Out front the speakeasy was silent, the threat of a raid having sent all the flappers and their beaus home for the night, but behind the false cafe things were getting exciting. The tommy gun loudly rattled off it's shots as Heather moved, the tall woman racing pantherlike through the darkened warehouse. Her long black haired flowed behind her as she brutally disarmed the man, ripping the gun away from him along with a few bloody fingers. His choked off cry of pain was cut off as she lunged, drinking deep from the run runner's throat as he struggled weakly, finally slumping still. "Disgusting," Heather hissed to herself as she coldly cast the body away. Her eyes swept the hall, studying the barrels of booze, then she strode towards them. Each punch burst the kegs open, spilling cheap booze out onto the floor, filling the air with the scent. "You done?" the young man's voice asked. Heather calmly walked away from the spilling booze to where he stood in the doorway, studying him warily. "Just about Wilson," she answered him coldly, "so, are you going to call your bosses to gloat about this?" "No," Wilson shook his head firmly, brown hair hid beneath his fedora, his suit still crisp and mostly neat. A smile, "You and I both know we can't report this." "True enough," Heather admitted. She gave him a look, "I'm doing this for my own reasons, not for your damn crusade." "I know" there was a softness in Wilson's voice, "I loved her, too." "Hmph," obviously Heather did not want to be reminded of that. They stood together beneath the moon's silver light as Wilson lit up a home-made wooden torch, then he carefully tossed it underhanded into the otherwise empty building. In a few moments the warehouse was fully ablaze, the fire lighting up the night around them as the booze and contraband within went up in smoke. "We're hurting them by doing this," Heather said to him quietly, "but I want more... I want the boss, and I want the man who killed her." "We may never get them," Wilson admitted, "or at least I won't." "It's not so easy for me to do, too," Heather quietly admitted, "the Don is the most paranoid man I've encountered, he's surrounded by guards." Wilson gave her a thoughtful look, wondering at the admiration he heard in her voice. "Does that mean you're giving up?" he asked her. Heather barked a bitter laugh. "No," she said firmly, "I swore on Lily's grave that I'd make them regret killing her." A cold smile, "All it means is that this'll take some time... and time is something I have in plenty." "What are you?" Wilson finally made himself ask the question that had hovered on his lips since he had first met her, months ago. "Do you really want to know?" Heather asked curiously. "Yes, I think I do," Wilson said after a moment, studying her blue, almost black colored eyes and parchment pale skin. . "You may not believe it but I'm a vampire," Heather said, confessing something she had rarely revealed to men before. "Thank you," Wilson said softly. "Hmm?" Heather raised a single eyebrow. "I guessed, but I wanted to know for sure," Wilson admitted. They stood there silently a moment, "Is there anything I can do to help?" "Not for what I'll be doing," there was a touch of gentleness in Heather's voice, "besides, you know that Lily would want you to stay out of something like this." Wilson finally moved away from her, heading towards where his Ford was sitting not too far away. "I never understood what you and my sister had," he said quietly, "but I'm glad she knew you... for however long it lasted." "Me, too," and Heather silently disappeared into the night. Professor Sharon D'Angelo blinked in surprise as the brown haired scholar listened to the intense young woman rip apart her discussion on Prohibition, not to mention refuting almost all of her arguments on banning illegal narcotics. "Well," she fought back painful tears as she collected her papers and left the stage, "please excuse me." The tall young woman reached Sharon before she could flee the room, her expression faintly compassionate. "I'm sorry, Prof. D'Angelo," she said quietly. Sharon clenched her jaw, then released it as she tried to control her emotions. She wasn't used to talking about her work in a open forum like this, nor had she expected a expert to be dwelling in the audience to ambush her. "Nothing to be sorry for," Sharon said stiffly. "I think there is," she met Sharon's gaze with true compassion. "Occasionally I get so caught up in the argument, I lose sight of the person I'm fighting with," she explained. Part of Sharon wanted to stay mad, but she found it impossible to do so under those kind eyes. "Apology accepted Miss...?" "Heather McKennit," she introduced herself with a nod. They walked away from the lecture hall together as Sharon looked at her curiously, "Do you really believe in legalizing addictive drugs?" Heather shrugged eloquently. "More honestly, I don't see much alternative," she admitted, "the war on drugs seems to have been a spectacular failure." "I liked your argument that we were only helping keep the prices up," Sharon murmured wryly, "with all our drug seizures." Heather flashed a smile, "Not my line, of course, but it is a good one." They walked through the halls of the college a bit, "I suppose I couldn't take you out to coffee or something?" Sharon looked at Heather with surprise, a bit of blush coloring her cheeks. There was something oddly charming about her, this striking dark beauty who stood beside her. She could feel her heart race, her palms sweat, but she didn't know why. "I'd like that," Sharon croaked. "Good," Heather flashed a charming smile, and Sharon early melted. They shared a drink at the cafe, conversation flowing easily, then Sharon surprised herself again by inviting her home. Heather and her were silent as they went to Sharon's bedroom, the taller woman gracefully taking charge. With a smile Heather stripped her, kissing softly, then lay her down on the bed before proceeding to make love to Sharon very, very thoroughly. Later Heather rose from the bed, looking down at the sleeping woman thoughtfully, then bent down to bite gently at her neck. She didn't take much, just enough blood to ensure the younger woman would sleep the rest of the dead for a few hours. She dressed quickly then stalked through the halls of the old mansion, following a layout she had memorized days earlier. The old man lay in a bedroom on the first floor, tubes and wires connecting him to various monitoring devices. Once a big, strong man age and illness had withered him to nothing, leaving a broken husk behind. Lionel D'Angelo, once the drug lord of the east side and king of the speakeasies, was now reduced to this. Something, some unknown instinct awakened the gray haired old man and he blinked, looking up at her with a oddly blank expression on his face. "Who are you?" he croaked then asked, "What are you doing here?" Heather let some of her unearthly aspect free, her eyes glittering in the shadows. "Just checking my handiwork," she answered softly, "the car accident in '69, the attack in '80, the car bombing... they all put you here." "You were.. responsible for that?" Lionel blinked blood shot eyes at her, hazy with pain. "Why?' he managed to wheeze. "Do you remember Lily Wilson?" Heather asked. "Who?" he blinked at her in incomprehension, then the ill man paled even more as her face darkened with rage. "She was a waitress in a little cafe downtown," Heather growled, "just a nobody, a ordinary woman. She was unlucky enough to spot you and your men moving a shipment of booze... and you killed her for it." "All of this," Lionel weakly gestured to his mangled body, "was because of that?" "It's little enough, I think," Heather purred darkly. "Kill me," the old man murmured as she moved to go, "please." "I'm not finished punishing you yet."
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