A Lie of Pity by Cyr

Brett found himself tapping his foot despite himself. The music in the club was actually quite catchy. This generation of music wasn't really his thing. He considered himself more of a rock n roll kind of guy; maybe with a bit of blues like Hendrix or Lynyrd Skynyrd used to play. The rhythmic drum n' bass and trance that pulsed through the speaker had a hypnotic effect on the man though, and from what he could see of the packed night club it had a similar effect on the rest of the patrons.

The building was full of people, almost all of them young, pretty, or handsome in some way. But California night clubs never experienced a shortage of people like that. The west coast's main export was pretty people. They were all dressed in their most exotic, expensive, and lascivious outfits. An alarming amount of those outfits were composed of little more than sheer fishnets, shiny, constricting latex, or studded leather. But that was expected. He knew the woman who owned the place and she had... particular tastes that had clearly inspired the theme of this renovated factory turned industrial fetish/dance club.

Brett stayed away from the dance floor. Not for lack of dancing ability, but because he was not there for a party. He was there to gather some information. However his liaison cared little for appointments or being on time. There wasn't much he could do about that. She had been informed that he was coming so she would see him in her own time as she always did. It wasn't the first time that she'd kept him waiting like a tardy date. While he waited he would busy himself with a drink. A young woman in a constricting leather bodice, black slacks and a braided ponytail too long to be her real hair walked past him and he stopped her with beckoning hand. She carried a black serving tray on her palm, expertly balancing half a dozen empty glasses that were on their way back to the bar for cleaning or a refill.

“A glass of the house exclusive, miss.”

The woman raised a skeptical eyebrow as she looked at Brett. He didn't look like he belonged at that club. His hair was a military fade that had grown a bit long as if it had been a month or three without a trim, he had two day scraggle that was too pitiful to call a beard and not ugly enough that he felt the needed to shave it off yet. His outfit was composed of a pair of dark blue jeans and a white untucked dress shirt and he couldn't be arsed to put on a tie. Seeing her look of doubt he couldn't help but chuckle to himself. He didn't really look the part, he knew. But he'd be damned if he'd squeeze into a pair of black skinny jeans and tied a cape around his shoulders. The woman that ran this club could be theatrical. The young waitress was probably new and thought they were all like that.

“Please.”, he pulled out a fifty dollar bill and smiled wide, putting on his best charming face and showing off his teeth. The young woman's eyes grew wide for a moment in realization at what she saw in his expression but she quickly composed herself and nodded as she took his money and went to go retrieve his order.

Brett continued to tap his foot to the music as he watched the various people on and around the dance floor. He didn't know why the waitress was so shocked. It wasn't like he was the only one in the club that ordered that drink. He could see others like him as if they were wearing a club t-shirt. It was in the way they moved. Almost too quick, too smooth. They danced much better than others for one. Super fast reaction speeds were great for following the movements of a partner.

The waitress came back with a wine glass full of an opaque red liquid. She moved to hand him change but he shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “Keep it as a tip. Thank you, miss.” The young black clad woman smiled, thanked him and scurried off before he could change his mind. He grinned to himself as he watched her go and swirled the contents of the glass in his hand. It would have been better if it had been warmed but not everybody found the smell of the drink appetizing.

Before Brett could lift his drink to his lips he was approached by a large, dreadlocked man who had security written all over him. “Madam Tamirah will see you now. Please follow me.”

Brett nodded and followed him, dodging around dancing club goers and being careful not to spill his drink. The large man that he tailed was well-dressed, wearing an onyx colored suit that had to have been tailored just for him. His skin was dark like mahogany and his dreadlocks were pulled into a kempt bushel of black hair that swayed down to his hips. Brett didn't recognize him. He was probably a new addition to the club owner's little coterie. She was known to collect people as if they were pieces of art, surrounding herself with beauty. It was a little sad really.

The tall ebony man guided Brett up a series of stairs and across a metal grate catwalk that lead to what was likely an office space in the club's former life as an industrial building. The office was suspended  from the middle of the high ceiling with an array of steel girders and rebar cords. The walls had been replaced by dark tinted glass that obscured the interior completely. If he had to guess it was probably bullet proof. Hell, it was probably bomb proof.

Another man dressed in a suit met them in front of the door leading into the office and gave Brett a pat down from shoulders to ankles.  The scraggly man patiently waited with his arms out from his sides while he was frisked. He was still being careful not to spill his drink and was slightly annoyed that he hadn't had a chance to enjoy it yet. Brett stole a sideways glance at the dreadlocked man when he leaned down over the crimson filled glass and took a sniff before stealing it away. That earned a chuckle and the dark man frowned back, obviously not amused. Brett wasn't sure what these guys were doing but if they had any clue who they were guarding they would have known that there was no weapon or poison he could possibly have on his person that would do a thing against his liason, the club owner. She was very old. He didn't know how old but he was pretty sure Madam Tamirah was old enough to have seen the rise and fall of an empire or two. She had seen the Chicago Cubs win a World Series at the very least.

After the two security guards were satisfied with Brett's lack of weaponry they finally opened the door for him and allowed him into the office that overlooked the club. As he stepped through the threshold he found that it overlooked the dance floor in a literal way. The floor was transparent and he was able to see the people beneath them, writhing and dancing about thirty feet below. He could even see the laser light array that was mounted to the underside of the office as it swiveled and bobbed in a kaleidoscope of colors in rhythm with the music. If he had to guess he would have surmised that anybody looking up would find the same black tint preventing them from peering up inside.

The room was tastefully decorated, looking more like a V.I.P. Room than an office. There were couches and comfortable looking chairs that probably cost more than some people made in a month. A dancing pole was erected at the center of the room and a few spotlights beamed down onto it as if it were a stage. Near the back, sitting behind a modern looking steel and glass desk sat a figure that could have been none other than the Madam herself.

The club owner leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. Brett felt a chill down his spine upon seeing the woman. She wasn't doing anything but sitting there yet her presence felt overwhelming. The club owner wore a black leather body suit that hugged tight around her curvaceous form like a second skin. Brett couldn't help but let his eyes roam over the woman at the desk. Her boots were black thigh-high stilettos; the heels were tall enough that he had to wonder if she could actually walk in them at all. He followed those legs up to the hips they were attached to and caught sight of the zipper line that seemed to extend all the way to the mound between her legs. Like a trail his eyes followed that zipper all the way up her body, pausing briefly to take in the blissful image of her full breasts pushing against the material that seemed to barely restrain them from bursting out. The zipper finally reached its end at the peak of her throat just below the chin. And to top off the entire ensemble the Madam was wearing a black gas mask. Madam Tamirah always hid behind a mask. He'd seen her in many different masks. Doll face masks, Japanese Noh masks... He even witnessed her wearing a rubber Nixon mask once. Very few people had ever seen her without the mask. He knew exactly what she was hiding underneath it.

Brett approached the desk of Madam Tamirah and he heard a faint click sound as the door to the office was closed. He glanced behind him to see that the security had stayed outside. The club owner valued her privacy and they obviously knew well enough to give their boss her space when she was doing business. He turned back towards the woman at the desk and greeted her.

“Thank you for seeing me, Madam Tamirah. I -”

The leather clad woman lifted a hand, silencing him before he could continue.

“You are here for information. That is the only reason you or anybody else come to see me nowadays.” Her voice was low, sultry, as if she were coxing him to come to bed to lay with her. Despite her words he could hear her smiling behind her mask.

Brett glanced at his feet, feeling very much like a scolded boy. Tamirah was old. She was also powerful. In his opinion she was also overly sensitive, but he would never say so. From what he had heard of Madam Tamirah, she was quite a looker back in her living days; not so much anymore. Some said that she served as a concubine to Egyptian royalty in days long passed. Others swore that she was some sort of royalty herself before she was Embraced by the Nosferatu. Some guessed that she wasn't anybody important, merely the victim of a cruel prank who lived much longer than anyone would have guessed.

He felt a hand on his back and he looked up to find Tamirah's desk empty. He glanced over his should and she was behind him, pressing her body against his back as if she were a familiar lover. He didn't even see her move, didn't hear her slip from her desk at all. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened as her gloved arms curled around his hips to hug him. The masked woman stepped forward and he walked with her. She guided him around her desk and pushed him into her seat behind it. Brett didn't fight back. She wasn't going to hurt him. Maybe.

The leather clad woman circled the chair and Brett couldn't help but imagine the theme of Jaws as she did so. “So... I'm currently looking into some matters for some associates of mine... Tracking down some personal property that has gone missing. Real sensitive stuff. Not the kind of thing you'd bother the police with, you know? I'm hitting dead ends left and right and I figured that you might know a little something, point me in the right direction.”

Tamirah's dragged a gloved finger across Brett's shoulder and swung around to face him. She gripped the corners of the back of the chair and bent over slowly, dipping down to caress her rubber-lined cheek with his. Her hips gyrated slowly as she swayed back and forth, putting on a show for him. It was a show that he'd seen before but in all truthfulness it was far from terrible. If he were still capable of being aroused he'd definitely be at half-mast for simply sharing a room with her.

“You exhaust every option before coming to me? I am hurt, Brett. Do you not like to visit? My information network is massive and you know I'd be more than happy to help you...” The Madam continued to sway for him, bending down further and further until the filter of her gas mask was brushing against the inside of his thigh.

“You are a busy woman, Madam... I didn't want to trouble you for such a trivial problem. It is beneath you and your abilities. However I am here now because I know that the answers I need are nestled somewhere in your web, wrapped safe and sound like a silk-encased fly being saved for a later snack.” Brett stayed as still as possible while Tamirah played with him. The truth was he didn't come to her first because she was dangerous. Dangerous and psychotic. And creepy. That was saying a lot considering the things he'd seen. The older their kind got the more they seemed to lose their grasp on reality and Madam Tamirah was very, very old.

She pulled herself back up, dragging the filter of her gas mask across his body as she brought herself upright. “You are such a sweet young man... You should visit more often. You could be one of my pretty things. I collect pretty things, you know. I could just eat you up!” Tamirah looped an arm around the back of her visitor's neck and lowered herself into his lap. She began to grind against him, gyrating back and forth to the music that thumped through every wall and pillar in the building. As she danced against him she teasingly slipped the zipper on her body suit down to reveal pristine earthen-toned skin; a slender throat that gave way her collar bone; cleavage that all but tumbled out from the tight confines of the leather that barely held it at bay; a taut, flat stomach with an Anhk navel piercing that glimmered when it caught the light.

The Madam's hand played through Brett's hair and pulled him close, encouraging him to bury his face against her body. The man beneath her obliged, letting her stroke her fingers against his scalp as he did his best to pretend that she did not terrify him on a primal level. He mourned silently that he could not enjoy this experience more. Basic pleasures of a woman's body were out of his reach. They had been for a long time. Blood was the only pleasure left for the both of them. Yet here they both were, pretending that they were both still human, that her dance did anything for either of them. Brett pretended out of pity for the woman. When Tamirah was turned it was not a gift. It was a curse inflicted out of cruelty and spite. It left her immortal and horribly deformed. A terrible fate for a woman who was once so beautiful it was thought the sun rose just to smile down on her. Now the sun existed just to destroy her, to rid the world of her presence, her hideousness, the moment that she dared to  greet it again.

The leather clad woman held him at her bosom for several minutes. Neither of them moved. Neither of them even breathed, like statues, like the dead they were. Tamirah's voice trembled as she whispered to the man nestled against her flawless skin. “Am... Am I still pretty?”

 The club owner lowered herself and sat down on Brett's lap. Slowly she undid the button at the back of the gas mask so she could slip it up and off from her head. Beneath the mask was not a beautiful woman but a creature. Her face was a withered husk, only bearing a passing resemblance to something that was human. Her skin was taut and dry like a mummy and her nose and ears were gone with only skeletal holes where they used to be. Her teeth were jagged and crooked. Many of them were missing and those that remained seemed to be stuck haphazardly around her mouth like dirty shards of black glass imbedded in a dirt road. Her hair was all but gone and the strands that clung stubbornly to her skull were little more than dry, wispy patches that looked as if they could be blown off with a strong wind.

The question was one she asked him every time he visited. It did not catch him off guard. He did not have to think about it. “Madam Tamirah is still beautiful.” She knew it was a lie of pity. A pitiful lie. But it still made her thin, cracked lips, at least what was left of them, curl up into a crooked smile. She leaned in slowly and planted a chaste kiss on Brett's lips. He could taste her scent on his lips, a mixture of blood and decay. He wanted desperately to spit, to wipe his mouth on his sleeve but he restrained himself. He was not cruel.

Tamirah removed herself from Brett's lap and he slowly climbed to his feet, carefully as to not appear too enthusiastic or relieved about being released from her touch. The withered woman took a step away and turned her back on the man whom she kissed only moments ago. She zipped her leather suit back up and put the gas mask on to obscure her features once more. She produced a folded piece of paper, seemingly from thin air and handed it to him. “This has a list of names and locations. A few connections that can help you. Please leave in peace and be wary in your business. Don't be a stranger.”

“I won't Madam Tamirah. Thank you for your help.” Brett stuffed the note in his pocket and headed for the door. He mentally patted himself on the back for not sprinting out of the office. He put his hand on the door knob and glanced back towards the desk where the club owner had taken her seat once more. She scared him. She was psychotic. She was powerful. She also seemed... lonely. Before Brett could stop himself  he spoke up to her. “We should get together for a drink sometime. I'll visit more often.”

When the leather clad woman didn't respond he awkwardly let himself out. The music broke the dead air of the office for only a moment before the door clicked shut behind him. She was alone once more. The Madam leaned back in her chair and crossed a leg over the other as she thought about the offer. “Such a sweet young man...”