by D O Thomas
The brunette smiled, noticing Ashel's contempt towards his brother’s public display of affection, and placed her hand in his. Ashel followed the courtship principles of his kin by raising the back of Angela's delicate hand to his lips and pressing gently on her smooth skin. “Ashel, my dear,” he said with a soft voice as warm as the young woman’s touch.
The brunette was used to men who used wealth to make up for their lack of charm, and she felt flustered at Ashel’s calm and chivalrous approach.
“Angela,” she said with a burning blush. “May I ask why you and your friend here are treated so well?”
“Oh, that's simple,” laughed Ashel. “We’re royalty, you see.”
Angela gave an amused smile before realizing that Ashel's truth was not said in jest. She nervously took her glass and finished its contents. The patient barman took the near empty bottle of champagne and refilled her glass. Angela looked for reassurance in the barman's eyes and was met with a solemn smile followed by a wink. She twiddled her wristband while Ashel noticed the scent of nervous tension. He wasn't sure what to say, it had been an amazingly long time since he had socialised with a human, and his brother was no help.
The sound of smacking lips kept Ashel's eyes focused on the champagne bubbles as they danced to the surface of his half-full glass. Angela repositioned herself to find comfort in this uncomfortable situation. Her knee glided across Ashel's suit trousers and he sheepishly placed his hand on her bare leg. Angela blushed as she felt the tingle of his cold but soft hand. Their eyes met as the scent of Angela's arousal emanated from her cheek.
“Like emeralds set in a satin pearl,” said Ashel, with a voice that could melt ice.
The smell of a woman's blood would incite excitement in any vampire, but Angela's blood was pure, and purity affected a vampire’s simplest of natures. It wasn’t just a hunger that Ashel felt, he was overcome with lust for the pure-blooded brunette and she could see this in his eyes as her cheeks radiated.
Throwing caution to the wind, Angela decided to be forward with her latent desires, “Would you like to find a more private location with me?” she whispered, her hand finding its place just inside Ashel's groin. The two emptied their glasses, leaving the prince and the blonde to their own devices. Ashel led Angela through the crowded club and to a well disguised elevator hidden behind the DJ booth. With the use of the elevator, the two made their way to a lower level of 109 known as the ballroom. The room was the opposite of the main hall, bright and much more spacious. There were no bars; instead the staff served tables with no exchange of currency.
The seating was more conservative, with the tables spread from one side of the room to the other, set before a stunning hardwood dance floor that perfectly accentuated a grand stage housing an orchestra dressed in masquerade attire. It was a thirty-foot hall with VIP boxes lined up half way beneath dazzling acrobats hanging from the ceiling. Angela stood in awe; she had spent two minutes in a well-hidden elevator and had arrived in a parallel universe, way above her tax bracket. A pale-skinned hostess greeted the couple with a curtsey.
“Would you like me to escort you to your box, my Lord?” asked the hostess.
Angela almost expected this. Of course, her royal date had a box, she thought, he probably had a manservant at home. She wasn't sure how she’d fit in with everything she was seeing. The whole place seemed like part of a dream. Ashel nodded to the hostess and the two were led to a velvet-draped box holding a cassimere-coated sofa and several leather padded chairs, placed with a perfect view of the dance floor and stage. Ashel took Angela's hand and brought her down with him onto the sofa, landing her in the embrace of his kingly arms.
“Is this private enough for you?” he jested. Angela loved it; she didn't care how unreal it all felt. She didn't even mind that she barely knew the man whose arms were making her feel as though she might melt. Angela decided she would enjoy the moment.
“Is this how you treat all your girls, my Lord?” she laughed. Ashel loosened his hold on her and gained her attention with a deep heartfelt gaze.
“This isn't ‘something’ I do,” he said strongly.” I'm sorry that you think I'm just trying to impress you.” Angela bowed her head in embarrassment.
“I didn't mean to offend you, it's just that all this is a bit much for a simple girl like me,” she said sincerely. Ashel gestured towards the astonishing ballroom.
“To me this place is simple, an everyday sight that falls upon my eyes with a lack of complexity. But you, my dear, you are far from a simple girl. From the warmth of your touch, to the rhythm of your gentle heart, I am astounded by your mere presence.”
Some time had passed and Banhier had lost his blonde counterpart in the darkness of the sin-filled bar. He had been somewhat bothered, that was until he replaced her with two raven-haired beauties who, combined, were equally as persuasive. They danced, drank heavily and shared the actualisation of their promiscuity, but Banhier grew tired of the mundane habits which his companions of loose morals seemed to be thoroughly enjoying. He thirsted for a drink less stiff and much thicker.
He took the hand of one of the girls, her identity unimportant, and led her through the inebriated crowd of clubbers to an unguarded door away from prying eyes.
He pushed through the door, leading the girl out to a closed-off alley, pressing his raven-haired companion up against the alley’s red-bricked wall, enticing her with ease. Before he could sink his teeth into his companion, a pure blue beam shot through the shrouded sky, distracting the copper-bearded prince. It startled Banhier for a moment; he hadn't realized it was a blue moon, but the state of the moon didn't bother him as much as the sound of a familiar giggle, followed by the lust-filled smack of lips. Banhier took his partner by the neck. She liked this.
The girl looked into Banhier's lucid grey eyes, and to her, they seemed to be brighter than before. She felt weak, her body tingled. His grip was loose, but she had lost her breath, and her pupils dilated as his gaze deepened. She could hear his voice, yet his lips stayed inert. “Don't flinch,” whispered a voice in her head. She was aroused. Banhier's dormant lips pressed against her tanned neck, her mind emptied and she felt a slight sting as her eyes closed. There was a rush of intense ecstasy and suddenly the sullied ambience of the shaded alley was replaced with the pounding of bass. The girl was standing at the bar, not sure what she had just ordered or where she had been for the last ten minutes.
Banhier took a scarlet handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed away the blood dripping from his copper-covered chin.
He then wrapped the handkerchief around his hand and took a charred wooden cross from his suit trousers. Banhier proceeded to walk the length of the alley where, behind a large extractor fan, he found the barman from before, fully engrossed in his blond acquaintance. Banhier pulled the barman off the half-naked, fully abashed blonde, slamming him to the ground. Banhier turned to the blonde with his grey eyes glowing and bloodshot with rage. “Be still,” he yelled. The blonde froze before she could scream. The barman squirmed towards the wall like a rat with its hind legs caught in a trap, fear pouring from his concrete-fractured forehead. He tried to escape the fury of Banhier's coming onslaught.
The barman gave up as Banhier held him down, “I... I'm sorry,” he sobbed.
“Sorry?” snarled Banhier, with the rising flame of chaos in his eyes.
Banhier pushed the cross held in his handkerchief to the barman's cheek. His flesh sizzled as he struggled. The barman's eyes went from a pale blue to a gleaming yellow, his skin became saturated and wrinkled with age. Banhier placed his free hand upon the left side of the barman's chest. “You dare to touch that which is mine?” whispered the calming Banhier.
“My Prince, I…” started the barman.
“You have nothing left to say, youngling,” replied Banhier his fingertips protruding through the barman's chest plate.
Angela's heart was racing; she had fully succumbed to the feeling of lust. With her hand on Ashel's chest she fe
lt nothing, not a single beat. This confused her. She thought perhaps he was un-excited; he was a king after all. She placed her ear to his chest and heard a single thump. Ashel noticed her interest in his vital organ. “You won't hear much, my dear” he whispered.
She could hardly understand what she was witnessing; even a man in a vegetated state had a clear enough heartbeat. So much was out of place, and although she was drunk, amazed at the hidden delights shown to her and clearly infatuated, she felt she had to mention the oddity.
“It’s almost as if you’re dead,” replied Angela. Ashel lifted Angela with ease, despite his lack of visible strength. With her held in his arms, he inched his lips to her ear. “I am,” whispered the confident king. He drew back and gained the view of Angela's nervous eyes as they watered with fear and confusion. The white in Ashel's eyes glistened and his irises seemed to explode in a rush of vibrant colours. Angela was dizzied by the dazzling reds and yellows but calmed by the placating blues and greens.
She couldn't think, she tried to make sense of things, but there was no sense in what was occurring.
Ashel bared his brilliant white teeth. The lateral incisors on the top row were thin and much longer, with needle-like points. In her hazed mind one thing was clear; vampires were real. Ashel lowered Angela to her feet. She flinched as he kissed her cheek. She heard his voice echo, “Forget me,” in the back of her mind as her eyelids fell shut. Angela awoke at the bar with half a bottle of champagne and her rampantly immoral blonde companion. Neither of them was quite sure what they had been doing for the last two hours, but they definitely felt as if they had had the time of their life.
Not long after his murderous encounter with the barman, Banhier entered the ballroom with the stain of disappointment on his face. He wasn't very fond of the extravagant venue. He found it distasteful; after all, a place like this would have been catered by slaves in his time.
The hostess approached him and before she could utter a word, he barged passed her. The soles of his shoes left behind the sticky red residue of the barman as he made his way to his brother’s box. Banhier pulled back the weighted velvet curtain meant to ensure privacy for the box's occupants, to find Ashel sitting with Leo.
“Although we do welcome the abundance of the new recruits we have gained, my knights have had to slay at least fifty of your brood. Your younglings are completely out of control. Their infractions consist of openly feeding, public displays of inhumanity, inappropriate murder of the mundane, and unsanctioned kidnapping! As king of the Vampire Nation you should have taken precautions to deal with the fallout of the blue moon. In failing to do so, I must issue you with an infraction,” explained the disgruntled Leo.
Ashel noticed Banhier standing by the curtain and gave him a discouraging look. “My first infraction! I guess even a king must adhere to the law,” laughed Ashel as he gestured towards his brother. “And what of the brood’s prince and facilitator?” Banhier hung his head. “I take it this is about the blue moon. Don’t worry, I’ll sort out the younglings personally,” he stated.
Leo stood and bowed to the disappointed king. As he passed Banhier, Leo placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder, digging a single claw into his flesh. “This is your second infraction, one more and you’re mine for a decade,” whispered Leo with a familiar grin. Leo touched the velvet curtains and just faded away. Banhier and his kingly brother were left without much to say. They knew there was work to be done and that they had both come to a lonely end to their night. Ashel handed Banhier a shot of tequila and the two clinked glasses before necking back the liquor.
“This is your fault,” laughed the half-drunk Ashel.
Chapter Four
Noir lived in a semi-detached house on the corner of a side road adjacent to an old protestant church. His house was the fifth in a set of nine, built on the grounds of an ancient monastery. This had no effect on Noir's purchase of the dwelling, but it was something he would boast about to his more faithful guests. The house had an eight-foot hedge set behind a short brick wall that led from his front gate to the gate of the house behind. He took care in the upkeep of his foliage, not because he was a keen gardener − in fact he couldn't stand gardening − but he had been refused planning permission for an eight-foot wall, so maintaining the hedge allowed him to maintain his privacy.
The house itself was no different from any other, a wooden porch, double-glazed windows, moss-covered roof tiles and the original guttering, probably filled with whatever muck gutters were filled with. It was the front garden that was odd. You wouldn't say it was unfinished; you don't decorate an unfinished garden. It had gnomes, many gnomes, all dressed as construction workers. There were gnomes carrying small paving stones, facing the freshly flattened sand. Some of the larger ones actually had mini wheelbarrows filled with sand and there was even a foreman gnome, dressed in a suit, wearing a hard hat and holding a set of little rolled-up blueprints.
“Don’t mind the gnomes,” said Noir, ushering Silence to his door. The two entered together. Noir wisped himself directly into the kitchen, leaving Silence standing stiffly by the door. Silence looked around in confusion. The living room looked as if it was mostly abandoned. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the room, which still had its original floral decor, the chunky box-shaped television had gathered dust, as had most of the coffee table. There was a part of the coffee table that was in use, opposite an indented section of the sofa that could only be described as lived-in. There was a sticky brown chain left from rings formed by Noir's morning tea, with a tablet computer laid next to it.
Noir rushed out of the kitchen with a cloth dripping from his palm. He gave the dusty table a once-over, leaving it shining moistly. “Tea or coffee, mate?” he huffed as if it was a matter of urgency.
“Tea, please,” replied Silence. Noir returned to his kitchen, clanking cups and slamming cupboard doors as Silence sat a few cushions away from Noir’s usual spot on the sofa. From where Silence was sitting, he could see into the kitchen. It didn't look anything like the living room suggested. The kitchen was clean, well-stocked and new.
“How’dya like it?” called out the busy Noir.
“Milk and two sugars,” said Silence in an elevated voice that came from a place in his brain connected to the orbital cortex.
Noir rested a tray carrying two mugs, a selection of Hobnobs, cookies and some sugared biscuits, down on the coffee table. Silence took the mug closest to him and sipped his tea. He was surprised. Not only was the golden brown drink made just the way he liked it, it was better. Tea was something Noir had perfected; he had a method that he would never disclose. Noir took pride in the little things; things that counted for a short time and could soften a hard day.
“How is it?” he asked. Silence wasn't sure how to answer. You don't really call a cup of tea amazing, he thought, and the word nice would be an understatement.
“I really like it,” he replied sheepishly. Noir dunked a Hobnob into his mug for exactly two and a half seconds. He had also perfected this dunking of biscuits with tea; a skill that not many seemed to acknowledge.
“You've got to try the cookies, my girlfriend made them. Believe me, there’s nothing like ’em,” boasted Noir through a crumb-filled mouth.
Reaching for a cookie, Silence found himself lost in thought. A man like Noir having a girlfriend was ridiculous. He didn't look like the type to have a partner. He looked as though he slept in the street most nights and perhaps showered fortnightly at the most. Silence bit the chocolate chip cookie and was transported to another world within his mind. He imagined a robust elderly lady with curlers in her hair, dressed in a floral dress and a flour-stained apron.
The cookies were equal to the tea. The thought of the wasted crumbs on his blood-stained top touched him with a miniature wave of grief.
“You’re right,” he sighed. The two sipped their tea and dunked biscuits for a time. With a finishing sip of his tea, Noir took the last sugared biscuit and ventured upstairs, leaving Silence
to mourn over the crumbs of his new favourite confectionary. There was the sound of running water followed by a slamming door, a few huffs and a single puff. Noir then returned to the room baring a set of luxury violet towels. “These are yours,” he said. Noir signalled Silence to follow him up the stairs.
The staircase was un-hoovered, the once white handrail stained with the grubby remnants of whatever past tasks Noir had undertaken. Silence reached the landing and was once again surprised. The state of Noir’s residence confused him, because the living room was as un-fastidious as Noir’s attire, but the kitchen gleamed like the needle-toothed Machiavellian grin the man so often bore. This paradox was also the case with the second floor. Noir had taken care to ensure the brass knobs on his fingerprinted doors were polished. The magnolia painted walls were unscathed, yet the beading beneath them was so riddled with scuffmarks they were practically monochromatic.
The bathroom was organised to an obsessive-compulsive standard, although the yellow-stained toilet rim and the scruffy bath mats threw off the wow factor of his luxury cast iron suite.
Noir ushered Silence through the only unmarked door in the house and into a room as clean as the stale air it contained. The bed was assembled and ready but undressed. Noir took some bedding out of a drawer under the naked divan. “This will be your room. The clothes in the wardrobe will fit you fine. Now, go and wash! I guess I have to make the room more comfortable for you,” he mumbled through a mass of bed sheets.
Silence entered his new room wearing naught but a large violet towel and the bubbles he carried from his bath. He was surprised, because the room was in pristine condition, no dust, no cobwebs and the air in the unused space was fresh with a hint of lavender. Silence opened the wardrobe, expecting to find some of Noir’s old clothes, probably unwashed and stained with year-old dirt and grime, but what he found was a selection of outfits that he would have picked out himself. After drying himself off, Silence took a pair of jeans and a grey top from the wardrobe. Everything fit perfectly. Silence wasn't sure what to make of this, but before he could get a decent thought in, Noir called him from downstairs.