Party Favors—A Short WFS Fanfic
Josef relaxes in his comfortable seat, leaning back against the soft leather as though it were a throne, his expression pleasant, a slight smile on his lips as he sips his blood-laced scotch. His eyes, however well he may hide it, are alert, and someone who knows him well might discern the possessiveness in his gaze as he watches the three freshies he has marked as exclusively his own. They move gracefully through the crowd, smiles bright, and he knows that they are aware of his attention as they move, showing off the gowns selected for his enjoyment. Lucky is radiant in deep teal, dark Allara shines in crimson as bright as fresh blood, and Faction, Faction is hauntingly lovely this evening in black, glimmering with white rhinestones.
They are working hard to be friendly, to mingle with all the other freshies present, but their real attention is for him, and his for them. He hears a cacophony of heartbeats; he has long since learned to tune them out. Only three heartbeats in this room matter to him, and he can hear them clearly, each separate from all the others around them.
His drink is getting low, he puts it aside. Without a word, there is a quiet brush of silk past him, and fresh glass is deftly set in his hand. He tastes it, and finds to his concealed delight that somehow, without attracting any attention, all three women have added a few drops of blood to his drink. The sweetness of Faction, a taste on his tongue that brings instantly to his mind a memory of her, soft, yielding, and trusting in is arms. Lucky's blood, a spicy tang that carries her humor and passion from his mouth directly to his brain. And Allara, ah, Allara, fiery and devoted, with a darkly complex bouquet of emotions arrayed within a scant few drops of blood. Individually they were enticing, intoxicating; in this swirling combination there was nothing to compare to it. Nothing. He feels the first pleasant sensations of his fangs pushing out slightly, his hunger rising. There will be time for deeper and even more satisfying drinks. Later.
In his 375-odd years of existence as a vampire, Josef has known, has tasted so many women. And yet, and yet now…he shakes his head a little ruefully. Across the years he has coerced, seduced, bought, and outright taken the blood he requires. What's that word his friend Mick uses for it—that's, right—scrounging. Rarely, in all that time, has the precious substance been offered so freely, so simply, as now. "Willing Freshies" they call themselves, all these women, asking nothing in return more than a taste of vampiric glamour, a fleeting sense of connection with the endless depths of his immortality.
Always before, some price has been exacted—money for the mercenary, attention for the emotionally needy, guilt for those monstrous acts committed in the fever of rage or bloodlust, and even, in a few rare cases, a piece of his eternal heart. With this current crop, there seems to be a fundamental difference. They are independent, they are free, so generous of themselves, so confident of their value, so brave and yet so trusting of his good nature. It is unprecedented, odd, and it makes him somehow want to live up to them, to their visions of him, especially to these three extraordinary young women he has found among the many.
Several yards away, Allara is dancing, unselfconscious but careful to stay in Josef's line of sight. Nearby, Lucky and Faction appear to be engaged in earnest conversation with a young woman Josef has never seen before, laughing and gesturing animatedly. Lucky catches his eye and smiles, as he has observed she smiles for no one else. She flicks a quick glance down to his hand and back. His drink is getting low again.
Josef gives her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. His eyes are intent. He's good, he's fine, and very soon he will be leaving. And those three freshies—his three best girls—will be leaving with him.
Dawn is still hours away.