Hildegarde bit back a curse, a shriek, a howl of frustration! Her chosen prey slipped across the street from Cesar Chavez Plaza Park, turned left and continued walking.
She had almost had him! That handsome man with his hispanic looks and aristocratic nose. She was half tempted to hunt him still, and lure him away... but no. That would be poaching.
The Lord watched, helplessly fuming as the man crossed the imaginary boundary into the Alder Clarke's personal rack, a place where she dare not follow. Not without permission - of which she did not. Her Beast sensed her weakness and wrapped itself, with tendrils black, more tightly around her spine, rubbing itself deliciously inside her brain pan. A pique took hold of her and she almost summoned the force of will to smash it down.
Instead she took herself across the street, breaching that threshold only known to the Kindred of Sacramento. She would have her drink, across the line. A challenge; a secret; a stroke of delectable defiance; humour. Her steps took her toward the richly appointed Citizen Hotel, with its attendant restaurant and bar. The red brick tower was just too tempting to resist...
The bar was a quiet hum of activity, leant a certain gravitas by the pull of the hotel. She ordered an expensive drink, and on sudden impulse a small meal, willing the Blood to energise her undead form, coupling it with the Blush. A smile split her lips, unintentional of course, forcing her to recover by hiding behind the menu, as warmth spread from her core to her limbs. Behind her ear, the Beast hissed strongly with renewed vigour - Hunger gnawed. For the moment the Lord ignored it.
Fortunately, any oddness she may have exuded, sitting there behind the menu while she waited for her order, with a full glass and open bottle at her right, was replaced by the urgency of new arrivals. The doors open and a small company entered the bar: a dandy with van dyke beard and shoulder length silvery locks; a bald man with thick moustache, grey suit with claret shirt; a blonde in a red dress, tottering artfully on high heels; an elegant woman with swarthy complexion, hair thickly piled on top of her head - her smile mysterious and inviting, eyes animated. But following behind - a rare creature: an exotic beauty with golden skin, artful poise and chiffon scarf draped over her head and shoulders like a movie star of old, ostentatious necklace. This last woman of mystery absorbed the stares like a flame absorbing moisture.
"My good friend! Our table!" The moustachioed man snapped his fingers, strutted.
The dandy went for his jacket pocket, stopped, recovered by gently herding the three ladies to their table.
Peeking over the menu, Hildegarde felt an uncharitable stab of envy at the golden skinned woman. She held the entire room in thrall, yet she did not need to say or do anything to so. She simply was. A jewel in flesh, walking among them. And the men, at least, knew it.
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