11th October, 1893 — Jinxed Jackrabbit

Jude's ball was tomorrow, and Kieran would have to be good there, so tonight he was drinking at the Jackrabbit — a much shadier bar than the Augurey, and one that could reliably be counted on to keep him away from politics. He was drinking whisky and sketching a portrait of the bartender when the door to the pub open, and Kieran turned his head to see who it was, in case he recognized them. Unfortunately, he did.

Kieran liked Ishmael — although he still had to kick Ishmael for turning Monty into a vampire — but tended to find most other vampires unsettling, or distasteful. This one, especially, had always struck Kieran as more feral than Ishmael was — at least as much as he could in their rather limited interaction.

He controlled his grimace, but did not look particularly thrilled. "Evening, you," Kieran said, raising an eyebrow at the vampire. He imagined Prusseneit was here on business, but it was hard to say — he did not track the intricacies of intra-vampire relations nearly as well as he had when he was selling Ishmael his blood.

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Basil Foxwood Gilbert Prusseneit

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   Basil Foxwood

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The Jinxed Jackrabbit. What a ridiculous name for an establishment, however much it might tickle a fanciful amusement in Gilbert’s more artistically inclined mind. He’d never admit it, but he was angsting for a bit of tragedy or art these days— the two often intertwined in the best compositions. His little friends at the ballet had been playing along, leaving his box in peace, and the gift he’d commissioned for Azazel had been delivered on time, despite the dragon debacle. (A ravishing testament to her otherworldly beauty, if ever he were to try and give a real compliment. To artist or vampire.) As a result, all was relatively peaceful in his world. Boring. And Gilbert didn’t like to be bored.

So, waltzing into the dank place, he drummed his fingers upon the counter and looked about, wondering if there was anything or anyone here that might deserve his attention. Anyone who could inspire a little something.

Blue-green eyes darted across the space, taking in every patron and cataloguing those he recognized, before an exasperated sigh slipped from dead lungs. He didn’t know why he’d expected anything at all. This city was as lulled into complacency as a verdammt nursery… Perhaps he ought to pay his little artist a visit. She was rather pretty when she danced-- It was then that a voice floated over his shoulder, distracting and causing Gilbert to turn slowly to appraise the speaker. A brow quirked in response - because who else could the other have been addressing in this empty corner of theirs - and he nearly frowned. (‘You?’ Who did the ruddy human think he was talking to, an old schoolmate?)

“Abernathy.” The name sounded strange and foreign in his Germanic accent, tasting of metal. “It’s been some time.” Months, years, decades? Gilbert couldn’t be bothered to remember. The last he knew was something about this human trailing after Ishmael. Always tame, always polite. What a waste of vampiric prowess, he thought in disgust. Since being back however he hadn't in fact seen Abernathy much, not that he saw Ishmael any either. A huff that could have been mistaken for a laugh trailed into the space between them. "Get tired of whoring yourself out or did your veins finally shrivel up from repeated piercing?" he goaded, not much giving a scheiß on the answer.

(Gil leaned over the counter right in front of the bartender then and flashed the man a toothy grin as he grabbed an empty whiskey glass. He would need a little something of his own, he supposed, to tolerate the boredom that was rubbing a raw edge in the corner of his mind.)

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Kieran Abernathy

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It was not the first time Kieran had been called a whore; he could not remember for sure, but it might not even be the first time Prusseneit had called him a whore. But the insult rankled; years ago, he'd been cowed around vampires who were not Ishmael. Now he had a secret that kept him safe from vampires — sure, they could try to bite him, but Kieran's blood was so disgusting that they would not be able to stomach it.

He took a bitter sip of his whiskey. "You're awfully judgmental for someone no better than a brothel-keeper," Kieran said, snarky. Prusseneit trafficked in blood, after all — how was he any better than Kieran had been?

  

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The glass was cold to the touch, not that Gilbert noticed. It settled with a delicate thud on the counter before them as the vampire reached into his - rather exquisite, thank you - waistcoat to pull out a flask. Yet warm, red liquid of just the right viscosity pooled at the bottom, the side of the once clear glass blurring with sludge wherever the liquid touched. It wasn’t so much a need as it was a reminder to the human of who he was dealing with, that tone not quite matching that which he remembered attributing to the bumbling brunette.

“And you, Mr. Abernathy, seem quite agitated,” Gilbert responded, all feigned pleasantries. He would indulge the human until it suited him not to. Voice taking on an unaffected, bored tone, he leaned on the counter and picked up the glass to give it a swirl. “If it’s loneliness that I’m detecting, fret not. There are far more interesting parties out there to sell your soul to.”

Gilbert had never before considered Abernathy as anything more than Ishmael’s mongrel, but when in Rome.

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Kieran Abernathy

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Kieran couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the sight of blood in a glass; for some reason, the concept was much grosser when it wasn't his blood. He didn't like the way it pooled in the glass, thick and unpleasant. He took a sip of his whiskey to settle himself and looked back at Prusseneit.

"I thought you were too good for me," Kieran replied, tone somewhere between bored and disdainful.

  

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The look of disgust on Abernathy’s face in response to his beverage of choice was everything and Gilbert didn’t even bother to hide his amusement as he took a sip. A bit hypocritical that, he thought to himself smugly but made no comment.

As for the brunette’s response, it was uninspired. “I am,” the vampire agreed simply. Too good for any human really, Abernathy notwithstanding. “But I’ve never said that aloud before,” he added. “To you.”

The truth of the matter? Gilbert probably had. In so many words, too. But what was the fun of living for eons if one couldn’t play with timing?

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Kieran Abernathy

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Kieran raised an eyebrow at Prusseneit, visibly a little baffled — he knew he was being taunted, but he wasn't sure why Prusseneit was bothering. Was the vampire bored tonight? Kieran could imagine that — it had always seemed as if Ishmael had nothing as much as he had time, and too much time could be as much of a hazard as it was a benefit.

"What's a person like you doing in a place like this, anyways?" he asked. Emphasis on person, as this ancient vampire was as far from one as Kieran could imagine.

  

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