The lock and door hadn't been broken. In fact, almost nothing had. (Except Oliver, that is.) The worst was a couple drops of blood from Goon Two's nose and that had dripped onto the carpet. He wasn't quite sure how long it had been, but long enough for the room to turn from darkened to dim to gray. Vision was blurry, mostly because he could only open one eye. It took him some more time to figure out what was going on, and when he did, he let out a groan and proceeded to make mistake number one: trying to move. Stars exploded and things that sounded ominously like bones crunched. When he woke up again, he set some goals. 1) breathe. 2) move slowly. 3) try to get to the phone. The sound of the door opening again wasn't welcome, and he closed the one eye and went immediately limp again. Pray. From the door, his torso is visible from around the TV, and he is lying diagonally across the general center of the living room.

It was a good thing he couldn't see her when she came in. It wasn't that Cam looked like a gangster, but with the hat, ill fitting coat, and gun, she looked like a homeless person that had gotten lucky and found a play pretty. Moving away from the door, gun was lowered to her side — safety clicked off quietly — as a few steps were taken inside. Five-four..nothing looked out of place. Three-two.. No one was lurking menacingly in the drapes. One-- the moment he came into view, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as a slow stride took her that a'way. Pray indeed; she was at that second. Blue-violets turned into a mottled ocean as tears swam to the forefront, and it took some serious grounding to keep them in check. The last thing he needed was someone crying over him as if he were of the dead. Glancing around helplessly, incentive was taken to kneel down; gun placed at her side before fingers drifted over the exposed side of his face while the check was made to affirm his chest was rising and falling however shallowly.

Breathing was a go, though definitely shallowly, because he thought that if he took it in too deep, his ribs would do the searing pain thing again. Listening through the slow pound of blood in his ears, the creak of the floor and the soft breath of air allowed through a wide open door. The bluesboy was not of the dead; and the hurt was not so much that he wished it was so. She must of taken a breath, made a familiar sound, because the one eye opened a touch too quickly just as she touched his face. He made mistake number one again, but it was a slight error. Of all the people that ended up here first... but oh, she was a sight for sore eyes. Eye. A small part of him had hoped he would have time to not look quite so bad if she saw him... but then his bruised mind offered up the memory of the phone call. God damnit. Speech was beyond him, just at the moment; but hey, he's conscious.

Consciousness: that annoying thing between naps. Or black out periods, as it were. Breathing too deeply might encourage one of those broken ribs to puncture through a lung ( if they hadn't from all the punching/fighting/etc. ) He wasn't spitting up blood, so she was holding on to hope. Shallow breaths were the way to go. Offering a small — very small — smile (that was supposed to be comforting; not her biggest trait ) once his eyes.. eye opened, she sank back on her heels and looked him over completely. His face.. shoulders.. arm.. the hitching movements his chest was making. As long as he was alive, she wasn't caring too much what he looked like. In the vain sense. In the worried sense, fear and anger were coiling together like the joy luck dragon and serpent on her back. First thought to kick in: where to start? She didn't know the first thing about tending to wounds other than a small cut. Zane or Des usually were around to help with this sort of thing. It wasn't possible to call a doctor. You could trust the medical profession in Rhydin just as much as you could trust the vampires. Ribs. Ribs were the primary focus. Those had to be bound before he even thought about moving. Maybe a sheet... With that thought in mind, it was a quick haul up to her feet and a sprint up towards the bedroom. The bird would pay Max back for what she was about to rip up.

There was blood on his mouth, but he had a cut lip, so it was hard to tell if he breathed it or bled it. He wouldn't be able to tell her; all he tasted was the harsh metallic of blood, and a gag reflex is suppressed, because a cough would be much too painful. And he hadn't meant in the vain sense; the message hadn't been for him-- it had been for her. Like he was going to deliver it with any more enthusiasm than he absolutely had to. The easy melodic voice is reduced to a roughened, barely audible croak as she looks down at him. "'ey." Sadly humorous greeting. Not only conscious, but coherent. Looking good so far. ...Max didn't need to know about any sheets they replaced. Whether for medicinal reasons or otherwise.

The greeting on his part prompted a "Shh," from her. Talking wasn't necessary. Just keep up with the breathing thing. If the blood was coming up from his lungs, there wouldn't be any suppression. It was either cough it up or slowly drown. One of the perks about being so short, when you wanted to book it? The Flash didn't hold a candle to you. Push came to shove, she ripped the damn sheet off of the bed-- balling it up in both hands before scrambling back down to the living room. Veer, in the kitchen, a knife and some paper towels were commandeered. What they needed was a bottle of Makers. Not to drink ( even if a shot or two might actually help a little ) but to clean the wounds open on his face. It was so uncreative to use regular rubbing alcohol, but it'd do in a pinch. Zippity-doo-dah, it took a grand total of two minutes to grab everything and get back to him. The knife was used to shred the sheet into pieces. "When I go to wrap this under you, s'gonna hurt, so you know.. don't take a swing at me." Words were kept light — humorous was good — and easy. Don't cry, he's going to be fine, cut the sheet up and focus.

No more blood seemed apparent on his lips, so fortunately it was safe to assume he hadn't punctured a lung. She would have a lot less time if that'd happened. The eye had closed as she moved out of his immediate vision. When she returned with all her goodies, there was a slow moment where he didn't move. But, eventually, the familiar blue eye appeared again. There was a pause again as her words sunk in to be comprehended around the stubborn pounding, but once they did lips moved in a slight smile. The tip of his tongue touched the split lip, and the smallest understanding nod he could muster didn't fail to start the pounding a little heavier. He understood, but he was trying to get himself not to anticipate and tense up, which'd probably make it worse.

A blank look was given down to the seven or eight strips in her hand. Camilla was many things — had taken on a variance of occupations — but anything to do with healing she hadn't the first whit of a clue about. Tight. They needed to be tight to keep the bones in place... Glancing up the ceiling briefly, a whispered prayer sent up, she began the careful, tedious job of sliding the cloth beneath him while trying not to cause too much pain. It was inevitable, but.. she tried. Almost absently, words were sung quietly under her breath; trying to ease him. "Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot. Prête-moi ta plume pour écrire un mot.." An old lullaby her brother had used to lull her to sleep while alcoholic fights brewed just down the hall from them. "Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu. Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu.." Every so often, eyes would flick up to his face to judge if he was still awake or not, while fingers tightened and tied the strips as securely as she could manage without breaking something, herself.

Her and him, both. He had absolutely no idea how bad it was, but he hadn't died in the time between, before she'd got there, so he hoped -- prayed-- that he wasn't going to. And it hurt quite a lot, so he knew he was still alive. The only signs of the increased pain as a rib that shouldn't move moved was the irregularity of his breathing. No way to tell just at the moment, but only the one was broken, the rest just cracked. "Just" cracked. Ha. At some point, as she tightened the makeshift bandage to keep it secure, he made a sound, but other than that, he didn't say a thing. It sounded as if she was on some kind of train that passed time and time again, the sweet sound of her voice growing louder and then suddenly softer only to return just as loud again. He didn't pass out, which may or may not have been a good thing. As soon as she finished with his poor ribs, he lay still for a few very long seconds only to say, oh so quietly, "Ouch."

The cracked ones made you wish they were broken just so there'd be a full justification for all the pain. Whenever his breathing would shift, she'd wince. When he made the low sound, her movements froze completely; a deer in the headlights expression angling her features. Words died off just as quickly, and her head ducked down so she could concentrate on finishing. Securing the last makeshift bandage, fingers traced a ghost pattern over the fabric before eyes lifted back to his face. The 'Ouch' in face of everything was just.. she didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or kiss him. Considering there's blood on his mouth, we'll just skip over that last one! Careful — carefulcareful — not to jostle him or knee him in the side ( how much would that suck? ) she scissored at the waist and put those paper towels to use by dabbing at the blood on his face. This would work a lot better if they ( paper towels ) were wet... "Do you want something to drink? A pillow? Darvon?" All three were easily acquired, just say the word.

Yeah, stupid ribs. They did it on purpose. Though still ragged, somehow his breath managed to even out, and after the first wince of a dry paper towel on the cheekbone cut, he just shut the eye. Softly, again, still rough and without vibrato melody that had seemed so much a part of it: "N-n..." pause for a breath, and on exhale, "no." Despite the pain-laced nature of his current awareness, he'd rather not lose any of it. Perhaps unreasonably, he wanted to avoid the fearful, unfeeling blank of unconsciousness at all costs. Didn't she have some Maker's right there? Because that'd be really good for the cuts and the boy. Really, really good. Then he cautiously turned his head up toward her, and caught sight of that welcome bottle. "Whiskey?"

He was braver than her. If the tables were turned, she'd be jumping all over the offer of something to knock her out. Then again, pain and Cam, they went way back. Had stopped talking to each other after their last meeting. And whiskey? Where? You mean the bottle she's taking a swig out of before upending it with the paper towels held over the mouth of it? Once they were damp enough, folded squares cleaned off the remainder of the blood ( as much as she could get without wiping his face like a baby ), and then she concentrated on the burn mark on his collar. His arm... eyes were quick to shoot to his hand, making sure it wasn't twisted or broken looking. Thank God for small favors.. "Yeah," returned quietly after the word-made-a-question, and the bottle was raised again. Free hand slid up under his neck, helping to get him upright enough to take a good draught. The only thought running through her mind at that moment; this was hers. The beating, the pain.. it was for her benefit, and she hoped the benefactor rotted slowly in the deepest circle of Hell. Eyes were shuttered when they lifted to his-- another smile worked at and the bottle tilted accordingly.

Not braver, for it was fear of not being able to feel anything at all except a cool death that kept the painkillers from him. That, and his general opinion of medicine-- though right now rational opinions didn't really come into play. The whiskey warmed him some, and helped, though it made the cut on his lip sting stubbornly. His thoughts followed along with hers, but he'd already moved all of his fingers before she'd gotten there, to be certain. Without doubt: Thank you, God. Leaning back and trying to relax through just existing, he looked up at her and then just over her shoulder... Abruptly, he made his first real effort to move since before she'd come, a sudden, almost violent attempt to rise. Gaze on the still open door behind her, irrationally envisioning those three coming in behind her; and there'd be nothing he could do to stop it if they did. The white light blossoms behind his eyes put a stop to that, and he fell back, gasping, "Shut... the ... d-door!"

If she was going to die, she'd rather just be.. oblivous. Then again, everyone had their opinions and preferences on the matter. Don't fear the Reaper, fear his method of appearing. Stealing another sip once he had taken his, the bottle was set just out of reach, and she was about to concentrate on putting that arm in a makeshift sling until something more helpful could be produced when.. Wide eyed stare down to him, completely uncomprehending what the spaz-antics were about. Until he verbally told her, anyway. Give this broad a helmet--the songbird kept enough locks on her door to keep Jesus himself out, but had left Oliver's door wide_the_fuck_open. Placing a hand on his ( non-dislocated ) shoulder, once it was clear he wasn't getting up ( again, a helmet please ), it didn't take her very long to haul up, slam the door shut, and twist whatever locks were on it into place. Maybe he understood her reasons for having so many now? If so, it was a lesson learned the hard way. Coat was shrugged off on the way back to him-- intent on rolling it up and sliding it beneath his neck.

She did it, and he finally relaxed, breathing heavier. He blocked off vision again, and let her pillow his head with the coat without really responding. He didn't even have the energy to apologize for spazzing out on her there. The locks would have made absolutely no difference, whatsoever. If people wanted to get into a place, they would. Not that he would argue against a god damn steel door or about five more locks, either. Oliver liked his existence, and he couldn't afford to leave those he cared about behind; so yes, he feared death. Feared it with a healthy fear tempered with a patient acceptance of inevitable. Ugh, everything hurt. A lot.

----

Pain was good; it meant that you were alive. When things started going numb, or didn't feel as bad as they had just moments ago, that's when you wanted to start worrying. The jacket rolled up behind his neck was only the beginning. Making sure that he was as comfortable as he could get, it didn't take her very long to head back up to the bedroom. The bed was stripped of the pillows and blankets. Him getting up and moving just didn't seem feasible at the moment, so she'd take the extra comfort to him.

His arm was worrying her, but short of calling an ambulance — which would present a lot of questions she didn't feel like answering — there was little she could do but give him a few more sips of bourbon. It was a nice cushion. Making the floor beneath, and around, him a makeshift pallet, only when his breathing evened out — indicating sleep — did she curl up near him. The trench was suitable enough cover, and one of the couch cushions was tugged down so she wouldn't be sprawled directly on the floor.

The gun was placed just within reach, in case there happened to be more unexpected visitors ( even though she was praying for utter silence ), and very carefully, an arm reached out until her fingers brushed the edges of his. None of this would've happened if not for her, and she would stay for as long as she could.

It was going to be a long week..

[ June 28, 2005 12:48 AM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]

--------------------

`` And now the end is near, and so I face the final curtain. ``

"Sorry I've been away so long, sweetheart."

The familiar ( in more ways than one ) voice slithered over the line, and she nearly screamed in frustration. The past two or so weeks, he had been little more than a figment of her imagination. She had hoped he disappeared and wouldn't be a bother anymore; then again, if hopes and dreams were nuts and candy, we'd all have a merry fucking Christmas.

"Just when I thought you'd forgotten about me," returned just as sweetly as she could manage, sarcastic honey almost dripping from her tone.

"Now, how could I have done that? Forgotten my favorite canary?" He made a scoffing sound. "Not in a million years. Missed me?"

"Like the clap."

She was tired of these games. The word play, the hidden and not so hidden dislike.. Fingers found her forehead wearily; a glance spared over towards where Oliver was resting comfortably. The poor guy didn't sleep as much as he should, and for once, Camilla was glad he was out like a light. Leaning forward on the piano bench, an elbow found her knee, phone held loosely to her ear.

"You're so demure and ladylike, Camilla Violet. I don't know why some gent hasn't swept you off your feet and married you yet." Where her tone was syrupy, his was completely bland; as dry as any desert and holding an undercurrent of ever present amusement. The use of her given names caused a brow to arch, and something started churning in that little mind of hers. So familiar...

"Pure luck. Can I help ya with somethin'?"

A chuckle caressed her ear after that. "Just making sure you're still doing what I've asked."

"Aw, c'mon. We both know you have your little spies set up everywhere. Who were the ones that went after the guitarist?"

If he knew Oliver's name, she didn't know. Pretty sure he could find it out -- or had found it out -- easily, but it wouldn't pass her lips. Another chuckle skipped over the line. "Can't give away all of my secrets. I'll see you tomorrow."

Without another word, the call was ended. Clicking off her own phone, it was tossed ontop of the piano; fingers threading back through her hair as her lean forward became more pronounced-- completely relying on elbows to keep her from toppling to the floor. Eyes closing, she forced herself to take deep, cleansing breaths. Focus on what tugged at that memory. Try to put a face with the voice.

Sitting upright suddenly, the phone was grabbed again-- a set of numbers tapped out rapidly with her thumb. Three rings later, and a gruff voice answered. "Broken Glass, what can I do ya fer?" Relief flooded over her to hear Tom's voice, and she nearly laughed. Gaining control, she pushed up to her feet and started pacing. "Thomas Delacroix, ya sound positively classy." It was easy to revert back to that awful Southern slur when it was verbally attacking your hearing.

He laughed quietly, and the sounds of bottles clinking together could be heard. "Gotta be, y'know. Ari's all bossy when it comes to shit like that." Laughing as well, her free hand drifted around to the small of her back. "Speakin' of Her Majesty, is she around. I need t'talk t'her for a sec."

"Yeah, hol'on a sec. She's downstairs for once.." His voice muted as the phone was lowered. "Ari, phone!" Wincing slightly, her gaze averted up to the ceiling as the pacing stopped. A shuffling sound redirected her attention back to the call just in time for, "This is Ari, can I help you?"

"I dunno, but I was kinda hopin' y'could." The corner of her mouth quirked up into a smile at the woman's voice, and you could almost hear the smile in Ari's tone as well. "Anything I can do, you know I'm on it. What's going on?" It was so easy for her to merge pleasantries and business. Cam guessed she had to learn, being the main dame in the Quarter and being married to what was rumored to be the town's new Kingpin. Though imagining Orin with that title was hilarious.

"I need you t'look in on someone for me. Let me know when and if he's left N'Awlins, how long he's been gone if so.. stuff like that."

A pause followed -- Ari was grabbing a pen and a napkin -- before saying, "What's the name?" Straight to business; pleasantries were just an afterthought now.

"Gavin Laroux."

"I'll call you tomorrow with the information. Come visit sometime, we miss you."

The clock was stuck. The hands weren't moving, the seconds weren't ticking by, and she was slowly going out of her mind. Pacing back and forth in front of the floor length vanity mirror in the dressing room, heels were kicked off haphazardly as another look was spared to that damndable clock. It wasn't really stuck, but it seemed to moving backwards instead of forward. Scowling, a look was flicked down to her watch to see if that'd make a difference in the results.

It didn't.

The club was starting to close down; her set had been over for an hour, but Cam had stuck around to see the follow-up band perform. As well, it was a good reason not to be at home when and if the phone rang. There were already a lot of questions she didn't want to answer, and when Ari called, it wasn't going to be to exchange recipes. Slinging a hand to the side as she turned -- pacing resuming -- the bottom of the mirror was given a kick. That only succeeded in making her hop slightly as her bare toe decided to give in to the wood's stoic defense.

"Godda--"

Curse was broken off by the cell phone's tinny ring; a rousing, mechanical rendition of "My Way" by The Chairman of the Board. Des' ringtone -- the screaming, tank noises -- had scared a few people at the club. Nearly tripping over herself, the cell was grabbed from the vanity table. "Yeah?" The word was breathless, and her free hand shot out to stop herself from falling ontop of the vanity. Grace persooooonfied. "Got what you want," was Ari's gracious Hello, returning Cam's with the same business-like tone.

Exhaling slowly, she carefully settled onto one of the metal folding chairs, legs tucking underneath it as she listened. There wasn't a need for her to talk right now; once Ari was in full information giving mode, all you could do was sit down, shut up, and take notes. Not that she needed to; everything that was being said wouldn't be forgotten anytime soon.

"He left New Orleans about six months ago, and didn't leave a forwarding address. None of his business associates knew where he went, and he just showed back up in the city two weeks ago. A rather large sum of money was withdrawn from his personal account, and without making contact with anyone, he left again."

Another breath was exhaled, one Cam didn't even realize she'd been holding, and her grip on the phone was punishing. So punishing, in fact, the plastic case cracked a little beneath the slim fingers. "You don't know how much this means to me, Ari. If I can ever do anythin' for you..." It was left open ended. They had each others' backs. "I know what you can do for me," returned easily, the sound of paper folding heard from the other end. "Come sing at the club one weekend. It'll be great, and I need the revenue." The smile was almost visible, and Cam couldn't help her own faint one.

"I'll try my best once everythin' gets calmed down somewhat on this end. Tell Orin, Tom, Val... and everyone I said hey." A certain name was left off purposefully, and thankfully Ari didn't need any extra explanation. "Will do, sweetie. I'll see you soon, but speakin' of Orin, I think he's tryin' to shove a plastic shark up Tom's no-- ORIN, don't make me hit you with a chair.."

The call ended abruptly, and she was left to stare at the phone glassily before bursting into laughter. It bordered on hysterical for the duration, and both hands went up to cover her face. She could only imagine what torment the poor bartender was being put through. One thing was for sure though; Gavin's number was up and she was about to pull the switch on his ass. All this for ten grand? Smiling suddenly, the broken phone was shoved into her bag before the strap was thrown over her shoulder. Shoes slid back on-- it was past time to go home.

I never said I'd lie in wait forever.
If I died, we'd be together.
I can't always just forget her,
but she could try.

At the end of the world,
or the last thing I see,
you are never coming home.
Never coming home.
Could I? Should I?
And all the things that you never ever told me.
And all the smiles that are ever ever..
Ever...

Get the feeling that you're never all alone and
I remember now at the top of my lungs in my arms she dies.
She dies.
At the end of the world,
or the last thing I see,
you are never coming home.
Never coming home
Could I? should I?
And all the things that you never ever told me.
And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me.
And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me.
For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me.

If I fall
If I fall (down)

At the end of the world,
or the last thing I see,
you are never coming home.

"Your past is what shaped you. Your present is what guides you for the future, so it all ties together in the end. Don't ever lose hope."

Glancing Ari's way, all she could do was nod. All those hoojie-boojie stuff was so far beyond her comprehension, nodding seemed the most logical thing to do. Shifting her position in the hard backed chair, a wince crossed her features before eyes slid down to the cards in front of her. Ari had just flipped three over -- face down -- and seemed to be in no hurry to show their meanings. There were so many questions in her mind right now, that any coherent thought wasn't able to fight its way through.

The breeze was picking up slightly, and abruptly, the candle in the middle of the table sputtered out. Why they were outside wasn't filtering in, but Cam had learned just not to think too hard on those things. Ari leaned forward, lips pursing together as she exhaled slowly on the wick, and the candle flared back to life as if nothing had happened. As well, the wind had tamed down, as if being told its place, only to leave behind a faint rustling as it moved through the grass underfoot.

"I know there's worry and fear, but I know you're stronger than that. You have to be stronger than that."

"I know.."

"Knowing and doing something about that worry.. that fear.. it's two different things. Do you want to see?"

"Not really. Last time this happened, a scorpion appeared.."

"Different dreams, Cam. You know you can always trust me."

She had a point there. Out of everyone she knew, Arianna was one of the people that held the most trust from Camilla. It was almost blind trust; the woman just had that feel about her. Smiling briefly, Ari went quiet as slender fingers went out to reveal the cards' faces.

Six of swords. Knight of Cups. Hanged Man.

Without waiting for any inquiries about the cards' meanings, Ari reached out to touch the first card lightly; her voice lilting quietly and almost blending in with the soft breeze that had picked up again. Overhead, clouds were starting to gather and thicken, trying their best to block out the moon's light, only to be held back by .. something.

"Six of swords. You're bogging yourself down in your problems, when what you should do is just not give them as much power as you do, and just walk away from them. You may think this brands you a coward, but when there aren't any alternatives left, what else can you do?" Darkened indigos flashed up to canary briefly before they fell back to the card. "Leaving them behind, forever, is of course not the answer, but time away can help you focus clearly on what's been going wrong. On what new paths are available for you. You're following what your mind tells you, rather than what your heart does. Like the saying goes, follow your heart; it won't lead you astray. It's time to see your life through the eyes of a newborn babe; without any judgment, hate, fear, or worry. When your heart and your mind are able to agree on a logical resolution, balance will find you. You won't find it by physically seeking."

Shoulders rolling beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, Ari pushed that card away and moved to the second. "Knight of Cups. Calmness and peace follow him where ever he goes, and he has the power to help you surmount your obstacles. The bearer of news, there can be tidings of love and the sharing of wisdom when it's needed. He also appears to warn people in a relationship that putting one on a pedestal is always a sign that a fall is imminent. A dreamer, beneath that calm exterior beats the heart of a lion; a passionate soul intent on making his dreams come true. When your idealism is staring to blind you, he will appear as a warning, showing you that imagination and drive are not only helpful to have, but they will make you realize what ever it is that you're striving towards. Develop imagination, but don't let it rule you. Show love, but don't let it shackle you."

By now, Ari's voice was coming a little slower; an almost thick sound, like verbal honey. Ringed fingers pushed away the second card, and slowly -- so slowly -- pulled the last towards her. Expression betrayed nothing as she started speaking once more. "The Hanged Man. A paradoxical card, as well as one of the most complex. His lesson is obvious, but accepting the message may be hard when it applies directly to you. Admit you are afraid, and you'll gain the ability to conquer that fear. Let go of your need for control, and see things fall into place. In a world in which you must run as fast as you can to stay where you are, the Hanged Man tells you to stop struggling - and you can move forward. You see how he's hanging there, unable to move? But how relaxed he seems?" Nails traced the Hangman's figure, showing. "He has no where to go, and all the time in the world to think about his situation; about what he has done wrong, and what he could've done to make things different, and he's come to peace with it. Sacrifice yourself to be mired, so that you'll be able to set yourself free. With his appearance, wisdom and happiness are at hand, but you'll have to sacrifice yourself in order to gain that. Inevitably, sacrificing something you value will always lead you to something even more valuable. In the wake of an unattainable dream you will find something else within your reach. Forgetting about one love will allow your heart to open to someone else."

Exhaling a long breath after she was finished, Ari reclined back in the chair as if all energy had left her; weary eyes shifting to settle on the other woman. Cam's expression had taken so many different turns in the last ten minutes, and now, it was crystal clear. Understanding and acknowledgement were the two most evident emotions, underlined by an unmistakeable tinge of fear and uncertainty. Loosing her own shuddering breath, the arms of the chair were grasped so that she could push to her feet. Ari smiled faintly.

"Voyez-vous maintenant?"

"Mais oui."

"Très bon."

"Merci."

Without another word, the dream broke apart on a sigh, and she was left to stare at the ceiling of her bedroom. Reaching up to run fingers under her eyes, the tear trails were wiped away absently. "Merci.." repeated once more before lashes lowered to block out the room.

______________________
Tarot card information ( paraphrased and copied ) from Ata-Tarot

It was so muggy out. Ironically, she welcomed the heat; the humidity was like a well worn blanket used to wrap around you for comfort. Back home, it was far worse than this; there was always enough moisture in the air -- during the summer -- to cause hair to cling damply, and to make clothes wilt against flesh five minutes after donning them. Nails ran up the lengths of her arms as the sidewalk was crossed, heel clacks echoing off of the buildings to trail in her wake. A metronome of movement, it all seemed lost to the dark as street lights were avoided.

Her gaze seemed fixated on building signs, lips quirking in sarcastic amusement at the boom of blues and jazz clubs. Everyone was a lounge singer these days. They all had that vintage style that supposedly "separated" them from the rest, when in actuality.. it was the new norm. Crooning into a Ribbon or Shure was as common place as Chinese restaurants. Sometimes, she wondered if she should abandon her .. style and find something else. Being just like everyone else had never been her forte, and never would. Fingers reached up to flick back the brim of the charcoal gray fedora; allowing her face to tilt upwards as if she could sense something in the wind.

An impending storm had it's own distinct smell to it. Something fresh intermingled with an electricity that used the moisture in the air as a conductor; a coppery hint tinting the cool breeze like the shadowing on a portrait. Pausing suddenly, both hands were shoved into the pockets of her jeans as the brightly lit sign up ahead caught her attention. Envy. The last time she'd been in the club, her and Jace had still been together. She vaguely wondered if everyone still had their jobs there. They all seemed like a close knit family, and the club had been their familial home. For the briefest span of a moment, she contemplated going inside. Wordlessly, the street was crossed as she made her way by the building without ever being noticed.

Shoulders slumped a little as the block was left behind, and she veered sharply to the right; intent on heading as far away as possible without getting lost. When she first moved here, all the streets looked the same. The canary couldn't count how many times she'd been standing in front of a building, staring around in horror, unsure of where she was until someone kindly directed her back to the right path. Now, there wasn't a street she didn't know. The whole place was as familiar as Lafayette or New Orleans. The thought made her smile again, and heel clicks picked up pace again.

Phone was untucked from her pocket, and Bren's number was tapped out. After listening to the long winded message the woman used on her voice mail, she cleared her throat. "Hey, s'me. Just callin' to say hey, and .. to tell you I miss you. It's been a couple of weeks since we've seen each other so.. call me." Without another word, the call was ended only for her to tap out another series of numbers. Des had once told her he loved her just for her, and he wanted her to know, just like he wanted Zane to know. She hadn't said anything profound back to him then, but .. now she understood what he meant, perfectly. Belated, as always, but clarity had to be found on one's own time. Her dream with Ari had helped her see that. Waiting for his voice mail, a simple, "Je t'aime," was left before she hung up.

Exhaling slowly, her free hand untucked a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, along with a lighter; pack tapped until a filter popped up and found its niche between her lips. Spark of flame, and the first lungful of smoke was held almost like it was marijuana. Another slow exhale, and her final call of the evening was being made. Barely giving the other end time to pick up, a genuine smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "I'll be home soon. Miss you." Pressing end, everything was sent back to her pockets as she decided to beat a path back to the apartment. Oliver was probably staring at the phone, wondering who body snatched her, by now.

It was scary how a two hour rehearsal had turned into a six hour jam session. Two-thirty in the morning, and she was finally walking home from the studio. When you got into that groove, you couldn't just break away from it. It was a musician thing; very rarely, everything clicked together, and tonight had been the lucky night; the band had sounded exceptional. Rubbing both hands down the length of her face wearily, the crosswalk sign was stared at. Walk. Just flash Walk. Take the 'Do Not' from in front of Walk so she cou-- as time as the lights switched, she bustled herself across the street as fast as the three inch heels would allow it.

Something wasn't quite right about the evening. She didn't know if it was the oppressive heat that felt like a weight, or if it was simply how.. quiet the area seemed. Pausing at the edge of the sidewalk, a bland look cast around, the urge to go home — stronger than ever — hit hard. A lesson learned, she knew to go with her instincts. They'd never failed her in the past. The slope of her shoulders softened, and though her pace was quick, the canary knew to stay inconspicuous. If fear was sensed, you'd end up dead in an alley. Law of the land.

"Come out and play..."

Words clung to the wind as if they were one and the same, and steps ceased instantly. Without thinking on it, a pinch was administered to her forearm. Pain; that meant she was awake. Then again, there wasn't any way possible she could be. That voice.. the only time she heard it was in the deepest part of her nightmares. That voice was the deepest part of her nightmares. Fumbling in her pockets, fingers sought purchase — almost frantically — for the string of silver and lapis always in her possession. Eyes half closed as the cool beads touched skin, and her head bowed briefly. "O my God, I firmly believe that you are one God in three divine Persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; I believe that your divine Son became man and died for our sins, and that he will come to judge the living and the dead."

Words trailing off, the endless silence that stretched around made her sigh in relief. She was having a little breakdown, that's all. Hearing things where nothing was to be found. An almost shaky laugh was loosed; features softening and making way for a smile to touch her mouth. Jumping at shadows.. Cam thought she'd be better than this. The rosary was wrapped around her wrist — just because it made her feel better to have in plain sight — before fingers made short work of tapping out and lighting a cigarette. A case of nerves. With Gavin in town, the attack on Oliver, and Des' deranged family member still out there lurking in her mind, she was on edge. Perfect explanation.

"It'sss pathetic to have all of your faith in a bunch of beadsss and ssome wordsss..."

Nearly strangling on the breath she just inhaled, the cigarette hanging from her lips dropped to the ground in a silent spray of fire and ash. The opportunity to turn around and face.. it never presented itself as a shadowed arm dropped across her collar bone, pinning her back against something that didn't quite feel solid. Beneath the fabric wrapped around it's body, a continous oozing and pushing could be felt, as if things were trapped beneath the surface and trying to fight their way out. Very unsettling.

Three thoughts were in her mind right now. How in the hell was this possible, what was that pushing at her back, and why did it feel like her throat was on fire? Where ever it was touching her, it felt like someone was holding a candle almost at her skin. Abruptly, she was released, and the movement almost made her fall to her knees. Eyes lifted towards the nearest building, and she blinked. Her apartment building was right in front of her, and it seemed that nothing was at her back now.

Any other time, she would've stood there and mused. Any other time, she would've turned around and went after — to find — what had been holding her. Any other time, she wouldn't be hitting the front entrance at a dead run, and darting up the steps to her apartment. Breath coming in hitching gasps, she was so busy fumbling in her pockets for her keys that she never saw what was waiting on her. Empathy wasn't a gift of hers; she wasn't like some people, that could sense others, or sense feelings from something or someone else, but before she could make it to that door, an imminent sense of evil surrounded her.

It enveloped her form like a well worn blanket, and for the span of a blink, something brushed along her cheek. Keys slipping through her fingers, they landed on the floor with a dull thump and a jingling sound as a few of them clinked together. Everything was background noise; the keys falling, her breath hitching, and the cackle of laughter that seemed to be bouncing around her skull, making the bones of her face ache. Eyes were blinded by an abrupt welling of fear, and it threatened to choke the life out of her body.

Almost as if someone had hit a switch, the laughter ceased and the overwhelming sense of fear muted down to what she had already been feeling. A touch of vertigo swept over her, and she scissored at the waist; shoulders rising and falling as she worked at getting oxygen to her lungs. The floor beneath her was tilting; the walls were closing in.. "Look up.." The two words echoed around the empty hallway, and in that instant, she knew she didn't want to. Then again, curiousity killed the cat-- blue-violets left the floor and trailed up the length of the door, only to pause and try to make out what was on the door... and she screamed.

Lamp lit shadows stained the walls like forgotten aged newsprint, curling up the dark wood to blend haphazardly with the stark white at the ceiling. Sprawled out in the middle of the floor -- a forgotten Ophelia that had been taken from the water -- arms were splayed out at her sides as an endless stare watched nothing. If not for the random blinks, or the very faint rising and falling of her chest, one might think this was an undiscovered crime scene; the body still in wait of its chalk outline and flashbulb photography eulogy. All at once, the breathing stopped; a harsh dragging rattle preceding the action, and for the span of a half minute, the world ceased. Quieter yet, a song played in the background; a fitting monument for her brief death.

The resurrection was easy enough. A quick blink and a jerk of her shoulders; air slowly leaked back into her lungs, ballooning them out and deflating again in normal rhythm. Scissoring into a sitting position, mussy strands of hair flew around to sweep across her mouth; a flick to dislodge them back to her nape. Darkened blues drifted around the room, almost as if she wasn't sure where she was; brow furrowing until her feet were gained. Grabbing the hem of her shirt loosely, involuntarily movement prompted her towards the bedroom and it's double window. The balcony outside -- lined with wrought iron -- beckoned her with whispers on the wind.

Fingers curled around the iron railing tight enough to leave impressions on her palms, and they got the same blank stare the living room received, prior. She was high enough in the air -- three stories -- for the wind to be a little more determined up here, and hair was spun around her face again. Iron against flesh as she leaned a slight, midriff and the loose grip of fingers the only thing separating her from cement. It was so .. quiet out here. Even the sounds of car horns and other life appeared to be muted, and lips thinned with that thought. Alone. "Jussst like I told you," was hissed against the shell of ear, and eyes dropped closed. "I'm not alone." Words were firm; soaked in truth and the knowledge that she wasn't. Maybe in the literal sense, at that exact moment, but she knew the broader meaning.

"Why do you insssissst on fighting me?" A brush of .. something touched her cheek before it withdrew, causing the shadows just to her right to come alive with mocking laughter. "Because you're wrong," simply returned. Half turning towards those shadows, her expression remained devoid of any emotion. "Am I?" The sly question was murmured at her ear once more, and this time, it stayed in place as she glanced back. "I don't know why I have to keep repeating this to you. I have friends. I have family. I am not alone. I'm perfectly content with my life, as is, with the exception of you and Gavin."

Pausing, taking a deep breath in the meantime, a flick of fingers dismissed the conversation ( the longest one she'd ever held with.. it, at that ). The effort was made to move away from the railing, but the abrupt grasp of her upper arms caused a complete standstill. With little more than a whoosh of air, she was half-dangling over the edge of the balcony; the only parts of her on the right side were her legs. Solidly formed hands were wrapped around her throat, holding her in place. "This bring back memories?" The sibilant voice had morphed into the silky tones of John Marceau; it was his face closing in on hers, with that cocky smile and self assured attitude. Arms going out at her sides, the air was grabbed at in vain; choking sounds tearing from her throat like paper out of a notebook.

"Did I misread you that night, Ms. St. John?" Giving her a little shake, she was hauled back over to the floor of the balcony, released to fall as she saw fit. Deja vu.. "You're not.. fuckin'... real." Scrambling up to her feet, her chin lifted so that she could eye 'Marceau' directly; not backing down an inch. This was just a twisted figment of her imagination. A memory tugged out and replayed like a B-movie. "You're NOT REAL," screamed with conviction, fists thrashing downwards to meet with the stone of the balcony once--twice--three times, until knuckles were broken and bloody. "Of course I'm real." Eyes dropped shut at the sound of the new voice; tears welling and spilling through the lace of her lashes. "You're not him either," whispered morosely as lids ascended to reveal ... "Pete.." Red hair, glasses, and all; if she wasn't about to have a breakdown, Cam would have to give it credit for exact mimicries.

"I miss you, Cam." Hiking up the legs of his baggy pants, he knelt down in front of her -- that adorable half grin flashed slow and easy. The backs of his fingers swept along the curve of her jaw, brushing back tears, and for a moment -- for a moment -- she forgot what was really going on. That is, until the skin where he touched began burning; with a muted yelp, she jerked away from him... from it, and scrambled back to the railing. "Stoppit.. just stoppit.." Her words had been strong just a few moments ago, but now they were as frail and delicate as an eggshell. "Who do you want me to be, Camilla? Is this what you want to see?"

In the blink of an eye, it morphed into the husky figure of her father. "Dis what'choo want, girl? Huh? Ya too high n' mighty t'talk t'yer Pere? What about this?" Another blink-- Sam stood before her. Bren. Gavin. Ari. Tom. Brian. Each new face had a fresh round of accusations to throw her way, until she was screaming so loud, it felt as if her eardrums were bursting. "STOP. IT. NOW!" Flinging herself forward, she bypassed its chimerical assault and stumbled into her bedroom. "WHAT IF I DON'T WANT TO STOP?" followed her inside, words punctuated by that maddening, mocking laughter. Pausing in the middle of the room, hands went up to tangle in her hair as eyes swept around, trying to remember where she was. Who she was. What that wasn't. The world was bleeding screams and going soft around the edges.. In the next instant, she found herself falling to her knees.

"You can't stop me. You can't block me. You can't find me, you can't shield from me, and you sure the hell can't ignore my existance. I'm HERE, girl." A finger jabbed into her forehead a couple of times, as if punctuating the point. "I'm here because you brought me here, and guess what? These aren't your rules anymore. Stay awake, I don't care." The voice had shifted into Sam's, though thankfully enough, the figure remained it's black shadow ooze form. A singular push had her falling the rest of the way to the floor, and hands went up to stop her face from bouncing against the varnished wood. "Say your little prayers, clink your little beads, but in the end? It's you and me. You. And me. Know why?"

A slick, oily glide had it dropping to kneel in front of her, fingers ghosting over her face as it lifted enough to bring it into sight. A syrupy bluesboy smile greeted her. "I don't love ya. And I know he didn't." That signaled Jace's appearance in this little play, and he smirked. "Nobody really does. You should just jump off that railing and do us a favor." Almost audibly, that thin thread -- the one that signified her sanity -- snapped like spidersilk, and the world went black in that instant. A low, gurgling chuckle filled the room like water being poured into a cup, before its existance simply ceased for the time being.

* * * * * *

Ring.

"Ari?"

"Yeah. Cam?"

"I need you here.. I can't stay anymore, please just come and get me.."

"Cam, what happened? Talk to me, doll, are you hurt? Are you alright?"

"... get me.. please.."

Dead line.

* * * * * *

Without a word to anyone, once Arianna arrived, Cam left the apartment behind and did something she hadn't done since she was a child. She simply ran away.

__________________________________________

There was a loud click as the spotlight came on, temporarily blinding her and causing a hand to lift, shielding her eyes. The band was making low murmuring noises in the background; the dull cacophony of sound emitting from tuned instruments and warm up beats in a synchronized rhythm. "Yer almost up." Glancing towards the side of the stage, a curt nod was given to Clyde, the band director, and a hand reached out to grasp the mic stand. "I got this," whispered under her breath, a reassurance to chase away the butterflies in her stomach and to dislodge the lump in her throat. Stage fright had never been a problem of hers, and what the problem was tonight .. was a mystery.

"You got this." A hand gently settled on her shoulder, and she leaned back against the line of his body, a brief flicker of a smile directed up his way. "I know, Pete. This one's for you." Even with the heels, she barely made it to his chin, so with a quick tip-toe-up movement, a kiss was brushed to the corner of his mouth. "I'll be front row," was all he said before moving off the stage. Glancing towards the piano player, the barest tip of her head qued him, and the soft strains of Gershwin started.

"Everytime we say goodbye, I die a little. Everytime we say goodbye, I wonder why a little. Why the gods above me, who must be in the know.. think so little of me. They allow you to go.." Fingers trailing up polished metal, red painted nails scored a trail upwards to lightly cup the microphone. Dragging it in towards lips painted in the same red, blue-violets drifted over the crowd until they landed on a tall figure sitting up front. "When you're near, there's such an air of Spring about it. I can hear a lark somewhere begin to sing about it. There's no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor. Everytime we say.. goodbye.."

Cheek pressing to the mic while the band launched into their quiet instrumental, a pleased smile curved the corner of her mouth; hips swaying slowly to the beat in a heat meld of seduction. In the audience, Pete lifted fingers up to his mouth, then extended them her way, causing a honey slow, lethargic blink of darkened lashes. "When you're near there's such an air of Spring about it. I can hear a lark somewhere begin to sing about it. There's no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor. Everytime we say..." Words trailing off, lashes lifted again to expose the starkness of her eyes, and the stare towards him was intense. ".. goodbye.."

The applause started off at a trickle, but grew into a thunderous roar in a matter of seconds; she stepped to the side of the mic stand and curtsied low, thank yous silently mouthed in appreciation to those who appreciated what she did. The spotlight dimmed a touch, exposing the full crowd for what they were, and it caused her to start in surprise. Each and every single person there was a moving corpse; rotted lips pulled back to expose yellowed teeth, black holes for eyes tuned in a dead stare towards her. Hands flailing, the microphone fell to the floor, causing a shrill noise of feedback and static, barely heard over the sounds of her screams.

Turning towards the band, the same sight greeted her. The only living person in the building seemed to Pete and he was hurrying towards her at an almost run. "Cam! Come here, quick!" Hands outstretching, when she reached to grasp at him, fingers crunched against leathery, flaking skin. A horror movie heartbeat of a second preceeded eyes lifting his way, and when she did, the world faded film noir dark. He started to say something else, bared muscles pulling against stark bone in effort, but the only allowed sound emitted... was a creak.

* * * * *

Sitting straight up in the bed, her scream was loud enough to be heard over the band playing downstairs, and the patrons glanced up to the ceiling. As if they could see what was going on through the layer of wood and plaster. Ari and Pete exchanged glances, and without a second though, he dashed up the staircase -- nearly tripping at the top -- to head for her room. Slamming into the wooden structure, a moment was taken to rub at his wounded forehead, before he pushed inside. She was still sitting on the bed, eyes wildly looking around the room as if in search of the corpse like people from her nightmare.

The moment that gaze landed on Pete, her screams intensified, until they were almost at deafening. "NO STAY AWAY FROM ME. YOU'RE NOT REAL, YOU'RE NOT ALIVE, YOU'RE NOT HERE!" Shrieked words repeated over and over again, his arms went around her small form like a vice grip, keeping her hands down and from scratching at her face. Instead, they were turned on him, leaving bloody scores behind on his arms and neck. In the next instance, Ari burst into the room, followed by a man carrying a black bag. He eyed the hysterical woman in detachment, and opened the bag to remove a syringe. "Is she going to be alright, Doctor Montreau?"

Indigo gaze turning towards the doctor, Ari took a step back when the needle made it's appearance; her only answer a short nod as he stepped in towards Cam. Glancing to Pete, he made a motion, as if to turn the woman. "Hold her tight," was all he said before plunging the hypodermic needle into her hip, the plunger pressed slowly, dispensing the sedative. Slowly, the fight against her 'captor' stopped, and her eyes drifted shut. "If she wakes up like this again, give me a call. Push comes to shove, Mrs. deBurgh, we have a facility that will be able to watch over her as needed."

Pete looked blankly towards Ari, not quite comprehending what Dr. Montreau was talking about. But Ari knew. Arms huddling around her form, she nodded shortly before murmuring her thanks, and the doctor exited quickly. Quietly musing to himself, you could tell the exact instant Pete realized what had been said, and his eyes widened. "You can't put her in one of those, Ari.." His voice was quavering, chin lifted almost in determination of not moving an inch in case they decided to institutionalize Camilla.

Staring at him solemnly, the silence in the room was almost roaring, until her voice broke through like a proverbial hammer against glass. "Don't worry." With that, the mamba left the room as well, leaving Pete to gently place Cam back on the bed, fingers lifting to brush her hair back out of her face.

_______________________________________

"Why won't you just let me take over?"

"It's not your life."

"No, but I can make it not yours anymore, just the same."

"It's mine."

"Willingly or unwillingly, you'll turn it over to me."

"Guess again.."

"Why do you sound so uncertain?"

"Mainly? Because I'm talking to myself."

"You're talking to me."

"Yeah, but you're not real."

"Of course I am."

"If you are, show yourself."

"Why should I?"

"Too scared, huh?"

"You're the one scared. They're talking about putting you into a mental institute."

"Won't happen."

"Don't be so sure."

"Don't be so annoying, and you've got a deal."

* * * * *

Glancing away from the far wall, her attention shifted to the opening door and it's occupant -- a smile flickering briefly at the appearance of Arianna. "Doing alright, doll?" Closing the door quietly behind her, Ari moved into the room slowly -- cautiously -- and approached the bed. "Yeah, a little, thanks." Nodding with that, Cam's legs swung over the side of the bed-- scooting down a little to allow the woman room to sit. Ari did, and looked Cam's way warily. "Were you talking to yourself?" Never one to tip-toe around a question -- or answer -- the direct words caused the canary's smile to widen a touch. "Probably," returned breezily, a hand waving dramatically in the air.

"Dominga and I, we're working on this as hard as we can, 'Milla." Glancing aside to the other woman, Cam nodded sharply, fingers threading together in her lap. "I can't say how much I appreciate it, Ari. I know you've got other stuff goin' on..." Ari made a sound, cutting off the other's words. "Friends and family first. This," gesturing to the club, "can run itself. I have managers and accountants to look after it." Grinning then, she leaned back -- arms going behind her head -- on the bed and sideglanced up to Cam. "I saw your.. friend the other night." Brow arching, Cam flopped back beside the woman, and returned the glance her way.

"Friend?" Be more specific, in other words; she had a lot. "Mhm. Blonde hair, blue eyes, freaked out expression, worried as all hell.." Biting the corner of her mouth to subdue a grin while trying to keep an innocent expression, Ari started humming and rolled her gaze up to the ceiling. "Ah," succintly put into a simple word. "Yeah... probably fucked that up." That's her; Camilla, Queen of the Fucked Up Relationships and Ultimater Fucker-Upper. She had a lot of explaining to do, she figured, if he'd listen to her when she got back. "Dunno doll. Doubt it, but who knows with men." They shared a bonding female moment laughing at that particular comment. "Speaking of, Orin. Haven't seen him since I've been back; how is he?"

"Mm, this sort of thing sets him on edge." Ari paused to rethink that, and amended with, "Well, it makes him teeter on that edge he's already on." A fond grin with that; it was more than apparent -- and not just by the flashy ring on her left hand -- that she was in love with the guy. Two and a half years, and going strong; it was a life long record. Cam smiled and shook her head, elbow pressing into the mattress so she could haul herself half-up. "With everythin' that's goin' on, and with everythin' that has been goin' on for the past year, I kinda expect Oliver to bolt. Hell, if I were in his shoes, I would. This is crazy."

"It's best not to say that word too loud here, darling. One, Orin'll pop in and find offense, and two, that doctor might show back up and take it as a go ahead to shove you into a padded room." The words were droll and half amused; Ari'd like to see someone sweep past her 'regime' and try to take anything or anyone out of this place. It wasn't notorious for gunfights without just cause. "If he loves you, he'll stay. If he has doubts, then it's best they come out as soon as possible so you both don't waste time on somethin' that isn't goin' to work." Cam nodded in understanding after that, palms swiping down the length of her face wearily.

"Pete's been here the entire time I was unconscious." It wasn't a question; a flat statement to prove what she knew to be right. "Mhm," was all she got out of Her Highness, and an elbow nudged into the woman's side. "Just friends, Arianna Lissette. He knows. I know." Mimicking the words quietly -- in jest -- Ari scissored up into a sitting position. "I know too, doll. It took him awhile after you left, but.. he's gotten a lot better. Still clumsy as hell, but I have a good supplier. Thank God." Or she'd be out of business with all the broken bottles that kid accumulated.

"He's a good man," Cam replied after a moment, nodding firmly. Ari checked her watch and groaned, using the edge of the bed to help her stand. "I need to go downstairs. Want to come with?" Get out of this room, stop talking to the shadows, and stop letting the shadows get to you-- roughly translated. Fingers brushing back through her hair, Cam grimaced and shrugged. "Yeah, give me about ten minutes to do somethin' with this," meaning the hair, "and put on some clothes that don't make me look like a homeless person." Seating herself back on the bed, Ari nodded. "I'll wait here, go on and get beautiful."

Women. They were so simple.

excerpt : The Imp of the Perverse, Poe

It was time to go home.

Her things already gathered in the foyer of the building, a hand lifted to brush back her hair as eyes shifted to the gathering of people in the bar area. Quick smile flashed, she blinked a few times to shield back the tears already forming. It had only been a week, and she had her own life elsewhere now, but it was still hard to leave everyone. The first to be enveloped in a tight hug was Ari, the other woman's slender arms creeping around her razor thin form easily. "I'll get in touch with you soon," was whispered against Cam's hair, and as Ari pulled back, a comforting smile was given. "I'll be lookin' forward to it, doll," returned easily. Body angling appropriately, Tom, Clyde, Larry, and even Valentine received a hug.

At the end of the line, Pete eyed her beneath a fall of stark red, and he tried to return her smile. "You.." a finger aiming his way, "You should come visit sometime. It's a great place." Smile furthering, arms went around him tightly, and his cheek dropped to press against her forehead. "We'll see," was the only reply he'd give, and she nodded. Hands going out at her sides, a half shrug was given before everyone was saluted. "I'll be seein' ya'll later." With that -- and one last smile -- she turned quickly and grabbed the two small bags waiting on her. No taxi to come pick her up; time rifts / jumps / nexus' / whatever were a little trickier.

Viva la Rhydin.

* * * *

The apartment was just as she left it. Kicking the door shut behind her, both bags were tossed to the side as eyes swept around the room. It was still morning, thankful enough, so the interior was brightly lit by the sun pouring through the windows. Shoes were the next to be kicked aside, hands going around to rest lightly on the small of her back as steps took her from the living room to her bedroom. The balcony was given a flicker of a look, and she turned to settle heavily on the bed.

Cam supposed she could count her blessings that the .. incidents were calming down a little. In the past three days, she'd only woken up screaming once. Sleep, when it came via drug inducement, was a blank void of nothing, with the ocassional rift of voices and faces haunting her subconscious. Absently, fingers went up to run along the edge of the red satin gris gris bag Ari still insisted she wear, along with the dime around her ankle. With a sigh, she fell back on the bed and reached out for the solitary stuffed penguin resting against the pillows.

Fernando was a bit too large to keep around for cuddling, anymore, what with him having his own life now. Eyeing the plush baby penguin, she couldn't help but smile slightly. Talk about a wish getting fucked six ways from Sunday. She never explained the events to anyone -- other than Des -- because frankly? It sounded like she'd been on an acid trip. Who'd believe ramblings about tall, talking grass and stuffed penguins come to life? It was odd enough for a grown woman to even have stuffed animals. Then again, nobody ever said one -- Camilla Violet -- was normal.

The events of the last week replayed in her mind like a silent film-- her old friends helping like she'd never left. Estranged parents trying to rekindle a bond that hadn't been there to start with. Nightmares trying to drive her insane and doctors wanting to put her away for it. Penguin tucked in the crook of her arm, her other hand reached out blindly towards the nightstand, and consequently, the phone resting there.

Pressing the appropriate speed dial buttons, the receiver was jammed between her ear and shoulder as attention shifted up to the ceiling. The sooner she called Oliver to announce her return, the better it'd be. There was no use in prolonging whatever was to happen. Frowning after the fifth ring -- and the answering machine picking up -- she sighed heavily. The message was brief and to the point.

"I'm home."

You know I ain't gonna take none of your foolin' around.
I ain't gonna take none of your puttin' me down.
I put a spell on you because you're mine."

The club was left deserted; a ghost shell of what it had been a mere hour and a half ago. Brian and the rest of the band had packed up their gear and decided to call it an early night, each member drifting off to their respective residences, leaving the canary alone with her piano. Heels kicked off to the side, fingers drifted lightly over the keys, head tilted down towards the instrument as if trying to hear something that wasn't there. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, the words to the song oozed out like honey, coating the interior with Southern Comfort, a husky alto, and spinning a fantasy of possession and wayward love.

So engrossed in the music, she didn't hear the approaching footsteps until the person was standing directly in front of her, the piano releasing a discordant sound as the keys were pressed haphazardly. Heart in her throat, the back of her knuckles lifted to push the glasses up a little farther; nose wrinkling as she squinted up to the man. "... club's closed, doll. Gonna have to come back tomorrow." A brief glance over her shoulder to see if anyone happened to be around -- the manager, a bartender, anyone -- only to met with what seemed to be miles and miles of empty room. He flashed a grin down her way, hands tucking into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. "Not looking for a drink, and I've already seen the show. As a matter of fact, I've seen a few of your shows. My name is Marshall Windham, and I represent the MMC Recording Studio located in Massachusetts." That smile of his broadened then, and he extended a hand.

A slow blink followed the introduction, her hand reaching for his almost involuntarily. "Guess it's kinda pointless to give you m'name then, huh?" Slanting him her own red glossed smile, hand was released after the firm shake, and drifted back down to the piano keys. "Indeed, Ms. St. John," returned amiably, head tilting to the empty space beside her on the piano bench questioningly. Gesturing for him to help himself, she continued playing the song's instrumental while sideglancing to his profile. "So what brings you all the way here? S'a long way from home." Understatement, and they both laughed at the joke. "As a matter of fact, you do." Helping himself to the keyboard, the song continued without hesitation as she dropped her hands to her lap. "Obscure artists are what we do, and you seem to be one of the best." Pausing for a moment, a card was untucked from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed her way.

Crimson tipped nails plucked the card from him easily, and blue-violets skimmed over the writing. "A record deal, eh?" Glancing his way for the nod, in assent, the card was handed back to him with a smile. "Sorry, not interested." Pushing up to her feet, she scissored at the waist to grab her heels and slid them on, before wandering to the bar. Fingers curling around the decanter of bourbon Franklin -- the bartender -- left for her, she set about filling a glass and waiting for the sound of his shoes scuffing on the floor, signalling he had followed. Thirty seconds later, her wait was over as he suddenly appeared at her elbow. "Not interested?" Brow arching, the card was placed on the bar, beside her glass. "Not interested," repeated firmly, eyes drifting up his way as a long sip was taken. "How can you be not interested? You're a seasoned performer, quite a good one I might add, working in bars when you should be available for a larger audience."

A half-grin pulled at the corner of her mouth as she listened, hip cocking out to press against the lip of the counter. "My audience is just fine, Mr. Windham. I don't want to be famous, I don't want to be media-owned." The incredulous look on his face was making the entire conversation worth it, and she smothered a laugh in another sip of the bourbon. "Media-owned..? I've never heard it put like that before. You'd be doing what you loved, getting paid better for it. No more working in these dives, singing for drunkards..." The clink of crystal on wood interrupted his spiel, and she turned to face him fully. "I do what I love, get paid just enough for it, and these drunkards are what helped make this my livin' for eight years. Now you may not understand the concept of lovin' a job, but I'd do this for free if I didn't like eatin' and sleepin' under a roof. Our conversation is over, thank you for stoppin' by."

Pasting on an empty, cordial smile, the card was picked up and ripped into four pieces, then deposited into the half empty glass of liquor. Without another word, she bypassed him and headed for the stage long enough to grab her bag. Head held high, a finger wiggle in farewell was given to him as he stood there with his mouth agape. Door swinging shut behind her, she didn't even get to the crosswalk before her cell phone started ringing. Switching her bag from her right hand to her left, the phone was flipped open and placed to her ear. "Yep?" For some reason, she expected Gavin to be ranting in her ear, and her expectations weren't for naught.

"I hand you a record deal on a silver platter, and you turn it down? What the hell is wrong with you? Need I remind you what I can take awa--" Before he could launch -- fully -- into his tirade, her voice interrupted. "Hey 'Vin? Fuck off and shove your threats righ-- well, I think you know where I mean. And if you've got a problem with me, which I think you do, how 'bout you come to me with it for once. I'd just love to see you again." Without waiting for a reply, the call was ended. Resuming her pace down the sidewalk -- a jaunt in her step that hadn't been there before -- her voice rang out to echo off the buildings, keeping her company on the way home.