'No'...short and sweet...whatever...his loss. Shay had seen another guy walk by her, who seemed interested. Finding someone to dance with would be a breeze, she was more or less just being polite with Marc. It didn't really matter to her who she danced with...she just wanted to dance. Though she did notice how smoothly he moved...and talked. She couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to dance with him.
Shrugging off the now absurd idea of dancing with him, Shay nodded in agreement about the packet, ignoring the reference to payment to focus on his smile, and trying to decide if it had reached his eyes or not. It didn't matter. She didn't have to enjoy her boss, just the work, as long as the boss wasn't impossible to deal with, and so far Marc hadn't given her that impression...almost, but not completely.
The reference to amnesia struck her odd, but she chose not to question him further. It turned out to be a wise decision since his attitude appeared to change then, and was not what Shay called 'welcoming'.
"Enjoy!" She tossed at him casually, with a light laugh. No mistaking his intent there.
"Ciao". A small wave went along with her goodbye, and Shay quickly turned to scan the crowd for that man she had caught sight of. Spotting him standing alone not far off, she took off toward him with an obvious shimmy in her step. Yep...she wanted to dance alright...she was in the mood now.
(Shay out)
We Few, We Band of Brothers (open)
His entrance to the Abby was unmarred by anything so ridiculous as a line. No, this Clan-run club was exclusive, and smoothly organized. Marcallas felt his lips almost curve in appreciation for such a well-oiled operation. He nodded at the man standing guard - muscled and clearly knowledgeable of his function. A professional. Marc appreciated that.
Down the long corridor, and through the doors, a wave of sound and scent hit him as he entered the former slaughterhouse. His brown eyes took in everything - the blonde gyrating on the dance floor about to be eaten; the brunette doing carnal things to another woman who gave no indication of enjoying them. The man to his left, one hand rather too casually on his leg, likely keeping it within reach of his nearest weapon. As he let his gaze shift across the room, he caught the telltale bulge from the corner of his eye. A knife. He nearly rolled his eyes. The man needed a better tailor.
Moving with predatory grace to a table near the bar, he sat with his back to a wall and looked down at the dancers. A bartender roamed over and he ordered idly.
"Yamazaki 18, if you have it." The server scooted away, returning with the bottle of single-malt whiskey just as Marcallas laid out three crisp hundred-dollar bills on the table. He opened the bottle himself as the man collected his payment and tip, pouring liquid honey into the glass left carefully on the table.
He swirled the drink for a moment, scenting in, enjoying the aroma, then lifted his glass in silent salute to no one in particular, drinking it with an appreciative air. In his mind, as he savored, he drank to his brothers, dead and gone for so many years.
Justinian. The man who had chosen him from his tagamata, from the ranks of soldiers and turned him into a warrior. Turned him, too, into a Guardian of one of the greatest ruling families the world had ever known.
Vasily. The fastest man with the sword, laughing at the enemy and joking his way through the worst engagements. Even at the last, he'd never stopped, until the fire got to be too great and consumed even him. His last words, before the fires raging through Chicago claimed him: "What did the vampire say to the fireman?" And then an explosion, and the voice of Vasily, gone forever.
He poured another glass, drinking for his brethren in a ritual he had observed for nine centuries now, still vigilant, watching the crowd around him, his eyes roaming the Clan and its guests, remembering, one at a time, his dead.
Shay
16 years ago