Perfect Shade of Lipstick
"Do you know what makes the best shade of lipstick?" Has nothing to do with the Cullens. Banner made by the wonderfully amazing Emmett_Lover (!) UNDER RECONSTRUCTION! I've been re-working a LOt of it, in my head, so I will be changing things, some major some not so much. I reccomend re-reading once I re post the chapters. (Chapter 1 is new)
3. Chapter 3
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The television is not something she often finds herself watching, it is pointless, inane, and even though she owns one to keep up with the times, she does not enjoy watching it. She has better ways to spend her time. But today the sun is out with not even a cloud in big city sky. Not that the sun can actually hurt her (hardly anything can), but it makes her feel queasy and anything less than perfect is a weakness. Weakness is not allowed in this world. Her kind has to show the pathetic little humans how they are superior and being queasy does not make you superior. So instead of walking around outside, the woman decides to see which part of the world is in chaos at the moment, not that she really cares, but why not just check?
Using her mind she clicks on the ‘T.V.’ as she gracefully slides onto her plush, white leather sofa, her red vile necklace swinging slightly. (And no, she does not place one arm on top of the other, blink and nod her head at the same time. She is not ‘I Dream of Genie’.) Blinking through all of the channels she finally finds the local news. The bold, bright red headline flashes up onto the screen and her eyes widen. “Vampire Succubus Strikes Again”. The female television reporter jabbers on about how vampires are not to be trusted and that this is a prime example, but the woman doesn’t hear.
WHAT?!, rings out around the city, everyone looks around to see who shouted, but it’s only the woman’s outrage leaking from her mind. The people of the city shrug and just believe that they’ve been much too busy for far too long. It must be all that caffeine, one mother across town placates herself. A pastor three blocks down looks up and begins to pray harder. A schizophrenic rolls over in his drug induced slumber, not noticing a thing off kilter. The detective heading the ‘Succubus case’ drops his glass of whiskey. Shattering the hand-made crystal glass his dead partner had given him.
Smoke is nearly pouring out of the woman’s nose and ears, she is so infuriated. That is not her kill. She did not go to the human bars last night. She had not scouted out the ‘perfect man’ (kill). She had not fed in five days, an unusually long time for her to go. She had been miles away from where this man had died. And her lips do not leave that shape!
Someone is using her as an example. No one is allowed to use her trademarks. When she catches this person nothing will be left of them except the scent of their death lingering in the surrounding air. The entire vampire world knows not to mess with her. Many of them have witnessed, or been the target of, her wrath several times. She is not to be screwed with. Ever.
Seeing as the woman’s mind is incredibly developed and exceptionally fast she knows that she can not investigate on her own. If she were to be caught, unlikely but still a possibility, snooping around by the human police they will put her to death with their vampire killing injection. Yes, her fledglings would come after those who incarcerated and killed her, but that is too much of a risk. She will not let this copy-cat take her legacy away from her. She has been working on it for an amount of time she doesn’t care to remember and some tiny little nobody fledgling will not take it away from her. She will relish in destroying them.
With a tint of distaste she knows what she has to do. She doesn’t like it, not at all, but it’s her only logical choice. The only way that she can efficiently track down and incinerate her copy-cat. With an exasperated groan she moves herself into her closet. Slowly she opens her eyes and gazes around at the mountains of clothes before her. Some she had actually paid for, but most of them just disappeared from their department stores without the managers having any idea of where they had gone. She thumbed through a few garments before an idea hit her. Look like her, like the vampire everyone knows that I am.
Raising her hands so they are palms up she has the outfit she wants appear in her outstretched fingers. Black bodice, black fitted pants, black boots. If she walks in wearing her daytime jeans and fitted ‘t-shirt’ (as they called them now-a-days), the people will laugh her out of the office with her chance at finding that impersonator evaporating. The woman dresses as her vampire self, not her vampire-trying-to-fit-in-with-the-humans self. The people must be frightened of her.
Gracefully, with her mind wandering she slides into her clothes. Using her mind she darkens a black line of char around her eyes and adds a rosy tint to her death-pale cheeks. Knowing she does not have to worry about her hair she blinks herself to her doorway mirror, adding her finishing touches. Slowly and delicately she uncorks the vile hanging from her exposed neck. Tipping over the delicate container onto her index finger she applies the dwindling blood to her full lips.
Replacing the vile back in its home at the hollow of her lovely collarbone the woman smiles, glimpses of her halfway extended fangs showing. She knows what she has to do, what she is going to do. I wonder what this Nick Rogers is like. Hopefully eager to find a lead in his case, my case, she thinks just as she blinks herself down to Mr. Nick Rogers’ office.