Night's Omen

  She had no idea how this could have happened. Amaltheia was a Falcon; magnificent and glorious and powerful; more powerful than any pathetic vampire and some piddly little power. She was ancient, timeless; she was forever. And yet -

She stood alone, in a silent house in a decadent room, feathers slowly falling to the ground at her feet. Cages of all sizes, ornate and golden and silver and beautiful with doors splayed open and bars bent, were tipped throughout the room. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound of silence. No more a menagerie would he enjoy; no collection would she ever be a part of, nor would she be a centerpiece surrounded by creatures inferior to her.

If that insufferable vampire wanted to keep her as his own, she would be second to absolutely none, and he would learn it. She was satisfied with the damage that she had done, especially that it had cost her not but a small fraction of power to do it. A wave of her hands and the birds had stopped singing, stopped playing, stopped breathing - they just stopped. She turned on a heel, ignoring the screaming house keeper as she ran into the room, shouting in French at the top of her lungs.

Amaltheia tossed her long, golden-brown tresses over her shoulder, lazily running her perfectly shaped nails through them. She paused at the door, dropping her sunglasses down onto the bridge of her nose. "Nettoyez," she snapped at the thirty-something blonde who cried over the mess. With a cruel snap of her fingers to ensure she had the woman's attention, Theia turned and walked out towards the large, crystalline pool.

She took up residence in a folding chair, stretching her bronze limbs out with a pleased sigh. Her bikini bottom was slung low on her hips, covering only enough of her bottom to be considered there at all, while the top was coiled neatly on the short table next to her, along with a fruit-flavoured cocktail that contained a dram or so of the Mojo Juice - just enough to keep her cheerful. She read through an old yellow-papered book that was bound with worked and worn leather and contained writing from a thick quill pen. It was in dated French, and detailed much of Loic's teen years. Had she obtained his permission to go through his things? Not at all. Did she care? Of course not.

He wasn't likely to tell her to go away, regardless of how much havoc she caused. He was a warlord, and power hungry, even in the modern age. He wouldn't turn down the chance to use her power, even if she was mostly immune to his sway. Mostly, of course, because despite doing as she pleased and making damn sure everyone knew she was the only woman he looked at, she still couldn't find it in herself to leave.

It was sick. It was even more sick what he'd done to Brennan in order to draw her in; or what she'd let him do. Once again, she remained the only dark Falcon in existence. She sipped her drink with a cold smile on her lips, the cheshire thing only growing twice its size when she heard the door slam as he announced his presence. The yelling did not begin right away, not until he saw what had become of his precious collection, and then she counted the seconds until he threw the doors open and came for her...

three..

two..

Amaltheia was quick enough to let go of her drink as he snatched her up by her wrist, not giving a damn whether she was clothed or not. He yanked her across the chair and into a standing position, still holding her arm so hard that he could have broken her bones had she let him. She could feel his anger rolling off of him in waves, and it made her smile. She interrupted his tirade (he was so mad he wasn't yelling, just speaking in a threatening manner, measured and icy) with a passionate kiss - and through that she gave him a little buzz of that still, seductive and cold power she had.

She may have been addicted to his call, but he was just as guilty.