A major thoroughfare, Coventry runs east to west, brilliantly lit by the marquees and neons of stores and mass media. But for every larger sign, there is a smaller one, indicating not a massive opening, but instead, a small door or two. An alley light that might be the door of a seemingly non-descript restaurant or club.
     Such is the way of things here. Nothing is as it seems. Stage door may lead to the most sumptuous restaurant in London. Glass and silver doubledoors may lead to an apartment building. Wood doors could lead to something more decadent.
     And so the cars, buses, and taxis rush to and fro on Coventry. West, Marble Arch. North, Suburbia. South, Haymarket and the Strand. East, the Picadilly area. As with all things in the City, you take your chances that you might get there with the rest of the onslaught.
     Off one of the alleys and side streets, the labyrinth of London, there's a non-descript door. Just one of several such doors that would seem to indicate a simple building. Maybe a warehouse. Maybe the backroom of some storefront. Nothing grand. But when it's opened, one can see something of neon.
     And if one has sharp senses, one can hear the electronica of a dance club...
     But once the door is closed again, this sound fades into the hustle and bustle of Haymarket...

     A Land Rover sits in an alley nearby, and a shadow moves toward it. There's a pause, the lighting of a cigarette and in the darkness there's a sudden flash of copper.
     Davydd Llewelyn's five feet from his Rover and one breath deep into his cigarette. It's the first dry night in a week, and instead of spending it in a removed greenhouse with an armful of Scandia and a mouthful of mead, he's just off a meeting. Another meeting.
     Sweet Jesus, I'm going to miss a couple of things about London, but I'm not going to miss this...
     Black leather folds over broad shoulders, cuts a strong shape for the strong man it covers. The coat falls at his hips. The rest is jeans, Doc Martens and a grey sweater over white thermal.
     All this in an instant...
     In the flicker of a flame...
     That he sends soaring from his fingertips like a comet.

     Perhaps it was the neon which drew attention. Perhaps it was the electronic pulses coming from the opened door. Perhaps it was something else...
     Regardless, something attracted her to this spot, since it's been years since she's been in London. Now her dark gaze watches the shadowed for reach the Land Rover, light from the lamp-post above her catching the glimmer there beneath her neatly shaped eyebrows.
     Straight platinum locks have been cropped neatly, all one length above her shoulders, with the exception of the longer bangs which hang further down before her. These longer portions have been dyed a shocking green, standing in stark contrast to the rest of her nearly white hair.
     Her slender form almost seems to have been poured into a leather job... an impossibly snug bustier with a full skirt of the same leather, tight till it reaches her knees. 'Granny' boots with silver stiletto heels to match peek out at the bottom of the skirt.
     "Tres gentil, en effet. Vous avez un physique impressionnant, Monsieur," comes the sweetly spoken French. The Parisienne accent is extremely thick. "I haven't seen a body like that in quite some time. I knew if I stood here long enough, I'd find that the man who owned such an impressive vehicle would be equally as impressive," the woman says, obviously eyeing up the shadow by the Land Rover.

     Who left the telly on?
     There was a pivot, a glance around him -- in shock you know... like hearing the word gentleman and having to find who that may be. Fiery eyebrows cocked up, mouth partially open -- maintaining a connection to the cigarette no less. And then the grin. Behind billows of smoke, it is wide, sudden.
     The second comet of the evening...
     Davydd makes a half bow, laughter issuing along with the smoke. "Bons yeux!" his call gives out. Good eyes. And he chuckles to that, straightening. A hand reaches into the leather coat, a distinctive beeping -- of the deactivating the car alarm variety -- sounds after. "Mais vous savez ce qu'ils disent. Plus les pneus sont grands, plus la traction est meilleure..."
     His French is seamless. Without accent. The voice is a smoky sort of tenor -- and smoky literally as he takes another breath of the fire in his hands. Davydd slants a grin, a look to the platinum-and-green-locked woman. Ah yes, you must be a regular at Phantasmagoria. "You usually lie in wait in parking lots?" The door to the Rover is opened, and Davydd is grinning, a glance again to you.

     "Mais, non. I do not usually lie in wait in parking lots... but sometimes they are quiet places where people can speak," the woman replies with a grin. Her English is excellent, even if it is heavily accented. Pursing her lips, she pushes away from the lamp post and moves a little closer, but still keeping a bit of a distance. Her gaze flickers down and back up your form once more.
     "Mmm... oui. You are a perfect specimen, are you not? A work of art, perhaps. I would love to meet your creator to thank them personally for gifting the world with one so... magnificent. But, alas, I have not introduced myself," the woman says with a cat-like grin. Her moves are also very feline in nature.
     Tilting her head a little, she purrs, "You might have heard of me if you've been to Paris. Annabelle... Madame Annabelle.." There is something in the way she emphasizes the word 'Madame' which suggests that if you have heard of her, you know what she's emphasizing.
     She moves a little forward, offering her hand politely to you with a grin.

     Madame Annabelle...
     Let's file through the memory banks for a moment. Hmmm... where have i heard that name. No, no don't seem to have met you myself. Aha! It was Il Gatto. Il Gatto di Firenze... oes, that's where I've heard it...
     The mind flashes back to an earlier century night. Twelve men, gathered about in someone's palace, pausing after some last conquest. And Florentine smiled and said he was due in Paris. A date with Madame Annabelle, the Siren of France...
     A hand shoves into a coat pocket and Davydd holds his spot of England, cigarette -- being smoked nonetheless -- dangling from his mouth. Agile, ain't he. But his other hand reaches forward, a light shake, a gentlemanly grasp of your fingers. His hands are gloved. The gloves are cashmere.
     "Davydd Llewelyn, and I try to stay out of Paris as much as possible. But you know, I've been there once or twice when business called me there. You are...visiting London? Gathering English virgins," Davydd chuckles in your French. Nasal Parisian. "It cannot be that there are any left in France."

     Gloved. What a shame. Reading that will likely only get her the memory of the inside of a pocket. How dull.
     Smiling, she then withdraws her hand and murmurs, "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Llewelyn," she replies with a grin, your Welsh name sounding quite strange upon her tongue. Virgins? Ah, you have heard of her. Annabelle's laughter echoes through the lot lightly for a moment before she says, "It is horrible that there are so few. There does seem to be a shortage, oui. However, an old friend of mine is apparently back in London, so I thought I would track her down myself... stirring up a bit of the stuffy English while I'm here.... have fun with the not-so stuffy English... I'm certain you can imagine."
     There is a wink to that. She has no doubt that your imagination is likely pretty good. "But, non. Truly, I am on a pleasure visit, not a business call, this time. Though, I have heard that several have already begun locking up their less...seasoned ones, upon hearing of my arrival," she adds with a good-natured chuckle.
     Looking back at the opened door of your vehicle, she apologizes with a charming smile, "Forgive me, Monsieur. You were going somewhere...I must be holding you up."

     Gloved...
     Against the cold, to soften the rougher touch. And blue dragons etched upon his skin, though they live in constant, vibrant forms, are quieted beneath the wool. "Vu mes amis francais," Davydd laughs, green eyes widening to make his point, "...oui, je suis choque la suis tous les vierges en France." Well, with Edward and William, let alone Girault, "Je veux dire, au-dessus de l'age de douze de toute facon."
     Light lands upon his face with the sudden wide grin. And the hand that met yours briefly now takes the cigarette. Ashes flicked and then, with a smirk, the cigarette itself is launched, flickering, dying as it lands upon wet concrete. "Ainsi, vous etes ici pour voir Plantagenet alors? Vous savez qu'il est jure outre des femmes. Je vous avertirai en avant du temps..."
     William would kill him. But fuck it... it's the truth...
     Besides, maybe that's exactly what William wants the world to think. Fine by me. Davydd makes a slight wave. "Well, yeah... eventually, not rushing off to anything but another damned meeting," the rumble of the Dragon's voice comes in English like a growl.

     Smirking a little, Annabelle replies with a bit of a snort, "Ah, it would be good to see William, but I would not want to embarrass him, non?" Embarrass him? How? Oh, perhaps with a few stories of old. Continuing without breaking stride, she says with a wide smile, "Actually, non. I am here to see a friend by the name of Victoria Whitethorne. I had heard the Songbird of London had come back and I just had to see how much she's grown for myself. You should hear her sing... do you know of her?"
     Crossing her arms across her chest, she adds, "Mais, ah, William... quelle honte, mais peut-etre j'ont quelques autres poupees il serait interesse a." There is something wicked in that grin of hers as she says this.

     Davydd laughs. Embarrass him? He'd have to have morals and a soul for that...
     Arms fold against his chest and the last bit of smoke is laughed out. The last billow from the dragon's mouth and nose. "He's far to the north, Scotland... heard of it?" Eyes widen again, green fields and mountains echoed there, and brows arch upward slowly.
     Whitethorn. She...
     "...She gets around..." a chuckle. The following grin cuts wide. "Never heard of the girl till a month or so ago, now she's staying in William's castle, and rubbing elbows with Edward Meurelle..." Quick study, I guess. "She was staying at Claridge's last I heard of her. That was a couple of weeks ago," a great shoulder rolls, shrugging.
     And then his arms unfold, "Aye, but I do have to go, Madame Annabelle." The sliding grin can't help the slant. "Enjoy your stay in London..."

     "The Songbird gets around? Well, maybe not in the fashion one might think, but, it is good to know that she's not pining away in some cave or something. For the tip, Monsieur, merci. You have been a great help. Please, do not let me trouble you further," the Madame says with a smile, nodding her head a bit toward you.
     Taking a step back, she then adds, "Oh, and perhaps I will see you around. Who knows... we might have more mutual friends of mine who might remember Madame Annabelle. Oh, the stories I could likely tell... but, that is for another time, non? Bonsoir, Monsieur Llewelyn."
     As she begins to turn, shadows start to gather toward her. Looking toward the pretty dolls, as she calls them, she can be heard saying, "Que? You are out of money already? Poor darlings... come with me. Nous aurons de l'amusement ce soir non?" We shall have some fun tonight, no?

     "Thanks for the compliment!"
     The booming Cymric voice fills the lot. And then, the rumble of an engine. You were right about the car being fitting for the man...

Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 07:20 PM