Glossed lips curl delicately around the contralto, lilting syllables of her first verse. Long, deceptively slender arms previously held akimbo at the flare of the siren’s silk-draped hips, extend toward the awaiting crowd packed wall-to-wall into the dauntingly large hall and finally upward.
Her audience is abuzz tonight. More so than usual. Beyond the sluggish back-beat that kicks in with the twang of more spirited jazz guitar, she can hear hearts fluttering wildly against captive ribs and smell intrigue in the air. Prompted by gluttony she inhales deeply, setting veins of pilfered legacies ablaze with a feral hunger.
Dark lashes fall carefully over copper cheeks when she ends her second verse and mounts to a climax. The siren sways in time with the relaxed rhythm all the while belting out lyrics with an unapologetic fervor.
The crowd’s reaction is less-than-ideal to the
parasite’s standards (while hardly noticeable to the average onlooker.) A third of the room reacts flaccidly, seemingly distracted. By something? Or someone. She pipes down to allow her band to carry on with the breakdown, and scans the tableau of polarized faces for her contender.