Rave in the Grave
Good evening, my delicious, little darklings of darkness. Wyntress Nyght here, serving up your forbidden dose of supernatural crack. So hook up your IVs, roll up the psychic and toke her, or offer up your shot glass for some ectoplasmic delight. For I have the phantasmal kick you have all been jonzing for. No DTs here, my darklings, only the monster of all dragons for you to chase . . . me!
Now, for those readers who are new to my witch-board of communications, allow me to sinfully boast a little about the place I haunt.
It’s the Other World, the Underworld, or a label I am rather fond of and prefer, Hell.
Did I say, Hell? Yes, I did, but please don’t bother pulling out the crucifixes yet. We aren’t as fearsome as you might think. The only fires burning down here are under the skirts of the Succubi. We did accidently start one screaming volcano of a flame once—or twice—but that’s not important. No one was really harmed, unless you count the couple of drunken Werewolves who were singed a little. Thankfully, fur grows back. *Winks*
Now, let’s get past the superstitious myths and fears, so you can better appreciate where I’m coming from. My world is something like yours, only it’s darkly Goth and sweetly decadent. Here is where the Ghosts, the Ghouls, the Vampires, the Werewolves, the Zombies and every other type of Dead or Undead roam.
Now, once you pick your jaw up off the floor, I can get down to what happened that pretty much flipped my crypt upside down forever a few months back.
I was chillin’ at the Rave in the Grave, my favorite club, having a Bloody Mary while listening to DREADN, our local Vamp band, and tapping my dark crimson nails to the ear-shattering, beat-thrusting—Wyntress loves a good thrust—tunes pumping out of the speakers.
So far, the evening had been normal, if you would consider anything here normal. It was still early, and the Dead and Undead were just starting to roll out from their graves and crypts. Slowly but surely, corpses started to fill the inside of the Rave, dragging themselves to a table or bar, hoping to conjure up something extra wicked and liquid.
Ah, the Rave. *Swoons* Aside from its enormous size, I love how the walls are depressingly gray and how the many candelabras hanging from the ceiling sparkle and mirror the flames of the others. I adore how everything’s cluttered with old world frills and chill-thrilling charm. The Dead who linger there still reflect the appeal of their previous life and fashion, or at least some do, because I can promise you, I don’t. I pride myself on keeping up with the latest trends and styles. Why, I even had on my favorite pair of hip-huggers and web-spun black sweater. My long, raven hair was twisted and pinned in the back, so the tips were dangerously spiked off the top of my head, spilling forth in dangling strands down my curved backside. I wore cat-like eyeliner, emphasizing my jade-colored inhuman eyes. I have a come-hither mouth, and darkling, these tempting smackers aren’t filled with Botox either. But anyway, back to that night.
"Did you not hear me? Are you illiterate?" Starla Jones screamed from behind me. Then she marched toward a table adjacent to mine. "It’s impossible to get a proper drink and service in here anymore!"
Early or not, I saw some of the lunatics still managed to flee the asylum, and in my sexy but never humble opinion, Starla was the biggest lunatic of all.
She died in her thirties, a 1940s film star, and she was not famous for being the queen of good times in any way. Starla’s major mood detonations put her at the top of my ‘Not One of My Favorite Corpses’ list. I had the feeling we were about to see one of her blow-ups, based on the way her lip curled and her unbalanced expression appeared rather unhinged.
"Do you not hear me? Come over here!"
The weary deadtress (our word for waitress) hesitantly slid her feet against the red carpet. She waited while the brass case holding Starla’s imported cigarettes snapped shut. Supposedly, it was a gift from and engraved by Clark Gable himself. So she says, because she would never let any of us lowly corpses dare touch and see for ourselves.
As if the poor deadtress had all the time in the world, Starla blew out a faint puff of white smoke while smoothing out the creases from her silk gown. Something soft and amusing stretched her lips, giving the impression the storm had passed. She smugly patted the sides of her neatly pinned and finger-curled hair.
Meanwhile, the deadtress slouched a little, and I’m pretty sure she thought the worst was over, but Starla’s drama mode always kicks in when least expected. Her mouth coiled open to spew forth something vile.
"Now you little nit wit . . . I asked for two olives in my martini, not one. I also know this has been shaken not stirred. Do you think I cannot tell the difference? And this glass . . . do you not see this smudge? Just because you would drink from a sewer doesn’t mean I will!"
She threw her cigarette at the deadtress who scampered away, nearing tears. Starla’s over-the-top makeup-caked eyes darted in my direction. The intensity burning up her cheeks was proof she hadn’t finished.
"And what are you looking at, Wyntress Nyght?"
Well, I thought, isn’t she just the cutest ball of snot and snobbery ever?
"Only someone in need of a good bitch slap and a morgue full of downers," was my reply. I briefly wondered if she’d start foaming at the mouth.
"You are a cruel and offensive thing." She curved a corner of her lip in some weak attempt at a snarl.
That seemed to be her signature gesture for the night, leaving me to say but one thing. "Oh, how amusing; Sybil does tricks." (Yes, I nickname everyone. Too damn bad she wouldn’t play dead.) "Hey, Sybil, pop a Quaalude before your multiple personalities spontaneously combust." I knew my usual sarcastic, devilish grin was taunting her. "Back off the Dewbies, would ya?" (That’s our word for the newly dead.) "And apologize to the poor girl before she quits already. If you want to go into a meltdown, find someone who is more of a match . . . like me," I gladly volunteered.
"Mind your own business, Wyntress Nyght," she huffed. "I so tire of all this drama. Who knew the afterlife would be filled with such imbeciles."
"I’d say we knew the moment you died and crossed over. Things seemed rather peaceful until then." *Snickers*
She cut me a dry, venomous look, but my attention flew in another direction—toward the Crypt Master, Draven, the owner of the Rave. I’m sure the deadtress told him what happened, causing him to rush over and play typical peace reaper.
While he whispered away to Starla, my sight soaked him up, because he is such a dashing and darkly gorgeous man. He oversees this Dominion called Sheol and is top dog over everyone in the Dominion. Every Crypt Keeper (the guardian of a crypt) must answer to the Master. Hell is divided up into many Dominions.
But back to Draven. He’s a yummy looking Master, always dressed to the nines in a debonair, tailored suit with a red rose stuck upon his breast. Personally, I think he watches James Bond movies way too much—the Sean Connery ones. If Sean is smart, he will live forever, because the day he comes to my world, Draven will be stuck on him like maggots to bone.
Yep, you heard me; we have movies channeled from your TVs. Everything is energy—especially electricity. Tapping into it is nothing at all. You think this is farfetched? Oh, so I suppose Sylvia Brown or John Edwards calling us up on a Psychic-IV whim is acceptable, but we can’t steal a little cable. Puh-lease! Not only can we pirate your stations, but we also have our own news and movie channels. To be honest, I prefer those. If you ever saw our spoofs made of your films, well you’d be rolling over in your graves.
I digress. Back to that night.
"Starla, darkling, please." Draven spoke in his deliciously British voice. "The deadtress is new and I am finding it difficult to keep them. As a favor to me, do not frighten anymore into quitting."
"For you." Her gloved hand grazed his cheek while her other molested her tacky mink wrap. "You really do need to train them better, darling." She gave him a little pout.
"Shall I fetch you a stronger drink, love?"
Instead of nodding, she leaned over to whisper something to him, which I found rather rude, or would have, if I actually cared. Her eyes burned in my direction, so I knew she was attempting to build him up into scolding me or throwing me out.
Yeah, I thought, like her dreams would ever come true.
Been there, done that. Draven, that is.
Hey, the only abstinence we practice here is life.
Draven. Simply scrumptious. There is something to be said about spending the night with a mature corpse. He puts the art in making love, if you get my meaning. And no, fleeting or not, it’s not just sex with men like him.
I swirled the edge of my glass with the tip of my finger, thinking about him.
Unfortunately, Draven was a one-timer and by my own decision. I shuddered to think he might request a threesome with Starla Jones some day, since they rocked both ways. Hey, I’m open to all genders . . . but Starla? I’d rather have my spleen plucked out. Besides, I admit to being very hungry the night I claimed Draven, but once my libido was soberly full, I had a moment to think about who frequented his bed. Starla’s image bitch-slapped my mind, and I just couldn’t hack a hairball like that up. I felt her crawling, bitter itch all over my carcass, and it really grossed me out. Draven, Mr. Delectable, was a one-time indulgence. Besides, sleeping with one’s Crypt Master wasn’t the wisest of choices. I mean, if things go south, a corpse could be in a very awkward position. Kind of like grinding your boss.
I pushed all thoughts of Starla and Draven out of my mind and focused on my Bloody Mary. And no, I didn’t have some girl named Mary all blended and bloodied up in a glass. I drink real Bloody Marys with a stick of celery and everything. We like our alcohol down here the same as you. The difference is we can’t get poisoning and die from it.
(You’re totally jealous now, right?)
Starla’s fist, beating against the table, broke my thoughts in half. Not even the loud, psychedelic music of DREADN could wash her out.
"Stop staring at me, Wyntress!" she shouted. "See, I told you she was harassing me!" She clung to Draven as if I were some crazy corpse stalker, (corpses who stalk a certain corpse).
Okay, I did decide to sit there and gawk, because I knew by doing so I would annoy her to no end. But, was there anything—being purposely annoying, that is—in it for me? I mean, nothing would have given me a bigger laugh than to watch her completely lose what little sanity she had left, ending in a reenactment of her own death. But the thing is, once you’ve seen Sybil break down, it’s like a movie you’ve watched way too many times. Eventually, it loses its entertainment value, and unfortunately, I bore real damn easy.
Oh, what the virgin, I thought. If I can’t torment her then what good am I? And when I spied the deadtress hiding in the corner bleeding tears, because Starla can be the empty end of a Prozac prescription, well, let’s say that drove the final nail in the coffin of my decision.
"Hey, Starla." I smiled brightly, purposely coaxing her. "Did you smell the best of me on Draven’s sheets?"
"Wyntress Nyght, you filthy little . . . ."
"Oh, Starla, stop." I waved my hand, flashing a lighthearted and playful look. "Flattery will get you, and only you, absolutely nowhere."
"Flattery!" She leaped from her seat into a fighting stance, raised her untouched drink, and began to throw it.
Draven—moving quickly but oh-so-gently—grabbed the glass and her hand, bringing them both slowly downward. Then he gave me a scolding look, but couldn’t stress it deep enough, no doubt because the memories of Wyntress Nyght making his eyes roll into the back of his head were still fresh in his mind.
Am I a mind reader? Hey, I can sense these things. Once you’re lucky enough to have me, there is no forgetting it.
*Snap, snap, and snap*
"Wyntress, our relationship is an open one." He meant him and Sybil, sure as hell not me and him. "Please do not upset her. You know how fragile she is."
"Fragile my achin’ ass," I scoffed.
And with that, Starla began to charge my table with cheeks redder than crimson and matching stained lips, which were pulled back in her ugliest scowl. Her nails were ready to claw my exotic flesh off . . . .
That is until the doors to the club buckled off their hinges, and she, like everyone else, came to a dead halt. With a loud clash of instruments, and a few sudden fearful shrieks belted by some Crypt Groupies hugging the stage, the Wolves of mayhem descended upon us.
Why, I might have even wet my knickers if I bothered to wear any. *Winks*.
Wyntress Nyght’s Supernatural Crack
Exes & Hexes
Genre: Paranormal, Fantasy, Dark Satire/Humor
Publisher:Noble Romance Publishing –Dare to be Different!
Release Date: June 14, 2010
Where else can Wyntress be found?
Catch her and those who haunt her circle at: