| The Charity Crowd |
[04 Aug 2008|09:41pm] |
At five thousand dollars a plate for dinner, one would think they could at least serve fresh seafood.
Rebecca had been working the room for over an hour, a glass of mineral water in one hand as she made the rounds of local dignitaries and their spouses, exchanging the usual bland pleasantries while mentally doing the arithmetic of possible donations. Two Valium for the event, since nothing grated on her nerves like banal talk about this season's baseball scores. At least she was likely to see some signed checks at the end of this ordeal.
The fundraiser was being held at McCormick Place, and the ice sculptures were already melting amid the gathered heat in the large room. Small knots of people stood here and there, and Rebecca made her way from one to the next, letting the conversation flow over her while making sure to nod in the right places and occasionally respond with something appropriate. This was not the part of her calling she enjoyed.
The same could be said for Darian.
While it was true that his livelihood no longer depended upon how many successful deals he made, like a sort of metaphysical commission, the enjoyment of doing so was ingrained in him. It was neither profession nor responsibility; it was literally bred into the demon’s nature.
Trolling for new clients was the least enjoyable part of the Dealmaker’s work. It often put him in the company of people for whom he didn’t care, and with the long leash he allowed his foul temper, un-pleasantries were a frequent consequence. Thus far, however, the benefit hadn’t proven intolerable. Though it required the gift of making drab conversation, it was an occasion of class and social consequence, and one during which his arrogance might seem appropriate.
Darian removed himself from a subset of the modern-day aristocracy, announcing his intention to go in search of a flute of champagne. He did as he promised, but afterwards zigzagged the room in another direction. The route he chose took him directly behind a tall woman with a glass of water in hand. “Excuse me.” As Darian slipped past, the shoulder of his tuxedo brushed across her back.
"Pardon me, didn't realize I was standing in the path of traffic."
Rebecca took a step to the right, allowing the man to make his way past her before catching him in profile. Had she met this one yet? It was so hard to keep track among so many people. She sipped at her water, turned more fully to look at him. They were the same height, thanks to the heels she'd slipped on for the evening, and she inclined her head in his direction.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met." No, the face wasn't familiar, and she'd remember that particular face. Extending a languid hand, the Englishwoman said, "Rebecca Halston-Burke, of the Last Refuge Foundation. Are you with the contingent from the Senate?"
Darian retraced his steps with equanimity; however being mistaken for a politician was enough to mildly rankle, and so much showed in his expression. “You must be joking.” He passed the flute into his left hand and reached with the right out of respect for formality. The grip was perfunctory. “Ms. Halston-Burke. I’m Darian, with the demonic contingent.”
( An Easy Mistake )</>
( Another Person's Fantasy )
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