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everything is vampires

[jockeying]

Come on, brother —

[ she's all excitement, forgetting to keep her voice down and forgetting that brother gave way to bro 40 years ago because they're climbing the back stairs of some posh, tall brick church in france. in france, and they haven't been in france in decades. decades upon decades, and raleigh really doesn't know why that is, because she loves france; loves the french — the language and the people and how freely flowing their wine is, because a drunk meal is a good meal.

in fact, some of her excitement may have come from that lovely young couple they met at the restaurant not 45 minutes ago, the copper of their blood still fresh on her tongue. most days they drink in moderation, but raleigh's lost track of the number of unsuspecting victims they'd left deep purple "hickies" on in the past 48 hours; she couldn't count them on two hands, and who could say if that was from sheer number or from how their buffet line trickled out of night clubs and fancy restaurants. it was a good time, here in france. the beckets are old blood (dead blood; congealed in the veins and only flowing freely when they've consumed enough of another parties blood), have taken to everything from hunting to dancing under multicolored strobe lights to high pitched techno music in due time.

but dangling from high places? that's something instilled in that cold blood of theirs, something that predates raves and the revolver, and what gets them on the roof of that church. the access door has barely slammed shut when raleigh's screaming; shrieking, more like, with delight — bolting to the closest edge of the roof to fling herself half off of it, precariously balanced and grinning down at the pavement below. heights never bothered her much. ]

How much of a commotion do you think I would cause if I jumped? [ arguably more importantly: ] Would you come get me in time? Before the morticians arrived? I hate being autopsied.