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Perfect Shade of Lipstick

"Do you know what makes the best shade of lipstick?" Has nothing to do with the Cullens. 1204741731_red-spangle-lips.jpg picture by Babe7777 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)


8. Chapter 8

Rating 0/5   Word Count 2109   Review this Chapter

At Fault

Vampire fights are not entertaining to watch. No blood speckles the floor (they don’t really have blood, just what they had for lunch). Teeth don’t go flying (they can’t loose teeth). And chairs don’t break because someone was hit over the head with them, they just break without warning (they are not like episodes of RAW). Vampires are complex creatures. All of their strength resides in their minds, physical strength feeds off of that, not extreme work outs. They slash at each other with their minds, rarely resorting physical action. Occasionally, when the opponents are matched in power of mind, they will engage in hand-to-hand combat. But it’s not what humans know to be combat. It’s more of a dance than a martial art. Each forceful leap is followed by a surge of mental power, jabbing, banging, and grinding into the opponent. They move back and forth within a circular pattern closing the distance between each other with every measured move they take. Pirouetting and beating their way across the small distance. The one who is victorious is the vampire that can sink their fangs into the others throat. Then the duel is finished. Now, of course depending on how upset the vampire is, the loser may end up owned by the victor or left with a Mark signifying that the loser is indeed weaker. Every time a vampire looses a battle some of their strength leaves their mind and is sucked into the Mark, where it will be held prisoner for as long as that vampire ‘lives’.

But when a vampire wins, a previous Mark of loss disappears and the power is returned to vampires’ mind. The Mark of loss cannot be forgotten, though. Even after it has disappeared it leaves behind thin white lines, like a scar. These never disappear. Not even the most powerful vampire can erase these scars, which is why the two fighting at this exact moment each only bear two separate scars. However, right now none of these rules apply. The two fighting more resemble bears mauling each other; etiquette has been thrown out the window. Hate/detestation/anger are ruling them now, rules have no meaning when you are this irate with someone. So instead of artful calculation and an easy way of determining a victor, Moira and Pyotr resemble two of the fiercest RAW wrestlers ever seen. Upsettingly, Nick is not a fan of ultimate wrestling, pity for him.

Pyotr and Moira are snarling, hitting, kicking, spitting, and all kinds of violence that they can think of, towards each other. Tables are breaking into small splinters of wood. Glass and mirrors are raining down upon Nick and all he can do is shield his eyes with his hands (he can’t look away from the gruesome battle raging before his eyes). Sadly, Nick can only think of how his crime scene is being ruined. All that evidence! The chief is going to kill me!, he laments to himself. All of the sudden everything stops. The vampires are no longer attempting murder in front of the head detective. Instead, they are, both, contemplating the murder of the head detective.

“BE QUEIT,” Moira screams, seething, at the same time that Pyotr yells, “SILENCE HUMAN!” Having two bloodthirsty vampires glare at you while in the midst of a blood battle is a very bad thing. Gulping, Nick nods. Moira and Pyotr both take a deep breathe, then once again are going at each other. Nick makes a quick decision and vows not to think anything else while they’re trying to kill each other.

The body slamming continues. Pyotr is distraught that he cannot seem to gain the upper hand, while Moira is just trying to get rid of him. Her anger had subsided when Nick’s thoughts entered her mind. She is fighting with all her controlled power, just trying to get Pyotr the leave. That is all she wants right now. She needs to get Nick out of here, soon. When the fight is over she knows that Pyotr will tell every vampire in the city (or near it for that matter) that he is a wanted man, dead or alive (but preferably alive, information is always the key!).

Tiring, are we?, Pyotr sneers. He thinks that Moira is finally learning her place, beneath his feet and groveling, begging for forgiveness. She should be asking for mercy, just as she did before.

Out of nowhere a leather strap is in Moira’s capable hands and she wraps it around Pyotr’s head. Doing exactly as she hopes, Pyotr opens his mouth and bites down on the leather. When his indestructible teeth sink into the plush leather Moira shocks him. Basically, she electrocutes him with her mind. The effects are short term, but she only needs a second.

Take off your pants!, she hurriedly thinks to Nick as she grabs Pyotr’s head from behind, twists sharply to the right, and then pulls backwards. Nick doesn’t know why his pants would be of any use, but finds it is better to do as Moira asks. Standing and stepping on the heels of his slick shoes he removes his pants as fast as he can with his shaking limbs.

Twisting Pyotr’s head doesn’t kill him. It only severs his spinal cord, making it take longer for him to repair himself. His head is dangling at an impossible angle, but no flesh is torn. Nick tosses his slacks to Moira and she snatches them out of the air. Sliding the waist over the mangled neck, she wraps the legs several times around the dangling head. She whispers into the pant encased head of Pyotr then runs to Nick who is still against the far wall where he had crawled to (out of the way).

“We need to leave, now! Before Pyotr wakes up! We only have minutes,” she says grabbing onto his hand and dragging him toward the entryway, where all of the crime scene investigators are waiting for reentry.

“What about my crime scene!? Your fighting destroyed it,” Nick shrieks at her, resisting (futilely) her dragging hand. He can’t come up with a way to ensure that he won’t be fired. There is no possible way for him to cover this up! And the noise! How can he explain that to everyone waiting outside the door?!

“Shhh, I’ve got it covered. Do not fret; I can put it back to the way it was before my little brawl. And Pyotr will remain invisible to all your investigators outside.” With a snap of her fingers everything changes in the room. There is no more glass glittering the floor. All the tables are once again tables, not bits of wood. The chandelier is hanging in all its glory once again. The body is back in the exact same position from when they had entered. It looks perfect, Nick marvels. Well as perfect as a crime scene can be.

Looking down Nick frowns. In Moira’s ‘touching up’ she’s forgotten about his absence of pants. Making a face he clears his throat. Indicating with his hand he points to his yellow boxers (covered with little puppy dogs) and purses his lips. Covering her mouth with a delicate hand Moira giggles. She had completely forgotten about the fact that Nick’s pants are currently serving a purpose other than covering Nick.

Noting his finely muscled legs she asks, “Puppies?”

“You picked them out,” Nick reminds her while turning a delicate shade of pink. Moira snaps her fingers and once again Nick is wearing black slacks.

“What about what all of them,” Nick indicates the door, “heard of your ‘little brawl’?” He can’t just pass all that noise off as imaginations run amuck.

“Don’t worry, the walls are sound proof. They all think that you just spent a little time alone with your personal assistant and the crime scene. There is nothing to be concerned about.” Patting his cleanly shaven face she starts off toward the door again. Nick follows a second later. Pyotr’s body twitches at the sound of Moira’s heels clacking. Nick hurries behind her like a faithful Labrador.

Exiting the apartment Moira once again blinks them to her apartment. They need to speak. Moira needs to speak to Nick. He needs to know a small bit about her past to understand what has just happened. She already knows he’s was formulating questions for her. His curiosity is like a force of nature and she knows that her barriers will break soon anyways. Why not just go ahead and tell him? What is the worst possible outcome? Oh, yes, that he will run screaming from the room.

Nick collapses onto her impeccably white sofa. He’s exhausted but can’t seem to close his eyes. He feels like toothpicks are holding open his eyelids; they’re glued wide open. He looks to Moira and finds that she is standing in the middle of the spacious living room fidgeting. Moira is not accustomed to feeling uncomfortable, but then again, she has never sat down and told someone how she had come to be a vampire. It is something she avoids entirely. The more I spend time with this human, the more I turn back into the weak fledgling I used to be. What is it with this human man?

Moira’s thoughts turn calculating as their eyes lock. An unspoken communication passes between them. Nick knows he is about to learn something vital about the complex woman that is Moira and Moira knows that after this there is no turning back. Nick has to know everything. He has to understand that she just put him in a very dangerous situation. That this may get him killed. And she is at fault. Moira can’t bear having him hurt because of her. He is the only human that has actually helped her (not just give into her every whim).

Folding her legs, Moira sinks to the plush white carpeted floor. “Nick, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else, ever before. This information you must take to your grave or you will find yourself in that grave much sooner. You have to understand why Pyotr is so dangerous. And not just to me now, I’m afraid by my asking for your help I have dragged you into a life threatening situation. I am at fault, not you in the slightest,” she says slowly. Her eyes trained on his. The blue in his eyes softens as he gazes into her bright green eyes. He is again lost in the depths of her eyes, but this time he doesn’t fall in. He just floats in them as she speaks.

Nodding, he makes one request, “Can we go back to my apartment, though? I need to feed my dog,” he says remembering his loyal Bull-Mastiff waiting for him at home.

With a small smile she says, “Yes, but due to the severity of the situation I have dragged you into, I will not leave your side until there is no more danger,” she vows.

“Boe,” Nick says thinking of his dog, “doesn’t really like strangers, but he’ll get over it. Go ahead and blink us over there. I really don’t think I have the energy to walk.” Nick’s voice is tired, so Moira asks him the address and she blinks them to the messy apartment of Detective Nick Rogers.

Once there and relaxing comfortably on Nicks overstuffed sofa Moira asks, “Are you ready to hear a depressing story? I can promise you that by the end your view of me will change, but please wait until I have finished completely. And remember, I mean no harm to come to you.” Moira averts her eyes, unable to look directly at Nick. Nick can tell this is going to be hard for her. His natural instincts kick in and all he wants to do is comfort her. Tentatively, he reaches across the small space between them and grabs onto her hand; his large one enveloping her small one. Hers is just the size to fit directly in his. With a deep breathe Moira begins a tale to rival Shakespeare’s famous tragedies.