With Johann Sebastian Bach's [i]Air on the G String[/i] playing softly and eloquently in the background through her BOSE iPod speaker dock, the red-haired woman sighed deeply peeling back the curtains draped over her living room window with one hand and glancing outward into the thick obsidian shadows of another cold and lonesome night in the wilds of Colorado, a night where most women of her age...well..most "human" women...would be flocking to the local bar, most usually dressed in a provocative manner, tops cut enough to show more than a generous portion of cleavage and skirts so short....Rebecca could barely consider them skirts. Yes, a night such as this would be so full of debauchery, of drinking and running wild for that last youthful fling before old age sets in, but the more refined woman decided this night...she would rather stay home and continue work on her latest manuscript. After all in this business, creativity and monotonous hours spent at a computer or a notebook were her bread and butter so to speak. A chalice of imported Italian Pinot Grigio was carefully held between her dainty fingers, gently rose to her subtle lips for a sip. Sweet was the wine, but not overbearing to spoil the pallet, and just enough of a bite at the end to satisfy the woman's taste. Releasing the satin drapery from her frail hand, the dhamphir moved to her study, where upon an oak-wood desk sat her laptop and a few scraps of paper pulled from a journal, scribblings here and there of her next plot, the screen hazing white within the dimness of the small room, and bookshelves wall to wall containing masterpieces of written text from nearly every inch of the globe, Shakespeare's classics, the spine tingling but intriguing works of H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe, and much..much more that comprised her literary collection.

[i]Hmm...now where did I put that?[/i] Setting down her wine at the desk, her hand went to the far right of a shelf as she pondered where she last left off in one of her many reading choices. Just the night before, she had completed her read-through of [i]"Shadow Over Insmouth"[/i] and had begun what would be her fifth book for another night alone in her secluded cottage, a classic of Greek drama, Sophocles' [i]"Antigone,"[/i] but as her fingers skimmed over the thick leather spines, aged with the passing of time from its original date of composition, she soon paused, not upon [i]"Antigone"[/i]. No....this was another piece of old literature, published in 1872 and written by Sheridan Le Fanu. [i]Carmilla...[/i] Rebecca recited the title to herself in silence. A great read it was, but...the subject matter was a bit of a sting for her, same could be said for the work of Bram Stoker. "Hmph....despite only being half, I still can't help but feel a bit....offended." She mused to herself, her hand again on the search for her preferred choice, but soon, she heard a commotion from outside. Even amidst the melody of Bach, the rancorous wail of police sirens rang clear through her living room and into the study, where upon the noise had caught Rebecca's ear and pulled her back to the window.

It was a most familiar of sights that welcomed her hauntingly as flashes of reds and blues skimmed across her front yard and illuminated the blackness surrounding her flower garden and her vehicle left in the driveway. There had been another attack...another reason for the woman...to worry. [i]Damn them.... Thanks to these assholes, it won't be long before they have a lynch mob coming after me.[/i] But only if they discovered her half-blooded heritage. Still, with the increasing threat of vampirism lurking about Brooksfield...it would only be a matter of time before thoughts of racism and genocide set in. Giving another bothersome exhale of air, Rebecca released the curtains again. Now...where exactly did she set [i]"Antigone"[/i]?