Sera’s house. He hadn’t been by in over a year, truth be told. He hadn’t seen her in even longer, so the Hermetic expected the place to be a proverbial ghost town and, instead, found it to be a literal ghost town- much livelier than one would think to the point of being almost unsettling.
There were still pumpkins out on the front lawn, stacked up and carved with little faces and string lights hung with Edison bulbs decorated the front porch. They flickered and spooky sound effects played when they did as one would expect with your standard Halloween fare; the solo cups scattered in the yard were black and orange. There were two cats and three different permutations of Dr. Who sitting on the sofa at the curb.
Things existed here in their prime; the mind likes to build things in a state of how they were most memorable since most things are non-events in the realm of memory. Brushing your teeth in the morning, eating rice cakes, driving to work day after day without any incident whatsoever were all acts that did not warrant notice. The Corona Street house parties were always worthy of remembering, for the parts that he was chemically capable of remembering. Sometimes Serafine was at them, and sometimes she was not but the woman came with her own entourage, so it only stood to reason that if she were not there they would follow soon after. Like a pack instead of a band. Like a quiet religious order of their own following consciously or unconsciously the teachings Serafine lived her life by. Besides, he liked her friends. They were sort of also his friends; their relationships existed outside of her.
William smiled and trotted his way up the front steps. (Respite.) The house had that same smell that it usually does, but this time more punctuated by the ever-present clove and cinnamon scent that comes this time of year. Warm bodies in cheap costumes drinking whatever-the-fuck was there and each and every blessed one of them had their own sort of energy. You could feel it there more than any other place; Corona Street was more alive than any other place in this city if only because of the collective beating hearts sharing communion over gin.
("Remember that you're at the very beginning, and you have fuck-all of an idea of who's what and when and where. Caution, man. Especially now, when you're with your housemates, I think you need to have your wits about you at every step," was a warning and piece of advice Dan had issued to him before. With the potential of a very unpleasant Tribunal lurking on the horizon it seemed like a very solid piece of advice; there had never been an instance where William had not listened when Dan deigned to impart wisdom.)
“Hey, Dee!” he pressed himself against the back of a sofa where a few people were seated. Dee, with her milky white skin and tendency to blush from her bosom up, turned her attention in the direction of the voice.
“Elijah!” she brightened, “where have you been? We haven’t seen you at derby.”
“I’m lame,” he laughed, “packed up my cheerleading uniform and everything.”
“You are lame, there’s nobody who pulls off the flyaway skirt better than you.”
“You’re goddamned right there’s not- you seen Sera or Dan?”
“Oh! Yeah, we’re out of vodka and Sera wanted cupcakes sooo,” Dee laughed at that, a telltale blush creeping up her body.
“How can you want cupcakes when the whole place smells like bomb-assed frosting?” (Thanks NED.)
“That’s probably why, witch can’t eat the gingerbread house she lives in-”
“-hence the need to pop Hansel and Gretel in a microwave.”
“Exactly.”
“Gawd, Dee,” between laughs. This is what it was like at Sera’s; he was happy, “when did you get to be morbid?”
“Ever since you’ve been that way. I’m just following suit,” she winked and gave a little wiggle of her fingers. William excused himself and headed off to the kitchen.
It was the standard raiding of the goods presented. He grabbed a bottle of some unpronounceable local craft beer and took a drink. The flow of the party continued and there was the occasional question as to what he was for Halloween (”uh… I’m a fugitive?”) which garnered some laughter but mostly just the need to wave it off because people didn’t get it and didn’t want him to explain. They would rather get hammered or high or both and talk about whatever was going on. Neither mage nor mortal seemed to notice that there weren’t any stars or sun in the sky. Nobody but Neith seemed to have noticed, really. Oh, and the rest of the Order. So, the rather obvious astrological anomaly was off the table.
Which left the one thing they all had in common here: drinking. He wasn’t concerned about getting too drunk; the Hermetic could warp creation to his will. Sobering up and hangovers were, in fact, a thing of the past if he didn’t want to deal with them. One drink turned into two. Two turned to four. Beer went by drink three in favor of going for whatever the fuck was in the punch bowl by the fourth drink.
By the time he was finishing the fourth drink off, talking to a rather open-minded couple about how the harp is similar to the piano, a tall brunette was handing him his fifth drink. Her hand on his arm was what drew his attention; she had a bright red wig in her gloved hand. He had to take the drink if only to fill up space. “You look dehydrated.”
She was made of the stuff that young men had plastered to their ceilings so they could sleep at night. Red lipstick and red sequined dresses that were slit up to the hip were the most telling signs of a Jessica Rabbit costume. The other sign is the haphazardly pinned down natural hair that inevitably shows when the wearer realizes that red wigs are fucking unbearable.
“I’m actually fucking starving,” he said with a grin, but tipped his glass her way, “but I don’t refuse a drink. Blahblahblah calories bullshit don’t care I live on sugar anyway.”
“You are going to give yourself diabetes.”
“Really? How quickly can I get on that?” Why do you sound familiar?
“Drink up and find out. That punch bowl is basically glucose and everclear.”
“And lime sherbet. Don’t forget that part,” he grinned, playful.
The brunette laughed and went to pour herself a glass as well, looking awkwardly at her wig before handing it off to Will so she could manage the punch bowl. The couple he had been talking to excused themselves, but the male partner does give him a thumbs-up and mouthed something that seemed to be a congratulation in his direction. William just shook his head with that damned grin on his face that hadn’t been a constant fixture in ages. Were he content to face the idea that he was going to lay down and accept his fate, this would be a good way to remember his last days.
“So, I’m Elijah,” he offers.
“I know,” she replies.
“Oh ho, I’m legendary apparently.”
The brunette just laughed. Drink polished off, he offered her the cup and she started in on a refill. William felt warm, breathing in quickly but noticing that air didn’t have the right taste. Maybe he drank too much? It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling- the tendency towards floating and disconnect. He’d gone through five drinks in who knows how much time (what time was it? What day was it?) and he hadn’t had much to eat. Rookie mistakes for someone who was seasoned at this.
This was, however, a familiar feeling. He couldn’t shake the thought that he knew her, if not her then he knew her voice. He knew her textures even if William couldn’t place what palate she was painted on. The déjà vu wasn’t the concern, it was that feeling of disconnect, that feeling that comes when your body doesn’t want to respond to the commands you’re giving it and the feeling that you have control isn’t so much slipping as it is being wrenched away from you. His breathing was slower than it had any right to be; Will knew why it was hard to breathe. His knees started to give on him and the brunette reached to keep him on his feet.
She was much stronger than her body had any logical reason to be.
“My name is Blythe,” she reminded him. He didn’t remember anything after that.
There were still pumpkins out on the front lawn, stacked up and carved with little faces and string lights hung with Edison bulbs decorated the front porch. They flickered and spooky sound effects played when they did as one would expect with your standard Halloween fare; the solo cups scattered in the yard were black and orange. There were two cats and three different permutations of Dr. Who sitting on the sofa at the curb.
Things existed here in their prime; the mind likes to build things in a state of how they were most memorable since most things are non-events in the realm of memory. Brushing your teeth in the morning, eating rice cakes, driving to work day after day without any incident whatsoever were all acts that did not warrant notice. The Corona Street house parties were always worthy of remembering, for the parts that he was chemically capable of remembering. Sometimes Serafine was at them, and sometimes she was not but the woman came with her own entourage, so it only stood to reason that if she were not there they would follow soon after. Like a pack instead of a band. Like a quiet religious order of their own following consciously or unconsciously the teachings Serafine lived her life by. Besides, he liked her friends. They were sort of also his friends; their relationships existed outside of her.
William smiled and trotted his way up the front steps. (Respite.) The house had that same smell that it usually does, but this time more punctuated by the ever-present clove and cinnamon scent that comes this time of year. Warm bodies in cheap costumes drinking whatever-the-fuck was there and each and every blessed one of them had their own sort of energy. You could feel it there more than any other place; Corona Street was more alive than any other place in this city if only because of the collective beating hearts sharing communion over gin.
("Remember that you're at the very beginning, and you have fuck-all of an idea of who's what and when and where. Caution, man. Especially now, when you're with your housemates, I think you need to have your wits about you at every step," was a warning and piece of advice Dan had issued to him before. With the potential of a very unpleasant Tribunal lurking on the horizon it seemed like a very solid piece of advice; there had never been an instance where William had not listened when Dan deigned to impart wisdom.)
“Hey, Dee!” he pressed himself against the back of a sofa where a few people were seated. Dee, with her milky white skin and tendency to blush from her bosom up, turned her attention in the direction of the voice.
“Elijah!” she brightened, “where have you been? We haven’t seen you at derby.”
“I’m lame,” he laughed, “packed up my cheerleading uniform and everything.”
“You are lame, there’s nobody who pulls off the flyaway skirt better than you.”
“You’re goddamned right there’s not- you seen Sera or Dan?”
“Oh! Yeah, we’re out of vodka and Sera wanted cupcakes sooo,” Dee laughed at that, a telltale blush creeping up her body.
“How can you want cupcakes when the whole place smells like bomb-assed frosting?” (Thanks NED.)
“That’s probably why, witch can’t eat the gingerbread house she lives in-”
“-hence the need to pop Hansel and Gretel in a microwave.”
“Exactly.”
“Gawd, Dee,” between laughs. This is what it was like at Sera’s; he was happy, “when did you get to be morbid?”
“Ever since you’ve been that way. I’m just following suit,” she winked and gave a little wiggle of her fingers. William excused himself and headed off to the kitchen.
It was the standard raiding of the goods presented. He grabbed a bottle of some unpronounceable local craft beer and took a drink. The flow of the party continued and there was the occasional question as to what he was for Halloween (”uh… I’m a fugitive?”) which garnered some laughter but mostly just the need to wave it off because people didn’t get it and didn’t want him to explain. They would rather get hammered or high or both and talk about whatever was going on. Neither mage nor mortal seemed to notice that there weren’t any stars or sun in the sky. Nobody but Neith seemed to have noticed, really. Oh, and the rest of the Order. So, the rather obvious astrological anomaly was off the table.
Which left the one thing they all had in common here: drinking. He wasn’t concerned about getting too drunk; the Hermetic could warp creation to his will. Sobering up and hangovers were, in fact, a thing of the past if he didn’t want to deal with them. One drink turned into two. Two turned to four. Beer went by drink three in favor of going for whatever the fuck was in the punch bowl by the fourth drink.
By the time he was finishing the fourth drink off, talking to a rather open-minded couple about how the harp is similar to the piano, a tall brunette was handing him his fifth drink. Her hand on his arm was what drew his attention; she had a bright red wig in her gloved hand. He had to take the drink if only to fill up space. “You look dehydrated.”
She was made of the stuff that young men had plastered to their ceilings so they could sleep at night. Red lipstick and red sequined dresses that were slit up to the hip were the most telling signs of a Jessica Rabbit costume. The other sign is the haphazardly pinned down natural hair that inevitably shows when the wearer realizes that red wigs are fucking unbearable.
“I’m actually fucking starving,” he said with a grin, but tipped his glass her way, “but I don’t refuse a drink. Blahblahblah calories bullshit don’t care I live on sugar anyway.”
“You are going to give yourself diabetes.”
“Really? How quickly can I get on that?” Why do you sound familiar?
“Drink up and find out. That punch bowl is basically glucose and everclear.”
“And lime sherbet. Don’t forget that part,” he grinned, playful.
The brunette laughed and went to pour herself a glass as well, looking awkwardly at her wig before handing it off to Will so she could manage the punch bowl. The couple he had been talking to excused themselves, but the male partner does give him a thumbs-up and mouthed something that seemed to be a congratulation in his direction. William just shook his head with that damned grin on his face that hadn’t been a constant fixture in ages. Were he content to face the idea that he was going to lay down and accept his fate, this would be a good way to remember his last days.
“So, I’m Elijah,” he offers.
“I know,” she replies.
“Oh ho, I’m legendary apparently.”
The brunette just laughed. Drink polished off, he offered her the cup and she started in on a refill. William felt warm, breathing in quickly but noticing that air didn’t have the right taste. Maybe he drank too much? It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling- the tendency towards floating and disconnect. He’d gone through five drinks in who knows how much time (what time was it? What day was it?) and he hadn’t had much to eat. Rookie mistakes for someone who was seasoned at this.
This was, however, a familiar feeling. He couldn’t shake the thought that he knew her, if not her then he knew her voice. He knew her textures even if William couldn’t place what palate she was painted on. The déjà vu wasn’t the concern, it was that feeling of disconnect, that feeling that comes when your body doesn’t want to respond to the commands you’re giving it and the feeling that you have control isn’t so much slipping as it is being wrenched away from you. His breathing was slower than it had any right to be; Will knew why it was hard to breathe. His knees started to give on him and the brunette reached to keep him on his feet.
She was much stronger than her body had any logical reason to be.
“My name is Blythe,” she reminded him. He didn’t remember anything after that.