[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People

[Josh]

Jeremiah Buford, Allen Bradley, Raul Montez
  Nosferatu, Mortal^2
  Sinclair Mansion
   
  Jeremiah Buford and Allen Bradley quickly left the car and headed towards the door to the kitchen, leaving Raul with the car and the Switchblades game to keep him company.  This is where Buford and Allen would split, playing their separate parts in tonight’s game.
   
  Buford stopped before the door and adjusted his tie, leaning his cane against the wall and reaching a hidden pocket of his jacket.  He brought forth an eggshell colored box, no bigger than the palm of his hand, tied with a wispy gossamer bow.  “Allen, please give this to Lady Sinclair and apologize for my inability to formally present myself at the front door.  If you haven’t seen Ettienne St. Clair by then, please find her and let her know that I would enjoy seeing her in the solarium whenever she can spare a moment.”
   
  Allen took the box and gingerly put it in his jacket’s inner pocket while Buford continued.  “By the time you speak with Miss St. Clair, anyone who’s looking for me should know that I’m here.  And please, do be careful with the box.  It’s another Swarovski crystal chicken to add to her collection.”  While it was well known that Mrs. Sinclair appreciated rare objects d’art, few people (at least, those who remained in the front rooms during her parties) knew about her fascination with collecting tiny knick-knacks of barnyard animals.
   
  “Yes sir.  Is there anyone else that you would like to speak with tonight?”
   
  “No, that should do it.  After that, you’re free to enjoy the party.  Of course, if anyone inquires as to where I am, just let them know I’m in the solarium.”
   
  Allen nodded and moved through the door.  Buford chanced a look through while Allen made his way to the front room and saw that the kitchen was empty, so he quickly crossed over to the servant’s hallway.  A holdover from older times when a home this size needed a small army of men, women, and children to tend to it, these halls led to virtually every part of the mansion.  They weren’t hidden, but they weren’t as lavishly decorated or meticulously kept up as the main halls where the mistress of the house and her family spent their time.
   
  Buford knew that the servants would be too busy moving between the wine cellar, kitchen, and main rooms to check the rooms in the back of the house, but he remained cautious.  No use drawing attention to one’s self when there wasn’t any need to, and disposing of bodies during a party was always a hassle.
   
  During the day, the solarium was filled with bright light and gentle warmth.  Mrs. Sinclair did not keep any of her more precious works of art here, because she feared the damage that the sun would cause.  Instead, she used it to display her more esoteric pieces, including a bonsai tree that was rumored to be over five hundred years old.
   
  At night, it was one of the more comfortable rooms in the house.  The heat from the day would be somewhat dissipated, leaving the room cool but not overly so.  The blinding sunlight that was the anathema of his kind was gone, replaced tonight with a full quicksilver moon.
   
  Buford switched the lights to their lowest setting and walked the circumference of the room, his cane a light thumping counterpoint to his soft footsteps.  Mrs. Sinclair had added a wooden statue atop a pedestal to her collection, and Buford bent at the waist to inspect it more closely. 
   
  It looked to be a person growing out of the ground, though Buford couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman by its features or build.  It was, however, carrying something to its breast that may or may not have been an infant, so Buford decided that it was a woman.  Or it could just be an interesting piece of wood that someone smoothed down and conned her into buying, but Buford thought better of Mrs. Sinclair’s taste and expertise than that.
   
  He made a cursory inspection of some newer pieces, then made his way to a slightly opened window in a darkened corner.  From his pocket he withdrew his bent briar pipe and packed the bowl with the last of a very mellow English Cavendish tobacco that Raul picked up for him a few months ago.  From another pocket he brought out a small box of wooden matches and began mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do.
   
  Buford’s rational mind knew that there was absolutely no reason to be afraid.  It was just a simple wooden match, and the flame it created would be small and perfectly controlled.  As he placed the tip of the match against the side of the box, he thought he felt his heartbeat increase a bit.  That was impossible, of course, as his heart only pumped blood through his body when he willed it.  Still, he had to take a deep breath to relax before continuing.
   
  The match head scraped along the rough strip, and fire sprung to life.  Buford held it away, nearly at a full arm’s length, staring at it, watching it laugh and crackle and expand, wary of its greedy appetite as it ate away the wood and tried to consume his flesh.  The orange spark reflected in his yellow eyes, and his mustache of worms twitched and writhed in agitation.  He let the fire die a bit, and only then brought it close enough to light the tobacco inside his pipe.  He drew air in, sucking the flame down into the tobacco-packed bowl.  The leaf caught, and Buford shook the match out before crushing it in his hand.
   
  Buford drew a breath of smoke, relaxing as his mind remembered the peace of a good pipe that his body forgot.  He stood at the window, back to the door but it’s reflection in the glass before him, and waited to see if he would have any visitors.
   
(Ring around the rosie, tagging full of posies)
 		
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