Brick’s not much of a dancer, but that never really stopped them from enjoying it. In fact, the only time Brick had ever considered the quality of their dancing was back in high school. A few kids laughing and pointing, mocking the fat kid. It does a number on the self esteem regardless of age. They’ve grown thicker skin since then- had to, really, just to survive in the world they live (and die) in these days- but the self consciousness still rears its ugly head sometimes. Working the bar in the Vampire’s Nest gets Brick thinking about dancing a lot.

There’s a girl out on the floor, jostled between bodies, dancing just as badly as everyone else and still having a great time. She’s pretty; square jaw, tightly braided black hair, stained tank top with too many jingling accessories around her neck. She’s wearing purple knitted wrist warmers and army fatigues, shaking her ass to an industrial beat while other sweaty punks dance and jostle to get closer to the stage. She seems to be content to dance at the periphery.
Brick tries not to stare like a creep, but she keeps making eye contact as they try to pay attention to patrons ordering blood and whiskey on the rocks.

Twenty minutes pass in a blur and the group on stage say their piece and make way for the next act. The stage DJ tonight is Saren Carcass, another zombie employed by Vampire’s Nest, who drops a house beat and hypes up the guys shambling onstage.

“Ho-ly shit,” a voice pipes up to Brick’s left. The dancing girl is sitting there with a big smile on her face, pupils blown and sweat dripping off her brow.

“Havin’ a fun time out there?” Brick has to shout a little over the music.

The girl rips her wrist warmers off and airs off her palms. “No, I’m out here partying ‘cause I’m having the worst time of my life. Yeah I’m having fun!”

Brick laughs loudly. “Glad to hear it. What can I get you, doll?”

“Water?”

Brick gives her a once-over. “Funny, I had you pegged for a vampire. What brings you to the nest?”

The girl shrugs. “Couple friends recommended it. They’re into the bloodbag scene, but I’m just checking out the venue.”

“You don’t say,” Brick says, pouring them a tall ice water. “You seem cool around the undead crowd. What’s your name?”

“Annalise. You?”

“Brick.”

“Nice to meet you, Brick the bartender. Love the pin on your suspenders,” Annalise says, resting her chin in her hand.

Brick looks down. They’d worn the lesbian frog pin today. They kind of hated that pin, but their brother gave it to them in a sweet but fumbling attempt at acceptance after they came out. The pin’s a little old and extremely tacky, but Brick still wears it anyway.

“Thanks. You practice in the cult of lesbianism?” Brick jokes.

“Ha! I don’t need to practice, I’m pretty good at it,” Annalise grins. Brick can’t help the laugh that spills out of their lips. This is the hardest they’ve been come onto in a while. It’s flattering in a way that makes their knees a little weak.

“Goddamn girl. If I didn’t know better,” Brick leans shamelessly on the counter, “I’d say you were flirting.”

“I could be. Depends on what time you’re off work tonight.”

Brick whistles low. “’Fraid you’ll have to wait a bit. 7 AM.”

“I’ve waited longer for a lot worse,” Annalise winks. “I’ll give you my number and pick you up when you’re off?”

Brick inclines their head. “You’re not put off by…” they gesture vaguely at their body. “The undead?”

Annalise snorts. “Hardly. I like ‘em macabre.” She signs devil horns with a wink, then writes her phone number on a napkin and slides it to Brick. “See you at 7?”

Brick grins. “7.”

They turn to the customer on the other side of the bar, who’s been staring at the two of them in a half-buzzed way that gives Brick the immediate urge to bully them. “The fuck are you lookin’ at, Al?”

“Real smooth,” Alex slurs with a smile. Brick sticks their tongue out at him.

-

Brick’s brother isn’t home for the next three days, so they decide their place is probably the better of their two options. It’s also a shorter drive.
They pull up in Annalise’s beaten up Saturn and clamber out, groping each other and laughing as they head up the apartment stairs.
As soon as the door closes and Brick throws their bag on the couch, Annalise’s hands are all over them. Brick’s sounds of surprise and enthusiasm are quickly muffled by red lips and eager hands sliding up their shirt.

“G- hold on, hold on,” Brick tries to catch their breath.

“Too fast?”

“A little. Let’s at least make it to the bedroom,” Brick laughs. Annalise nods and takes a moment to finally look around. Brick’s house is messy, but well loved and cozy. Two kayaks take up the majority of one wall behind the worn couch, and photos of Brick and (presumably) their family line the walls. There’s a Bikini Kill poster stapled to the wall and two framed concert tickets next to it, curling with age.

“Nice place,” she says.

Brick takes her hand and leads her through the living room and into the bedroom on the left. “No need to lie, it’s a dump. It’s my dump though.”

That earns a giggle from Annalise, and she squeezes Brick’s hand. “So, any boundaries? Big no-no’s?”

“Careful with the new stitches on my calves, but I’m chill otherwise. Nothing hardcore,” Brick answers. “How about you?”

“I’m easy. Just try not to bite.”

Brick chuckles as they open the bedroom door. “You got it.”

Entering the bedroom, Annalise hardly has time to take in her surroundings before Brick is backing onto the bed and pulling her with them. “Sit on my face?”

“You have to ask?” she laughs. She shimmies her pants off quickly and climbs on top of Brick, knees framing their head. They lick their lips eagerly as she lowers herself onto their face.
She adjusts for only a moment before Brick dives in. They lick with a flattened tongue repeatedly while Annalise’s hand finds its way into Brick’s auburn hair.
Brick laves their tongue lovingly through the folds of Annalise’s cunt, slurping her heady taste and grinding their nose into her clit. The sounds she makes above them are pure heaven, and Brick grabs a handful of her ass just to hear her squeal. Their tongue dives in again and again, licking, sucking, slurping. She grinds in short bursts, reveling in the attention to her cunt.

“Oh god, fuck,” Annalise breathes. She hunches over, bracing herself on one hand while the other grips Brick’s hair like a lifeline. The angle changes, and Brick’s focus is solely on her clit now.

The hand that wasn’t holding Annalise’s ass is now thumbing open her hole while Brick’s tongue is busy. They suck slowly, repeatedly, while Annalise rolls her hips in time.

“Oh, Brick, Brick,” she moans. Her hips lose rhythm. Brick’s tongue hasn’t ceased its relentless attack on her clit and the folds of her labia. It laves over her, all wet hot breath and soft hums. The pressure when they suck her down just so has Annalise feeling like she’s going to melt. The tension in her muscles is white hot as she moans, succumbing so easily to Brick’s skilled mouth.

Their thumb enters her shallowly, merely stretching her open. The filthy sounds they make as they lick and suckle encourage her own in turn.
The saliva and slick is running down Brick’s chin now, and they’re shamelessly reveling in it. The way Annalise’s coming apart on top of them sends heat through their whole body. Their grip tightens. Their tongue works harder, more insistent. Breaths come quick and hurried, and her hips grind on their face urgently.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” she squeaks out. Her arms are shaking as that precipice approaches.
Brick doubles down, taking her clit into her mouth and sucking hard. Hard, hard, hard. Their thumb stretches her as she bears down, empty and wracked with tremors.

“Brick!” Annalise screams in a broken voice. She bears down on the tiny intrusion and feels her clit stiffen and seize as she comes on Brick’s tongue.
Her hips roll with little control, chasing Brick’s suckling until, all at once, it’s too much. She whines in protest, and Brick releases her with a wet pop.

“All good?” Brick checks with a grin.

“God,” is all Annalise can muster. She climbs off their face and flops to the side of the bed, catching her breath. “Gimme a minute.”

They hardly give her five seconds before they’re rolling over and working their tongue on one of her nipples, chasing after her soft, salty skin with every heaving breath she takes. They moan unabashedly around her breast.

She takes hold of Brick’s hair again, head thrown back and whimpering at the tickling sensation of Brick’s tongue along her chest. Brick follows the curve of her breast upwards, licking at her collarbones like a starving dog. Up the tight cords of her neck to her jaw, where she angles her head down to meet Brick’s lips in what must be the sloppiest kiss she’s ever shared.

Brick’s eyes flutter shut when they feel the intrusion of her tongue in their mouth. Their right hand runs its way up Annalise’s ribs and stops just shy of her breast, moving instead to her shoulder blade where they can pull her closer. Their chests press together now, Sophie with one hand entangled in Brick’s hair and the other hand scraping her nails against their upper back. Brick’s hips roll, grinding on air.

“Mmnh, Brick,” Annalise breaks away to mumble.

“Yeah?” Brick responds, chasing her lips.

Another long kiss almost wipes Annalise’s mind free of the nagging question on her tongue. Almost. “Brick.”

“Mhm?”

“Can I fuck you?”

“God, you can do anything to me right now,” they grin before diving back in to lap at the intersection of her jaw and her ear.

Annalise takes a firm hold of their shoulder then, pushing them off of her and reversing their positions. She’s sitting astride Brick like riding comes second nature to her. The sight alone makes Brick groan with poorly-disguised desire. She even shoots them with a smile that makes their dead heart flutter.

Brick reaches to fold their hands behind their head as they lie prone, stitches around their left flank pulling taut.

“Man, if I look half as good as you when I’m dead it’ll be a miracle,” Annalise says before she shifts to straddle Brick’s right leg.

Brick tries not to let their blush intensify. “Shit,” is all they can eke out.

Annalise wastes no time after her eyes have taken their fill. She brings their left knee up to her hip and grinds down self-indulgently for a few seconds. Her eyes close and she breathes heavily through her nose before she remembers herself; she trails her right hand up Brick’s thigh to the thatch of curly hair at the fork in their legs. Brick is sopping wet by now, glistening in the low light. She makes a cursory swipe through the moisture of their cunt, earning a jerk of the hips from Brick and a whine she hasn’t heard all night. The slick that comes away on her fingers is tantalizing in a way Annalise has no metric for. She brings her fingers to her lips and makes hazy eye contact with Brick as she sucks them down. Brick, for their part, only whimpers a little.

Annalise isn’t beating around the bush anymore after that (no pun intended). Her index and middle finger slide into Brick with no resistance, while her thumb finds the base of Brick’s clit and rubs in time with her thrusts. At the intrusion, Brick breathes out another new noise before attempting to muffle it by biting their knuckles. Annalise smiles at that. She redoubles her focus on pleasuring Brick, tongue stuck out between her teeth. Shallow thrusts, circles around their clit, slowing to spread her fingers and stretch Brick open.

Brick can’t really hold themself back when she changes her angle and puts real force behind her thrusts, the meat of her thumb pat pat pat-ing against their skin. They moan, they whine, they choke off the beginnings of screams as their spine arches and she doesn’t let up in the slightest.

“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck,” Brick breathes eloquently. Each expletive feels like it’s being punched out as she fucks them into the mattress.

Annalise is too focused on their face to respond. They watch as their eyes screw shut and flutter open, changing her angle every few thrusts to make Brick writhe underneath her. Their short moans reach a fever pitch just as Annalise’s arm starts cramping up from the awkward angle; before Brick comes, she shifts and fits four fingers into their cunt, curling her fingers on their g-spot and stretching them so deliciously.

Brick cries out as soon as she does. Their hips move of their own accord, chasing the high as the obscene sounds of wet squelching permeate the air. “Anna- Anna, oh fuck.”
It’s only a few more thrusts of Annalise’s fingers before Brick wrenches their eyes open to look at her face as they come, hard. Annalise looks animalistic crouched over them, mouth open, sweat dripping down, hair stuck to her forehead. Brick meets her intense gaze with a wanton, licentious one of their own.

The eye contact only lasts for a few seconds before their eyes roll back and Brick succumbs to the immediate trembling weakness of the aftershocks.

Annalise’s fingers coax them through and beyond their orgasm, only stilling when Brick moans weakly in protest.
Brick, absently, thinks about dancing again. Their apartment isn’t anywhere near large enough to dance, but they want, with a swell of emotion powerful enough to knock the breath from their lungs, to be able to take this girl and twirl her around like nobody’s watching.

Annalise rests her head on her crossed arms, lying supine at Brick’s side. She watches their face as they come down shakily from their high. “How ya feeling?” she asks.

Brick turns to meet her eyes with a tired smile. Instead of replying, they shoot her a double thumbs up and a wobbly grin, which she responds to with a laugh. Her finger gently trails along the line of stitches running up to Brick’s elbow.

“Wanna go again?”

The sun rises in the municipality of Salem, California like milk slow-poured into coffee; a drop of light in the ink-dark sky, clouds touched with color and swirling with the current of winds from high aloft. The clouds often come heavy with the news of rain in winter, but the thin pink-orange wisps on this late spring morning promise nothing but heat.
Skrilliant reclines on the roof of the Vampire’s Nest, clawed hands wrapped around a steaming mug of blood cocoa. It watches the clouds as they idly shift, a sunrise that harkens the beginning of its daily bedtime routine. It takes a careful sip. It’s about 6:30AM, and in a few minutes, Skrilliant’s peace will be broken by its loyal underlings requesting to go home early.

Skrilliant holds no animosity towards the young undead the Vampire’s Nest employs, but it wishes bitterly and often that they would simply leave it alone. It wasn’t cut out for bar ownership.

Right on cue, the elevator pings. Brick, Jonsey, and Sophie pile out of the century-old elevator and greet Skrilliant with the “casual” affect they put on when they want something, or don’t want to get in trouble. Thankfully, today it’s the former.

Brick, as always, takes the lead. “Yo, boss! It’s closing time, we finished cleaning early.”

“Requesting early outs?”

“Maybe,” Sophie chirps, putting on her most innocent smile.

Skrilliant lolls its head back to make eye contact with the crew. “Why don’t you guys ever want your full night’s pay? You’re missing out on an hour and a half every week.”

Jonsey shrugs, silent as ever, and Brick just hums. “Better to be out enjoying the world than stuck behind a bar when every other creature of the fuckin’ night is sleeping. We’re not making any tips at this hour anyway.”

Skrilliant sips its drink. “Fair enough. Give me the clipboard.”

Brick hands over the schedule sheet eagerly, and Skrilliant signs off with its familiar scratchy signature.

“Don’t have too much fun out there,” Skrilliant murmurs.

“You too, boss.”

“Good day, Skrilliant!”

“Later.”

Skrilliant shoots a lazy two-fingered salute in response. The three turn tail and squeeze back into the elevator, chattering amongst themselves. Skrilliant sighs and settles back into its mug of blood cocoa. The sun is up, the sky is blue, the birds are chirping, and Skrilliant is working on a headache.

It’s an evolutionary fact for all social species that genetic and behavioral variety is amongst their greatest strengths. Lacking extreme speed, strength, bite force, body mass, or other notable traits that define solitary animals’ survival strategies, humans have adapted over millennia to form societies of varied individuals working together which have helped them survive cataclysmic events time and time again. One human alone, Oliver knows too well, is just a tasty morsel in a world full of sharp teeth.

Oliver chews the inside of their cheek as they force themself to remember this fact. It’s currently the only thing keeping their ass firmly planted in the plastic chair as the woman at the speaker continues to bark.

“-And the zoning laws are there for a reason! This motion to kill them will kill our freedom! The people of Salem have a right to own their cars and enjoy the open road-“

This particular group of humans seems to have forgone Oliver’s notions of diversity of opinion in favor of forming a hegemonic group that seem to be afraid of sidewalks.

Oliver can only take so much, really.

They stand abruptly, waking up the other city council meeting attendees (all five of them). “Pardon me, ma’am.” Oliver smiles through gritted teeth.

The woman, Theresa, stops herself short and turns to meet Oliver’s glare. The council members seated at the long table in the back of the room sag with a mixture of relief and defeat.

“Do you really believe anything you’re advocating for? Have you ever been to a city where a car wasn’t a necessity?”

Theresa looks ruffled. “Young man, I-“

“Ah ah,” Oliver cuts her off. “Wrong on both counts. My name is Oliver of Havana, and I am anything but young or a man. Now, you, on the other hand-” Oliver is making their way to the podium, index finger pointing accusingly at Theresa, “You are little more than a half century old. All that you see around you is all you’ve ever known. How can y-y-you stand here preaching the m-merits of car-centric infrastructure when you’ve never seen the way people build anywhere else in th-the world? Don’t you see the desolation that comes with these massive parking lots? Don’t you see how your “freedoms” are sold to you by people extremely interested in k-keeping you isolated and dependant on y-y-your cars?” Oliver advances a step with each question. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like to live in a place where you can exist freely as a human being? Where you don’t fear your neighbors? Don’t fear kindness for kindness’ sa-sake?”

“You- I-“

“You would condemn an entire populace to live in th-this misery forever simply because you’re afraid of change?”

“I’m not afraid of, of-“

Oliver’s leaning close now, “You are. You halt progress at every turn because you fear what you don’t know.” They hold Theresa’s shocked gaze for a long moment before she remembers to breathe. She blinks and looks anywhere but Oliver’s face.

“I know you, Theresa. I know a-a-a, a thousand like you. Your idea of the world stopped forming in your youth, and everything that’s happened since is wrong. Everything would’ve been better if it had stayed the same, but y-your ideal is one bought and paid for in human misery. It tastes like poison.”

A council member clears their throat. “Oliver..?”

Oliver leans away from the speechless woman. “Yes?”

“No need for threats, now. I think I speak for all of us when I say,” the man, balding, in his fifties, checks on either side for approval, “your earlier presentation was… Lovely. We all appreciate the studies and works cited. But uhm.”

Oliver’s frown twists further.

“Well, to put it bluntly, she’s right. We have no right to take away people’s freedom to own cars. It’s the American dream.”

Red flashes in Oliver’s eyes. They face fully toward the table. “That has nothing to do with- I’m not advocating for the removal of personal p-property! I’m advocating for loosening the zoning laws for minimum parking requirements! Y-you saw my interviews!”

Oliver is met with a chorus of “yes, but”s, and their teeth find the bloody inside of their cheek again. Theresa is standing there with her arms crossed, shaken but triumphant, resin jewelry gleaming in the dim lights.

They attempt to refocus their hearing as white-hot rage builds up inside. The council members’ words of diplomatic rejection ring hollow in their head. It takes all types of make a society. Our differences are our strengths. You cannot hate them for what they don’t know.

Oliver repeats this in their head like a mantra as they stomp back to their seat, where their long black jacket is draped over the wooden chair. “I’ll return next month,” Oliver snarls, and leaves in the blink of an eye. The council members and the meeting attendees stare blankly in their wake.

Given enough time and evidence, they will see reason. They will, even if Oliver has to force their eyes open.

The industrial elevator carries Skrilliant seven stories below ground to the workshop. Stainless steel and concrete surfaces dominate here, less weathered than the old industrial steel and brick that make up the above-ground warehouse of the Vampire’s Nest. The hallways down here are wide, curved, and labyrinthine, marked only with vague signage and yellow padded bumpers. There are two industrial elevators in the east wing; one for palettes and supply loads, the other for raising and lowering trucks and other large machinery.

Skrilliant passes both without a glance.

The extensive underground complex was excavated and built piecemeal throughout the years, starting after the vampires bought the property in 1920. Skrilliant runs its hand down the wall curving gently to the right. This pathway leads to their habsuite, one of the first structures carved into the rock. The electric leading to their living room had been recently rewired, having caught fire after a surge from Oliver’s experiments. The scorch marks still mar the concrete walls that Skrilliant runs its hand over.
A few dozen steps later and the living room opens up, welcoming yellow lighting beckoning Skrilliant back to rest.
The familiar woven rug in the center of the concrete floor is rumpled as ever. The couches, a mixture of ostentatious and humbly low-class, were all thrifted or picked up from estate sales, none matching in theme or color. The few items of furniture that carry any hint of intentionality are the tables; side tables, a coffee table, and a television stand built during one of Oliver’s woodworking stints. Each is lovingly carved and skillfully crafted, unpainted but stained with a cherry finish. Atop most of the furniture is evidence of one of Salieri’s hobbies, bobbin lace weaving. White and pink doilies adorn chair backs, the arms of the couches, pillow covers, and tables. The familiar smell of the room envelops Skrilliant like a soft dusty hug.

It plops itself down on the nearest loveseat, legs dangling over the armrest, and promptly falls asleep.

Salieri holds her skirt tightly as she descends the spiral staircase, the grated iron clang clang clang-ing with every step she takes. Her eyes are wide in the near-total darkness, flashing red against the archival lowlights as she searches. There are three inventory punch cards in her hand, and she doesn’t have a clue if any of them are connected to the book she’s searching for.
Shelf after shelf pass by, each twice as tall as she is and their treasures protected behind thick glass panels. 5-A, 5-B, 5-C, 5-D; each shelf passes in a whoosh of skirts and clicking heels. She turns abruptly. 5-D, shelf 6, author Anonymous. Publish date 1769. She bites her lip as she turns the latch to reach the book. It’s rare that a volume surviving this long isn’t a religious or philosophical text, but Salieri’s been a book hoarder since before she was ever turned. This book, bound in tattered dirty cloth with gold leaf cracking off, has travelled with her overseas twice. It’s a volume of fairy tales and morality fables that predate the Grimm tales; she had read this religiously throughout her schooling in Arezzo, and found comfort in its whimsical nonsense when she struggled to see the beauty in the brutality of Christian teaching. Though it used to be one of her first favorite books, the memories are dim when her eyes skim the cover.

The next two punch cards are section 9, rows D and Y. She tucks the fairy tales into the crook of her arm and marches on through the dark.

Somewhere past section 7, a cobweb sticks itself to her hair and she struggles, spluttering and protesting to the empty dark.

After her second book is in hand, she trips on a crack in the stone and nearly crashes into one of the glass book cases. “Whoops!” she exclaims. “Good lord this place is a mess.” She angrily dusts herself off as she mutters.

9-Y is only a short stomp away. Skimming the shelves for her final and most likely target, however, comes up short. She blinks. Reexamines the punch card. 9-Y, shelf 4, author Galbiati, publish date 1801. Between Galbani and Galli. She shifts her weight as she steps away, tapping her chin.

“Maybe my library…? But when would I have…”

She thinks for a long while. The sections of lowlights behind her click off when they stop detecting activity. Salieri hardly notices.
Minutes pass in total darkness, before- “Aha!” Lights click back on as she bustles her way down row after row of books.

The spiral stairs with their emergency lights come back into view as she rounds on section 1. The section ends next to an entryway of sorts; a rug running into the archives, a bulletin board on the stone wall, and a row of filing cabinets full to the brim with decimal punch cards. A big printer sits dusty and derelict next to an old wax model of a human nervous system. Her real target is the pile of books she hasn’t sorted yet; the end of the book return chute, where the stack looms almost to the ceiling.

She stops just short of the mountain. She takes a deep breath, rolls up her sleeves, and gets to work.

The slamming door snaps Skrilliant back to the waking world, floundering for a moment as its brain reorients from under one of the couch cushions.

“Whoseuh?” Skrilliant slurs. It pulls its head out of the couch, black hair tangled and popping with static.

“Just me,” Oliver says flatly.

Skrilliant groans and relaxes back into the loveseat. “Where’ve you been?” It asks, rubbing its eyes.

“Pushing the boulder up the hill. The hell happened to you?”

“Work,” Skrilliant answers tiredly.

Oliver hums in acknowledgement. They tousle Skrilliant’s hair as they pass, heading for the kitchen.

“Would you like anything, dear?”

Skrilliant groans loudly in response. Oliver, one room away, snickers. They saunter back into the room with a cup of something cold, foul mood quickly evaporating as they sip. Skrilliant doesn’t know what’s in the cup, but they make a grabbing motion with both hands. “Gimme,” it whines.

Oliver only laughs. “Get your own.” They lean against the doorway casually.

Skrilliant flops back onto the couch. “You’re so cruel to me. I had a hard night.” One arm is thrown over its eyes dramatically.

“Aw, I’m sorry dear,” Oliver tsks. “But get your own.”

Skrilliant only lets out a haggard, long-suffering groan. “Salieri would get me a treat if I asked…”

“Where is Sali?”

“I’ll tell you if you share.”

“You are diabolical,” Oliver grins. Takes another sip. They already have a pretty good idea where Salieri is, but they hardly need to let Skrilliant know. “Tell you what,” they say. “I’ll get you an icey if you do me a favor.”

Skrilliant peeks out from under the crook of its elbow. “Hmm?”

Oliver pushes themself off the doorway and crosses the threshold casually. “I’ve had a shit morning. I need help focusing on my scheming.” They plant their hand on the armrest above Skrilliant’s head, leaning down to meet Skrilliant’s perpetually red eyes. Skrilliant’s gaze flicks between Oliver’s eyes, their mouth, and the cup they’re holding out of reach.

“I’m listening.” Skrilliant licks its lips.

Oliver’s gaze darkens with satisfaction. They lean closer. “You’re thirsty? Then here I am.”

Oliver is midway to climax, thighs pressed against Skrilliant’s face, when the door slams open again. The two of them nearly jump out of their skins.

“We have got to automate archive retrieval,” Salieri growls as she storms through the living room, books in hand and a bridal train of cobwebs trailing behind her.

“Knocking would be nice,” Skrilliant says, muffled under Oliver.

Salieri turns, startled. “Wh-?“ she does a double take. “Hey!”

“What?” Oliver grins. They grip Skrilliant’s hair harder and make a show of grinding down on its face.

She crosses her arms. “I see how it is. I’m downstairs for six hours and suddenly I get to miss all the fun?”

“I only just got home. Give me a s-second. Christ!” Oliver exclaims as Skrilliant does something vicious with its tongue. “Wh-what were you downstairs for?”

“Looking for my old fairy stories so I can summon a fae, and then digitize the books for shut-ins on the internet. I found one of my favorite ones but, lo and behold! The one I was actually looking for is missing!” She huffs and finally looks down at her dusty skirt. “We need to brainstorm some way to retrieve books from my archive without having to go down there. Look at me.” When she pats her skirt, another puff of dust explodes from the fabric.

“Little, ah, busy here. Give me-“

“Yeah, yeah, I see that. I’m going to go shower,” Salieri interrupts, waving her hand dismissively at the other two.

She continues muttering amusedly to herself as she follows the curved hallway to the bathroom. Oliver’s breathy moans follow her and she can only smile. No matter the mood she finds herself in, Oliver and Skrilliant always have a way of injecting enough levity that it slaps her back to reality.

The Vampire’s Nest, or, rather, its underground complex, was built for functionality rather than style, but the bathroom could be held as its one exception. The floor slopes steadily downward until the room opens up, with a vaulted ceiling and two large columns framing an in-ground roman style bath and adjoining Jacuzzi.
The room is tiled with mosaic up to the halfway point, where the warm colored concrete draws the eye gently upward. Lamplight illuminates the complex designs on the floor tiles; geometric shapes frame bats, deer, bison, bears, fish, birds, cougars, and the warm golden grass and grey-green trees that make up the landscape aboveground. The scene depicts a perpetual autumn, where the trees are full of acorns and the fish jostle for dominance in the river that winds across the floor to the bath. Each tile was plotted with Salieri’s artistic eye, but laying and setting them had been a group effort between the trio.

Stepping into the bathroom, there are three toilets on the right wall, each with a small accompanying sink. Next to the entryway on the left, towel hooks hold on to Oliver’s, Skrilliant’s, and Salieri’s chosen towels (each guarded jealously come bathtime). A laundry chute framed in mosaic as a hollow in an oak trunk is cut into the wall next to the towels.
Salieri strips without preamble and stuffs her skirt, blouse, and underthings into the chute.
She makes another fruitless attempt to sweep the cobwebs out of her hair.
Lamps in stained glass shades cast an almost romantic light as her dappled shadow falls on the tiles; even the scent of this room loosens her shoulders from the ordeal of the archive. She breathes a little easier in the warmth here; true to its roman influence, their floors are heated, and the smooth tiles bring comfort to her aching feet.

Hot water pours over her, spiraling away down the drain with shampoo and the remainder of her frustrations.