Jade or Ella? ouo
“Come on, Quinton.” Dark hands encircled the other vampire’s own, velveteen shadows slipping across fragile porcelain. The lanky man glanced up from his chess set, startled to find the parlor suddenly full of life, people celebrating--ah, yes, the holidays--with fanfare. “You can’t just hide in a corner all night.”
Popped crackers and confetti alike littered the air and the floor, dangling tinsel snowflakes twisted and spun overhead. Somewhere in the kitchen, he could hear Mackenzie singing something in Portuguese he couldn’t quite translate--the eloquence and vernacular had been significantly occluded by a margarita that, while mostly blood, still had a surprisingly high alcohol count at the end of it all. Tahno, for example, had already passed out (blood-drunk and otherwise) about half an hour ago, after complaining vehemently in thickly-accented English about the state of the garbage bins in the borrowed flat. That would be the last time, he said, that he’d trust Abdu to find them a suitable dwelling space for the holidays. It was rare any of them got together like this, anyway--hence Quinn’s unease with the celebratory extravaganza, and his comfort zone being in that of his chess pieces as opposed to among the fledglings and grand-fledglings and all the company of Tahno.
“You’re not much of a dancer, then?” Ella playfully swung his hands to and fro, shimmying her shoulders. Her stunning smile; a crescent that caught the dimples in her cheeks and tugged them with white hooks toward the heavens, settled his nerves somewhat. But she was a far more skillful dancer than the gangly and awkward Victorian, and he had a feeling she knew it. Especially since flapping seemed to be in her very blood; and she’d inherited, Quinn felt, some level of Mackenzie’s grace when it came to maneuvering her frame. He’d have to research the transference of characteristics from sire to fledgling and so on, and made mental note of that as he freed one hand to fix his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Ah--well--the waltz, mostly,” Quinn offered nervously. “There’s not much point in it these days--” the late 60′s were proving to be more about electronic sound; something tinny and insubstantial in the audio that didn’t exactly thrill him. Peace and love and the optimal revolutionary aspects of the music prior to this were at least tolerable. Quinn brushed lengthening curls out of his eyes and awkwardly twisted to and fro, trying to match Ella’s rhythm. The vampiress slowed, watching him with a dry look of amusement. “What?”
“You know, it probably wouldn’t kill you to loosen up,” the lady said teasingly, relinquishing her hold on Quinn’s hands to motion him to move freely. “I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly certain.” Quinn made a face at her, awkwardly waving his arms to and fro, down and up, as he’d seen at various gatherings. Ella had to stifle a smile behind her hand, nodding encouragement. “There you go. Now the hips. The shoulders! Shake out your hair!”
And that is the story of how Quinton wound up knocking over an incense stick with his flailing and setting Abdu’s borrowed flat ablaze in a wave of spilled champagne, loose confetti, and patchouli.
Ella never let him live it down, either.
Every so often, she made a point of bringing up his particular signature dance moves at “family gatherings” as a reminder for fire safety--and to prevent him from potentially “throwing out a hip”.
