Petit Paris was full tonight, waiters dashed to and fro carrying orders to humans who'd never had to wait in their lives. Several hot-tempered couples left without even tipping the overworked, and nearly crazy, young waiters and waitresses. The maitre'd finally made his way to Nicolas, only to be met with a nasty glare warning him away.
Nicolas sat in the back of the restraunt, watching the chaos that ensued as a limo party arrived. The whole scenario replayed itself again, minus the maitre'd who wisely steered clear of the well-aged Nicolas. He reclined in his chair so that the two front legs were lifted well of the ground, letting the toes of his italian leather boots scrape the expensive flooring. He wore a pair of torn apart blue jeans, style a la Nic, and his broad chest was covered with a white t-shirt with a picture of some rock star.
He watched the faces of the waiters as he stood, towering above the little waitress who'd been bullied into the asking him if he wanted to order anything. She wore the regulation attire and her dark curls were pulled up in a pony tail, he reached behind her head and pulled the hair free even as she asked him if he wanted anything, he leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Not tonight." The girl paled and Nic rumaged through his pocket to pull out two hundred dollar bills, he kissed her on the cheek and stuck them quickly in her front pocket, "Share..." He stepped around her and walked to the front of the restraunt intending top leave...

A soft smile touched Raven's lips as he gazed at the sign that said Petit Paris, its penmanship a looping swirling mass, or rather had it been penmanship. The sign was neon, or back lighted plastic. Whatever the hell you called those little lighted signs that every; store, restaurant, and place of business on earth seemed to have these days.

Yep, it was just a sign, but Raven really had the feeling that it made the place look cheesier than it was supposed to. Or hell maybe the cheesiness was a part of the effect, who the hell cared really. There was just something about North American Restaurants that always made them look like stereotypes in motion. But then that was the far west for ya, racist bastards, sociologically inept idiots, that’s what they were. Lame asses, every single one of them.

Rave didn’t have to ask if this spot was supposed to be ritzy, it spoke for itself. Old blue haired couples walking through and out the door arm in arm, the men and women all of ‘em were wearing enough jewelry for a cow to choke on. Twenty some things, rich from the stock market or daddy’s bank account, going in, and guys that Raven knew had to be mobsters decorating the inside and out side. Yeah, ritzy. Crappy in a way that only long term democracy can account for.

Raven almost lost his apatite looking at this place, Almost. But blood lust held strong.

Readjusting the suit jacket and the tie, both of which were a bit too big for him, they’d fit the guy he killed for them like a glove. Damned tailored suit. Fixing on that suit slightly, the vampire sighed, already wondering if he could find any authentic French Cuisine inside. Maybe a nice French woman, they always were so delicious, ah and the screams. They were like wine over there in France, grown on the same blood soaked earth as the grapes. God one would taste great now…

Cole had already been seated in a corner of the room, people watching as usual. It amused him to watch people, see what made them tick, made them swoon. He liked to imagine he was a part of their lives so that he might have a place to belong. He drank from a glass of red wine, which he would refil from time to time with a deep crimson liquid from a silver flask in his pocket.

He had been pretending to eat, seated in a circular booth by himself. The maitre'd had looked over at him, almost glaring from time to time, for sitting in such a large booth by himself. It was of no consequence to him. He wanted to see the entire room.

He loved to watch the mortals fret. Loved how stress furrowed their tender brows. And yet, their existance was all too meaningless. They would die soon, give or take a few years. One or two even tonight, as he could sense other immortals around.

In fact, there was one in his sights now. A young looking man with blonde hair, and what looked like blue eyes, but he could be wrong. He wondered what an immortal was doing in a place such as this, but the same could be inquired about him.

(BUMP)

Reiel was new to the city of Demaitre and after traveling for so long had needed a good meal. As a couple hundred year old vampire, he had grown so accustomed to the fainted taste of food compared to the bold taste of blood, but still, the smells of the food and the atmosphere of a fine restaurant could uplift his attitude, although it was usually already high.

He strode through the door of the restaurant, his cane swinging in before his own foot. The rest of his body caught up with the stylish walking cane, and it became apparent that he was not a normal man. Reiel took off his top hat and held it underneath his left arm, revealing the young face of a 22 year old.

"Bonjour monsieur," the maitre'd said, approaching. "May I take your hat?"

Reiel had been searching the room and it took him a minute to realise that someone had spoken to him. "No, that's okay. Thank you though," he said to the maitre'd, bowing his head lightly. His near bleache blonde hair swung forward, it's length covering his face. Reiel did have two strips of black bangs on either side of his face though, and they merged into one when he bowed. "I was hoping that I could have a diner here tonight though. Is that possible tonight? It seems busy," Reiel stated, looking around. The smell of the vampires present stood out from the humans, and he quickly spotted them.

"Right this way sir," the maitre'd said, "Please, follow the waiter to your table," he waved for a waiter to come over, and as one did, he took a menu and headed towards the back of the restaurant.

Reiel followed close behind. The waiter didn't notice him eyeing him though; quirking an eyebrow and fantasising about what could be done with such a nice man. His navy blue with grey pinstripe suit was not a normal attire to be seen in daily life, considering it had traditional suit tails, and that his shirt was frilled and did not contain a tie. The waiter said nothing though, formal attire was apparently a regular thing to see, although some did not follow that standard of class.

When the waiter finally stopped, Reiel sat and was given the menu. "I'll be back in a bit so you can decide what you want," the waiter said with a smile.

What I want, fine boy, is not on the menu... he thought. Reiel looked through, though the menu being in French it wasn't as effective as he'd hoped, his French being a little rusty. His multicolored eyes continued to look through the menu, but it wasn't long before his attention was constantly redirected by the man in black in the large circular booth alone. He could smell the scent of the vampire on him, and his drink of red wine only made Reiel more interested, red wine being his favorite alcoholic drink.

As always, Raven was Raven. The slight seeming man walked into Petit Paris with an air of confidence and strength that was regrettably rare in those of his stature. Things being as they were in this day and age, everyone being so blasted tall and lanky. Rave cursed the Norsemen and the Africans for their contribution into their ancestral gene pools, it having flooded the market. Rave could remember a time, among his people when no one would have dared cross him, but now, well now he was a man at 5’4”in a land of 6’0”+ giants, and as he entered, he was still forced to work at the suit that he had pilfered.

The man had been taller than Raven, perhaps by a whole six inches. That had ruled out the use of his pants, but then Rave had had his own. They were new, but he hadn’t bothered with a shirt and jacket, hadn’t had time. Instead he’d simply killed the first mortal that agreed with his sense of style.

He sighed after adjusting his coat sleeve once again. Perhaps he should have waited, he wasn’t that hungry, ok yeah he was. Screw it. Who the hell gave a damn about a suit jacket anyway? Who cared about the shirt? He’d just deal with them until he could find a meal, it wouldn’t take that long. Not for him, not at all.

Running fingers through locks the color of fresh blood, Raven stretched as he stood behind an old couple that smelled like Astroglide. He blanched, and snorted, trying to get their displeasing scents out of his nose. Sometimes his sense of smell really and truly sucked. But then that went the same for a lot of his senses. Sometimes they gave way too much information. Especially considering that he never ever wanted to know what this old guy and his wife were up to. Breathing, despite himself, reflex really, Raven suddenly understood the lubricant smell wasn’t coming from the woman. Just the old man, and he hadn’t been dealing out the punishment.

Rave was disgusted well and truly now. Not at the man’s preference, no, but at old people in general. Damn it all. Why didn’t he just go find a meal on the street. It would have been so much easier. He smiled then, because that answered his question right there. He wasn’t one for easy. He was an artist, as much as he was a monster, and he could suffer for his art, as much as any of those so called masters that adorned museum walls. Breathing in again, just to remind himself of who he was, Raven entered into Petit Paris, well and truly.

“Bonjour monsieur.” A voice greeted Raven.

His reply was sudden and sharp.

“Shove it. Foutez le camp vous le bâtard français ennuyeux.”

The man looked at Raven, incensed. Raven stared back with eyes of a lush and emerald green, eyes that were ice cold. The man suddenly looked panicked, and he turned away, going silent as Raven found his own seat, sat, and motioned to the nearest woman that looked as if she worked in the restaurant.

“Yes sir.” She said timidly.

He smiled at her, carefully, sure not to show fang.

“Hello doll, could you please get me a bottle of wine.”

“What kind would you like…um sir.” The girl asked.

She looked about eighteen. She was cute in a field mouse sort of way, timid and shy, a definite submissive. She was pale, her hair cut short so that if framed a cute little face with fragile looking bones and large blue eyes. She was slim, athletic probably, maybe new age. She might have been into all of that yoga and spiritual calastinics crap.

Raven didn’t care. He could hear the clear ring of France in her voice and unlike the bastard that had tried to welcome him, this was real. The genuine article.

“Whatever kind you’d like. After all I’d like you to share it with me.”

The girl blushed.

“I cannot sir…I am…” She struggled for the words. Yeah, definitely French, you could see her trying to translate her thoughts into English. “On top of the clock.”

“That’s on the clock…and yeah, so what? You serve your customers here right? Top shelf, establishment that this is…do you not?”

The girl nodded.

“Well you can best serve me, by having a drink. And tell your manager that I will pay him personally, twice your hourly wages, for every minute that we share. How is that?”

The girl’s eyes widened and she looked down at him, arching her neck so that she could whisper in his ear.

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to know you better.” He replied. “I’ve been watching you here…” He lied. “You are a very beautiful young woman, and what does a man want more than a beautiful young lady’s company.”

She blushed again, but she didn’t say a word. Raven smiled to himself, sometimes things were just so easy.

The girl then left, supposedly off to go talk to her manager. Raven could only laugh in his head, and play through the night he had planned for his little French fry. He could already taste her.