to see the man in charge. When the double doors marked 24K slide open gently without the squeak of an unoiled hinge, Jezzibelle can feel the circus sideshow beginning anew.

“Hello. Welcome,” a fresh-faced young bellhop overdressed in a tuxedo greets her, his white gloved hands polishing the door’s golden handles. The rent-store stitch of his tux, however, indicates that his attire is intended for someone in a servile position, not a guest with a desire to be showy. His unsettling smile fixes on her and he folds his gloved hands together. “Do you have an invita…?”

Once his eyes meet Jezzibelle’s, the bellhop’s tongue goes limp. They travel down to her lips, lace around her neck and slither into her cleavage before writhing in an excited wobble about her waist. A single moment’s observation, and the bellhop appears convinced and very pleased. “Forgive me. Of course you have an invitation.” A telltale blush rouges his cheeks. “Entrez, veuillez.”

The bellhop bows fastidiously to her, stepping out of the way and swinging one large wooden door wide for her to enter. The immediate interior is an unusual sight for a hotel suite. The dark ivy carpet with wedding band design up the middle disappears at the door’s edge, replaced suddenly by a floor laid with expensive brown sugar tiles, with every few six-quarter tile an fuller, darker raisin brown. The walls, painted a delicious cinnamon red, rise up on either side in a space only slightly wider than the outside hall, making this seem a more elaborate extension of the hotel’s hallway. On either side of the door, great soft-leaved ferns grow from massive glazed pots. Green elephant ears with pinkish centers drooping on the ends of tallow-like emerald stalks obscure the design on the pots, showing only dark bands that circle the greatest circumference. At the end of the hall, a warm glow filters in from another set of double doors to the right; voices mingle in a chorus of charming tones from around that corner. Directly opposite the entryway, someone has constructed a remarkable mezzanine with a portcullis of Italian design weaving across the front. The mezzanine extends out over the hallway by a distance of three to four feet, leaving a shadowed niche beneath it that would be easy for someone to stand under, were it not for the long marble flowerbed with more verdant brush; some vines nearly reach the floor, and are very dark, obviously rainforest with their dark color and growth in the dark space. With more lightning, the hallway might seem too earthy. It would lack the mellowness to make it aesthetically pleasing. But a six-pronged glass chandelier overhead glows very dimly, filling the corridor with shadows that miraculously transform the interior design into a Tuscan platter of sweets. Those who enter find it amazing when the atmosphere invokes an immediate synesthesia; Jezzibelle can taste the red velvet cake walls, and feels the savor of dark milk chocolate in those evenly spaced browning tiles across the floor. The ferns invoke a hint of mint or pistachio, and the mezzanine’s creamy pillars would entice Hansel and Gretel to visit Hollywood, seeming like brittle, custard-filled French ladyfingers built in an architectural display.

Even a person with zero aesthetic taste would feel as though they were in the company of a genius’ work.

“May I have your name, miss? For the guest list,” the bellhop inquires, standing before a gold plinth. He holds a pen over the open page of a guestbook, ready to write down what he is told.

Ernest Truman

Despite the efforts of the Gold Street upper crust to make such undesirables unwelcome, Outsiders can occasionally be found along the thoroughfare. The necessary presence of the sanitation crews is graciously ignored, but others continue to mar the effect of the carefully managed environs with their presence: gawking tourists and sightseers, marveling at the excess on display; working-class pedestrians, straying on their way to work or some retail destination lurking in the long shadows cast by the street’s opulence; or the odd drunk, too inebriated to realize the impropriety of his presence. And then there are those that somehow blend with the locals, by bearing, appearance, or simply seeming to belong.

One such individual casually leans against a streetlight’s sculpted pillar, which casts warm light onto the curb and sidewalk in a sharp-edged circle. An observer would note that he does not easily match any of the three residential archetypes. He could be Wealthy, but the quality of his garments are not up to specifications. A simple lapel-free black sport jacket, crisp slacks, shined russet-leather loafers, and tightly-woven ochre turtleneck form an acceptable dress-casual ensemble, but too off-the-rack for anyone with true means. His status as Talented is not immediately discernable. A floppy, brimless black hat, mirrored round sunglasses, and a neatly-trimmed vertical strip of orange beard running from his chin to lower lip give the trendy appearance of a beat poet, but seems more of an homage than a symbol of a true artist. Any position amongst the Beautiful can be dismissed with anything more than a cursory examination. He seems to be in shape, well groomed, and handsome enough, but not of the caliber required of the Street. He’s a little short, even for the ennobling eye of a camera, and possesses a bland countenance, if somewhat livened up by the beard and spectacles.

Perhaps he has enough of the look to avoid hassle, or is merely lucky, as his loitering draws little notice from passerby. He faces nothing in particular, but his glasses conceal the direction of his gaze. His statue-like immobility is marred as he turns his head slightly at a taxi’s arrival in front of the Sheridan. Another Outsider steps out, although one that could convincingly stand with the ranks of the Beautiful. The man by the lamppost winces, as if a few hours of pointed ignorance of the Tower were just ruined by his involuntary attention to the newcomer. He resumes his original, stoic pose for a few moments, until the front of 120 Gold Street is vacant once more.

Finally, he shrugs slightly and lurches off of the post onto his feet. He walks towards the same door recently used by the taxi passenger, repeatedly vanishing in the gloom as he moves between the pools of lamplight. Once inside, he makes his way, coincidentally, to Suite 24K.

Jezzibelle Romana

She watches, as unimpressed as ever as his eyes trail her form. What is it with mortal men? Atleast I know Vampires have a good reason to look below my chin. She smiles softly, trying very earnestly to be as polite as her mentor and master had taught her. Her eyes trailing over his attire, telling herself he is no more important than the passers by on the street. Her right hand lifts, resting on her hip, a sliver of a quirk on one of those finely kempt brows. Her head comes to shake softly, as he blushes, leading her in.

She held her proper posture without faulter, taking in her surroundings as she made her behind him. A smile fade from those red lips, her eyes entranced by the use of color and imagery. She had never seen such wonderous splendor. Sure, she's seen some pretty snazy joints, but nothing this elegant. The warning signs in her mind triggered as the senses take over the experience. Be weary, Jezzibelle. Be on your best behavior here. There is not reason for emotional outbreaks and the loss of temper. Surely this Prince will tolerate neither.

It wasn't until he had spoken to her once more that she even remembered she was following someone. She looks to him, paused a moment to recall the question, then parted lips softly. "Jezzibelle Romana." They remained slightly apart, as her head turned, silken locks carressing and tumbling over her shoulder. Her eyes wandering over the decor. If she should ever get a home of her own, she'll definately considerasking for the interior designer...If she could afford such things ever. She takes the hand from her side and touches over her head. It was beating so very fast. So many things going off in her mind, so many sense triggered. It is exciting. A writer would never get a block in a place such as this.

[Thee Independent]

TI

Scribble scribble dot! and Jezzibelle’s name is added to the Guest List. Chipper as a recovering meth addict, the bellhop claps his hands together again and trots across the hall to the second set of doors on the east wall. “Please come this way, Ms. Romana, and enjoy. The revelry has already begun.”

A rectangle of light illuminates the bellhop’s frame as he grasps both handles with either hand and slowly swings them wide. His tuxedo sparkles with a luster it did not have before. It may not be of the finest make, but it is perfectly tailored to his boy band body. The suit must go to the dry cleaner’s at least once a week. “Esteemed peerage, allow me to introduce Jezzibelle Romana,” he announces, stepping aside and allowing the gypsy girl to enter.

Any vineyard connoisseur can tell you that it is the flavor of wood in a vintage that sets it apart. The touch of oak, or elm, or mahogany and yew are categorizations of memory, and are the first savors recalled when someone mentions pinot noir or cabernet or shiraz. Everything about this parlor puts Jezzibelle in the heart of Napa Valley rather than Hollywood. The deep redwood walls cascade down in dry waterfalls of aroma, and an equally dark burgundy carpet beneath her feet spills hundreds of gallons of thirst-quenching Saint Vincent with its youthful chianti tang across the floor. The combination seems both extravagantly wasteful and infinitely abundant. Black canvas pictures hanging from the walls feature a soothing combination of watercolor and oil paint images, mostly of succulent grape bunches or exotic nips. The largest piece of art is a wall-mounted panoramic, a classy new age combination of photography and visual art featuring the landscape of a Tuscan vineyard. Dark oak shelves with a browner tone occupy perfect spacing on the walls or in the corners, made of a darker wood than the walls but cut into a similar polish and equal lacquer so they do not stand out but instead merge tastefully. Italian-made leather and wood furniture fill the room without crowding it: single chairs, an odd loveseat here or there, and at least two couches set across from one another. Between them a long glass coffee table is decorated with Glamour, US Weekly, US Weekly People, Home & Garden, and an assortment of other publications that would seem out of place were it not for their muted presence. Though modern and more colorful than the rest of the décor, the magazines intentionally aren’t given enough attention to put them in conflict with the parlor, another masterwork of interior design. The taste of wine passes exquisitely into the senses, providing a sating drink after the sweet dessert in the hallway.

Ricardo Fuentes: Standing in a corner alone, Ricardo Fuentes pauses in the midst of a thumbing through a Good Health magazine. He is one of the original Latin heartthrobs who climbed the ladder to the United States in the footsteps of his teenage idol, Ricky Martin. But his vida wasn’t as loca as Ricky’s – nor was his voice, stage presence, or fashion sense on the same level. After a tequila binge and the resulting battery charge against his first wife was publicized in the tabloids, Ricardo capitalized upon his misfortune by dropping his meager singing career and shifting gears into exercise videos and a twelve step program to personal well-being that became a three month craze, lasting only half as long as the resurrected Atkins diet. Turning over a new leaf bolstered Ricardo’s career as he pursued it doggedly, claiming he had to make up for his “unwholesome lifestyle”. His been-there-and-back-again story sold well after being released from a private substance abuse clinic, and bought him a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. If anything can be said for Ricardo Fuentes, it is that he has a pretty face, a ripped body, and if you believe the smut film director who claimed in the Star that Ricardo starred in much of his underground porn, he is true stallion down to the BVDs.

“Hola, hermosa,” he smiles at Jezzibelle with pearly white teeth, closing the magazine and running a hand through his over-gelled black hair. Ricardo is the only one here tonight who could be described as under-dressed in a black muscle tee and white windbreaker gym pants.

Sarah Rogers: The Hollywood Virgin from rural Ohio, this Barbie doll of Tinseltown is breaking into the film industry like Ashton Kutcher broke into his high school to steal an exam. He got busted. Sarah Rogers hasn’t. At least, not yet, having sworn her producers into secrecy before engaging in a secret love affair with them. She’s built an amazing reputation out of innocence and virginity. Even the characters she’s played in romantic comedies such as Downtown Girl, Rocky Mountain High, and [/I]Love Knows No Bounds [/I]often have the admission worked into their scripts: “I’m saving myself for marriage.” Sarah isn’t going to screw up like Britney Spears did with Justin Timberlake. She’ll be far better at keeping her indiscretions a secret than that washed-up bimbo.

Straight blonde hair dusted gently with fairy dust sparkles radiantly as she turns to look at Jezzibelle with wide, vapid blue eyes. She smiles, and it is like someone flicking on the Open sign in the window of an empty store.

Carla Bellavine: Standing next to Sarah, an attractive and busty woman in her mid-30s poses while the bellhop makes his announcement. She is holding one of Sarah’s arms out to the side, while trying to position the other on her waist, unmarred by the bulge of childbirth. The look in her eyes is wry and shrewd at the same time. Carla is a production assistant to many films and specializes in blocking the drama and costuming. Recently separated from her husband of seven years, Carla claims to be living the free life once again out from under the thumb of an oppressive male. Fortunately he had the sense to get out of the relationship while he could, before their couples’ cruise to the Caribbean.

The hitman she’d paid $25,000 dollars to throw him overboard kept her money and never contacted her again, but she didn’t have time to cry over it with everything she lost in the settlement. If it weren’t for her mysterious patron on Gold Street, who could look beyond her rusted cage and see the beautiful nightingale singing to be free of her prison, she could never have reentered the only society she’s ever known: high society. “You see that ensemble of hers?” Carla points out, gesturing towards Jezzibelle’s attire. “That, in strawberry, with a, oh, hum, watermelon seed shawl? That’s what you need for the picture, Sarah. Southerners always dress like food in the movies.”

Helena Wright, Mars June, Violet de Seneca and Darling Quinn, the Catwalk Queens: Vogue, Gucci, Versace, Sarah Taylor and even Calvin Klein women’s line would kill to hire this quartet of supermodels. In unison, the four of them turn their heads up to watch Jezzibelle. Each mouth is a perfect line of common disinterest. Every pair of eyes a swirling pool of barely mustered emotion. Helena the blonde, Mars the redhead, Darling the brunette and Violet the black-haired beauty are seated on the two couches facing one another, and had up until a moment ago been chatting about Julia Roberts’ figure on the cover of People. The lot of them may seem soulless and empty, but the major fashion companies know better: the Catwalk Queens are not only the most beautiful models for displaying the next season’s fashion, but they’re crafty businesswomen, as well. No designer can hire one for a show without hiring the rest of them, and since each and every one of them is a desirable candidate, they’ve never had any lack of modeling jobs. Some people say they are the best of friends. What would they think if they stayed together because they’d grown too dependent upon one another’s beauty to strike it solo? Helena, Mars, Violet, and Darling were disappearing, merging into the common Catwalk Queens moniker. When will the day come that they forget who they are, as the rest of the world has?

Seemingly unimpressed with Jezzibelle’s entrance, they return to their conversation. “This woman did not have twins. It had to be a publicity thing,” one begins, and the rest follow suit with disturbingly similar comments, spoken as though they were original.

Charles Wilson III: A handsome older gentleman in his early forties stands from one of the loveseats, removing a cigarette from his mouth. The smoke curls in a small, dark mustache on his upper lip. For his age, Charles is an attractive man, possessed of a great physical cut, stunningly deep eyes and a smile that would make Warren Beatty blush. He is wearing a black vest with silver trim and dark dress pants, and walks with an undemanding confidence towards the gypsy. Taking her hand into his, he presses his soft lips against the back of her hand: what she thought would be a brittle moustache is like mouse fur against her skin. “Welcome, Jezzibelle. I can see you belong here in the gallery. It is always so nice to see a new, young face.” Of all of the people in this room, Charles Wilson III is giving Jezzibelle the most attention, the most flattery, the most coy smiles and subtle winks.

It would make more sense to the young woman if she realized Mr. Wilson had only been released from prison five months ago for coercion and exploitation of a minor.

Shortly after her introduction, the bellhop returns from a side room bearing, of all things, a candy-red high heel shoe in his gloved hand. When Jezzibelle takes a further examination of the room, she can see other single high-heel shoes: one is resting on a nightstand next to Charles’ loveseat, four of them are placed on the corners of the coffee table where the Catwalk Queens sit, and young Sarah is toting one now in her right hand, adopting another pose for Carla.

“Champagne, Ms. Romana?” the bellhop asks, offering Jezzibelle the shoe. She can smell the bubbling sweetness emenating from the expensive footwear being used as a glass.

Jezzibelle Romana

She nods and follows the man, finding herself in pause as she watched the doors open. Nothing would be the same after this experience. She follows the man within the room. Upon hearing his words, she pauses once more. Oh joy. More time to contemplate my decision She thought, but soon even that thought was taken, as she was greeted by the first of the guest. She bows her head ppolitely, offering a smile. "Hello, Sir." She replies, in the softest of tones. She hid that, 'What the hell?', expression from her features, as she noticed first his attire. She took into consideration his dialect and then moved on.

Sarah was easy to deal with, returning the smile and nodding softly to her as well. Then a soft turn of her head brought her to Carla. She looks over her attire, curious if anything was out of place, but found nothing wrong. Jezz has always taken impectable care of what she wears and how it looks. Se then realizes their topic and smiles, not truely knowing what Southerners wear in movies, but no reason to doubt it.

No greeting given, no greeting recieved, she continued on her way, then paused as she found a man moving to approach her. She withdrew her hand slowly, uncomfortable with being touched in these later days. "Thank you, Sir. It is very kind of you to say so." She studied the man from her short distance, though slowly worked to gain more.

She felt relief as the bellhop returned, then looking to the shoe. She found it odd, but who is she to deny the offering. She accepted and nods to him. "Thank you." The shoe was indeed one of the finest sort, but why a shoe? She did not dare question it, but held it within her hand and looked about for someone who stod out from the crowd of beautiful.

TI

While Jezzibelle appreciates the beautious "gallery" that belongs to the Prince of Hollywood, threatening to grow drunk on their extravagance and the intoxicating decoration surrounding her, Ernest Truman approaches Suite 24K. In a world dominated by the Wealthy, the Talented, and the Beautiful, Ernest manages to make it through with a mask of subdued importance. He could be of the Wealthy breed who doesn't act like a card-carrying member of the Warbucks family. Talents seat is in the mind, or deeper, in the soul; the intangible nature of genius could be burning just beneath the surface. And while his Poetry Club appearance suggests he wears his artistic affiliations on his sleeve, Beauty is not an open accessory he's willing to show off.

Who would be crass enough to define his character by his Beauty, though? After all, good looks are only skin deep. Sometimes, there are greater things beneath the surface.

"Hello, and welcome to...the Sheraton," the same smiling bellhop greets Ernest at the double doors to the Prince's Suite. His gloved hands flap against the doorknobs, letting in an unnoticeable breeze that shuffles the rich verdance growing beneath the shadowy mezzanine at the back of the entry hallway.

Ernest is subjected to the same glancing scrutiny that Jezzibelle received; the only difference is that the bellhop does not welcome him in immediately. His smile wanes and he asks, in a patronizing tone, "Do you, ah, have an invitation, sir?"

Ernest Truman

Ernest does not immediately reply to the inquiry. A slight lean to the left indicates that he may be preoccupied with peering past the bellhop's shoulder into the hallway rather than answering. Satisfied with his examination, he straightens and looks back to the greeter. He impassively faces him for another tension-building moment, his shades contributing to his blank expression.

Before his lack of response earns him a double door closed in his face, he flashes a wide, toothy smile, breaking his somber mien. "A party?" he remarks with a voice like a rough stone tumbled to a media-ready, accentless polish. "I must be at the right place. No, I don't have an invitation, per se. However..." he leans in conspiratorially. "I want to talk to Mr. Chanteclaire. Can you get me to him?" He stays in the man's personal space, his insistence that of one used to getting his way, either though social clout, or more likely dogged stubbornness and fast-talk.

Allan Starling

Two masterful statues glide into the room from the veranda, swinging double glass doors hinged with gold inwards and allowing the warm night air to drift in and flutter through Jezzibelle’s dark hair. With his arm about her waist and her hand looped under his bicep, the two marvels look as though they belong side by side as puzzle pieces must. And why shouldn’t they? They are identical twins, after all, extremely rare between a brother and sister. They sport the pale and riotous hair of the Irish, so fair that it almost lacks pigment, but thick enough to build a rope out of. His is clipped short, allowing it to tangle about freely, but no longer than four inches long. It curves and caresses the ivory skin of his Grecian forehead and cheeks. Her’s is worn freely as well, but it is tempered into long layers so that it trollops and cascades down to her sloping shoulder blades.

Their faces look as though they have been worked of flawless marble, each expression chiseled into perfection. They are long and oval, pale and smooth. Both sister and brother have heart shaped, pouting lips just tinged rose and a thin but short nose that is just there to deflect attention towards their overwhelmingly large and innocent eyes. Dark, long lashed eyes that stare as emotionlessly as the statues that they imitate. The most unnerving feature of their faces is that they are distinctly unisexual. Feminine enough for her, beautiful enough for him, neither one of them actually seeming male or female. They are two indistinguishable moons orbiting one another in stillness.

And, they are both adults, despite the symmetry of their gazes and the naiveté that radiates from them as it would from an alter boy. There is a pure and obvious link communicated in the way that they clutch one another that transcends that which is normally shared between womb-mates. They are lovers. And in their originality and celestial quality, they far outshine any other person within the room, even though their splendor is of an alien quality. She pulls him to a graceful stop and their matching almond eyes rotate to simultaneously take in Jezzibelle. Stillness overcomes the fair and petite woman, but he breaks free of her clutch, shattering the image of their inseparable dominance over one another.

The rest of the room had been ignoring the twins, perhaps accustomed to their strangeness or maybe even too caught up in themselves to notice. Yet as he moves forward to greet the newest addition to the Gallery, they all watch. What will he do? Does he have the power to send Jezz away, or to usher her forward to meet the Prince? Or maybe…could this be the Prince? He is more masculine seeming when not standing beside his counterpart, especially in his rich clothing, which is the only facet of his body that does not match his sister, other than genitalia. He is wearing a ruby dyed silk poet’s shirt with the top five buttons left open to reveal his hairless, but handsome chest. The sleeves bloom out about his wrists and whisper against his sides as he curls one hand about his pretty waist, where the shirt is tucked loosely in to burgundy dress slacks, and lifts the other one forward to deftly remove Jezzibelle’s hand from Charles’ lecherous grasp. He is completely dismissive of the older man.

His touch is sensual and cold, maybe from the night air. Most likely not. His thumb caresses the top of her hand as he lifts up a virgin satin shoe for himself and tips it against her’s before sipping at the champagne. And then he smiles, and his eyes draw her in without his having to say a word.

Jezzibelle Romana

She found herself staring softly. It is not meant as a gesture of the rude persuasion, but she is indeed awestruck by his presence. As he moved from his sibling companion to approach her, her breathing pauses, forgetting to continue. While others would drop their glass, for gaining such attentions, she holds her shoe in her hand as though it is the only thing supporting her stunning form. Well, stunning or stunned, her eyes seem trapped, her attention solely on him, the older gentleman seemingly forgotten. Her lips part to finally allow breath as she feels his flesh make contact with her own, her chest expanding and collapsing in deep contrast. Who is he? She questions, the only thought to break the silence in her mind. Her lips move to curl, as though obedient to his gestures, returning the smile. The lack of control is frightening, yet so endearing, she doesn’t dare to fight it. The sensation is almost welcoming, if it wasn’t for her psyche ringing forth warning. One so stubborn, as she, should never give in so promptly. For once she wants to be amenable, tired of fighting or curious as to what he’ll do with the juncture. In sequenced progression, she lifts her fine poison to red lips inviting the liquid within to tease her taste buds…To taunt at what she may be giving up.

Lila Starling

Like her dashing brother Allan, whose buttermilk flesh oozes like churned cream out of his clothing, Lila Starling moves through the room as though dominated by her open-backed scarlet dress; she, having been poured into the clothing by an artistic genius of a god, sports her chic dress as if it were a second skin. The ghost of Greta Garbo haunts Lila’s face, with the reclusive chin, understated lips, and smoldering eyes that are, for the instant Allan swaddles Jezzibelle in his implicit charm, withering.

Yet despite the lady’s pernicious demeanor, she carries the same majesty and beauty as her brother, and is not content to remain a great heavenly body eclipsed in the shadow of her born equal in every way. Hair bounding with its own zest, she approaches the coupling before anything can be given away. One sapling arm curls along Allan’s outstretched hand, closing in upon the little love nest of fingers like the mother bird coming back before her home goes sliding down the branch.

The other, hidden from view, draws tiny circles in the small of Allan’s back, punctuating the circumference with an occasional prick of delicate fingernails. She smiles at Jezzibelle, toothless and with a hint of possessiveness that smells of expensive perfume and lilac leaves.

“Please,” she urges Allan, caressing both of their hands with her thumb, “introduce us, won’t you?”

Then the smile becomes much more fascinating, and ultimately mysterious in the light of this willowy woman’s unnatural bearing, accessorized in grace and, above all, Beauty. She filches her brother’s orbit with a new, promising gravitational pull.

TI

Adequately oppressed by Ernest’s polite intrusion into his personal space, the bellhop leans backwards on his heels like a coconut tree overloaded with its own coarse fruit. The name Chanteclaire banishes the obsequious boy’s haughty attitude as if the name were a magical word of power intended to put a person in his place.

“Chanteclaire. Yes. Yes, right away, sir, expediently,” he offers, taking down Ernest’s name for the guestbook and then sweeping a hand wide towards the double doors that lead into Robin Chanteclaire’s gallery. “Please, in the mean time, mingle and enjoy the Beauty gathered all in one place, tonight.”

With the same authority as before, the bellhop sweeps his white-gloved hands towards those gathered in the elaborately decorated gallery. “Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Ernest Truman, a very special guest to the Sheraton this evening.”

But strangely, the bellhop does not wait around for questions concerning the man’s identity or even an odd look or two. He walks briskly through the gallery to a second set of doors on the opposite side of the room, opens them, and disappears closing them behind him.

[Thee Independent]

Jezzibelle Romana

She feels a tug on her attention the very instant the grandiose figure had left the statuesque poise. Her eyes traveling, as motions slowed, the glimpse turned into a pause of movement. She gazed upon this woman, finding herself unguarded and yet openly curious. Never had two people had such a pull on her restless attention. The former was almost wanted, but the subsequent could be simply stated as unforeseen. Her heart creates a new rhythm for this unfounded attraction. Mayhap a superfluous jealousy at the flawless depiction of beauty before her or immediate awareness such a creature required. Whatever the reason, she could not take her eyes from the woman…Her pull stronger than the last.

But… But what of her twin? Confusion left her mind defenseless, as she speculates as to why her attention would be warranted by one, but destitute of the other. The tempo of the previously mentioned heartbeat made its efforts to calm for sake of her mind, her breathing remaining unnaturally calm, to aid in this endeavor. To distract from the thoughts of bewildering attraction, she watched the hand that slithered about on Allen’s flesh.

Her ear gave in to a twitch, as if to move to the sound of the voice before her, listening to the nectar of honeydew that poured from the entrancing figures budding rose. What is the meaning of such appeal? So direly did she want to look away just for the familiarity of freewill, for her own sound of mind. With that same thought, she had the appalling consideration of the possibility that this may be a just as suitable. Of her own will, she may get lost in another’s presence. She resigned herself to the undisputed draw the woman has on her conscious.

She heard the introduction behind her, but found not a single inclination to face the man. More so, she wished to use a talent she never had. She wished to depict the both of them in art, but even that thought was lost not but a moment after it was born.

TI

Charles Wilson III, with a firm and never-ending smile, steps away from Jezzibelle as the Starling twins approach her. Over their shoulder, he continues to watch her with the same uncanny grin, obviously pleased with her happiness in being here. “Young lady, these are the Starlings; Lila and Allan, respectively,” he coos, adhering to the flowery rules of society by introducing the sister before the brother. “We are all very happy that you could join us,” he says, his voice hollowing as he lifts the champagne-filled heel to his mouth, drinking slowly.

And still his eyes dance with mirth over the shoe’s scarlet mouth, burning Jezzibelle’s fresh and beautiful face in his mind.

“Very happy, darling. Obscenely happy,” Carla Bellevine seconds from somewhere behind the twins.

“Oh, who is it?” Sarah brushes a long blonde strand of hair out of her face, large and luminescent china doll eyes looking around. “Ah, that Jezzibelle. Yes, welcome!”

The Catwalk Queens sit in jilting silence on the couch, four pairs of eyes shifting just so slightly between Jezzibelle, Allan, and Lila. Like storefront models, none of them smile beneath their pale, pastel lipstick, and merely pose like an extravagant picture on the front of Vogue: Beauty, captured in snapshot.

In light of the Twins’ entrance, everyone’s attention is upon them and the swimmingly handsome Romana girl. Ernest Truman’s introduction is noticed, and draws momentarily the interest of the room. But without a word, and even a few embarrassed turns, they merely wave or nod, returning to the spectacle occurring in their wine parlor.

Only Ricardo Fuentes, with his rippling abdominals and beefy biceps gives Ernest any recognition. The rolled eyes and mocking snorts from the Catwalk Queens suggests he just doesn’t know any better.

“Hey, never seen you around here before. I’m Ricardo Fuentes,” he introduces himself, holding out a macho hand for Ernest. One of his bushy black brows raises an inch. “You’ve heard of me, right? Un cuerpo sano es un cuerpo feliz!” he laughs at his own catch phrase. “So, do you…work out?”

Allan Starling

The gravitational pull of moon and sun is clearly too much for Jezzibelle as the two beautiful celestial beings pull her into their orbit and toss her attention back and forth between themselves like a jetsam ping-pong ball. Allan smoothly lifts his sister’s hand, which was still placed on top of his and Jezz’s, and redirects it airily to the nearby arm of Charles Wilson III, forcing Lila to resituate herself so that she is not touching Allan anymore. His depthless eyes never leave the Romana’s for an instant, even through the strategic movement, and he quickly brings his hand back to her’s and lifts her soft skin to his supple lips, kissing softly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jezzibelle Romana.” His voice has the mysterious softness that is usually only mastered by women, such as Jezz herself, and there is a hidden accent deep within his pale throat. Maybe French?

He lowers her hand slowly, his thumb caressing the top of it in an oval around his tingling kiss. The movement is identical to the possessive gentle circles that his sister had been memorizing a moment before into the pattern on his back with her own sensual touch. Clearly, Lila holds no attraction for him when compared to this dusky Beauty who’s interest in him seems genuine, rather than insipid and predictable.

Jezzibelle Romana

She did what she could to preserve the self-possession she’d retained thus far. A smile on her lips grew slowly and tenderly, like the sunrise over the desert sands. So taken with this gesture, she brought those serpent-jade eyes to his, supple cheeks became misted with the softest pink. The flesh of her nose crumpled vaguely, as she revealed the most elusive of dimples. She lowers her head for but a moment, providing the consideration of a curtsy. “Undeniably, Mr. Allan Starling.” Feeling her heart so desperately quiver as that name leaves her delicate lips. She could no longer help herself, her eyes once more on his, as she remains lost in his presence. Her lips again fell stock-still, yet still parted. Was there more to her thought, or was it to be left as it was? It was yet another anonymity to append to this woman’s nature. The current object of this masculine and bizarrely salient creature remains oblivious as her chest rises and falls as hushed as the wings of the gentle dove and just as distinctively.

She had not drawn her hand from him, not even as she made her bowing gesture. The touch is what made this so real. Without it, it would be little more than a reverie within the mind of the young woman standing… vanished from the world of known reality. This scene was far too unfamiliar. The binding of this attraction is sought after, but so superfluous. She’s only just met him.

Allan Starling

"Well, then, what brings you to the Gallery? You are new here, I am aware of this even if nobody else has noticed, and I think that perhaps I can satiate whatever need it is that you have?" His words are so sensual, not necessarilly meant to be sexual, yet the undertone is there nonetheless. He guides her away from his sister and her new escort, walking Jezzibelle slowly about the room as though showing her off. His movements are elegant and graceful and his eyes finally leave her own, looking down upon the rest of the guests. A longing for the offset intimacy fills the void between them.

Jezzibelle Romana

How could she answer such a query without threatening the Masquerade? She paused in that moment to reflect. What if he isn’t a vampire? He has to be… Or does he? Her cunning little mind brought a smile to her lips, in spite of her indecision. “I’ve come to see the finest Hollywood has to offer, though I must say…I do come to see one in particular.” She makes mention and then her eyes do their best to search his face for a reaction. Part of her truly sought to renounce the undertaking for the imprudent task of forever gaining this man’s attentions. But truly, would this craving not eventually fade? She didn’t know truly if the sentiment within her was true or just a part of her caught in the spider web of his stunning presence. Oh, please let him be a vampire. Let him be someone that may help me. She pleas to whoever may be listening in the heavens. Be it an seraph or some great anonymous, she cares not. Her heart pounds softly, still feeling the mind, so usually self-aware, seems lost on this man. She’s screwed. She found herself attracted to his voice, his face, his eyes, and even to his actions. She envies his sister, able to be so close. The only thing that anchors her existing notion is the death… the torpor of her former friend and master. She cannot allow his assailant, that monster, to go free.

Ernest Truman

Ernest studies the guest list for a moment as the bellhop adds his name, then follows him into the gallery. As he is introduced, he reapplies the same glaring smile, although the corners of his eyes crease as he peers at the other guests from behind his mirrorshades. Apparently impervious to disapproval, he returns any attention, however slight, with a genial nod or casual wave, stuffing his hands back into his coat pockets afterwards.

Ernest drops the all-encompassing grin as someone bothers to speak to him. "Enough to keep from wasting away completely," he replies as he accepts the handshake. "I gave up shooting for the whole Greek god thing. You look like you could be in the running, though. Must take some work." His response betrays no recognition, but his tone is friendly enough.

Lila Starling

Passed off like an annoyance by her brother, Lila watches Allan take up the promising young starlet in hand and promenade her around the room with his usual pompous air. It was his way of making a person feel welcome; no, not just welcome, like they belong here in the Gallery. If only this fool girl knew that Allan would turn his shoulders and shrug with the same indifference exhibited by those capricious Catwalk Queens if her nose were a few centimeters wider, or her eyes the wrong color, or her skin not as soft and tender as Lila’s. She knew what Allan liked, and Jezzibelle was it. Almost.

Charles Wilson III runs his fingers gently along the length of her arm, his delicate touch tickling the microscopic hairs on her skin. He is pawing like a lecherous cat, or like a handsome gentlemen stroking a kitten’s arched back. When Jezzibelle’s back is turned and while Ernest is occupied by that dunderhead, Ricardo, Lila shoots a paralyzing glare at the older man. Stunned, he drops her arm rapidly, which coils back up against her hip, a wounded limb drawing closer to the trunk. She holds the gaze, subjecting Charles to the worst possible punishment that could be delivered in the Gallery: isolation and scrutiny.

I know your ugliness. Vile pig.

Charles shrivels under Lila’s intense stare, for once in his life not wanting the spotlight upon him for fear of losing his beautiful dignity. Cowed, he bows his head deferentially and escapes towards more welcoming company. It does not take long before he is standing next to Carla and Sarah, discussing the role Hollywood plays in the corruption of innocent juveniles who can read a script and feign a little emotion, all the while admiring Sarah’s tiny, delicate shoulders and girlish wrists.

She will not be handed off to one of the undesirables. Discretely, Lila insinuates herself again behind Allan, her smoldering eyes smiling over his shoulder at Jezzibelle. “Yes, I do believe I know who you’ve come to see.” But she offers nothing else beyond the empty observation, content to reside in Allan’s shadow like a statuesque masterpiece.

TI

Ricardo Fuentes looks pleased with Ernest's firm grip. It is stronger than he would have thought. An unimpressive physique and good muscle tone was often indicative of hypersteroid use. Ricardo draws away from the handshake and claps his hands together loudly before rubbing them together.

The Catwalk Queens start at the sound of Ricardo's hands, and Ernest can feel their aggravated gazes upon the two of them.

"Aaaaah, si, hard work, amigo, hard work and GOOD fitness plan!" he announces with incredible showmanship. Both of his index fingers protrude outwards suddenly like hardened nipples from his beefy hands, zeroing in on Ernest. "A 5 AM gym session is good for cardio, and then a brisk run through Sherman Oaks at sunup. After that, its nothing but raw eggs and grapefruit and Tiger's Milk bars for breakfast. Some people say the day starts with a good breakfast."

Ricardo shakes his head sadly, waving away the millions of flabby, out-of-shape losers who spout that nonsense and refuse to buy his home video package. "If you want to be like this," he stands upright, making his pectorals bounce like Paris Hilton's butt cheeks on her own little home video, "the day starts way before breakfast!"

The Catwalk Queens issue, each in turn, a single, airy gasp. At first, one might think they are choking on a wheat thin or a stick of sugar free gum. But they're only strangling on their own derisive laughter.

Allan Starling

“Ah, but if you are so certain," he turns just slightly so that he can see his sister, though he gives her no ground between himself and Jezz, "Then perhaps you ought to go and retrieve him?" He smiles so slightly, knowing that she is obligated now, since she brought the matter up, and this will give him prescious more moments with this dusky Beauty. Time away from Lila.

He turns his back again to his sister, dismissing her as his gaze returns again to the guest. He is still smiling and it becomes intimate as he studies her. At last, they have circled around to the doors that he originally came through with his Lila on his arm in much the way that Jezzibelle is now. He leads her out onto the veranda and away from the jealous eyes of the children within the Gallery.

Outside, in the warm night air he is even more like an insubstantial dream, vaguely erotic in how primally she is drawn to him. He looks out over the magnificent view of Hollywood as it cascades in carefully planned, stacked roads below them. His skin is pure white in the pallid moonlight and he looks more like a statue than ever. She might lose herself in the wonder and mastery that is Art, forgetting that he is anything other than a statue rendered by Michelangelo himself, if it were not for his warm skin and glimmering eyes that light upon her once again.

"Splendid." He may be talking about the view, or about her company, or about her features. The word encompasses everything that he is feeling.

Jezzibelle Romana

As if too stunned by her presence and persistence, she looks to the woman with a rather appalled attraction. Her brows furrow, listening to Lila’s words, but not yet registering exactly what they are. She then hears Allan, her savior! His words like sugar to sweeten that bitter cinnamon. Pauses as the words finally sink in after they are rephrased and responded to. Her eyes dare to blink and wander to the floor a moment. But what is this? Just as easily as she had interrupted their peace, Lila had been once more dismissed to the selection of dismal company displayed in the gallery. A bit of surprise on her face, and admiration as well, as she’d come to truly realize a new depth of his attraction. Who cares why, she is truly appreciated by someone at last. So many things go through her mind, like: How can she honestly be so taken by this man? Why is she letting herself get so distracted? How old is the boyish figure, which leads her to…Wait a minute, alone with him? He’s trying to give me a heart attack. Her chest rises and falls heavily with each new breath. Her eyes lift to his. “What are you?” She questions, knowing better than to think he is human, but will not be the one to state otherwise. Like the many leaves that fall at the sight of wind, she holds her breath to make sure she doesn’t miss a word spoken.

Allan Starling

"What..am I.." He repeats her question, making it sound rhetorical, and a soft sigh follows his words. That has been the question that has suffocated him his entire life, always reminding him of how bizarre he is.

What are you?

I am a boy.

What are you?

I am a twin.

What are you?

I am a freak.

What are you?

I am alone.

What are you?

I am in love with my sister.

What are you?

I am beautiful.

What are you?

I am enthralled to him.

What are you?

I am his puppet.

What are you?

I am his childe.

What are you?

I am ignored.

What are you?

I am hateful.

What are you?

I am nothing.

What are you?

I am a vampire.

Alan meets her gaze in earnest yearning, his expression much like her own- guarded, a little fearful, and wanting. Unsure. There is one thing that he is certain of now, though. He knows at least what she is- naïve. Unknowing. “I am a dream, painted by a deranged artist.” He smiles softly at his conclusion and lifts a feminine hand to touch a coil of her hair.

Jezzibelle Romana

She could not help but be dissatisfied with his answer, but was indeed intrigued by the response. Such words seem so natural for him, as though poetry is his contrivance of choice. Her mind works in its own mysterious ways to attempt to conjure a method of retrieval for the answer she wished, but none could come forward that she could see as prevalent. She felt compelled to do so many things, the confusing bringing forth fear, but not of him. She fears her indecision. She fears her lack of knowledge, her own ignorance. A set of green crystalline eyes are brought to look upon his form, trying to find some hint or reward for her search. Such silly thoughts, she tells herself, just leave them go and move one before the point of no return passes you by. But what sin would I be committing to deny him my presence? His sister so scorned, and for what? Her. But a mortal in the realm of immortals and their pets. A precarious game to live. To know you are a pet and yet have the mind of a master, the will of a mule, and the talent of the Ancient Romanic people. To ask and risk everything or to remain silent and risk nothing?

Every fiber in her being wanted to ask him, but warned her against it in the very same breath. To know is almost worth it, but is it truly? Why not for once play roulette with her own life? She forced herself to move on, her curiosity bringing on a new distraction. “Then tell me, who is this deranged artist?” Even if the answer was revolting and wounding, she would not be able to rebuttal, or at least that is her belief. Even now, in times of awe, she finds her brogue coming back to visit even if only for a few words.

Lila Starling

"Ah hah. Yes, how silly of me," Lila smiles sweetly in a way that proves honey can go bad. The sister looks at Jezzibelle as though she might say something, but then just catches her own tongue, shrugs, and detatches herself reluctantly from Allan's company. As she turns the corner to leave the room, her spin is as stiff as a board, or the razor edge of a machete.

Trivial little tramp. She's destined to become just one more addition to the Gallery, can't he see that? Hardly worth notice. He's just taking interest in her to make me love him all the more. That loveable prick.

"Hmph," she grunts out of earshot, snapping her wrist on the vanilla-colored corner and traipsing off in the bellhop's path.

Allan Starling

Allan is still and silent for a couple of minutes, turning his picturesque face towards the outside world. He is so quiet, as a matter of fact, that Jezzibelle notices something- he isn't breathing. There is some kind of inner turmoil boiling within his eyes as he turns back to her at last, his gaze caressing her exotic features.

I can't let him do this to her!

He cannot keep the uneasy sound of anxiety from his previously smooth voice as he takes her by the arm and says, "Come with me quickly! We must get you away from this building!" His words are quiet, but urgent as he atempts to pull her back into the Gallery, making for the front door.

He can't have her! He doesn't deserve her!

Jezzibelle Romana

She blinks, but moves with him. A frown on her face as her confusion shines brightly. "But...why?" She speaks, curious and now just a little unsettled. What happened? What did he know? What isn't he telling her? She tries to keep up with him, looking about her surroundings with a mild blush on her cheeks. She wants to resist, but she isn't sure if it's a good idea. Again split, and this time without the infulence of presense to help her out. She still likes his appearance, his personality divine, but then she realizes something...Why did he have to use presense? Like she would have been any harder to distract without it! This angered her a bit. She doesn't like people messing with her mind and her willpower. She is very strong willed, but not invincible. Such a harsh and rude reality, to know you are surrounded by people who could manipulate you without hardly any effort and most would not even blink an eye or feel any pity otherwise. She looks to Allan, almost feeling sorry for him. He mentioned being the creation of a derranged artist...He must see himself as a monster...But can a monster truely be so beautiful?

She truly is curious of such thoughts. How does he see himself? A monster, or a beast? They are not the same thing, though so many times very similar. A beast is a frightful creature but can be very gentle, a monster...A monster slaughters without remorse, kills for little reason at all and hasn't a heart. That has always been her defination. The meaning given to her by her father. Her father or the Ravnos? She no longer remembers, but even now it matters very little. She felt her heart sinking. Oh no...The Prince...She needs to speak with him still. She looks to Allan, knowing better than to fight it. What to do? Tell him? She knows for certain that he is a vampire. She knows it. "Please...Tell me, why?"

Allan Starling

Allan urges them through the Gallery, past Ernest, and into the foyer, his grip on her arm rowing stronger as his anxiety rises. If the artsy looking man is another visitor, then Robin is due to make an appearance anytime now. He must get her out before the Toreador sees her. He stops at the front door with her in front of him, practically prepared to shove her out for both of their sakes, if she becomes stuborn.

He does owe her some kind of an explanation, though, so he leans in close with pleading eyes and whispers roughly, "Because if you don't leave now, you will never be allowed to leave again!" He seems so genuinely concerned for her that his reasons become suspect, as though there is something dire that he just is not telling her. Allan looks anxiously over his shoulder and freezes into an instinctual smile that is close to a grimace.

He is too late.

Jezzibelle Romana

Her eyes crept about as her feet made to follow, then upon stopping, she looks to him. She see the look upon his face and furrows her brow deeply. "What? What is it?" What is it about him that fascinates her so? Is it his eyes? The feeling within them? Or perhaps that void she doesn't realize when she gazes deep into them. What life does he lead and why does he lead it? What great mystery keeps him so highly reviered above all other in what was so gracefully dubbed "The Gallery." "Why have we stopped?" She questioned further, trying to figure out exactly what it was or it is that he's looking at or for. The only different figure is the man she was yet to notice. Is there someone that she's missing? Someone that was there before, but she'd not yet seen? Regardless of the various conversations, her eyes searched further...Who is there that has stopped this vampire in his track. She then looks to the creature with her, "Is it the artist?"

[Thee Independent]

Robin Chanteclaire

"Allan."

Jezzibelle's star-studded companion's name twitters sweetly through the burgundy hallway, descending over their impulsive flight from the balcony; it acts as the succoring call of a Queen Bee, coaxing a river of honey to spill from the waxcomb walls and sweep the choicest gobs of amber sugar back to her womb, where she can devour her children for their beauty. It is the sole purpose of a beehive to produce saccharine gold, to hoard the syrupy wealth so that its joys are never shared, never commercialized, never devalued by the greedy hands of lazy grasshoppers and artless ants. Allan Starling no longer has the responsibility to go forth and pollinate. His duties have changed.

But he has not, Robin Chanteclaire thinks, parading around the corner with his arms held forward in open greeting to his beloved childe. His professionally manicured talons shine with smoothness as he passes beneath the evenly spaced hall lights, hanging from the ceiling like delicious white chocolate bonbons. “Little boy blue, forthwith you flee! Why, cry I,” Robin sighs, tilting his head to the side with imposing curiosity, “don’t you still love me?”

Chanteclaire promenades towards the frozen Allan like the middle-aged emperor who has finally found his clothes. The image is made more appropriate by the fact that Robin is wearing nothing more than an trim cut, tasteful, and tailored royal blue bathrobe. The low hem drops down to his ankles, making it concealing enough to be appropriate, but the expensive dye and the monogrammed “RC” on the left breast indicate that this Prince of Hollywood wears his bathrobe as though they were a King’s vestments. To some people, being approached by a man in his leisurewear would suggest that they’ve come at a bad time.

Jezzibelle only gets the impression that for Robin Chanteclaire, there is no such thing as a bad time. The man is ready to greet, to smile, to lick with favor and to dig in his soft and unassuming claws whenever the situation arises.

“Ah hah, ah hah hah,” he laughs airily, stopping before Allan and Jezzibelle with the entirety of his attention upon them both. “Allan, what an eye you have! And just when I felt my Gallery was growing dingy and faded,” he compliments his Starling childe, reaching out for Jezzibelle. His hands stops just shy of grabbing her, of groping her, and remains dangling in the air for her to take in greeting. “Roses are not forever, and diamonds pass hands like a horse passes water. But pearls,” he grins, lowering his head, and his rusty golden hair bobs in its wavy European cut, “are always precious and pure. Did you know that the best pearls never tarnish?” he asks Jezzibelle, but it proves to be a rhetorical question when he looks aside again at Allan. “She tastes of ambrosia, love. Lilac oil and sugar custard and…my goodness, curry, too,” he observes, devouring Jezzibelle with his gaze like a full course meal. “If I did not know better, Allan, I would say you’ve found one of the Roma. Yet with more egg-whites and less chili powder,” he chuckles, speaking tartly in a culinary code that not-so-nearly eludes understanding. “Unless I am mistaken, and the hand of a master has gone into her blend. What say you…Jezzibelle?” he asks, recalling the name the bellhop gave him. “Be you more milk or spice?”

A tizzy of voices begins in the Gallery just beyond their tight-knit gathering. They can hear the artist’s voice, and flutter like airborne posies for his coming. “Do not worry about how you answer, pearl. In the eyes of the Prince of Hollywood, you are already one of the beloved, no matter what you say,” he smiles, honest and cruelly guilty of entrapment.

Jezzibelle Romana

She turns to face the man, not liking a single soul to be behind her. A step back takes her to Allan's side as she watches the man's movement and hears the creatures words. Her features darken, not oft liking one so certain. She remains reserved throughout the entirty of his speech, though glancing upon the male as if unimpressed and perhaps slightly insulted. A pearl? Doeas he try to baist me before the roasting begins? What sort of tart do he take me for? As if some wall flower to remain quiet and pretty. A pearl! So not a flower, but a stone! A shiney, white, round stone. There are so many ways I could make that an insult, but perhaps he has made his trespass deeper without my help, for now he speaks of me as a dish.

"I assure you, Sir, you'd best not make a meal of me, or I may just bite back. As rare as they come and spiced without the need of seasoning." She does what she may not to glare, the temper on the woman the only thing keeping her from shivers. "I'm not a stone, a flower, or a portrait to be kept in your..." Looking around at all that are there. "Gallery. I come here in search of assistance and a blessing, but if all I'll get is place amoungst many for display, then I think I'll take my leave now. Good night." She starts away from him, only looking back to glance once more at Allan. Used as fly paper to atrreact the prettiest of things. How perfect and wrong. She holds her head high and moves forward, determiningly walking for the door. How dare he! That scoundrel! And they accuse women of being vipers. She would not think back on her actions until later, but surely there was another that could help her. What a joke, to think that thing would greet her as he is.

Robin Chanteclaire

"Oh ho ho! It is the spice," Robin laughs at first, enjoying her fierce wit as much as her physical beauty. It is an excellent garnish to an otherwise perfect meal. But as Jezzibelle continues to run her mouth, the Toreador realizes that hers is a tempermental dish that spoils too quickly. All we need is new ingredients.

"Allan," Robin says patiently, putting his fingers to his lips as Jezzibelle flys in the face of the Gallery's social laws and storms like a heated vixen towards the door. "Allan, are you going to let her talk to me like that? You took to her, and I'm holding you responsible for this transgression," he emphasises, and the Starling childe realizes that his master's hand is squeezing sharply upon his wrist. "Either you tame her and bring her back, or I'll send your sister to accomplish what you cannot. Do it. Now."

The hand gripping Allan's wrist shakes like the lid on a boiling pot of lobster, and the burning pressure zeroes in on his very bones, cooking him alive in a stew of disappointment, disapproval, and selfish bereavement.

Then Robin smiles, drops Allan's hand, and enters the Gallery with his arms spread wide. "To the evening, beloved of Hollywood!" he toasts, his voice, his very presence, served up as sweet as any dedication libation.

Allan Starling

Allan looks longingly at first Jezzibelle and then the door, wishing that he could spirit the both of them away safely from his Sire’s talons. There is nothing he can do, though. It is too late now. “Little boy blue, forthwith you flee! Why, cry I,” Robin sighs, tilting his head to the side with imposing curiosity, “don’t you still love me?” He turns slowly to fully face the man, unable to keep the fake smile on his cherub lips as he watches the vampire verbally handle Jezz like a paintbrush.

I hate you.

He listens to Robin drool over this woman, this Roma, did he call her? He has no idea what his master meant by that, but it doesn’t matter. Allan bristles at the way she is being treated, the way he knew she would be handled, and he smiles inwardly as she snaps back.

Hit him. Please, hit him.

Instead, Jezz turns heel and she has Allan’s blessings, that is, until Robin’s lecherous attention wheels around on him. He flinches visibly, set firmly back in his place above any mortal, but still suffocating beneath this prince. He knows that she has made a serious transgression, no matter how much Robin deserved it, and that she will not be allowed now to leave the building without making proper apologies. For perhaps the first time, Allan wonders what exactly she came for in the first place, so ignorantly stepping into the lion’s den. It is of no consequence now; he has to find a different way to free her from the snare.

He hurries after Jezzibelle, catching up with her in the hall and glancing nervously at the watching video surveillance. “Wait, please.” His voice is soft, beseeching. He has had an idea. Maybe, if he can just get her to return and if Lila will keep her safe, just maybe he can talk to Robin and make amends for her.

For me.

“Please come back. I apologize for Robin; he is just a fool. Everybody sees through his parade, that he is only a selfish child.” His stomach turns over and Allan resists the urge to look over his shoulder and make certain that he has not been overheard. “I know that you visited for a reason, and not to merely be toyed with. If you would only come back, then perhaps I can help you.” His Presence is still turned off, but somehow he is just as alluring as before. It could be that she is genuinely attracted to the man. No, to the vampire. A vampire that is not a bad person, just like Rex.

Damnit, what is she going to do, if this prince won’t let her avenge Rex?

Jezzibelle Romana

She could not help but stop, wincing softly as he calls her to halt. Her steps cease, finding him before her. "Tell me, do you know of the Brujah, Rex Harris?" She needs the answer to this question. She needs to let him know her reasons before she goes anywhere. No, her singular reason. The only reason she would ever ask for such a thing to happen to her. Her eyes still firm, but her heart so weak...Should he insist, she would move without another word. Headstrong, she does her best to keep her ground, to ground her bearings. A smile hidden deep beneath at the thought that he would risk helping her. She knows well what she just did. Almost too well. She's interacted with far too many princes not to know the consequences such a display may have, but she had been brough to her threshold. She would not be shoved around by some arrogent prick with a Napoleon complex. Even if he is the prince of Hollywood and a powerful vampire. There is little he could do that would seriously change her views or win her subjection.

Sadly, all Allan would have to do is ask and she would remain with him. She barely knows him, but she has this sudden rush of yearning when it comes to him. She wants to be close, learn more of him. Her eyes searched his for some sort of joy to be in her presence or emotion that would signify a likeness to it. Her heart sank as her mind gave her actions greater thought. "I did not get you introuble, did I?" She looks the part of a worrier as she come to the realization that her actions may trickle down and affect this creature which she is come to care for in such a short time. It was only now that she has truely regained concentration on her purpose here, for moments before she would not have even noticed should Rex have entered the room and stood right before her. This scares her. The effect this thing has on her...No, never a thing. Allan is a person. Allan Starling is a individual that will always have a place where ever she is that he may consider a haven.

Allan Starling

"Rex...Harris..." Allan tastes the Brujah's name, but the flavor is unfamiliar. He shakes his head apologetically and shrugs his slender shoulders. “No, I haven’t. I could ask Robin for you, though.” He begins to lead her gently back towards the suite, his gaze dropping away from her as she realizes maybe a little of the position she has put him in. She cannot really understand, though. Not without knowing Robin better and Allan hopes to prevent that from happening to her. To feel so trapped, so dominated…

“Not yet.” He smiles lightly, his face still slightly averted, and he takes an unnecessary, calming breath before bringing her back over the threshold. Where is Robin? Is he distracted? Allan looks through to the Gallery, waiting for the right moment to walk Jezz back in and place her in the only remote kind of safety that he can promise while he steps away- Lila. His sister is not really comparable, the way her jealousy darkens her motives, but she is certainly better than anyone else in Robin’s little coven.

TI

The Gallery collectively swoons over Robin Chanteclaire's entrance, lifting their high heels of crystal champagne in the air.

"To the wealthy," Charles toasts, smiling with the simple cheer of the neighborhood ice cream man or the solitary next door neighbor who has been granted a windfall in the form of an inheritance or the right sequence of five numbers. One hand raises the shoe high with the social pride, while the other discretely toys with the trim of Sarah's blue dress.

"To the talented," Carla reaffirms with confidence, standing at Sarah's side, opposite Charles. The gleam in her eyes picks out with precision the key elements that render a wardrobe, or a set design, or a feature-length film lasting and valuable, not so much through their ability to please the aesthete of audiences, but to merely survive in the gorgeous, gilded, cutthroat world of Hollywood. With her free arm, she tugs Sarah just a little closer to her, and a little farther away from Charles.

"To the beautiful," four dusky women's voices chime in unison, forming a resounding harmony as though their hoisted high heels were Cinderella's fabled footwear clinking together and ringing richly. Helena, Mars, Violet and Darling do not need a smile or a sparkling eye to be beautiful, to belong here. What they lack in humorous personality or observational skill, or in the very essence of Life behind their capricious looks, they make up for in nice clay, for God has molded these women to be as great and tall as trees but as infirm and yielding as weeping willows.

Ricardo stands next to Ernest, stunned into a silence that is welcome not only to Ernest, but to the rest of the Gallery. In lieu of a high heel, he lifts his muscular forearm in an overlooked salutation to Robin Chanteclaire.

Lila Starling

"To Robin."

Just as she had with Allan, Lila's fantastic figure and eerily boyish reflection of her twin's beauty takes a comfortable place not in, but as a man's shadow. Tipping back her own red heel, Lila sidles up romantically behind Robin, her favor-currying fingers wedged delicately between the soft waist of his bathrobe and the belt of matching material tying it closed.

In that moment, the tide turns, and a round of whispered praise comes out of the Gallery for Lila's excellent subject for reverence, and more importantly, for her own beauty in proximity to the Prince of Hollywood. She absorbs the attention like a dying plant eats the sunlight, sucking the watery tears from their overwhelmed company.

Yet she stares beyond Charles, Sarah, and Carla, through the hollow Catwalk Queens and without a single glance at Ricardo, directly through the Gallery doors and into the foyer where he brother mingles in solitude with the gypsy. Selfish sod, she thinks with a toothless smile, keeping her all for yourself. What are you playing at, brother? Since when could we not share?

Seeing the answer in her Twin's face, Lila strokes Robin's back and separates herself from him, floating over to a hanging portrait of a moonlit vineyard, isolated from the Gallery, even if only as a treasured piece too valuable to be placed on display.

Jezzibelle Romana

She brings gentle hands to Allan’s beautiful face, almost hesitant, as if her touch would blemish his flawless complexion. “Perhaps I should tell you of my reasons before you go to state my case before…That thing. Rex Harris was my master…Is my master, but was forced into torpor by another vampire, Romeo. She stops to think a moment. Her memory used to be flawless and now she having trouble? Damn the beautiful! She looks to Allan once more. “Valencio. I know it was him. I need my revenge. I must bring Rex back.” Damn her loyalty…And Rex’s kindness. She looks to the gallery, gaining an expression of spite. Serpent’s green eyes look to the Irish man, “Tell him only if you must, though I’d much rather speak with him on that myself. Do not go through too much trouble for me. Should he choose to remain as he is, it is his right. It would serve me right, though it will hardly stop me. Better yet, I will speak with him. Tell him I wish a word with him in private.” Her mind changes, as her stubborn nature takes a turn. “Please, and do as him to leave hi tricks and wild cards in his pockets. He’ll not need them. I am only human after all.”

It is all together foolish and she knows it. This thought of a vampire taking her seriously, not to mention respecting her after her previous display. What is going through her mind? What madness is she experiencing? Has she finally snapped? No, none of that. She is simple set in what she knows she must do. She could not dream of touching Romeo without the dark gift. Her look sadness as the thought passes her. Should she become a vampire, she will never feel truely warm again...Life will not be the same or hers after all is passed. But what would Rex think of her after that? Casting aside her feminine ways to save him and finding herself now in debt to man, always having to take and take and take, yet never planning to return their loss.

Allan Starling

Allan purses his cherubic lips at her request, but nods. If she really desires a personal audience with Robin, he is certain that he can arrange it. He knows that he can do nothing to keep the man from making her uncomfortable, though, and he can only hope that she does not make the Prince angry again. "I will do what I can. Please, follow close to me." He leads her back into the gallery with ease, looking as though he is completely comfortable. Only the flexing of his bicep under her hand, the tensing of his muscles betrays his concern to Jezz as they move. So he does have the body of a man after all, beneath the rich clothing an inhuman beauty.

He traipses with her to his awaiting sister and smiles, speaking softly and intimately. "Ah, Lila, you were waiting for me. I am glad to see that anger does not mar your beauty still." He speaks differently to her, as though it is all in show. His sister knows it, too, but she must expect this when in the presence of the Others. Allan glances over his shoulder, making certain that Robin is caught up with his dolls, and then he leans forward and catches his twin's eye. "Ms. Romana would appreciate your company, whilst I attend to our Sire. Would you be so kind?" He transfers Jezz's hand over to Lila and shares a solitary moment within his sister's gaze before he steps away and to Robin, who he approaches as cautiously as though the man might strike him.

Robin Chanteclaire

"Lila, my delicious ladyfinger, you are too kind. You toast to me as though I have not already been toasted thrice over."

The wittier members of the Gallery catch on and laugh at their prince's jesting, while the others, like Ricardo, simply smile and nod. Robin runs his fingers along the downy chest of his bathrobe before making a few rounds to each of his Gallery members, engaging in flattering small-talk that leaves the mortals starstruck and swooning to be in his attention for but a moment. The visitation does not seem as a chore to Robin; in fact, he enjoys hearing their convivial compliments more than paying them out, which he does as the stock market would: merely placing a return upon their investment.

At least he has wound his way to Ernest Truman, and only the tilt of his eyebrow suggests that he regards the less-than-beautiful man milling about his collection. Before he has a chance to speak to him, Allan approaches him like a scolded child. Good, Robin thinks with a smile. He learned his lesson.

"This would be my appointment," Robin gestures unflatteringly towards Ernest, whispering quietly to his childe. "I must entertain him briefly, but I shall send him on his way before I begin bleeding from the eyes. So outdated," he shakes his head, one eye searing through Ernest's beatnik beard. "Hmph. I see you managed to rein her back. I knew it would not be difficult for you, Allan. She reminds me of a cat who has seen her reflection in a mirror; caprice causes her to walk away with a sense of stolen dignity, but fatal curiosity brings her back time and again. I intend to keep and to culture that vaccilating personality of hers."

Though his voice is low and indiscernable, Jezzibelle can see the man watching her as he speaks with a mounting desire that brings out a smile and puts a spring in his gestures. "Oh. Did you have something to tell me?" he asks Allan as an afterthought.

Lila Starling

Lila takes Allan's spurious comment about anger marring beauty with grace. Having noticed Robin scold her twin for his disloyalty to Lila, she has a doe's innocence in soothing him, made more imperious by her meekness. "Of course, love. I will keep her for now, away from the eyes that bore her so," she glances over her shoulders, twisting her tongue into a calculated double meaning.

Once Allan is gone, and Jezzibelle thrust into Lila's company, the sibling is consumed with interest and confidentiality. She herds the gypsy girl gently out of the Gallery behind Allan and Robin, into the same back hallway and out onto the balcony where she and Allan had been together recently.

"You will have to forgive Mr. Chanteclaire, Jezzibelle," Lila pucks her lips with the barest shrug of her shoulders. "Quite literally. You will have to, because I doubt he will do anything to earn it himself. Such is his authority, though," Lila smiles, fondly. "All of this," she sweeps her hand out over Gold Street and beyond, to the sterling highrises and the roving spotlights from the Gaumann Theatre, "belongs to Robin. And, by turns, to Allan and myself. Stay on his good side, and you stay on ours. You stand to benefit from our company, and with just a little patience, dear, you can have whatever you want," Lila pleads, appealing to Jezzibelle's reason for coming here in the first place.

"I should not pry into your business, for I am certain it is personal to you. You have the look of a troubled girl. My heart bleeds for you, it does. If you want to talk about it, love, you can feel as free with me as you do with Allan. We only have your best interests in mind. At least I do. How can I not? You remind me of..."

The Starling sister tilts her head upwards to look into the sky, where a pidgeon, bored with sitting and staring at the sights from her perch one floor above, flaps her wings and takes flight over Hollywood, weaving in between the Robin's expansive and architectural regalia.

"You remind me of me. Once upon a time," she smiles wryly, waving a strange farewell to the bird as it vanishes in the glare of the spotlights.

[Thee Independent]

Jezzibelle Romana

She looks to Lila, her glance rather indecisive. To scorn or be scorned. Perhaps those where nolonger the options. Just maybe Ms. Starling is telling the truth. Her teeth, still concealed, rest on those painted lips with deeply toned cheeks giving their faintest shade of color. Her eyes left Lila, exploring the floor for an answer, finding nothing but strangest inner reflections. I remind her of herself? This beautiful, yet duplicated being? Certainly such a remark is meant as a compliment, though the thoughts within her are quite torn. Surely this is nothing told to every woman whose entered. She looks to Lila. "Then perhaps you'd not mind me asking a question?" Came the rather strong, but soft tone. The curiousity lined her words like cold silken sheets under a satin comforter. Abrasive, different, but still very gentle. She meant not a single offense, simply not one to hide much. Not for anyone.

Her eyes lifted from the floor, a direct transfer from there to the eyes of the feminine carbon copy. Her arms rose gently, hands on her sides, as her posture remained as genuine as a lady could get. "I've asked Allan already, and I truly wish to know your knowledge on my situation." She wished to make no enemies, though would gladly slit the throat of that Prince should the opportunity arise. Perhaps he would learn his lesson then...After losing so much of the vital fluid which holds him to this world. Though for now, her concern is for Rex...And that bastard who took him from her. She finally found a decent keeper... Tis her luck, truly. Is would happen the moment her fortune turns, it returns as good as new, as if the fates have some affinity for tormenting her in the more painful ways. The way that don't require band-aids or stitches. Yes, take someone from her she cares for and leave her to fight a losing battle. That'll fix her.

Allan Starling

Allan forces an almost believable smile for his tiring Sire and cannot help, but study Ernest as he is pointed out. His lips wither into a grimace as he agrees with Robin for ones; their guest is painful for a Toreador to look at. He is reminded of the one time he glimpsed a Nosferatu at Elysium in his real form.

“Well, yes, but I will wait until you have spoken with this gentleman. I can…see…that your business with him is pressing.” He smiles dourly and turns away from the Prince to find Lila and Jezz gone. Oh well, it is for the best that Robin not see her again until I have spoken with him. Allan steps away and looks about for his forgotten shoe of Champaign.

Lila Starling

A very subdued Lila Starling seems incapable of taking offense to Jezzibelle's brusque tone. Her sire Robin Chanteclaire parades his rage down the red carpet at a perceived slight, but Lila knows it is just for putting on a show. Only things in their world truly make him angry, and when that happens, there is no safe place to be. Not even out here on the balcony, where it would be so easy to kick off her heels, leap up onto the railing, and fly away!

But those wings were clipped a long time ago. Now she soars only in Allan's eyes. The thought makes Lila secretly covet all of the attention her brother is lavishing upon Jezzibelle, turning the sister's tone equally brisk and managed.

"I do not mind a question. Unlike the others, you did not come here just to stand around and look pretty. Ask away," she entreats, staring across the balcony at her impassively - until the girl squares her shoulders, placing those fleshy palms on her waist like a real lady. That gets a queer smile out of Lila. "To be honest with you, I haven't the faintest why you came, or what it is you want, or why you would be willing to jeapordize it with a temper tantrum," Lila answers, speaking plainly about Jezzibelle's wily behavior without scolding her for it. "That does not mean I do not care, nor that I do not wish to know. I do! Things of meager import are commonplace here. I think you've brought something bigger with you. What is it?" she presses, striding forward and draping an arm over Jezzibelle's shoulder.

Robin Chanteclaire

"Not merely pressing, Allan. Crushing. Caving in upon me. Squashing me like a thirsty bug in Martha's Vineyard. Do not be so afraid of hyperbole. We can afford it," Robin looks after his Starling childe with a facetious smile that he manages to squeeze like a lemon into genuine sincerity, turning to his special guest of the evening, Ernest Truman.

If only the man had at least dressed for the occassion. Then I might have something less plain and humdrum to stare at. "Greetings, Mr. Truman. The bellhop told me of your arrival and I came without delay. I am certain that you have enjoyed your time here with...Ricardo," Robin just barely snorts, tapping the musclebound latino on his burly tricep, "but I shan't make you wait any longer." Or make my Gallery suffer your presence a minute more. "Follow me, won't you?" he offers, exiting the Gallery and moving into the rear hall, back around the corner and into a private office.

Ernest Truman

Now was the moment of truth for Ernest. Stroking his chin, he stands and waits for Robin to show him the way, and when he does, Ernest follows without so much as a word. With the questions he has to ask, it would best be done out of earshot of his...what did he like to call them?...gallery.

Taking one last glance back at the assorted personalities of Hollywood, Ernest stares dispassionately at their elegance and then enters the Prince of Hollywood's quarters.

Jezzibelle Romana

The second person she would bring herself to ask, but certainly not a wasted effort. It was well worth the asking. Her pounding heart now more noticable, as her lips do spread to release her question. "Do you know of one, Rex Harris? Or Romeo Valencio?" She gained a look of hope, the Starling twins seem to be good enough allies for her secret to be shared. Perhaps it was yet another risk...Or unnecissary action, but to her she'd rather ask and find nothing then not ask and never know. Surely the Prince may well know of the whereabouts of the leech she is in search of, but why place herself in more debt then she must be. Her eyes even softened, as the tone of her voice followed, growing to like Lila more now. She seems so eager and willing. Like a pyro wanting to know more of the fire which burns at its captor. Many things could be said fo Jezz, though one is she would never settle for being a pretty object of attraction. Never meant to be on display, as she had been forced to tolerate all these years. So much promise in America, said the Ravnos...So much promise... A glance over the balcony, a tainted lust for the ground below. She is far from suicidal, but the release of death is one so...inviting. Perhaps the cold of unlife will bring her the thing to longs for. The detachment she yearns to feel for this world and all that dwell within it.

Yes, more than one motivation for her choice. Inwardly ashamed of her needs, finding herself weaker by every passing day. The feeling of security she had with Rex ripped from her so suddenly, the mixed feelings of the other Brujah. Perhaps it is her fault, but she would not dare blame herself. She blame Romeo with all her vicious heart. Her attention leaves the interal rant and returns to Lila. "The more you know, the more I'm willing to share." She adds.

Lila Starling

"Not too close. It gets windy up here," Lila cautions as Jezzibelle steps a little too close to the edge. No sooner does she speak it than a gust riles her hair into a flurry of red that reminds Jezzibelle of old campside bonfires and cold European nights. When the gust is gone, through, Lila's hair settles again into its old station. Not even a brief dance with the air can inspire some change to the woman's captivity.

"I know the name Rex Harris. And Romeo? Sounds charming," Lila smirks, envisioning a handsome, Shakesperean persona: Allan, in black leggings and a poet shirt, spouting romanticism while waving around a sword. "Rex Harris is one of the..."

Lila stops herself before she uses the word "barbarians" in front of their guest. She does not need to be privvy to the Camarilla's keywords, no matter how veiled or defacing they may be. "...underprivileged. Holds some credit in the barrios. Has others who look up to him. I have never met him, though I have heard Robin mention his name in passing. Why do you ask?"

Jezzibelle Romana

She leaves those hands on her hips and with a slight flare in her eyes. "Mr. Valencio has Mr. Harris. And Rex Harris just so happened to keep me as a blood doll for a time. Romeo Valecio is hardly romantic and I personally see him as a sort of swine. He has taken Rex and I need to find them both. One to slay the other to revive."

Lila Starling

"Some gentleman," Lila scowls. Any surprise she feels at this revelation does not come in a sudden, shocking moment, like ice water dumped on a hot coal, but instead like the casual flip-flop of a flapjack that's been sitting in the ungreased pan too long. The woman's burned side comes to the fore quickly. "He does not deserve the name Romeo. And he does not deserve a congenial title like Mister, either. You needn't be ridiculously polite around me," she says, giving Jezzibelle a little more leeway to be herself.

"What he does deserve is a stern rebuttal," she comments, only now realizing what position Jezzibelle plays in her glamorous and eternal life. She is a mortal allowed to have a peek at the truth in exchange for a helping of her vitae flambeé. "I see why you came here. Robin is going to be furious. You can expect to have an ally in him. And in us. We belong to Robin, not unlike the way you belonged to Rex. I can empathize with you."

Lila looks hesitantly towards the entrance back into the hotel, but instead of rushing them on, she holds up her hands. "Tell me what you know about this Romeo Valencio. Have you seen him? Were you there when it happened? How did you find out about it? And is Rex Harris...tell me in plain terms what has become of him, if you can. I must know these things."

Jezzibelle Romana

She nods and eases softly, a gentle incline of her head is taken swiftly as she thinks hard on how to present her situation. Yes, her position is quite volitale, but that is the last thing she is worried about. Her only concern is Rex and what state she will find his corpse in. Her lips fall from expressionless to a frown. "From questioning, I found out very little of Romeo's whereabouts. All I know of now, is it happened suddenly. I was asleep when it happened. It was the very same night that the King Street pool hall was burned. I believe Rex to be in torpor. I don't know where he's taken him or where he lives. I have his name commited to my memory. Match that with my will to see him buried for eternity, and I think you'll see my plans." She can not help herself, as her nostrils flare, her hatred for this man very obvious, though her composure barely remains. She will not let Robin see her this way. He's seen it once, it'll not happen again.

Lila Starling

"You should as though you want to be the one gripping the stake yourself. But if this Romeo Valencio was able to accomplish the terrible deed he did...what do you think you can do?"

Lila's question would be abrasive, if not for the genuine concern creeping into her voice. The Prince of Hollywood's childe tosses her hair over her shoulder and points out over the glamorous metropolis, her arm as sinewy and bright as Gold Street below them. "There are millions of your kind out there," she says, imposing a wall between mortals and the Kindred living in their Sheraton highrises or their barrio pool halls. "You are different from them only by virtue of what you know, and that is a deadly virtue, Jezzibelle; it can help you stay alive, or commit you to death. That all depends upon who you have the fortune or misfortune to speak with. But now you seem eager to die, even if it is only to see this one man slain."

"Forgive me for trivializing you. I cannot help it," Lila says sadly, biting her lip as she reaches up to brush her fingers across Jezzibelle's cheek, then her neck, then her shoulder and arm. "You have everything. You have beauty. Why do you want to risk that?"

Lila Starling withdraws her touch, not wanting to seem forward with the blood doll. "It is because of Rex Harris, isn't it? What does he mean to you? I thought from the way you said that you were just his slave, but maybe I am wrong. Maybe there is more than I understand. Than I can understand."

Jezzibelle Romana

She parts her lips to speak, but nothing comes out. The second she'd grasped the words, Lila had already begun to continue. Such a shocking thing to hear from one so beautiful and immortal. That she is so different from the rest, but yet the same regardless. A burning truth. A haunting shadow. Her very silence lingers as she continues to listen to Lila and the words of Rex within her mind. As if their very meaning coincide. So many would bring forth the glitter of the vampiric life, yet this one seeks to save her from it? She shifts softly, as she is said to come off as eager to die. Can that be truth also? That my very goal is to become a martyr? Her heart sinks, her breathing deepening softly.

Then brought to pause, Lila's touch is felt. Her attention no longer divided, but solely on Lila. She'd not expected such affections, but they are most certainly appreciated. It was consoling. "What else am I to do? Am I to expect someone else to do what I have set out for?" Her expression displayed her need for options...Her pleading for an answer. This is the only way she saw to take care of this bleeding wound...Licking it only made it worse, ignoring it brought forth infection, so now she seeks to stitch the thing shut. Even if it means cutting herself out.

She blushes, perhaps releasing the secret attraction to the Brujah. Never in her life did she believe she could feel this way, until she got to know him. She lowers her head softly, a gesture not often seen. "Yes, it is because of Rex Harris. I have been a blood doll to so many...But he was the only one to show me the gentle side of a monster I've learned to hate...It is because of him I've not betrayed the entire lot of you to the world which seeks to end all thinks misunderstood."

Lila Starling

Jezzibelle's words get an unexpected reaction. Her vampiric consort's head tilts back and her usually passive but suddenly domineering eyelids widen in surprise - and in fear. Her blushing lip curls, revealing the sharpened tip of a fang before, like an embarassed child, it withers back up into her sculpted jawline, vanishing just like her sudden apprehension at the Kindred's common, underlying fear.

"I understand," Lila says, overcompensating for the slip with an excess of winsomeness that still manages to sound compassionate towards the gypsy girl. "Robin is very much the same way, believe it or not. He acts like a monster in company, but deep down..."

Lila smiles, no longer any trace of monstrous tooth in her mouth. "...he may as well be human. He sees beauty in perfection, like Allan and I. He doesn't realize that true beauty lies in imperfection and weakness. Like you. You are pretty to look at, but torn apart inside. Longing. And downright suicidal. You must be so very, very tired of your life. Or desperate enough to lay it on the line to get back what you've lost. At least with Rex's life, whatever it is worth to you, there may still be a chance," she says, a solo strain of sad experience weeping into her words.

Jezzibelle Romana

She narrows her eyes a moment, taking a step back. She would give this vampire room should she need it, but she's not allowing another fang near her until her business is settled. As her companion calms, she still remains, her eyes lingering on Lila as if still ready to react. "So there is hope for him yet." She comments, then returns to looking off the balcony, but this time into the horizon which greets them. So calm...so dark. The ebon blue seems to coo to her invitingly, for a moment of romance her attention is engulfed within the sky. So many times in her foolish girl mind she's wanted to trust those hues of blue to carry here, only to know they will betray her to the ground below.

She dares to step closer to Lila, "It would be nice, though, for once to hold someone and feel a heartbeat again." She speaks out of the blue, then returns to the conversation at hand. "And what do you think your Prince...Our Prince will do for me? Trade my life for his? Cast me to live amongst the souls faces in that overcompensating gallery." Her words like sweet venom, spoken softly, with a subtle disdain. "Or will he be willing to help out of the kindness of a heart that stopped long before I was born." She shakes her head. "I apologize. I've little right to be bitter already. Though mayhaps you would be open to helping me best present my case? I'm just a silly little vixen mortal after all. I'd hate to interrupt his good mood once more." She knows she'll need all the help she could get. All the advice this immortal could spare her. She prays to whoever will hear her that her ears will use her brain like a sponge to absorb what words were and will be spoken. So that when the final test comes, her words may be spoken as one who knows better, rather than a child who enters mouth first.

Lila Starling

"And as long as you harbor that kind of attitude, you will spoil his good mood, and his response would defeat your opportunity to gain his help. But I cannot blame you. I would be stretched thin, too, if something were to happen to Allan. It is a vicious cycle, loss," Lila empathizes quietly.

After a few moments of consideration, Lila holds up her smooth-skinned hand. "Stay here and contemplate just what you'll want to ask him for. I will go and inform Robin as to why you are here. It sounds more pressing than whatever other business he has with that...person," she says flatly, Ernest having hardly registered on her radar. "I will be back shortly. I can help you, I promise. I'm doing all that I can."

It isn't until after Lila is gone and Jezzibelle is alone with the distant sound of cars and music and the soft whisper of the wind that she realizes the vampire did nothing to dissuade her fear of becoming just another pretty showpiece in the gallery. She did not even get onto the topic.

Jezzibelle Romana

She nods, responding only in silence, for now it is time for contemplation. Enough response and reaction. Just silence now. Her eyes return to the city and its monsterous cycle. People running the streets oblivious to what could soon be their fate or the fate of a loved one. What do they think happens to them? That they just dissappear and are never heard from again? Where they captured by some form of aliens? She sighs, shaking her head. Rex...Just be okay. I'm coming. I don't know in what form, or if you'll be happy with me when I get there, but...If you're atleast okay there is hope... She dared not whisper the words, her heart pounding at the realization of the possibility of being a meaningless puppet in that display case of flesh, blood, and bone. It is one thing to have a purpose, but to stand there mindlessly and for the soul purpose of being admired...She would go mad. Utterly and outrightly insane. It is hard enough to remain in paitence this long, muchless for eternity.

No, one to more important things. What to ask? How to word it? This man will have so much more experience and with one strike...No, that one simply could not count. He asked me to open and honest. Not to bother with restraint. Did he not expect me to take up on that? Did he expect my opinion to have sugar and honey along he lining? She closes her eyes, trying to concentrate. Her mind tells her to give as much information as possible, but carefully. It would be so much easier had someone known this Romeo. She shifts softly, scared but hiding it, worried, but trying not to look concerned. She takes a long breath, her world spinning to fast for her to keep pace.

Robin Chanteclaire

"Yes, that is all well and good, Ernest," Robin moans, escorting his uninteresting and unimpressive guest down the hallway. "But tonight just isn't a good night. I'm pleghmatic. Or some other excuse that will work for you," he says dismissively, opening the Gallery doors and ushering him quickly towards the exit.

"Give my people a call, schedule an appointment, lose some weight and get a decent manicure before coming back here. Ta ta," he smiles mirthlessly, closing the Gallery doors and shaking his head. He shuffles back to his office where Lila is waiting with her oh-so-urgent message.

Kids these days. Always have something important they just have to say, no matter what important meeting you're in!

TI

Jezzibelle goes over the details of her encounter with Robin in her head, meteing out her own dislike of him with her need to approach him with her problem. Beneath the casual gusts and eddies of wind, she hears a small crash from somewhere inside the building - from the Gallery. It was so distant and muffled that she did not notice it at first, but rather realized that she had heard something a few seconds after her ears detected it.

Jezzibelle Romana

She blinks, looking about her current position. A moment to consider her options leads her to the conclusion that brings her to rush out from hiding. Her eyes wander about her surrounds as her feet take her quickly to the gallery. She stops, not certain if she truely wants to enter a place she just heard a crash come from. She narrows her eyes, convincing herself that whatever is in there would do nothing to her. She wondered how close the source and result were and is seeking just that answer. The prince would surely be angry should someone ruin his gallery. Her wonder then turns to concern, what is Lila was hurt because of what she told her. Her concern showed plainly on her face, her cheeks red with blush as her still beating heart pumps harshly.

TI

When Jezzibelle reaches the doors to the Gallery, she puts her hands on the ivy-molded knobs. They refuse to turn, not merely jammed, but locked.

From the inside.

WHUD! The wall to the left of the doors shudders suddenly, knocking a floral vase filled with lilies off of a display table set against it! The expensive piece shatters into large, coloful, sharp chunks that scatter around her feet. A second startling pound immediately follows the first, and a 3 x 2 decorative iron grill with decent grips on the side for easy carriage/lifting that had been resting atop the table shifts forward. It is not attached to the table, and now hangs slightly loose, ready to fall onto the floor like the vase.

After that, all Jezzibelle can make out is a muffled whine, a second more distant crash, and the sound of ripping fabric or canvas. Then...

WHAM! The double doors in front of her leap forward at her with frightening force! If not for the strong hinges attaching the doors to the wall, they would have come crashing down upon her and flattened her thanks to the jarring force that disturbed them from the opposite side!

From inside the Gallery.

Where Jezzibelle cannot go!

[Thee Independent]

Jezzibelle Romana

She jiggles the handles violently, then takes a step back. She looks the vase, her hands moving to her chest. She startles, hearing the crash against the wall. It doesn't take long before her eyes reach the grill. Try to get in or keep them from coming out? She bites her lip, though moves for the grill, pulling it down and carrying it towards the door. She looks to the doors...If whatever is in there can get in the doors, then there is very little she could do to stop them. She looks back to the iron piece in her hands, then the knobs on the doors, thinking over the idea of barring the doors. Oh no! Allan! She drops the grill and bangs on the door. "Allan?!" She exclaims... Her heart throbs harder, though tears found no place on her face, her concern rang through loud and clear. Still the decision needs to be made. Her get in or them staying out? Her hands returned to the grill, waiting to see if she heard Allan. If not, her butt is gone and quick in her attempt to escape the sounds and find Lila and hopefully the prince. If Allan is heard...She'll try what she can, though it may not be much.

Then again, the assumption was that it is indeed more than one creature. And then there is the trouble of, what if what ever is in there comes out anyway? It is locked from the inside. The others in that gallery meant nothing to her, only to that prince. She moves away from the door, ready to run or help at any point, but not about to get crushed by any means. She closes her eyes, trying to listen for anything that sounds like Allan. Anything that would be a sign that he was in there. Her delicate hands cling tightly to the grill, knowing this heavy piece may be her only means of protection.

TI

Shadows move rapidly on the other side of the thick curtains behind the glass inlay of the double doors; it is amazing the glass didn't shatter from the force that caused the doors to shudder on their hinges. The iron feels cold in Jezzibelle's fingers, but the shriek from inside the room makes her blood run even colder.

Then there is a large crash; she can feel the floorboards tremble beneath her feet. Something large in the Gallery had fallen over - a shelf? One of the large couches the Catwalk Queens had been sitting on? A portion of the ceiling?

No! Ke...way!

A voice rises above the clamor. It is hard for Jezzibelle to make out.

Wha...doing...er!?

Things go eerily quite for an instant, before a hoarse cry pierces Jezzibelle's sanity; it is unnatural, horrifying, and despite how soft and distant it is, there is only so much distance between her and the distant foyer, where the cry seems to be coming from.

She could almost swear it sounded like Lila, only more pained.

And all she has is a metal grill to protect her.

The cry increases in intensity, wiggling into her ears and sending horrible shivers creepling like spiders down the goosebumps building on her flesh. It won't go away. Someone is suffering.

Jezzibelle Romana

She looks to the grill, then to the glass. Okay, if it's bigger than me and there's no way, then I leave...If not, I help and hope...Hope I'm not too late. She nods, then moves towards the door. She lifts the grill slightly, then aims to knock out a small portion of the glass, just to see within the room. Her hands trembling, her mind occupied with the screams as her eyes try to see all that is going on within the Gallery. "Lila?!" Her voice came to yell. Then started to swing away at the glass, hoping to bust it completely open, she's yet to see anything, but it sounds like Lila and that's enough for her to want to get him. "Allan! Lila!" She tries to get someone to anser her, breathes taken in heavy rhythm. Her efforts taken in full heart and without further hesistantion, for she would feel badly should her hesistance cause enough pause for death.

TI

Thump.

Thick glass cracks under the force of Jezzibelle's grill, but doesn't break. Somewhere in the Suite, a door slams closed. That terrible moan softens into a bleak, high-pitched whine.

Jezzibelle Romana

Bad omen or test of persistance? She narrows her eyes, getting just a little upset that the glass didn't break, she tries again, bring the grill towards it once more, with a growl added to her efforts.

TI

Tinkle.

The frosted glass laid into the Gallery's door cracks a little bit with Jezzibelle's second assault. A fine, powdery glass tumbles down through the air and disappears into the carpeting.

Now, the whine dies down and becomes silence; things are so quiet inside the Gallery, in fact, that Jezzibelle can hear the double doors leading from the foyer into the hotel hallway slam closed...followed auspiciously by the opening of a door somewhere down the hall to her right.

What in blazes is that commotion? Mercy me.

She recognizes the flippant, unconcerned voice of Robin Chanteclaire growing louder as he comes down the hallway around the distant corner.

Jezzibelle Romana

She keeps hold of the grill, but looks to the sound of Robin's voice. She never thought she'd be so happy to hear that voice. "Um...Mr. Chanteclaire!" Not about to drop the grill, not yet. "Please, come here!" She clings, body trembling as delicate fingers cling tightly to the iron piece. She is quite obviously worried and deeply concerned with what may or may not have happened within the room.

Robin Chanteclaire

“Hark, hear I the dulcet syllables of my name? And from the lips of none other than my pearl! But wait, that mineral doth offend,” Robin dictates dramatically as he rounds the distant corner, arms akimbo and still dressed in his royal blue bathrobe. “Does it please the lady more to be known as a diamond in the rough than a grain of sand in a clam’s damp gullet? So it shall be. What’s all the fuss?” he inquires, fixing Jezzibelle and the grillwork in her hands with a speculative eye.

“If the frosted design on the Gallery doors isn’t to your liking, I can have them replaced by professionals. They have tools for that sort of thing, you see.”

Lila Starling

Lila Starling walks swiftly behind Robin Chanteclaire but, upon seeing the expression upon Jezzibelle’s face – and the obvious distress she finds herself in – the woman is all action. Her swift pace becomes a trot, which then becomes a leaping sprint for the door. Her heels slip off her feet and tumble toe over rear until they settle haphazardly against the wall. She seems far more concerned with the moment than Robin, who is absently fishing for a set of keys in his robes.

Jezzibelle does not have to say a word to Lila. Panic not only caught up with the Starling childe, but possessed her completely somewhere between following Robin like a curious puppy and dashing forth to take charge like a mother wolf. Before she reaches the door, Lila waves Jezzibelle out of the way with a warning sweep of her arm. Her eyes grow wide as the full moon and as full of white dread. She knows, like Jezzibelle, that Allan was in the Gallery.

One fragile sapling arm rears back and with an unexpected show of strength and desperation shatters through the glass on the door! Frosty splinters cut into the soft lacy curtain on the inside of the door, and the jagged edges of the new hole cur mercilessly into Lila’s forearm! Click. She turns the lock on the inside of the Gallery door and swings the double doors wide open.

TI

The unexamined life is not worth living for man.

No matter how true, the wisdom of Socrates is of no consolation to Jezzibelle and Lila Starling when the Gallery’s gruesome beauty is placed on display as a deconstructive memory: a tribute to art orchestrated by the worst kind of philistine.

An acrid odor, like that of a fouling vintage left fermenting in a porcelain tub of mold and vomit, has replaced the fresh scent emanating from floral displays now overturned, their colorful petals and vibrant green stems ground harshly into the carpet in phosphorous stains. An unknown force of nature, a terrible storm or a monster bull or a ravenous herd of gluttonous sheep, has tilled the vineyard expanse on the wall; it has razed the painted hillside and left nothing but an empty rip in the canvas. Dying grapevines hang from thin violet threads. The rest have fallen in grape leaf shreds onto the floor below the painting.

In the corner, an entire wall-mounted bookshelf has fallen to the floor; volumes of art and literature and poetry and have scattered like the broken pieces of the Gallery mirror, their pristine spines bent and their pages torn in a fury. Amazingly, a nineteenth-century model globe of the world – which had previously been a display piece on some now splintered oaken end table – rests on top of the overturned bookcase, unmolested and still in good condition. One might think it was deliberately placed there. Someone might also think Ricardo Fuentes’ broken arm, slithering out from underneath the top of the fallen bookshelf, was equally as deliberate; his bronzed inner elbow and palm face the ceiling lifelessly. He had been on his back when the bookcase fell, but for all of his gym exercise, personal strength, good hygiene and nutritional diet, Jezzibelle can clearly see that he was no Atlas. A bloodstained and serrated end of his snapped humerous bone pokes out of his clean flesh on the arm.

Crushed plant matter is not all that stains the carpets in the Gallery. Blood, too, is beginning to take its hold in the fibrous floor, and as Jezzibelle and Lila enter followed by Robin Chanteclaire the owner, it is still flowing thick and strong. Pat pat pat pat. A steady steam of droplets spots the carpet from across the room, where a crimson Carla Bellavine rests against the wall like a discarded piece of clothing. The decorative knobs of the dual-pronged brass coat hangar protrude through the skin above her scapula, her unmoving body hung neatly as if it were a second skin waiting for Robin to don before stepping out into the rain. Carla doesn’t make a peep, her corpse content to pose as pretty as her younger counterpart, Sarah Rogers, who is nowhere to be seen. Carla is still the best-dressed person in the Gallery.

Charles Wilson III’s loafers jut out from in front of the love seat, an obvious safety hazard for anyone walking through the Gallery to admire its expensive trinkets and incredible people. His entire body, lain out on the floor, damages Robin’s unique arrangement by introducing the unsightly clutter of a human carcass. Dirty brown blood soaks the gentleman’s pants, the remnants of a fatal accident or otherwise embarrassing mishap, pooling ultimately in the crotch; there is so much of it there, in fact, that one cannot tell whether they are looking at drenched dress pants or undergarments or the unmentionables beneath. A look of pleasant surprise is fixed on his face, the eyelids still fluttering in the after-effects of death. A mysterious bulge distends his throat slightly, bloating his cheeks and eyes. Jezzibelle would be more comforted by the man’s death if he didn’t look so contented.

The Catwalk Queens never had anyone to judge them save each other; the words of a pretentious fashion journalist, who once commented on Violet’s apparent two-pound over the Holidays, was cast aside as a hack writer intruding into the intensely personal space created by these four striking models. It had been Darling who, in a momentary fit over the too-similar-to-her-own dress Violet had chosen for their debut of Townsend’s Winter line, pointed out the Christmas ham that had gone to her waist. The blow struck her deeply, but as always, the two reconciled in fearful silence, too afraid of what might happen to them if a verbal tete-a-tete disintegrated the Catwalk Queens and left any one of them alone to fend for themselves in a dog-eat-pedigree world. It appears that their fears were never realized; even in death, the Queens are inseparable. Helena Wright, Mars June, Violet de Seneca and Darling Quinn are all leaning in towards one another on the adjacent couches separated by a glass coffee table. A pool of their mingled blood makes a single colorful blotch in the middle of the transparent centerpiece, washing the covers of Vogue and Cosmopolitan and Fashion in a burgundy haze. Jezzibelle never looked at the Queens long enough to remember who was who. Now, it is impossible to tell; their once china doll faces are now hopelessly shattered, their skulls and brains dashed against one another in a happy little quartet. Each of their foreheads meets two feet above the table, their faces cracked and bloodied from disfiguring blows from one another’s head. Their pose is perfect. To move even one of them would ruin their perfect leaning pyramid; and thus, in order to retain their Beauty in death, they must not be separated. It is how they would have wanted it.

How many of these men and women of the Gallery examined their own lives? How many of them had their lives examined deeply by others? Jezzibelle was eager to write them off as nothing more than empty-headed toys to the Prince of Hollywood. Has their value increased in terms of want or longing, or by virtue of loss, now that the toys are broken? Is there worth for some only in their death?

Allan Starling is nowhere to be seen in the Gallery.

Jezzibelle Romana

She looks upon the lifeless remains without a single ounce of pity or regret, as if something in her mind gave way. A piece of Jezz simply wasn't there anymore. The part of her that would have her show some sort of sympathy or concern just snapped as if all the death she'd just seen made the other things weigh down enough to break what one may have called her sanity. Now green eyes seek out someone, forcing every piece of body every speck of blood into the background. The one she looks for is searched for relentlessly. The words of Robin are ignored as she moves to make her way into the gallery. "Allan?!" She calls, moving past Lila and biting a red lip as she searches even more eagerly. This is not a promising sign. All these dead people...Or was it...No, such a thing is unthinkable. Allan would not have slain these people. Too kind, too gentle. She searches for open windows, open doors, something that may tell of which way anyone could have gone. "Splendid...First Rex and now Allan too..." She looks so sorrowful, so hurt...The possibility that Allan may now be in the same horrible state. She had barely gotten to know him, but even from the few words he spoke she grew to care for him more than any other...Any other aside from Rex. All would be second to her master. All for the rest of her life.

Or unlife...Should it come to that.

She looks to Lila, then back to Robin. "I don't care about your glass and your pretty pets. Where's Allan?" She demanded. Again, her mental state not in tune with how she should be thinking when it comes to a prince of any sort. Not right with the way she should address anyone who just so happens to be of a higher rank than herself. It just so happens that everyone is. Not a soul here is of lower rank than her, though maybe on par. She is no less a pet than they were. No less invaluable, even if she would like to see herself as so much better. She doesn't know what happened between Romeo and Rex, but it doesn't matter either. No matter the subject or cause, Romeo is wrong and Rex is right. The same is here and now. No matter how anyone else may see it, or what reasons there may be, Allan is important and all else is only second best. Tears tainted that flawlessly painted flesh, as did her hair become something of a mess, as her frail hands had long before forsaken the iron grill in the hall. "I want to know...I need to know where Allan is. Better yet. I need to know where Allan and Rex are and I'd be very very happy if you would do something other than act like nothing happened." She spoke, so ready to lose what composure she had. She was ready to strike him across his face for his remark, but she didn't. As confident as she seemed, there was a strand of fear lying deep within her of these Vampires. She knows too well what they may do to her. She knows too well how weak she is to them. Her eyes lifted to those of Robin Chanteclaire. "Please..." She added, after a moment to calm herself, though still very upset, still very angry, and much like a time biding alley cat, still ready to pounce.

Robin Chanteclaire

"I don't care about your glass and your pretty pets. Where's Allan?"

Robin Chanteclaire was brought into what he thought was an imaginary world a very long time ago. Time continued to move all around him; art and society skyrocketed together, and he rode their coattails without fear of reprisal or letting his grip loose. Colder, more earthy realities had eventually settled in, but they hadn’t the weight to bring him down.

A curious, shaking finger makes its way to Robin’s lips, tapping against the fleshy curve incessantly. The carnage lying poised all around him is a new décor, one he finds himself unfamiliar with. He didn’t plan things out this way. Though creative, these were not his designs.

The globe. The coat hanger. My beauty Queens. Someone is making fun of me.

"I want to know...I need to know where Allan is. Better yet. I need to know where Allan and Rex are and I'd be very very happy if you would do something other than act like nothing happened."

Jezzibelle’s tirade is curtly ignored in favor of observation. The Prince’s passivity is unsettling. He wanders around the Gallery as if it were for the first time, admiring the mutilation and the bloody irony with the ardent eye of an educated and dispassionate critic. He stops to take a look at the Catwalk Queens from all angles, careful not to disturb them, before stepping blithely around the fallen bookshelf with the world on its back. Robin’s pace gradually quickens, and Jezzibelle can see the fingers of his hands flexing and wringing anxiously at his waist, like a child might who has come in to find his parents murdered in their bed.

This isn’t right.

Robin feigns an innocence he lost a very long time ago. And it isn’t until he notices that Allan is missing that he holds up the mirror to himself and to this deliberate massacre and sees through his own weakness.

The sudden change is like a bullet through Jezzibelle’s heart.

”THESE WERE MINE! MINE MINE MINE!”

Crash! Robin Chanteclaire snatches the pastel little world from its perch atop the fallen Ricardo Fuentes and hurls it angrily at the wall several feet from the gypsy girl! The antique shatters and sends civil and third world nations alike whirling off into Gallery space!

”No one does this to me! Somebody has to pay! They were alive! And beautiful! And now they’re DEAD!

Blind rage consumes the Prince of Hollywood! Howling and screaming, he sprints across the Gallery and slams his fist into the wall, which yields before his terrible might like vanilla yellow crumble cake! Cracks split the wall up to the ceiling as he jerks his hand free; meanwhile, the other arm snatches an undamaged painting from the wall and smashes it over his own head!

This is my fault! They were too wonderful to be put on display! I’m to blame! How could this be?!

”Aaaaauugh!”

Like a monster eating its way through the canvas, Robin’s head rips through the picture of a lady lounging with grapes until his shoulders fracture the wooden picture frame into several sharp splinters in the carpet. This is not the man Jezzibelle hated when she entered; it has become a beast that is easy to fear, who turns his large, black eyes upon anything in the room that is beautiful…and destroys it.

A shower of stuffing erupts in the area as his quaint artist’s hands grip furniture upholstery and tear off huge chunks of vinyl and leather! Screaming and shouting and sobbing create a manic symphony over Robin’s ultimate and violent display of grief and agony!

A small wooden entable sails over Jezzibelle’s head before impacting with a dainty glass chandelier hanging overhead! Sparks erupt in a Vesuvian explosion as hot glass rains down on Jezzibelle, clinging to her hair and her clothing. The Gallery was a terrible scene when they entered, but with Robin Chanteclaire raging inside like a caged animal – who more than once looks about to lunge at Jezzibelle with open mouth and razor-sharp fangs before holding himself back and taking out his aggression on a smaller, unliving display piece – it is now an active tribute to pain.

Lila Starling

“Jezzibelle! It isn’t safe in here!” Lila snaps, grabbing the gypsy girl by the shoulder and dragging her forcibly out of the Gallery and into the foyer, where the guestbook has been overturned, the pillar it rested upon lying broken on the floor. “He’s losing control. We have to find Allan on our…”

Suddenly, Lila Starling shrieks, a sound that only serves to rattle Jezzibelle’s already fraying nerves. When the woman bolts from her side, Jezzibelle can see what instilled so much shock and horror inside of who it appears is now her only ally.

Sarah Rogers is crouched on her knees upon the foyer floor, her face pale and gray and her eyes looking bloated and puffy with deep fleshy reds around the rim. Her girlish stomach clenches miserably as she retches, vomiting a torrent of foreign blood onto the tiles. The stream is warm and sticky; it flows towards Jezzibelle’s feet. Next to Sarah is Allan Starling’s body, his throat torn open and his eyes rolled up into his head.

Strangely, not a single drop of blood gushes out of his body. The jugular vein, clearly exposed on the gaping wound in his neck, juts up like an old, unused pipe, dry as a desert mine.

“Li…Lilac. Help me.”

Sarah’s arms reach for Lila, who drops to her knees next to Allan’s body. “How dare you! Only Allan calls me that!” Lila screams before the back of her fist sweeps out at Sarah’s chin, knocking the girl up against the wall like a doll. “Allan! Drink! Drink drink drink!”

Frantic nails slice at Lila’s own wrist, trying to pry through the skin and draw copious amounts of blood. When a little wells to the surface, she shoves it into Allan’s mouth, piercing her own skin with his teeth, and begs him with trembling lips to live! “Drink, you bastard, drink! Oh-oh-oh, God, no…DRINK! DRINK DRINK DRINK!” she shrieks again, her voice so shrill that it sends Sarah into a fit of her own screaming! The sick and deathly looking actress crumples on the floor, clutching her guts, and begins vomiting more blood.

Jezzibelle Romana

She winces shrinking away from the falling glass, her eyes closing for a breif moment, then startles as she feels something touch her. Lila! Oh, Lila is okay. She sees the sight of the Prince about to attack her and immediately, without a fuss goes with her. She listens to Lila, but only halfway hearing her as she notices the woman onthe floor. More people...Okay. Then just as she was about to search more she hears Lila cry out Allan. She blinks, snapping out of whatever trance she may have placed herself in and rushing to Allan's side. "Allow me to feed him..." She begs, knowing well her blood would flow faster than Lila's. She's alive and it would be fresh. She doesn't try to force Lila away, what good would that do? No, instead just waits and offers her hand to her, letting her make a decision. "Please, give him my wrist." She is in a panic herself, her heart now pounding as she sees Allan's state. But why is she taking this better than Lila? The same reason she didn't react that badly in the gallery.

The part of her that snapped gave way further as her heart broke seeing Allan's current dispostion. She wants to hold him, comfort him, but how do you comfort something that is unconscious. Her eyes traveled the distance from Lila to Allan time and time again, not really caring what her part in this is, but wanting to know soon if not now who is responsible.

[Thee Independent]

Allan and Lila Starling

The Serpent must die, Apollo whispered to his sister in the shadows of Mount Olympus. I will kill it myself.

But I am the huntress, brother, Artemis argued with her headstrong and beautiful sibling. Let me pursue the beast. It cannot hide from my arrows.

Where you go you bring only shadows, Artemis, he shooks his head, solar fire ringing his head in a halo and his eyes burning with a controlled rage. The moon, your eye, is too large; it shall see you coming. And so it shall see me coming, too, but be blinded by my brightness. Then will I riddle its hide with searing justice, he grips a handful of arrows from his quiver. And you must promise me, that if it devours me as Cronos devoured us when we were babes, you will remain faithful to the memory of my light, and let the moon shine brighter in my memory.

Artemis scowled but agreed with him. They are your seers, brother. And you have my promise. You are stealing my title. What am I to be, if not the Huntress?

My beloved sister, he said, even as the Serpent stormed up the mountainside, and upon her lips he lay a kiss that burned with the heat of the sun and its Passion.

Lila remembers how tears used to burn; the stream of blood leaking from her tear ducts is cold, but she can remember the heat, and the feel of Allan's hand and his lips. All she can do is remember him, for he is gone. She knew it the moment his tormented little beast refused to rise and take her offering. Jezzibelle sees it, too, when Lila collapses in a heap upon his body, laying her face next to his and touching cheek to cheek; Lila's rich and bloody tears stream down the bridge of his nose and color his dry lips, but the body makes no move to take what's there.

Lila curls up in the fetal position next to Allan's body, draping one arm over him as her eyes seal shut and she returns, even if only in her mind, back to the womb, surrounded by their mother's blood, blood that has become the staple of their life since they met Robin Chanteclaire.

"Apollo lived," she whimpers. "That's what we wrote in the play. The Serpent didn't kill him. More dramatic license?"

Allan is as cold and unresponsive as Venus de Milo - but also just as beautiful in his death. She does not need arms to prove her worth to history and to the future; she is l'art pour l'art. Allan does not need life to prove his beauty. Not even the long-halted summons of Death could take it away from him. Robin would take his corpse and set it on a pedestal in his Gallery, if the amazing piece didn't carry the weight of so much loss.

And like globe, the coatrack, and the mutilated Queens, perhaps that was the intent.

"Allan."

When Lila opens her eyes, there's too much crimson ichor to see through; the woman is, for an instant, one of Apollo's seers, blinded by the wrathful curse of premonition. "I want to die, too."

"Lilac..."

Sarah's arm reaches out to touch the living twin's ankle, but Lila is unresponsive. Then the actress curls up into a ball in the pool of foreign blood and shudders, continuing into another bout of dry heaves while Robin rages and storms in the Gallery; things continue to break and shatter, and his shouts are bordering on terrifically animalistic.

Jezzibelle Romana

She feels heart heart break, seeing the sister and her slain dead brother. Now there are two vampire to avenge. In her mind she grew angry, This best not have a damned thing to do with Romeo... The woman's eyes softened considerably, her brow furrowing as that picture of mortal beauty emits a painfilled and ultimately sympathic expression. What to do now? To embrace her? To attempt to console? How am I to calm down Robin? He must calm down or we will never get anywhere.</I> Jezzibelle finally brought those lips to part with the words she dreds to speak. "We must show Robin, Lila. He won't listen to our words in that state, I'm sure, but seeing is believing." She leans forward, taking this moment to embrace the vampyric lady. "Lila, we have to show him now, or the creature who did this may hide well." Tears stream down Jezz's cheeks then fall onto the body of Allan.

Then she looks to Sarah. "You, tell me, who did this? What did it look like?" Her nostrils flare, rising to approach the living trinket. The pain in her eyes did not allow the anger to show, but it is there, begging to be unleashed. She had grown too attatched to Allan and is still that close to Lila. Her hands tremble as her body threatens to lose its strength. This day has been too trying. This was not meant to happen, or perhaps it was. Maybe she arrived just intime. She didn't get the chance to know Allan as much as she would have liked to. No...Would have loved to, but now her picture of Allan must live on in Lila. "And why, if I may be so bold, are you still alive?"

Lila Starling and Sarah Rogers

"Robin. Robin. Who?" Lila asks dreamily, refusing to open her eyes or to budge an inch from Allan's dried-out husk. When Jezzibelle embraces her, Lila's body is frigid to the touch. "Show Allan. He can't be seen like this. He's not in costume. Go tell Robin. He should know what to do."

The disjointed sentences fall from Lila with as much as care and concern as Robin Chanteclaire seems to select his own hackneyed words; only where his are a creative hodge-podge of poetry and garbage, hers are uttered through a film of distraction. Lila is not completely in Jezzibelle's world anymore, drawn back into some construct of memory and denial wrought after the realization that her twin brother has been murdered.

The frustration may show in Jezzibelle's voice when she fiercely interrogates Sarah Rogers, the actress-turned-blood-bulimic writhing on the foyer floor. "It? It?"

Sarah screams and covers her head. "It! No, get it away from me! It killed them all! It k-killed...th-them...blood everywhere, and I'm so hungry my stomach is cramping."

"Whoever you are...I don't remember your name," Sarah mutters. "Am I alive? I can't feel my legs...or my arms...it's here again! Run! Run or I'll die! I have to get out! I can't move! Don't touch me! Stop it!"

Sarah lifts her head and stares at Jezzibelle; but her gaze passes through her. The blonde woman is seeing things that have already happened, reliving them again and again in her mind. "Charles! Oh my God! What is it?! He's dying! Someone help him! Carla, we have to get out of here! Carla? Carla, oh shit! Shit shit shit! Ricardo, help me! WATCH OUT! The bookshelf! Eeeeeeeek!"

Her hands launch out and grab Jezzibelle by the shoulders, and her nails begin to dig into her flesh. Her mouth opens wide in a terrible shriek...

...and Jezzibelle sees the girl's incisors jut outward monstrously into fangs before the woman collapses again, sobbing.

Jezzibelle Romana

She hears Lila's response, though only half of her pays any attention to it. Her mind is now on Sarah. A frustration replaces the angry expression, as she glares at the girl. She watches though, as she relieves the moment, hoping that for once the woman would say something useful. Nothing! Nothing comes from that usele... The thought stops as her shoulders are grabbed, a wince and whimper as she feels her flawless flesh pierce under he woman's nails. She looks at her as if she were the mad one, but all that fades with a moment of shock as she sees the fangs on the girl. She arches a brow, the mind of the blood doll turned avenger jolted back to the train of thought. "Who was it?!" She asked as she now began to yell her question. She reaches for Sarah, trying to pull her to sit up. "Who!" She questions harder, wanting to know and now. How is she suppose to get answers out of someone who only babbles? She is just before the point when she'll want to scream. Just inches from going thoroughly insane herself. She needs something to make sense, for someone else to look at this from the outside, instead of being so...so...Much like a woman!

She comes to pause, bringing herself back to that moment in thought. A woman...How would a normal female handle this? A woman that cares for those within her arms reach. She looks into Sarah's eyes and frowns. "I'm sorry...Forgive me, but Ineed to know who the one who did this is. I need to know what he looked like or...Or maybe where he went. Can you tell me anything about this creature?" Trying to gain the paitence she doesn't have.

Sarah Rogers

"It was..."

Sarah stares off into space. Something inside of her moves, like an ingrown cthonic tendril wrapping itself around her brain and squeezing tightly. Her jaw locks and she begins shiver from head to toe.

"Hideous!" she hisses. Her body freezes up and she slides against the wall, going catatonic, inert.

Jezzibelle Romana

She throws up her hands and moves away from her. She looks about the halls, then back to Lila. Her nostrils flare, her fists clinched tightly. One more answer like that and she'll tempt her fate with approaching Robin, in all of his rage. "Lila, snap out of it." No longer the mother like paitence she pretended to have with Sarah, just as blunt as she always is. Her mind is slowly contorting into something warped and cold. Something heartless...The calous she's been fighting off for years is forming and now she is becoming dead without ever dying. "Lila, we have to take action now. Stop acting like a child. You disgrace your brother by keeping him here and you know it." Her fuse is growing shorter by the second. The Romani never had time for such follishness, but the time had never come where it was needed. The temptation to try her luck with Robin grew and it shows as serpentine green eyes peer behind her towards what's left of the gallery. Those frigid eyes return, not willing to withstand this ludicris display.

Robin Chanteclaire

Jezzibelle's heartless plea to Lila Starling is rendered moot when Robin Chanteclaire walks up behind her; the artist's hands are bleeding, his cuticles sliced open from gouging and tearing at every beautiful piece he owns, his unbridled rage forcing him to slice off the Sphinx's nose to spite its riddling face.

"What is this? And my childe, too?!" the Prince of Hollywood bellows. "What won't you take from me?!" he arches his back and shouts angrily at the ceiling, up to God in Heaven, or into the sky with the faint hope that his words fall upon the ears of whatever has wrought so much destruction and taken so many things from him.

"Allan! My boy! My little boy blue!" Robin chokes up, but unlike Lila, he does not need Jezzibelle's harsh words to bring him into line. Standing next to him, the woman witnesses a hot, passionate rage she'd never suspected possible from these dead monsters erupt inside of Robin Chanteclaire. The heat translates into action - at last, somebody is doing something!

But what Robin chooses to do is questionable, at best.

"Move, Lila," Robin orders, but she refuses to budge from her twin's corpse. Growling, he grabs her by the arm and lifts her as though she weighed nothing, and drags her away from Allan's body! The woman begins kicking and clawing and shouting unintelligibly at her sire, but he shoves her back and wraps his arms around Allan's body, lifting it from the ground.

"Give him back to me! He's mine! He's always been mine! Before you ever knew us, he belonged to me! Why are you taking him away from me?! Again?!" she howls and lunges at Robin.

"Ungrateful whelp!" Robin hisses, and Jezzibelle feels a painful throb in her jaw when the man's balled fist sweeps out and backhands Lila across the face. "Stay here and deal with the police! Can't you hear the God damn sirens?"

Jezzibelle hears them, too, whistling up Gold Street.

"And you," he says more softly to Jezzibelle, "Lila told me why you're here. I'll give you all the help I can give, but right now, I can do nothing. My hands are tied, for Christ's sake, and now look at this! I've lost my...my best and my brightest. Stay here. Tell the police...something. Fabricate. Or hide in my office. Lila has the key. Just don't leave. Please," he begs, his smoldering eyes boring into her. "Please don't leave before I get back. I need you here."

Lila looks as though she is going to try grasping for Allan's body again, but Robin's sudden harsh glare paralyzes her. He then whips about and, bathrobe trailing behind him, carries Allan's body out of the foyer and into the hallway.

"I am going to see the Prince about this."

Jezzibelle Romana

So suddenly reminded of her place, she turns quickly to face Robin. She steps back, looking down to Allan and Lila. She jumps as he exclaims, muscles tensing in just about every portion of her body. The gypsy woman knows nothing of how to handle someone of his power having such a reaction. Eyes wide, watching him in his fit with the higher power, wait for something to happen.

A hand lines the wall as he continues his grieving. At his request for Lila to move she looks to the female with a plea. Move, Lila. You have to move out of his way. She does not want Lila to get hurt and she knows nothing of Robin’s tolerance aside from the previously witnessed reactions to her own behavior. A chill travels quickly down her spine as she sees Robin lift her, her eyes closing, face hiding on the wall until another sound is heard. Lila hitting the ground brought those green eyes to lift and witness what Robin and Lila would do next.

“Lila, no!” She cries, biting her lip as she starts to move towards her, then sees his fist rise.

She stops, wincing harshly as she sees, for the first time, Robin strike someone. She looks to Robin as if he was a merciless tyrant. Her eyes leer at him, trying to fend off that disgusted expression. “Damn, Robin, she’s grieving. You didn’t have to hit her.” She stands up to the powerful creature, moving quickly to Lila, arms reaching out to embrace the undead woman. “You haven’t the right to ask her to withhold emotions you could not contain yourself,” hand flinging towards the gallery.

She hears the sirens, but still leave her eyes on Robin and, should her embrace have been accepted, her arms around the girl. “I will stay. I will deal with the police, but do not think I am finished with you. Appreciate that you are willing to help me, but there are still plenty more words to share.” She dares to speak of it further, then her eyes look to Lila. “Are you hungry?” She knew the obvious answer to the ridiculous question Are you okay? She simply couldn’t forgive Robin’s reaction. She has lashed out many times without remorse, but never to hurt someone physically…And not while they grieve.

Harsh green eyes gaze to Lila with a kindness that was almost unbelievable. She tries to smile, but in her heart she still feels the pain of Allan’s death. For that, against her will and without The Prince? She sighs and shakes her head, then looks to him. She would explain this somehow. “We need to move the survivors. We can’t have the police asking them questions, now can we?” She begs Lila with those eyes, to help her to be okay for now.

Lila Starling

Robin Chanteclaire is so preoccupied with the obvious death of his childe that Jezzibelle's arrogant words sound like little more than a mewling cat. When he is leaving, Allan's corpse bundled in his arms, he looks over his shoulder at the woman with a perplexed expression that asks, What do you want, kitten? More cream in your milk? Daddy has to go do something important, now, so Precious is just going to have to wait.

"What survivors?" Lila asks, moving her glassy eyes around the foyer. She puts a dry kerchief to her eyes and pulls it away, leaving a puffed red ring around her swollen orbs that makes her look, in her grief, like a gorgeous geisha at the kabuki theatre. "You're the only here still breathing."

Lila rubs the side of her face where Robin had struck her; that present throb mingled with the memory of her brother's gentle sweeps over the skin with his milky palm and she cannot thread the two feelings together, so with a befuddled shake of her head, she determines her own course of action.

"Let the police come. Let them ask their questions of the corpses. This is Robin's mess. Let him clean it up," she snaps, moving towards the hallway of Suite 24K. On the way she pauses and looks in at the carnage and destruction within the Gallery. The golden bars that held her are broken, but the crimson ones binding her may never go away.

"Help Sarah to her feet. We have to get her out of here. The police cannot find her in this state, or else we're all in trouble. I know a place that we can go...a place where Robin won't find us."

Jezzibelle Romana

She shakes her head. "You can go, but I told him I would stay, Lila. I'm so sorry, but I must remain here. You take Sarah. I will fend off the cops. I will tell them all that I know and all I know is nothing." She looks around, staring at the sireless vampire. "Just like all she can do is babble about things that have already happened, yet give no detail. Just that it was hideous." She shakes her head, then moves back to the gallery. When the police arrive, she will be in there, soaked in tears for her loss...And she will feign terror, but only to hide from herself that anger which boils deep within her. She isn't used to looking at such tragedies as coldly as she had and perhaps it will never sink in that these people were living creaures, much like herself.

She feels a migraine coming on, so much noise, yelling, crying... Isn't anything silent any more? No, not in the world of the dead. Something will always be there.

Her eyes lift to Lila, pausing right outside the room. "I need his help. I need to avenge my master and until I do, I will not rest. If I had been slain in this, I would not have truly died, for I know I would still be searching for Rex Harris. Romeo is a thorn in alot of sides, maybe I should be the one to end their affliction." She must be mad. Even as a vampire, how would she end his reign of suffering?How could she alone regain her master? There is a way in the world she could. Not a single way in the world. Or is there? Somewhere in her mind there is a way. There is a glimmer of hope as to how to suceed. Perhaps she will be underminded. Maybe it will be an underestimation that wins this.

Lila Starling

"Don't be a fool, Jezzibelle," Lila cautions immediately, her voice so tainted with hurt that it almost sounds cruel and snappish.

"You are a pawn in our games. It is our way of life, our nightly habit, to raise you up to the heights we need you or sacrifice you like bloody lambs if it means preserving ourselves. Robin may fawn over you. He may call you a pearl, or a diamond, or a God damn bowl of cream, but for all his interest in you, he'll make you out as the perpetrator and not the victim, if it means preserving our...our Masquerade," she says bluntly, no longer seeming to care how freely she speaks with this woman who has borne witness to things that no human being should have to see.

"Don't you see?" Lila lifts a wavering, dopey Sarah from the floor and tries to straighten her out. "If you're the only person here when the police get up here, you're their number one suspect. And look! Robin is gone! He has an alibi, but you won't. You can't do a damn thing for your lost Rex from the state penal colony. And once you're there, I can't help you."

"Show Robin how valuable you are. Make him want you. Make him miss you. Show up to ask him again once the smoke has cleared. Knowing him, he'll be in shambles," she says, a touch of sadness behind the malice in her voice. "He'll do anything to help you then, when he needs someone the most."

Jezzibelle Romana

She stares at Lila for a moment, her every instinct telling her to go. What is the word of a gypsy anyway, but a promise that will never be forfilled? She takes a deep breating, knowing this will not be the last broken promise. She knows Lila would never lie to her. She barely knows Lila but has confidence in that. She chews those flawless lips as she nods. "Fine." She moves towards the vampires. Lila's words hit her hard, waking her from these nightmare-like time. What was going through her mind? She is seeking wisdom. Wisdom that is locked away within her mind of something her mentor or master told her. Something that would stand out. If only she had a bible of their words. No, Lila would have to be her guide in life. She is right after all. Mortals are pawns in the world of the undead. Those who know are at risk and those who don't know... Their bliss is to be envied.

She starts on her way out, moving anything that may block their path as best she could. "Where are we going to go?" She asked, though not demanding as she had before. Someone else has control of the situation, so now her fears start their tirade. What now, little gypsy girl? No one to protect you. You are a target now more than ever. Someone knows what knowledge you have and many will not think of your life as valued. You are at risk. And what of this new vampire? How are you so certain she will not end your life? You know nothing of her. Her body shivering softly, though still she seems cold to those watching. Cold on the inside. All those people dead and the only reaction was to look for a man she had only just met...A monster. How poetic...

Lila Starling

“To safety.” There is nothing safe or reassuring about the Lady vampire’s answer as she turns to look over her shoulder at the young woman who is only now beginning to realize, or to remember, that her place in both the virtual and the literal food chain is not secured, and certainly not at the top. For an instant, Jezzibelle is staring into a mirror standing in Lila’s glassy irises, cracked from the center with streaking lines of blood. If there is anyone truly cold on the inside, it is the dead. Like objects, they can break, and they can bleed, but there is no respite in a still-beating heart.

And Lila looks so much like Allan, her lips moving in a parody of his syrupy tone.

“We can’t take Sarah out like this. Look at her,” she steadies the girl on her feet like an Anatomy Class skeleton. The girl has vacated her brain temporarily, staring fixedly upon the massive puddle of blood at their feet; her evening dress is blotched with blood down the front. “The police aren’t at the building yet. C’mon, lets get her in the elevator. We can’t stay on this floor. The suite upstairs is empty – the owner’s in Versailles this week. I’ve got a key. We can get her showered and in a new dress, and then we’ll head to the…”

Paranoid, Lila stares around the foyer, and twitches her nose. “I’ll tell you once we leave. C’mon, we have to go. Now.” Moving quickly, Lila dashes into the Gallery and lifts a torn curtain from the floor where Robin had ripped it from the wall. She drapes Sarah in it, then completely swaddles her like an infant and lifts her off the floor, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.

“Go to the elevator!” she order Jezzibelle. “The floor above.”

Once the trio of women are upstairs, they rush to the front door of the upstairs suite. Lila removes a card key from her pocket, slips it into the slot on the wall, and the doors unlock. Quickly, she carries Sarah in and closes the door behind them. This suite is nowhere near as opulent as Robin’s below, but it isn’t anything to sneeze at, either. Dedications to French and Italian culture litter the suite, including an old Parisian bathroom, where Lila takes Sarah, tears off her dress and tosses the blood-soaked blue gown out the door to Jezzibelle.

“There’s a hearth in the reading room. Find it and light it up, then burn her dress. And your heels,” she points at tiny blotches of blood on the top of them. The shower hisses as she turns it on and bathes Sarah, now mumbling incoherently. “Then we’ll leave here like nothing happened. Is there anything else you can think of that we should do?"

[Thee Independent]

Jezzibelle Romana

Why is it now that so much must crumble? Why all at once? When it rains, it pours…Pours hard. How completely selfish on her part? Lila had lost a brother…A brother she had just seen not but moments before his untimely death. Oh drats, when is death ever ‘timely.’ To safety? Is there such a thing? She sighs, parting with her thoughts and forcing herself to move forward. Contemplation at such a time is for the late and old, and both end in death. She will have to worry about such things after they are as safe as one gets in this World of Darkness.

Her feet move quickly, as eyes glance over the woman. “Very well.” Still following and closely. She has a better chance with Lila, then alone. Her hands move to help the woman, but knows well she is best to carry the newest addition to the vampire herd alone. Lila is very much stronger than Jezz, as frightening as that reality may be. Those slender digits grasping her hips.

“Good idea.” She acknowledges. She follows Lila into the gallery, thinking this to be a step backwards on the trail to safety, but leaves her two cents where they belong, within her now tainted mind. She watches the effortless actions of the vampyric woman; in the back of her mind thinking that at least the odds would be a little better should she gain immortality. She feels a shiver down her spine, her body shuddering softly.

A blink of her eyes, as she is forced back to the here and now, then she nods and hurries to the elevators.

She walks in the door, turns around to shut it, then turn back just in time for the dress to hit her torso. She grabs it, just barely catching the cloth before it hits the floor. She looks to Lila as if the woman was mad, her nostrils flaring softly.

She then nods and practically rips her shoes off her feet. Those shoes were expensive and brand new. It isn’t like her funds are abundant, or her family is alive and wealthy. She had to work very hard to get them and now has to burn them? She sighs in frustration then shakes her head, moving to light the fireplace. She tilts her head, looking to the flames as if remembering something or somewhere else. “Do you remember your childhood?” Distracted for a moment, she places her shoes and the woman’s dress within the flames. “What it was like to be young and ignorant?” She stands up, then walks into the bathroom. Should do? She shrugs, gesturing to the younger vampire. “When will she need to feed? Or perhaps you would like to leave that to me? Is that the plan?” A little bitter about it, but not too unwilling. “And how far is this place? Do you know what vehicle we can use to get there?” She pauses a moment. "And how exactly, are going to get passed the cops? I'm sure they'll do a fine job of surrounding the building."

Lila Starling

"Feed?"

Lila sits down on the ornate porcelain commode with a sterling silver handle, at last taking a moment to being processing the past without allowing it to overcome her. "We do not feed. We take our meals, we drink, we enjoy dining, just like you. Animals feed."

Though hardly abrasive in how she corrects Jezzibelle, Lila is pressured nonetheless. A flicker of bitterness and anger flashes dangerously in her eyes as she stares through the misty shower door at Sarah's stationary figure on the opposite side. The open wound on Allan's throat and the vapid ingenue's expurgation of vitae all over the floor spoke volumes to the Toreador, and it has been an uphill battle to avoid obliterating the weak neonate for her transgression.

But it wasn't her fault.

"Sarah has already had her fill. More than her fill," Lila snaps angrily, keeping the gruesome details tucked away from Jezzibelle 'lest she make her plea to be treated more like a human sound hypocritical. "She'll be fine."

"The sooner we move, the better. When we get downstairs, don't say a word and just follow my lead. I know how to handle this situation. The Arclight is in central Hollywood, several blocks down the street, near Orange Avenue. If you have anybody you need to contact, I know a phone you can use."

Jezzibelle Romana

Animals and Monsters last time I checked…Though perhaps now is a good time to take enough time to consider and acknowledge that vampires are people too… She shrugs, nodding softly. “Forgive me for being so ignorant to an aspect of a life… Unlife I should have no part in.” Though it would be nice for Jezz to remember her manners while in the protection of such a creature. Monster or not, she depends on Lila and regardless of whether or not she likes it, her life depends on her. She watches as the clothing burns in the fireplace, her mind quite curious if she shouldn’t just set the whole place aflame. “Maybe we should just burn it all…” A distracted and barely audible voiced opinion.

She blinks, looking to Lila. “What do you mean, she’s had her fill?” Her eyes opening to the scene as it plays in her mind, her version of that story is playing in her mind right now. Yes, that would only figure, wouldn’t it? What’s next? Will Lila be taken from me too? She half way wanted to beg Lila not to die, but that would be a little silly now, wouldn’t it? Utter foolishness. She rubs her arms, trying to get rid of that frigid feeling… It isn’t on the outside, Jezzibelle. It isn’t but a feeling within that is only a taste of what you could become. “Lila…She didn’t…To…” She shakes her head, shrugging it off. There isn’t any conceivable way. There isn’t any way at all that she could take Allan. Vampires are stronger than humans. It’s a rule. Well, in her mind it is anyway.

<i>Need to contact? Yes, because we all know I’m so popular…<i> Her bitter resolve, as she shakes her head. ”No, but perhaps we should call a cab. Several blocks down is such a long walk.” Surely she didn’t expect Jezzibelle to be able to run that fast, then carrying the sireless childer along, regardless of weight, would have to seem a little odd.

Lila Starling and Sarah Rogers

"She did."

Lila's mouth creases angrily, kneading a bathroom towel in her trembling hands. Jezzibelle understood; at least Lila thinks she does, but now she keeps mostly silent about the details because she doesn't want to hear them repeated, doesn't want to hear the gruesome facts presented to her through her own lips.

"It touched me..." Sarah whimpers from inside the shower.

Towel fibers pop and fray under Lila's hands. The lady vampire is tearing the sturdy linen in half as she absent-mindedly tugs and pulls on it. "Believe me, Jezzibelle, its taking every ounce of my strength not to tear her to pieces and leave her in this God-forsaken building."

"It grabbed me..." the girl in the shower continues, her voice wavering with emotion as she relives the terrifying encounter in explosive flashes of memory.

Lila notices that she is destroying the towel and stops twisting it up and down and around her hands. "It wouldn't do any good, though. Without her, I might never know who did this to Allan..."

"So ugly...I can't still be alive..." Sarah cries out, breaking down into tiny sobs beneath the hot shower water.

And in that moment, Jezzibelle witnesses a discomforting change overcome Lila's demeanor. That tiny piece of Allan that she carried around with her - in her movements, in her voice, in her gracefulnss and lady-like charm - immediately vanishes along with her anger. The woman turns to look into the bathroom mirror, and it is as if she cannot see herself. She puts a hand against the image of her cheek, one so very smooth and flushed like Allan's had been, but the glass is cold to touch.

"You might never know who did this to him," she says, enigmatically. "Sarah is no longer human. You know this. Whoever killed Allan and the rest of them did this to her...but I don't know why. I just can't understand it."

Jezzibelle's comment about a cab brings Lila to, and she stares numbly at the woman. "No, we'll be taking my car. I'd rather not leave it here, since I don't intend to come back for it. We'll be taking the elevator down to the Resident Garages. If there are any police there, they'll be in short order. Like I said, leave those details to me."

Walking across the bathroom floor to Jezzibelle, Lila removes her own shoes and gently hands them to her. "Throw these in as well. I would leave you to help Sarah out of the shower, but...but you understand, don't you? She may be full, but she isn't stable. I can handle her. You may not be able to. I hardly know you," the woman admits, staring at the tiny blue squares on the floor, "but neither of us wants to lose anybody else."

Jezzibelle Romana

It was hard to tell what upset her more. The fact that Sarah did it or that Jezzibelle didmind as much as she thought she would. As if chip by chip, peices of her once sane mind just fell away. What was it about Allan that made him so different from the other various monsters out there? Maybe it was that he sought to make his heart beat from the chasmic void that vampires become, from the hollow they find themselves dwelling in.

Her eyes focus on the towel in Lila's hands. What an odd coincidental analogy? Much like Lila's hand gnaws away at that towel, the experiences she is face peel away as mind. Her thoughts found peace in watching that action take place. Over and over gain, she saw the Vampire Lady's hands tug and toil.

A startle, as the woman speaks, the pretty porcelin doll that she had to become. Her pupils expand and collapse repeatedly as they adjust from the stare she'd held. Touched her? The least of her worries now, don't you think? She ponders, almost curious enough to become one just to see what it's like.

Then slowly her eyes lift to Lila, her own heart pounding in her ears, as if it follows the rhythm of the popping threads. "Forgive me for being so insensitive." She states, her brows even moving to furrow. Wake up and snap out of it. This isn't like you at all. She blinks a few times, then looks back to Sarah. She tries to feel for her. Tries to feel something for the suffering the woman has, no doubt, faced. Nothing.

She tilts her head, eyes closing to put herself in the girls place, but even now she hasn't enough information to go on. Never Allan. Not in the darkest hour could she have ever...Frenzy. Yes, if it was indeed a frenzy. A logic that is dying, attempting to help her make sense of this. Her eyes opening as her muscles are scolded into relaxation.

Nodding, she looks to Lila. "You're right." Finally, a reason to make sure she makes it through this. Motivation to help Sarah live in her undeath. Justification for her treason to be tolerated for now. Only for now? Surely Lila would not allow her to live much longer after that. Treachery could not be taken lightly, could it? Even if it was a frenzy or just desperation...

Well, you are. Came the bitter thought from the girl's mind, though remaining unspoken. It isn't her place to speak to her.

She backs away from Lila, some part of her still normal, as her fear finds its way to her reasoning. Above all else, she must look out for herself and with the lack of expression and complete disregard for her own image, she knows that could very well mean bad news. Her look then softens, now aware of that hurt that brought her to the mirror. How very quickly anger had turned to suffering, even if there was a lack of display.

Then looks to Lila, realizing she had been looking at nothing but a reflection. An image on polished glass. She tilts her head. "I am no better off than you. I know less of vampiric reasoning and rightly so." She lowers her eyes, head nearly following, but not casting down as if the motion was foreign.

She nods, placing a hand on her stomach. "Very well, I will simply follow your lead. I can't think of anything more." She isn't hungry right, nor does she believe that her appetite will be piping up anytime soon.

Jezz takes the shoes and nods. "Okay..." She moves for the fireplace, though hearing Lila continue, she stops. Her eyes lift, looking to the woman. She nods. "Yes, I understand completely. New vampire and fresh meat don't mix." She gives Lila a strong, but reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. You know what you're talking about. I could barely handle a human male, much less a vampiric woman." She gives her an empty laugh, her way of trying to take the weight of guilt away from Lila, though not exactly in the mood to be cheery and uplifting.

Lila Starling and Sarah Rogers

Not much time passes while Jezzibelle observes the burning clothes; the gauzy blue blood-stained dress is gone within minutes, and even though the evidence of the high heels goes away, by the time this flat's owner returns, the crime scene will be too cold to follow. And that's on the off-chance that the France-bound owner realizes the ash in his hearth is a little waxy.

"Just wait in here, Sarah. I'll get you something to wear," Lila says in the bathroom.

"But I'm so cold!" Sarah responds. "So cold...and sick inside...rotten inside. Was the cream cheese spoiled?"

"No, hon. Relax. Don't think about the Gallery. Don't think about anything. Just stay quiet and follow after me."

Lila walks across the living room and enters a wardrobe closet mostly loaded with expensive, collarless suits and smart ties, but she pushes all of these aside and digs into the rear of the closet. "Ah hah."

Knowing Sarah's dress size thanks to the late Carla's constant mention of it (with the customary tone of jealousy Lila remembers but knows she'll never hear again) Lila produces a pleated red dress with a petite waist and a strong shoulderline. "The playboy keeps his ladies' dresses in his wardrobe. He won't miss this one. This belonged to the Spaniard, I think, who dumped him last month."

Once Sarah is appropriately dressed, Lila escorts her out of the bathroom with the rugged motion that's been guiding her since they left Robin Chanteclaire's suite - and the memory of Allan's corpse laying in the foyer. The young ingenue hardly seems to notice either of the women there, and scratches absently at her scalp.

"It itches," she observes vacantly, before putting her face in her hands and beginning to cry again.

"There, there, Sarah. You have to keep it together so that we can get out of here. We don't have any time left. Come."

Expecting Jezzibelle to follow along behind, Lila leaves the empty suite and walks down the hallway to the elevator. Once inside, she presses G2 rather than Lobby to get to the parking garage.

Under other circumstances, Lila might be talkative as they drop down to the garage. But tonight, the aegis of terrible events unfolding is too strong. It holds her tongue fast, the thoughts behind her impassive mask a mystery.

Jezzibelle Romana


She said nothing as she watched her vampiric friend help the girl. A chill rain down her spine, as the events reocurred in her mind, though nothing new came of them. She was simply attempting to piece them together. Trying to dig for evidence that may not have even been there. A glance up as she realized it was finally time to leave and left she did.

She follows Lila into the elevator and watched the numbers with a sort of anticipation. A strange hope crosses her mind. The hope that she couldn't quite pin down the origin of. She hopes that her sister has not befallen such a fate. That her life is so much better, so much cozier than this one.

Lila Starling and Sarah Rogers

The Sheraton's sterile air whooshes over the women's shoulders when the elevator doors open on the lower floor of the parking garage; normally, the place would be dimly lit and crowded with shadows, but the reflection of alien lights, alternating between red and blue, filter in from outside. The LAPD are here, just outside the hotel. Their presence and the image of their lights create a sense of urgency in the women's movements, one that causes Lila to stride with a stronger yet still unsuspicious gait. Even Sarah seems to perk up at the sight of them and manages to keep up with Starling.

A sparkling midnight blue Acura, that year's model, chirps at them, and immediately Lila turns towards it, the alarm deactivator and car key in her right hand. Footsteps echo in the parking garage, coming up the lane from around the corner. "Get in," Lila whispers, unlocking all the doors.

Lila gives Sarah the shotgun seat - so that she is near her and can make easy eye contact with her - leaving Jezzibelle to ride in the comfortable, roomy back seat. Lila starts the car, backs out of the space, and starts creeping down the path with her lights off when there is a knock at her driver's side window.

Sarah cringes and bolts from the sound, slamming her shoulder against the passenger side door! "Its here! Again! The knocking, it knocked first!" she hisses in a hoarse voice, panicking.

"Sarah! Sarah. Relax." Lila meets eyes with Sarah and issues the pleasant command with a kind of strange, mesmeric force of character that even Jezzibelle can sense something unusual is occurring between the women - Sarah immediately slumps in the seat, looking dazed. "Jezzibelle, keep an eye on her."

A blinding flashlight beam streaks in through Lila's window. The window rolls down automatically and an officer with a black hat bearing the LAPD insignia leans down and peers into the car. First, the flashlight is in Lila's face, then Sarah's, who doesn't even flinch from the full force of it in her eyes, and finally on Jezzibelle in the back seat.

"Good evening, ladies. Where are you headed tonight?" he asks.

"Out to a movie," Lila responds matter-of-factly. "What's going on? We saw all of the police lights outside," she feigns ignorance like a pro. Jezzibelle can be certain Lila has never been given a traffic citation - so beautiful and darling that no officer would want to cause the woman any stress that would cause her perfect hair to split, or the smooth skin beneath her eyes to grow dark and hollow.

"Can't say much about it, ma'am," the officer responds plainly. "May I see your driver's license, please? Also, are you ladies residents or guests here at the Sherato-"

"Officer," Lila speaks, and the sound of her voice beckons mysteriously to Jezzibelle as well as to the policeman. Even Sarah lifts her gaze and looks directly at the back of Lila's head. Attentive and listening, the officer stares blankly into Lila's eyes, listening.

She goes on, now that she has his attention, with that same intense, slow and meaningful voice she used earlier with Sarah. "I just got back from a two week vacation in Paris where I lost my boyfriend of three years to a nightclub singer, as well as my purse with my license, credit cards, everything. My friends are taking me out for the evening to a movie and some dancing, just to help keep my mind off of everything that went wrong. I don't have my license with me, and I'm sorry, but please, don't complicate things any further for me. I've had...just the most awful two weeks in history. I would really appreciate it if you would just let us enjoy the evening, forget you ever saw us and then go about your police business as though nothing happened. And...and if you have a sister, call her and tell her you love her," Lila finishes, placing her hand on the car door.

The officer stands there mutely for a few seconds and then nods. "Enjoy your movie, ladies. Sorry to bother you." But instead of stepping away from the vehicle, he stands there with a blank expression on his face until Lila thanks him, lets off on the brake, and continues forward and out of the parking garage.

At the top of Gold Street, in the front courtyard of the great Sheraton Hotel, ten LAPD squad cars rest on the grass. An ambulance headed for the hotel passes them as they drive up Gold Street, bathing the occupants of the vehicle in the same red-and-blue lights as before.

"They're going to need more than one," Lila mutters, spontaneously developing a lead foot and zipping through the traffic to reach the Arclight Theatre.

Jezzibelle Romana

She keeps up with Lila and Sarah as best she could, used to walking fast, especially with the life she’s managed to lead. Her eyes wander only a moment and yet with purpose, to the ground, as her bare feet hit the floor of the garage. It’d been a while since she’d walked outside barefoot. A long while. She turns her head, lifting those pretty green eyes to the chirping of the new car. Her almost perfectly manicured hands moving to the handle of the door, then quickly opening it. A gentle tug brings the door to a close. Such an eventful night, what next?

Jezzi jumps, a startled look coming over her, then a hand coming to her chest. She had only just gotten settled in, then she looks up. A spiteful glance, perfectly kempt, though now a little tussled, dark locks shimmering in the shifting light. Damn police. Her eyes shoot up, staring at Sarah. She really hates cops. Just doesn’t like them at all, her eyes sight shifting to Lila, glad she’s there and the one driving to handle all of this. She is wanting out of here more than anything…Well, almost anything.

The gypsy girl shudders softly at that, though without really knowing why. Oh and to further ease her discomfort, seeing the woman slump in obedience! Perfect. She doesn’t like the thought of being controlled. Suppose it is better than being dead, yes? Or undead for that matter. She squints, though those eyes almost glare to the officer. She finally looks back to Sarah, the request to watch her complied with, though not sure what exactly she’d do if anything were to happen. Certainly her instincts would kick in, wouldn’t they?

Good evening? Where is he from? Can’t be from here.[/I] Her own defiant thought, bitter and in a sour mood from the earlier events. Burn good shoes, having to carry around a vampire that dared to drink Allan’s blood, now having to hide from a member and leader of high society, not to mention the other various things that may or may not want to slay her for simply living on. Just perfect. Move to the states. It will be such a wonderful opportunity for your sister and you. You can get a job, earn more money, and be a respectable member of society… She heard the words of her peers and elders. Telling her of things they’d never seen for themselves. If this is the America they were speaking of, they should know it to be a hoax. Freedom. That’s the dreams you have at night, when you’re lucky enough not to have nightmares.

Her attention brought quickly to Lila and the Officer. Eyes blinking softly, pulled from a staring daze of her own, though not like that of Sarah. Her attention snatched, ears tuning in to what Lila would have to say. The earlier chill ran down her spine once more. She could see the effects of such a tone, but…perhaps a past experience she wishes not to recall. She watches Lila, a sort of impressed look upon the Romani’s face. Admiration. How perfectly she manifested her absent innocence and ever present feminine charm. The last addition struck a chord on her, hands curling to a fist, clenching her dress. Her mind wandering once more to her sibling, the only other surviving member of Romana. How dare fate be so cruel? Expose her to all this and leave her to wonder of her sister’s whereabouts? As the car moves on, she attempts to find an expression on Lila’s face in the rear view mirror. She doesn’t want to say anything just yet, though the concern of her friend encrypted on her tanned features. She worries for Lila.

She smirks at Lila’s remark, “Indeed.” Came the woman’s reply, trying to atleast lighten the mood up a little. What else could she do? Worry and panic are evils that can not be afford at this point. “Any plans coming to mind?” Planning ahead is something she would do, aside from the fact that she hasn’t a clue what is going on or what will happen when they get there.