Black Lily

Mayfair, London, June 14th 2003 

Saturday night at the Dubh Linn. It's a good, old fashioned pub in a cellar on Vigo Street. It's old fashioned like a local pub. You know the kind? When a stranger comes in everyone looks at them. It's always full of regulars and they sit around their tables, or in the booths around the sides, and if someone they don't know gets close... Yeah, that kind of pub. There is one difference though; when a stranger walks into a normal pub, the regulars aren't licking their lips when they stare. 

No one pays too much intention when I walk in. Well, not that kind of attention anyway. I'm here at least once a week and the regulars know me. Most of them know me well enough to keep their distance. I'm Lily, by the way, Lily Carpenter. I'm eighteen and I live in a bedsit in Hammersmith, technically alone, but not most nights. I used to work behind the bar in this place when I first came to London. I was underage, but that kind of thing doesn't bother the owner. These days I employ my talents in other, more lucrative ways. You're going to ask what my talents are, right? That'd be telling. 

Outside it's full moon, so inside the werewolves are frisky. In the legends they turn into wolves at the full moon, but that's just licks, lycanthropes. True werewolves change when they want, or sometimes when they get angry. Sometimes a girl gets a surprise and discovers they can change when they get... excited too. That's never happened to me, but I wouldn't be surprised anyway. 

Anyway, most of the wolves in here know me, but there's one table of newbies. Everyone's ignoring them, four of them, laughing and boozing, and totally oblivious to the danger they're in. My guess is they're Royals slumming it. They have that yuppie look to them. The look of overconfidence that too much money and a feeling of invulnerability gets you. They're they kind of people who say, "Do you know who I am?" to a cop. One of them grabs my arse as I walk past. 

Now, don't get me wrong when I say I'm asking for it. A girl's got a right to dress how she likes and not have some freak with male genitalia think it gives him rights. But I'm asking for it, looking for it. My skirt's so short the wolf-guy doesn't have to reach far and it's warm out so I'm just wearing a bandeau under my leather jacket. My sandals have five inch heels which puts a nice swing on my hips, lengthens my legs, and pushes my butt and chest out. But I'm not asking for it because of how I dress, I'm asking for it because I'm planning to take someone home tonight, end of story. 

Still, a girl has to have standards. I stop and look down at the guy. He's grinning back at me like this is the biggest joke ever. I can see his fangs. I smile so he can see mine and then I turn my aura on. I don't cast it wide, just enough to cover the table. Him and his friends are looking at me, so they're the ones who feel it. I don't really know what it feels like, of course, but I have an idea. Something like the best orgasm you've ever had, though that's because you've never had me. This guy's not getting me either. 

I leave the four of them moaning at the table and head for the bar. There's some rumbles of laughter from the other patrons as I strut across the bare floorboards. The Dubh Linn is pure class; the ceiling is the floorboards of the floor above and there's nothing covering the brickwork. The bar's kind of nice though. It's solid, dark wood with a huge row of bottles and optics behind it. Sean is also behind it and he's nice too. Well, nice to look at. He's all dark hair and good looks, but he's fae and they tend to look like that. 

'Lily girl,' he says as I get closer, 'always a pleasure t' watch you work. What'll you have?' 

'Whiskey, a double.' I lift myself onto a stool and cross my legs. I've got nothing on under the skirt and you have to leave something to the imagination. 

As Sean puts the glass in front of me, I reach into my jacket for cash, and a hand puts a five pound note down beside the tumbler. The owner of the hand is blond and not too old. His muscles show under a tight, black T-shirt. 'On me,' he says and I favour him with a smile. 'I'm Aaron,' he tells me.