French Quarter

Butch had kissed her back, winking at her and waving her off. He did clock the shadow that would follow her, but that was to be expected. Whatever Ignatius and the Nosferatu wanted to do, that was their business. And depending on what she told Nacho, he imagined there would be an impromptu meeting sometime soon. Likely when he didn’t want it and least expected it. But they were the least of his concerns.

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What he did expect was Grace to be the first one. She would want the necklace back. He’d loved her, once. At least he think he did. Sometimes he stirred shit up just to see if the fire was still there. But he was past his romantic phase. Being a Toreador, she’d just been the best one to spend that time with. At least that’s what he rationalized.

The bar had been brand new when she’d been ushered through the door like his vampiric bride. That was some time ago. Russ’s eyes widened just a fraction as she stalked in, muttering “ah shit” under his breath but not moving or saying anything else. He knew better.

God damned if she didn’t know how to make entrance. Pure Hell on Heels. Butch was coming out of the wash room when she came in, a fresh black t-shirt clinging to his frame now, tucked into the slacks. He knew she’d come in looking like a million bucks, and he wasn’t about to be waiting for her like he’d put forth effort in his appearance. His hair was freshly combed back, along with the goatee, but he wasn’t pulling out the Tom Ford to match her runway fashion.

He drank her in, drank in the anger, looking her dead in the eye with an annoyed, but vindictive look. Only when she lied did he roll his eyes. “Yes, you can Grace. You know what I'm capable of. And you can take back gifts, cause I just did.” His eyes were wide and wild, brows high as if to challenge her.

Playing innocent wasn’t the approach for this. There wasn’t much point in hiding it. There was no kindred law saying he couldn’t steal from her. Oh it was personal. And he was letting it be known.

“You know what that necklace means to me. Your new boyfriend is going to murder you in your sleep in like a decade, and then he’ll pawn that fuckin’ thing to fuel his parking lot dynasty or some shit. I’m not letting that happen.”

Brujah weren’t always the disgruntled rebel. They were scholars, warrior-philosophers. The Learned Clan, if one could believe such things. The best Brujah were students by nature, but not necessarily academics. He’d spent lifetimes contorting the passions of mortals, of women. The power of such control was intoxicating, watching how her body shivered in the warm glow of that light, the sweat glistening off her perfect skin, her every curve dancing at the slightest provocation of his fingers, his hips, his lips. That was more pleasurable than the feeling of her tight, wet pussy gripping him his cock so possessively.

Sanguine. She tasted sanguine. Savory, and pure, but pure as in concentrated lust and desire. Genuine, but it only fed that desire wthin him. It didn’t take much to get his fill of her, but the flush of physical pleasure that had him cumming inside of her, and the euphoric wave of her blood made it a struggle to pull away. A struggle he won, but he could have drained her dry. She tasted like fucking sunshine…

He held her just as she held him, letting the aftershock of that orgasmic double tap to subside. Roughened hands stroked along her sweat-slick skin, moving to brush more hairs, now matted to her forehead and cheeks. A crooked finger tilted her chin up softly and blood stained lips caressed her own, then nuzzling her cheek,chuckling in her ear.

“You are gonna be trouble…

His cock eased out of her as he kissed her neck, gently but firmly untangling himself from her. He handed her that red shirt as he moved towards a small washroom with a stall shower. The sink ran, and he returned with two damp clothes, handing her one. Meanwhile, he unabashedly cleaned himself in front of her. Alarmingly, the combination of their juices that came off his length came back red. And it would likely be the same for her. He wasn’t that large, and he hadn’t been that rough, but somehow their coupling had become bloody, and not just because he fed from her. Vampire sex was… messy. Their bodies were no longer human, and bodily fluids had to come from somewhere....

If she asked, he would explain; an explanation usually was. But he seemed rather cavalier. Not distant, as he was more than comfortable walking around his den naked. She’d be given a glass of water, and her dress was laid neatly across teh back of one of the chairs. It was a few minutes before he was pulling his slacks back on, his eyes lingering on her all the while. He almost glowed in the post-coital bliss, though whether it was the sex or her blood, she couldn’t be sure.

“Bash is gonna smell me on you.” he said almost proudly. Bash. Not Bast, or Bastion. Like an old friend. Or perhaps it was more antagonistic, like him calling Ignatius  Nacho, belying an air of familiarity that wasn’t quite earned. “Of course, if he has any issues, you can direct him to me.”

Brujah and Toreador were tedious allies, but they had plenty in common. They knew the thrill of coaxing passion out of mortals. It was a masquerade, and sometimes a necessity for the Traditions, but it still stirred something in the blood. Whether it was for art, or for revolution, or for lust, it was better than closing oneself off completely. They didn’t have to speak of unnatural things when something very real and natural was happening between them. Did he have her at a disadvantage? Absolutely. But he needn’t any powers of the blood to ply her to his will. She gave willingly. And she’d obediently give more, should he ask. He was sure of it. Drunk off the desire pouring from her veins, the taste of it still on his lips and tongue.

There was no ragged breath coming from him, just an eerie, radiading warmth and a vibrance in his eyes that said his intensity matched her own. He was lean, wiry, muscles forged for a a hard, physical life. Her touch soared over muscle and scar alike, from bullet (musket?) holes, gashes, stabs, burns — both rope and fire. Durable. Powerful, and he allowed her to explore him, that canvas of his frame, as he did her own.

“Good Girl,” he whispered again.

She had obeyed him, and they could explore each other all night. Any night. He’d made a promise, and he wasn’t above breaking it. The Archon could wait. He preferred the sounds of his date moaning beneath him, watching her body undulate against him as she rode him so brazenly. When she came off the desk to hold on to his neck, he would quick to hook his arms under her thighs, fingers taking purchase in the curve of her ass to pull her into his thrusts. His tongue danced out for her own, smirking and leaning in to bite her Bottom lip. Not breaking skin. Not yet. But it was there. So full of life, and rich resonance. He drew her to him, sheathing himself inside of her. His face buried in her neck again, and then she would feel him breath. Not for air, but to breath in her. She could feel a shiver dance through him, like he was fighting something. Whatever he fought, he channelled into fucking her, coiling his arms tightly around her waist and bringing her to him with he concerted effort of bringing her, himself, or them both over the edge.

"Now give me what I want."

Maya’s warmth enamored him in kind, and the flowing caress of his hands was with a practiced but curious rhythm, as if trying to steal the heat she exuded; like he was starved of it. The heat he gave off was real enough, yet it was a lie all the same. Stolen, and burned as fuel. So that his mouth was wet and craven when he began devouring her. Another sound escaped him, this one more bestial than the others. He’d heightened his senses again. To taste her more fully, to drink in that scent of her dripping arousal till it muddled everything in his brain.

She’d hear the sound of his belt being undone, then the zipper. If anything, that grip on his hair was a motivator.

His tongue was lashing in incredibly fast strokes, only to sooth and ease with a firm caressing press of the flat of it against her clit. It wasn’t until she said his name that he pulled away, kissing lewdly along the juncture of her thighs, an arm encircling her leg, forefinger and thumb stroking up and down her labia.

“You taste so sweet. I knew you would as soon as I saw you.”

He nipped the inside of her thigh, and she’d have to check to see if he’d drawn blood. His other hand slid up her body, cupping her breast through the dress’s fabric, before  cupping his hand for her.

“Spit for me, Darlin’, Something so crude, said so gently as he gently pinched her clit between those fingers, flickering his tongue directly against that exposed flesh. She could go through with it or not, but he was enveloping her with his mouth once again, as if he were trying to suck her soul through that little bundle of nerves.

“Special comes n’ goes. Gotta appreciate it when you have it.” Seemingly a contradiction coming from someone who longed for a piece that presumably belonged to someone long ago. It was a magificent piece, but also old.

Butch rounded the desk, coming to slide up against the desk beside her, fingertips grazing her thigh. His body leaned in across hers, eyes not leaving her own as he reached past her to grab two stacks, taking her hand in his and setting them in her palm. “There’s 20. Buy yourself that little dress. And start charging more.”

His hand brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, edging his body against hers. He smirked.

“No, he’s a pretty good judge of character,” he said, completely glazing over who she’d mentioned she was on a date with. Like it didn’t phase him. That hand brushed her cheek, down her neck and the front of her dress before finding her thigh against. Testing her defenses, looking for resistance.

“Save your appetite. I wanna eat you.” She’d missed his innuendo with Jerry before, so he was boldly stating his desire. His fingers slid further up that dress, his lips coming terribly close to hers. It seemed he meant metaphorically.

Four days passed, and during the night Butch went about his usual routine of checking on his business ventures, irritating his childer, and sending his own moles and spies to gather information. It was hard to counter-intelligence the Nosferatu, and for the most part Butch didn’t try. He knew they would know he was looking into Maya; only Ignatius could confront him on that, and even then, Butch was within his right.

The city had never really been stable; then again, what city was? But It was why he liked it, and it was why he left every so often, disappearing for years at a time, only to return, taking on a new street persona but sliding right back into Kindred society. Even when he wasn’t in town, the Kindred felt his presence, for better or worse.

Tensions were running high for multiple reasons, and he’d added fuel to the fire. What are you supposed to do when someone hands you a gas can? The rebellion, the antagonizing, quelled the beast in him. And indulging in what little emotions could be coaxed from him by a tantalizing thief that seemed bent on stealing his heart…. It kept him human. As close to it as he could get. It was a lie, and it would likely end poorly, but immortality was boring. Why live forever if you can’t make memories?

Russ glanced her way, nodding in familiarity, but otherwise focusing on his smoke, his beer, and book. “Make yourself at home…” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

The door through to the back went into a store room that went behind the length of the bar, with boxes of beer and liquor stacked up and an ice machine. Directly to her right was an open door to the office, a cramped room with a meager surveillance set up, filing cabinets and stacks of papers next to a worn leather chair. Between the two was another door, heavier set with multiple locks, not that any of them were set at the moment.

“It’s open!” She could hear him call, and opening the door would reveal narrow staircase. Helluva day to choose heels, but there was a railing to hold on. She could smell something in the air, like a candle burning. The area upstairs was furnished and refurbished, nicer than the downstairs, with dark painted oak floor and walls. A mahogany desk; leather chairs, a drink station that looked untouched, and a book case, a ship in a bottle on one shelf; a few paintings. He had simple taste, perhaps a bit generic, but he knew where to spend his money.

The shirt was dark red, a few more buttons undone, making him look almost human with the warm glow of the Edison bulbs and burning candles. His complexion allowed him to blend in with the masquerade much easier than others. Privilege even in death. He drew his eyes across her elegant form, admiring her femininity in the dress and jewels. He whistled low.

“On your way to the ball, Cinderella, are are we celebrating?”

Most Underworld figures might have had less tolerance for her unfiltered persona; too biased, or distracted by her beauty and her flirty behavior. To him it was more of a game, trying to discern if she was that good at being genuine or it was legit. With a few centuries under his belt, slithering along the underbelly, he liked to think he was adept at reading people. Even if they were pretty women. Mortal women he wasn’t much worried about. He’d be much more reserved around her had she proven to be kindred.

“Oh, I’d say it’s been some time, darlin’. Thank you kindly.” He had manners, but his accent wasn’t a NOLA native. Hard to pen down, but there were talks about his origins. Boston, during the civil-war. Chicago, escaping the St. valentine’s Day massacre. Colorado and the gold rush. Maybe some of it was true. Maybe none of it.

The Brujah in him liked her brashness. Confidence, and a willingness to buck the status quo was a combo to gain a Brujah’s attention. Long as she could back it up, she would keep his attention. And though long dead, he was still a man, and it felt good being complimented by an attractive woman.

Butch delved into the powers of the blood, his senses heightening, listening to her heart beat, smelling her blood beneath the perfume and smoke. The world bled away to colors, revealing the aura of her spirit to his eyes. She was mortal, no taint of blood. Not a ghoul. A wild soul but… truthful.

“You know you’re pretty,” he gave her a sideways glance, playfully chiding her with facial expressions to keep the conversation moving. She had him chuckling with “thy enemies!”, nodding to her asking for details, getting ready to answer in kind when she mentioned the prince. She wouldn’t quite notice it, but he would have gone incredibly still a moment. She kept talking, and eventually he would smile and nod.

Auspex had him amped up, and he was more than willing to flirt back, even as the discipline’s effects wore off, the colors starting to fade away, leaving just her natural beauty behind.

“Sadly, I do have that affect on beautiful women.” it seemed he was incorrigible when you got him started, ” But all flirting aside, if you wanna impress me, just deliver what you promise. Doesn’t gotta be theatrical, no frills. You deliver, you have a fan. And a lot more where this came from.”

Almost from thin air, he had a tight roll of cash presented to her. Clean money, hundreds.

“Necklace is a black sapphire on a bed of rubies, with a silver chain. Hard to miss it, believe me. The rival’s name is Franco Castillo, real estate mogul up town.  His girlfriend’s name is Grace.. A battle axe in Versace. ”

He would reach out to her and tentatively run his fingers across the back of her hand. Since she knew what he was, she may have been surprised to feel he was warm to the touch. Gently, he’d take her hand in his, as if to read her palm, before his thumb was brushing over the pulse of her wrist, holding there until he could feel it acutely. Those hazel eyes locked with hers then, and the humor drained from his face.

“Maya, gorgeous… as long as you have a pulse, you pretend I do. Don't say words like Prince, or… anything Nacho and his brood might have taught you. Not around me. Not in these parts.”

He released her wrist, drawing his hand back. He could mindfuck her from here to oblivion, and given the laws of the city, he’d be within his rights. The Nosferatu were playing a dangerous game. And he liked danger. So he’d let them play their game… but by his own rules. Hear no evil, see no evil.

If Russ was anything beyond perpetually irritated, it didn’t show, and it seemed unlikely she’d get much response out of him. Lord knew how many tourists he gave the same blank face to during Mardi Gras. The man was irritated by life, and was patiently holing onto whatever thread he had left of his nerve and just went along with her playful demeanor, answering with deadpan.

“Snitches are welcome long as they got something worth tellin’. Once they leave…. “ Russ shrugged, letting the forgone outcome linger in the air before pulling out another tall boy. Cracking it open, he returned to his post and crossword. He gestured lazily with the pencil. “If Butch is expecting’ ya, he’ll be ‘round shortly.”

Not his business, or above his pay grade, it didn’t really matter. As if on cue, the door to the back would swing open, a tall, middle aged man slipping out. Russ tipped his beer towards him, as if to reference for her, while not looking away from the crossword.

Butch looked 40s, tanned almost to the point of burnt, with handsome but weathered features, dark blonde hair slicked back almost in a pompadour. When he smiled at Maya, she could see at least one gold crown. A gold necklace hung down his neck, the black silk shirt unbuttoned to mid chest, the sleeves rolled up. With a watch and a few rings on each hand, the gator shoes, he gave off gangster vibes. If not someone in it, someone who was fascinated by it. His smile was charming and roguish, like he always knew how to turn it up for a pretty lady.

“You Maya? He asked, giving her the once over before cocking his head towards  one of the small booths, waiting for her to sit before doing the same. He sat with his legs out, crossing them casually at the knee while he rolled a tooth pick in his mouth.

In the criminal underworld of humans, people knew Butch as a guy who was connected, whose great-granddaddy was likely a bootlegger; that he did a stint in Angola, had Dixie Mafia connections; did jobs for the Italians. Her Nosferatu friends likely knew he was much more influential in the underworld than anyone else. Perhaps they hadn’t explained to her the finer details. Like he was a kindred, and one of influence. He was assessing her for exactly that.

“What’s the first thing you ever stole?”