Thirst Ch. 06

"God dammit," she cursed, already starting to tap out a message when she saw she had one from him, unread.

Mizrah: `what are you wearing?`

Oh come on she thought, but there, unbidden, the smile that pulled at the edges of her dark, pretty mouth whenever she talked to him. Silly teenage nonsense...

Monroe: `nothing worth showing you...yet,`

She walked toward where the #87 bus trawled back toward the River District where she made her home.

Mizrah: `that isn't true, you make anything look good ;)`

Her flats whispering silently across the concrete of the abandoned wharf, Monroe rolled her eyes at the cheesy, totally...horny-college student level of communication, and herself for participating in it. She plucked at the dark gray, long sleeve shirt hugging her torso...her maroon board shorts served the purpose of staying up on her hips if she had to run, climb a building, or stalk a mark. She didn't feel pretty...but he kept saying it anyway.

Mizrah: `so let's see!`

Okay...well, he must have really wanted to have a look, and no denying, it felt nice. He hadn't stopped desiring her either...no sudden change in tenor, no ghosting - hell she could barely get rid of him, or rid him from her thoughts. Monroe considered as she jaywalked through a red light, looking up from her phone screen to stare down a honking Ford Explorer. The headlights illuminated her golden, death-bird's stare and grave-blanched flesh, as the mockery of human life hadn't been necessary in the presence of her fellow Kindred. Still, now that she was talking to him, it felt right to be presentable.

Livening her tissues, she scouted her surroundings and found a streetlight. Drifting beneath and activating her phone's camera...she...realized she hadn't taken a selfie in years.

She glared at the screen, pursing her lips with attitude and raising her middle finger...perfect. Monroe sent it off with a smirk and slid her camera up her sleeve as she quickened her pace for the bus stop, a miserable little spit of glass and steel that projected out of the sidewalk. A trio of ragged homeless people were sleeping within, folks she had no reason to disturb, so she waited with her arms crossed under the bullet hole ridden transit sign. A response came on her phone, which she glanced at.

Mizrah: `feeling spicy tonight, Carter? It's cute when you act tough...and you look sexy like i said`

"You're damn right it is, and you're damn right I do" she smirked when the old, shuddering heap of a bus came, climbing aboard and flashing her transit card as she took a seat amongst...she didn't care right now. She was enjoying this, enjoying herself instead of agonizing over the problems of others.

Monroe: `yeah yeah enough cutesy flirting Mizrah, where we gonna meet?`

Mizrah: `actually I was thinking, let's meet at river and forsythe, just come and hear me out`

River and Forsythe? That was about as public a place as existed in the District, essentially where all the other transit connected to the rest of The City. That wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind and she wasn't into exhibitionist-type shit - she existed by grace of her discretion, which was already threatened by what she was doing with him. He wasn't stupid either - a daredevil, bold, but creatures like them didn't make it long without learning to be careful.

Monroe: `the hell you want out there?`

Mizrah: `oh my god monroe you'll see, you wanna hang tonight or not??? cmon itll be fun`

She did want to hang out with him...they'd done that once actually and it'd been the nicest time she'd had with another person since the last time she'd had something serious, way back when she'd woken up at that woman's side, drank coffee and watched the sunrise. Monroe had let her go long ago...last she checked Sadie had her first grandchildren.

She hadn't felt that old ache for some time, stuffing it down and watching The City go by for a few stops, back toward her Haven. She put her thoughts for Mizrah on pause for a moment as her eyes took in the sight of this night-stricken place. Here in Ashland, on the edges of the River District, few were willing to stay outside after darkness crawled across the sky, chasing the sun from Mississippi.

Those who did come out at night...well.

The bus' headlights cut through the dreamlike mist, illuminating a man seated upon a milk crate on a street corner. Garbage bags were wrapped around his head and shoulders, the bloated, pale mass of his chest and belly exposed, covered with sores. A sign was clutched in his hands, missing fingers: ALL HAIL THE MURDER MESSIAH it read. Monroe could feel him watching her as she passed.

In an old basketball court, whose hoops had been broken and torn, a circle of ravens stood in silence around a small pile of birds' skulls; her vision, attuned to the darkness, picked up their bony beaks clicking in unison.

Creepy fuckin' place. She looked down at her phone again, tapping out a quick message as her stop drew near.

Monroe: `yeah alright, you just bring your bad self and make it good`

Monroe Carter, one of the last people on this bus, climbed off into her lonely district of tall-yet-squat residential buildings and abandoned workshops. Down in the white, clean concrete of her Haven, behind sealed steel doors that she'd once thought to be nearly impenetrable (until a certain Lupine had shown up and almost ashed her), Monroe picked through the collection of clothes she kept neatly folded on these blue plastic racks that held her meager possessions. Her style had always been flashy, prone toward a sort of Bohemian-punk chic that drew attention when she wanted it to, and also helped her blend in when she didn't.

Why would tonight be any different? She didn't need to dress up for him of all people, or anyone else for that matter. Monroe glanced at herself once more in the mirror, completely naked as she fiddled idly with the diamond in her navel.

He was a fan of that...she liked the way he sometimes bit it, tugging it lightly. "No...not right now," she muttered. She pulled a bubble-gum pink bra on, matching pink bikini underwear gracing her nethers. Uninterested in spending too much time worrying about what to wear, she reached into the folded stacks, closed her eyes, and ran her finger up and down a few times until she pinched something and pulled it free...perfect.

A black and orange tiger-stripe tank top, low-rise bluejeans that clung to all her best parts; the kids may have brought Mitt Romney-style mom jeans back into the fashion cycle, but they'd have to pry her skinnies from her cold, dead fingers. A red silk sash tied around her waist, an end trailing along her leg for effect...yeah.

Yeah...He'll like this, she thought, despite herself.

She was making for the door when she stopped, catching her own scent...she smelled vaguely of paper and old leather, of wet earth and shifting air. Her heart fell, even as she remembered how he'd kissed her passionately when she'd looked like a walking corpse, and she turned back inside to sit down on her folding metal chair, crossing her arms under her chest and thinking this through.

She could easily be doing something productive...something that actually helped her kind, hell that's what she'd been doing for the past five years since she broke free of her own Sire's will, leaving her staked in a cabin basement, far out in the bayeux. While she was condemned to this soulless existence, it was still, in some ways, a second chance...a way to do things right for people who were stuck in the same situation as she was. She'd been so selfish and short-sighted in life; the Church of the Damned - the Lance and Sanctum - they were right about one thing (and one thing only), that she'd been returned from beyond the Grave to fulfill a purpose. Where they ardently believed in the bloodsoaked covenant with a God that didn't exist, Monroe understood clearly that her mission on this earth was to make their existence just a bit more tolerable.

Yusuf was a known quantity in The City...at least to the Undead, insofar as he'd refused to participate in the Cull, as she'd confirmed after some digging. Still, it didn't change the fact that association with the Lupine was just dangerous for her, not to mention for him - she'd come to accept that she had some concern for his wellbeing, at the very least so he could prove entertaining when she took the risk of sharing a bed with him...no, it was more than that. Part of her wanted to believe that he really was sweet on her, and those were the leftover stirrings of her humanity. She'd heard that as the years dragged on, those echoes became quieter and quieter as loved ones died, the world changed dizzyingly, and the Beast became ever louder.

In ten years, would she even be able to feel this way at all?

Monroe turned her chair to regard the lava lamp Mizrah had brought her as a gift, apparently to 'liven this place up' (she didn't think he was trying to make a bad joke that time). It was kinda ridiculous and over the top, just like he was, and he honestly didn't have to get her that...but she couldn't deny that she was touched in a way. Standing and traipsing toward it, she tinked her fingernail along its smooth, curvy surface. "Haven't tossed it yet Lommy," she remarked to the fat, stuffed fox on her pillow. He smiled back at her harmlessly, and she pulled a light faux-leather jacket and admired / loathed herself in the mirror before setting out.

Forsythe and River weren't far...a couple bus stops, and soon she was out of the industrial darkness of Ashland and into the candy-colored light of the River District. The crowds slithered down the sidewalks lining the Red Rock River, and she could pick out distinct clumps within it.

See the corporate suits in their ties and blazers, fresh from the office...even in their debauchery they couldn't shake the sigma suite look, their trickle-down darkness reaching the streets.

See the gaggle of college kids in their letter jackets and baseball caps, their miniskirts and dazzling jewelry...America's future, slowly spinning down the drain.

See the San-Jiao Gang Boys in their colorful, bright digs, with their spiked hair and neon sunglasses worn at night...she could score a quick coke high from sipping at them.

If she closed her eyes and opened her senses she could easily hear the tens of thousands of heartbeats around her, a dinner bell drumbeat to the Beast. This particular district was a rack that belonged to Isidoro, and he had agreed to open it on Saturday nights to the common bloods...another victory on her part.

The train station at the place where River Street met Forsythe Boulevard had grown truly monolithic from its early days as a little transit hub. Like any public building in The City, it was simultaneously blessed with a sort of baroque charm but its squat, looming shape had been thoroughly encrusted with neon signs that, in different ways, all screamed the same thing:

EAT. DRINK. CONSUME.

Here was where Monroe grew uneasy, since others of her kind might be here...watching. Members of the Syndicate, sure, but also Ancillae who were bound to the Overseers through ties of blood and patronage.

She scanned the crowd pouring in and out of the massive gates, watching for him - there...she heard a heartbeat among the manyfold hearts that was outlandishly strong, and it was coming up to her from behind. Monroe clenched her fist in anticipation, closing her eyes, knowing what was coming and unable to say no, even here.

"Hey baby," he whispered into her ear and kissed her cheek, his warm lips brushing against it. Monroe sighed unnecessarily, lips pulling into a grin as she turned around to regard him, hooking a finger gently in his sleeve, plucking it gently and...leaving it at that.

"Hey yourself Peter Steele," she purred and linked her wrists behind her back. Monroe's eyes ran over his body, taking him in. It looked like he'd...dressed nicely, or however close the lead guitarist for Instrument of - sorry...INSTRUMENT OF AGGRESSION dressed. "I didn't know you could wear white, thought it was anathema to you goth boys."

"I'm not goth, dork," he deadpanned but she could hear the smile in his voice. He looked good in the white, button up shirt gracing his carved torso; he knew what he was working with, but all the same she reached up and undid one of the buttons to show a bit more of that chest. Little steel studs had been pierced through the collar, since he just couldn't stay away from his metal. He'd exchanged that...ridiculous belt with the harmonica shaped buckle for something a bit more standard - wait nope, studs on the buckle. They held up a pair of light green cargo pants that fit his body impeccably, and as usual she found her eyes drawn to the shape of his masculinity. Damn.

"Eyes up here," he joked, drawing a wry glare before he suddenly took her fingers, tugging her lightly inside. That was the most shocking thing he'd done in a few days, and this was a man with little shame - but brazenly holding her hand like that, in public? She was actually stunned enough that she let it happen as he pulled her through the turnstile. She kept up with him and found her fingers interlacing with his, staring at the definition of his back through his shirt.

It was stupidly romantic in a way, being dragged by her mysterious, dark lover through a station like they were going to elope or something, and in her head that fantasy played out briefly -

...Awakening from Daysleep in a bed that was warm because he'd lain there, protecting her in her most vulnerable state...no judgment in his eyes at her dead state, only familiar welcoming humor...no struggle beyond their hunts, and even then maybe they could somehow hunt together.

Could it happen?