Wonderland, Scene II (Daphne, Erin, Underwood)

Underwood watched Cinder as she sang, with a sideways sort of look, then lapsed back into drinking once the song was over, staring down his glass with a meditative air.

“…This doesn’t do anything for me either, you know. But so help me, I like the taste.”

He sighed and looked over at Cinder again, a little grumpy, but sincere. “I don’t hate you, you know. Your associates, now, Jekyll and Miss Hyde: yeah, I hate those guys. And sure, I take issue with your recruitment methods, and I’d be happier if you maybe didn’t try to eat people. But I don’t hate you. The way I see it, you’ve been dealt a bad hand. And that…”

He looked around the circle. “…That, I think a lot of people here can relate to. But sometimes, you’ve just got to play a king high, and hope nobody calls you. I think you can do that.”

Underwood leaned forward a bit. “Just…as a favor. Try not to kill anyone in the process, all right?”

Erin laughed slowly. "May we all be blessed with such simple emotions!" she said to Cinder. "We may fear and hate you, but that doesn't mean we don't like you!" Her face split into a large, pixie grin, and she raised her mug to Cinder in a toast.

"After all, we put up with Sassssha here," she continued, thumping a fist against Aleksander's heroic chest. "And you have to treat family right."

She didn't try to explain what she meant, for she knew those words would be unwelcome. Instead she gripped her mug and leaned back against her fiancé, swaying to the soft music in the air. She reached out, curling her fingers through his hair, running them black velvet ears, before caressing them down the back of his neck. There were silver strands, thin, shining, ephemeral, that flowed from him, curling around her fingers. She took them and cast them into the air, like stardust, and when she did twinkling lights appeared - fireflies, or stars. They shimmered brightly, before falling into silver dust, and as Erin threw them into the sky, she turned to Sergei, eyes shining in their light.

"I missed taking you out on the dance floor, before," she said, taking his hand. "Do you dance?"

Her smile said he did now.

It was hard to dance and sing at the same time, but Erin was drunk enough not to care, and she drew the Russian toward her, still bursting stars into life as she danced and sang.


Cobblethought the Stars
Gypsy Dancing

"J. T... we are not just dealt a bad hand. We are all cursed, I suppose. By the fair folk, by the blood, by the witch-goddess Luna. " Cinder mused, drinking from the tankard of faerie-wine once again. Her face was flushed, and her words came easily now, more so than they had before. "I suppose it's all terribly tragic."

"I guess it's romantic too." Cinder cocked her head to one side. "I'm sorry, J.T. There will be two deaths if I'm lucky, one if I'm not. And one of them will be my own. I... know it. Prophecy just isn't the right word for it. But I'm certain I'm going to die. And I want to kill my ****-up of a dad before I do."

"I used to love faerie-tales when I was a girl." Cinder mused, for all that she looked not so old now. "I guess Someone has a cruel sense of humor."

"I do. Badly." Sergei said, grinning brightly. But he took Erin's hand, and he slipped his arm around her waist, and he stepped along the grass. And yet, he did dance, and did it well. Not much grace, but he learned quickly and didn't step on Erin's feet.

Heather and Sasha glanced at each other, and then Heather stepped over to her boyfriend, gave him a kiss, and then bowed. "A dance, sir?"

"Certainly." Sasha smirked, following Heather out onto the grass.

Cinder watched them go, sipping the faerie wine. She'd finished her first tankard, and most of her second -- werewolves could drink a very great deal. "The nice part of knowing you're about to die, J.T., is that you can stop caring about most things. Like disappointment." She turned to Underwood, and smirked. "Care to dance? I don't bite."

On the one hand, while Underwood liked semilegal knockabouts as much as the next mid-century newsman, he drew the line at unrepentant career killers. Also, Cinder was among the more terrifying people he had met today.

On the other hand, being pleasant to this terrifying person could potentially stop one or more deaths later on in the week. And on some level, Underwood knew he had to say yes to this, on the grounds that it would make the best bar anecdote in the universe. “One time, I met a slavering amoral wolf-monster at gunpoint. And then I took her dancing.”

“Lady, call me Underwood. My friends do. And as long as you don’t mind me offering a friendly opinion about death every now and again, and as long as you know you get to disagree, then sure, I care to dance.”

“Sparky. Track 249.” He levered himself to his feet, offering a hand.

“I don’t bite, either. But I sure hope you swing.”

Daphne's gaze appeared both approving and disapproving at once. She watched Cinder...Alice... for a little longer, until Underwood's phone started up again.

She glanced down at her wrist, unsure if Mack had done anything with it. Actually, Daphne didn't know enough about vampires to know if they could do anything with their bites, but the logical answer was that they had to. Otherwise the world be full of more than just stories and legends.

Without waiting for much else, she excused herself and ambled over to Othello's wagon. It was curiosity again. She knocked once, on ceremony (don't ask), and poked her head in through the top half of the door.

It definitely needed a cat-like fey-man inside of it, with some candlelight. "Hmph," she intoned, and crossed her arms to lean on them at the door.

<You've been holding out on me,>Erin murmured to Sergei, smiling. It faded, though, as they danced through the clearing, and she laid her head on his chest. <I knew something would ruin it, in the end. People like us just can't have weddings. I'd just hoped...>

Cinder laughed, and she took Underwood's hand as he led her out on the grass. She was taller than him by a little bit, which always made dancing odd, and she had absolutely no idea what the swing was. It was a bit before her time.

But she could move. She let Underwood lead, keeping time easily and matching her body to his. There is a certain feral grace that is hard to define and impossible to fake, but Cinder had it. She moved more like a wolf, nostrils flared, ever-aware of what was around her. And if she had slightly sharp teeth, and if her body ran hotter than a human's, who was Underwood the typewriter man to make something of it?

"<Sssh... it's not over yet.>" Sergei said, leaning in to kiss Erin between her feathery antennae. His nose tickled afterwards, and he had pixie dust over him, but Sergei had long since resigned himself to glittering. "<Othello is a clever cat. He'll be fine.>"

"You won't find much there." Mack's voice came from near Daphne. The young/not-young vampire had left the dancing behind. It hurt too much. Instead, she leaned against the side of the wagon, hands stuffed in her pockets. "He doesn't keep many things."

This wasn't entirely true. Othello’s wagon was a small, cozy thing, with every possible surface covered with knick-knacks, minor tokens, a few books, and god-knows what else. There was clothing in a half-open dresser, there was a sink, a pot-bellied kitchen stove, plentiful food. There was even a catnip mouse hanging from the ceiling.

But there was nothing that Daphne could point to that was unmistakeably Othello. The place was full of trophies and toys, minor amusements, but nothing that looked to have been of personal value.

"He lives in other people, mostly." Mary Mack observed.

Underwood was more experienced, maybe, and more formally on-point – comes of being made of artificial objects, perhaps – but had a run for his money keeping up with Cinder’s natural verve. And, wonder of wonders, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Premeditated murder concerns aside, there was a certain undeniable novelty to dancing with a werewolf to Glenn Miller – and that, if nothing else, seemed to be carrying the day. Plus, this was an opportunity to show a fatalist that life was worth living.

It was also an opportunity to show off. Underwood smirked a little. “You know, life’s a funny thing, Miss. Now, take this little maneuver here—”

(Elbow Turn to Spin to Belt Loop)

“—Or this little number.”

(Barrel Roll into a very low Dip, and back up)

“Picked those up in a London air raid shelter back in ’41, locked up with the US Embassy staff and a stranded Red Cross team. And if old Lady Luck hadn’t thrown me a curveball a couple years down the line, well, I guess I wouldn’t be here to teach ‘em to a redhead pack leader, now, would I?”

“Question is, Miss Pleasant: what dance moves have you picked up? Give it your best shot -- I learn fast."

<Then we'll fight,> Erin said, still leaning her head against Sergei's chest. <We'll fight this sad ending as hard as we can. For them. For us...>

For next thread

"I never really learned to dance." Cinder said. She stopped, looking at Underwood with an intent sort of expression on her face. With her long hair fallen forward from the dancing, one could almost pretend that the scars weren't there, that she was just another woman. But then Cinder moved her face, and that momentary illusion was gone. "Formally, I mean."

"But I suppose I know how to move around." The werewolf took Underwood by the hand, and then slipped an arm around his waist. Then, with a firm grip on the changeling, she began to move. It was a dramatic sort of dance, and energetic, if you could even call it a dance. More a sort of jumping circuit around Othello's wagon, moving faster and faster, and she never let Underwood drop or pause. It was fun, in an exhilerating way, but tiring. "Like it?"


"Evening lass." Daphne had yet to answer Mack's question, when a new voice cut through the air, a voice with a broad, even brogue. There was a moment, and then Daphne smelled gunpowder, gunpowder and blood, and a flicker of flame. "Made yer decision?"

Mary Mack looked to all sides, but it seemed that even her vampiric powers had limits. She was fast, strong, and possessed a peculiar sanguine glamour, but perceptiveness was not her strongest point. Not compared to the faerie illusion under which Isengrim dwelled.

"I'll stay." Mary Mack said softly. "Don't hurt me, or any of the others, and I won't hurt you or the werewolf. Deal?"

"Deal lass." And that was that.

Onwards to Wonderland, Scene III