She's back. Spewing black-orchid blood, the tavern is alive and breathing. The demons dance, and she waits. A plump courtesan smiles, and the poison is sprinkled. The glasses clank, and with a shout and a knife in the neck, she doesn't blink. The ships and bells are ringing in the harbor; a brute is punching a small, feckless man in a gray suit. Several shipmen intervene to no avail; he's stalwart, violent, and intrinsic to this place. A rum bottle is busted, and cigar smoke is making lazy clouds among the scent of cedarwood and bitter sawdust on the floor.
A faded portrait of a blue whale rests above the bar; the innkeeper is a bearded man of 50 or so. He has a jagged pink scar on his face from some long-lost battle at sea.
She never smiles, her lips curled, long lashes, and sadly beautiful. This night is the oldest night. The chimes, the vampires, and the howling wolves are outside, and the rain continues. Her assassin's shroud is dark red and elegant, with gray eyes and a coldness round about.
Daylight breaks; nervous looks and white fangs protrude from the dead and dying embers, the flickering flames, and the cindering-hot coals. The screaming begins: wicked lunacy and torn flesh. She's silent as the grave. Burnt copper and bloodpuddles expanding. Gnashing and inhuman growls—she's a crucified red rose blooming among the yellow-clawed funeral flowers.