The Pretty Ones
Alright, this dream is haunting me, so I guess I should write it down as a form of exorcism.
Exterior Evening... (I actually think like this, with courier typefont on paper.)
A young man in a fairly goth style is walking in to work. The sun is setting, and the camera takes a while to show the lengthening of the shadows, the way birds return home to nest... a crow ruffles its feathers and seems to follow the young man for a while. Another takes up a spiral and the first seems to change its course to follow.
The young fellow wanders in to a coffee house with victorian leanings. The chairs are white metal with lattice backs. A girl with boyishly short blonde hair and a short black skirt is sitting on a bench near the door. "It's about time," she says, but she's not mad, just tired.
"Are they giving you trouble?" he asks, gesturing to some of the customers. The shop is less than half-full, mostly older student types with books on the small glass tables.
"No, just have a bad feeling. I'm going to hurry home. Call me if you get flooded." She picks up her smart black purse and heads out the door, followed by a little jangle of bells.
Time passes, the "closed" sign gets turned over from the front door. The broom comes out, and he sweeps between the tables, occasionally looking through the glass to the night.
A small creature, more eyeball than anything else, jumps up through the grille between the floors. It scurries, rolling across the floor. He doesn't notice in his sweeping. Another one, this one more mouth than anything else comes from a hole in the corner.
The door to the supply cellar opens, and he looks up. A tall man with beautiful black hair glides towards him. His eyes are brown with a gold edge, making the pupils seem a dark, midnight blue.
"Shop's closed," the young fellow says, mesmerized. He adds a, "Sir," even though, being young and American it's more of an afterthought...it seems appropriate. Something's not right...supply cellar?
"I am not looking for the shop," the gentleman says. He is wearing a black suit with a long jacket that seems to unfurl like a cape. "I am looking for you," he says, his voice husky. "Are you closed?" he asks, smiling.
The young man stutters slightly. "N-n-no." His broom drops to the floor.
"The eye! I have had enough for now! It is yummy!" the creature with the eye runs off, carrying something that looks disturbingly like...an eye.
The next morning, there are photograph flashes and the woman from last night is crying. "No, no one..." she says, as she's being led away, her elbow being grasped gently by a man in a grey fedora.
"It's not pretty," the darkskinned older man in the black trenchcoat says to one of the photographers.
"But is it alive?"
The older man shakes his head. There's a lie in his eyes.
"What will you do with it?"
"Once we successfully identify it, we burn it." The older man is joined by a younger fellow, ah, the man with the fedora.
"She's clean. Sensitive, but she left before the miasma."
"Are you certain?"
"We had one of ours do the testing. She couldn't have been here last night. Not and be sane, and she's not crazy."
"You holding up okay?" the older man seems concerned.
"The forces of darkness weigh upon me, but the sunlight is holding them back." Fedora fellow shrugs. "I've seen worse."
The photographer shakes his head grimly and moves. Looking down, there is only a black cape... and the empty skin of a man. It has been held together in "shape" with what seems to be needlelike shards of bone, and thin fishing-line wire. Someone took his time with it, or maybe it was magic.
"Fly." The word whispered in my head.
The scene changed. The man with the brown eyes floated in front of me, his black hair cascading. "Fly free."
A lady dressed in white leathers, with hair evenly mixed between strands of oak and gold strode up. "You were not to make others," she said.
"This one was so pretty," he sighs.
"You risk us all for beauty?" she asks.
"There is nothing worth more," he says, looking up. He gets closer, his hand resting on my hip. "Sleep then, sleep and do not awaken," he murmurs in my ear. I black out.
I follow him with my mind as he flies below. There's a discongruity in that "flight" and "below" don't seem to mix. He hovers gently, sliding like a shadow into the corridors beneath the streets. He twists and turns, and the doors open for him with a whisper.
I wake up and I notice my hands are missing. I can feel them. They move beneath me, clenching with a thought, a signal. Other hands begin crawling near them. There is no blood. A foot wiggles its toes. I crawl forward. A head rolls near me, and I think I see it wink.
"They're dead, right?"
"Dead...all dead... all gone," my death's voice is sing-song, and I wonder (not for the first time) about his sanity.
"They twitch." The detective bends over the hand. It moves out of the way. "Burn them. Burn them all." He stands up and leaves.
Morning. The girl, this time. She is intact, except for the delicate fang marks on her inner, upper thigh. Her spirit is still inside, and it makes a whimper, locked in the memory of how a dark man nuzzled there, how fingers and a sudden cry was all that was left of her.
"It's a barrel," they opened it carefully. Light pink pellets. "Dried blood. Clever. Would solve the storage problem," said Fedora.
"It's all perfectly legal," the older man noted. "I think it's mostly kind of a gag. Goths love the whole blood thing. Drop a few in a cup, have your drink bleed."
"It's real?"
"If you mean can we test it and find out who it belongs to? No. The process destroys a lot of the real value."
"For who?" Fedora asked, quickly.
"Hmmm," the older man grunted. "Can't see that the nutrient value is preserved."
"But they're magical creatures. Is it the nutrients or the idea of blood that they feed on?"
"I don't know. I know who we can ask." He shines his flashlight on the body of the girl. "She hasn't been taken, yet. One night under the moon and we'll have her Master's name."
"She's not as...torn up as the rest."
"All I know is he sure goes for the pretty ones."