Night's Omen

There was something about the church that had always lured Cynthia in, even now that she was positive there was absolutely no God. When she had been mortal, she'd believed in such a deity, an all-seeing, all-powerful being who watched over His creations, who would protect them from harm as long as they pledged their immortal souls to His service and dedicated their lives to singing His praises.

What a crock of shit. She'd come to that realization somewhere between rotting in a cage awaiting her death and the transition between the mortal world and the immortal. And now, of course, she didn't need any God to help her out, she was doing just fine on her own.

As the service ended, she hung around, a familiar scent mingled in with those that passed her by. She moved up the aisles, silent, fabric of her dress making little noise. Decades had allowed her the precision of moving without a sound. She wore brown furry boots with little pom-poms on them and a small heel, and a cream coloured turtleneck and brown skirt. Her hair was just as curly and fluffy as it always was, and of course, she had those rosy cheeks against that ivory skin. She looked like a doll, a figurine, a picture in a catalouge - not a girl. The boots did enough for her height that she didn't appear so frail and petite, and made her look at least eighteen to the untrained, uninhibited mortal eye.

"I'd never pegged you for Catholic," she said, watching the dark figure as he spoke to the priest. Cynthia cared little for formalities, and she looked at the priest with hungry, predatory eyes. She resisted the urge to snap at him, instead projecting her aura forth, giving him great unease that his God couldn't help.

London wasn't particularly 'lured in' by the Church, but it certainly had its hands in his life, whether he liked it or not.  Carmine was far too religious, and it was one of the traits he allowed her and Tristan.  He didn't think his son bought it all, a fact he actually appreciated, but the boy pretended for his mother's sake.  London pretended for appearance's sake.

That explained why he was speaking to the priest when Cynthia found him, and he smiled that devil's smile for her.  The priest didn't seem to like her immediately, yet he'd liked London from the moment they'd met.  Ironic.  "Why, of course I am, my dear.  What else would you have thought?" he asked her smoothly, just being friendly.  He didn't need the priest thinking inappropriate things.  He liked having his wife's religion behind him.  "I'll see you again next time, Father."

And that was it.  The priest was dismissed, and London put his attention on Cynthia.  She intrigued him without fail, and so he didn't mind speaking to her with his wife and son not far away.  She had a habit of running into him as of late, which he found ironic since he'd never seen her before she'd stopped at his house to see Tristan, but he didn't mind.  Really, he wanted to spend time with her so that he could see what it was that was different about her.  He knew there was something, but he couldn't pin it down yet.

"And you're Catholic?  I know I've never seen you here before," he pointed out.  He was observant.  It was both his job and his hobby to be.

Cynthia merely smiled mischeviously and shrugged her shoulders, hands behind her back. "I came to confess my sins," she said innocently with a giggle. "Lord knows I've got a few I need to get off my chest," she added. Cynthia was flirting with London in the middle of the church. She was dangerous, that was certain, but she was also using her wits - she spoke softly enough so that London could hear her, and below the tone of the crowd.  Tristan, actually, might've heard her too, but that didn't really bother her. She'd rip his face off in the church if she felt like it, and -

No. She glanced back to where London's gaze had flicked for a moment. She saw Tristan standing next to a woman who might have been considered classically beautiful once upon a time, though age and probably stress had taken their visual toll on her. Dark hair was swept up elegantly into a bun, while skin that seemed pallid even though she was naturally tan held dark circles under the eyes and a strained smile at the lips. That had to be his wife. She wondered on one hand what sort of torture he put her through to make her age so rapidly, but she didn't really care on the other hand. London couldn't make her age if he tried, and she could break him just as easily. Even a shifter was little match for her, or so she felt.

She caught Tristan's eye and smiled, and then tossed her hair and turned back to London. "What about you? Anything you need to confess? Anything you feel you need to be... forgiven for?" she asked. She smiled that sultry little smile again, her tone inviting.

That friendly, charming smile darkened a little when she mentioned her own sins, and he believed her.  There was something darker and less innocent than she pretended about her, which was what he liked so much.  That she'd seemingly flirt with him in the middle of church was even better, and it was a risk he liked.  If not for her age, she'd be right up his alley.

He caught the glance towards his wife and son, watching her carefully as she just looked at them, then smiled and tossed her hair.  A quick glance showed him that Tristan was watching, so he assumed the smile was for his son's sake.  Interesting.  Was she interested in him, or just teasing?  From the scowl on his son's face, he could only guess that she was trying to mess with him, which made him even more interested in figuring her out.  He was going to end up obsessed with it, if he wasn't careful.

"If I had anything I thought I'd want to be forgiven for, I wouldn't do it, Cynthia," he returned, his tone going much lower than usual.  More...private.  Somehow, he knew she'd hear him.  "I don't ask forgiveness.  I take what I want, but I can be very, very patient in doing so."

It was true.  He did what he wanted, within reason, of course.  He'd wanted to do MANY things to his family, particularly his son, that he hadn't done, but that was because he couldn't risk exposing himself to those who wouldn't understand.  He didn't need to be forgiven for what he'd done, because he didn't see it as wrong.  He was right, and they simply didn't know enough to realize it.  Stupid humanitarians.

"Hm," she said, voice girlish. "Pity. There's something about confession that makes me feel so... free. Exposed. Stripped down, and unashamed. It can be very... pleasing when done correctly," she said, a smile offered for him to wrap his head around her words. She glanced back at Tristan, and then to London again.

"I mustn't keep the priest waiting. He waits all week to hear what secrets I've got to tell," she said with a purr and a wink. She brushed his hand lightly with her own and then headed for the hall, where she hoped he'd follow. Cynthia had something she wanted to... show him. Something she couldn't do in front of the entire congregation.

As much as she'd have liked to.

His smile hadn't faltered at her words, but his eyes certainly showed a change.  He was interested, more than interested, and she'd just piqued that animal interest of his with words that created a marvelous image in his mind.  Pleasing, indeed.  He imagined she could make confession very pleasing.

Of course, she chose that moment to take her leave, though she left him unsatisfied with the conversation's halt, and he watched after her, considering her words.  He'd believe that the priest waited all week to hear her secrets, the old bastard, and he believed it because he wouldn't mind hearing them himself.

He followed, the fool.  He wasn't going to stop her, but he'd stall her awhile.  She was far more interesting than his wife and son, and perhaps if he was satisfied with having talked with her, he wouldn't be so irritable when he went home with his family.  Really, that they would bother him so badly on a Sunday was a sin, and not on his part.

"I could listen just as well as that priest, and I'm sure it'd do just as much for your immortal soul," he told her, suggesting that he really didn't believe priests could offer salvation.  He made it sound almost like a devil's bargain, tempting her away from the light of the Lord.  Really, all they were doing was pulling each other away from the light, since neither was in any shape for salvation.

Cynthia glanced over her shoulder as she stepped up to a confessional booth, and then opened the door. "Really, now?" she asked, tilting her head. She put one foot in, and then the other, and turned, giving London a thoughtful look. "Maybe you should come with me and make sure I get all of it out of my system, then."

Cynthia turned towards the darkness, and the glint of eyeshine caught in her eyes - he had to have seen it, though that wasn't her intention, it wasn't something she'd tried to avoid, either. Some things she couldn't gloss off of her appearance so easily, and that one was a small price to pay for other more strictly controlled illusions. Thankfully she needed no glamours to appear older. She could go anywhere from thirteen to eighteen with makeup, hair, and clothing. It was better for her she didn't look three-hundred, at any rate.

London was swiftly finding himself with a choice before him, and it wasn't even a matter of God and Sin.  It was his own Code, and playing around more seriously with a teenaged girl was not included in his Code.  If he'd known she was 300 and a vampire, he'd have been more cautious, but less likely to turn down more sinful pleasures.  Thinking she was just a child made her slightly less appealing, though no less fun to talk to.  He didn't think a child of 17 could handle his sort of confessions.

"My dear, as tempting as that is, we may have to wait until you're a little older for such a...confession," he told her.  He wasn't stupid.  If he came anywhere near touching her, all she'd have to do is scream rape, and he'd be done for.  At 17, she didn't even have to say it was rape, and he'd still be in trouble.  Statutory rape was as bad as any other rape, as far as the law was concerned. 

"Otherwise, there could be some potentially unpleasant consequences."

"Older?" she asked, as though she were hurt. "Older, indeed." She glared at him, and then smiled ever so slightly.

M'dear, you've no idea how old I am. Or would you damn me like the others before for being trapped in this form? Her thoughts were projected loud and clear to the shifter - he may be able to guard his mind well enough, but Cynthia was no fledgling any longer, and on top of that, she was Kendra. She could do things with her mind that men only dreamed of.

She dug into his head only briefly, enough to extend her power in one whisp, one little snap, not even half the extent that she was capable of. Cynthia had to perfect the art of rolling the mind of a man, thanks to her form most of them were reluctant at first. At first, of course - but never after. It only took once, maybe twice if he had a strong will, but Cynthia was temptation in all forms. She let go of his mind, gently, like a kiss.

"What were you saying?" she asked innocently.

Everything suddenly made sense, and he actually chuckled at her mental statement, especially with the way she'd almost sounded hurt before it.  That clarified things, and explained why she seemed like so much more than a teenager.  It made a lot of sense, and he couldn't say he didn't like the notion of what she could do with that power of hers, but there was still one thing he had to deal with.

"And how old does the State say you are?" he asked.  Vampire or no, if her records, whichever ones she'd had faked to go to school and the like, said she was under 18, he was still at risk.  He'd built his life very carefully.  "Understand, you make a very tempting offer without even offering anything clear, but I don't like to take unnecessary risks.  I shouldn't set a bad example for Tristan, now should I?"

As though Tristan was really going to listen to him, and he really cared what the boy thought.

"The records say what I want them to say, and anyone who disagrees won't have a tongue to speak with afterwards," she said. Her voice was so innocent, so bubbly, and it made her all the more sinister. She leaned against the wall of the confessional, and tilted her head, giving London a pout for good measure. After a long pause and closed eyes, she shrugged, flittering her lashes at him.

"Suit yourself," she said with a small smile. She shut the door, and waited for the priest. She'd been toying with this particular one for a while now. She was in the mood to rip his face off thanks to London, but she'd just fill his mind with all sorts of bad stories, and she'd leave to go find food elsewhere. London had spoiled her appetite.

London probably would have been pleased to find that he'd managed to affect her enough to have spoiled her appetite.  He was that sort of person.  He was also the patient sort of man who understood that those who waited were rewarded in the end.  His patience and force of will in resisting Cynthia's advances in the early game would help him later.  Of that, he was certain.

He knew that he would eventually stop resisting, though.  She wasn't his son's age, but a vampire, that much was obvious now.  He was even more interested, but he knew better than to simply throw himself into such a game with a vampire.  That was a good way to lose, and he was very interested in winning, or at least, finding a pleasant compromise.  He'd see her again.

"Until next time, my dear," he told her, nodding his head to her as she vanished into the confessional.  He'd have been interested in hearing her 'confessions', though he had the feeling that priest wouldn't want to.  He didn't particularly feel bad for the man, though he wouldn't envy him. 

Crystal wanted to smash his head in. Who did he think he was, treating her like that? She sat in silent anger as the priest spoke to her, before finally sighing angrily. "Oh, do shut up," she whined, reaching out with her mind. Sleep. The command was easily executed, and the priest's head hit the side of the wall with a 'thunk'. She rolled her eyes, and then straightened herself out, re-touching her gloss.

She emerged from the confessional a saved girl, and walked lightly out of the church, using that vampire nose to sniff out which way the cats had gone. Odd, one had gone left, one had gone right. But which? She wasn't familiar enough with London to see the stain of energy he'd left in his wake, though if she had to guess, she'd say his was stronger than Tristan's. She finally chose left, banking on that heavier, muskier scent for London's.

She rounded the corner, blissfully unaware of the cold that surrounded her in her cute little fuzzy number. Cynthia had other things on her mind.

Fortunately for Tristan, and especially Carmine, London had opted to go into work for a few hours that afternoon, and he'd left the church and gone directly towards the station.  That meant that Tristan and Carmine weren't there when Cynthia caught up to him, making them especially lucky that she'd chosen the correct trail to follow.  He might have even minded in the vampire had either killed or severely harmed them both, though it would have merely been because they were his, and he wasn't so sure if he was willing to share.

If he'd share with anyone, it would be Cynthia, though. 

Thinking back on their interaction at the church, he was almost regretful that he hadn't taken her up on her offer, though he knew he'd done the best thing in his own interest at the time.  Being caught, with his wife and son in the same building, with a young girl in the confessional would have severely damaged his carefully laid out lies and manipulations, and he couldn't risk that.  He would have to offer his apologies later, in case she was insulted.  Considering his thoughts on her, he didn't want her upset with him, though the idea of her actually taking vengeance hadn't occurred to him.  He was rather confident in his power.

Foolish, perhaps, but true.  He'd be surprised to see that the object of his thoughts was so close, so long as he wasn't downwind of her.

She wasn't downwind of him - not that it mattered. Cynthia could have just appeared in front of him if she'd so chosen, but she felt like actually walking for once. She followed him in a pace of around 30 or so behind, before finally, she sighed loudly. "You walk too fast, cat," she said, tone exasperated. In the blink of an eye, she was by his side, brushing strands of her hair away from her face with her slender fingers. She smiled up at him, in a sort of innocent way, although everyone knew THAT was a lie.

"So how did you spawn something as worthless as Tristan, anyways?" she asked, not even bothering to hound him further for attention. She'd get it sooner or later, she was sure of it.