Fantasy Et Circum Noctum.

[BloomingScribe]

Sheila Row knew what darkness was like, had practically lived it. She could feel the pull of it in her very soul like a magnet. The darkness was both a strange comfort and a terrible torment. It was comforting because it made her feel safe from the world around her, but also terrifying because it threatened to consume her completely. She regarded her reflection in the cracked mirror, with its gold trim and flecks of red paint that clung to the edges like blood clinging to a wound. Clouds of smoke billowed around her, obscuring her reflection momentarily, but when it cleared she was greeted with the same haunted eyes that she had seen every day for as long as she could remember. She brushed her hands over her simple day dress of brown silk that complimented her chestnut complexion. It had a textured open weave, forming fine vertical ribs with narrow horizontal stripes in beige and dark brown. The bodice was tightly fitted, cinching in her waist while the full-dome skirt fell to her ankles. A pair of flat-heeled shoes covered her feet. Her thick mane of curly ebony hair was restrained in a severe bun, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her red beaded costume for performances was draped over the dressing screen door; it sparkled faintly in the dim light of the dressing room. She was supposed to be getting ready, but she had been sitting there for nearly an hour staring into the mirror and trying to find the courage to go out and face the crowd. With him. She scowled. She hated him, though she had never met him. She clenched her fists in her laps, and felt the sharp edges of her polished nails in the gloves she wore cut her palms. She would not bleed, though. She was not capable of such things. Her new partner. She chuckled faintly, shaking her head. Sheila had always worked alone, had always been independent. She didn't need anyone else. A knock jolted her from her thoughts. She froze. She didn't respond, didn't move. The door creaked open behind her. "Sheila?' A familiar voice called out to her. A stern, gruff voice that demanded respect without the need for aggression. "I know you're in here. I can see your shadow," Mr. Porter chuckled, closing the door behind him. He was an older man, graying at the temples, but still possessing the strength and energy of a man decades his junior. His face was handsome, but it was marred by a distinctive scar that ran diagonally across his cheek. He wore a smart black suit and tie, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He slowly made his way toward her, his face softening as he approached. He placed both hands upon her shoulders, his thumbs gentle stroking the bare skin of her neck. Sheila closed her eyes. She knew she could never hide anything from him, he saw everything.

"Not today. I will not perform today," she said firmly, "You have betrayed me, you have betrayed yourself, you have betrayed this company. I will not be any part of it," Mr. Porter's face fell, and he slowly lowered himself to sit beside her. The silence that followed was suffocating, and all she could hear was the faint whirring of the old grandfather clock in the hallway outside. Tick tock. Tick tock. She swallowed thickly, knowing that she had spoken out of turn and fearing the repercussions of her actions. However, Mr. Porter merely sighed softly. He rubbed his hands over his face. He looked older now, the spark had left his eyes. The scratching of his beard was almost painful to her sensitive hearing. He inhaled slowly, holding the air in his lungs as if he was struggling to breathe, then exhaled. His hands fell limply into his lap. He looked at her but his eyes were distant, as if he was staring through her and into the abyss.

"I had hoped that you would see reason," he said quietly, "But I suppose I should have expected such a thing." There was no anger or disappointment in his tone. Rather, there was a fondness. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair from her face. She could feel the warmth of his fingers lingering on her freckled cheek. She wanted to growl, to push him away. She didn't want his kindness or his pity. She wanted things to return to the way they were; with her being the star and him by her side. But that was a fantasy, and she had to face reality. He had been kind to her, but he was also a ruthless businessman. If she didn't dance, she would be replaced. She wouldn't let him win so easily, though. She would give him hell for the rest of the time that she had to work for him. She would give no more ground. He stood, and turned to leave.

"I am being reasonable," she hissed, "I'm not doing it. I will not work with a beast. I am far too good for that." He turned to look at her, his eyes were cold and dark.

"If you are being reasonable, I am glad," he said, his voice low and quiet, before exiting.

Mr. Catwell

 

[Mr. Catwell]

Corbin Miles, who most often went by Miles, was just as Ms. Row had supposed; a beast, a monster, though it wasn't something he could entirely control. Most often, he tried not to think about it. The flashes, and jolts of memory that exploded into his head, from time to time, were more than enough thought on the matter. Instead of thinking, much of the time he exercised, or meditated... picked up a book to read, or took a long nap. It was a constant work, trying not to be reminded that, once a month, he went on a bloody rampage that left the weak, and innocent, dead in his wake. Those who couldn't escape his grasp... and even some who might have been able to.

He was a stocky man, well muscled, and compact. Every movement, as he made his way to the dressing room, seemed to have been finely honed. Even in walking, he was confident, and practiced. Walking was the least of what he could do, though, especially since he'd been bitten... and changed. He had noticed that his muscles were tighter. He felt stronger, and more capable than he had ever felt. This was a man who had always been in top physical form. His father, and mother, had both been acrobats in the circus, and they'd trained him well, to follow in their footsteps. He had been flipping, and tumbling since he was a toddler.

The physical changes had been remarkable, so far, and they continued to amaze, and terrify, him.

The door to his dressing room was locked, but they'd given him the key. The feel of the pins tumbling as the key slid into the lock was just one of the many things he could notice, now that he'd been turned. He could smell the grease, animals, concessions, and fecal matter. He felt differently about some of the smells, now, than he had before, though. The animals seemed almost as appetizing as the concessions. Ugh. The difference between his wolf brain and his human one was astounding. A life at the circus, and he'd always hated the animals; the camels, horses, and elephants stunk; the tigers, lions, or bears, whichever was on tap, were dangerous, and temperamental.

Now he felt the innate desire to fight, hunt, or eat them, instead of simply ignoring, and detesting them.

The door shut behind him, and most of the smells, and sounds, were shut out with it. He breathed a sigh of relief, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was certainly handsome, with shoulder length, sandy brown hair, pulled into a tight knot, currently, and a sharp, shaven face. His physique could hardly be noticed through the loose fitting button down, and slacks, that he wore. Miles didn't dress as well as most people passing through the circus, but, the truth was, he didn't need to. He was rarely seen between shows, as he was always busy brooding, or stealing himself away from the world, very often honing his craft.

He was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when he noticed that someone was coming down the hall, if you could call it that, outside of his door. He'd heard the gait before; the heavy steps of Mr. Porter were heading toward his dressing room. He could smell... something was off. Some kind of frustration was coming through the door. Miles didn't remember doing anything wrong. It couldn't have been with him, he'd just gotten here, two nights ago. He hadn't even met the woman he'd be performing with. Many of these female acrobats were prima donnas, from what he'd seen, though he'd always charmed them, in the end.

"Miles?" Mr. Porter asked, his gruff voice commanding a...

"Yes, sir?" from Miles.

"I hate to tell you this, kid, but you're flying solo, tonight. The talented Ms. Row is not feeling well, and can't perform," Porter lied, expertly. He felt the need to diffuse the tension between these two, not build on it. His only option was to lie, at least until they had figured things out, among themselves, "Can you handle it?" he asked, raising his brows into a severe look. Miles found himself smiling.

"I've been doing this since I still had cloth wrapped around my ass, Mr. Porter. I think I can handle one night, alone," he finished, giving a chuckle, and a wink, "The show will go on," he said, finishing with his buttons. He stripped off the shirt to reveal a well muscled body. It wasn't a body like those of today's athletes; no rippling abs, or bulging pectorals. His deltoids weren't capped, but there was something about the solidity of his body that let you know he was capable. His arms were tight, and strong. His core, and legs, were solid, and stable. For a man, he moved with elegance, and grace.

"Good, good," the older man said, "You're on in fifteen,"

"Yes, sir," Miles responded, and then the old man was gone. Miles was honestly relieved. He'd had nerves about working with a new partner, first night of the show. Normally they'd have rehearsed the routine together, but he'd only just gotten acclimated to the area. Thankfully, Miles had impressed Mr. Porter during his audition. He'd blown the other acrobats out of the water. He really could do it all; trapeze, tight rope, tumbling and more. It wasn't long before he was in his performing clothes, leaving the dressing room. The pre-performance jitters were coming. He was attempting to quell the butterflies in his gut. He didn't normally get nervous before a performance.

It had been a while since he'd performed, however.

The crowd was almost overwhelming as he entered the show stage. Currently, there were two men, each standing on the backs of two horses, riding in a circle around the tent. The crowd was filled with gasps of astonishment as the men, and horses, jumped over obstacles set up in their path. It was impressive, no doubt. Miles found himself tumbling right through the middle of them, a round off to a series of back handsprings. He finished with a very high back tuck, landing on a single post. He'd had to practice that move ruthlessly. Of course, his partner was supposed to join him. He was supposed to hold her up on one of his hands, while she stood on hers.

Instead, his hands shot up as he landed, as normal, only without a woman attached to them. As the crowd cheered, he bowed, and continued his act. There were feats of balance, and more tumbling. He walked the tight rope, even dropping down to swing on it. He feigned that he would fall, only one arm holding on to the rope. The crowd gasped with every near fall, or loss of balance. They roared with every completed trick, or series of tricks. The horsemen had long since ridden off, but there were jugglers, and clowns below him. They were doing their best to pull the crowd's attention away from him.

Not a chance.

Finally, Miles, who would have been winded, by now, before, moved on to the trapeze. It was difficult to make the trapeze impressive without a partner, though he managed to do it as well as one could. His parents had been amazing, and though either one could do a routine by themselves... it just wasn't the same as when they were together. His time on the trapeze was the least applause he had gotten all night. The act had been cut short, as well. There were certain things that he just couldn't do by himself, though he had still managed to fill three quarters of an hour. That was more than enough, with all the other acts showing, tonight.

Miles soon found himself relaxing in his dressing room, heart still pumping heavily from both the physical exertion, and the adoration of the crowd. It had been a good show. He just hoped he would meet this mystery partner, soon.

 

[BloomingScribe]

The night dragged on for Sheila mercilessly, stretching out before her like an endless corridor that she would never reach the end of. She heard the excited cries of the audience drifting in through the gap between her dressing room. The cries of anticipation, of hunger, and desire. She should have been the one to receive such adulation. She had always received her due, and yet here she sat in the shadows of her dressing room, staring out into nothingness, unable to do anything about it. For a predator bred to hunt and kill, she felt weak and helpless. She hated herself for allowing her emotions to control her. Her father had told her that emotion was weakness, and she knew now how right he'd been. She stared out at the empty space in front of her, and cursed herself. Sheila loved performing. It was what she did best, but it was also what she excelled at. She had beauty, grace, and talent. What she lacked was passion, and drive. She was too easily swayed by the whims of her heart. Mr. Porter could see it in her eyes when he came to check up on her. She knew she had disappointed him, but it didn't matter. He could never replace her. She wouldn't allow it. She wouldn't allow someone else to take over where she left off. As time stretched on, the pain in her chest grew stronger. She knew it was coming---the anger. She could feel the tightening around her throat as it tightened further and tighter still. Her hands shook uncontrollably, threatening to spill her drink onto the table. When she finally managed to calm them down enough so that they weren't shaking so much that she couldn't hold her glass steady, she took another sip from her cocktail. It was torture to wait in the shadows while everyone else enjoyed themselves. There were those moments when you could hear the crowd's excitement building... then there was the moment when it reached its peak, and their voices became deafening. And then there was silence. A long, agonizing pause filled with expectation. The swell of music, applause, cheers, and whistles all faded away, leaving only the sound of Sheila's breathing echoing throughout the stuffy room. When the show ended, Sheila rose to her feet and crossed the dressing room. She wrenched open the door, and stepped out into the hall beyond. All the lights had already been turned off, and she stumbled forward blindly. Several other doors lined the walls, each containing a different performer---Alexandria the dancer, a magician named Brian who performed illusions using fire and smoke, and several others whose names she hadn't even bothered trying to remember.

Corbin Miles. That was his name, wasn't it? Sheila thought absently as she passed by Alexandria's dressing room. His name made her want to crush something small and squishy underfoot. It made her want to tear it apart, grind it beneath her heel until it lay unrecognizable. But she forced the urge back down, focusing on the door that held her enemy. Corbin Miles'room was directly across from hers. If he'd wanted to come after her, he would have done so by now. Why hadn't he come to get her yet? Why hadn't he shown his face to taunt her some more? Where was he hiding? Did he think she was going to sit in here forever waiting for him to make his move? She pushed the door open, stepping inside. It was dark in here, but not completely pitch black. Just barely enough light seeped through the cracks between the curtains to let her see what she needed to see. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, allowing her to pick out every detail of the room. It was untidy, cluttered with piles of clothing that had obviously been thrown haphazardly about without regard to style or color. In fact, it looked like a tornado had hit the place. Lazy. Unkempt. Untidy. Those were words that described Mr. Miles very well indeed. "My, my..." she said aloud to herself as she surveyed her surroundings. She had never seen such a mess before, "What a... delightful... sight." She walked slowly around the room, taking in everything she could see. She found herself pausing in front of an old trunk that was sitting in one corner of the room, resting against the wall. She stared at it blankly. She knew she shouldn't be in his room, but she couldn't help herself. She was curious. Curious about how he lived, curious about the man himself, and most of all, she was just plain hungry to see him.

 

[Mr. Catwell]

Miles smelled her, and heard her before she ever entered his room. Sure, he'd thrown everything around the room. His dressing room was a place that he dressed. It wasn't a sacred space. When he lived in his own apartment, it was kept clean. There was a certain... personal quality to a dressing room, however. Corbin's instincts kicked in when she entered the room, without his permission. Clearly it didn't have the same rules as a home.

"I don't believe anything in here is yours," he said, having moved into the doorway, silently. With no light coming from in front of him, and only a bit of light coming from down the hall, he looked like an imposing, shadowy figure. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and he had clearly been training, or practicing. Sweat rolled down his body. He wore a loose fitting pair of pants that were clearly foreign in origin; perhaps from India, Thailand, or somewhere else in Asia. His eyes almost seemed to glow in the semi-darkness, "And there's nothing delightful about rummaging through someone else's personal space," he finished, his eyes flashing as he moved forward, slowly.

It was almost as if he was encroaching on her territory, instead of the other way around. She was the one who had abandoned him on the stage, not the other way around. Now she was invading his personal space. She was, clearly, like most of the female acrobats he'd met in his life; self important. Miles found himself striking a match, and lifting the glass of a nearby lantern. When the lantern was lit, and the wick drawn, slightly, he replaced the glass. His eyes moved over the woman before him. It wasn't that he couldn't see her in the darkness, it was that he wanted to get a better look at her, in the light.

She was gorgeous, and dark. Her thick, black ringlets hung in silhouettes against the canvas of her somber skin. He was suddenly entranced by her beauty. Her body was a perfect specimen. He didn't even notice her clothes. He'd seen enough acrobatic women in his life. He could tell that she was in top form. He could already feel her hands filling his hands. He could feel her skin against his own. He could feel the weight of her musculature, and the firmness of her physique. She would make an excellent compliment to his own, more solid form. She would have looked nice in anything that she wore.

"What brings you to my mess?" he asked, simply, setting the lamp down, and closing the door, behind him, "You had no trouble waiting to meet me, earlier. Did you want to see me fail, without you?" he asked, giving a pointed look, "I hope that you can see I was successful," he finished, looking toward the door, then looking back over her figure. She looked deceptively small, and frail. Her musculature was thin, but he could see that she was powerful. He sniffed the air... it was strange. She didn't smell like anything... he could smell her perfume, but... he couldn't smell what was underneath it, "What are you?" he asked, raising a brow. Could she tell what he was? Had Mr. Porter let her know?

He wondered if everyone here was something strange, like him.

 

[BloomingScribe]

He was beautiful, in a rugged sort of fashion; and yet he was also dangerous. He was a man to be feared if you were on the wrong side of him, and revered if you were on the right. The strength in him was thick, dark, and primal. He was a creature of the night, a hunter, a predator, and she was caught in his sights. Sheila was already beginning to feel goosebumps rise on her flesh, and she smiled. She stayed by the trunk, running her fingers over the surface of it. Despite the fact that it had been sitting undisturbed for who knows how long, the wood was smooth and white as if it had only just been polished. There wasn't a spot of dirt, no splinters or chips. Sheila ran her fingers over the brass latches that held it shut, and decided it was sturdy enough to lift it up by herself. It wasn't heavy at all; it was probably stuffed with clothes. Or bodies---perhaps it was stuffed with bodies--maybe it was filled with the remains of Mr. Miles' past girlfriends. A severed leg, a bone here, a skull there, an arm over there. Her imagination flared up. She imagined the sound that it would make if she were to force the trunk open. What would all the body parts look like, all jumbled up together like that? A cranium, a whole bone, a skull with only part of the jaw, no skin or eyes. Only...no. If he had such a collection, her keen sense of smell would have picked up on it long before now. All of her senses were heightened, and more attuned to the world around her. There was no way she wouldn't have been able to smell them by now. And besides, the trunk was too light to be carrying around all that weight. "I don't believe anything in here is yours," he said, his voice creeping out of the shadows. Sheila whipped around, glaring into the darkness. "And there's nothing delightful about rummaging through someone else's personal space," he pointed out, still standing out of reach behind her. He smelled of wood polish and warm leather, a clean, masculine scent that wrapped around her senses and made her weak in the knees. She found that her will to fight, to even stand her ground was slipping. Her mind filled with thoughts of him, with images of what she would do to him if he were to come any closer. She hoped he would move to attack her first, so she could pounce on him. She could end everything in moments, with a snap of his neck. The heat radiated off of him, and she could see the rise and fall of his chest slowly, his breathing was slow but heavy. Corbin was doing his best to remain relaxed while he watched her, to try and lull her into a false sense of security, to keep from frightening her. But Sheila was far too clever for that. She was a predator, too, after all.

Sheila smiled sweetly, "No. It's not delightful. It's just something you have to do sometimes, to learn about other people." She leaned down towards the trunk, playing with the latches, pretending to be disappointed that she wasn't able to open it. All the while, she was waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack. How she wanted to see him when he realized what she was. How she wanted to see his eyes go wide when he realized she wasn't like other girls. She wanted to see his soul frozen in terror as she revealed her vampire nature. And when she did, nothing could stop her from taking what was rightfully hers. Sheila moved around to the other side of the trunk, still pretending to try to open it. "But there is nothing to learn about you. You are... nothing. You are just like the rest. Boring, tiresome, predictable. There is nothing for me to discover, so what is the point?"

"You had no trouble waiting to meet me, earlier. Did you want to see me fail, without you?" he asked, giving a pointed look, "I hope that you can see I was successful."

"I don't work as a duo, Mr. Miles," Sheila said, "I work alone."

"What are you?" he asked, with a raised brow. Sheila threw back her head and let out a wild cackle, almost like a screech, almost as if she had been caged for a long time, and was just now being set free.

"What do you think I am?"