Disclaimers: don't own them, no money to sue.
 
Bailamos 
by Shana Nolan
*****************

"Hey, have you seen Trace 'round here recently?"

"Nah en tha las' few nioghts.  Why da ya needs ta talk wit 'er?"

Looking at the carouche at the bar through mussed bangs, Javier Vachon 
sighed.  She was usually here at the Raven at least once a week, at least 
to talk or dig around for information on a case.

A few times she had even danced.

Screed grinned and spun around in the barstool.  "Wots up V-man?  Ya thinkin' 
tha bird's en some sorta trouble?  Er maybe seein' some udder bloke?"

The spanish vampire humphed and grabbed a wine glass off the bar, taking a swig.  
"Hardly.  She has me to keep her company."

The bald headed carouche nearly fell off the barstool, he was laughing so hard.   

"It's not funny."

"Sure et 'tis."

"No, it's not," Vachon glowered.

"Listen 'ere mate, ya 'ardy give 'er a second blinkey an' when ya do it's 
'cause she's makin' you.  I 'aven't seen 'er round none, so why don't ya go 
play wit' Urs?"

Scanning the crowd, his dark eyes roving over the swaying bodies of dancing 
patrons, Vachon shook his head and sighed.  Everything seemed to okay his 
relationship with Tracy Vetter, she hadn't told him to go catch a sunrise and 
he hadn't bitten her.  All in all it was a pretty good situation, considering.  
Sure, there had been no romantic nights, no real commitment, no passionate 
moves in the candlelight, nothing indicating she really had anything with him 
other than a perfectly good vampy snitch... but that wasn't really his fault.   
He was an immortal creature of the night; her caffinated mortality, though 
night bound, was his natural opposite.  

Or something to that effect.

"I'm gonna go for a walk.  I'll be back later."

"Sure, wot ev'r, sees ya later amigosabe."

Watching the moody spaniard go, Screed smiled at the bartender as she washed 
the bar down with a rag.  "Wonder wot's eatin' 'im?"

"Nothing," she responded, flashing a wolfish grin, "he's at the top of the food 
chain."

Screed and a few other vampire patrons laughed at the joke, the carouche looking
around suddenly.  "'Ey, 'ave you seen ol' MilkyOs?"

"Oh, he's at that dance club again, La Coneja Rosa.  Said he'd be back long 
before dawn.  Want me to give him a message for you?"

Giving his best I'm-a-rat-eater-and-proud-of-it grin, Screed shook his head.  
"Nah, et's nah impertent."


*      *       *

Adjusting the leather jacket as he jammed his hands in the pockets, Vachon 
sighed.  It was somewhere around one A.M., the lighted yet forgotten streets 
of Toronto littered with the occasional disillusioned youths, their black clothes
and white clown face makeup making them look like harlequins to the 500 year 
old Conquistador.

Crossing a street, passing by a homeless man who had made a home out of a Maytag
box, Vachon raised his eyes, spotting in the distance a brightly lit building 
framed by a streetside courtyard with lush foliated trees.

Recognising it as La Coneja Rosa, a rather new and surprisingly decent flamenco 
club, he shrugged.  ~Why not?~

Closing the distance, finally coming to the steps that led up to the club's front 
entrance, he cast dark eyes up to the detailed sign over the door of a flamenco
dancer silhouette behind a single, long stemmed magenta coloured rose.

Spotting the vampire, the bouncer sitting just inside the door eyed Vachon as he 
passed over the club threshold.  "We close in a couple hours."

Vachon nodded.  "No problem."

Inside the club was as bright as a moonlit night except for the singular 
spotlight that moved around the half-circle stage.  Around the stage was a dozen
or so tables, their chairs half filled with loyal patrons, many with drinks in
their hands.

Deliberately picking an empty table that would afford him a good view of the stage, 
Vachon settled into a wire backed chair, waving off a waitress as she came over.

On the stage a pair of dancers was completing their moves, their fast song winding 
to an end, the woman's rich scarlet skirt whorling as she was spun around.  When 
the last foot fell to its final position, the club filled with applause, a lightly 
accented voice coming over the speakers.

"Bienvenidos a la Coneja Rosa, I am Antonio Castillo, the club owner, and I am very 
happy to present one of the finest pair of newcomers to our art, Miklos y Tera."

Applause filled the club again as the spotlight went down, the pale blue light 
casting shadow across the stage as two costumed forms walked out and struck poses.  
With a slow moment of silent tension, the music started.

When the first drum beat fell, the spotlight illuminated, casting rays of silvery 
light over the dancers.

Vachon's jaw dropped.

Thinking previously that it was only a coincidence of names, the spaniard was 
shocked to see the Raven's own favourite bartender clad in tight black toreador 
pants with sequins up the side, a shimmering crimson shirt opened partially in front, 
the co-ordinating black jacket fitting him precisely as he carried out the precise 
steps of the dance.  His hair was lightly slicked back, pulled free from his face, 
a wild gleam in his dark eyes and an ice-melting smile on his lips.

His partner was light footed and at the same time so secure in her moves that she 
commanded the complete attention of the audience.  Her long black hair was pinned 
up, tightly curled ringlets framing a silver clip.  Her dress, largely black and 
freeflowing in the skirts, accented her small frame, the bodice flat against her 
ribs and breasts, the smallest hint of cleavage cresting the hem.  As she moved, 
the minute faceted black beads caught the light, reflecting like stars against a 
velvet sky.  Tucked behind her ear was a small red rose, the vibrant petals setting 
off her pale skin in the blue light; the black bead interwoven crimson scarf tied 
around her waist moved with her, her sudden splitsecond poses causing the entire 
mass of fabric to shift around her like a black and red ocean.

Taking a moment to blink quite a few times, drawn uncontrollably to the gypsy sway 
of Tera, the spanish vampire wondered where anyone like that could come from.  Who 
was she?  She wasn't a vampire, he could tell that much, but she was something 
different.  A mortal, assuredly, but no one he had ever met.

And what the hell was this light footed beauty doing with Miklos?

Without flaw or misstep the pair continued, their symbolic dance of passion moving 
seamlessly to the music of Enrique Iglesias, stomping with heeled feet to a rhythm 
that was the heartbeat of all music, of all experience and bliss, at moments seeming 
like one being, one essence, then, at the next moment, separate pieces of a great, 
intricate ritual celebrating the flow of the universe.

All too soon the music came to a halt, the steps ceasing with the rhythm.  The club 
exploded into applause, the patrons giving a standing ovation and throwing roses at 
the stage, the dancers, he, smiling broadly and bowing deeply, she, flushed with 
exertion and pride, basking in the approval of the onlookers.

Nodding to Tera, who smiled and kissed his cheek, Miklos stepped off the stage, 
walking down the steps behind the dark curtain to come around to the main area of 
the club, slipping off the jacket.

Rising quickly from his chair, Vachon lept up and cut a quick path, intercepting the 
bartender/dancer.  "Miklos."

"Ah, Vachon, I'm honoured that'd you come and see us. Did you enjoy the performance?"

Nodding honestly, the spaniard said, "It was amazing.  Not what I expected from the 
guy who serves me the House Special though."

Miklos laughed.  "I spent a considerable time in Spain and this," he gestured to his 
attire, "was part of my education there.  Missing the old days, I discovered this 
club and not a week later Tera found me.   She has a rare talent for one of this era; 
there were girls of Barcelona in my time that never had Tera's passion."

"I'd like to meet her."

The greek shrugged.  "You don't already know her, Javier?  Ah, well, I shall introduce 
you."

Watching as Miklos turned, heading for the curtain as Tera emerged, a stack of roses 
in her arms, Vachon wondered once more how he seemed to know and yet not know the 
lovely Tera.  There was something familiar about her, but what it was, he wasn't quite 
sure...

Setting the roses on a nearby table, pausing to accept a few patrons and their praise 
of the dance, Tera leaned against the strong frame of the dark Miklos, wrapping an arm 
around his waist as he cooed playful words in her ear, her laughter and body language 
telling the whole story.  Coming up to the spanish vampire, a sweetly confident smile 
on her face, she extended a pale, lithe hand out.

Taking the hand and kissing the knuckles, Vachon inhaled her scent.  He knew this 
scent, but once more, whether it was the smell of the costume and sweat on her skin 
or that of another male vampire, he was unable to pin it down.  "A pleasure, my lady.  
You dance divinely."

She chuckled.  "Thank you, sir."

"Have we met?  I seem to have this sense of knowing you... "

Casting a look to Miklos, who elbowed her gently and smiled, she gave the spanish 
vampire a cryptic look, answering in a musical tone.  "Possibly.  You do seem familiar 
to me."

Walking into the conversation, his white hair and wrinkled face radiant with joy, 
Antonio Castillo interjected, "I'm sorry, senor, but I must steal my dancers back 
before we close."

Vachon nodded.  "No problem.  It was a pleasure meeting you, Tera.  See you later, 
Miklos."

Miklos grinned.  "Later, Vachon.  Come along, beauty, we had better get you stripped 
of this dress before it becomes a second skin."

Laughing, her hand dropping across his jawline down over his throat, Tera let a 
wicked glint touch her eyes.  "Oh, certainly, we can't let that happen... "

*        *         *

Sitting at the bar in the Raven, Screed on his right, shaping obscene words with beer 
nuts, Miklos across the bar, polishing glassware as he set them back on the shelves, 
Vachon nursed at his bloodwine.

No matter what he did, he couldn't get Tera out of his mind.

Miklos pulled away the near empty glass, refilling it from a dark glass bottle.  
"I can't believe you're so worked up over this girl."

"She's more than a girl, she's amazing.  You should know, you get to dance with her."

The look on the bartender was a mildly smug one.  "This is true.  But what would 
Tracy say?"

Vachon, snatching the last few nuts before Screed could finish off a perfect "F," 
Vachon muttered, "How should I know, I haven't seen her in ages."

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  She has to be showing up to her job, otherwise Knight would be breathing down 
my neck."

"Well, look here, here's your chance to ask."  Waving a free hand, flagging down the 
blonde detective, Miklos quipped, "Good evening, Tracy."

"Hey Miklos."  Sidling up the bar, casting an amused glance at the spanish vampire, 
she crossed her arms.  "So where've you been?"

"Same places I usually am," was the muttered response.

"Oh, then bad timing.  That's too bad, we'll have to fix that.  Well, I really gotta 
run, I have to be back at the precinct before Nick notices I switched his old 
screensaver to a giant yellow happy face... or at least make it back in time to hear 
his shriek of terror over it."  Digging into the pocket of her black leather jacket, 
she pulled free a ball of fabric, setting it down on the bar, giving Miklos a wink.  
"See you guys later."

Watching her run back up the stairs, giving a wave before going out the double doors, 
Vachon's eyes wandered over to the fabric.  It was red, crimson, in fact, delicate 
black beads carefully interweaved through the cloth.  Raising an eyebrow at Miklos, 
he held the scarf up with a hand.

Miklos shrugged. "So, Vachon, what would Tracy say?"

Looking to the doors, then to the scarf, to Miklos and back to the doors, Vachon 
shook his head. "Mierda."

***********************