The streets were quiet that evening, everyone finding something to do and Crista on her way to something. The Demaitre Cultural Society Gallery was having a showing, and not just any showing, a showing of her work. Yes, Crista had finally gotten up the courage to approach the curator of the gallery, a client of her company, to take a look at her work. He liked it. She couldn’t believe her work was actually going to be on show. It wasn’t all of the work she had, far from, but it was a start something to get people interested and who knew maybe someone would buy some of it and she’d make a few bucks.

What if they hate it? She squeezed her eyes closed against that thought. Don’t think that, they will love it. She strolled, her high heels clicking against the pavement as she passed building after building till the gallery was in view. She stood in front of it a large lump forming in her throat. “Oh boy,” she said to herself before walking up to the door and entering.

Frank Jessup was curator, a tall man with a large head and big green eyes that never seemed to blink. He was a nice man, very polite and full of old respectable mannerisms that reminded her of an old English movie with earls and dukes and pageantry. It was he was greeted her as she attempted to remove her coat for the check girl at the entrance. “My dear Miss Bonaduce,” he said with the very pageantry he always used, and that amused her so. She smiled brightly as her coat slipped from her shoulders to reveal a close fitting black dress that clung down to her thighs and then released into a delicate fan. The dress was held up by two very thin straps of material and the grace of God, revealing very little cleavage in the process. Lack of cleavage bearing or not, her outfit did illicit a reaction from the man who had never seen her in anything other than a business suit or jeans on a casual day.

“Ah…yes…right, wonderful to see you,” he said fumbling his words. Crista had to smile at his reaction and then took the arm he so graciously offered. The soft tendrils of her hair brushed her cheek as she walked; yes she had actually done something with it, putting it up into a wavy bun. “Are you ready my dear? I have sent out all the invitations, many key people are going to be here and I am sure they are going to love your work as much as I do.” She smiled nervously, “Thank you very much for this opportunity. I am bit nervous,” she admitted. He patted her hand gently. “Tonight will be great, you just wait and see.”

The walked into the show area, people were mulling around with glasses of wine in hand while chatting amongst themselves or critiquing the art on the walls. Her heart stopped momentarily. There were more people there than she had expected. Her eyes scanned the room quickly taking in each that she knew, and to her shock there was her boss and his wife looking at a piece she called ‘Freedom.’ “Are you alright?” Frank asked noticing her colour wane for a moment. She smiled at him, “Of course. Well you take a walk around and in a few minutes I am going to introduce you to everyone. Afterwards I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me on making certain introductions to people who can do wonders for you. Okay?” She smiled again, no teeth showing, her nervousness taking over. “Of course.” He then disappeared into another room with more of her work on the walls and left her alone.

She descended the tree tiny steps to the main floor and then slowly weaved through people she didn’t know. She smiled at her boss, who raised a glass to her and winked. She smiled and then left the room, she saw that man nearly every day of the week and as nice as he was she didn’t need to see him now. The new room was smaller, showing her self portraits and expressions. She took a position under the ‘Life’ photograph and waited for a waiter to pass with some champagne. She wished her father was there to support her, she was nervous as hell and about two seconds away from getting her coat and leaving. She had never felt this way in her life and it was nerve-wracking.

A sigh and Sergei braced for the worst. Even without the gift of telepathy he would have known what was coming. And yet with great age does come great power and Sergei could read the other’s mind word for word, thought for thought, and yet he did not interrupt, in fact it was much better that his associate get this.

“You know you didn’t have to come Sergei, I’m not useless without you.” The man in front of him said in half hearted anger.

Sergei Bjarnarson, or Sergei Drago as he had come to be called in these more modern of times, nodded sheepishly. And his smile was pleasant if closed lipped and restrained.

“I know that Bill,” The man explained. “You prove that you are not useless on a daily bases, you are after all in charge of everything during the morning and evenings. In fact last I checked you were the computer programmer, had created all of our products and…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, but you’re the business head and…”

“And I believe you are just as good at schmoozing.” Sergei interrupted and offered the man a placating smile. The car had come to a halt at some point during their discussion and Sergei reached a finely gloved hand for the door.

“You’re nervous, things will be fine. After you.”

He said with an easy and teasing laugh.

A moment later a limousine door opened and two men slipped from its leather clad interior into the cool night time air.

The first was a tall and lanky; his mousy brown hair was cut just above his ears. Eyes obscured behind the glare of round framed glasses in the sharp light of a street lamp. His face was gaunt and as lean as the rest of him but all in all he looked rather professional, even if his drab brown suit was a bit crinkled around the edges.

The man that followed was like day against night with his companion. His hair was as stunningly platinum as the other’s was mediocre brown. His eyes were steeped in deep shadow against finely full features and where the other was lanky, the second man was taller still with a athletic build visible even through the converitive navy suit he wore and when he moved it was with a graceful air that left his friend following as together they topped the steps and moved into the foyer. From there they headed to the main floor, all the while pausing for brief tidbits of conversation.

Like any other gathering of the so called social elite, this showing was as much about being seen as it was about the art being shown. Sergei knew there were men here that could help his company thrive and despite what Bill thought, Sergei had full faith that his partner could handle such dealings. After all he would not have come otherwise. Truth be told he hated these things to their core, at least the political and business aspects. Instead he’d come for a completely different reason and the blond man suddenly broke off from his partner with a wave and a smile. Almost immediately then, he began looking at the interesting works on the wall all about the gallery, eyes finally visible in the light, they were the color of deep ocean or the core of a torch’s flame. An abigious blue indeed. And it was those eyes that took the measure of each peace slowly, enjoying them all. They were as well done as he’d heard and his smile persisted even as he came upon a photograph and found himself praising it aloud.

“Most beautiful…”

They had no idea, not one of the people who passed her with their large cheque books and designer clothing that cost more than she earned in a month at her day job. The lovely people, the people who bought art and didn’t make it because it was beneath them. What was she doing there? She was never going to pull this off, her work just wasn’t good enough and they’d tell her that, they’d let her know precisely how much crap she had brought them there to view. Oh for one of those acme holes that they used in cartoons, that she could jump into and zip it up and disappear into the floor. Sadly, those things weren’t real and there was only one way out at this point.

She folded her hands lightly over her chest, leaning back against the wall to help support herself and then standing upright quickly when she realized it wasn’t a dignified stance. She was supposed to portray elegance tonight and sophistication, yes she possessed those skills but at the moment she was feeling distinctly like a fraud who didn’t belong amongst these beautiful people.

A waiter passed before her, his tray laden with full champagne glasses. She smiled and he stopped for her to grasp one. “How’s it going?” she asked desperate for someone to talk to.

“I don’t know, I just got here but as me in two hours and I’ll let you know,” he said quickly before going about his merry way before his boss saw him.

Alone again. This was becoming a habit of hers, being alone amongst throngs of people. Get a grip Crista, mingle, your supposed to mingle. Despite what her mind was saying her feet weren’t moving, at least no further than it took to turn her around and back the people around her and fix her eyes on the photo.

She remembered the day she took that clearly, it was one of those days when life through her another fast ball and she had to catch it but it meant falling into the dirt face first. She’d left the house in tears; camera in hand and just started wandering Siena’s countryside snapping her camera as she went. In the end she was surprised at the images she’d captured. She sighed deeply remembering other days, other photos, photos that these elite and sophisticated wouldn’t appreciate much, photos of Crista at her worst…her true self-portraits. She hadn’t even bothered to show them to Frank, his meticulous nature and keen sense of propriety told her that those photos wouldn’t be to his tastes, but they were so much more real than the one on display, despite their beauty. Crista had an artist’s eye that was sure, and she knew beauty when she saw it but sometimes life wasn’t beautiful, wasn’t that worth displaying too? Apparently not to these people.

She sipped her champagne and looked with clear eyes on the photo.

Most beautiful… The words reached her ears from close proximity and she turned to look on a man like none she’d seen before. He looked like something from the cover of one of those torrid romance books, were the men all had long flowing hair and the bodies of Gods. He thought her photo was beautiful? She was surprised and flattered at the same time. She wanted to say something to thank him for the sudden boost in her confidence. Someone liked her work other than Frank!

She sipped her champagne, looked at the photo and then back to the gentleman beside her. “You like it?” she asked politely with the smallest hint of a smile and curiosity in every word.

“Yes, very much.” The man replied, not moving his eyes from the piece in question as he studied it with careful eyes, eyes that could make out every detail, truly every nueance and in the end every flaw. After all what was anything if not for its flaws, strength and weakness all that is of the earth posses such things, in fact even the gods themselves had never been so exempt.

After a moment of true study, of silent appreciation, Sergei turned his head, his strangely shaded blue eyes falling slowly and yet decidedly firmly upon the young woman that had spoke. A kind smile came to his face then and he nodded so much rather than gave a courtly bow. Once upon a time such a thing had been the fashion, especially to so radiant a beauty and yet in this rapidly more modern world he smile and nodded.

“You are the artist are you not?” He asked in a voice sharp for its cadence rather than anything of an accent and he held out his hand as so was proper once more over the habits of old that came to mind at times. Carefully he avoided whisking her hand away to his lips and instead offered a greeting shake.

“I’m sorry for not greeting you properly, when I arrived.” The man said apologetically. “Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Sergei, Sergei Drago. CEO of Drago technologies, but don’t let the title fool you, I am capable of appreciating culture and fine work…”

He said that last with a down right jovial expression, a turn of full lips that had his eyes sparkling with his amusement, the gold fall of his hair sliding down his back as he gestured.

“This,” He said toward the photo. “It’s really beautiful…the composition, really picks up the mood of the images and the lighting is...”

Returning his arm to his side, the man then looked slightly embarrassed.

“Excuse me. I didn’t mean to get so analytical. I’m sure you know just how good it is…and I meant no offense. For an old man, old habits die hard sometimes.” He said then, his apology genuine in his seriousness.

It had been quite a while since Sergei had ventured out among mortals, especially in so open a place among so large a throng. It bothered him that he’d lost himself in his thoughts, that he was running on…ah indeed it had been to long and yet he was thankful even now for tricks that made him seem as a mortal might.

She looked at him with curious eyes. Yes, very much. His words meant more to her at that moment than maybe any thing before, but it also made her feel more fake. Was that possible?

He seemed so enthralled by the piece, and she couldn’t imagine why, but perhaps that was because she knew the state of mind she’d been in when that photo was taken. He probably had no idea what it was like to have your world turned upside down and nothing make sense, and feel horrible about yourself. He was one of Demaitre’s social elite, a man who probably was raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and hundred dollar bills falling out of his pockets. Yes, a man who looked like he did and came to events like this one wouldn’t know what she’d lived through…nor would he care, she reminded herself. Her eyes moved back to the frame.

She sipped her champagne casually, not really wanting the drink any more but needing something to do other than go mad with worry about other people’s opinions of what they were viewing. At least she had this comfort, one person liked it. She saw his head turn from the corner of her eye and she turned to meet his gaze, a question burning in the air somewhere beyond her reach.

He smiled and for a moment she was blank for a response, but then smiled in return. Her mouth hung open slightly in surprise when she discovered he knew she was the artist. “Ah…yes, yes I am. How did you know?” she asked even more curious than before. She thought Frank was waiting to introduce her to keep her identity a secret so he could have some grand unveiling of who his mystery artist was. Hadn’t that been the plan?

“I’m sorry,” she apologised before taking his hand. “Cristobel Bonaduce,” she said introducing herself. “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Drago. Welcome to my show,” she said as confidently as she could for the moment, with a genuine smile gracing her lips. Remember these people need to like you to buy your work, she reminded herself. Was she being shallow? Not in the least. She was being honest. If they didn’t like her, then her showing would fail and she might as well forget getting her art of the ground in Demaitre. If they found out the truth behind her art it would be worse. She wasn’t their type, her life was full of the black curtains behind draw to hide behind, the kind respectable people didn’t have need of.

She chuckled as he said that despite his position he could still endure fine work and culture. She found herself hanging on his words as he complimented her work. It was has if she had never heard a compliment before. It was a strange feeling, but all in all an enjoyable one. She looked at the photo as he described its beauty and composition, and she couldn’t help but smile, he truly sounded like a season art critic.

“Not at all Mr. Drago,” she assured the blonde man as he begged her pardon for being so analytical. “I have to admit I have never heard any of my work spoken in such a manner before. I’m flattered.” He was sure she knew how good it was? He was ever so wrong. Crista was her own biggest critic and no one could pull her work apart as well as she could. It was her biggest insecurity, whether or not she was good enough…I mean her work.

Old? He thought himself? He didn’t appear to be, but then again looks were deceiving. She sometimes looked much younger than her age and at other time older than her twenty-eight years. She faltered for something to say. “Can I admit something to you?” she asked politely, her eyes returning to the piece. “I don’t remember taking that picture. It was one of those days when the morning melded into night and before you knew it things had happened.” Her mind was drifting back to far off places, to times she would like to forget…to her life.

Sergei raised his hand in a pardoning gesture.

“No, I’m sorry.” He continued in his apology, “It’s my fault, but it is nice to meet you Ms. Bonaduce.”

That said he took a careful step toward her, glancing about almost comprisal in manner, glancing at a few faces as he grimaced in displeasure. His voice was a whisper then as he spoke.

“You may or may not know, but these people. Heads of industry, the social elite, whatever you’d like to call them.”

Sergei glanced around secretly once more, his expression settling into one of pleased amusement.

“Terrible gossips one and all. You’d been pointed out to me before I even got completely to the door. If some one sought to keep you a secret, ah then all the more was the draw of knowing who you were.”

The man then laughed at his own statement and while he could have easily read to woman’s mind Sergei as always abstained as much as possible, his own thoughts held tight against the proverbial breast. Telepathy was a strange thing indeed, the vampire spent more energy holding it back than the ability itself seemed to draw on. But of course the benefit was that for the time being, outside of a few determined thoughts, he was completely alone in his own head.

And yet had Sergei read Cristobel’s thoughts, he might very well have laughed. Having looked into many a mind here, he could have told her that these so called respectable people had more “black curtains” in their lives than she would hold in a thousand. Each and everyone held secrets that would boggle the mind, all had done things to reach where they now resided. Indeed respectable was a rather dubious word choice for those gathered here.

However Sergei was peacefully ignorant of such thoughts, instead simply he nodded and it was near instantaneous at the other’s polite question. Then Sergei’s expression shifted a little at her admission and strangely blue eyes studied the woman, before finally Sergei spoke once again.

“Well Ms. Bonaduce I don’t know what to say to that…” He said carefully. “That is except that we all have those days.” He smiled once again then. “An inescapable part of the human condition I’m afraid.”

That reminded him of another’s quandary. Was he an immortal, human? Once another of his kind had posed this question and as it was then, his answer was the same. Indeed, if not of body, then of mind. They were human in thought, in all things and looking back on his own life there were many that followed this young artist’s words. Looking at her he continued in what he hoped was a low and soothing voice.

“You are hardly the first victim of life, Ms. Bonaduce and that hardly discounts your talent…after all what of all the greats of art and literature. How many of those people do you think that you have just described life for?”

And indeed that last was true. A few he had seen with his own two eyes.

“No…Mr. Drago, it’s perfectly fine,” she said with an assuring smile as she turned to look at him. “I just thought Frank…I mean Mr. Jessup, had other ideas of how he wanted to introduce me,” she said slightly embarrassed. “I guess there are no secrets in this town…I have to learn that.”

Sergei leaned towards her in a curious, almost secretive manner as if he had some earth shattering information to give her that no one else need hear. She leaned his head towards him slightly interested and curious about what he had to say. Her eyes glanced briefly at the people walking around them, chatting and making plans to meet for golf or tea on some sunny afternoon. Her eyes went back to Sergei. “Yes?”

She laughed, a clear honest laugh as he divulged the mystery…they were all gossips. Who would have guessed? She head lowered to the floor as she tried to hide her laugh and the slight colour in her cheeks. She leaned towards him much as he had to her, and in a low tone replied. “Thanks for the information. I won’t let anyone know you told me.” She laughed again. He wasn’t as stuffy as she imagined the people there would be…what a relief!

He looked at her, and for a second it was as if he were looking for something in her face. Yes, she may have spoken out of turn and divulged more than she should have about herself and the piece they had been looking at, but she couldn’t take it back now. “I’m sorry Mr. Drago, you must think me…the typical strange artist type,” she said with a slightly smile trying to down play her loose lips. “Hmm…” she replied, still smiling, at Sergei’s words. Was it so normal? Were days when your mother told you that you were a mistake normal? She hoped with everything in her that they weren’t.

She sipped her champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose slightly. You are hardly the first victim of life, Ms. Bonaduce and that hardly discounts your talent… his words were filtered through her mind. Did his words have merit? Had she been using they way she was brought up, the pain and the misunderstanding as a way of making herself feel less than she was? She wasn’t going to think about that now, not tonight, maybe not ever.

A nervous laugh came from her lips and soon floated away on the air. “I suppose you’re right. It seems that life’s little curve balls are what makes some art so great…or not so great, depending on her person.” She would admit to so much, but only so much. There was always the topic of true talent, did she really possess it or was it that she just hoped it was true?

“Well, Mr. Drago, since you know who I am already, perhaps you would be interested in look at another piece, one of my more favourite pieces?” she asked casually. “It has no such tale as this one, I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“I hardly think you the strange artist type.” Sergei muttered with a laugh. “I’ve learned that we’re all a bit strange if only we look for it…”

He gave her another smile then and it was genuine and honest, as much as he liked his words to be. All pretenses aside, Sergei realized he was from a very different world than all those gathered here and yet make no mistake he was hardly ever one to hide that fact.

To him honor and honesty were the highest things for which a man could reach, well perhaps those and death in battle, to live his life without regrets and a good death is as a man dies. These things had been important to Sergei’s people and even now after so long a reprieve from death, they were still important to him. And so as always he answered as honestly and openly as he could manage.

“Sergei, please just call me Sergei.” He replied to “Mr. Drago” then he quickly added. “And I would like nothing better Ms. Bonaduce. After all how many people get to see a work as its artist sees it?”

And at her description of the work, he nodded.

“Sometimes that is a talent as well,” He said thoughtfully. “In fact some of us make a life out of being in the right place at the right time.” Or wrong place for that matter. Sergei could very well say just as much about his current condition, he’d been blessed or cursed, both could happen with equal fickleness and seemingly random frequency, for being where he had been and when.

His posture relaxing just a bit, Sergei then stood expectantly, awaiting Ms. Bonaduce to lead the way.

“Thank you,” Crista replied with a smile as Sergei’s remark about not thinking her the strange artist type. “At least I’m not alone,” she added in a friendly manner. He was right, everyone was a bit strange in their own right, but Crista felt as many did, that they were the only ones out there who seemed to have no control and was just a puppet to chance.

His smile seemed real, not the fake smiles that everyone put on at these types of events, and she welcomed it. This wasn’t precisely mingling, finding one person in a room to make conversation with, but for now it was her saving grace. She wasn’t ready to deal with the polished and pretentious just yet.

She smiled obligingly, “Sergei,” she repeated his name. “Please, call me Crista,” she said in return. They might as well both be on a first name basis. “It would be my pleasure to give you some insight into the world behind the lens and palette.” Was being in the right place a talent? Perhaps. There were times when some of the most spectacular things happened and one person was lucky enough to be there and capture it for the rest of the world to see. Crista had noting so prolific, but as long as she lived there was a possibility that she might have such like one day.

“Follow me,” she said politely as she walked around the room, leaving the madden crowd to the centre as she brought Sergei to another portrait. She stood before it a soft smile on her lips. “This is one of my favourites. I call it First Love.” The picture was of a nude woman, holding her infant in her arms and dancing around in a circle at the sea shore as the sun was rising. “I was at the seaside for a holiday, and I went for a walk with my camera. I didn’t know what I would find but then I saw her. I watched her for a while wondering what she was doing and I took a few shots before going over to her.” She looked at Sergei. “I don’t know what made me want to talk to her,” she said before turning back to the photo, “but I was glad I did. He was her first child and this was tradition in her family going back centuries. They’d been gypsies and she still carried on their old traditions. I never heard so much love be spoken to one person as I did with her and her son.” She smiled. “I envied that baby,” she said softly.

“Believe it or not, I’m his godmother now,” she said smiling. “Fraya, said if I saw her then there was a reason and that she wanted me to be a part of the baby’s life. It was strange,” she added with a smile, “but I said yes. He’s four now.”

Sergei smiled again at the woman’s thanks, he nodded, though quickly added.

“No thanks necessary, we all need a reminder sometimes...” A quirky thought told him that he needed reminding more than others. Indeed he was a being of curious circumstances and yet hardly so unique in the world as to validate anything beyond the common doubt and fear that everyone experiences, rather mortal or immortal. As Sergei believed, the two were not so very different despite what any would believe or hold as truth.

He watched then, listening to the woman and he nodded at her invitation to follow. Following Crista, the owner of a name that he found rather beautiful, Sergei moved his tall frame with delicate grace through the gathered throng, his steps smooth and measured to avoid any and all obstacles in his path. Without a doubt he looked perfectly at home here, well practiced to be sure (which definitely he was), but eloquent in a way that was totally his own and totally effortless.

When they stood before the next portrait Sergei again studied it carefully. It was strange how his senses devoured sensation. His eyes were keen, keener than most and even in shadow he could have seen the photo rather well, however as it was in the light provided, his eyes took in colors and textures, bit by bit and only as he pulled back in his thoughts did the work come together into a whole that suddenly took his breath away.

The story also helped in that department and Sergei nodded pleased. Looking at the sun in the photo he felt a sudden and deep longing, but pushed it aside in favor of words that plunged into his heart and drew another full wide smile from his lips as such as few things could.

“Beautiful.” He muttered on an awed whisper.

And truly it was…mother and child, the composition, but more than that was the heart with which the image had been taken and while that might sound hokey, it was none the less fact. And artist’s emotion rather often shines through in their work and this, well this was inspired.

“Whe-Where I’m from,” Sergei said, correcting himself and feeling foolish for the slip. “Where I am from, we are believers in destiny…” The man said.

In truth his people were believers in fate, the three wrote out the pages of existence and no man could escape his written part and yet the Norse also knew something of destined greatness and Sergei could not help but feel in the presence of such…there was something sad about this woman, Crista and yet something that shone more brightly than the sun itself. Truly Sergei was glad to know her, if only for this little moment in her journey of life.

“Destiny comes in many and varied forms and nothing in existence is by chance.” He smiled then. “I could not fault her for wanting you in her child’s life, some things are simply meant to be and make the world better for their existence…” Those words carried on to people as well, truly Sergei believed

Crista loved doting on her godson, a child she barely got to see but spoke to as often as she could. She did her best to see him when she had time and when she was back in Italy, but Italy had not seen her in well over a year now. Tragic as it was to miss out on his life, this child whom she inherited as kin because of a meeting of chance, but she was trying to repair a flawed life and that took time to accomplish. She would not draw that precious boy into her life of disarray and chaos, even if it were on the mend. She would wait till it was complete and then enjoying having him fully a part of her life.

She looked at Sergei with a smile, a truly appreciative smile. “Thank you,” she replied. She didn’t react to the slip of his tongue, but was curious by his statement. “Do you?” she asked curiously as he spoke of destiny. “Where are you from?” she asked, continuing her curious line of questioning. She could not help but think of his statement and of recent events in her life. “Do you truly believe that? That everything is planned and we have no control over it?” She returned his smile.

“I again I have to thank you for your confidence seeing as you know so little about me. I do like to think being his godmother changed me a great deal. I was and still am very honoured that she chose me and that I accepted.” Her eyes returned to the photo momentarily, reflecting over the true magic of that moment, the light, Fraya and the angel she held in her hands. She remembered wanting to be her, to have such a life to celebrate and she nearly had, but it was not meant to be, at least not at that time.

She turned back to Sergei continuing their conversation as more and more guests arrived, each one with a fat cheque book and expensive shoes. At least she had found someone normal amongst them, or at least seemingly so. She could be thankful for that.

------------------------------------------------

Demaitre had now welcomed her amongst them, the woman who appeared one night when the moon was full and took the lives of two lovers. They didn’t know her crime against them, the mortals she was now about to be company with. Indeed if they had they would have fled for their lives or tried to kill her. Instead she was seated beside a strapping man of thirty-seven, with raven hair like her own, tanned skin and brilliant green eyes and whose hand was gently places upon her thigh. His touch made her skin crawl but she could not show him that, no she had to play the part to find herself a cover.

“Where are we going?” she asked calmly, a sweet smile upon her face as her brown eyes took him in. She would have liked to lean his head back and sink her fangs into his flesh, but Gianni was her door to a wider world in Demaitre, a world of sophistication and class, a world she had once enjoyed being a part of centuries ago when women wore corsets and curled their hair. “An art showing my dear,” he replied in his Italian accent. She nodded with a slight laugh. “You like art? I never imagined,” she teased and then turned her head towards the window once more.

Week by week she had graduated from rinky-dink hotel, to plausible to finally a penthouse suit, compliments of Gianni. She had met him four weeks before as she stalked one of the more expensive restaurants in town for precisely the type of man that he was. He was possessive, controlling and loved the idea of giving her everything to prove how wonderful he was. She needed him to get where she was now and soon he would have ‘an accident’ and she would move on to someone else. She hated men like him, power-hungry chauvinists who saw when as chattel and trophies to do what they wanted with. She had been slave to a man like him, and when the time came to drain him dry she would thoroughly enjoy it, but until then she would smile at him and play the game.

They arrived outside the gallery, the limo pulling to a halt and the driver exiting and rushing to open their doors, first Gianni’s and then her own. She looked exquisite in her white gown, with its plunging neckline and back, and slight train, the silk gently caressing her skin which was tanned for the moment. She had taken great pains to cover the scars of her former life even after years of fading they still required make-up to completely conceal them. In past centuries such a dress would have been impossible, but she had to admire the skill of current science and beauty experts. Her tresses were curled and pinned up high upon her neck leaving her slender neck visible to the world with its diamond necklace. She adjusted the Stoll around her shoulders before Gianni slipped her arm in his and escorted her inside. The entire ensemble was his choice; he’d had it delivered to her hotel that morning. He wanted to show off his prize and how benevolent he was, and she would let him enjoy his time while he still had it.

He left his coat with the clerk and she her Stoll before they continued inside, the curator greeted them with enthusiasm, Gianni being one of his best benefactors though Faith did not know it. She was introduced and politely smiled as the man took her hand. Gianni then led her inside to mingle amongst his fellow aristocrats.

From the moment she entered the room she felt it, the presence of another like her, maybe even more than one she wasn’t sure but she instantly felt unsafe. She blocked her thoughts knowing that any immortal with enough skill could read them if she were not careful. She continued to smile as she was introduced to one person after another, while her eyes searched out the source of her feelings…of her fear.

A sleek black Crossfire pulled up outside the gallery, standard black in color. Sliding from the driver's seat, Ferox tossed the keys carelessly to the valet. Though he easily could have afforded a driver or had a limousine bring him, he preferred driving himself. It was simply a form of control.

A man of only average height and weight, Ferox managed to exude an air of complete authority. It hung around him, almost palpable, almost as if it could be scented. He did not fiddle with his cuffs, nor pause to adjust his tie. Such mannerisms were signs only of vanity and vanity, with all its slick surfaces, was a prop. Appearances must be maintained, of course, but only to an extent.

That being said, his appearance was both elegant and striking. Ferox wore a suit of dark grey and a black shirt, well-tailored to make the most of his slim, fit frame. His shoes were highly polished, gorgeous wingtips, that made no sound as he walked. The tie was thinner than most, neatly knotted, and a muted blue in color. No jewelry save his favored Breitling. Overall, it was deliberately understated. It was not flashy, but obviously expensive.

Money, after all, was power.

He strode up the steps and into the gallery, his pace slowing as his dark grey eyes perused the photographs on display. Some were well-executed, he had to admit. He paused before one of a dark-haired woman, lovely in appearance. "Well done. The lighting is exemplary. This frame, however, needs to go." Ferox mused quietly. The frame was far too ornate, it undermined the simplicity of the shot.

Accepting the flute of champagne an efficiently quiet server offered him, he continued to meander, pausing at some shots to praise or criticize. Ferox was well aware of the presence of two vampires. Both were similar in age--about a thousand years younger than himself. Expanding his perception, he arrowed in on the closest one. Smiling, he took a sip from his flute, slowly making his way towards her.

“Gianni, you sly old dog.” Ferox greeted the man warmly, locking eyes with the man to confound his mind.

“Why… Ferox! It’s been… how long has it been?” Gianni replied boisterously, entreating Faith to approach so he could show her off to his acquaintance.

Dark grey eyes slid to Faith, the mouth smiled, but the eyes remained untouched. Turning his attention not from her, Ferox asked of Gianni, “Much too long, my friend. And who is this lovely creature that you’ve spirited away from me?”

She needn’t have searched for he found her, at least one of them. She was sure now of at least two, one of great age and one that her senses told her had age to match her own. She pretend not to notice as she was introduced to yet another associate of Gianni’s a man of fifty with wandering eyes and a matching ornament female on his arm. Birds of a feather flocked together and it seemed trophy dates were as normal as plumage on a peacock.

“That one’s lovely,” she commented to the other woman, showing her a photo of a snow capped mountain at dawn with a solitary figure standing before it. She found it fascinating, she could barely remember the feel of the sun far less what it looked like, and she had never seen a mountain by day only sand. In her dreams she could still remember the feel of hot sand under her feet or beating against her skin in a strong gust. She had been a child of the desert, of the sand and barren expanses of the world. She did not know green or such colourful scenes and now she never would, but at least she could admire them captured on celluloid.

A server glided to their little group offering champagne to wet their throats from the expected multiple conversations that would take place during the evening. She took a glass, her fingers wrapping around the crystal flute as she sensed him coming. Her hands paused momentarily before the glass was raised to her lips delicately. He could come if he wanted, she would not show fear, after all he could not harm her here amongst these humans, not unless he wished to reveal their existence to all.

She heard him greet Gianni but her eyes never left the woman. “So Melinda, do you come to these things often?” she asked casually, feigning interest in the woman when truly she was nothing more to her than another meal. Yes, her heart was cold to all humans, men and women alike for the injuries she had sustained at their hands and due to their decisions to remain ignorant to her plight. Such pain was hard to erase and she could not let it go.

She heard Gianni’s voice and insist on her attention. She did as he asked, playing the part as she was expected. She stood at Gianni’s side with an air of confidence and sophistication encircling her as her eyes fell on Ferox. She returned his smile but it never reached her eyes, dark eyes that remained locked on him. Gianni was to drunk with the delight of showing her off to realise that her eyes never left Ferox, or was that his manipulating of the human’s weak mind? “Indeed it has been too long. This,” he said looking at Faith for a fleeting moment before his eyes found their way back to Ferox’s face to see his reaction. “This is Miss Faith Night.”

Faith smiled once again, “Pleasure,” she said extending her hand to Ferox.

In a move entirely too smooth to not be natural, Ferox lifted Faith's hand to within an inch of his lips. Glancing back at Gianni, ignoring the few others in the little group, a smile slipped across Ferox's rakingly sharp features. "However did you manage to ensnare such a lovely woman, Gianni? Your success emboldens me; perhaps with your secret I shall find one of my own."

Gianni paused, a spacy smile on his face, as he tried to tell if there was an insult in Ferox's words. When the elegant vampire blinked innocently, he smiled a little more broadly, laughing as he replied, "An old rogue like you, Ferox? Since when have you wanted the company of a woman like my Faith?"

The dark eyes returned to Faith, a thin smile reflecting within them. "Oh... I might be persuaded." He replied softly, holding onto her hand for perhaps a heartbeat too long. Ferox could detect a few emotions bleeding from Faith Night, though nothing so distinct as actual thoughts. She seemed... disdainful of her present company--Gianni, the insipid women and men staring down their noses.

It was a feeling Ferox could quite sympathize with. He had the power to tear the people watching with such distant politeness to little pieces and relished the idea of doing so. But the Amman, yes, the Amman. They would, no doubt, object and tear him to little pieces. So, even as he smiled and made genial conversation, he daydreamed idly of slowly peeling the skin from sensitive areas just to hear the screams.

His eyes, dark as wet stone and just as flat, met Faith's again--probing.

She watched him lift her hand to his lips, her face remaining expressionless at his actions. She’d had nobility kiss that hand and later had that same hand mark their flesh with her nails as she drained them of their blood, her thirst for their life’s fluid almost ravenous.

She listened to them banter over her like merchandise, but still she remained cool and expressionless, except for the faint smile that matched that of a painted doll in its insincerity. The smile on Gianni’s face was clear that the poor man could not make heads or tails of Ferox’s statement’s meaning, but Faith had wit enough to grasp it. “Perhaps you will find one of your own,” she interjected with a coolness that matched the night air. But certainly not me, she said with her mind, a smile still on her face as she passed her statement off as a joke to her companions.

She looked at Gianni, “A woman like me Gianni? Why you make me seem special in some way, or do you imply something else?” she teased. Poor fool. At Ferox’s comment her eyes returned to his. You might…but I would not, she continued with her had still in his. It would be impolite to just tear it away as she desired to, his touch more unsettling than his presence. Only one other had touched her and have it not mean a fight, and that had been Armand. He had touched her skin and made her the creature she was now. She missed him.

She could sense the same distant disdain that she felt coming from Ferox, manipulating Gianni as he was all but confirmed it. However, no matter how alike in feeling they were, he was still two things she did not trust…a man…and a vampire.

When his hand released hers, it returned to Gianni’s side like the good mistress she was supposed to portray, though truth be known the man had come no closer to seeing her nude than the skin he could now see from her dress. Faith knew how to manipulate too, but her methods were more artistic in their manner, she tempted and teased with implied promises that never were fulfilled. No man had touched her since her master, not in that way at least, and none would again. She now appreciated her body for what it could gain her, but it was not to be any man’s to do with what he willed. She would kill him first.

As the conversation continued she smiled and nodded where necessary, Ferox’s eyes once gain returning to her own. I would not if I were you, she warned calmly, refusing to let any fear or other emotion be expressed.

A whisper echoed in his ear, the voice of a woman long dead. It did not bother him to hear her voice. He had spent centuries upon centuries with Isold; it was expected for her ashes to haunt his mind. Sometimes, he even agreed with what she murmured. Other times, he drowned her out with the boom of piano keys or the high sweet notes a violin sang. This time, he listened. Isold spoke--rambled--of the uselessness, the inferiority of men.

Ferox was forced to agree. Their banter--so tedious. As if these photos on these walls actually meant something. As if their worthless words actually meant something. He struggled against the urge to use his power to rip their windpipes from their bodies to end the mindless chatter. Instead, he responded with mindless chatter of his own.

But his eyes never drifted far from Faith's. Here, now, she was the only one worth even a moment's attention. Disappointing when one considered the fact that he had come to this, an art show, to enjoy his evening. Her words echoed hollowly inside his head, competing quietly with Isold's paper voice.

He smiled into his glass. Do you warn me, Faith Night? And what is it that you would not do if you were I?

She put the flute to her mouth once again, pretending to drink. Alcohol did not agree with her she had discovered long ago, the only thing that seemed to pass unnoticed by her system was rum. Perhaps it was the ingredient of its making or maybe the process, but whatever it was it was the only thing she could stand everything else she tossed away when she had a chance. However, for the moment she continued her play of being mortal.

Constant jabbering about things she found mundane filled her ears. Gianni was talking about business, something that bored her to the point of insanity. There were several other associates he would desire her to meet, and she knew she would have to endure the same pointless chatter from them as well. She took comfort in the photos that surrounded her, the glimpses of a life she had never known and would never know. The photos made life seem so surreal and simple, but it was not, she knew it, Ferox knew it and she was sure the other vampire did as well.

Life was not captured moments on film, or impressions on canvas, though it did make for interesting distractions and pleasant thoughts. Life was blood, flesh, sadness and pain. Anyone who said otherwise was selling something, and she wasn’t buying. Yes, she was more than jaded to the world’s delights and joys. She had none; she killed to live and enjoyed exacting a form of revenge on those who had caused her so much pain and suffering. She laughed to herself, if she had been raised in this time they would have sent her to a shrink and told her to talk about it, but actions suited her fine for now.

Times had changed so, before if a man offended you shot him or had a duel and it was considered settled and no one sought to bring you to a trial. Now, everything was bureaucracy and red tape and how often was justice truly established?

She heard Ferox’s voice in her head; it had been so long since another had intruded her thoughts. I would not look at me in that way. You might incite my dear Gianni’s anger, she stated, or mine, she added her eyes shifting from him to the other vampire across the room. She was still trying to judge the threat level to her from both of them, so far the other man seemed distracted and didn’t seem to notice her but Ferox, he was not so inclined.

Sergei was usually not one to be so irresponsible with his words. Well and truly a slip of the tongue and too much information on his part could easily turn deadly if handled improperly. Of course Sergei had spent the better part of centuries dedicated to the subject of handling them properly and of course this hardly left him now as he met Crista’s inquisitive gaze and nodded with a smile.

“You are welcome.” He offered easily and not at all unkindly. A smile was common place on his full lips and fine features, truly even in mundane life a life that some others had grown to find redundant, Sergei often and unexpectedly found joy and so it was hardly an act well practiced or not when his smile lit up as he answered.

“Norway.” While that was hardly the whole truth, it wasn’t a lie. Sergei very well had been born in Norway, though of course it had held no such name then and the very town he lived in never did bare a name, still it was where his descendants lived to this day however many generations removed. Sergei was a Norseman, always would be.

He looked thoughtful then about her questioning of his own beliefs and after a moment Sergei nodded. He could hardly tell her tales of the Norns that men had all but forgotten in this world of technologies and new gods, but the blond did nod and his smile was sure and kind as he said.

“Yes, I believe in fate Crista. I would no say that I know if fate can be changed and yet I find that our lives most often take courses that we’d never expect, turns that only we can make, and use to accomplish our goals or fulfill our potential.”

The vampire accepted her thanks then, with some of his own.

“Thank you for sharing your story with me,” He gave a slight incline of the head, a bow of sorts. “Indeed thank you for your work; you are a very talented woman.” Ah and if only Sergei had known the child’s mother’s name, that all its own would have put a slightly delighted smile on his face. It wasn’t the name as he remembered it and yet the goddess was beyond time, indeed she was ageless and if ever there was a greater indicator of fate the vampire would not yet have found it.

As things were however Sergei hadn’t the time to ask more questions or even get out more than the slightest of praises. After which his keen senses picked up the other two members of his species as easily as if they’d simply appeared dressed in flashing lights instead of their elegant attire and while they obscured their thoughts, emotions where a far less certain thing and Sergei nearly spun on his heel toward the feelings of open distain and barely restrained hostility.

With impressive height or rather it had been impressive in his time, none the less with his height Sergei could look nearly completely across the room and without fail his eyes immediately feel on a rather eloquent woman, her dark hair a sharp and sweeping contrast to her ivory gown. And even without touching her feelings again, Sergei could see the displeasure in her face at another immortal, a man in a rather flattering gray suit. They weren’t quite yet to open hostilities and yet even so it was clear to Sergei that this was just such a situation he had joined The Amman ranks to deal with.

Turning his gaze back to Crista, the Norseman gave her a disappointed look.

“I am sorry dear Crista,” He intoned. “It seems that my partner is signaling me and that means that I must meet with a few of our ‘most important’ clients. However if you do not mind, I’d love to pick up where we left off later.”

This was said with a genuine smile and equally genuine hope for the young woman’s safety. Sergei would never take her or anyone else potentially into harm’s way and yet he felt his duty pull at him. He could not have an open vampiric dispute anywhere let alone among the ranks of Demaitre’s “social elite” not for their sake, but truly the sake of vampires every where and perhaps Crista and of course Bill, sweet innocent, money grubbing Bill. What kind of friend would Sergei be if he didn’t step in and play peacekeeper.

"You might incite my dear Gianni's anger... or mine."

Ferox laughed, the sound as smooth as cream and truly amused. The woman to whom he'd been speaking smiled, flattered at such a strong reaction to her insipid joke. "Hilarious, my friend." He lied with a smile. Gazing at Faith, the thin expression held no less amusement than he had put on for the mortal cow.

"Gianni is but a fly to swat without a glance, lovely Faith Night." Another small smile, this time into his nearly empty flute. Ferox drained it, then lightly set it on the silver tray held by the silent waitress. "And you are hardly more." It was amazing, really, how his angular face could hold such a pleasant smile while his thoughts were sharp-sided darts.

The other vampire's presence came closer. Ferox turned, mildly raising one eyebrow as he studied the approaching immortal. A broad strapping fellow with blond hair, dressed in a well-cut suit of deep navy blue, Ferox took an instant dislike to that blond hair. "This business is of no concern of yours. I have no plans to cause a scene by instigating a brawl."

Sipping rather elegantly at a drink plucked from one of the ubiquitus servers, Ferox's dark gaze followed one in particular, a well-proportioned redhead whose crisp uniform did nothing to detract from a fine body. Sliding his eyes away reluctantly, he engaged in further small talk with the small group of humans as they shuffled from photo to photo--patiently watching Faith and Sergei.

She waited for her answer, where had he come from that held such ideals about fate? She had to admit she didn’t believe in it, at least not entirely. She would hate to know that she had been destined to live the life she had, instead she preferred to think that she had erred in her life and could correct it. Believing in fate made it seem that she could not escape what had been, and she was not going to hear of that.

He smiled, not at all an unpleasant one or one that seemed fake in its giving. She could not admit to many of those smiles for the evening, at least not since he had arrived. “Norway?” she repeated. That explained a lot, his blonde hair and build for example. The US had blondes, most places had blonde but Scandinavia seemed to be more than abundant. “I have never been there but I heard it’s beautiful.” She was sure she could find a lot to paint or photograph there but she had no time for such a trip.

She smiled slightly at his admittance that he believed in fate. “I cannot say that I do. I would prefer to think I have some control, and that I can change, rather than submitting to a life predestined.” She sipped her champagne. “It was my pleasure. I am sure not many others would show the interest in it that you did.” She smiled, flattered by his compliments. No matter what people would say, a little flattery went a long way with one’s ego.

Sergei’s attention was distracted for a moment and Crista attempted, however feebly to discover the source, but at her height and with that crowd it was virtually impossible. She sipped from her glass till his eyes returned to her. He had to leave. Her heart sank. She had hoped to keep herself occupied with familiarizing him with her art, but perhaps there were others out there in the mass of elegantly dressed people who would share his enthusiasm. “I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you,” she replied with a smile, “and I would be happy to pick this up later if the opportunity arises.” She gave one final smile and then walked along to the wall and into the other room.

----------------------------------------

Her statement had been for one purpose and one alone, to show she had no fear of him, as false as that was. Gianni was insignificant, she could replace him easily and she knew full well that Ferox could rip the little man limb from limb if he so desired. She was just trying to incline his mind to keep his distance.

He laughed, a laugh that made her temper flare momentarily, but she laughed casually along with a group as if she truly found something amusing. Her eyes flashed a moments disdain towards Ferox, which went unnoticed by their company.

If you think so… she responded in her mind to Ferox as Gianni casual whispered into her ear. His statement provoked the reaction it was expected a sly smile at his ideas for later that evening. The man was becoming bold, but she could handle the mite for that was what he was to her, a bug, a nuisance with temporary purpose. She needed to connections, a way to intertwine the bank accounts of the elite with her own. It wasn’t as if she could go looking for a job, but sitting around waiting for the next time she needed to feed didn’t interest her. She would find a way, she always did.

She sensed a change, the other vampire had noticed them, more than likely the hostility that lingered in the air that only another immortal would detect. She looked at him as the odds seem to stack against her. Her eyes moved from one to the other all the while keeping up the façade of interest elsewhere. Ferox’s attention shifted from her and her’s returned to Gianni, “Excuse me,” she said with a smile as she walked away from either vampire. She walked the outskirts of the crowd and then slipped out the door as if interested in the other displays. She was looking for the nearest plant to dump her champagne into. It would be strange if she did not finish at least one glass of the bubbly liquid.

She walked up to the potted palm and with a stealthy movement that only immortal eyes could detect she tossed the liquid away and planted the glass on the next silver tray to pass her way. A smile crept her face as one of the men Gianni had so expertly introduced her to approach attempting conversation. “Lovely isn’t it?” she said referring to the painting. “Indeed,” he replied though his eyes were on her.

Sergei was still regretful as he left Crista behind. Truly he had enjoyed listening to her stories and learning of her art. She was just as talented as he’d led her to believe, if not more so and yet as grand and as good as such thing were, the vampire quickly turned his attention on his duty and likewise the other immortals as he moved toward them with a swift and graceful gait, his eyes caught the other and Sergei couldn’t help but grimace at the other’s words in his head.

The man’s mental voice, ah it made Sergei’s skin crawl and the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, not for fear but instead an instant dislike and more than a touch of instant disgust to keep it company. Throughout his years Sergei Bjarnarson had come face to face with some truly vile individuals and yet without notice, with nothing more than a flitting sensation across his consciousness Sergei dislike this man more than any one of them.

Straightening the already flawless lines of his navy blue suit, Sergei’s ambiguously blue eyes roamed over the other and his grandiose gestures as he spoke into the other’s mind, once again continuing his forward progress.

Can you be so sure of that? The Norseman asked. Can you be sure that you won’t push her to striking you down right here before all the mortals we might ever need convince to make our live hell?

His eyes hardened then.

Or are you so powerful that you could keep a battle between immortals hidden from them?

That last was said with a sting of biting skepticism. And even so Sergei stared at him as he said rather easily.

And if you cannot control yourself and be civil, ah well that assuredly is my business.

"Ah, but if she started the fight, would it be my fault? I have done nothing, nothing at all, inflammatory in nature. Except, perhaps, appreciate beauty as has been showcased by that stunning dress." The connotation being, of course, that if you were touchy about people looking at you, don't wear dresses showing yourself off. Not that Ferox was coarse enough to say such in so many words.

"I am controlling myself, my peer." A thin smile on equally thin lips--almost a blade or weapon. His eyes were cold. "I have done nothing but act with the utmost of politeness. Will you drive me from this place with no just cause?" And that, truly, would incite him to make a scene. In his mind, Ferox had done nothing wrong. He had not initiated this silent conversation, nor was it his intention to begin one at all.

Ferox watched the blond man coolly, his face emotionless. A contrast, certainly, to the set lines upon the other's. Amman, was the distinct impression. Who else would carry themself thus, impose their attention on another's business?

The Roman smiled again, full enough to mock, though free of any negative emotion. Let the blond percieve it however he wished. Ferox turned his back on the other, apparently giving a rather lovely photograph his full attention. "Tell me, is the artist here tonight?" He asked one of the humans beside him. "I would enjoy meeting with them."

Faith stood looking at the piece, the gentleman still trying to engage her in conversation. He spoke of his business, of how lucky Gianni was to have such a lovely woman on his arm, and more. He was boring her. She smiled of course, nodding where she needed to and making little comments, but really her mind was wandering towards the two vampires in the other room.

Were they friends? Were they discussing her, and if so in what context? Her distrust heightened but she wasn’t going to leave. No, she wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of chasing her away from this event…

Hmmm… she thought as a tall handsome waiter passed her way. His eyes were green and his hair brown, cut short and neat. He had a fresh cut, she could smell his blood as he passed and it smelled like heaven. She bit her lip, yes he would do well. She had made her selection for the night, at least for now but there was much more to the evening to be seen.

“Would you excuse me?” she said again as she glided away from the man and back into the next room where her ‘kin’ as some might call them, was located. Her heels tapped lightly against the floor as she walked confidently back to Gianni, a smile on the Italian’s face. “Bella,” he said casually and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry I thought I saw someone I knew,” she lied. Her eyes moved to Ferox and then to the other vampire, studying them both. “That dress looks lovely on you,” Gianni whispered into her ear and a flash of hot annoyance rushed through her. “Well you did pick it,” she cooed into his ear softly.

It was sickening to have to stoop this low in order to survive and live how she wanted, to be seen a meat once again. She could hardly stand it and her skin crawled as he ran a finger against her arm. “I’m sorry; I do see someone this time. I’ll be right back,” she lied again, passing both vampires and heading to a large photo on the far wall and pretending to speak to the woman standing there. She didn’t know her, but with her ability to she was able to make the woman think she did. She needed to regroup and this little morsel of blonde-haired blood would help her accomplish that.

“If she does not wish to be appreciated,” Sergei said carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Then to a woman that can be quite inflammatory in nature.”

Sergei said this carefully, not just because he didn’t want to be insulting, but because this was not something he had to explain to an ancient and whatever else he might be, Ferox was most definitely an ancient. To Sergei his years and his power were like a mantle he wore, it was almost a palpable thing to those that were experienced in understanding it. And yet as always Sergei would admit he was hardly intimidated. Having simply watched the man, Sergei came away with a feel for him. He lacked discipline and control on a few levels, eloquent, he was still like so many others that took pleasure in the discomfort and pain of others.

And to know that last didn’t take mind reading. It was as clear as day in the man himself, he was like an open book.

“No, I will not dry you away with out just cause…” The other replied then. “But with just cause, do not doubt me.”

It wasn’t exactly a threat, but a promise. Sergei didn’t want a scene anymore than the other, but he’d hardly sit by while the other played dangerous games with another immortal or even caused misery or anguish among the mortals. His honor and his duty as an Amman would no allow it.

And he chose to ignore the man as he turned his back on him as if he were only a minor annoyance. But he continued on standing and listening until he heard the other’s statement about the artist and that as much as spite had him searching the crowd for Crista once more. As Sergei had said, terrible gossips all, it was only a matter of time before Ferox got his answer and Sergei would like to be there when the man did indeed meet the artist.

Let us call it a merger of interests…

“If she does not wish to be appreciated... then to a woman that can be quite inflammatory in nature.”

Ferox chuckled so only the other vampire could hear it. "Isn't that the truth. Such puzzling creatures, women are. A race, almost, of their own and separate from human and immortal alike." Saving himself the time and energy (though he had plenty) of thinking of more waffle to say to the mortal near him, the ancient focused slightly and scrambled the man's thoughts. The cow would require little more attention.

The woman about which the Roman and the Viking were discussing, in a manner of speaking, passed by. Though he was, by all accounts, entirely focused on the photo in front of him, Ferox lazily tracked her movements in his mind. His two peers were powerful in their own respects, standing out distinctly against the more muted backdrop of the mortals. He did not fear them, why should he, but that was no cause for anything less than vigilance.

Especially if Miss Faith Night was as combustive as the blond Amman seemed to think. Who knew, she might suddenly explode from irritation.

Leaving the confused human muttering to himself and trying to remember where he was and what he was doing, Ferox began to drift his way towards the woman pointed out to be the artist. He had no particular hurry to meet her, and lingered at times to study photographs or any mortals that caught his eye. Finally ending up near her, he smiled warmly. "I hear that you are the artist--the mind behind these lovely pictures."

She kept silent watch on the vampire males, her distaste for the one called Ferox almost tangible in nature. He had looked on her with eyes that made her want to pluck them from his head. Such was the nature of men, to devour a woman’s appearance as a feast for the starving. Was that all it took? A little flesh to make them think that you would be interested, that it was expected if they were attractive, had money or power, that any woman would want them? Such foolish creatures they were indeed if they believed that all that was important in life. She would think a man who had lived so long would know more about the world, but it seemed that age did not equate to intelligence or decorum.

She turned back to the painting and the female she was speaking to. She gave Gianni a glance, he was mumbling, the poor fool having had his mind been completely muddled by the vampire. She could help him recover his wits more quickly but he would be fine in a moment, so why waste her energy.

Crista had found herself another reasonable soul to converse with, a woman twice her age but dressed as vivaciously as Crista herself. The woman was bold and quite youthful in her manner despite the greying of her hair. Crista found her very enlightening and interesting. “You have a good my dear,” the woman said complimenting her. Crista gave her the necessary thanks and a cordial smile. The woman dwelled on her origins and accent, speaking of her numerous trips to Italy and the culture she found there. She seemed completely hooked on the inhabitation and freeness of the people more so than cuisine or places of interests. Crista could only smile and nod, she knew all this, she was after all Italian.

The woman had excused herself, the glasses of champagne finally running through her body, leaving Crista on her own. She sipped her second glass of champagne, the bubbles calming when she was approached by another guest. She smiled, yet another who knew her identity before her formal introduction. “Yes I am,” she replied politely. “Cristobel Bonaduce. I am pleased you like my work,” she continued, just a hint of her accent bubbling to the surface as she said ‘work’.