Bloodhound

Five rejections in one night. That's basically an Olympic record in strike-outs. The culprit? Surely, the culprit wasn't his dazzling personality (according to his mom, at least) or his chiselled physique (arguably), perhaps it was his hair, a bit too... flamboyant? Probably.

But hey, genetics were a cruel mistress.

Then, a vision appeared on the barstool next to him. Her eyes mirrored his own, but smouldered with an intensity his lacked. Her hair, the colour of... well, the sophisticated word for black? It escaped him. Creative writing wasn't his strong suit, but let's just say words failed him. But her scent! He could practically smell her from here, like stepping into that luxurious designer section - well, that wasn't important.

But the most captivating feature was her aura. It screamed "aloof ice queen" louder than a karaoke singer belting out a Celine Dion ballad. He, being the moth drawn to a slightly singed flame that he was, decided to risk getting burned.

"Greetings, oh creature of exquisite beauty," he declared, his voice smoother than a used car salesman's handshake. His attempt at charm resembled a deflated pool float, all floppy and useless. "Fancy gracing me with your presence for a beverage?"

She surveyed him with the critical eye of a museum curator examining a mass-produced souvenir. His pick-up line, likely older than the internet itself, hung in the air like a forgotten gym sock. An awkward silence followed, punctuated only by the rhythmic clinking of ice against glass and the distant rumble of bass from the dance floor. Then, with the predatory grace of a lioness stalking a bewildered gazelle, she leaned in and planted a kiss on his surprised lips.

For him, it was a supernova, a celestial explosion that would be sung about by divas for centuries to come. For her, it was the literary equivalent of watching paint dry, a soul-sucking experience that could make a sloth reconsider its entire life philosophy.

His composure evaporated faster than a snowflake on a hot stove. "I-I'm Joseph," he stammered, "and you...?"

"Not relevant," she muttered, hopping off the stool with the ease of a seasoned escape artist. Joseph's confidence, already on thin ice, shattered and sank like the Titanic.

Meanwhile, Callista's mind was a whirlwind of confusion. It wasn't the interaction with Joseph, bless his oblivious heart, that had her heart pounding a frantic tattoo against her ribs. It was the echo of another kiss, another encounter replaying on a loop in the recesses of her memory.

A woman, a vampire no less!

The quickened heartbeat wasn't about Amelia, not really. It was the uncanny resemblance – the height, the build, those haunting golden eyes that mirrored Athena's. Yet, Callista knew better than to fall for a vampire, especially one who predated the invention of the wheel. To them, emotions were as fleeting as morning mist.

But was Athena just another blood-sucking socialite, or was there more to her? Underneath the usual flirtatious facade, Callista had glimpsed something... almost human in her eyes that night. Perhaps it was the moonlight playing tricks, or maybe a figment of her imagination, a phantom conjured by the potent wine. Yet, even the possibility of it being a dream left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Callista didn't spare a glance at the lovelorn Joseph, his jaw scraping the floor in mock-tragic despair. His drink followed suit, splashing a puddle of sugary despair onto the bar. As she slipped through the swinging doors, a figure materialised beside him, amusement dripping from his voice like spilled wine.

"Cupid strike again, Jo?" Lionel's lips twitched, a playful jab barely held at bay.

Joseph, his crimson eyes flickering momentarily to their true silver, stammered, "I-I think I'm in love, Captain."

"Love can wait," Lionel chuckled, his amusement morphing into a knowing smirk. "The Queen needs your nose, not your heart. Seems there's a rogue ghoul tickling her royal nostrils."

Joseph let out a defeated groan. "Does she always have to use me like a… bloodhound?"

"Ask her yourself," Lionel's smirk widened as Joseph's face drained of colour at the mention of the Queen.

A slender figure slid onto the stool next to him, her hood cloaking her face in shadow. But even in the dim light, Joseph could feel the anger radiating off her like heat waves. What had he done wrong this time? Earn another muzzle for sniffing the Queen's footwear?

A low, husky voice, laced with venom, slithered into his ear. "Do I need to repeat myself, Joseph?" Eydis purred his name, each syllable dripping with a promise of exquisite, agonising pain.

With a whimper, Joseph practically crawled off the stool, his tail metaphorically tucked between his legs. Lionel watched him go, a single eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Uncharacteristically fiery, Your Majesty?" he inquired, his voice laced with a hint of playful curiosity.

Eydis ignored him, her youthful frame radiating unexpected command as she leaned towards the bartender. "Macallan 25, single malt. Five glasses, neat." The bartender scurried to fulfil the unusual order, surprised by the young woman's air of quiet authority and surprisingly sophisticated taste.

Her golden eyes, usually sparkling with amusement, flickered towards the door where the enigmatic girl with crimson eyes had disappeared. Eydis downed the entire shot in one smooth motion, the liquor burning a path down her throat but failing to extinguish the fire in her eyes. 

Lionel, ever the observant one, couldn't help but notice this peculiar behaviour. The Queen rarely touched alcohol, and never in such a manner.

As expected, the night culminated in Lionel carrying a slumbering Eydis to his car. A mumble escaped her lips, a half-hearted protest about her abandoned motorbike. It served as a stark reminder of the secrecy she craved. Lionel understood. A Rolls Royce would paint a giant target on her back.

He glanced at her sleeping face, bathed in the soft glow of the moon. A hint of a frown creased her brow, hinting at the turmoil beneath the surface. Perhaps it was another nightmare, a reminder of the night years ago that had changed everything. Lionel squeezed her hand gently, a silent promise of unwavering loyalty and a silent question hanging in the air: what was the true source of the Queen's torment?

******

A muttered curse escaped Callista's lips as she pushed open the door to the 'Sword Art' club. Indigo's latest update had shifted her mission entirely, training her sights solely on Princess Athena and her formidable skills. And who better to gauge those skills than Callista herself, right?

Scanning the room, Callista found no sign of Amelia amidst the early morning practice. A wave of relief washed over her – facing Amelia, or Eydis, again after the recent chaos stirred a knot of unease in her gut. At least with Athena, she could hopefully drop the pretence. Maybe, just maybe, capturing Amelia would be the key to ending this whole mess quickly.

The booming voice of the announcer ripped Callista from her thoughts. Today's highlight: a duel between Princess Athena and… someone named Orion. A woman with emerald eyes and hair like freshly cut grass, a shapeshifter according to the hushed whispers around Callista.

As the fight began, Callista's eyes followed Athena's every move. Raw power crackled around Athena, a vibrant energy that seemed to hum beneath her skin. Yet, her movements held an unsettling hesitancy, her strikes landing just a hair off-target. Despite the sluggishness, Callista couldn't help but admire the undeniable grace etched into Athena's every move, a testament to years of rigorous training.

Across the arena, Orion, the shapeshifter, mirrored Athena's movements with uncanny precision. Her attacks were swift and relentless, a flurry of feints and jabs that danced around Athena's defenses. The crowd roared with anticipation as the duel escalated, the wooden swords singing a deadly song through the air.

Suddenly, Orion spotted an opening. With a predatory glint in her emerald eyes, she lunged forward, her wooden sword flashing in a vicious arc aimed for Athena's shoulder. A sickening crack echoed through the silent room as the wood connected with bone. Everyone in the audience gasped, a collective gasp of shock that rippled through the air.

Callista's breath hitched in her throat. Had Athena just fallen? The princess stumbled back, her hand flying to her injured shoulder, a grimace contorting her face for a fleeting moment. Then, with a steely resolve that flickered in her golden eyes, Athena straightened her stance. 

Orion, momentarily stunned by the unexpected turn of events, stammered back a step. Uncertainty flickered across her face, replacing the earlier predatory glint. "Your Highness," she sputtered, her voice laced with a hint of fear, "I-I didn't..."

Athena, her voice calm despite the tremor in her hand, spoke with a regal air. "Victory is yours," she declared, her words echoing through the stunned silence. With a final, lingering glance at Orion, she turned and retreated from the arena, her regal posture belying the grimace of pain that flickered briefly across her face.

From the corner of her eye, Callista saw Melissa, the club's healer, rushing towards the princess. The sight eased the tension that had coiled in Callista's stomach, a tension she hadn't realised she was holding until her knuckles turned white against the armrest.

Biting back a surge of conflicted emotions, Callista rose and slipped away towards the changing rooms.