"Proposition 42: Vampire Identification and Registration"

Deleted.

“How do you respond to the accusations that you’re a bigot, Miss Battle?”

A polished smile with a Vaseline glide. Her hands folded primly in front of her on the table, modest nail polish that still had a little “kick” to it - a deep gold that set off the brown of her skin magnificently.

“I think ‘bigot’ is a rather unfortunate choice of word. And I’m also savvy enough to know that there is just no pleasing some people, as much as we try. I’m working in the interest of humans, humans everywhere, regardless of race, color, or creed. I recognize that vampires, as…creatures that resemble humans, of course would want the same rights. But the reality of the situation is that vampires still feed on humans. In fact, there are some groups out there that would be quite content to return to a slavery system, ensuring a never ending line of chattel. In fact,” she paused, taking a breath. “One of these groups, the Kinship, just attacked a homeless shelter, with the justification that they were feeding off of, and I quote, ‘the detritus of human society.’”

Across from her, another pundit was turning neatly red in the ears, before he abruptly spoke, cutting her off -

“Fear mongering! You’re creating fear among the populace, and keeping them from making sound decisions-”

“So you’re accusing me of manipulating through fear? When these fears are very well founded? Wasn’t it in the news, just Tuesday, that there were another set of vampire-hunger driven murders in the lower East End?”

The pundit across from her stammered, “Yes, that did happen, but it was hardly an act of terrorism! The vampires that committed this act were refugees; their safety net was yanked from under them, largely in part by Proposition 12, which, coincidentally, you helped to pass last year. You are in part of creating the desperate situation that these poor men and women found themselves in.” He was smug; riding high on the righteousness of his argument.

She was unfazed. “It’s easy to take the broad strokes of Proposition 12 and make the framer into the Bogey Man. Proposition 12 clearly states that the blood that vampires receive from certain facilities, the shelters designated for transient vampires that they cannot help within their own clans, are to be stocked only by donations. These restrictions were set in place so that there would not be a shortage to hospitals in time of need, and that all needs were met. Can you weigh the life of a human against the life of a vampire? Humans are expected to control their desires and there are consequences for not doing so-”

“Vampires can hardly be expected to be held to the same standards as humans!”

Silence across the table. The moderator, an older blonde, looked cautiously from one pundit to another.

“Mr. Benton, if I’m understanding you correctly,” started the blonde, obviously choosing her words carefully. So much for impartiality. “You believe that vampires should not be held to the same standards of humans?” Her voice was struggling to remain neutral.

Blood was in the water, and all parties knew it. And Mercy Battle attacked.

“In short, you’re saying that we need to make excuses for murderers, is that it?” She didn’t raise her voice, but there was a hint of calm incredulity that ripped the rug from under the other man’s argument. For a split second, the panic of having his argument so skillfully undermined was clear on his face.

It was at this point that Roberto had turned on the TV.

On the other side of the country, Senator Wells was watching the broadcast. He was an older man with once red hair that had faded to a pale gold, sepia brown eyes, and a thick Southern twang to go with his immaculate handlebar mustache. His thick hands were folded under his mustache, his expression nearly unreadable. When the show cut to commercial, he turned in his barstool to a young woman sitting beside him.

“You got him on the ropes in under 4 moves. My girl’s got skills!”

“Big Daddy, please,” laughed Mercy, “Benton doesn’t exactly make it hard to get him all hot under the collar. The man’s temper is about as short as a hen feather.”

“What? Can’t a man appreciate the good work his best girl does? Come on, now: it’s a poor dog that don’t wag his own tail.” He waved over the bar tender, held up two fingers. The bartender nodded, set two fresh tumblers of amber whiskey in front of the two of them.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” she said, reaching for her glass. Taking a small sip, she enjoyed the burn from her throat all the way down to her stomach. “Benton may have been formidable a few years ago, but something’s really gotten him spooked. I feel like he used to have much better control of his temper.” She looked concerned, her violet lips making a small moue.

“Oh, well, hell, Mercy, didn’t you hear? He’s on their bank roll now. Has been for the last year and a half. I thought you were on top of this?”

“I’d just heard rumors, but I recall a certain august senator telling me to believe none of what I hear and half of what I saw.”

The older man paused, then chuckled, lifting his glass to his lips. Taking a long sip, the two were quiet, listening to the muted sounds of the bar. It was well after midnight; the taping had run until the early evening, barely giving her enough time to get back to the hotel for a quick nap. Remnants of her interview still clung to her - traces of her “fancy” perfume lingering stubbornly against her preferred fragrance of jasmine and apricot body oil, rapidly fading lipstick that she didn’t bother to touch up.

“How’s back home, Big Daddy? Feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been back,” she said, still watching the news play behind the bar. Her heels abandoned on the floor beneath her, she slid her bare feet back and forth over the rungs of the bar stool.

“Well, now....that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.” He set his glass down, let out a mighty sigh.

She inwardly steeled herself. Any time he sighed like that, it wasn’t anything good. “I didn’t think you came all the way up here just for my Joan King Live appearance.”

“Now, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m awful proud of you, Mercy. Always have been, always will be. You should know that. That don’t change, no matter what happens. You’re like my own daughter. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, you ARE my daughter. Just spent a little too much time in the sun,” and he playfully pinched her arm. His hands were large, heavily callused despite the years behind a desk. On his left hand was a worn gold wedding band, a heavy gold signet ring on his pinkie on the right hand. “But just because I think of you as my daughter doesn’t mean you become my only child, now. I can’t spoil you that much.”

“It’s Jessie, isn’t it?” She spoke without feeling, resisting the urge to down the rest of the whiskey in her glass.

“Well, now…” He sighed again, his big shoulders rising and falling. “She got to seeing this fella. Couldn’t stop talking about him - you know how she gets, just yammering on like there was no tomorrow. It was in one ear and out the other. You know, since you took to travelin’ so much on these jobs, she hasn’t really been the same. Been looking everywhere and nowhere for something. Girl’s got a right to be loved, just like the rest of us - but you know how she gets. I don’t know where me and her mama failed her, but we did.” His bushy brows dropped, and his normally merry brown eyes dulled as he looked into his glass.

“Mercy, she's taken up with a vampire. They want to turn her. And she wants to be turned.”

His voice was coming from a great distance; she could barely hear it over the rushing of blood in her ears. When she spoke next, it was a struggle, her body wringing her voice from her.

“My God, Big Daddy, why?”

“I just don’t know. I’ve prayed on it long and hard, and I thank God for the little grace He has shown. She says she won’t do it, not unless I agree to it. And I told her how I felt. Just about broke my heart to tell her no. Surprised you hadn’t heard about it,” he added, looking at her.

“No; Jessie hasn’t spoken to me…much. This would make sense, though,” she sighed, and, regardless of how it would make her look, she downed the rest of the whiskey. “Last time we talked, she kept poking at why I said the things I did. Asked me if I really believed them. I didn’t think much of it then - starting to make sense now. Shit. I mean, shoot.”

He gave her a mock glare. She gave him a half-hearted shrug.

“I think she’s gonna try to get back in touch with you. Try to get you to see things her way. I need you to try and talk some sense into her.”

“Big Daddy, Jessie hardly ever listens to me-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there. You and her been thick as thieves since y’all were ankle-biters. You think she doesn’t listen to you; that girl won’t say “boo” to a ghost unless she talked about it with you first. Just get on back home for a few weeks. Take a break. Campaign’s gonna run fine without you for a few weeks. Especially with that,” he gestured to the TV with a thick finger. “Come on home, Mercy.”

She looked down at her distorted reflection in her empty glass. Drummed her fingers against the sides of the glass.

“All right. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Roberto and Killian missed the question about bigotry, as well as most of the answer that came from the woman sitting opposite the man who had asked it. But they did catch Mercy Battle's debate foe deny that the Kinship was a terrorist-like organization. And if Killian's vampire body had been physically able to do so, it likely would have been overwhelmed with goose flesh as a chill ran up his spine.

The pro-Vampire pundit -- or perhaps he was better described as an anti-Vampire opponent, if you accepted the double negative -- was entirely incorrect in his statement about the Kinship: they were a terrorist organization. At least, Killian believed so. They were only a small portion of the Vampire population as a whole, and while many who weren't active in the Kinship's activities were sympathetic to them, the group certainly didn't speak for anything close to a majority of the Vampire community.

But just as with any minority group taking to the streets to peaceably fight for its rights in this great and wonderful American society -- be it Women, Blacks, Gays, Muslims, or now Vampires -- there was always a minority in that Minority that felt violence and extremism were the only -- or at least the faster -- way to get what they wanted.

As Killian listened to the conversation jump back and forth between the two -- with occasional input from the moderator -- his gaze remained on the woman alone. He knew who she was, of course. He couldn't have been who he was and do the things he did without knowing who Mercy Battle was. He peeked over to Roberto for a moment, casually lifting his glass to his lips as he sipped.

"What?" his Son asked, knowing the expression on Killian's face.

Killian turned away for the kitchen again, saying with a touch of humor in his voice, "I have decided that I would prefer your lady friend not be related to either of those talking heads, so ... any chance the Moderator is her sister ... or maybe an aunt?"

Roberto only laughed. Adding fuel to the fire, he attempted to warn him, "Mercy Battle is Jessica's sister, but that isn't all. Her father is--"

"Senator John Wells," Killian cut in, revealing that he was well aware of the deep hole into which Roberto had gotten himself. At least, it could be a hole for most people. Roberto, of course, had a way out of that hole, a rope otherwise known as Killian.

"You understand that this woman--" Killian nodded toward the television before continuing, "--this Mercy Battle would like to see us treated like the European Jews of the 1930s or the American Japanese of the 1940s. Marked and tagged and locked away in concentration camps."

Roberto laughed at what he thought to be an absurd suggestion, but then went silent when his Sire suddenly shot him a hard look. He crossed closer toward Killian as he said, "She's not suggesting anything like that, Father. No six sided stars, no concentration camps."

They argued back and forth for several minutes about what each of them thought Mercy Battle did or did not want from the Vampire Issue. The room finally went quiet for a long while, during which Roberto muted the television.

"You called her Jessica," Killian said after a bit.

"Jessica, yes," Roberto confirmed. "Most people call her Jessie. I like Jess. Or her full name, too."

"And you want to Blood this Jessica," Killian said with a doubtful tone. When Roberto nodded, Killian said, "And she knows exactly what this means?"

"Yes, I believe she does," Roberto answered.

"You described the process?"

"Well, no ... of course not." Roberto said. "I wanted your blessing first."

"But you did tell her there's no going back," Killian said, and after Roberto confirmed his answer, Killian continued, "That she would die."

Roberto hesitated before he answered, eventually just nodding his head.

Killian walked about the massive condo aimlessly for a bit, ending up opening the doors to and stepping out onto yet another patio. He sipped at his drink for a few minutes before coming back inside to say with a demanding tone, "Call Hernando's for dinner reservations. Drop my name, of course. I'll meet your Jessica."

"Thank you, Sire!" Roberto said with great delight. He knew that if Killian didn't immediately say no to his request, he'd want to meet Jess. And he knew that Killian would want the meet to happen at the pro-vampire restaurant down on the waterfront. He showed his hand by saying, "I already have us a table Saturday at 9:15."

"A table for four, yes?" Killian asked.

Roberto's face screwed up in a confused expression. "Four...?"

"I want Lady Battle to be there as well," Killian explained.

Roberto's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"I wish to meet both Jessica and Mercy please," Killian said.

"Why?" the younger vampire insisted.

But Killian was ready for some sleep as it was only two hours till dawn. He gave Roberto a farewell gesture and disappeared back into his bedroom where the escort was still sound asleep on Killian's bed, tits pointing at the ceiling.

Roberto just watched his Sire go, then raided the fridge for a bottle of juice before heading for the gym.

Years ago, when she was first starting out, she had thought it to be glamorous, jet-setting from one side of the country to another. There was something so fancy in “business trip” – a world of success, stability, money: all of the things that were strangers to her growing up.

The novelty had worn off considerably.

Less than an hour after her last conversation with Big Daddy Wells, Mercy was rapidly repacking. True, her stay up North wasn’t meant to be a long one, but with this recent revelation, the time table had been moved up considerably. She was on the next red eye out.

____

She knew she looked like hell when she got off of the plane. Mercy was a living Dorian Gray – normally, with the right amount of sleep, her age was impossible to discern. She looked youthful, healthy – pristine skin and minimal make up. Perpetually ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed,’ as the older folks called it. But that was when she was allowed to get a sufficient amount of sleep. Now, she looked troubled; dark circles under her eyes, and her body nearly melted away under her comfortable sweat pants and hoodie. Less than glamorous, but she was honestly too tired and too stressed to care.

And now, to add insult to injury, she had to wait for Jessie to come get her. She ground out one butt, then another, waiting.

It was no secret as to WHY she was coming back. And while Jessie had no seat at the political table that her family sat at, she wasn’t entirely ignorant of what was going on. Mercy, considering herself living up to her name, had phoned Jessie as she boarded her flight to give her a head’s up. Despite the distance that had grown between the two, Mercy felt obligated, out of childhood promises and secret oaths sworn to dire punishments, to do something to actually mend the rift that they were all standing on the edge of.

The fact that she had to hear of Jessie’s romantic involvement through their father stung. Still, personal slights aside, they were sisters; she had to do something. And had she had known of this before, she would have said something long before. But it made sense that Jessie wouldn’t have said anything; it wasn’t like Mercy’s feelings on vampires was a secret. But despite that, all of that, they were still sisters – the fact that apparently Jessie didn’t think of her as being reasonable enough to even have talked about this…Warmth bit at her fingers, and she swore softly, dropping the cigarette butt. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that it’d burned down to her fingers. Christ. Jessie had always been like this, though. Flaky. Flighty. As sweet as could be, but without direction. The minute that anyone let anything like reality slip into that candy colored world, Jessie shut down. And somehow, despite knowing better, the both of them knowing better, Mercy had always been there to pick up the pieces.

Swallowing her bitterness, Mercy sighed. Her phone call had woken Jessie up, but Jessie swore that she’d pick her up from the airport. Already, Mercy was sweating under the humidity of the South, tugging at her hoodie for some relief. She was reluctant to take it off – she didn’t have much on by the way of clothing underneath it, and though part of her was past the point of caring, the modesty drilled into her as a girl whispered that it was unseemly to walk around outside of the house without a bra on. Uncomfortable now, she knew she’d quickly get used to it. One of the things she hated about the North was how dagblasted cold it was. A lonely cold, one that crept into your bones and settled in, convincing you that the sun would never be powerful again.

No wonder the vampires loved it so much up there.

“Mercy?! You look like something Death brought in his suitcase!”

The voice was sharp, honey-dipped in the cadence of the South, and sprinkled with love. She’d know that voice anywhere. Jessie was still milky skinned, with a galaxy of freckles on her face, nose, and arms. Still had the thick orange hair and her mother’s merry bright blue eyes. She’d put on some weight though – and carried it well.

“You catch a flight at 2 in the morning after an all day taping and see how fresh you look,” Mercy replied, keeping her voice even.

“Oh, Lord, Mercy, I’m so sorry…,” sighed Jessie. “This whole thing has been a nightmare. I thought I was gonna have to take Daddy to the hospital once he found out; he was fit to be tied.”

Mercy was quiet, letting Jessie’s words dissolve into the humid air. “Well, let’s get this show on the road,” she sighed.

____________

Mid-way down the highway, Mercy found her nerve.

“So a vampire, huh? You know Big Daddy came all the way to me to tell me this? I didn’t get any sort of sign; just bam, ‘Miss Battle, there’s a Mr. ‘John-Boy’ to see you. And there’s Big Daddy in the hotel bar, fit to drink himself blind behind this stunt. So this better be real good.” Mercy kept her gaze on the world rushing by outside of the window. She was aware that if she were to look at Jessie, she wouldn’t get a word out of her. The other woman would wilt under her gaze like a wildflower left without water.

“You mean to tell me that’s where Daddy rushed off to? To go get you? In the middle of a campaign season? Oh my lord,” she said, softly. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Mercy, I’m so sorry, I just…I didn’t think to call you, with what you say in the news and all. I…I knew you wouldn’t approve. Daddy, I could deal with, but I can’t bear the thought of you being sore at me.”

Mercy was quiet, continuing to focus on the greenery outside. She’d long since learned to hide her own tells; signs of nervousness, signs of concern. It took time for her to learn to let these things go, to be raw and bare in front of family. “Little late for that, Jessie – of course I’m pissed. Why did I have to hear it from him first? Why couldn’t you have called me? I thought we were closer than that.”

Jessie’s grip paled further on the steering wheel. When she spoke again, there was a momentary waver in her normally sunny voice. “I just…I went about this all cattywampus, Mercy, and I swear I never meant to hurt you in it. I didn’t think it’d get this big this fast! I just…I wanted to make sure he was worth bringin’ home first, on account of all the past times I brought home all of those losers. I wanted to do what you’ve always told me to do; give it time, ‘can’t hurry love,’ like that song.”

Her voice trembled, on the edge of a laugh.

“I just think, though, if you’d meet him, you’d see what I was talkin’ about. What there is to love. How much he knows, how much he’s seen. Just talkin to him makes me feel like…you know, like, when we were kids, and it’d be just boiling out, and we’d be wishin’ and hopin’ and prayin’ for the ice cream man to come round? Remember how excited we got, just hearin’ them bells? That’s how I feel around him. Like he’s the relief, the thing I’ve been waitin’ and watchin’ for.” Jessie’s voice wavered. “I know this is a lot for you, but I just…Can’t you just meet him? Just once? Then you can feel however you got the right to, but I just need this one thing from you. I swear, I’ll never ask you for anythin’ again.”

It was an old “trick”, though “trick” might not be the right word for it. Every time Jessie swore that she’d never ask for anything again, she meant it, right then and there in that moment. It was an earnestness that was infuriating and endearing in its sheer innocence.

Mercy sighed, her breath fogging up the window. “I’ll meet him. Politics off the table. Promise.”

“Cross your heart?” The waver in Jessie’s voice was considerably more optimistic.

“Hope to die.” Mercy shifted in the passenger’s seat, folded her arms carelessly behind her head.

“…Well, all right then,” chimed Jessie, ending it with an audible sniffle. “But before all of that, you and me, we’re gonna go to the mall first. Old time’s sake. Ice cream on me?”

“Double scoop or bust.”

Killian pulled his cell from his dress jacket's breast pocket to find his Son's name flashing. He told his driver to pull over, despite being three blocks from the restaurant, and answered with a knowing tone, "How late are you going to be, Roberto?"

The younger Vampire laughed. "I do not know whether to be impressed or offended that you would know that was the reason for my call, Father. Forty minutes. Fifty tops. They raised the draw bridge for the Autumn Boat Parade. We can take the North bridge instead--"

"How long until the flotilla passes and the bridge is down once more?" Killian asked. Roberto called to someone else to get an answer -- Jessica presumably -- and answered that it typically took a bit more than an hour. "Is Miss Battle with you?"

"No, Father, she will be meeting us at the restaurant," Roberto said. "She has a room in a hotel just round the corner. I was about to have Jessica call her to tell her--"

"No," Killian cut in.

There was a moment of silence, then a concerned sounding Roberto asked, "You do not want her to know we are gonna be almost an hour late?"

"You are going to be more than an hour late," Killian corrected. "You are going to watch the parade. Then you are going to come to the rest--"

"Father!" Roberto cut in, already knowing where this was going. He laughed, asking with a knowing tone, "What mischief are you contemplating?"

"No mischief, Son," Killian said, his smile somehow reflected in his tone. "I will find Miss Battle at the restaurant and keep her company until you and Jessica arrive."

"Is a good idea, Father?" Roberto responded. When he didn't get a response, he pulled his phone from his ear to see that the connection had ended. He murmured to himself, "Crap. This could get ugly."



Twenty minutes later, Killian caught sight of Mercy Battle as she was being escorted through the seating area to the restaurant's bar on the mezzanine at the back wall.

"Your party was delayed, Miss Battle," the hostess explained as she gestured the bartender down to his newest patron. "I'm sorry, I don't have all the details, but I was told that they had to pick up a fourth dinner guest after his car failed to arrive."

The two women shared some words, and the Hostess excused herself, saying, "I'll come for you as soon as they arrive, Miss Battle."

As she headed down the length of the bar, she met Killian's gaze and shared a slight smile with him. Inconspicuously, he slipped a $50 dollar bill for her for having played the part he'd given her perfectly. Killian leaned into the cushioned stool's back, sipping at his Kahlua Sour. It wasn't a common drink round these parts, but he'd taken to it after a former lover had introduced him to it. Using the mirror behind the bar, he inconspicuously studied Mercy as she ordered and accepted her drink and lit up a cigarette. Killian wasn't a smoker and didn't particularly appreciate the bad habit. But outside of his own home or office, he never questioned let alone chastised others for partaking of one. After all, he drank blood: who was he to criticize others for taking a puff or two or ten?

Beyond Mercy, the band returned from a short break between sets and began playing soft jazz. Couples rose one after another and moved to the dance floor, until finally a dozen or more pairs were swaying to the slow melody. Mercy took note of the band and seemed to be enjoying the music.

Killian studied her for a song or two, content to remain where he was for now. But when a young man with a hungry look in his eyes stood from the far end of the bar and began moving Mercy's direction, Killian knew it was time to get off his ass and get this meet and greet going. He gestured to the bartender to replenish his drink as he headed Mercy's way. The younger man was nearly to his target, and he smiled broadly as Mercy's eyes shifted from the band to him.

And then he looked past her and caught sight of Killian, and the delight in his face disappeared in an instant as he recognized the man approaching him with a disapproving expression on his face. The young man looked back to Mercy and simply smiled to her, as he passed right by her and then by Killian, murmuring softly to him with a slight nod of respect, "Good evening, Ambassador."

"Good evening," Killian returned without slowing. He continued onward until he was standing just off Mercy's shoulder, hesitated just long enough for her to realize he was there, watching the stage, then looked to her and asked with a pleasant smile, "Come to watch the vampires?"

He doubted she knew what he meant, so he nodded toward the band and clarified, "They are vampires. Or, so they tell me."

He passed by Mercy a step and turned to survey the room, then looked to Mercy again. "I have been told that this restaurant is very popular with the blood suckers. Friend of mine says some nights, more than half of those here enjoying the music are Vampires."

The bartender arrived with Killian's refreshed drink, sitting it before the empty stool next to Mercy. Killian looked to the empty seat and asked, "Do you mind? I am hoping that a table opens up soon. I was warned that without a reservation I would be sitting up here eating chips all night. Live and learn, I guess."

By her standards, Mercy was late.

After their mall outing, she’d gone back to her hotel room (it was a testament to the relationship between the girls that the choice to stay in a hotel as opposed to Jessie’s house went unquestioned. Once Jessie heard the name of the hotel, her eyes had lit up, and she’d instantly asked if she could partake of the spa.), and, taking one look at her haggard face in the mirror, slapped on her favorite mud mask and promptly went to bed.

Apparently hitting “snooze” 5 times in a row was enough to disable the function, and so Mercy snagged a few more blissful hours of sleep, before the back up alarm she’d set on the hotel TV kicked on, and she was jerked awake with a mild swear. For a moment, she was quite disoriented, then the events of the last day filtered through. Dinner. Right.

____

Mercy had an odd relationship with clothing.

Her televised appearances depicted her as a smartly and elegantly dressed business woman – pantsuits in bold colors that brought out the warm brown of her skin, and, always, with her bright red lipstick that wouldn’t have been out of place in the 1940s. On anyone else, it would have seemed careless, perhaps even sloppy, but on her, well, there was just something about her attitude that made it work.

Outside of television, though – she was hardly recognizable, something that generally worked to her benefit. She was either a creature of perpetual sweat suits (“comfort” being one of her favorite words), or things like now, where her clothes just didn’t seem to fit the same way. Almost as if she was fighting them – despite the price tag (something she hated herself, but that her “image”, especially now, required), the fit was never quite right. Too tight in the bust, loose in the waist, a good fit in the waist, too loose everywhere else. Though her clothing, at the best of times, suggested an excellent figure, a more observant viewer would quickly come to the realization that the best state of dress the woman could ever be in would be nude.

Tonight, though, after many struggles, she’d settled on a modest halter dress, a relic from the 1950s. It left her back and shoulders bare, allowing for street light to play in warm shadows across the muscles of her back, and expose the elegant lines of her neck. Her hair would be the only constant between her televised life and private – a short, close crop, perhaps a few notches on the razor shy of being completely bald. Rather than detract, all it did was enhance the sharpness of her cheekbones, the almost unnaturally large eyes framed by doe-lashes that suggested a childish curiosity, a strange counterpoint to the mature tilt of her full lips. She was the type of woman that one would initially notice for her “strangeness” – either the bold lipstick or the lack of hair, and the fact that she was actually quite (if not traditionally attractive) would come across as an afterthought, a gut check that would pass as fleeting as a summer breeze.

And of course they were late.

Well, at least the saving grace of the establishment was that they allowed smoking indoors – something that she personally abhorred. But, still on autopilot, trying to digest (and, realistically, map out how to proceed without offending), she’d slid into a seat the bar, and lit up, without even thinking. Sending the smoke in long coils up at the ceiling, she stubbed it out after the first two inhales. The last thing she wanted was to reek of smoke. Unpleasant enough as a smell, but in front of Jessie, a sure fire indicator that she was nervous, and could be caught off guard. That wouldn’t do.

The music, at least, was good. Some of the old jazz standards that she’d re-discovered in college, and had become the soundtrack to many late nights studying. Jessie must have remembered – and the warming thought slipped to her lips, a genuine smile that lit up her dark features before it faded just as quickly. She’d caught sight of the man approaching, and, seemingly, with a single inhale, had stiffened in her approach. She wasn’t quite in the mood for company, and he looked to be a young puppy indeed. Something in her face must have had the desired result, as he slipped past her.

Fair enough.

Running a finger idly round the rim of her drink, she could feel him standing behind her before she could see him.

“Mm,” was all she said in response, leaning forward to take a sip of her drink. A tall mojito, refreshing in the still oppressive heat of the night. The mint was bitter on her tongue. “They’ve got the right to play and have a place to perform the same as anyone else.”

My, wasn’t that unexpected of her? But, truthfully, it was her “visibly not a bigot” appeal that made her so successful. Looking over at him, there was the smallest hint of a sneer on those lips; she hadn’t liked the term ‘bloodsuckers.’ She, of course, never would have used it. But as soon as the expression crossed her face, she nearly blanched.

He was beautiful. Rich green eyes that were unnaturally green, black curling hair, a sun-kissed complexion that spoke less of indolent tanning beds and more of breeding. But the beauty! It was of an unnatural kind in this day and age – an anachronism. His face and build belonged to an earlier time of oil paintings and marble palaces, not Photoshop and Instagram. It was unsettling and comforting, like finding a painting that you could stare at for hours, only to feel as if it were watching you just as intently.

Along her stomach, sparks danced – and she frowned, momentarily. Discreetly, she let her fingers slip across her navel. Could she have imagined the heat that met her fingertips?

Quite at a loss for words, she swallowed thickly; tried to focus on the band playing. Listened for all of those familiar notes, the security blanket.

“And they’re quite good. A little mechanical on some of the phrases, but that’s the problem with jazz standards; you hear them performed by the greats, then you’ve got to keep playing to sound just like them. People forget what made Gershwin Gerswhin and what made Fitzgerald Fitzgerald. But,” and she lifted the glass to her plush lips again, “such is life.”

As he gestured to the open seat next to her, she was vaguely aware of a heat building between her legs. She was parts horrified at how strong her physical reaction was (as if she’d never been looked at!), and intrigued by it. Only her politician’s life kept her from openly betraying any of what her body was doing. Taking a bigger gulp of the drink than she expected, she coughed momentarily before she waved at the seat next to her.

“Be my guest.”

“Be my guest.”

Killian hesitated, studying Mercy a moment before nodding his appreciation and taking the seat. He faced her directly, taking and lifting his drink to his lips for a soft sip. He'd seen her on television or on the internet a couple of dozen times, yet sitting here before her now made him feel as though he was seeing her for the first time.

He let her see his gaze fall to her body for a moment, taking in the flawless brown skin of her bared shoulders and arms. She was well curved though not overly so, filling out the halter top in such a way that even with only his peripheral vision, Killian could see the faces of several men turned Mercy's direction. He lifted his eyes to hers again.

"You have the attention of every man in the house," he told her with a slightly devilish smile spreading his lips. He gave her long enough to consider the statement but not respond to it, continuing, "But I have the feeling you both already know that ... and are used to being the center of attention."

He tilted his head, studying each facet of her stunning face as he continued, "I know you from somewhere perhaps. Television? Maybe ... a soap opera? News anchor?"

Her first time in the debate seat, she felt like all of the light and all of the eyes in the world were on her.

It was laughable compared to how she felt now.

It took all of her control to focus her gaze on the drink in her hand. To memorize the way the condensation beaded down the sides, the slow descent of the mint down towards the bottom of the glass.

Under his gaze, she was pinned – and her body betrayed her. Beneath the soft cotton of her dress, her nipples firmed to attention, and she crossed her legs awkwardly, though the gesture could have been played off by the cramped station of the bar.

“…Really? I wasn’t aware,” she said, after a long silence. The silence wasn’t out of hostility; it was out of a sheer loss for words. Her head was somewhat muddled, and she knew it wasn’t the alcohol. And, truth to tell, aside from the one man who’d narrowly avoided her, she hadn’t picked up on the gazes of others, so wrapped up in her own thoughts.

At his comment about her being familiar, she could handle it in two ways: she could say who she was, or, in this case, given where she was, and his earlier comment, demure. Despite the warring response of her body, she shifted in her seat, to face him better. She’d been slightly turned away from him, not enough to be rude, but not enough to be facing him directly. “Does that count as a pick up line?” Her voice was softly teasing; not hostile, but not fully flirtatious either. She was treading on unsure ground.

“Does that count as a pick up line?”

Killian laughed, studied Mercy further as he again sipped at his drink, then responded, "It could have ... if I had been attempting to pick you up."

He sipped once again, set his nearly empty tumbler deeper into the bar as he gestured to the bartender to refresh it, then looked back to the beauty across from him.

"I had not been, at the time," he went on, his slight, devilish smirk returning, "however ... I would ... if I thought you were not at the bar waiting for a date to finally make his or her arrival."

Killian didn't hesitate to add her to the comment above. In this day and age when gay rights had been making great strides within America and yet continued to still be a fight -- literal or figural -- in some areas, particularly some areas here in the south, those in the know were well aware that the Vampire Community was as welcoming a place for any gender with any preference or -- for the most part -- any kink. Sexual taboo was an almost unheard of concept within the Community, almost because -- as in the Human Society with its long standing statutory laws -- the age of consent was still a law by which the Vampires did abide, whether it be in conversation about sex or conversation about Blood.

Killian again cocked his head a bit, looking deeply into Mercy's eyes, asking in a softer voice that still continued to reveal an accent that seemed to carry a bit of Old World Europe hidden somewhere deep within, "Are you...? Waiting for someone, I mean? Or ... should I attempt to employ my infinite charm and rugged good looks in sweeping you off your feet ... perhaps ... with a dance?"

Killian held his hand out before him in invitation, palm up, fingers lightly curled. "You do dance, do you not?"

The only thing more sonorous than his voice was his laughter. At the sound, Mercy felt that she would have given anything to hear it again. Her dark cheeks flushed, and she tried to look back at her glass, to steel herself.

But it was already too late.

The logic in her mind screamed at her not to take his hand, that this was unnatural to feel this way, that the pleasureable burn on her stomach was unusual, that she had to back away. All of it was swept away under the wave of sheer instinct. She couldn’t refuse him anymore than she could cut off her own hand.

But…

“Yes, I am waiting – for my sister and her new beau to be,” and before the words had left her mouth, she wanted to bite her tongue. She was never this free with information, even for something as simple as her weekend plans. Loose lips sink ships and all – having been privy to confidential information for years, it was second nature for her to be close-mouthed. “But…I suppose I’ve got time for one dance.”

She looked at him now, the first time she’d really allowed herself to drink him in. If he’d been watching her face, he’d recognize the faint traces of someone on the verge of being utterly smitten, but was fighting with everything they had not to be.

But still….

Even so…

Her hand was gentle in his own, and her knees nearly buckled. The pleasant warmth that flickered across her stomach raged, and she let out a small gasp of surprise, nearly inaudible. The reaction from her body was instantaneous; her panties were sodden, every fiber in her body called for him to take her away, to dismiss the pretense of this dance, of these people, to let instinct take its course. It was to her credit that none of this directly showed; other than an increase in her breathing and a dilation of her pupils.

...an increase in her breathing and a dilation of her pupils.

And her heart rate. Mercy may not have noticed, or perhaps she was trying to deny it. But Killian could feel the rapidity of her heart in just the soft touch of their hands as she laid hers in his and he gently tightened his fingers around her.

His smile spread just a bit, becoming even a little more devilish appearing that it had been as he realized that he was affecting her in ways that he hadn't expected and that she probably would have preferred not occur. As he stood and led Mercy toward the middle of the floor, Killian sensed a great deal of unexpected warmth building within her. And suddenly, he began to worry that what had begun as simply a fun way to get to know her a bit better as an individual before learning who she was as a potentially protective sister might be turning into something neither of them could have expected.

As the couple moved slowly through the crowd, many of those in the crowd took note of Killian. The Vampires in the crowd all knew who he was, but beyond simple nods of respect from the men or polite -- even flirtatious -- smiles from the women, no overt acknowledgements were made. Killian's privacy as an individual was always respected by his people out in public unless he himself made it clear that he was open to a bit more attention.

No sooner had the Vampires -- and even some knowledgeable humans -- on the floor noted Killian then they looked to Mercy. She was unfamiliar to some of those on the dance floor, and these people eyed her with interest, wondering who their Ambassador's date was and how she'd been lucky enough to enjoy an evening out with him. But others -- particularly those who were more politically or culturally active -- took one look at Mercy Battle and knew exactly who she was and what she stood for in regards to the Vampire Community; and their thoughts were more along the lines of What the fuck is the Ambassador doing with her?

"Wait here," Killian said back over his shoulder to Mercy when they reached the middle of the dance floor. "Be right back."

He released his grip on her hand and continued forward to the stage just as the current song was coming to an end. Some of those on the floor headed back to their seats, while others stood idle waiting for the next song to begin as the drummer casually played his sticks upon the edge of a drum, simply filling the space. The lead trumpeter lowered his horn and leaned over at the waist, lending an ear to Killian, then rose to height and turned to speak to his half dozen band mates.

Killian turned and headed back to the middle of the floor, and as he stepped up close to Mercy, he took her right hand into his left and slipped his right over her left hip, letting it caress a bit lower toward the upper curvature of a firm ass cheek than was appropriate for their current level of familiarity.

"You're nervous," he told Mercy, a statement not a question. As he pulled their bodies together, he looked deeply into her eyes and whispered, "Do not be."

"I hope y'all're enjoyin' yer eve'nin'," said a female singer who'd sat out the last couple of songs but was now taking center stage behind a stand featuring a microphone that was a replica of days long, long past. There was an energetic round of applause, punctuated by some calls from various quarters of the club. The singer looked down toward Killian and his date, continuing, "We have a request. I hope y'all enjoy. I know I enjoy singin' it."

(OOC: YouTube music video link. Forgive me if it begins with an advertisement. Start it and come back to read while it plays.)

As a brush on a snare drum and a muted trombone began leading into the song, Killian reached deep inside him and brought for a surge of energy that welled within him and then spread to Mercy as if a light electrical charge. It was a Vampire ability of which they didn't speak. In truth, only the oldest of Vampires had the skill, and only the oldest of them could so easily bring it forth and spread it to others so easily as he was now to Mercy.

He knew what the woman in his arms would be feeling at this moment: a surge of memories past, memories that were not hers but would very quickly seem as though they were. As he began to move her about on the floor, Mercy would remember all the times she and he had danced, despite never having had; she would recall all the steps to the dance as if it was her favorite, though she'd never once taken a single step of it; and she'd feel the burning deep within that often came with such an erotic embrace and choreography of moves, two people moving as one.

Ironically, as Killian turned Mercy this way and that, pulled her tight to him, spun her away and back slowly to match the slow tempo of the song, and even dipped her so low across his waist that she was looking straight up into the thousands of Christmas style lights decorating the ceiling, it wasn't just Mercy who was experiencing unexpected feelings. As the song continued and the fire of the encounter went on, Killian began to realize that there was something more about Mercy than he could have possibly imagined. There was something ... something ... about her. He didn't know what it was, but she wasn't just another Human female who was melting inside from the Vampire treatment he was giving her.

There was something ... something ... almost Vampirish about her. Killian's immediate thought was that someone had fed on her in the past. There was a feeling that came from making skin to skin contact with a Human Blood Donor that any Vampire could feel. But ... that wasn't it. There was something more, but ... Killian couldn't figure out what it was.

And he didn't have time anyway: He dipped her one last time at the end of their second song, this time leaning into her such that their faces were just inches away. He could have kissed her easily, and he had a feeling by now that she would have welcomed it. Her heart was exploding within her, and she was afire from head to toe. But he didn't. Instead, he stared deeply into her eyes for a long moment, lifted her slowly to her feet until there torsos were again too close for their familiarity, and smiled. He didn't know whether she'd noticed it yet or not, but the dance crowd had faded back, leaving the entire floor to just the two of them ... and now they were applauding for the show the Ambassador and his Date had put on.

Killian gave Mercy a moment to realize that she'd become the center of attention, then backed away a bit and gave her a slight chivalrous bow. Then, moving closer again, he said to her, "They're here."

She obviously didn't understand what Killian meant, so he looked to the edge of the crowd -- where Roberto and Jessica had watched most of the second dance -- and, gesturing politely their direction, asked such that his knowledge of her identity was made known, "Shall we, Mercy?"

This was a dream.

It had to be.

The moment she took his hand, her pulse had quickened, and she’d felt quite lightheaded for a few moments before she was able to gather herself back together. And “gather” was quite a loose wave of putting it. It was as if someone had drawn gauze over her eyes. Dimly aware that she was being lead to the center of the dance floor, all of her senses were awake, and focused solely on him.

It was when his hand communicated to her, when she began to move in steps that she knew, even beneath his thrall, that she had never taken before, that fear, cold and unrelenting, began to churn within her stomach. The applause was the final straw; the enchantment was broken. When he straightened from his bow, he would be face to face with a woman who’s face held nothing but revulsion.

Still the consummate politician, however, she would carefully school her features back into a more palatable expression; demure embarrassment. After all, no one likes a show off. When he spoke her name, that facade cracked for a handful of seconds. Then, like sand slipping through an hourglass, the slightly embarrassed, but wholly endearing, look was back in place.

Taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

____

Breathe.

She could do this.

Staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at the rivulets of cold water running down her cheeks. Almost like tears, she mused.

It was unprofessional, nearly running off like that, but she needed to get her head together. Her body had gone haywire at his touch: he’d used..some kind of magic on her. The thrall of vampires was known to be a thing - if he’d known who she was to begin with, of course it would have been no small matter for him to ‘cast’ something on her. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Rage curled in her stomach - was Jessie in on this? So hung up on her new boyfriend that she’d stoop to such depths to get what she wanted? God - she should just walk away from all of this. Let Jessie ruin her life. Am I my sister’s keeper?

Catching the reflection of her dark eyes in the mirror, she paused. Stared. Looked for an answer in her own face. Whatever conclusion she came to was a silent one.

Calm and collected again, she reapplied her perfume to the backs of her ears and the hollow of her throat. Surrounded by its soothing scent, she strode out of the bathroom ready for the next battle.

_____

“Honey, you okay? You ran off like a ghost was after you!” Jessie exclaimed, her arm looped round Roberto’s. Of course she wouldn’t leave his side, thought Mercy bitterly. So much for sisterly bonds.

“Mojito snuck up on me - what, with all of that spinning around,” she lightly said, giving Killian a sly look. “But shall we? I’m quite eager to meet the man that’s worth getting disowned for.”

(OOC: Hope you don't mind, I am putting words into Jessica's mouth this one time.)



“If you’ll excuse me.”

"Of course," Killian responded immediately with a slight, respectful bow of his head that went back to the chivalry of his ages old youth.

He watched Mercy head away across the dance floor toward the bathroom hall at the back of the club. The floor began to become populated again, and as Killian turned to face his Son and his Son's new love, a few of those taking the floor to the next song made greeting with Killian, complimenting he and his dance partner for their performance.

"I had no idea my sister could dance like that!" a gleeful Jessica said to Killian as he stepped up close to his dining companions and offered his hand to Roberto, then offered it to her.

"I do not think that she knew she could dance like that either," Killian said and he added his second hand to the shake, gently cupping Jessica's offered hand. He offered her the same slight, polite nod of the head as his Son made formal introductions between the two, then raised Jessica's hand as he leaned forward and kissed the back of it. He looked into her eyes as he unhurried released his grip, saying, "It is a pleasure to meet the woman who, by my Son's own description, has stolen his heart and chosen to become one with it."

Killian gestured them ahead, and Roberto lead Jessica to the best table in the house, located near the rear far away from the kitchen, restroom hall, and main entrance. It sat on a slight mezzanine, three steps above the dance floor level, and provided a view of much of the rest of the establishment, including said dance floor and band stage, too.

No sooner had they sat then a waitress who would show them particular attention this evening arrived to take their drink and appetizer orders. She left only after giving Killian a knowing glance and slight smile, hoping he remembered their most recent encounter and the joy they had each found in their own Human and Vampire ways.

They chatted for a moment, with Killian asking Jessica what it was that she did for work or fun, then -- with great humor in his tone -- asking what in the world she saw in his worthless going no where in this world of a Son. The conversation continued for a moment until Roberto suddenly stood up and nodded his head in the direction of an approaching Mercy Battle. Jessica stood as well, wrapping her arm in Roberto's and met with her sister.

“Honey, you okay? You ran off like a ghost was after you!” Jessie exclaimed.

If Mercy's thoughts and feelings had been poorly lubricated metal gears, Killian -- who stood from the table as well at the arrival of the second woman -- could have heard what was happening inside her mind and soul even over the now energetic sound that was exploding out from the stage.

“Mojito snuck up on me - what, with all of that spinning around,” Mercy answered.

Killian only gazed at Mercy with a polite expression, unsure of whether she would make eye contact with him or not. He was sure that he had embarrassed her, though he certainly hadn't meant to do so. And he was sure that he'd angered her, too, something he should have known would happen after having treated her as he had.

“But shall we? I’m quite eager to meet the man that’s worth getting disowned for.”

Ah, there it is, Killian thought to himself. He was sure that Mercy was only teasing her sister about her choice in a Man -- or would it be better phrased choice of a not-Man -- but still it was the first time this evening that she had made a comment highlighting the elephant in the room, which was that Humans were Humans and Vampires were Vampires and never the 'twain shall meet, let alone fuck and get married.

Of course, Blooded wasn't the same thing as Married, but that was a topic for another time. Killian had something about which he himself felt obligated to speak immediately, waiting only until the other three had taken their seats around the larger the table.

"Before we go any further, I wish to make an apology, if I might," he said to no one in particular. He then looked directly to his dance partner and said, "It was not my intent to embarrass you or cause you any emotional distress, Miss Battle, with either the omission of my identity upon meeting you or the ... heavy handedness I demonstrated on the floor."

By that, of course, he meant the use of his ability upon her without either a heads up or her permission. Killian would have been embarrassed about this, if he was the type to be embarrassed, for -- in practical terms -- it was no different than slipping a Mickey into a woman's drink in an attempt to let you paw her body without resistance.

"I beg your forgiveness, and more importantly wish to reassure you that such behavior is not typical of my Community," he continued, again offering her his ages old head nod and lowering of his gaze before standing tall and looking to Mercy. His lips spread a bit, that devilish smirk that sometimes got away from him, and Killian finished with a slightly suggestive tone, "Without sounding inappropriate, though, I must say ... Miss Battle ... you bring the Vampire out of me at times when I wish it would just stay put. Again ... forgive me."

He didn't take his seat after finishing. His gaze remained on Mercy as he waited for her reaction, knowing he should have ended his monologue with prior to the last comment. If she was entirely offended and hesitant of his company, he would, of course, offer to end the evening now and offer to give it a restart in the near future, if ever; or if she accepted his apology, he would take his seat that put the two women at his left and right and hope the evening went better from there.

It hadn’t taken long for her to find them.

It had been long enough, however, for her to kick herself repeatedly over what had happened. It had to have been some sort of thrall. And now that she knew what it was, she could fight back tooth and nail to ensure that it wouldn’t happen again.

Her stride back to the table was even, purposeful. The walk of a woman who knew what she wanted and that she had the power to obtain it. Immediately, the tone between the sisters was set – Jessie, with her arm in Roberto’s, Mercy, standing close, but not close enough to suggest family. It would speak volumes to someone as observant as Killian. Bad blood was there – perhaps older than this most recent infraction would suggest.

As Killian spoke to her, her dark eyes flickered to his face, then to his mouth, as if she were fascinated to see it shaping the apology. Her eyes found his face again, and there was an imperceptible hardening there, a minor twitching of the eyelid. Her polite smile held.

The apology appeared accepted - at the very least, to remain civil – until his last comment settled between them. Her schooled face slipped, and she glared at him with a raw, cold hatred. Intense in its chill, it would have given a lesser man utter pause. Harsh as it was, it was quickly swept away. Filial responsibility at its finest. She’d told herself and Jessie that she would remain civil. And so she would.

She took her seat, settling in as elegant as a queen. Smiled and quirked her head just so; dismissive of what had just happened and what Killian had said. Practiced, poised.

”So, Roberto, tell me about yourself.” Her hands were folded primly in front of her on the table.

The rest of the dinner went…well, surprisingly enough. Mercy was civil, friendly at points. Occasionally she would cross over into older territory, and would be the picture of the cautious older sister. She kept her interactions with Killian brief, but not unfriendly. Jessie was on tenterhooks, looking with fearful, cautious eyes between Mercy, Roberto, and Killian. Reassured by Roberto, she would speak freely, try to draw out a definitive approval from Mercy. Mercy, however, was far too skilled of a pundit for it to happen. Her neutrality spoke volumes.

As the evening wound down, she refused an offer of dessert. Jessie was crestfallen.

“But…you always get dessert.” Her voice was pleading, uncertain in its remembered truths.

“Things change.” Mercy spoke lightly enough, but there was weight. They were on unfamiliar ground now- and Jessie no longer had the advantage that she’d been counting on. Still, Mercy wasn’t entirely unkind. “Besides, I’d like to get back to my room and catch up on my sleep. I’m sure tomorrow is going to be a hell of a day.” She was reaching for her purse now, looking to settle her tab.

“Yeah…I guess you’re right.” Jessie’s voice was shaky, but gathered strength as Roberto grasped her hand. “I’m glad you came.”

“Mmm?” Mercy was still digging through her purse. Stalling.

“I’m glad you came,” Jessie repeated, a little louder, with more emotion. Mercy stopped; looked up. Her dark eyes swept Jessie’s face, calculating, before she smiled, the only authentic one she’d had of the night.

“Of course. But I’m not going to give you my blessing, if that’s what you’re waiting for.” Straight for the throat. “Not like it matters.”

Jessie’s face paled, but then, picking up on something that only the two women would know, she laughed. “What’s your catch, Mercy?”

“Date him for a reasonable amount of time. None of this ‘I just met this guy and I want to be his everything’ and then falling out of love two weeks later. This,” and she waved at Roberto and Killian, “is very permanent. You need to be very sure of it. Roberto, Killian,” crisp formality, dismissive in the nature of someone who’s being polite when they’re in a hurry, “It was nice meeting you both. If you’ll excuse me.”

Her portion of the meal laid out on the table (who still carried cash?) neatly, she strode over, kissed Jessie’s forehead. Stopped long enough to wipe off the glittering traces of her lipgloss from the pale woman’s skin, and she was gone, heading down the stairs in a fluid swirl of gold.

Mercy was barely down the mezzanine steps before Killian began to casual rise from his seat. Roberto shot him a questioning look, to which the elder vampire said, "Stay a bit. Order some desert. Enjoy."

"Where are you going, Father?" Roberto asked desperation in his voice.

"I believe my apology was insufficient," Killian told his son as he circled the table to stand closer to Jessica. Looking to her, he took her hand again and, just before leaning to kiss it again, said with a sincere tone, "I fear I have done you and your relationship with my Son harm, and I wish to take a stab at correcting my error."

He bid them a good night, gestured the waitress to put the evening on his tab, toss a hundred dollar bill down for a tip -- typical for one of America's wealthiest and most benevolent Vampires -- and headed off after Mercy.

She'd been delayed escaping by a gaggle of jazz fans clustered about the entrance, and Killian caught he just outside where the night had taken on an obvious chill. Killian shed his jacket and draped it over the unexpecting Mercy's shoulders.

"How do I fix this, Miss Battle?"

She jerked back, her hand automatically drawn back into a fist.

A startlingly violent reaction – one not befitting someone from a background with money. Realizing who it was, her arm dropped, but she was still on guard. She shrugged off his coat, and held it back out to him.

“I’m not sure what situation you mean to ‘fix.’” Her voice was chill – hard, carefully removed from whatever passionate emotion she could have. “Jessie’s stuck on your son for however long. She does this,” and she waved her hand at him. “Goes from man to man trying to find herself, like a bee. She either comes to her senses or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, she gets turned. She’s a grown woman: she can make her own choices. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She was turning to leave again. If she had been a bull in a china shop earlier about the potential “marriage” between Jessie and Roberto, she was now avoiding the larger issue as if she were avoiding off topic questions at a press conference.

"My son and your sister are an issue," Killian called out quickly, to ensure that Mercy understood he shared her concern. But it wasn't the young couple about which he was referring. Once he knew he had Mercy's attention, he clarified, "I was actually referring to how I treated you prior to the arrival of Roberto and Jessica. If I have offended you, I wish to fix this. I only need know how."

She stared at him, quite incredulous.

The sheer audacity!

"Why do you care?" As angry as she was, her voice was calm, cool. "Worried that you might have offended a future in-law? If so, I can assure you that I am the least of your worries in that regard."

She turned as if she was going to leave again, but stopped halfway, as if expecting him to call out to her again. A snide comment nestled in the side of her mouth; she bit her tongue to keep it there.

Senator Wells, Killian reminded himself at Mercy's comment. Jessica and Mercy's father was a powerful and influential politician who, it was rumored, had ambitions of higher office. Killian had heard everything from Secretary of State to Vice President to President itself, though for all he knew it was just the typical banter in which politicians, pundits, and reporters engaged to keep themselves fresh in the minds of others.

So, Jessica might have more standing in her way of being Blooded than simply a protective sister. Or was Mercy talking out of the wrong side of her mouth to keep Killian off guard? Didn't really matter, because once again he had other thoughts on his mind.

"Are you regularly being fed upon by a Vampire, or ... was it a one time thing?" he asked as she turned to leave yet again. That got a reaction. But, it wasn't the reaction Killian had expected. He studied her for a short moment, then explained his comment, "Mercy, there is something about you ... something I can not explain. If you have not been fed upon ... if you are not being fed upon now ... I can not explain it, but ... you are more than you think you are."

Her eyes widened - briefly. Quick enough to seem a figment of the imagination.

Then, surprising them both, she laughed. It was a harsh, scoffing sound.

"I would recall quite plainly if I'd been fed upon," she turned to face him now, her hands on her hips. If she projected an image of power before, she fairly radiated it now. "If you're done having your fun at my expense, we can call it a night."

"I can not explain it, but ... you are more than you think you are."

Of course she was. She was more than whatever it was than he assumed her to be - the same assumption many others made, based on her name, her adopted family. Only a handful of people knew the actual truth about her. Whatever it was that he thought he'd sussed out, well, he was wrong.

"Please, Mercy ... Miss Battle," Killian responded when he began to see himself running out of delays to her departure. He took a slight step forward and with a tone that included a definite element of begging asked, "May I see you again. Please. Name the time, the place. We can speak of this further, and if you can rise and walk away from me at any moment and I will never bother you again. But please ... we must speak on this again."

Killian didn't know what it was about the woman before him, but he'd felt it when they'd first held hands, when he'd affected her as he had prior to the dance, and during ever moment of what had been one of the most intimate embraces -- be it on the dance floor -- that he'd enjoyed in months, years, maybe even decades before this time.

He took another slight step forward and repeated softly, "Please."

She was cold, collected -

But she wasn't heartless. Nor was she entirely willing to give up on that...whatever that was, she'd experienced with him on the dance floor. Horrific deception aside, there had been moments before that. She'd never experienced that level of sheer physical longing - and she was curious enough to want to know if it was a one time thing.

Her eyes softened, and with a mighty sigh, her shoulders sagged. It could be another trick. It could be something that she'd kick herself over, come to regret in time. Looking into his eyes, she took a small step forward. And made one giant leap of faith.

"...Fine." Her unspoken plea was clear: Please don't lie to me. Don't trick me like this.

She stopped now, turned to face him fully. The night had cooled, but the air was still.

"It will have to be somewhere...discreet. I'm sure a man of your means could figure something out. It wouldn't do for either one of us to be embroiled in any further scandal. Jessie's taken care of that for us."

Killian had much different feelings about the possibly union of Mercy's sister to his Son, of course: he had come to support it after having had some time to contemplate it further. But he reserved comment one way or the other on Mercy's opinion, instead promising her, "Discretion will be foremost in my mind concerning out next meeting, Miss Battle."

He took a half step back, indicating that he was finally ready to allow her to escape, gave her another of his signature slight bows of respect, and said softly, "Good evening, and may the remainder of your dark be void of bogey man."

His lips widened just a bit as he wondered whether or not she remembered having used that phrase in her television appearance days earlier. Oh, she hadn't used it to describe Vampires, of course, but many people had in the past and many would again in the future. He took another partial step back, then turned slowly to leave. But not before giving Mercy's shapely form one last conspicuous up and down ogle. She was a magnificent woman, and it had been a pleasure holding her this evening. And Killian hoped he would again hold her in the future: tighter, longer, and in possibly much more intimate ways.

“…Thank you.” Her response was slow, as she measured him carefully with her eyes. She seemed to be taking him apart, piece by piece, then, just as slowly, putting him back together. Trying to figure out the creature in the shape of a man in front of her.

At his “bogey man” comment, she simply smirked. “I’m quite sure many women wouldn’t be afraid of the dark if they found someone like you lurking under their beds.” A backhanded compliment, but an open acknowledgement of his looks.

She was a bit more disciplined than him – and had turned to walk away before she could catch him looking at her. She additionally didn’t turn to take one last, lingering look at him. She didn’t have to. Despite the anger at being manipulated, his voice, his face; they were indelibly etched within her.

Her discipline faltered the minute she got back to her hotel room.

Stripping off her dress, kicking the shoes to one side, she flopped down gracelessly on the bed. Took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling. Closing her eyes, she could see his: vivid, green, intelligent, hungry. One hand trailed down the curves of her breasts, through the dark curls of pubic hair. Of course she was still wet. Sitting that close to him during dinner hadn’t helped. Exhaling slowly, she let her mind wander – and in her mind, it was no longer her hand that was tracing inquisitive lines down her body. It was his.

Killian's car was waiting half a block away, the driver dutifully standing beside it and opening the back passenger side door upon his Master's arrival. No sooner had he dropped into the seat than Killian was on the phone.

"Mercy Battle," he said at the sound of a woman's voice on the other end of the call. She spoke, and he confirmed, "Yes, full bio and background. I want to know everything. Use your deep sources if necessary."

He cut the call and set the phone aside, and his mind was filled with memories of the evening. Things had not at all gone as he'd expected: they'd gone better. Oh sure, Roberto and Jessica didn't get the glowing approval for their relationship for which either of them had hoped. But Killian had gotten something for himself that he couldn't have even imagined: a mystery.

He lifted his phone again, pressed a speed dial, waited for yet another woman to greet him, then said with a firm tone, "Victoria, as soon as possible. No. Victoria."

There was a pause as the woman questioned his definition of as soon as possible, to which he clarified, "I will be home in twenty minutes. If she is not there, in my bed, naked and wet, I believe I have the number of another Service."



The early morning was nearly a repeat of the last time Roberto stopped by to speak to his Father: Killian was dressed in only a robe and slippers as he headed for the espresso maker, and through his open bedroom door a woman was again passed out naked upon the Vampire's bed. Roberto hesitated for a moment, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open a bit in shock at the woman's physical appearance. Then he noticed a large tattoo on the woman's thigh and realized with great relief that the look-alike was in fact not his lover's sister.

"Father, may I talk to you about last night's dinner?" Roberto began.

"No," Killian said softly but with that tone that said no further response from him was coming and no further discussion on the topic was needed. "Tell me about the Hamilton acquisition."

Killian listened to his obviously disappointed Son as he himself headed toward the open balcony door to look out up the city below. It was barely above freezing, a cold front having moved in during the wee hours, and the breeze passing and sometimes through the doors dropped the wind chill to well below that. And yet Killian's body language would have left the casual observer thinking that it was a windless balmy day on a Florida Beach.

"What do you know of Mercy's surname," Killian suddenly cut in on his Son's explanation of the business venture with which he'd been tasked. He turned to look at a suddenly silent Roberto, asking with a sarcastic tone, "You did happen to notice that the two sisters do not share the same last name, yes?"

"Of course, Father," Roberto answered defensively.

"But you do not have an answer," Killian said with a matter of fact tone. "You have not discussed this with your lover?"

"Her name is Jessica," Roberto corrected.

"Her name is Jessica Wells," Killian clarified. "You come to me wishing to Blood a woman about whom you know very little except, perhaps, whether it is your fingers, your tongue, or your cock that makes her scream the loudest."

Roberto's eyes had been on his Father's, but by now they lowered more toward the Vampire's feet.

"You know nothing of this woman!" Killian went on, not really caring about Roberto's knowledge of Jessica. His concerns were better explained as he continued, "And you know nothing about the family of which she is a part."

When Killian was standing only a yard before him, Roberto begged in a timid voice, "Forgive me, Father."

Killian was beginning to slowly circle around his son, a dominating technique that the Vampire had used for centuries. He'd learned long ago that the fear level within a person being disciplined or threatened rose significantly when the person doing the disciplining or threatening was behind and out of view.

Roberto began, "I will investigate the--"

"You will do nothing," Killian cut in with a softer yet still firm voice. "I have people working on it. You will continue to deepen your relationship with Jessica Wells, and you will ensure that when I am ready to make a decision as to whether or not you will be allowed to Blood her, she will be all too ready and willing to rip her clothes off and expose her neck to you."

"Yes, Father," Roberto said, his gaze still on the ground before him as Killian slowly swung around before him again. After a moment, he asked almost in a whisper, "And if either Jessica's sister or father decide that they do not approve?"

"You will cease your relationship with Jessica," Killian said without hesitation. "You will not Blood a woman such as this ... a woman with a family such as this ... without that family's permission."

Killian dismissed his son, and Roberto made haste for the door. Killian wanted Jessica Wells Blooded, badly. The political and economic advantages of such a union were unimaginable. But, to Blood such a woman without the permission of such a family could be devastating to the Vampire Community, with a backlash that would make Proposition 42 look like an afternoon in high school detention.

He looked toward the open door of his bedroom, recalling with both delight and disappointment at the hours long fuck'n'suck' session he'd had with the woman who would be passed out there possibly until the distant dusk. Roberto might have momentarily believed that Mercy Battle was laying there, spent; and Killian had certainly imagined -- fantasized, was a better word -- that she had been below him while he'd been using the woman as a stand-in Mercy Battle. It had been a generous release, but in the end it hadn't been enough. It -- she -- hadn't been the real thing.



The Dark came to an end, and the Light passed. When Killian rose to begin yet another day, his Personal Assistant Patricia -- a Human, as he needed someone who could work during his sleep period -- had already laid out a series of printed pages across his desk, some of those accompanied by detailed background folders, some of those accompanied with photographs that were, in cases, decades old.

He took some time filling his stomach and catching the cable news before going to his desk to peruse the papers. Each offered another little tidbit about the mysterious Mercy Battle, and taken in whole they all lead to one of the many possible reasons Mercy was a Battle and not a Wells.

Adoption.

But ... the records ... they were not complete, and they were not entirely consistent. There was still something missing, and public documents weren't going to answer Killian's real question about the woman: why had she affected him the way she had on that dance floor the night before?

"Patricia," he called across the open floor plan toward the open door beyond which his Aide sat. When the woman crossed to stand before his desk, Killian instructed concerning a Human who was trusted but not at all connected publically to the Vampire Community, "Have Mister Conner go to Miss Mercy Battle's office and invite her to dinner, here, Thursday night. Tell her a car will be waiting for her curbside. He should reassure her that discretion is guaranteed."

"Yes, sir," Patricia responded, heading away to make the arrangements.