Lethe

Apox: The Reanimation Virus

“Breaking news. Ladies and gentlemen, this will be our last broadcast from NBZ’s New York studio as the viral outbreak has reached epidemic status in New York City. Albert Hoffman of the Center for Disease Control announced over official airwaves this morning that the virus that causes the reanimation of human corpses still has no known cure, and has now reached epidemic status in North America proper. The U.S. Center for Disease Control and other medical headquarters and official agencies around the world have been working tirelessly to find a cure and attempt to contain the virus that some are calling the Apox, after the mythical apocalypse. President Everhardt has ordered an evacuation of major metropolitan areas down the East Coast of the United States in response to the rapidly growing numbers of the undead, and urges immediate quarantine of any infected or suspected infected individuals pending the finding of a cure. Martial law has been declared for New York City, Baltimore, D.C., Atlanta, and New Orleans, with more cities being added to the list by the minute.. If you should have any information on the Apox virus or notice evidence of mutations or further spread, please contact the CDC headquarters at the number on your screen. Ladies and gentlemen, this will be our final broadcast until further notice, as we at NBZ are evacuating the studio immediately in compliance with the President’s orders. Be safe out there. This is Sydney Everett, signing off. Good night, New York City.”

Sydney maintained her stoic stare into the camera until the camera man gave her the cue, then immediately stood, pulling out her earbud and microphone. “Dave! I’m out!” she yelled, stooping to pick up her gym bag. She had arrived at the studio that morning with her bag packed to hit the road, as soon as the broadcast was over. She wasn’t looking forward to the drive out of New York City. The Brooklyn Bridge was sure to be backed up for miles. But anything beat getting ripped apart by whatever these… things… were that the virus had brought back to life. She had only heard and reported on the stories... until this morning. On her way to work, she had seen what looked like a drunk stumbling across her apartment parking lot… but as she had driven closer he had charged her vehicle, throwing himself bodily into the passenger’s side door hard enough to leave a dent. Sydney had screamed, swerving and nearly hitting a neighbor’s BMW before correcting her trajectory. The man had ricocheted off her front bumper, leaving a smear of blood from window to headlight, and she had slammed on the breaks, intending to get out and go check on him. But when he began to lift himself back off the pavement and come staggering after her car again… with one arm ripped off and dangling from a few strands of muscle, and no fresh blood spurting from such a grievous wound, Sydney had screamed again and gunned it out of the parking lot, recognizing immediately what it was that pursued her. She had tried to fumble for her cell phone to call 911 about the incident, but the line came up busy, and Sydney had told an aide to take care of it as soon as she’d made it into the studio.

Despite her perfect highlighted hair and tailored pantsuit, Sydney had not always been a high-living city girl. Though she had moved to New York City as soon as she could get out of her high school graduation ceremony, Sydney had spent the first eighteen miserable years of her life growing up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia. Her name had been Louellen McKay then, and she’d attended Pendleton County Middle/High School for seven long years before finally escaping those walls and the stifling small-town life that had threatened to grind her grandiose dreams and ambitions to a halt. “I don’t see what you need in a big city like New York, Lou,” Daddy had said, leaning against her old beater as she had thrown her bags in back. “Ain’t nothin’ in the city but crime and illegals and liberals trying to take your guns so y’can’t defend yerself against neither.”

Sydney had sighed loudly, tired of the same argument she’d endured nearly every day of the last two years, ever since applying and being accepted for early admission to Berkeley. At least she could thank her father, Everett McKay, for one thing: her status as a first-generation college-student from Pendleton County had won her a prestigious scholarship to the journalism program. Nobody in the McKay family had ever so much as set foot on a college campus, and they were proud of it. Strong West Virginian down-home mountain stock, Lou and her brothers had been raised with a rifle in their hands, a pledge every morning, and football after church every Sunday. After Mama died in ‘99, when Louellen was only 12, Daddy had only grown more staunch in his conservative tradition, and as she packed to leave, Louellen had known it was pointless to argue with him. So she had shut the car door and turned to say a cold goodbye.

It had been the last time she’d seen her father and two brothers, and though she’d tried to call every Christmas and birthday, eventually her contact with home had petered out. If she was honest, she had wanted to forget that she’d come from such a backwoods background, and as she’d clawed her way to success on a moderately popular television news channel, she had found it easier and easier to forget. She’d changed her name legally shortly after graduating with her masters in journalism from Berkeley, on the advice of a socioeconomics professor who had encouraged her to foster an image that appealed to the typical liberal New Yorker if she wanted to achieve high ratings in broadcast journalism. She’d taken the name Sydney after the capital of Australia, a place she had dreamt of visiting someday when she had “made it” in her career field. She had finally visited it last year, in fact, with her now-ex-boyfriend, and while the relationship had run its course, the vacation had been everything she had dreamed. As for Everett… she had chosen her father’s name as a surname as a way of consoling her own guilty conscience. This way if it ever came up, she could explain her reasoning to Daddy, and maybe he wouldn’t be so mad after all that she’d given up the “proud McKay family name.” Of course, it never had come up… and now it had been at least three years since she’d last spoke to anyone from home. For all they knew, she was still Louellen McKay. And soon, she supposed, she would be again. If there was anything left to go home to. Silently, Sydney prayed that the virus hadn’t made it up into the West Virginia Mountains yet.

Sydney hefted the gym bag and pulled her pistol from her purse, checking the clip and making sure the safety was still on. While Daddy had been right about the gun control sentiments in the city, Sydney had been raised knowing how to shoot, and as a single woman in the city she’d always felt better with a gun in her bag. She had a permit, of course, and had passed the requisite background checks. And while her permit did not include concealed carry, she had a feeling that was the least of the New York police department’s current concerns at the moment. She started for the studio’s back door at a hasty clip.

“Sydney, wait! You can’t just walk out of here!” Dave Harris, the studio producer came puffing after her, his ruddy sweating face betraying the professional cut of his business suit.

“Sure I can, Dave,” Sydney replied coolly. “You heard the bulletin. They’re ordering for evacuation. That means us, too.”

Dave blustered for a moment, trailing after her as Sydney turned and continued toward the heavy studio door and the back lot. “How the hell are you gonna make it on your own out there? Those zombie-things are all over the place out there! Abel just got attacked an hour ago by a group of them. They tore him apart, Sydney, we watched it happen!”

Sydney winced at the mention of the kind old janitor’s demise, wheeling on Dave. The salt-and-pepper studio producer had built a reputation for doing one thing very well: looking out for his own interests. At one point, that had seemed to include a sexual relationship with Sydney, which he had pursued relentlessly despite her disinterest, even making the mistake of harassing her in texts and emails, threatening to make sure she lost her job at the studio if she didn’t return his “kindness” with a little of her own. Sydney, relentlessly ambitious, had not been about to allow some thick-headed poser in a nice suit get between her and her dreams, and she had shrewdly confronted him with evidence of what could become a rather damaging HR-issue if he did not back off and take no for an answer. Used to getting whatever he wanted from more fawning wannabe-reporters who saw an opportunity to hit the fast-track, Dave Harris had been taken aback at Sydney’s boldness and, feigning a grudging respect for her, had agreed to leave off his threats. She’d been promoted to anchor within a year after that confrontation, and while she felt a little dirty that it had taken what amounted to blackmail to get the position of her dreams, at least-- she consoled herself-- she hadn’t had to sleep her way to the top.

“You watched it?! You just watched him get eaten up? Dave, what the hell! I knew you were a selfish prick, but I didn’t think you’d let a guy get killed just because you couldn’t be bothered to open a damn door!”

“They’re all over the place, out there, Sydney. You would’ve done the smart thing, too! And if you don’t stick in here with us, you’re gonna end up just like him. Not like a little lady like you can really defend herself against those things.”

“Oh no, Dave?” Sydney raised the Smith & Wesson Shield 9mm, and smiled in satisfaction as her boss’ eyes went wide at the sight of the gun. “Won best female marksman junior and senior year in the American Legion Junior Shooting Club. I’ve taken down a wild boar at 50 yards. I’ve also been trained in gun safety and shooting since I was six. Now what was it, exactly, that you were so worried about?”

Dave glanced worriedly at the gun, and Sydney rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to shoot you, Dave. And really, I appreciate your concern for my well-being. But really, I’ll be fine. And it looks like you have more to worry about. So why don’t you go do that, since it’s always been what you’re best at.” Dave gaped at her, clearly searching for a response, but none came, and when someone else frantically called his name, he jumped at the opportunity to go be important somewhere else. Sydney watched him go in disgust, then turned and continued toward the stairs to the back lot.

“Sydney! Wait!” Hearing her name, Sydney turned.

Portrait of an Unknown Woman

I am actually getting my masters in teaching currently and I’m an English major so guilty as charged. Thanks for the kind words!:)

Portrait of an Unknown Woman

Charlotte Eleanor Gillett

Age: 21
Born: In London
Currently: At Campbell Greene in Basingstoke, England

Alexander Molinari- DECEASED
Former Lord of Campbell Greene, Charlotte's former client.

Portrait of an Unknown Woman

The muted sunlight slanted through the dingy window of the London boardinghouse, illuminating the soft curls and fair complexion of the young woman who sat in the chair. She held a sheet of music, and had wrapped herself in a red silk shawl, which contrasted with her simple white dress and brought a blush to her cheeks. He bosom rose and fell slightly as she relaxed, looking with an almost amused expression at the much older gentleman a few feet away, who was studying her, paintbrush in hand. “Honestly, Alexander, I don’t know why you couldn’t allow me to fix my hair before you painted me,” she insisted lightly. “It’s always so messy after our trysts.”

He chuckled, raising brush to canvas. “Nonsense, my dear ladybird. It looks charming, as always.”

“If you insist,” she sighed. “Not as if anyone but you will ever see it anyway. So long as you’re happy with it, I suppose…”

“Nonsense. This will be my masterpiece!” Alexander insisted, smiling.

The young woman laughed, her curls bouncing prettily along her neck. “And pray tell, what would you title such a masterpiece? ‘Portrait of a Doxy?’”

Alexander’s white brows knit in distaste at the term. “Faith, no! I would call you no such thing. For all your skill in your trade, my dear, you know I have never looked at you as a common light-skirt. Come now.” He fixed the young lady with a disapproving stare over his spectacles and she blushed.

“Well, yes, my lord, I know. But you must admit you do have a tendency to spoil me with praises higher than I deserve.”
Alexander snorted, turning back to his painting. “Cyprian or no, Charlotte, there is no praise beyond your deserving. Now pray turn your chin a little to the left… yes. Just so.”

***

The light had long faded from the window when Charlotte finally climbed from the mattress. Sweat now shone from her pale forehead and shoulders, and her curls stuck to her neck and cheeks. As she crossed the room to pour Alexander his glass of sherry, he moaned happily from the bed. “I declare, Charlotte, I am growing too old to enjoy your charms much longer. You do take so much out of me every visit.”

Charlotte giggled, reapproaching the bed and holding out his glass, then climbing back in beside him. “You can hardly blame me, m’lord, when you insist on doing so much of the work yourself. Very singular for a man of your station, so I’ve heard.”

Alexander sipped his sherry, his frail hand shaking with the exertion. “Not at all, my dear! Why, it is a mark of a gentleman to ensure his lady’s pleasure! And I, my dear, am a nabob of the highest order. I stake my reputation on your enjoyment!”

“Do you?” Charlotte said, laughing, and taking a small sip from his glass.

“I do,” Alexander replied, with mock pride.

Charlotte laid her head on his chest, sighing contentedly. The life of a prostitute in London’s east end was by no means glamorous, but Alexander’s visits had brought a peculiar, insular joy to her days that she had not experienced in her previous 20 years of life. None of the girls working the rooms of the boarding house had chosen the trade they had ended up in, certainly, but Charlotte herself had struggled particularly with resigning herself to it in order to pay off her mother’s debts when she had died. It had been years of dark nights entertaining drunken sailors and priggish dandies for a few coins.

Then Alexander had found her, and in exchange for an exclusive arrangement, had provided her with not only the cost of room and board in the boardinghouse, but little gifts and trinkets, regular meals, new dresses and bonnets, and extra spending money to entertain herself on occasion (though Charlotte usually slipped it into the hands of the other girls, which earned her a fond chiding and a kiss from her benefactor for being such a “soft touch”). All the money and gifts and new dresses paled, however, in comparison to the music and laughter and art Alexander had brought to her life. He had taken her to the theater and museums, taught her about painting and drawing, even bought her a little clavichord to keep in her room to practice, though she knew not the slightest thing about how to read music or play. “You’ll learn,” he had insisted, and true to his word, sat with her many afternoons, teaching her the position of the notes and how to read them. She could play a little now, though slowly and with plentiful mistakes. But he never stopped encouraging her. Alexander had made his fortune through his share of a trading company in the Indies. Like so many second sons, he might have gone into the British navy, had he not suffered an injury from a fall when he was young that left him with only one leg. Instead, he had cultivated a love for the arts, and when his older brother had died unexpectedly, he had inherited the family lands in Basingstoke. Not having been accustomed to living the life of a landed gentleman, Alexander had maintained his life of indulgence, not only in fine art, but in fine women, as well. Charlotte had asked him once why he had not married, and he had laughed, brushing off the question. “I haven’t the temperament for marriage, my dear,” he had told her. Nevertheless, he had repeatedly offered, in their quieter moments together, to remove her from this “wretched London hovel” and put her up in a pretty little house in Bath or Reading, nearer to him. But Charlotte, mindful of the scandal it would cause him, had refused the offer, insisting she could never leave her friends here at the boardinghouse. Alexander might not be the most traditional of gentlemen, but she would not allow him to throw away his reputation consorting openly with a whore in his own town. And no matter what endearments he might call her, “ladybird” or “cyprian,” she knew she was no better than a common whore, and that is precisely what others saw when they looked at her. And if he appeared in public with her, where he was known, they would see worse when they looked at him.

Charlotte studied her portrait where it leaned against the wall across the room. In the light of the lamp, the colors were dim, but she could see the creamy color of her arm against the red silk. He really did see something in her, she realized. Something nobody else ever had. Something special and beautiful.

Alexander was nearly three times her age, of course. She had no youthful illusions about love or anything so romantic. Rather, they had a mutual fondness and affection, almost like that between and old uncle and his favorite niece, with the exception, of course, of the business arrangement. But Charlotte had long ago ceased connecting sex with anything but a monetary exchange. She had never even considered it could be a pleasurable exercise until Alexander came along, and now she no longer bore it with gritted teeth, but occasionally even enjoyed it.

Charlotte’s thoughts were interrupted as Alexander’s body convulsed in a fit of coughing. She sat up, worry knotting her forehead as she watched him cough mightily. “That cough is getting worse, m’lord,” she said quietly, but Alexander waved a hand dismissively. “It’s merely the weather. My lungs detest this London smog, especially in the cold.”

Charlotte rose and took her new red silk shawl from the chair. “Well then, let us keep them warm,” she said, smiling, and tucked them both under the luxurious shawl.

***

“Charlotte!” Hetty’s voice at the door startled Charlotte, who had been struggling to piece together a poem by Byron in the new book Alexander had left for her on his last visit. She rose to answer, dressed in only her shift, her dark blonde hair tumbling loose to her waist. “Letter come for you, Charlotte,” the younger girl said, holding up a letter sealed with a pair of initials: J.W. Charlotte studied the letter in confusion as Hetty let herself in and perched on the edge of the bed. “Looks important. Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied absently. “I don’t know anyone with those initials.”

“It isn’t from Master Alexander then?” Hetty asked, her eagerness readily apparent.

Charlotte shook her head, opening the letter. She scanned the neat writing quickly, her hand suddenly flying to her mouth.

“What’s wrong, Charlotte?” Hetty asked solicitously.

Charlotte could not speak for the tears that choked her. Finally she lowered her hand, and sat weakly in her chair. “He’s dead,” she replied.

***

It was a full day before Charlotte could bring herself to answer the summons in the letter. She spent much of it in her bed in her dark room, quietly refusing the soup Hetty brought. The precocious girl nonetheless stayed by her side, sleeping in the chair and checking on Charlotte throughout the night. She had sobbed at first, but soon her sobs had given way to a silent staring at the wall. Charlotte knew she was selfish to think it, but after the initial shock of Alexander’s death had passed (he was in his sixties after all, and had been of poor health much of his life), she could not help the path her thoughts took toward the future. How bleak it would be without Alexander’s visits and patronage, without his gentle humor and careful tutelage. He had opened Charlotte’s eyes to a world of art and music, a world no mere prostitute was entitled to. And now to face that door closing after she had glimpsed the riches behind it… it was nearly more painful than the idea of having to entertain the drunks and dandies again. Charlotte loathed herself for the selfishness of her thoughts, but she could not help them, and as night drew to a close, so too-- she imagined-- did the best years of her young life.

As the sun rose, she willed herself to finally rise as well from her stupor. The future, bleak though it may now be, would not wait, and she had been summoned by Alexander’s lawyer to see to some of his deceased employer’s affairs. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what a lawyer could want with her, and she imagined that Alexander, the kind soul that he was, had probably left her a small gift, perhaps to pay out the rest of the year per their contract. She needed the money, or would soon, and crying in her bed would not pay her bills, so she willed herself out of bed and stood, surveying the room. Hetty was curled in the chair, finally sleeping, and Charlotte smiled at the girl’s loyalty. Pulling a quilt from the bed, she tucked it around the sleeping girl and set about dressing herself against the chill of the London winter.
It wasn’t easy to find a cab so early in the day, and Charlotte had to slog through the wet streets for several blocks before one stopped. The hems of her skirts were soaked through, and she was already shivering as she climbed in and gave the driver the address of the lawyer’s London office on Mayfair Street.

As he drove, she read the letter again:

Dear Ms. Gillett,

I regret to inform you of the passing of my employer and your acquaintance, Lord Alexander Molinari on Tuesday past at his home at the Molinari estate in Basingstoke. I send my condolences for your loss, and respectfully request your personage at the given address within the next fortnight in order to address some matters of business his lordship left pertaining to your situation.

Respectfully yours,

James Wharton, Esquire

Self-consciously, Charlotte adjusted her clothes. Alexander had been fastidious about her appearance, ensuring her clothes were as nice as she’d allow him to buy for her, so she certainly didn’t look the part of her station. Nevertheless, she wondered if this Mister Wharton would suspect it. She told herself it was foolish to think such things, but she was painfully aware once more of how others, anyone besides Alexander, would see her, and she fought a sob that threatened to ruin her careful composure. She missed him already. Indeed he was one of the few friends she had ever had, and the only man to ever see her as something besides a commodity.

The offices of Wharton and Smythe were neatly tucked away in a quiet business district in Westminster, and rather than waste the precious money holding the coach, Charlotte paid the driver and resolved to walk the mile or so to the busier area of town when she had finished whatever business Mister Wharton required of her. She walked into the little shop and was gratified to find a crackling fire to meet her. A man in his thirties looked up from a ledger as she walked in and smiled pleasantly.

“Mister Wharton?” Charlotte inquired and he nodded.

“Miss Gillett, may I presume?” he replied, rising from his desk respectfully.

Charlotte silently muttered a prayer of thanks to Alexander, wherever he was now, that her appearance was at least respectable enough not to raise the lawyer’s suspicions. “I received your letter yesterday. I hope you’ll pardon my delay. I was… shocked to receive the news…”
Charlotte’s voice broke slightly, and she renewed her determination not to cry here in front of this stranger.

“Not at all, Miss Gillett, I assure you. I was quite as shocked as you, I’m sure. Lord Molinari was getting on in age but he was of such hardy character, I never thought he might perish. It is a great loss. And I am sure as his relative it was of special hardship for you.”
His relative? So that’s what he told this man, Charlotte realized. Now she was certain this would be nothing more than a quick transaction, in order to resolve the rest of the contract, most likely. She nodded, feeling a little guilty to be playing along with the falsehood, but preferring it to the truth. And if it was Alexander’s wish, after all, she could only respect it.

“I assure you, I won’t keep you long, Miss Gillett. I simply have some papers here to review with you, and then we can settle the inheritance and get you home to your fire.”

Charlotte stopped cold, her heart skipping a beat. “I’m sorry, Mister Wharton, I must have misheard you. Did you say ‘inheritance’?”
“Yes, miss. Specifically the Molinari house and lands, and the yearly allowance left to you by your cousin.”

“A-allowance…?”

The lawyer paused, studying her expression. “I take it you were not expecting this upon Lord Molinari’s death?” he asked.

Unable to quite stomach the fullness of this realization, Charlotte merely shook her head. Mister Wharton smiled gently and offered his hand, guiding Charlotte to a seat by the fire, as if he could detect the fact that she was quite close to fainting. “Well then… allow me to explain further. May I get you some tea?”

Two hours later, a still numb Charlotte had realized that the man who had been her exclusive client for two years had now left her a small estate in Basingstoke, an interest of 200 pounds per year off the shares of the late Lord Molinari’s business ventures in the Indies, and several other investments besides. She had managed, thus far, to retain her composure in a sort of numb shock, but when Mister Wharton added that Alexander had left her his box seats at the Royal London Opera, she finally dissolved into tears. Only a few hours ago she had struggled to face the prospect of a future without any more art or music or poetry, and here Alexander had provided for all of that and more, for the rest of her life. For his part, Mister Wharton weathered the fit of tears admirably, offering his handkerchief and sitting quietly with Charlotte until she could calm herself. She apologized profusely, but he excused her “grief,” as understandable, given the circumstances, and admirable besides, that she had been so fond of her cousin. “I can understand why he left you the property, with such a tender relationship.” Charlotte barely managed to swallow the laugh that threatened to burst from her at the unintended irony of that statement.

Within another hour, Mister Wharton had gotten her signature on all required documents and made arrangements for Lord Molinari’s funeral as well, since as he only surviving next of kin, Charlotte was the sole person who could sign off on the arrangements. As she rose to leave, she thanked Mister Wharton profusely. “It’s my pleasure, I assure you, Miss Gillett. I am happy to see that my old friend’s heir is every bit as deserving of his generosity as he believed. I will be in touch with the rest of the arrangements. May I walk you to your coach? On a day such as this, my wife would never forgive me if I allowed a lady to fall on the icy streets.”

Charlotte started. “I-- haven’t got a coach. That is… I thought I’d walk to the square rather than hold it.” Mr. Wharton looked aghast. “Faith, no, Miss Gillett, please! Allow me to accompany you to the inn across the way and hire one from them. You’re a rich woman now, Miss Gillett! You shouldn’t be walking in this weather.”

Bewildered, Charlotte assented, and soon she was being handed into a coach by a solicitous Mister Wharton, and trotted back home to the “wretched London hovel.” Hetty met her at the door, looking concerned, and Charlotte answered her anxious “What news?” with an exuberant hug.

***

A week later, the carriage driver that arrived at the inn in Windsor to pick her up where the cabby from London had left her seemed surprised to find that his new mistress had only a few belongings to her name, but he dutifully loaded up the chair, the two bags, and the clavichord before handing her into the carriage. “Are we meeting Mister Wharton at the estate?” she asked him nervously, and he answered with a terse “Yes, ma’am,” before closing the door to the carriage and mounting his post. Charlotte tried to doze for most of the trip, but she found herself anxious, afraid that she would wake and find all of this to be a dream, and instead of an estate and opera tickets before her, only a rutting man with the scent of liquor on his breath. Eventually, though, she must have dozed, because the carriage door opening awoke her, and she hastily sat up, blushing, as the carriage driver offered to hand her down. She thanked him, then turned as a woman’s voice said her name. A young woman, only a few years older than Charlotte herself, stood at the edge of the drive, wearing the uniform of a house maid. “Miss Gillett?” she repeated. “Yes… I am Miss Gillett,” Charlotte replied, self-conscious. The maid smiled. “I’m Lavinia, your new housekeeper. Mister Wharton told me you’d be coming when he hired me. Welcome to Campbell Greene.”

For the first time, Charlotte became aware of the immensity of the manor house behind the girl. It was easily three times the size of the London boardinghouse, with four chimneys, countless windows, and rolling hills that stretched away behind it to the edge of the woods a mile away. Charlotte forgot herself and stood, agape. “Mister Finch has yer bags, miss, if you’d like to follow me? I’ll show you the house.” Shaking herself, Charlotte simply nodded and followed Lavinia, dutifully.

The tour was long, appropriately for the immensity for the house, and the more rooms Lavinia showed her, the more Charlotte felt she could envision Alexander living here in these halls, playing his harpsichord in the parlor, painting in the sun room. The entire house had the feel of his taste and moods: stately and artistic but not overly fancy. He was a confirmed old bachelor, and he had not thought it proper to waste money on finery that was of no use to him.

“And here’s the library, miss,” Lavinia said, opening a set of oak double doors for Charlotte to pass into the room. As Charlotte entered the room, her attention was captured by her likeness, wrapped in a scarlet silk shawl, holding a sheet of music, gazing at her from over the mantle. “Oh! Look, I knew I recognized yer face, miss! I’m told Mr. Molinari painted that himself. Never told anyone who it was though. Just a portrait of a friend.”

Tears sprung to Charlotte’s eyes once more as the enormity of this final gift settled upon her. This final gesture, Alexander’s portrait of her, had legitimized her claim to this house and all the fortune it entailed. This was all hers now. And as he had insisted, she was no longer a common whore. Now she finally was the woman in the portrait, the woman he had seen when he looked at her. He had always been true to his word.

Portrait of an Unknown Woman

Accidentally posted the first story post here and now it won't let me delete. Oops!

Interest Check with a Twist (18+)

Edited: New York/West Virginian reporter in the zombie apocalypse taken.

Interest Check with a Twist (18+)

Edited: the half-demon girl and hunter idea is currently taken.

The Scent of Prey

Lunari couldn’t remember anything from before the Temple of the Moon had been her home, the smooth sandstone walls a haven from the cold mountain wind outside. She didn’t remember the face of the woman who had presumably left her in a bundle of blankets on the temple steps as a baby. She remembered only the melodic voice and gentle hands of Diana, the High Priestess, braiding her long black hair and singing her to sleep with hymns to the goddess.

Of course, none of that implied that the Temple of the Moon was a happy place to grow up for a young orphan.She always seemed to be getting into trouble, whether being reported by the other sisters of the temple who disliked her quiet, sullen manner (“Inappropriate for such a young child,” they insisted.) or fighting with the other young women whose rich families sent their daughters to the temple to be educated in the old ways. To these girls, Lunari was nothing but a bastard, and should be treated as a servant at best. Lunari chafed under their mockery and abuse, and try as she might, she could never quite master the “humility of spirit that brings serenity,” no matter how Mother Diana admonished her in her quiet but stern manner. In fact, nobody in the Temple of the Moon seemed to like or trust Lunari, save Mother Diana, whose infrequent attention was the closest to a mother’s love Lunari had ever known.

And now, as she was blossoming into a pretty young woman, the torments of the other girls were worse than ever, driven-- though Lunari didn’t know it-- by the jealousy of plump, pale, strong-jawed young ladies who envied Lunari her dark skin and eyes, her long shining tresses and delicate features. Meanwhile, Mother Diana was scarcer than ever, occupied with the matters of the Temple and the nearby village whose crop shortage after the dry season had left the villagers ravaged with disease. Lunari saw little of Mother Diana anymore, and, not wanting to be a bother, tried to keep to herself and do her chores in the kitchen while the other girls went about their lessons. Nevertheless, despite her efforts, one or two of the rich young ladies were relentless in their sport, and on this particular afternoon, Lunari found herself at last face to face with the High Priestess, after having bloodied the nose of a young woman who had been trying to trip her in the corridors.

Mother Diana looked wan this cold evening, and older than Lunari remembered her looking the last time she had had a moment to visit with her (that time she had left scratches on the cheek of a particularly pig-nosed blonde girl named Polly, who had cried for a sister’s aid, pretending she had not been throwing stones at Lunari as she worked in the garden). Mother Diana assessed Lunari periodically between perusing the parchment note Sister Abigail had sent with Lunari to the High Priestess’ quarters. Lunari began to fidget as the quiet stretched longer. Surely, Mother Diana must have finished reading the note by now? How much had Sister Abigail written?
Finally, Mother Diana sighed, removing her spectacles. Lunari was shocked at the dark bags under her caretaker’s eyes. Mother Diana did not look well. Caring for the ill must have been taking quite a toll on her.
“Lunari, this is the third time this month you’ve been sent to me for fighting with the other girls,” Mother Diana said quietly. Lunari looked down at her fingers, twisted in the folds of her simple white robes, the same that all the girls wore who had not yet pledged themselves yet to the service of the Moon Goddess.

“Yes, Mother Diana.”

“You have been here with us for seventeen summers now, yet you seem to have made no progress in learning to live peacefully within these walls.”

Lunari winced at this comment. “But Mother, the other girls do not--”

“The other girls were not raised here in the blessing of the moon’s rays. You were, Lunari.”

“...yes, Mother Diana.”

Lunari studied her fingernails intently, painfully aware of the gaze of the High Priestess on her face. She knew she should keep calm and serene even in the face of the abuse of the other girls. But something within her would not allow her. When they made fun of her, laughing behind their sleeves and calling her names when the sisters were out of sight, Lunari could not help herself. She saw red, her temper flared, and she could no more control it than she could the path of the Moon Goddess herself. She had long since given up trying to explain this to the High Priestess or any of the Sisters of the Moon. It was a hopeless endeavor.

Mother Diana sighed again, and Lunari glanced up, surprised to find a look of surrender on her caretaker’s face, where she had expected only exasperation. “I suppose there is only so much one can do to change one’s nature,” Mother Diana said. Lunari frowned.
“What do you mean, Mother?”

In response, Diana stood and circled the desk, taking Lunari’s thick braid in her gentle hands and sweeping it to the side. Her cool fingers fished the chain around Lunari’s neck out from it’s place nestled beneath her robe and between her breasts. On the chain hung a small charm, which Lunari understood to be the sole belonging her mother had left her when she had abandoned her on the temple steps.”I had hoped to wait a few more days until your birthday to tell you this, but… I suppose it won’t wait.” Mother Diana seemed almost to be talking to herself, and Lunari twisted to study the older woman’s face. It was guarded, and Lunari felt her stomach knot in anxiety.

“Mother?” she replied, questioningly.

“Come, child. It’s time I showed you the truth.” Mother Diana guided Lunari to stand before the full-length mirror, and she stood looking with concern at The High Priestess. The older woman unclasped the chain around her neck, speaking softly in her ear as she did. “I hope you understand I kept this from you all these years for your own good. I was warned that there was no use in trying, that you could not grow beyond your nature, but the Goddess teaches us that all being deserve a chance to find peace, and you were so young.” Lunari raised a hand and clasped the necklace to her throat, turning to look into Mother Diana’s eyes.

“What are you saying, Mother?”

The High Priestess’ eyes dropped to the charm, and she gently took it from Lunari’s fingers. “This was not a gift from your mother, child. I bought it off a traveling peddler. She was gifted with magic, of the glamour variety. Popular with the local rich families. She’s often called on when a child is born with a club foot or a crooked nose. Still… she said this was the biggest challenge she’d ever had. There was a lot… to hide.”

Lunari stared at her benefactress now, frightened. Mother Diana turned her back toward the mirror, slipping the chain off of her warm skin. As if looking at a ripple in a pond, Lunari’s image in the glass seemed to shimmer for a moment, and suddenly… Lunari screamed as a demonic face stared back at her from the mirror. Pitch black eyes leered at her out of a face that mocked her own, sharp teeth bared beneath two curved horns that arose from her forehead and swept back along her crown. Lunari stumbled back away from the image, and the creature likewise stumbled away from her. Slowly, the realization dawned on Lunari that the… creature… in the glass… was herself. Gaping, she reapproached the mirror and touched it’s cool surface. “Mother…?” she pleaded, voice quavering.

“Half-demon,” Mother Diana said matter-of-factly, laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Your mother, poor soul, must have lain with an incubus and become pregnant with you. You are luckier to be a bastard than to have been raised by such a fool.”
Before Lunari could stop it that red rage rose up in her, stronger and quicker than she had ever felt it before. “How dare you speak of my mother that way! You don’t know that this wasn’t… done to her! And you… you never told me!”

Mother Diana, somewhat taken aback by Lunari’s sudden outburst, backed away slightly. “I had every intention to tell you on your eighteenth birthday, child. At which point you would be old enough to undergo the vows of a priestess or leave the temple.”
“And this is what I was, the whole time? Yet you sat there lecturing me about serenity and truth…? Hypocrite!” Lunari took a step toward the High Priestess, who seemed to stumble back, the charm hanging from one frail hand.

“Now, Lunari, get control of yourself…”

“Control!” Lunari spat at the older woman. “Wouldn’t the other girls love to know? That the little bastard they’ve tormented for years truly deserved it. That she was nothing but a beast. How entertaining!” Suddenly, the abomination that was Lunari sank to the stone floor, claw-tipped fingers covering her face, sobbing. “I’m nothing but a beast!”

Mother Diana paused, then took a step nearer the girl. “Now Lunari… don’t say that. I’ve never thought you a beast....” The girl only answered with sobs, and Mother Diana took a step closer, laying a hand on Lunari’s shoulder. Suddenly, the girl lashed out, growling “Don’t touch me!” The older woman gasped, backpedaling, and tripped over a small statue of the Goddess near the window. Lunari lunged for her hand, but it was too late. The sound of the window glass shattering was drowned out by Lunari’s own scream as the High Priestess fell from the Temple Window, still clutching the necklace charm. There was a sickening thud as her body met the courtyard below, and Lunari gaped, heedless of the broken glass cutting her fingers as she gripped the sill. “Mother Diana!” she screamed. Across the courtyard, windows lit up as the sisters were called from their beds by the noise. A sob arose in Lunari’s throat, but as she saw Mother Diana begin to stir, moaning, it broke into a laugh of joyful relief. Suddenly, Lunari heard Sister Sophia’s voice calling to the other sisters as she ran toward Mother Diana’s broken form. Looking up, her eyes met Lunari’s and she screamed. “Monster! It’s a monster!”

Realizing what she now looked like, Lunari obeyed the instinct that rose up within her… and ran. Out of the High Priestess’ quarters, down the stairs, and out of the main doors. She ran down the same temple steps her mother’s feet must have touched nearly eighteen years ago as she fled from the creature her own loins had created… Ran out into the open fields that surrounded the village which provided for and guarded the Temple of the Moon… Ran into the sheltering shadows and dark embrace of the forest, which would hide her terrifying form from prying eyes. Lunari ran and ran… until she could run no longer. She did not know how long she ran, where she was going, or where she was. Finally, out of breath, she collapsed to the ground, robes muddy, face and hands scratched from the tree branches that tore at her passage… and sobbed herself into the merciful embrace of sleep.

Good morning!

Thanks! :)

Do You Wanna Build A Roleplay? |Partner Request|

Salutations from one mom to another!

I'm particularly interested because I'd like an RP partner who gets the priorities of kids and jobs. That said, I've missed the creative bug in the last several years and I'd really like to ease back into it with some 1x1. I don't mind mature themes, but I'm all about the stories.
Your ideas for Werewolf x Werewolf and the Snow White Christmas are intriguing. What do you think about the mayor's "son" being a girl? I like the story idea, but I prefer to play female characters (and I'm fine with FxF romance, if that becomes the focus).

Let me know if you're interested.