Twenty Three to Midnight (Closed)

Ammina watches her leave. The faint ruefulness and frustration fade from his features as the smoke drifts after her, intangible and invisible, drifting into the pocket of her jeans. The smoke and ash reknits together once again into rice paper - this time, a thin, flexible card with a seven digit number upon it.

With that thread set into place, he turns to move the next piece, reentering the resturant and gliding to a spot with a view Devon's table with effortless grace. The couple has lapsed into full denial mode, giggling with each other as they steadily get more and more drunk - even Devon, who cannot get drunk as mortals do, through steady, stealthy sip of Jessie's blood and drowning in the numbness therein. The combination of blood loss and alcohol has left her dizzy and redfaced.

It is no effort to puppeteer Devon once again - he has little self-control, now or ever. He is so remarkably unaware that he doesn't even understand that it's not a random whim until his hands begin to write a message on the napkin before him that he'd never imagined.

Negotiations have failed
Persuade and turn her
Appeal to publicity
I will handle fallout


The message leaves Devon a little paler, oddly reassured, but with an ominous feeling of impendent doom.

If Mercy will not comply freely, then the proper response is to limit her freedom until she does. He can crack the base of Well's power in multiple ways, and the concilatory approach was merely the quickest to try and be lost. With the firestorm that will result from Jessie's announcement, the Senator's house will crumble, and his purpose will be achieved nonetheless. If that doesn't accomplish it, the tattoo is enough to force the divide open by itself. Her reaction was enough evidence.

He's not entirely certain why he left the number. It's probably because what he's setting into motion will turn her life into wreckage, and he prefers to tidy his own affairs. There will be at least one more conversation with Miss Battle, he's certain, but depending on how she reacts she may not walk out a free woman still.

The prolieo is not inert, and if need be, he can command her through it. The fate of one human is not a thing that burdens his conscience overmuch.

Her hotel room is a study in organized chaos. Her clothes are somewhere between strewn across the floor and carefully laid out; one half of the bed is made, the other is a rumple of blankets. It’s to this that she returns, and, once away from family, from vampires, from things that go bump in the night and haunt her dreams, she runs a bath. Waits until the water rises so high that it almost spills over the rim of the tub, and then she gets in, careless that now the water does cascade over the rim.

And screams.

_______

What felt like hours later, she got out of the tub, raided the mini-bar, and sat on her bed, willing her mind to be quiet. Half-remembering breathing techniques from a yoga class taken years ago, Mercy tried her damndest to get everything under control. The harder she tried, the more it unravels. She can’t rely on what’s in her head alone. Taking a handful of plastic liquor bottles, she sat at the hotel desk, grabbing a notepad from her suitcase. At first, she merely taps her pen against the paper, and then, the air turned electric, and she began to write furiously, a haphazard outline.

As much as she would want to ignore it, she included the fact that he seemed to know what her mark was. To be fair, she put it low on her outline, something that could be sussed out later. Nothing that was so pressing now. She’d been born with it; she always imagined she’d die with it. Until tonight, it was harmless – unable to be removed, but harmless. Years earlier, she’d submitted to a tattoo-removal procedure, laughingly describing the mark as the actions of a Lord of the Rings fan gone a bit too far, and she was too old for such things now. Painful days later, after removing the bandage, the skin, fresh, was free of the mark. However, before elation could truly set in, it began to grow back, blossoming under her skin one line at a time. Wonder of wonders, it didn’t grow back raw, or fainter, or, even darker. It was as it ever was, quiet, faint, and, for a few days its “glorious” return, it throbbed, reaching tendrils deep into her body, checking in with her.

She never admitted to a living soul (not even to herself, out loud) that she was reassured to see it again.

She wrote until her hand cramped, until she lost track of what she was saying and let things spill out of her. When she managed a glance at the clock, the green letters blared a time that was far too late for her to still be awake. Downing the rest of a small bottle and grimacing (no matter how nice the hotel was, cheap vodka was cheap vodka), she crawled into bed, and surprising even herself, fell asleep almost instantly.

She slept hard, slept through the insistent buzzing of her phone, through the louder still ringing of the hotel room phone. It’s only when she rolled over onto the TV remote, causing it to come to life with a dull roar that she jerks awake. Why hotel room TVs always defaulted to a news station was beyond her. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she struggled to focus on what was happening, to understand more beyond blobs of color and noise.

“This morning, daughter of Senator Lyndon Wells, Jessica Wells, announced her engagement to Devon Harpschord, a vampire-”

Mark Twain once said, "When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear." The stream of profanity that left Mercy was loud, creative, and lengthy, cursing mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, grandmothers, long dead ancestors. It was minutes later when she was done, and she was frankly amazed at herself that she hadn’t thrown the remote control through the television set.

Jessie had said they were going to talk about this. That she wasn’t going to make any rash choices. That she was going to at least attempt to listen to Mercy. And Mercy had promised that she wouldn’t browbeat Jessie, to have enough faith in her, as a sister, to believe that she would make the right choice, the informed choice. The sting of betrayal sent a fresh wave of anger over her. In auto pilot now, she grabbed the first bit of clothing in arm’s reach, her jeans from the night before. From the back pocket, Ammina’s card slipped free. She paused, somehow conscious enough to notice the small piece of paper. Picking it up, her eyes narrowed. When and how he’d given it to her, she didn’t know. And it was the last thing she needed.

In a flash of impotent anger, she held it aloft, grasping each end. If she tore it up now, that would be one less problem to deal with. Her fingers shook, wanting the satisfaction so bad that she could taste it. And it was with a dry, brittle laugh that she tossed the card aside. It was a polite gesture, she knew, one politician to another. In a sense, she felt she should be flattered. All things considered, knowing that she ultimately had no choice, he’d been quite polite about the matter. Polite in a horrifically patronizing way – the new realization set her teeth on edge.

Well. If that’s the way he wanted it, how he felt, she was going to give him hell every single inch of the way.

She tugged on her jeans again, ignoring how rumpled and loose they were now. In the process of pulling a fresh t-shirt over her head, her phone began buzzing again, and with one arm half-way through the sleeve, she dashed over to answer it. Winced when she saw the screen – 50 missed calls. Her mind boggled – then reoriented itself. All things considered, 50 missed calls wasn’t THAT bad.

“Girl, you better be dead or close to it,” came the full fury of Big Daddy Wells’s voice. He must’ve been somewhere where he could speak freely; he wouldn’t be caught dead with his drawl that deep in public.

“Big Daddy, I just turned on the TV – this caught me as much as by surprise as you,” she grunted, wrestling her shirt the rest of the way on. The gust of cool air and unrestrained bounce of her chest as she sat down reminded her that in her haste, she’d forgotten to put any underwear on. Whatever.

“I sent you down there to talk some sense into her. She listens to you!” His voice faltered now, a powerful man backed into a corner when the ace he thought he had turned out to be a 5.

“She USED to!” Her response was more indignant than she intended it to be, angry at being backed into a corner, at being caught by surprise, for her meeting the night before that Big Daddy was clearly in no mood to hear or sympathize with. “I flew half-way across the country,” it was a lame excuse, but after the futile, one-sided verbal battle with the mysterious stranger, Mercy was ready to fight, as mean as a junkyard dog. The attack from her one ally put her over the edge. “Half-way across the country to see that empty-headed girl for her new flavor of the week, met the creep, TOLD her that she needed to wait and talk to me more so I could find out more about this guy-”

“You mean to tell me that you didn’t flat out tell her to sever the relationship?!” He was in a full on rage now, his voice, normally dulcet with the South, cutting her down to the bone with each word. In just one sentence, he’d deftly turned the blame from himself and onto Mercy. It was an old tactic of his, and one that she never thought she’d be on the receiving end of. They were fighting without rules now.

“No, I didn’t! She’s your damn blood; you know as well as I do the more you tell her not to do something the more she’ll do it! I didn’t so much as say ‘boo’ about this asshole – she knew how I felt, how you felt, I was trying to be diplomatic. I needed time to make this happen-“

“We never HAD time, Mercy! If we did, I would’ve taken care of this myself!”

“So you send me to clean up your messes and then blame me for your fuck ups!”

Silence.

A line had been crossed. The dividing line that sat between father and adopted daughter, the one that they’d unknowningly tiptoed closer to with each day.

She didn’t feel as sorry about it as she knew she should have.

“I don’t know what I did,” his voice was resigned, quieter. The hint of sorrow, “to end up with two ungrateful, selfish daughters. I gave y’all everything. And you, you, I brought out of nothing –“

“The hell you did,” she hissed. He was taking credit for things he never should; rewriting history to fit his narrative. In the past, she let him, let him think he was the benevolent politician that truly gave a damn. A good Christian who looked out for his community, moving in the footsteps of Christ. Not today. He was not going to take credit for the power that her grandmother had instilled in her, long before he even set foot across 110th Street. “You gave me money, you gave me opportunity, but you did not ever have anything to do with how I came to be. You are not my father.”

Silence again. She knew she’d cut him deep; shattered that bubble. A part of her would mourn it later, she thought.

“…I know you’re speaking outta anger – sayin’ things that I know you don’t mean. I’ve given you the world, little girl: you best not forget that. You got…” silence, humming. “You got 12 hours to make this not happen.”

“And if I don’t?” Her voice was stronger than she thought it would be. “Jessie’s stubborn as a mule. There’s no saying she hasn’t already turned.”

“Then I only have the one daughter to worry about.”

A chill ran through her, followed by a wave of rage, then...the truth, crystalline and chill. How had she not seen this? How precarious her position had always been?

“I’ll do my best.” It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t even a threat. It was a statement with the passion driven out of it.

Because, in that moment of truth, she realized – she didn’t actually care anymore.

In the aftermath of Jessie's announcement, Ammina makes several arrangements.

First, he pulls Harold Obarson from Crossfire, sending him instead to a liberal rag called Equinox - his partisan leanings are causing them more harm to credibility than good, so he might as well preach to the flock. He replaces him with the more even tempered Gariland, who isn't a waiting convert or bankrolled, but whose careful speech and preference for devil's advocate make him an excellent accidental persuader. That cuts off one avenue of power - Harold made an excellent straw man, as he never offered effective arguments, just brute force inequality speeches.

Secondly, he tips the Enquirer as to a possible family leaning of the Wells towards vampirism - that a lover's scorn is the reason for the aged senator's ongoing war against the nightwalkers. It's untrue, of course, but it sounds probable, and moreover Jessie doesn't know how to effectively lie on her father's behalf. It'll madden the man and further stress his relationships with everyone around him.

Thirdly, he requests the local night population (a useful euphemism for the vampiric race coined by Harold - whatever else, he has a gift for inoffensive phrasing) to play it safe for the next couple of days; offer no conversions, stay in groups, avoid any potentially alarming encounters. Diluting the impact of this engagement is not acceptable. It needs to be the public focus, along with the crumbling of Well's power base: the perception of power, and the shifting of it, is at least half of its own strength. The momentum is necessary.

The Lemures remain obedient, but he's interfering a great deal a long way from his traditional territory - they're getting antsy, and soon the Toreador, the traditional masters of this area, will begin to ask questions. Lacan has already sent two polite inquiries, and will soon grow insistent. He's younger than Ammina - almost everyone is - but any of his peers can cause considerable trouble for another. It's a thing to be wary of.

With these events set into motion, Ammina sets the phone down in his private office sanctum and huffs once, aged smoke trailing from his mouth in a wispy stream as the charms he uses to warp his voice fade. He spits the ash away and wipes his mouth discontentedly - he'd taken some from a public ashtray, purified it, and then used the voice of whose lips it'd last touched to make the call truly anonymous.

Each sherr develops their own talents; his lie in ash and smoke, obscurity and illusion and uncertainty - the cooling fire. There are days when he closes his eyes and feels the winds tugging at his heartstrings, dissolving him into a skein and casting him into a thousand strands upon the westward breeze. The embers are fading, have been fading, inside him for an eon. The heat collapses inside of him and the cold water sweeps overhead, as the rains come. The rains always come.

Mercy's words tug at him.

Ammina's eyes open (in the dream?) and he walks outside the office, pushing aside the thin wooden door to stare out through the glassed hallway, at the water pattering against naked glass in disconsolate harmony. The storm clouds overhead grumble and moan, and the echo of their song vibrates through his bones and sets grey smoke to rising from his shoulders. He sets a hand against the window and feels the coolness of the raindrops seethe through his skin and slough the first layer from it in a frission of fading ash.

He survived the rising waters, but never does the rain release what it chases.

Hopefully, it's sooner rather than later.

There was “putting out fires,” and then there was “attempting to control an inferno.” To her credit, Mercy did the latter admirably. No, she couldn’t speak on behalf of Jessica Wells personally. No, she had no further comment from Senator Wells, who, in a flash of insight, had wisely decided to withdraw from the media circus. She knew that he was gathering strength, reassuring the more extremist in his political circles that the problem was going to be contained. The fact that she was pulled away from up North to come back spoke volumes; sent ripples through both sides. For the optimistic liberals, it meant that Wells was running scared, to sic his attack dog on the media. To those more pragmatic liberals, Mercy’s appearance could have a dual meaning - the whole thing was an outrageous publicity stunt, and a vampire breaking the heart of a senator’s daughter could collapse the sandcastle that the vampire / human movement was building on, or that this was a cover for Mercy to slip through an even more radical vampire ban while everyone else was caught up on the more sensational story.

Even within the midst of the chaos, it had been difficult for her not to notice the “sudden” disappearance of Harold Obarson. Fine by her; he was no fun to argue with. If she wasn’t kept challenged, she wouldn’t be as good. What did have her, and Senator Wells, currently over a barrel was the fact that she was here, and not there for the most recent taping of Crossfire, hurriedly cobbled together to capitalize on the circus. Instead of her, Senator Wells’s camp had directly intervened, sending Adam Gleeson. He was another of the “New Wave” conservatives, a contemporary of Mercy. He was young (comparatively so, for a politician), incredibly intelligent, but had the unfortunate drawback of not being as personable as Mercy. What he lacked in personality, he more than made up for in talent and sheer debate skill. With his cold blue eyes and orange hair, there was a rumor going round for a while that he was the lovechild of Wells, but as persistent as that particular myth had been, it was also thoroughly debunked, leaving it only to the tinfoil hat wearing extremists to continue to worry over.

He was also the textbook definition of “merciless”, (no pun intended), and had long been considered one of the “big guns.” Between press conferences, Mercy had called things to a halt so she could see him in action. Their paths had only crossed a handful of times, little more than polite head nods and repeated introductions at fundraisers. However, she was familiar enough with him to know that their names were usually mentioned in the same sentences when it came to the hopes of the party line. Part of her was glad to see him - another part of her was twisted with antinomy. She knew when “her messes” were being cleaned up, and if she could be thought of as a modest kitchen towel, he was bleach.

Her phone buzzed incessantly throughout the day. Messages from Jessie, growing the more desperate as the day went on. Initially, Mercy hadn’t answered from being busy. Then, it became out of spite. She didn’t want to see Jessie; didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want any thoughts of the orange-haired girl in her mind.

So here she was now, in the rain, in jeans and a t-shirt hastily changed into after the last appearance of the night. It was early evening; things taped in the morning, the afternoon, would run this morning. The Wells camp, knowing full well that Mercy was only one person, had sent Gleeson to cover the more crucial parts where a hammer was needed. Between the two of them, while the Wells camp had taken quite the hit, they would stagger on, gathering steam.

None of that was important now, not in the quiet of the cemetery.

Her cigarettes were in the passenger’s seat of her car, resting on top of her phone, still flashing sporadically with texts, with missed calls.

“I know it’s been a long time since I’ve been here. You know I moved half-way across the country - at least it feels that way. Guess you can never escape your home. Whatever or wherever that might be.”

She paused, her hands idly thumping against the sides of her thighs. She could feel the tears, hot on her eyes. She made no move to stop them. “Lord have mercy on me,” she said, in a long, shuddering sigh. “I’m about to lose everything. I think. I don’t even know anymore. If I don’t clean this up, I’m out of the Wells family. Truth be told…I’m not sure if I even care about that anymore. All I can think about is what it would mean for me politically - not even on an emotional level.” A dry chuckle cut through her tears. “I just…I don’t really have words right now. Every time I come here, I feel like I should talk more. Tell you about the good in my life. All there is is politics. The cause. Remembering the snatches I can about Ma and Dad. Because I do. I do remember a little. Bits and pieces that blend in with what you’ve told me. All I’ve ever wanted to do was do right by you. By them. I…” She ran both hands over the close burr of her head. Words failed her. Her stomach twisted.

“After this…I don’t know what. It’s like yelling at the storm. I can’t change its course. I am absolutely nothing, no one, in the middle of all of this. And this vampire…”

She couldn’t say more. She wasn’t ready to admit what had happened; not yet. If she breathed the words aloud, then it would be true.

Stepping forward, she knelt on the ground. The damp ground didn’t make much of a difference in her already soaked jeans. Caressing the top of the tombstone, she leaned forward, pressing her lips against the fine script. “I’ll come back again before I leave, grandma,” she whispered.

Standing now, she tilted her head upwards. The rain had lessened, but the sky remained cygnet gray. It wouldn’t be long before the sky would part again. Trudging her way back to the car, she ran her tongue over her lips, faintly salty from her tears. There wasn’t time to think - not yet. Not entirely. Only time for action. If she could clear this last hurdle, then she’d have some quiet. Time to think on what she was really doing. What it would actually mean to leave the Wells.

It's rare for Ammina to have to explain himself, but this is a situation that requires it. Lacan has sent his invitation - a black business card stained with a drop of his own blood, potent and unmistakeable - and he may not refuse it without giving grave offense.

Lacan lives in Richmond, not coincidentally the former capital of the Confederacy, short-lived lunge for power that it was. He'd been a major player in the events leading up to the Civil War and the politics thereof, always in favor of slavery; he'd been a dehumanist all his duration. No one thing can win a war, however, and he'd lost a considerable amount of power in the concessions thereafter as his peers picked away his thralls and childer, leaving him weakened. He remains sherr of Clan Toreador through personal guile and power, able to slay any two of his clan in challengee easily - but his grasp is not absolute, and he loathes it, and loathes others being aware of it.

When Ammina arrives at the grand plantation manor that Lacan still stays, two and a half centuries after its construction, he raps the false glass panel set into the doorway mantle. It rings at a tone too high and pure for any human to hear, a calling card from one nightwalker to another, and then settles back to wait in the draping shadows of the eaves overhead. The manor's paint is immaculate and the grass ever freshly trimmed, but there's the scent of arsenic in the air, hemlock and holly; poisonous and faint, narcotic. The hedges loom nearby, silent and black, in a long labyrinth. Ammina can smell the trace remnants of blood from its passages. It's where the sire does his game hunts.

The scent resolves as Lacan slides smoothly from those hedges, coalescing from the shadows. "Master Ammina," he says, without irony and with a gentle smile. He's always insisted on that title. "I'm glad to meet with you. Please, if you would join me?"

A great insister on ceremony, Lacan is. The doors part before him, silent and untouched, as he proceeds into a wide ballroom with overhanging balconies and promenades. A table and two grand chairs sit in the precise center, along with two goblets of blood - another minute gesture of power, prepared in advance of his arrival. The familiar setting releases some tension fraught in Lacan's shoulders, which Ammina notes. There's an ambush here, then. The true arrogance is the single candle set on the table, ostentatious in its silvermake. Setting his symbol over silver is a lethally calculated insult, among the kin.

"I must admit to some concern - I've been caught unawares by your movements in this parts." Lacan notes, eyes sharp over a genial curve of pale lips as he seats himself and takes up a goblet. "I mean, I can gather some notion, but you've never cared for politics in my memory. I mean, the last time was - what? Tur Abdin?"

Ah. He wants a fight.

Ammina shakes his head as he remains standing. Prevariacation will do nothing here, so he goes for the throat, eyes steady on Lacan's pale, dry blue stare. "The States remain the breaking ground for cultural revolution. An orthodox revolution now would spread through the western world - nothing unites faster than the combination of religion and xenophobia. Devon is my childer, and while I care not for his welfare, I will not be inconvenienced three centuries hence by his carelessness."

Lacan raises his eyebrows, affecting surprise. He isn't. There's a coolness at the back of his playful smile like a crocodile's heart. He's trying to decide whether to bite down or not. "You think the crucible is here, then? That this one little child's gonna get so much done for your sake?"

Ammina takes up his own goblet and sips once. The red warmth drains down his throat like a man falling into a well. He can taste the despair in it. "I think he would do it regardless of my presence, and thus I will, at minimum, prevent abject failure from being a possible result."

"Ever the perfectionist," Lacan sighs, as he finally blinks. His interest fades as he takes a deeper sip of his glass - Ammina is accomplishing something he wants to happen, and it would be more practical to let him do it. The practicality of it is what disgusts the other sire; like so many of his breed, he runs on passion and madness. His ability to restrain it is not his preference, merely learned caution. "You have my permission to extract a peaceable response from Wells. I lay no claim on the mortals, but if you hassle my childer we will come to a reckoning, you understand?"

This is all Lacan amounts to, why he huddles in this perfect little manor. He is a threat and a show. He wastes his time and Ammina's own to set up a meeting to say ten sentences and posture for his childer, undoubtedly gathered behind the high balconies and promenades, a slave audience to their master's bidding. He has accomplished nothing for anyone he has allowed to matter.

"I hear," Ammina says, toneless, and allows himself a single indulgence - he reaches out and clasps the candle's flame in his hand, snuffing it in a puff of smoke. As it twists and fades, so does he in a shimmer of heat and faint ash.

Lacan is pacified, for the moment. Should Ammina have need of him, he can always inform him of Miss Battle's prolieo. He'd move himself to recover some lost property, certainly.

“Girl talk” sessions, at one point, had been sacred between the two of them. That was the time that they’d discuss everything – hair, school, boys, love, fears, boys again. Largely, it was Jessie that brought up boys. Unlike many women of substantial privilege, she never had a penchant for “bad boys,” the men that kept Big Daddy up at night fretting about this and that. Jessie’s tastes, to be frank, were unpredictable, based on whims, passing moments of beauty that Mercy, if she were to be honest, always envied. The ability to just lose yourself in what was right in front of you, for however long that may have been.

Years of confidences, broken, in one fell statement to the news. And they both knew it.

They were sitting tensely across from one another now, in the neutral ground of the local shopping mall. It hadn’t changed much in the decades that it was originally built, still housing massive atriums and anchor stores with signage borrowed from the 1970s. It was a tenacious thing, in the era of online shopping, and had to thank its true purpose as a social gathering ground for its tenacity.

Mercy picked at the rainbow sprinkles smearing blobs of cheerful pinks, yellows, and blues across her dish of ice cream. Jessie’s eyes were red, her cheeks equally flushed. Hard, bitter sniffles broke the silence between the two, and soundlessly, Mercy handed her a napkin. Taking it, Jessie blew her nose loudly, with a muffled “Goodness,” before balling it in her palm and putting it on the table.

“I can’t believe Daddy would disinherit you,” her voice was small, and utterly broken. Since they’d sat down, Mercy had been uncharacteristically blunt, and laid out her position to Jessica. It would have been easy to have masked it as a mere political house call, to keep it neutral. She’d done her crying in the car at her grandmother’s grave, letting the rain wash over her and pull everything away. Let it soak into her until the truth bubbled to the top. Until the flickers of her own true nature could break through, slivers of sunlight in an increasingly gray sky. She didn’t care, and she did. It was the caring that lead her here, the old pinkie-swears and childish promises, that allowed her to be completely honest with Jessica. Annoyances or not, they were still sisters, even if not in blood.

But she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit to a small amount of righteous glee at watching the orange-haired girl’s expression go from apologetic joy to absolute horror, and to the depths of despair. “I never even would have thought…” Jessie sniffled.

“That’s where I stand,” Mercy interrupted, swirling her spoon in the melted moat surrounding the mound of ice cream in her cup. “I’m not here to change your mind, because you’re just like your Daddy and stubborn as a mule when it comes to that. I came here to let you know what was going on. You know things are gonna get ugly as all get-out, and this is just the beginning of it.” Other factions of the Conservatives, smelling blood in the water at long last with Senator Wells, had started to re-draw party lines, create new alliances. Furtive smear campaigns had already started, hoping to discredit Wells further through her. Mercy had been able to ward off a few anticipated campaigns through her own history of transparency, and friends in high and low places. It still annoyed her, however, that the nature of her relationship with Senator Wells was still fodder for those with more salacious minds. Though he was 30 years her senior, he still had the good looks of his youth, a veritable Robert Redford of politics.

“I know,” Jessie murmured around her spoon. Her fumbling attempt at being “incognito” consisted of a ridiculously floppy hat, dark shades, and a brunette wig that looked like it had seen better days. It worked well enough – but who would be looking for Jessica Wells in an old mall in the outskirts of town?

“I love him, though, Mercy. Like nothin’ I’ve never had before.” The conviction would have moved a dead man. And Mercy just sighed.

“Don’t look for me at the wedding,” it was a half-jest, half-truth; all resignation. “I don’t think Big Daddy would let me in, seeing as I’m no longer family.”

Jessica looked up, awed. “You mean…”

“No, I don’t approve of it. But telling you not to do it is about as useless as the fly trying to break the windshield of a car.” It would be a massive political blow; she knew it. Deals would have to be made. Promises that no side intended to keep. “Besides, I’m going to die before you know it, and it won’t even make a difference.” She dug into the ice cream, spooned it into her mouth, and let it melt, watching Jessie’s face grow more horrified.

“That’s an awful thing to say! Why would you think that I wasn’t going to ask for you to be turned, too?! We’d be together forever. Daddy doesn’t get it, but you, Mercy, we’ve always been close. I can’t stand the idea of living on and on and not having you…”

“What?” It was a quiet response, then grew in volume, “WHAT?!” Mercy was up now, her hands pressed so hard into the table that her knuckles paled, her voice drawing the confused looks of those seated around them.

“You’re my truest blood, Mercy, I just thought that you would have wanted it, think about all the good you could do, if you lived forever, all the money you could put back into your community-” Jessie was floundering, painfully so. Her voice was distant over the rush of blood in Mercy’s ears. Suddenly light headed, Mercy stumbled, holding up her hand to indicate to Jessica that she needed to stop. Now.

Her heart feeling as if it’d moved into her throat, Mercy had no recourse but to leave the table. She had to get out. Had to figure out how to refocus.

The fact that Jessica had attempted to chase after her didn’t sink in until much later.

___

It was raining again.

Unlike the chill of the early morning rain, this was a wonderful southern shower – the kind that people sat out on their front porches and watched. It was steady, warm, made everything glow. Magnolia blossoms were luminescent, and the sweetness of jasmine and honeysuckle competed with one another in the humid air.

From where she was standing, they were losing, losing to the majesty of the yellow roses that surrounded her. The city garden had always been a haven of sorts for her, now, only frequented by those who were born with green thumbs and the elderly. It was old; the weeping willow in the center supposedly a few centuries old at this point. Everything else had been transported in to frame its majesty, long circles of rose bushes and creepers and sunburst azaleas.

She figured it would be neutral ground to meet him. Deserted, both by people and the press, and didn’t have the appearance of being untoward – no back alleys, no campaign trail. And, not far from where she idly wandered, there was a massive glass greenhouse, housing fire burst orchids and tulips, lilies and cacti, koi ponds and other exotica, a sampling of the entire planet in a comparatively small place. That’s where she’d asked for him to meet her, among the flowers she’d loved so well as a child, in a place that brought her peace.

It was only good luck that it happened to be raining.

More rain.

The greenhouse inhibits his natural element, and the rain outside is lethal - Ammina was inclined to call this an ambush, as all she'd have to do is shatter the ceiling and he'd be in lethal danger. So soon after Lacan's provocation, it's leaving him short of temper already, and Miss Battle is no one to underestimate on her chosen field of, hah, battle. But he initiated this acquaintance, and it would be churlish to abandon it at the first juncture. Besides, it is unlikely she actually knows how dangerous it is.

He makes the trip in a closed-roof car, dons a heavy British greatcoat - the only thing thick enough to shut out the numbing chill of fresh rain - and strides inside, chased by the pelting impacts of water droplets. He shudders away the clammy grip and glances around, spotting Miss Battle beneath an arrangement of roses, and makes his way over.

"Miss Battle." he greets cordially, and does not sit. He is neither welcome nor wanted, and the staccato upon the glass overhead does not invite him to ease either. Equally, he does not inquire upon her welfare. It would be a redundant question. "Have you come to any decisions?"

Disregarding the signs posted throughout the greenhouse in obvious positions, he takes out one of his herbal cigarettes, carefully wrapped in water-resistant plastic, and lights it with a hard twist of his fingers, raw friction igniting it. The first puff helps him untense somewhat, as the faint smoke spreads out lets him feel the width and breadth of the building as surely as his fingertips. He still doesn't sit, though, and instead idly observes a ladybug crawling its way among the roses.

With her family ties scuttled and Jessie now firmly entrenched in the idea of turning, this woman has severed all the strings that he could have used against her - there is strength in solitude. The only thing which remains is her marking, and he intends to reserve that for any particular displays of recalcitrance. As unsettled as she seems, clammy-skinned and shoulders tight against an oppressive world, he doesn't necessarily foresee such a thing.

She wouldn’t have the slightest inclination to his weakness for rain. As it was, she thought the day was just what she needed, steeling herself against him. Lost among the heady fragrance of roses, she wondered when this would come to an end, when she would have the opportunity to let everything drop and the gravity of the situation would shatter her.

What was the most galling about the whole thing was how contentedly the world went on, despite her personal turmoil.

She shouldn’t have been as startled when he appeared – but she was all the same, rapidly covering it up with annoyance, which only grew as he lit his cigarette. If she had to go without her cigarettes, so should she. She wasn’t going to chastise him, however. She hoped that her exasperated expression towards him would be enough to indicate that she didn’t approve. Realistically, though – why would he care? But better to believe that she was something, someone, in all of this.

“It’d seem that Jessie wants to go ahead and marry Devon,” she stopped herself from adding anything else. Professionalism, whispered the velvet roses around her. “And there’s not a lot I can do to stop it. The marriage will proceed,” she fondled a petal before she turned her attention back to him. “Now, it’s not so much about my decision as so much as what you’re scared of, and what you seem to assume I have the power to control.”

Ammina's brow furrows the slightest bit as he takes in the words and the currents beneath them - tastes victory in the softness of her words, on the edge of a stiletto. "My purposes are largely accomplished at this juncture. The wedding will proceed, yes; bereft of his finer half, I fail to concieve of the Senator successfully obstructing it at this juncture, outside of onerous personal legal filings that would end in personal disaster."

He takes the cigar from between his lips and looks at Mercy, actually looks at her, instead of through as he so often does - at the person instead of the idea inside it. Her hair is mussed from fatigue, and there is a tightness about her mouth suggestive of stress so deep it has slipped inside and begun to corrode the soul. The vampire's lips purse in some mild frustration - the loss of her drive was an unfortunate, annoying casualty of his actions. "As you say, you seem - disinclined to oppose the lovelorn pair in their activities. I had planned on greater opposition, but I cannot regret this development."

The vampire holds up a pair of fingers, slender, with faintly tipped fingernails. They're white instead of pink, lacking the fresh flush of blood. "I would ask two things: that you not inform others of my presence, and that you refrain from aiding the inevitable legal struggle that occurs when they go seperate ways. I have no doubt it will be ugly, whenever it may occur. I grant it may take some years, and that you are disinclined to listen to me at the current moment; nevertheless, I so ask."

"In answer, as an aside," Ammina notes, glancing away from the woman now, dismissing her from his personal attention, "It is you who the public is attenuated to listening, and your face who they see broadcast upon the finer cast of their own opinions. Your patron has money and the time of his peers, but you bear the burden of rhetoric. Wells was less my foe than you. He is merely impassioned."

He pronounces the word impassioned with a dry disfavor, as if speaking the name of a tiresome relative. Passion has, of late, been the root of a rash of troubles. It is not a quality he finds endearing, therefore.

At first, it didn’t appear that she was listening to him. She was kneeling in front of a spectacular orchid, its vibrant colors luring her in. She reached forward, her fingers itching to touch the petals - but withdrew, letting her hands rest on her jean-covered knees. Some things were better enjoyed if they were left alone.

“ ‘Personal disaster’?” She openly scoffed now. The idea that a vampire, someone who ostensibly lived forever, could experience a “disaster” was ridiculous. They’d live long enough to see whatever happened through - and if they died, well, welcome to living. “You’ve nothing to lose for this. She’s turned, they marry, and if they divorce, maybe they’ll have the good sense to do it decades down the line, long after Senator Wells and myself have died. You’re worried over nothing, and I have nothing more to offer you.”

She stood up now, wiping the thin coating of sweat from the palms of her hands onto her jeans. Despite the beauty around her, she found herself deeply piqued at his presence. That this discussion was even happening. As if it hit her out of the blue, she realized what it was. They were talking in circles. At least she was. The idea was that they were going to be trading in information - and so far, he hadn’t offered her a single valid reason why she shouldn’t oppose him. Realistically, she had nothing left to lose. Her family ties would be severed - but then what? What did he have personally on her that he could use? Absolutely nothing.

“You know,” undeniable, buoyant confidence in her voice, “this has been an absolute waste of my time and yours. And while you may have eons of it, mine is a bit more precious.” After all, there was much left that she needed to do. Realistically, when the press had descended upon the Wells, she hadn’t experienced much blow back - not personally. Her stance, her party were attacked, but the series of interviews that she’d given, in addition to Adam’s timely intervention, had buffeted much of it. And most everyone knew that Senator Wells was the product of an older generation, on his way out. And who his political heir could be was shaping out to be more Adam; not her. Not that the news of her potential (“potential,” she still considered it, because, well, Big Daddy was weak when it came to his daughters. That she knew. She was upset with herself for being so upset about it, but the time for emotions had passed. Now she had to trade in the only thing she knew he’d understand - power and ideals.) ousting from the family had been made public. Big Daddy was volatile, but he wasn’t stupid. If he were to boldly announce her dismissal, as it were, not only would he lose credibility, but he ran the risk of his oldest allies turning on him as well.

So, overall…and she smiled, looking into the depths of the orchid, she had more in her pocket than she had originally thought.

"You've got nothing that I want or can provide," she added, without a hint of pride, just the simple language of one tired of playing games. "And I personally have nothing to offer you."