It was dark where she located. Where exactly this was, she couldn’t say. The stars couldn’t talk to her here, in the dark place. Miss Laura was missing also. In the dark place, there was no music. The shadows were all around her, coming to get her and hurt her. She couldn’t move. Her naughty boy had done something to her. Her mind hurt. It couldn’t see anything, only the echoes as small drops of water on the floor.

Small tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, running over the cold, hard exterior of her cheek. Her fingers twitched, the first movement they’d had in nearly two millennia. There was the faintest sound of singing, and her head moved slightly to the side. More tears moved down her cheeks, and pale and as hard as marble. The hair that had long been immobile moved with her, strands falling over the edge of the sarcophagus on which she lay, looking like some intricately etched decoration rather than the one for whom it was made. Slowly, with much cracking, her fingers bent and unbent themselves. A dull pain ran over her back, and there was a sudden sting in her mind.

The singing was ever so faint. The stars were calling her, calling her after so long… Oh so long… She’d waited in shadow for them to call her, to make her better, and now they were singing, and when she got out, there would be dancing and big feasts in the sky with the moon and the wings. But now that naughty daddy was up, and no, no she couldn’t go out and sing and dance and eat with the stars and the moon and the wings. Meanie daddy! Not letting her go out and play with the dollies!

Her eyes cracked open, revealing the same colour as the skin. The lashes, however, had gone from that marble white to their intended black. Her hair too, had faded into the ebony it was supposed to be. Her hand came up to her cheek, the bones cracking loudly, and echoing through the large, dark space. A cold hand came to rest on her cheek. Gold trinkets on her arm jangled, and she jumped, having it be the first true sound she’d heard in quite some time.

It took quite some time for the meanie daddy to go to bed. By the time he was safely tucked under his pretty blanket, she was up and walking around, her hands out in front of her so that she didn’t accidentally run into anything else. Tears were coursing down her cheeks again as she found that she couldn’t find the stars. Stopping, she sobbed quietly, head down, until she heard singing. Head snapping up, she followed it.

“Stars?” This was said in a language that had long since been forgotten by the minds of men. Even she herself did not know what it was, but she discovered an entry, and walked up the stairs with unclothed feet, humming along with the sweet melody that only she could hear, deep inside the confines of her mind. Even the jangling of the jewellery she wore did not deter her. The music got louder, and her body started to sway, a strangely provocative dance without rhythm or logic, but seductive despite the small stature of the woman dancing it.

A sudden burst of cold air, and the before small song of the stars turned into a symphony, filling her head with nothing but. Laughing out loud, she began to turn and turn, not knowing where she was going, and not bumping into anything despite her obvious disability. Without reason, she wandered into the cemented roads of the street, concrete hard and cold under her feet, and stopped her spinning dance in a heartbeat.

The singing had stopped.

She began to cry again, running aimlessly around. All around were mean men, looking at her and burning her with their gazes. She brought her hands up to save her from them, but it didn’t help. Her hands flew to her throat, and she began gasping, despite the fact that she hadn’t breathed in an age. “C-can’t breathe,” she managed out, in a different language than before, but equally as old and forgotten. A dolly approached her and touched, her. She screamed and ran.

The dollies hurt! Black death and rotted! It clung to her skin, and she scratched at it to get it off. She scratched everywhere, for the shadow was creeping on her! Unknown to her, blood was creeping down her body as she scratched. Scratched and ran and cried.

It was only when she heard Miss Laura calling to her that she stopped. “Miss Laura?” Her voice was soft and quiet, with all the hope that only a child could muster. She walked forward to get to Miss Laura, but Miss Laura was trapped! Trapped by the ice and cold! With desperation, she pounded on the ice and cold, even as dollies surrounded her and touched her with the black, death and rot, until the ice and cold broke. Seizing Miss Laura, she ran, ran far from the evil, rotted, stinking dollies until she could hear the stars again. They were chasing away the disease of the dollies. Sinking to the ground, she started to pet Miss Laura.

“Nasty dollies… Meanie daddy… No food for Miss Laura in the icy and cold place. No… the dollies will not give us feasts now, they will not. Very rude, I say.” Her voice was innocent, and the language she spoke, fluid.

If a person in their right mind were to walk past now… they would only see a young looking, obviously blind woman with long hair, more valuable jewellery than most people ever touched, bleeding onto an expensive porcelain doll with a cracked face.

It was a cold, black night. The light from the stars barely reached the eyes of the city’s pedestrians, though few were out tonight.

Few who lived anyways.

Henri de Lesang, walking quickly across the roof tops, paid the stars little heed. He was dressed in his usual black, leather boots, his black, draw cord pants, and his black leather vest. Beneath the vest he had chosen a red ruff shirt, as opposed to his usual white. He pulled at the lacey frills around each wrist and then around his neck, heightening their flair. As he hopped across an alley, he caught the distinct scent of death.

It was not just death, but undeath , and even then it was quiet ancient. He heard then the desperate cries of some strange woman.

She was sorely underdressed, bare foot, and looked as though her hair had not been cut in ages. She was calling out in some unknown language. She began to make her way, in what Henri could only perceive as being a poor striptease, out into the street. What few mortals there were around her began to back away, keeping their distance, some even crossing the street to avoid her. Henri watched as she began to clutch her throat, coughing out a phrase in some other unknown language, before she began to scream.

She then began to run and even Henri had a hard time following her with his eyes. When she stopped, it was a most peculiar sight. She was in front of a doll shop, her face pressed against the glass. Henri could see that she was talking, but he could not hear her. He dropped from his perch and began to walk towards the woman. As he approached her could just begin to make out her words.

“Miss Laura?” Her voice was soft. Henri could only just make out the words; even then it was only because she was using a language similar to Latin, which Henri had been forced to study in school – many years ago.

Much to Henri’s surprise the strange woman broke the display window. The glass shattered in all directions, some bits even slicing into her arms. She reached forward, snatching a most eloquently dressed ceramic doll, and then ran screaming again into the street.

Of all the people I could have met tonight… Henri chuckled to himself. If she is not already dead, she will be soon, unless she stops her crazed antics. Henri tried to call to the girl, tried to get her to stop running into the street.

“Watch your self!” he shouted, but his voice was swept away by another scream. He turned back to the window, his eyes scanning over the shards of glass; he could smell something, something he wanted.

He began to rummage through the glass, until he came across a single piece, not more than an inch long, tipped with a few drops of blood. Had he been able to see his reflection in the glass, he would have seen his eyes going black, like those of a shark. His tongue reached out slowly, as he lifted the glass to his mouth, it was so near he could smell it. The blood was old and exotic, like nothing he’d ever come across before.

Henri was pulled from his snack by a cry from across the street.

“Help, someone,” it was a young man, about thirty, he’d come across the strange girl. Henri turned, dropping the glass. It had become obvious that the stranger was a vampire, but this new comer was not.

“Si je serais toi,” Henri began to move across the street. “I would keep my mouth shut.” With a few quick steps, Henri was at the man’s throat. He lunged forward and bit hard, spilling the man’s blood on the sidewalk. He then bent down, wiping the blood from his mouth, and looked at the girl. The blood from her arms was beginning to stain the doll’s clothing.

Henri was unsure of how to address the strange vampire, and so he merely looked into her cream white eyes.

Eventually Henri began to feel vulnerable. Here they were, two vampires, out on the street next to a dead body; the Amman would be scraping them off the walls if they ever found out. He finally broke the silence between them.

“We should go,” he used his best Latin, hoping the girl would recognize the language, he wasn’t sure if she would understand English or French, so Latin was where he would start. He wasn’t fully fluent in the language as he had spent most of his immortal life learning to speak English without an accent. “It is dangerous.” He stood up, and offered his hand to the girl.