Capturing Midnight: A Post Blood Canticle RP

[boo radley]

Louis nodded. "I must go now." And with that, he swiftly turned on his heel and left.

Pascal's flight had finally landed. London to Newark Airport. Next stop, New Orleans.

(Mael and Pascal are in intros)

[alldrenched]

Stella looked about the empty room. She wanted to wait, to speak to Mona, but she had no patience. Mona needn't read her mind to know where she went, Stella decided.

She stepped outside, almost swooning as the fragrant breeze whipped her hair up and tossed it back down onto her shoulder. She stood in the courtyard, feeling the thoughts that sputtered from Michael and Pieter over the city. Pieter had seen Julien, he had been warned about something that Stella couldn't pick from his exhausted mind.

"Julien, are we parted forever?" she asked the wind as she took to it. No voice came from the creamy black sky to comfort her, no lovely French accent in the darkness. Stella wanted to weep suddenly, at the inhuman feeling of the cold wind, at the height, at the feeling of being so alone, with no connection to the earth, to anyone at all as she flew.

She wrapped her jacket around her tighter, but it didn't make her warmer. She stared forward, at the horizon of city lights. And when one horizon passed another grew, glowing ever before her, guiding her to the coast.

With terrifying speed she traversed half the country, laying back with her arms outspread as she flew along.

[boo radley]

Pascal walked out of the airport slowly. He would drive down, he knew Talamascans were here. For example, Jacqueline. He could sense the other vampires, too, the ones he had long searched for. One, he noted, was new. She was running across the country. And though he could not pinpoint her exactly, he knew who she must be. She had the same mind as before.

Stella.

[alldrenched]

Stella felt someone sense her presence, she was startled and almost fell out of the sky in surprise. She steadied herself and kept on her course, though she closed her mind. She sent herself out of her body and found the person who saw her, something she had done often in life.

Pascal, she thought.

He was going to New Orleans, likely called by Pieter or Sterling, she assumed since he had cloaked his thoughts. She didn't know of his relationship with Jacqueline so she thought he was just called on because he was one of the few members allowed to do field work on vampires.

[boo radley]

Pascal frowned. Stella was a vampire? That threw things off by an immeasurable amount. He did not want to hurt her. It was just... It was just... Jacqueline's doing.

He still had that very raw, very bare form of respect for Lestat de Lioncourt. He did not want to go thundering after him without a good, solid way to keep himself safe. And he knew there were some vampires here in New Jersey, weren't there? Weren't there? A certain vampire... an ancient, in particular...

[alldrenched]

Stella flew on through the darkness and the thin air. When darkness wrapped around a world of lights, she knew she was near the coast. She slipped out of herself, she did not want to feel the freezing wind that thrashed at her hard body, or the loneliness of the height and the speed. She slipped into herself, thinking with her eyes shut, her body still roaring across the velvety black sky.

Stella thought of Julien, and of Deirdre, and lastly of Charlotte, who everyone said she favoured, in looks and manners. She wondered if they were there, like Michael saw them, all together, trying as they might to help the family. Stella wished suddenly that she had Julien's old chest, the one with the records, and few journals that Mary Beth had never found, and those grotesque dolls, made out of the Designees' bones and hair and spit.

She wished she had some sort of totem that could give her conviction when she called on them, something that could help her to regain the only real belief she had. She had trusted in the family as others did god, and the family had been so many things. The Mayfairs had been so strong, and as the saying goes, richer than God, then. She never had to think on religion but as some other people's salvation; people who didn't know their ancestors, who didn't have a socially developed moral compass, or a real family. But now she was something apart from that family, where she had lived like a good pagan, calling on the spirits she loved to aid her.

She didn't know what she would do without that guiding her, and she felt when she thought on it, that she would break. She felt more fragile in her strong immortal body than in her sore and dying one. All emotions were stronger, all fears worse, and more precise, all of her wounds had deepened.

All of this, down to her new parasitic existence she could blame on Rowan. But tonight was not a night to die, she wanted to know more of what she was and could do before she went into some foolish battle with Lestat, for surely that should follow if she killed Rowan.

When she woke from her thoughts and opened her eyes she was very near San Francisco.

[Jacksbonnielass]

ooc: Aparna can you please tone down Pascal's color or something? That red kills my eyes. Sorry this took me a bit, I've been busy.

~San Francisco~

Lestat awoke in his suite at the Fairmont, his ego wouldn't let him stay at a small hotel, unless he had no other choice. He'd drug Rowan there after he stopped off and made a phone call to his banker in London, he'd gotten money wired to his bank here in San Francisco just to get this suit, it was one of the Balcony Suite's, the black wrought iron balcony reminded him of New Orleans, and the colors in the room were suitable enough for him and not the least bit tacky. He had paid a bit more in bribing for the room, and for the dark curtains, they reeked of storage and moth balls, and clearly hadn't been used in years, but they worked for keeping the sun out when he slept. He headed out, going through the lobby and out onto the streets, he hadn't thought to bring a change of clothes, he could always call someone to send some of his coats. He reached Rowan's house, letting himself in as if he lived there and followed the music, wherever music was, Rowan was there.

[boo radley]

(ooc: Sorry dear)

[alldrenched]

Stella felt Lestat wake like the earth itself was shaking. A creature so strong, prowling somewhere out there in the darkness. She held back from cocking her head at the feeling, a movement that always made her focus more, or perhaps just feel more focused. She turned her attention back to the concierge and finished checking in.

"Welcome to the Huntington Charlotte Bruguière."

Admittedly it wasn't the best alias but it was the first one she thought of when they asked. She was being foolish, getting caught up in everything around her and not thinking things through.

"We have do have a suite available, but how long will you be staying with us."

Stella stared at them for a minute, her doe eyed glaze hidden beneath her deeply tinted shades. "I am not sure, business here may take some time." Her faux French accent made her oddities simpler to accept it seemed. She smiled and nodded slowly rather than shaking his hand as he showed her to the room.

She followed him along as he carried her lone bag past the beautifully arranged centerpieces on large marble tables to the elevator.

As the gold tinged antiqued mirror coated elevator climbed with its usual steady power the young bellhop looked to her. He had been well groomed but still was afraid to offer too much.

He looked back to her bag and smiled,"It seems you packed lightly Mame. If you need any more clothing or anything I think the concierge would be happy to help." He had a bit of a slow southern drawl, then looked at the buttons feeling awkward, worried Stella was the kind of private guest who might find even this an intrusion.

Stella smiled to calm him,"Yes, I might just need that,"she lied.

He perked up and led her to the room,"Here it is Ms Bruguière," he said with a smile,he was proud to work here, proud of the service here in this fine hotel. The thick carpets in the suite were clean and lineless, though freshly vacuumed, the fabric on the chair seemed pressed and neat and fluffy, all at the same time, and the large baskets of goodies that filled the room made him smile, along with the fresh flowers. He took pride in all of this as he showed it too her.

Stella smiled at this, this man was delightful, his very manner, sweet and demure though masculine made her want to wrap her arms around him and hold him like a cuddly animal.

She slipped off her glasses and smiled at him, he was explaining everything in the baskets toh her, but it came off perfectly, she felt pampered rather than patronised. And all of that he thought about.

She nodded along and when he finished his spiel she took his hand, with hers, ignoring the shock of delicious warmth that this sent through her she handed him four hundred dollars, wrapped in a few ones so he wouldn't notice and refuse.

When he left she collapsed on the bed, his smell filled the air, and the smell of the maids that had been in here earlier, and the concierge who had checked on the room when she had called. She took great whiffs of this smell, it overwhelmed the sweet smell of the flowers, it ate the smell of cleaning supplies, it drowned out the smell of her own perfume (something she had spritzed on her clothing because she couldn't smell herself anymore, in fact she was panicked and believed she had no scent any longer.)

She sipped it slowly as she breathed, it was delicious. She could smell the nerves, the sweetness, the salt, the blood, the deodorant he put on that morning. Her hunger was growing.

She pushed her palm into it and stared at the ceiling, wondering at it all.


Rowan heard the door open, she felt the air begin to stir as he moved below. She smiled silently, her prince had come, her lovely monster, the sun had set and made her pumpkin a carriage again.

But this was dreamy and wistful and not at all her usual thoughts, it was the wine with dinner working in her slowly.

She stared out over the sea, dark save for the small glimmers of boats and the reflection of the moon and stars. It seemed so peaceful and dangerous, and inviting.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, the usual warnings from some ancient chromosome on one old, reptilian strand of DNA deep within her, notifying her of his presence though she already knew he was there.

The music that was playing was one of a usual selection of composers, it was unromantic, chiming and falling, almost violent, nearly like frilly war drums.

She turned finally and saw him there. She was out of the sensuous silk suits of the south and in a slim pair of over washed jeans and a pale blue cowl neck sweater. The soft cashmere kept off the night chill here, and was comfortable, familiar in this house. Her eyes were darkened by it to a pale grey blue and her ashen hair had deepened already, from just a day out of the scorching southern sun, and as she ruffled it with her hand it felt silky and was pushed out of her face, only to fall back into it. She looked younger, more delicate in the large sweater with its rolled down neck. Her thinness accentuated against her height.

She looked to him, his long golden mane a frizzled explosion, making him look more wild, with his crazed, hypnotising blue eyes. There was something beautiful about him when he was like this, just woken and a tiny bit starved, it made him looked like a beast ready to pounce, it made him look paler and deceptively weak in her witch eyes.

She couldn't decide what she liked better, him pounding with rich blood, warming her with his touch, with his cheeks red and full and his tan showing through, or like this, slightly gaunt and dangerous.

She raised an eyebrow,"What adventures do you have for us tonight?"

[alldrenched]

(Double Post: I was bored and avoiding work. Sorry for the gore )

Pieter laid back. He knew she wasn't coming, she had forgotten or had known there was no point in it.

But it hurt him more than he would like to think.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Communications from the Elders and for the Elders. He had to answer them, a junior member on his first field work alone in Cambodia, investigating a haunting, an older woman speaking of leaving the order, retiring and marrying finally in her dotage, and last a message for him.

Pieter, it said informally.

Please return to the Amsterdam Motherhouse soon. The Order needs its General, Sterling will handle the Mayfair case.

The Mayfair case, and the brief "recommendation." The Talamasca did not work as other organisations might, you can be it's leader and yet still get orders.

He deleted it without a second glance or an attempt at a reply. It would have been futile. Futile as laying here, in her house, with Michael pacing about in the hall, and her parents in the next room over, sleeping only because he and Ryan had decided to give them a mild tranquilizer.

He was thinking of her, her skin which always smelled like delicious soap, her bigger bottom lip which his lips enveloped easily.

But that had all been years ago, and now she was something that would never soften at his touch.



Stella was standing in the mirror, her dress in a clumsy pile behind her.

The girl in the mirror stared, shimmering eyes too reflective as the shone back at her. Stella moved her fingers along her stomach, down to her naked thigh.

Her face looked so serene now, so relaxed and thoughtful.

Her skin had bleached, and tonight her body was fully dead, she could feel it.

She pressed her fingers between her legs.

Nothing. Not the slightest sensation, no more pleasurable now than running her fingers over her arm.

She tugged at her hair, the tips of her curls, pulling the now perfect ringlets flat. It was useless. She was never going to have that messy mop of loose curls again.

Her stomach seemed far more smooth, as though the tiny mound of fat here or there at melted, as had any hard muscles.

It ran flat, pale beige down to her hips where it broke into a flourish of thighs which tapered down.

She looked like a woman from a painting, it was as though the blood had made her far more feminine, had touched it's white ink to her flaws and rubbed them out.

There was something lurid about this, that the blood would want her to look like this. Something about it made her feel desperate and wrong.

She wanted Louis, she wanted someone who understood this, who understood the aching that grew within her now. But Louis was gone, a whole country away, and he couldn't really look her in the eyes when he talked to her now, she had noticed.

She wouldn't pain him with these questions, with this fear. It was an anxiety she had to quell.

She slipped the soft violet dress over her head and dropped out of her window into the night.

She scaled buildings, slipping her bare feet into cracks in the walls. She felt now that she could do anything that she had read of. The gift of taking to the air, this terrified and exhausted her, but it was nothing more than will. She knew that her old power had been strengthened, that she could kill with thought if she needed too.

All had been transfigured, but every power made her feel less human. And when she called out into the night no voice came to comfort her.

She was alone, utterly abandoned by her ancestors, and now she needed that creamy French accent to comfort her. But she refused to think on it.

She came upon a victim soon, a pimp who was shivering from the heroin that streamed through his veins as he moved along to find his girls and get his take.

He had killed many of them, and Johns as well, and when his blood ran over her lips she felt her own pulse quicken.

He was killer, his exquisite flat and broken nose was so beautiful she took him from his wrist. Evil loving evil so, as she caressed him.
Her heart ate his heart, drumming after it, and too quickly he was dead. She was drinking cold blood and the drugs and the death left her dazed. She laid on the ground in the filthy alley and decided immediately that she needed more, another kill.

And she found him, an elderly man, a man who had molested his children and others, a man who had gone mad long ago and who was now losing himself completely.

This had been so slow, she had sipped him, the evil feeding her as surely as the rich blood. The salt smell filled her nose, competing with his still burning cigarette. He fought her, kicking and pushing at her chest hard.

He was angry, he thought she was his daughter come back from the grave. She had killed herself years before, Stella could see her, dark hair and blue eyes but he didn't really remember this, she was drawing it out of him. He was cursing, calling her a slut, attempting to grab at her chest and then he collapsed. She had broken his neck, and the blood was still sputtering, his heart still pumping though his soul was gone.

Before she had even thought on it her hand had gone into his chest and she was squeezing his heart in her hand, holding it over her head like a prize.

The mad swoon was winning out and she felt no disgust as she lapped up the bits and pieces of tissue and streams of blood that ran down her arm. She squeezed it in her mouth, and the ventricles and the tiny veins that ran along the organ exploded.

The orgasmic pleasure she was getting from this was horrific and when she came to her senses she was surrounded by a pile of limbs. She had coldly dismembered him, drank out the dizzying, pulpy marrow and she was sitting in the mess she had made of him.

She slipped out of herself as she did so often now and set the mess up to look like a murder, dropping the body in the bathtub.

As she made her way back to the hotel, moving through the alleyways to hide her bloodsoaked clothing, she killed again.

A possum that foolishly fell across her path, and then a girl.

The girl had committed no crime, no this wasn't vigilantism anymore, that was an act she couldn't keep up. The girl was beautiful, alone, and craving death, and so Stella took her.

She cradled the girl, who could not have been older than 19, and she took her. This girl wanted death so much that Stella could taste it as the warmth ran through her. She gave this girl a vision, she worked hard to keep a hold of it even as the dreamy passion drowned them both.

When she came upon her she made the girl dream of her, in her blood drenched dress, as a wondrous angel of death, bringing peace. And as she drank and drank from the bright fount she gave her brilliant images, of them in the woods, which were a glowing green, then in the ocean, with the tranquil waves making the faintest sounds above, and then of them lounging in some lovely dream world room, on the bed together.

The girl's heart was so strong, and it pumped a pumped the gushing blood into her mouth until she though she would collapse. And then the girl gave in, giving to Stella a lovely picture at the last moment, a picture of the beautiful girl smiling, her fragrant red hair swinging in the softest breeze. She seemed so delighted as she faded away.

Stella closed up the wound with her own blood and flew through the streets, her feet barely clicking against the cement as she bounded and climbed up into her room.

She collapsed on the floor. In the reflection of the TV screen she could see what a mess she was. She pulled off the sticky dress which was stained a solid red now with blood, and she dropped it into the sink.

Then she stood, staring into the mirror at the girl that filled it now. A human, she must have been. She was deliciously pink and panting.