Seventh Sin [Mal]

[Scratch]

It is early spring in Vienna, 1939. The Englishman in the corner booth of an all too empty taphouse has long outstayed his welcome; there is nothing about politics that suits him, this new regime included, and it is with a knowledgeable finger on the pulse of the government that he has since booked his train out of the country. A boat in one week’s time will see him safely back to England, and then he will again make the long trip home to America, where he hopes the rumblings of this potential war will never find him. A better man with such resources in reach might find some small way of doing his part, but Luc Dashiell has never been that man.

Whispers and warnings on the wind have intimated that this section of the world could be come dangerous for him shortly, and it is only for a vague hope and stubborn sentimentality that he has lingered this long. While Luc is not as ancient as some of his kin, nightwalkers or otherwise, he has done enough in his comparatively short lifetime to make something of a name for himself – it is not a particularly good one, but well known is the temper of the vampire de Chiel. He has enjoyed the infamy with the same cocksure disposition that suggests he is nigh invulnerable, that toothy grin of his that has made both friends and enemies alike.

It is the former – he hopes – that he waits for now, an acquaintance of the past whom has recently become more interesting than he would freely admit. That the sphinx would get herself caught up in some trouble is not entirely a surprise – she always had a head for planning, but her holier-than-thou nature compared to even his arrogance on levels of irritation – but for the life of him, Luc cannot track down a hint as to what has become of her. That means power is involved, and power means the vampire is irrevocably intrigued. Mal being one of his few remaining associates doesn’t hurt, either; and it is for this that he has risked lengthening his stay in eastern Europe.

War is a messy, clumsy thing, and though he does not fear it, Luc does not much care for its influence. He has no desire to further profit from the warmachine like a clever and business-savvy buzzard, feeding off carrion for bloody revenue, but this is more thanks to apathy and lassitude than any flickering spark of conscience; buried deeper still is the memory of the wars of his youth, of the causes he championed and the losses he suffered, and the decades in between have seen Luc grow selfishly weary of such involvement. It squanders what enjoyment the vampire still finds in the world, and it is for these reasons that his leg is restless, his foot tapping, his gazed tossed impatiently over his shoulder too frequently.

He has been seeing soldiers in the streets more and more, and this thought brings a petulant frown to his lips. The man’s hand travels unconsciously to the breast pocket of his frock coat, finding comfort in the tickets safely contained there.

When the woman shows up, all traces of his unease – not nervousness, never, only an irritated sullenness – disappears in the flash of his predatory grin. The pleasure in his eyes at her appearance is, for once, honest, and the man lazily kicks out the chair opposite him to allow her to sit. ”Ludmilla,” he intones softly, greeting her with a nod of his head and two fingers touched to the brim of his flat cap. ”It’s been too long.”

A flick of his hand sees two drinks arrive, and Luc plays with his glass lazily before abandoning tact entirely and cutting to their meeting’s purpose. He watches the dark-haired women from beneath thick lashes, the edges of his smile turned up in knowing play. ”Word on the wind is you’ve gotten in over your head on something. Someone.” And how could he know she had been bound to Ithkus all this time? It is fresh news to the vampire, and Luc intends to pry the secret from her. ”I don’t think slavery much suits you. Does the asshole have a name?”

Subtlety is not his strong point – not when blunt cruelty is so much more efficient.

[Ludmilla.]

It was really no surprise that the tales of her recent struggles with Ithkus had become general knowledge. Although the demon tried desperately to cover the tracks of their occasional scraps and her disobedience. He did not posses the talent she did in handling the masses. The same talent that had ironically got her in two bad situations, once and then now. The demon's greed particularly narcissistic as of late -- she would not  give him what he wanted. And it posed problems on top of problems. A fierce denial had resulted in his temper flaring, and it'd been a month nearly until she'd given in. The longest to date. Although no one had known what it was, her conniving and grit had forced some to cock their ears curiously and run their mouths to all the wrong people. She'd never been one of such tactless refusal after-all.

Thus, why it'd gotten back to Luc. Who'd requested her company no short than a week later. And how truly ironic, that'd he comment so halfheartedly on a issue that had initially concerned him. With no idea behind the reason she'd stepped on all the wrong toes.

Friends would have been a word too relaxed for them, and acquaintances to brittle. Their relationship was built on less than a century but a little over a five decades. Tolerance of one another, but neither the need to destroy as perhaps both of them did so flawlessly. She would not have crossed him unless she absolutely had to, and maybe the same could be said of him. But they were truly cut from different cloth. One sire less crueler than the other. And there was their difference.

He sought dizzying amounts of power, and she sought freedom from it.

It would have only been procrastination if she'd denied his offer. And so here she is, still the wild beauty of her reputation. Rounded shoulders and a bright shiny necklace laid tight. Cloth dipping at the waist then flaring - if only slightly- to modestly brush the floor. A duller blue than her eyes, but still stunning in the way that she moves it. There is never a overdressed for the spoiled sphinx of legend. With her heavy pockets through extension - and her wit sharper than her smile.

Maybe it was no wonder they kept good company in another.

”Ludmilla,” ”It’s been too long.”

"Yet I so often hear your name brought up by so many," And it's the only warning she can manage. So small and thoughtless it could come off as her natural cockiness. The same eluding attitude that had people swaying mad with clenched fist when she entered the room. Anyone who had ever been in her company for more than a few minutes had no illusion of who her master was had they known of such in the first place. Her mouth a obvious hint. "It seems I can never escape you and your excessive quest for things foreign to your species."

And the moment tugging that follows, she carefully sits n the chair he'd so (rudely) offered her. Crossing her leg's in a elegant spry notion. And when the drinks arrive she sips it quietly from her glass and becomes pink with the alcohol. A lovely shade to cover up the growing frustration of the impending silence. Her curiosity betraying her into the arms of impatience.

. ”Word on the wind is you’ve gotten in over your head on something. Someone.””I don’t think slavery much suits you. Does the asshole have a name?”

Where his lack of fear, or cleverly shrouded digging would have normally risen a just as sharp response, branching into the wordplay that had so often shared. There is a truth in his words that shake her. No matter the years that had passed she's still so uncomfortable in the presence of the demon who controlled her as a world class poodle at first. Even then forcing her to sleep on the floor while adorning her with affections in gold collars and ocean blue gowns in the same breath. Oh, how she missed the guiltless freedom of her youth. Before any promise or deal had held weight and nothing but the end of the night had scared her silly.

But revealing just how long she'd held loyalty might not be a good idea for the circumstance. And admitting the bastards name would equal just as bad in consequence. So she bides her time with a well placed sip of her drink, and licks the alcohol off her lips with the tip of her tongue before answering.

"I appreciate the gesture, but I will not have you kill him for my namesake. That's something I will do. With time." And it's a flippant way to avoid diving into the subject, a hope to satisfy whatever pride had Luc at the defense with promises of her own hidden intentions. She'd be good for it he knew. There were a hundred men who'd fallen to her tricks, and undoubtedly a hundred more who would as well.

Maybe him too.

"You did not summon me to talk such poppycock about such irrelevant things, I hope. And if you have then allow me so politely to change the topic at hand. I have some information that you might find particularly intriguing. Given your uncontrollable urge to stick your pride in matters that doesn't involve you. If you so wish to indulge me and listen."

[Scratch]

He should feel something from her silence, glean some measure of insight from the way her grip tightens briefly on her drink or how her lips purse a fraction too soon, but for once the beast dos not comment. Instead his finger traces slowly around the angled rim of his glass, his eyes drawn downwards and his brows raised up. Luc’s greatest downfall is his fearlessness, the cocksure boldness only near immortality can grant, but he has learned something of the value of tact over the years. Perhaps it says more for their relationship than his diplomacy; their shared history leaves him far more human when in the company of the sphinx.

”But you know how much I love foreign things,” Luc murmurs softly, glancing up at his companion with a brief and teasing gaze. He is not much for trite flirtation, but their banter always draws it out of him, if only for appearances – and they are short lived. The vampire knocks back a third of his beer before slouching lazily into his seat, his legs splayed out before him and his fingers clasped atop the table. ”And I know you will.” His thumbs roll over one another, the focus of his golden eyes suddenly severe and wild. ”Kill him, that is. But I will have his name.”

It is neither a question nor an optimistic want; for Luc, with Mal all but admitting her bondage, learning the identity of her master is a fact made true with time. She may play coy with him and she may hide it, but he is greedy as always and more hungry than ever for scraps of information meant to be hidden from him. His sympathies for the sphinx only get him so far; the rest of Luc’s motivations come down to both curiosity and paranoia, a flippant desire to be left alone that simultaneously cannot abide being left out.

The supernatural world has been shunning him as of late, but he only enjoys playing the wayward son when the role is his to choose – and he will not allow his name to slip from their minds so easily. Like a half-forgotten pet, the vampire is more destructive when ignored.

Another time. Lucian’s eyes roll upwards with Mal’s long-winded speech, his lips moving in childish mimicry of her words, and by the time she’s reached her conclusion he’s sprawled his arms across the table and resting his cheek on his bicep. The look he gives the woman is positively pleading. ”Ludmilla,” he whines, sounding – and looking – like a child on the receiving end of an unwanted lecture. ”If I wanted to hear you moan about my ego, I would have called.” He slowly rights himself, but remains slouched lazily on one elbow. ”You should feel charmed I thought to see you in person at all,” he adds, perhaps a bit petulantly.

Golden eyes watch the bubbles rise in his drink, but Luc is fairly predictable in some regards; their silence lasts only a moment before he takes her bait.

”Tell me your information, then,” he encourages, ”and I will forgive your insult in thinking me too boorish to care for the well-being of an old friend.” In truth, the vampire had simply summoned her to inquire on – or perhaps rib her regarding – the truth of her enslavement. Gossip and intrigue are just part and parcel of their meetings. ”The floor is yours.”

He leans back, and the smile Luc offers the sphinx is full of teeth and vinegar.