The Murder Of Willowstream

Ch.23. There Ain't No Party Like A... (part 2)

The pavement was joyously cold on her bare feet as Lily sauntered down the quiet and sleeping neighbourhood. Her high-heeled shoes were neatly hung, and swinging freely, by the straps on her hooked fingers as she all but danced down the street that seemed peacefully quiet in it's slumber.

The houses, save for one or two, had no lights, and as this wasn't beside a main road, the lamp posts were also switched off. Which told her that at the very least it was some time passed midnight. Not that she minded dancing to an open sky with nothing but the soft twinkle of stars as her audience or partner.

The alcohol coursing through her system, as well as the very recent fire of her dalliance in the bathroom, caused a jovial smile to be painted in red along her features, as her limbs stretched upwards and she gave a small twirl on the spot. Malcolm she thought his name was. Or was it Logan? She couldn't quite remember. Which would not do if she planned on seeing him again. She remembered his taste though. Whiskey and cigarettes. Like a rock star, she thought. His touch and his taste still blossomed in its phantasmal memory across her skin, and she was convinced wholly of this rock star image. Conjuring dreams of dusk-lit make outs on the hood of a red car to the echo of shredded guitar. And as everyone else in her little group seems to be shacking up and moving on, why shouldn't she do that also?

By everyone else, she meant only Marshal, but knew that if Marshal could find somebody that looks at him like that, it was only a matter of time before everyone else did.

Well maybe not Alice for a while. They knew that her and Yasmine had something between them, why they were so hush-hush about it all; was completely incomprehensible to Lily. But they had been happy. And now they're not. So maybe Alice won't shack up just yet.

Alaric is too busy brooding that he is somehow insanely oblivious that every "randomer" he seems to pick up is anything but random. They all have brown hair. Hazel eyes. And tanned skin. Lily didn't need to be Alice to pick up the pattern in that one.

The brown haired, hazel eyed, tanned skin one most people would refer to as "Rhys" was a whole headache on to himself. He was so patient and relaxed that even if you were a telepath you'd most likely fall asleep trying to read his mind. Or at least that was the air he put on. He didn't care about anything but his friends. That was Rhys in a nutshell. But Lily sees it. Sees the loneliness that haunts him. That he ignores. Everyone always forgets about Lily. About what she sees.

Lily allowed the heaviness of her slightly drunken mind to act as a weight, as her hand pleasingly gripped around the cool steel of the lamp-post and she swung around it with a giggle. Her surroundings becoming a blur, the stars spinning into a blended mesh of abyssal blues and royal purples dotted with silver lines. Once. Twice. Three times, she spun until she finally let go chuckling to herself as she wobbled from side to side. Her hand found the course brickwork of a nearby wall and paused for a moment to stabilize herself. She only felt slightly guilty that she had told no one about her absconding from the party. Lily did what she wanted, and that was that. This was her time and it felt like it would go on forever.

There was a loud crack. It split the air, the silence, like ravenous jaws snapping a dry bone with one, powerful, champ. And then Lily was completely taken by surprise.

Pain split through her shoulder.

"Oo that's new" She chuckled uneasily as her breath caught in her throat and her hand moved from her shoulder and displayed the blood dripping from her fingertips. Lily did not get hurt. Lily did not feel pain. Or at least she didn't think she could; but now agony ached from the wound in her shoulder and she discovered that she did not care for this hurt in the slightest.

With her back against the wall she turned behind her to see a figure standing fifteen feet down the street. They were tall and broad shouldered. Swathed in a mixture of blackened fabrics and body armour. With a flourish of their wrist, the long whip snapped again at the air, glistening at it's tip with a distinct metallic sheen, before retreating back to their grasp.