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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: USA
Gender: Female
Posts: 257
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Quentin
Note: This is extremely rough, and is getting completely cut out of the story. The rest of the "Short" story is from Alida's POV, except for this one scene, while she's passed out on the couch. This definitely fits in the "didn't fit the story" category.
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Quentin Boudreaux watched the girl sleep. He leaned one shoulder against the window frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “What is one like you doin' out here alone eh chere?” He murmured softly into the silence of the apartment. Shaking his head, he took the opportunity to study her apartment.
It wasn't large -- being only two rooms, and a bathroom -- but she'd put the space to good use. Art supplies lined one wall, neatly stacked and put away into their proper place. An easel stood near the window where he was leaning, a cloth draped over whatever she'd been working on. Several other works were stacked carefully next to the wall, or hung around the apartment.
One piece caught his eye, and he pushed off from the window frame to get a better look. It was a rather ethereal work, looking like something out of a fairy tale. Except, instead of being frightened of the Big Bad Wolf, the heroine was holding a hand out to him; as if asking him not to go. The wolf was turned away from her, headed down the path, but looking back over his shoulder at her.
It should have been a dark and foreboding picture. Instead it had a light, almost wistful feeling to it that almost made him smile. The gentle innocence of it also surprised him. He'd expected, in someone like her, faced with the bitter grim reality of death everyday, to be a bit cynical. If the painting was anything to go by, he was terribly mistaken.
His sharp hearing picked up the rustle of cloth and he turned to study the artist herself. Earlier, his sharp nose had picked up the smell of silver -- probably the necklace he'd noticed around her neck. He could also detect the slightly sour smell of pain and injury on her. He almost wished that he dared take her to the hospital -- the knock on her head hadn't been gentle.
He snorted to himself. The problem with taking her in to the hospital was the possibility that the police would start asking questions. If they did, and she told them what happened, they'd find the mauled attackers, and possibly him. That would raise questions he wasn't prepared to answer.
It'd be easier explaining to a young Roma girl just why a werewolf was saving her neck.
It wasn't something he was sure he could answer. Werewolves, vampires, and Roma had an uneasy three-way truce. The Roma left the other two groups alone, the werewolves and vampires left them alone and fought for territory amongst themselves.
It'd been that way since the Black Death.
While the Black Plague ravaged Europe, the Roma, sick and dying, had tired of being considered a 'magic delicacy'. They'd turned on their tormentors and become the hunters instead of the hunted. Many had died, so many that most thought that the Plague had wiped them out, but their slaughter of the vampires and werewolves had saved them.
The Black Accords were signed and the supernatural had slipped deep into legend.
Yet, here he was, a werewolf, saving a young Roma -- a Spirit-Speaker at that! -- from common thugs. What was he thinking?
Still; the Spirit-Speakers were the prizes of their clans. They were the most heavily sought after for marriage, the most sheltered and protected of all the women and were never without protectors. So where were hers? There should have been someone -- a brother, a husband, an uncle -- watching after her.
Here was this one, obviously young -- a sniff -- innocent as well, without anyone to protect her against the things that stalked the dark. Like him.
He gave a cynical snort, staring out her window at the shadowed street below. When had he started getting philosophical? He was what he was; a werewolf, a killer -- the two were pretty interchangeable.
He turned to watch her sleep, sighing. She was an enigma that he had to figure out. When he'd first scented her a couple months before, he'd been sure he was wrong. A single Roma, who smelled like power and the dead? It wasn't supposed to be possible. There should have been others with her; relatives usually, but someone.
So; he'd let his curiosity get the best of him, and he'd followed her. He watched her come and go at her jobs -- both the museum, and the small coffee shop where she doubled as a waitress and sketch artist -- and then here at her apartment. He'd also watched as she'd dragged her paintings around town, attempting to sell them. Over several nights, he'd come to the conclusion that she was alone.
The girl had isolated herself; no family, no friends.
Once he'd figured that out, he'd begun shadowing her more often. Quentin had seen her walk around with meagre weapons. He'd been there one night when she'd managed to set a vampire on fire, and another when she'd almost been caught following a Spirit.
She was a study in contrasts and intrigued him.
Looking over at the still, slight figure on the couch, he wondered just where she might be leading him. He also wondered whether he wanted to follow the scent trail to see if the hunt would be worth it.
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