Ireland burned, and Heather McKennit felt helpless as the black haired woman watched the flames spread. It was nineteen sixty nine, and as August continued the Protestants and Catholics waged war against each other in Belfast. The police were actually helping Protestants burn out Catholic neighborhoods, and they were fighting back with every weapon they could lay hands on. 'An' I need to get to cover,' Heather thought grimly as she hurried down a side street, thankfully away from the spreading violence. She had come to look into her relations, curious to see if her family bloodline had survived, but obviously she had picked the worst time to come. "Hey, you there!" a police man cried, "What are you doing out at this time of night?" Heather stopped, growling with frustration as she stood on the cobbled alleyway. Part of her wanted to tell the officer it was none of his business, but this wasn't the time. "Just trying to get back to my lodgings," she said, using her best American accent. "Huh," the guard relaxed a bit as the shorter brown haired man peered up at her, "visiting the home country, are you?" "Something like that," Heather answered honestly. He pushed back his cap and scratched his head as he said, "Pardon my asking, but why are ye visiting now?" Heather smiled, careful to hide her fangs as she told him, "Trust me, I'm asking myself that same question." The older man fought back a laugh at that rueful comment. "All right, ye'd best hurry home," he said seriously, "the streets aren't safe tonight." 'You can say that again,' Heather thought as she nodded to him respectfully, "You be careful too, sir." "Do my best," he smiled a bit sadly before shuffling off into the night. 'He might die tonight, depending on where he's sent,' Heather thought as she peered at the man, 'or end up killing some other damn fool.' With a sigh she pulled her jacked around her and hurried off. The inn Heather chose was nearer the docks, a tactical decision made from long habit that she felt somewhat grateful for now. Hopefully she could get organized and get home before the riots got any closer or the inn staff began to ask questions about their pretty nocturnal guest. "Welcome back," the old man at the desk rumbled as Heather hurried inside. He sat on a high chair behind the battered old counter, puffing thoughtfully on a pipe. Whenever Heather looked at him she had the urge to ask if he really liked smoking that thing, or if he just thought that was what a Irish innkeeper should have. "Crazy night," Heather said wryly as she took off her coat, smiling grimly. "That it is," he agreed, "best stay in the rest of tonight, miss. I think it'll get worse before it gets better." "Probably," Heather agreed as she made her way up to her rooms. She slowed as she went down the hallway, nose twitching as she picked up a scent where it should not be. 'There's someone in my rooms,' Heather thought grimly. Inching her way silently up the dimly lit hall Heather stuck close to the walls. Reaching the door she cautiously reached out to the handle and turned it slowly, tensing her muscles. With a push she sent the wooden door open, ducking and rolling as she went into her room. "Hellspawn!" the bosomy blonde yelled as the crossbow she was carrying twanged, sending a arrow right above Heather's head to where her heart might have been if she was standing in the doorway. Swiftly Heather kicked out, sending the crossbow flying before the woman could reload. "What are you..." she started to ask only to yelp as the woman tried to stab her with a knife. "Die, creature from the pit!" the woman yelled as she swung with a dangerous looking curved blade. "Wha's all this then?" the innkeeper growled as he thumped across the floor, leaning on his cane. 'Oh great, witnesses,' Heather thought as she jumped back from another cut. "Sir, get back," she yelled in warning. "Daddy?" the young woman faltered. "Daddy?!" Heather echoed, blinking. "What do you think you're doing, Colleen?!" the older man growled as he swiftly disarmed the girl of various edged weapons. The newly dubbed Colleen looked sheepish, "But she's a vampire, Da!" Her father rubbed a hand over his face as he sighed, "She's not a vampire, she's a writer." "And how do you know she's a real writer?" Colleen whined, "She's pale, she sleeps during the day and has those neat eyes..." "I'm sorry, ma'am," the old man casually grabbed Colleen by the ear and began to drag her off, "I think my daughter and I need to have a little talk." "No problem," Heather answered wryly. "Daddy!" Colleen whined as she was tugged along, "That hurts!" "I'll tan your hide if you ever try something like that again," he growled as he frogmarched his daughter around the corner. "Bye," Heather waved farewell to the girl, then turned to look at the arrow sticking out the hallway wall. 'Do I want to pull it out?' she mused, 'Nah, not my problem.' 0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0 "You're kidding," Angela Rowan chuckled, her eyes alight with mirth, "You were really attacked as a vampire?" The elegantly dressed auctioneer was at the publishing house Heather used to produce her short stories, apparently there on business. "One of my more surreal trips," Heather admitted, having given the woman a somewhat edited account of that night. She had no need to know it had happened during the infamous Belfast riots and other such details. "Hey, Angela," one of the usual editors breezed in, the blonde haired man giving them both insincere smiles. "Hello Thomas," Heather recognized him instantly. She looked over at Angela, "After shaking hands, check you have the right number of fingers. Also, count your wallet before going into his office." Thomas pushed his wavy blonde hair back, his blue eyes looking hurt. "Heather, you're so cruel," he sighed sadly. "Is he really that bad?" Angela looked over at Heather a bit worriedly. "He's a shark," Heather shrugged, "but he'll play fair, mostly. Just don't agree to anything without your agent there." Thomas gave her a withering look, clearly unhappy about the advice she gave. He looked at her thoughtfully as something occurred to him, "Actually, I may have a job for you." Heather gave him a wary look as she asked, "You do remember what I told you I'd do the last time you screwed me over?" "I remember," Thomas paled slightly, "really, this is a serious deal!" "What did you threaten him with?" Angela whispered as the two of them followed Thomas back to his office. Heather smirked slightly, "To rip his balls off and turn them into a key chain." Angela paled, "He pissed you off that much?" "That," Heather conceded, "and I find a graphic threat usually works better." "I'll keep that in mind," Angela said wryly. Thomas' office was like many editors', neat on the surface but a disaster waiting to happen if anyone opened the wrong closet door. Heather settled into a seat after she offered Angela her pick, then she looked at Thomas and asked, "What's the deal?" Thomas nodded towards Angela, "As a auctioneer she's dealt with a number of exotic items, and has offered our company the opportunity to publish a collection of her on the job photos and stories." "The problem is," Angela confessed, "I'm a historian, not a writer." Heather processed that as she studied Thomas, "So, I assume you want me to process Ms. Rowan's historical notes into more gripping prose?" "Exactly," Thomas nodded. "Do I get a writer's credit or is it ghost writing?" Heather asked. "If it's a ghost, I want a bigger cut," she cautioned. "Ghost?" Angela asked, frowning. Heather looked at her with a slight smile, "If I ghost the book for you, only your name will be on the cover. In the liner notes it might mention I was a consultant, but it won't say I rewrote your stuff." "That's... kind of deceitful," Angela blinked. "Maybe," Thomas admitted as he sorted through some papers, "but readers generally prefer to see one name on a book cover." "Write me a contract and send it to my agent first," Heather ordered, "I'm not signing now." "Me too," Angela agreed hastily. Thomas sighed, "Heather, you're bad for business."
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