by Nina Levine
Two apartments take up the whole of the third floor. Fern opens the door to Queenie’s apartment. The other I will presume to be her stepfather’s. Earlier I was too drunk to notice.
I walk straight through to Queenie’s large, tastefully decorated bedroom.
“Place her on the bed, please.” Fern gives me a kind smile.
I place Queenie on the pale-blue sheet, the bed coverings already tidied and drawn back. Fern must have done it. “She’s filthy,” I mutter before turning around to face Fern. Annoyed for Queenie, her sheets will get soiled by dumpster trash.
Fern clasps her hands in front of her in a submissive move. “Trust that I will look after Queenie and give her body the respect it deserves.” Fern gives me another warm smile, meant to convince me. “Please wait in the living room.”
Although Fern looks like a harmless 1950s silver screen siren, I will refuse to leave her unconscious body with this goddess of a stranger who looks about as old as Queenie.
I put my hands on my hips, squaring off with this female eye to eye. I’m about to protest when I feel confident agreeing with Fern is the best course of action.
But is it?
I want to look away. I try to break the connection, but the compulsion grows stronger to agree with the female, and now I feel good about my decision, stepping backward toward the open doorway.
My feet are walking me out through the bedroom door without another thought, hearing it softly click shut behind me. I keep walking until I plop myself down in a wide, comfortable chair like a puppet whose strings have been cut free.
Hemsworth and Lorcan sit on the white sofa caught up in whispers and murmurs, snapping their heads apart when I’m seated opposite them.
I cock an eyebrow at Hemsworth, who looks sheepish, which makes no sense.
“Sir, Queenie has excellent taste in decorating.” Both my eyebrows shoot up at my driver, confidant, and old friend for his random comment.
What the hell?
Yet, I can’t help admiring the large area where we are seated. All of Queenie’s furniture is French-style and is predominantly white with some blues and greens, giving the space a clean and relaxed feel. Four double-hung windows with muntins line the whole of one side of the room, reaching from the high-ceiling to three-quarters of the way down. The interior red brick walls of the era are painted white, separating the double-hung windows and brightening the whole place. The architects designed this floor to be filled with natural light during the day and be cozy with what looks like the original fireplace during the colder months.
I’ve witnessed the nighttime view of Old Town Chicago and the nearby city skyline from this floor, and it’s spectacular with downtown Chicago only a couple of miles away.
While I was flirting with Queenie at the bar, she told me how she likes to sit in the dark after working a Friday and Saturday night and wind down with the view before going to bed.
I didn’t think much of her words until I saw it for myself, but I also just wanted to get inside her after putting the time in. She convinced herself to drag me up here and through to the bedroom, and then clothes were flying off our bodies.
I notice there’s no flat-screen television in her apartment. The fabric sofa and chairs and a coffee table nestle on a large floor rug over polished floorboards. A fully functioning kitchen is acting all chameleon-like as it backs onto the far wall opposite the master bedroom. All her pieces are mix and match, but they work well together. Black photo frames house portraits hanging on the wall above the large chunky carved white European sideboard with other cherished nick-nacks.
This apartment’s theme is relaxation, but that is something I am far from feeling.
Standing, I begin to make my excuses to use the ensuite bathroom. I need to check on Queenie and then be alone for a moment.
“Come down with me to the bar and get a drink.” Hemsworth jumps to his feet. “Use the bathroom downstairs, and Lorcan will come to keep us company.”
Lorcan nods his approval, stands, and buttons his suit jacket. The guy puts my usually impeccable taste to shame. He’s the real deal of a suited-up gentleman.
“I’m not leaving Queenie. I’ll use her ensuite.”
“Mr. King, look at me.” Why do I not want to do that?
And the next thing I know, I’m making my way out of the apartment and down the two flights of stairs, happy to leave Queenie.
I walk straight to the jukebox, threading some coins through the slot, punching in my three song choices.
ACDC, You Shook Me All Night Long starts playing.
For reasons not clear to me at this moment, my gut tells me I want a loud song to play, and I want Queenie to know I am still here, but I doubt the sound will travel that far.
Call me paranoid, but my gut is talking to me. My mind felt spelled when Fern got me to leave the bedroom. And it’s the only word I can apply to what just happened again to me.
I’m not a billionaire because I’m simple-minded. The Kings have always been in control of their every move. Life is a chess game we excel at.
So why do I feel like I just forfeited a move?
I call out to Hemsworth, who has made himself at home behind the bar. “I’ll take a whiskey when I come back.” Then I walk toward the bar’s staff bathroom.
Once I’ve locked the door, I move into the stall, get my phone out, and put it on silent, and start bullet pointing tonight’s events as I remember them. Call it insurance for the wild instinct I have that all will appear differently in the morning.
Paranoid? It would seem. Smart? Always.
I’ve come across enough ‘unique’ businesspeople in this city and the world to believe that not everyone is as they seem. The world is Technicolor.
If I look hard enough, I can see people more clearly, and sometimes I swear there is a beast behind the human façade. All you have to be is open to the suggestion.
I have a friend in law enforcement, and I’ve frequently joked he reminds me of a wolf. There are little things about him, like his eyes when he’s angered; they seem to change color. He’s built like a linebacker but doesn’t frequent the gym. I’ve known him for about ten years, and he doesn’t seem to age.
I’m a paranormal and sci-fi reader, so naturally, my imagination can wander off the beaten track.
My father was a great believer that we shared our planet with the very creatures we loved to read about in fictional stories. Both my parents passed away in 2026, taken by the virus. Yesterday was the anniversary of their deaths.
All I wanted was a hole-in-the-wall bar to get drunk and laid without getting noticed. All successfully accomplished, but now I am hiding away in a toilet with vampires and shifters on the brain.
I finish up with the toilet and then use some time to take in my appearance in front of the sink mirror and clean myself up as best I can
Peeling my torn jeans’ leg up, I find a gash four inches long but not too deep. The dried blood is caked on my skin and absorbed by my sock. I will look at it later.
Rolling the denim back down, I wash my hands and leave.
Hemsworth and Lorcan have their heads together in hushed conversation when I walk over to them.
They break apart, and then Lorcan gets up from the booth they are seated in and walks behind the bar, crouching down.
Born to Run by Springsteen plays on the jukebox.
“What is Lorcan doing?” I lean into Hemsworth’s ear. I feel I owe it to Queenie to keep an eye on things down here.
“I am looking for a First-Aid kit, which should be around here somewhere,” Lorcan replies loudly, his voice deep and smooth.
“How did he hear me?” Hemsworth shrugs and looks anywhere but at me. “What the fuck?” This is not the relationship the older man and I have. “Hemsworth!”
He sighs heavily, making eye contact again. “Sir…”—he raises his voice above the song—“he’s looking for the First-Aid kit to attend to your leg.”
“Why?”
&nb
sp; “Your bleeding wound on your leg bothers him.”
A First-Aid kit in a plastic container smacks down on the booth table, and then Lorcan is dragging a chair over. “Leg up on the chair, please, Mr. King.” I’m about to refuse. “Mr. King, I am not going to ask twice.”
“I suppose you are a vampire?” I’ve never been one to hold my tongue when I’ve got something to say.
I read enough science fiction, urban fantasy novels in my youth, and as bizarre as it sounds, the words vampire and shifter are nudging their way up the totem pole.
“What if I am? Would you fear me, Mr. King?”
I look at Hemsworth, who is muttering animatedly to himself over by the bar, pouring himself a cola. Or is he talking to Lorcan?
I cross my arms across my chest. “Let’s say for shits and giggles and a dash of madness that I have welcomed two vampires into Queenie’s home—”
I get yanked out of my seat with Lorcan’s arms straight-jacketing my own in the blink of an eye, forcing my back up against the front of his suit with a strength I’m unable to budge. His mouth is hovering at my neck. “Would you care to continue this line of inquiry?” I get spun around, eye to eye. “Or would you rather not poke the hidden monster standing before you.”
I look on as he shows me a wicked smile with sharp teeth, then does a one-eighty and winks at me before taking a few steps away from me.
“What the fuck?!”
“Lorcan, could you please not mess with Mr. King.”
I’m studying Lorcan with new eyes. Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome and his wife are ethereal beauties. He’s got a class about him that isn’t modern. It’s classic, even his suit and fedora hat. His speech is formal. Plus, he seems to be able to convince me to jump rope naked if he so wishes. The couple appears out of nowhere wearing an old-world charm about them and seem to glide on air at times.
I doubt I am going to get an answer either way. I know the world has changed, and all is not what it seems since the pandemic was over.
“I guess Hemsworth knows who he’s dealing with if he’s not pissing his pants in your presence, and he asked me to trust his judgment—and I do—then you are what you are, as long as you are a friend.”
Lorcan tilts his head, acknowledging my ramblings for what they are. My world has turned a little off-kilter if I am to believe what I think I am seeing before me.
“Sir, the Gregario’s are very much”—he makes quotations marks—“friendlies.”
While my mind wrestles with that almost confession, I raise an eyebrow at Hemsworth in question. “Dare I ask?”
“Sir…” Hemsworth points both thumbs at his chest. “One hundred percent human. I think you’ve had a little too much to drink tonight, and your imagination is running away from you.”
“I was referring to how you know the Gregarios because you haven’t mentioned them before. And I dislike you taking me for a fool, old man. You know me better than anyone in this room, and my gut instinct is rarely ever wrong.”
“Or have we met before Mr. King, and you don’t remember? Perhaps through some business dealings?” I can’t tell if Lorcan is joking.
“I would remember your face.” Or would I? And then my mind catches up with me. Queenie! She’s alone with—
“Calm your beating heart, Mr. King. My darling wife will not be drinking the girl’s blood, nor will she be doing anything other than caring for her in the medical sense. You have my word on that. She is safe in Fern’s hands, I promise. We are not all the things fiction depicts us to be. The Supernatural Council is working alongside the human world leaders to keep us a secret for as long as possible. Vetted humans know of our existence, like Hemsworth. We have known him for forty years.”
“Lorcan, now is not the time for idle chatter about my past.” Hemsworth’s face reddens.
“Hemsworth is a loyal friend to my friend, Henry. My family will do anything to assist Hemsworth when he is in need.”
Fuck! “You’re going to make me forget about this whole conversation before you leave, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question.
Lorcan nods. “I’m afraid so, Mr. King. Hemsworth sings your praises, but we guard our existence carefully. A picture will get painted in your mind, but we will not be the faces you see. Your mind will acknowledge what I allow of this day and the same for Queenie. She will not remember Fern, but a kind, faceless doctor who cared for her. The drug in her system will add validity to her inability to remember much of what happened.
“Your phone will get checked shortly and wiped of any information you stored on it if you thought you were smart hiding away in the bathroom. It is not our first rodeo, as the humans say when it comes to protecting what is mine. I value my family’s anonymity greatly. It is very hard to keep my family a secret in a century that uses modern technology to capture history at the touch of a button and is shared worldwide in seconds. People are not afraid to believe in the stories they read. It would seem a great percentage of your female species want to be captured by a vampire, and love will conquer all. The world is not ready for supernaturals to be neighbors with humans, living in harmony.”
“How did you meet your wife?” I might as well milk the cow while it’s in front of me.
“She worked in a diner Henry dragged me to in 1956. The bacon was calling him. And that is all I am willing to say about my wife. But what I will add is true love can get found where you least expect it.”
“How old—?”
Aannd then I am happily resting my injured leg on the chair while Hemsworth cleans the gash before adding Steri-Strips while his friend, Lorcan, offers to wash my shirt clean of ‘Eau De Dumpster’ in the industrial washing machine, he found out the back.
I’m not in the mood for idle chit-chat after Hemsworth finishes, so I sit here shirtless while Hemsworth and Lorcan leave me alone to stare at the half-drunk glass of top-shelf whiskey while I wait for information on Queenie.
Every time I begin to think about climbing up the stairs to find Queenie and make sure she is doing okay, I convince myself to stay seated before I can even get to my feet.
Fucking strange.
Hemsworth carries on like nothing is amiss. I know how bright the guy is. He sure is acting oblivious to how different this couple is. At one stage, I could have sworn I saw Lorcan’s eyes darken, and some of his teeth looked sharper when he brought the First-Aid kit over to the table, but then he said something to me that I can’t remember.
I’m happy to watch Hemsworth use the ironing press, because yes, these two pals managed to wash, dry, and press my shirt while I enjoyed doing nothing.
My gut instinct is trying to tell me something, but I can’t seem to break through the fog to connect with the thought.
An hour later, Fern arrives in the bar, the doctor’s bag landing on the table beside me, and then she walks over to speak quietly with Hemsworth and Lorcan before returning to me.
“Fern, how is Queenie?” I stand ready to bound up the stairs to the third floor when I get the answer.
“May I call you Bradford?”
“Of course.”
“Please sit.”
And, of course, I do.
The woman is breathtaking. Her thick mane of hair cascades down her back, curled professionally to bring out that perfect wave. Her eyes are a color I can only describe as cerulean, with an odd black ring rounding the iris.
“Mr. King, would you mind not staring at my wife. I am very territorial,” he growls from several feet away. Fuck! I didn’t realize I was doing it. “It’s not entirely your fault; she is captivating.”
“Queenie’s attackers, although they roughed her up and stole her hair, she is otherwise well. She probably won’t remember anything due to the drug in her system, which is probably for the best. I have bathed and dressed her, and I found hair clippers in the other apartment to tidy her hair.”
“Thank you for coming over.”
“Now she’s sleeping comfortably. I cared for her as though she was
one of my own children.”
“You have children?”
Fern laughs softly. “Don’t sound so surprised. We have five children.” And then, as though she thought she said something wrong, she adds on, “It’s date night, so my husband and I should be going.”
Lorcan has kept this stunning woman pregnant more than she hasn’t been because she only looks early to mid-twenties. She was popping them out young and carving out a sexy curvy fig—
“Mr. King. You are staring again.” Lorcan interrupts my rambling thoughts.
I didn’t think I was staring.
“Bradford, I’m a lot older than I look. I have good genes,” Fern tries to smooth my worry that he was having sex with her when she was only a kid.
I hear Hemsworth whisper, “Is he going to be all right?”
Lorcan whispers back, “His mind is strong—”
Fern is clicking her fingers in front of my face. I blink slowly. “Sorry, Fern, I was miles away.”
“It’s been a rough night for you both. You need some rest too.”
Fern stands up, prompting me to be the gentleman and do the same. “I hear my husband calling me; if you will excuse me.”
I heard nothing.
“Thank you for coming at this time of the morning, interrupting your date night. I am indebted to you both. Please call on me if there is anything I can do to repay you.” I fish a business card out of my wallet and hand it to her. My fingers brush her hand. It is cold.
Ice cold.
Lorcan walks over, taking his wife’s tiny waist in his hand, drawing her up against his body protectively. The look on his face dares me to say what is on my mind.
So I do. “Have you ever seen the movie from many years ago, Twilight?”
“Sir, some things are better left unknown.” I notice Hemsworth likes to deflect.
“Oh, I beg to differ, Hemsworth.” Somewhere in the deep recesses of my memory, I feel like we have danced to this tune already.