Age Of Blood

Prologue I

 February 3rd, 1920

Gloria's Bar, Chicago

Jackie Dame was a fighter.

A 23 year-old French immigrant who started in the Big Apple 5 years ago, lived with her distant family, the Parker's, in Oregon for a few years before finally settling in sweet Chicago. Learning English had been difficult, but once that was out of the way, she was basically normal.

She almost laughed at the thought. Normal? How could she ever be normal with the family back home and in Oregon, with what she was?

Jackie, as she called herself now, a performer living it up in Chicago. She lifted her index finger, watching as the ice in her glass spun. Glancing around subtly, her chocolate eyes searched for anyone who might pay too close attention.

The bar was mostly empty, only one person on shift. She usually came here at 10:00, after her last performance of the day. She performed daily at Gloria's, singing to her heart's desire. She went to this pub, Clemente's Way, because it reminded her of the one in France that she adored.

She sighed, the loss of sleep catching up her, rubbing the space between her perfectly sculpted brows.

Tonight had been dull. A regular Wednesday, cold and wet outside, calling for her peacoat. In the reflection of the bar's mirror, she could see her soaked brown hair, always wavy courtesy of her father's genes.

Her olive skin tone seemed to sparkle and her once glassy lips were chapped. She slipped the ring she'd been fiddling with off her finger and placed it on the counter.

Suddenly, it begins spinning. Slowly at first, then wildly until it's falling off the wood.

Before it could reach the floor, a hand was there to catch it. Jackie froze, her mind blank of any explanations. Her eyes traveled up to the stranger's face, an uneasy feeling surrounding them. Them is a "he", with blue eyes and a wicked smirk. He looked dashing, charming, dangerous...

And before she knew it, he gently took her hand in his, and kissed it before sliding the ring on.

"I do believe this was yours," He said in a low voice, with a foreign accent that made her blush.

Warning signs set off as he sat down next to her and she placed him. Vampire.

"I hope you don't mind, love," He said, before taking a sip from a flask he pulled out of his coat pocket. She realized that she said "Vampire" out loud.

Of course she minded. A thousand voices yelled in her head, cries against him. Death, Killer, Abomination.

Yet she ignored them, a smirk forming on her face. He looked surprised at her reaction, a hint of interest passing in his eyes.

"After all, who am I to judge?" She replied, her glass lifting into the air and into her hand. They clinked their glasses, well glass and flask, eyes only on each other.

                                                                             A witch and a vampire.