The Night She Played [Tarquin]

[Amandine Rossi]

Turning her body so that her back was to Tarquin’s when Samaire approached, Amandine lifted her left hand to her fiery hair to smooth it down. Her eyes glistened dangerously as the lights from the stage reflected in her crystal green eyes, offering the intrusive human a brief glimpse into their depth. Licking her lower lip as she glanced away from the stage and the blonde that was obstructing her view from it, Amandine shifted so that her back pressed nicely into the nook formed by the countertop and the back of Tarquin’s chair.

“That is a very vague question, Samaire, and deserves nothing more than an equally vague answer... I’m an artist...” Amandine teased, glancing over as the chair behind her moved. Tarquin excused himself and she caught his eye before watching him metaphorically disappear into the crowd; he could never fully mask his presence from her. Spinning the chair so that she could easily slip into it, gaining a slight height advantage over the other woman (being naturally shorter in stature when standing), the redhead smoothed her right hand over the countertop. The waiter was approaching with the chilled bottle of rosé, and Amandine’s lips stretched into a pleased smiled.

“Please tell me you drink Champagne, Samaire... ”

Amandine’s pronunciation of the French word give way to her origins, and the ‘r’ in Samaire’s name was pronounced differently than an average American would utter it. Turning her gaze away from the blonde human, the vampire smiled up at the waiter; neither mortal would be aware of the Charisma she was manipulating their perception of her with. Leaning back into the seat of the stool, the redhead watched as waiter retrieved the flutes, his gaze shifting to Amandine questioningly. The vampire diverted her gaze to Samaire, and the waiter’s followed, expectantly waiting for a confirmation as to the number of glasses.

“Louis XIV, the Sun King, was the first French king to drink champagne au Château de Versailles... The bottle of Laurent-Perrier’s Alexandra Rosé is meant to imitate the style of the 17th century... ” Amandine stated as she watched the subtle salmon-pink liquid fill the elegant flute, the tiniest bubbles raising to the surface and clinging to the sides of the glass.

“The most perfect blend of Pinot Noir et Chardonnay...” she sighed distractedly, hoping she would be able to keep such perfection down. There were certain human pleasures she refused to give up, and Champagne would be one of them.

[Samaire Hunt]

Samaire offered up a smile when Amandine answered her question, which had been broad in itself also merited a broad answer. An artist? That could have been defined one of many ways to a woman like her. Despite the tease, she watched for a second as her once male companion excused himself from their presence. Though most men would have been aghast to think a woman would leave their side for another, he seemed content with it. With simple shrug of her shoulders, she nodded towards Tarquin despite his attention was fixed on his partner, Amandine. If she would have been interested in Tarquin in a sexual way, she would have been more hurt by his obvious dismissal of her but she was quite afloat by her female companion now.

“I love champagne.” Samaire returned her attention towards Amandine before watching the waiter approach the counter with the chilled bottle. She listened intently as the woman explain the history of Louis XIV in such a nonchalant manner. “Would you mind if I had a glass with you?”

Rather than assuming she would receive any one drop from the bottle, she decided to be polite and ask for one. If Amandine was accommodating enough, she would offer up one glass despite their awkward meeting. Though it seemed that Tarquin had disappeared into the crowd while the two women conversed. Looking towards the glasses once more before settling into a stool next to her new acquaintance. “What makes you an artist then?” Samaire questioned, breaking the silence that settled between them.

Breathing in the scent of the champagne in the bottle, Samaire fluttered her eyes gently before her memories starting flooding her mind. This champagne was the exact kind her producers would have ordered after a successful opening night. It was how the cast was rewarded before their paychecks were handed out as well. There had been no way Samaire could afford to drink the expensive kind on a daily basis but she had been no stranger to the highlife. Coming back to reality, she looked at the bottle for a moment with a soft smile. “I remember in NYC they used to present the cast with this after a successful opening night.”

[Quin Contiello]

What was it about this girl that kept Tarquin from luring her into some dark alleyway and taking every last drop of blood from her body? He’d have done so with any other stray waif. But as he thought about it, he realised he hadn’t fed upon any stray waifs since waking in this modern city. He’d done so previously, when in Italy and by Antonia’s side. It had been an act of pity, most of the time. Stray waifs in that day and age rarely survived the harsh conditions and the starvation. The homeless in this day and age could be compared to the waifs of Rome—but they tasted worse, now. He did not yet know why.

Maybe it was because Samaire seemed self sufficient, and she had such a wonderful skill with the violin. He was curious what else she could do with other instruments. He was curious to see how she would get by as a young, attractive human in this city full of predators. He glanced over his shoulder before he disappeared into the men’s room to see Samaire and Amandine chatting—he did not know what they were talking about or whether Amandine was even being civil. He smirked as he lost sight of them—here he was, considering Samaire’s merits and why she ought to be saved, and he’d left her alone with a fledgling predator.

Well, Amandine was hardly a fledgling anymore, the way she was gaining power. But it would be long while before he considered her as anything different, especially in his ancient viewpoint.

As soon as he entered the men’s room, Tarquin paused, unable to remember why exactly he’d decided to come here. The place had no use for him. But he sauntered toward the sinks and washed his hands, delighting in the mechanics of the taps and pipes, the clearness of the water, the scent of the soap. As far as he knew, he was alone. He finished washing his hands, for no reason at all, and tried to find something to dry them on—the paper towel dispenser was empty.

At this point, another male entered the bathroom. He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties. His face was flushed with the effects of alcohol, and his mood was generally cheery. His head was bowed as he smiled sheepishly up at Tarquin before veering into a cubicle. Acting on instinct, and following the sage advice of the slight itch at the back of his throat, Tarquin followed the man into the cubicle; before he could protest or voice his surprise, Tarquin had swiftly covered the man’s mouth with one hand whilst he used the other to shut the door cleanly behind them. As the toilets were public, Tarquin would have to be swift lest he be discovered. It was that fear of discovery that made situations like this so worthwhile.

Tarquin pushed the man against the flimsy wall of the cubicle and yanked his head to the side. He swooped in on the pulsing vein beneath the stubbled skin of the neck, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the soothing sensation as the nectar flowed down his throat and sent warmth to his every extremity. He did not stop until the human’s heart stopped beating. After which, Tarquin arranged the corpse upon the toilet, head buried between its knees.

All the while Tarquin was aware of his surroundings; no one had entered the men’s room. He double checked to make sure the coast was clear before he exited the cubicle, closing the door as best he could behind him. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on his way out the door—there was new, fleshier complexion to his face that had not been there before.

He weaved his way back through the sparse crowd and toward Amandine and Samaire. When he reached them, he leaned over Amandine to retrieve his glass of Congnac. He downed the contents in one swift gulp, before gesturing to the bartender for another.

[Amandine Rossi]

Amandine kept her eyes on the champagne in her flute, perfectly manicured nails glinting slightly as her French manicure caught the light. Leaning fully back into the arched back of the stool, she crossed one leg over the other, taking up the space where Samaire had previously been standing and freed in exchange for a seat. Tilting her head towards the bar counter, ponytail swaying over her shoulder to settle across her collarbone, the redhead turned her attention to the stage, where a girl 1940s pin-up features ascended the stairs to make her way to the grand piano. Soon the rumbling of the crowd was drowned out by the sound of an overly familiar song. Amandine could not blame the performer for picking a previously recorded song, for it was not rare for a producer to come here to seek ideas as opposed to artists; too many got away with it too.

Overlooking Samaire’s comment in order not to ridicule her, Amandine hid the scornful sneer with the coup of champagne, delicately setting the glass upon her lower lip. The fact that this champagne would make it to milieus in New York city was highly doubtful, but the redhead found no interest in inquiring any further about the human, remembering promptly that she had her own answer to give to a precedent question. After closing her eyes to savour the delicate elixir with a new tongue, the hair on her forearms standing as the bubbles fizzled against the walls of her cave, the redhead glanced back in Samaire’s direction, ready to answer.

“Everything does,” she stared at her deviously, the corner of her lush lips slanted upwards slightly in amusement. To be quite frank, she had little interest in pursuing a conversation with the human; Amandine had already decided that she would not be seeing her again. Taking another swig of the champagne, she turned her attention back to the stage. The girl on the stage was brave, the song she had picked was a tough one; Regina Spektor was a luxury to the music world, she was unattainable. Yet the performer was not as bad as Amandine would have assumed; surely the off-tune notes rung louder in her sensitive ears, but all in the performance was admirable.

“She is quite good, isn’t she...?”
It was a rhetorical question, for she had sensed her sire approaching. Turning her head to glance over her shoulder as he leaned across her for his drink, Amandine’s eyes closed as she inhaled. Her lips parted as she sighed fondly, gaze fixed on his facial features. She had been leaning in towards his mouth when his glass cut across her path. The redhead glared at him when he retrieved the empty glass from his lips, having washed away the taste of blood she was so inclined to taste. Turning her face away from him, she lifted the flute to her own lips to take a hearty gulp, hoping to smother the fire that the scent of fresh blood had ensued.

It was useless. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she set the flute on the counter, fingers spread over the glass’ base. Her free hand settled against Tarquin’s chest, attempting to shove him out of the way so that she could see the stage. Amandine searched her face with an annoyed expression, catching his eye before she huffed and glanced back towards the stage. Whatever plans he had originally had regarding Samaire, she would make sure this nigh ended in a satisfactory manner for her. Once more her bad mood surfaced, and she could only find his presence responsible for such; hopefully the champagne would still have an euphoric effect on her, distracting her from the hungry and enraged flames she containing behind hard eyes.

[Samaire Hunt]

Well, this was going wonderful.

Samaire rolled her eyes when her question had been ignored but she refused to let the sour mood bother her. Turning in towards the bar counter, she ordered a simple margarita that seemed to also be the House special tonight. The bartender nodded when the order was made as Samaire turned back to accommodate her company. No matter how rude Amandine wanted to be to her, Samaire refused to let it bring down a perfectly good evening. Though she had made a few extra dollars and met a handsome stranger [who was nonexistent now], it could have been worse. As she leaned into the counter, she propped one elbow onto the top space where it would no invade the space of someone else.

“That’s highly doubtful.” Samaire commented. “Unless you have the pure talent to back the claim, you cannot be considered an artist.”

She had absolutely no idea what Amandine actually was capable of mastering or what she had accomplished in the past. Vague answers were usually given by those types of people that pursued one kind of art but never developed into it. Where as Samaire, she could recall dates of when she started this life, how many hours were spent into perfecting each talent, and role models who had been there for her. She called herself an Artist because she had earned the right to do so. Julliard did not accept just anyone and she was immediately accepted into the Broadway Actors straight after accomplishing her degree. As rude as Amandine had been thus far, Samaire didn’t believe she had reached that level…just yet.

When Amandine commented on the present talent on stage, she offered a light-hearted shrug. Without commenting, her attention had been caught by the bartender who brought her a pink margarita. Whatever the concoction was inside the glass, Samaire did show any concerns about it. Instead, she picked up the glass and tasted it instead before nodding in satisfaction. Regarding the music, Samaire had her own opinions about the girl who was performing. Looking over to the stage, she studied the face first to see if her instincts had been right. “She is much more skilled behind an acoustic guitar. I’ve seen her perform here a couple of times. Perhaps, she is stepping out of her comfort zone tonight?”

Samaire did not wait for Amandine to comment or answer when she saw Tarquin reappear through the crowd. She flashed him a quick smile before taking the sight of him in. There was something different about him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what. Well, whatever the reason. She was glad he was back. The company was starting to get boring with this Amandine woman.

[Quin Contiello]

Tarquin revelled in the effect he was having on Amandine. He'd learnt that it was the best way to keep her attention; show her something that she wanted and then withhold it. Little did he know that his little snack in the bathroom was something that she wanted. He'd had a victory without even realising. He could only go so far, however; he did not want to piss her off completely, otherwise he'd push her away. There was a fine line when it came to Amandine. Thus it was that he moved away when she shoved him, allowing her eyes access to the stage again. He could hardly refrain his laughter when she shot him a frustrated look; sometimes, when she was angry, she reminded him of a child. She was a childe--his childe. There was no doubt that she was in a bad mood. She wasn't very good at hiding it. He sometimes wondered whether she ever tried. It was one of the things he loved about her, however--her brutal honesty.

I hope you two are getting along. Why did he doubt it? There was a good chance, in their own womanly ways, that they were not getting along and were thoroughly getting on each other's nerves. Amandine could probably decipher the smirk that accompanied his comment--she would know that he knew better, only because he'd started to get to know her.

Amandine was who I was supposed to meet. I could not find her. He said, the latter part directed at Amandine; perhaps a way of explaining his absence. He had not done it on purpose. If she is upset, it is my fault. He said, this time shifting his gaze to Samaire--another explanation.

The only reason he could give for Amandine's renewed frustration was the scent and the warmth of the blood that now ran through his veins. For a moment he was distracted, wondering whether Amandine had fed on her own yet; he shifted closer to Amandine, hand resting on the back of her chair, chest leaning against her shoulder. His gaze shifted between Amandine and Samaire; there was an obvious solution, sitting right there in front of them.


He would wait and see how it played out.

[Amandine Rossi]

Amandine wanted to laugh at the arrogance she was faced with; it was rather amusing, really. A fleeting thought passed her mind as she considered whether Samaire’s tongue would be equally loose if she knew what she was talking to. At any moment the redhead could reach forth and end the girl’s life. Any other day the vampire may have shuddered at the cruelty she was contemplating, but today she was sufficiently off-put and bored with the company to regard such an act positively. Turning her head towards the stage, she flashed an unimpressed glance in Tarquin’s direction, clearly disinterested in his banter—he knew better than to taunt her when she was in a bad mood. Licking her lower lip, eyes on the stage, her body naturally reacted to the proximity of her sire’s. When he explained himself to Samaire, the arm which he was pressed against slipped around his broad shoulders. The redhead distractedly scratched the hairline at his nape with her long nails, head tilting over her opposite shoulder as she reached for her champagne glass.

With her body turned away from the bar and Samaire, and rather towards the stage and Tarquin, Amandine propped her elbow onto his shoulder, fingers reaching higher and deeper into his hair. Maybe if they acted intimate enough, the blond human would get the clue and leave.

Stretching her neck as she took a long sip of the bubbly rosé, her lungs filled with the smell of grapes and her chest raised, the low cut of her top pressing against the upper curve of her breasts. The jacket suited her well, golden patterns matching the dangling gold earrings she wore, and the black velvet contrasted heavily with her skin and eye colours. Once she swallowed the liquid, she briefly made eye contact with Tarquin as she licked a stray drop of champagne from her the corner of her mouth, tips of her fangs exposing slightly.

Reaching back to set the empty glass, the redhead glanced at Samaire, not removing her arm from Tarquin’s body as she handed him the freshly refilled tumbler of Cognac. Licking her lower lip, the predator leaned against the raised back of her stool, setting her free forearm along the edge of the counter. There was something regal about her composure, a certain elegance that could not truly be defined. With her chin high, body statuesque and unmoving, she stared straight at Samaire with unwavering coldness; it was evident that there was something to be feared about the redhead. The sole gesture she entertained was that of her fingers running along the man’s neck and mane, but other than her fingers and forearm muscles, she remained still.

Perhaps if she stared long enough without blinking and with a feral air about her, Samaire would be forced out of her comfort zone. Seriously, who did this girl think she was? The corner of Amandine’s lips tilted upwards ever so slightly; she had nothing to prove to this potential meal. If the girl was smart (which she was beginning to doubt), she would take her leave before the thirst that was riling up within the vampire led her to her death.