Until Dawn

by brett hicks

  Until Dawn: Necrovamp

  Cheers to all of my readers, I hope you enjoy this new series!

  One:

  Life has a funny way of knocking a girl on her ass every time she’s getting happy, as if the universe sees happiness and frowns upon me. This is where I can mention my shitty deadbeat mom, or the fact that I seem to have a tendency to see strange shit that no one else does, but I’ve never been much a complainer.

  All the foster homes and upheaval of an orphan’s life beats the sniveling out of you. At least I have been out of the system for the past several years, and even going to college now. That’s a big step up from scraping by on the streets of Boston.

  Now, I’m lying in bed with a beautiful post-graduate redhead wearing nothing but her lovely silver necklace. My New York City apartment in south Brooklyn was drafty, but I was used to the cold. All these years of fending for myself up in the north east toughened me to the elements.

  Anna was not raised so harshly, and her skin was beginning to show gooseflesh. Her nipples were hard and perky, inviting me back to her side, lest she freeze. I crawled on her, and I claimed her lips with the hunger of a woman starved for love all her life.

  She gave a very satisfied moan as I slipped my hand between her generously curved legs, and I greeted her softest tissue with one finger, massaging her nerve cluster until she swore and moaned into me.

  She was flushed with the heat of a woman very well satisfied after I had spent her again. Our post-sex cuddling was cut short by her ringtone. She had a strange affinity for eighties hair metal—I really try not to judge!

  She looked at the name, and I saw a face, a typical frat-boy man-child face, with golden blonde hair. She moved as if her body had caught fire. I watched with a dark brow quirked in silent curiosity. She hadn’t acted this cagy since she came out to her parents, so what was going on now?

  “Hey babe, how’s it going?”

  Babe?!

  My body was suddenly frozen, and I listened with a new intense curiosity.

  “I’m just hanging out with one of my girlfriends, you know how I need a break from campus life sometimes.”

  I blinked, and I felt my jaw slacken.

  This is NOT happening! One of her Girlfriends?! Right, unless ALL of her girlfriends give her three orgasms without asking for anything!

  “Ok, I’ll stop off at the house and hang with you and the guys for a bit. Ok, love you too.”

  My ice shattered and fire shot through my veins. I felt dirty, cheap, and suddenly like I was just her cheap Latin whore on the side. Anna had told me that she came out to her family, finally, and that we were exclusive. She had been seeing some ass-hat that she went to college with, because her parents expected her to date and marry. They are some big deal back in Ohio, a congressman and his perfect Barbie wife.

  I was sitting up staring at her as if she had just grown a second head.

  What the hell?! Did she just not care that I heard EVERYTHING?!

  I stood up and snatched one of my long Pearl Jam tee shirts. I put on a fresh pair of my cotton purple panties. A fashionista, I am not. I am poor, and I am struggling to maintain a GPA to keep my scholarship intact for graduation next year. I am a criminology major at NYU, and I am considering applying to the NYPD, or going down to Virginia and applying to Quantico. I haven’t decided yet. I had considered a working in the courtroom, but I like punching people too much to be stuck in a damn court where I cannot let my loco momma's temper get the best of me. Not that I actually believe cops can freely go around hitting whomever they wish.

  Right now, I felt sick to my stomach. I am twenty-one, I did not expect her to purpose, or even take me home to meet her folks yet, but I thought we had something real going on, besides the mind-blowing sex.

  Please don’t tell me I just went down on her, and she’s been fucking some dude in a frat house! I am totally being tested after this degrading shit!

  She hung up her phone and she looked over to me and smiled her chipper little white-girl smile. She really didn’t seem to register that she had just given a bloody confession! I just blinked and then slipped on a pair of my army-green cargo pants and I pulled on my vintage leather jacket, the only relatively expensive item I owned. I rather looked like a bit of a nineties grunge stereotype, but I stopped caring what other people thought of me a long time ago.

  Being a non-white, non-straight girl living in a big city will knock the give-a-fuck right out of you!

  I so thought I was through with closet lesbians! Dammit!

  I pointed to my door, and I didn’t even bother to look at her. I was fighting back tears; I would not let this bitch see me cry! She did not get to see my tears!

  “Get your shit, leave the key, and lose my fucking number skank.”

  My voice came out rough, and I sounded like I might be about to produce a switchblade. Being a naïve suburban girl, Anna seemed to think this as well. She didn’t say a word, she just fumbled with the key and sat it down, before dodging out into the hall in her panties and sports-bra, with a bundle of wrinkled clothes in her hands, and her shoes apparently already on her feet.

  Maybe one day I would look back on this moment and laugh, but once the door shut I cried. Just because she didn’t get to see my tears, didn’t make them disappear. I stayed on my sofa for about forty-minutes crying my eyes red.

  Eventually, I calmed down enough to call my best friend since moving here. Henry, or Helen, depending on the time of day, and his mood, was the one ray of sunshine in my world. He picked up after two rings.

  “Bitch, you best have a good reason for interrupting my Stefan hour.”

  Henry is a huge The Vampire Diaries fan, his main reason, staring at the male cast hoping he could wish away their heterosexual leanings. I was more of a Buffy fan personally, but hey, Sarah is a very hot honey!

  “Does lying naked next to a redheaded bitch, while she lies to her boyfriend count?”

  My words came out harsh, and my throat was clearly beginning to get raw now. I probably sounded like I had a cold, or something.

  “Oh hell, didn’t I tell you that white girl was gonna be trouble? I said that bitch had daddy issues, like the kind that come with dollar signs attached to his expectations. Awe hell girlfriend.”

  I sagged into my sofa and nodded dumbly at no one in particular.

  “Awe hell indeed.”

  “Look honey, I’ll meet you up for drinks in a bit and we can talk all about your ginger troubles.”

  “I don’t feel like going out right now, would you?!”

  I might have sounded a little petulant, but Henry ignored my fussy tone completely.

  “Look sugar, you need to get off that hot saucy Latin behind of yours and go drink. That’s why the goddess created liquor.”

  Did I forget to mention that Henry is a practicing Wiccan? He really thinks he is a witch, like brooms and candles, and loves spells—think a transvestite invading the cast of Charmed. I indulge him, because who the hell am I to judge? Besides, his incense does make for a very nice smelling apartment when I am hanging out over there. Trust me on this, not every gay man is a neat freak! Henry is a damn slob, not that this girl should be tossing any rocks in her glass apartment.

  Sluggishly, I drug myself form my apartment and nearly forgot my damn keys! Being so self-reliant, I never forgot something so basic, but my head was totally messed up. I was eager to start drinking liquor was calling my name. The bitter, bitter friend that would help numb my aches, and forget how cheap I felt right now. I’m not a drunk, neither am I a prude. When I drink, I drink, when I don’t, I am generally busy trying to learn how to catch crazy people.

  I also have an interesting job working as a mall security guard. They were very reluctant to hire a fresh college girl li
ke me, but the hours fit, and I had been a model employ for the past year. Henry had helped me get this gig, since he works at the Victoria Secret. (I love watching the straight guys flinch when he tried to help them find something “special.”) Henry takes his job very seriously, and his passion for controversial undergarments does not always mesh well with some of the shoppers.

  Our usual gin joint was closed down for remodeling, so Henry sent me the address of another bar he frequented. I had never been there before, since I didn’t often have time between work, college, and girlfriend, to go drinking. Besides, I’m barely legal, so I haven’t had a whole lot of time to memorize all the gin joints in New York. This city has a bar on top of a bar, on top of a strip club, if you look on the right block! Attempting to memorize this cities’ unique nightlife was next to impossible.

  The cab took me down towards Brighton Beach, or Little Russia, as some called the area. Unless I was actively looking to pick a fight with a Russian gangster, they didn’t just pop out and say “boo.” They were off doing whatever sketchy things Russian gangsters do in their free time. I hope that that included not being in this particular block right now.

  I’m a student of the law, so sue me if gangsters give me the willies. Either that was the case, or the fact that a lot of them have likely killed someone probably more to do with that fact really. How about I just let this remain a theory, until I’ve had more training, and time to properly process dealing with potential mobsters.

  Henry, what in the seven levels of hell are you dragging my ass out here for?

  I wondered to myself, and I paid the cab fare and Hopped out, if only a bit reluctantly. I was down right off the beach now, so deep in mob territory. It is not that I should expect a cement-shoe welcome, since no one knows me down here, but my nerves were alighting with anticipation.

  The themed bar was called Cold Coffin. I raised a brow at the very silly name, and I stepped in to the midnight black double-doors. The inside was surprisingly well thought out, considering the tacky name.

  It looked like a mix of three very distinctive things. First were the actual sleek black coffins adorning one of the walls, and what looked like part of a funeral home. The next layer was the fanciful crystal chandeliers and the dimmed lights, with the ballroom-style hardwood floor that looks slickly glossed from here at the door. The third layer of style was nineties-era punk rock memorabilia and posters hanging on the opposite wall.

  That should sound horrific, but it looked elegantly rock-n-roll for some reason. I might have mentioned, I am a bit of a nineties-music buff. I half expected to see a throng of punks wading through the crowd, but most the people are wearing dark colored business suits, and the women wore a variety of different eras of stylized fashion wear. I thought I might have seen a real Victorian black silken gown on one of the strange dancers.

  Ok, I could see why Henry would dig this place. I was open-minded, so I walked up to the bar and ordered a tall beer.

  Two:

  Any place that played a steady stream of Goldfinger, and various other punk bands, had my seal of approval. At least my not-style fit in with this theme and décor—not that I cared. (Much!)

  Henry was conspicuously absent, so he was probably wrapping up his Stefan Salvatore hour, before heading out. I don’t even want to think about the number of times I have heard him say, “There’s a guy who knows how to suck!”

  Subtlety is not Henry’s strong suit. I half expected him to appear as Helen, in a black lacy get-up considering that I had seen more than one corset wearing woman in this crowd. This is New York; people tend to ignore things like four-hundred-year-old clothing. We are a very liberal and broad-minded lot here. I’m sure this place would have stuck out like Henry at a Monster truck rally down in the south.

  They had several impressive microbrew lagers on tap, so I was in my own personal heaven. I drank my cold beverage steadily as the crowd seemed to fill in more and more. The last time I had seen the time, it had been past one in the morning. This place was just getting rolling now, or so the budding crowd seemed to indicate.

  What was strange, and I do need to use that term loosely in here, was the ivory fangs I spotted. Several people with fangs, and they were sucking on each other in a manner that would have made the Salvatore Brothers proud. I shook my head, as to clear my eyes, and I took a swig of my lager.

  Several people brushed by and I could swear I saw long pointed ears, like Lord of the Rings kind of long and pointed.

  Great, send in Chewbacca and my night is complete!

  I snarked in my own head and returned my attention to the bartender. He was about thirtyish, but his age seemed impossible to place. His skin was pale, as were pretty much all the customers, but he had a certain flawlessness to his skin, as though it had never been blemished. He was clean-shaven, and wore his hair spiked in a close crop cut.

  Unlike the more colorfully dramatic of the bunch, he was dressed similarly to me. An era appropriate pair of ripped comfortable jeans and a Nirvana tee shirt.

  “First time?”

  It was barely a question, and mostly a statement of fact. His tone was deep, but more a deep purr, than a growl. He probably got many girls with his look, and his tough-guy mystique.

  Bully for him.

  I gave a slight nod. It’s a myth that all gay women are outright rude to men. I like them just fine, if their pants are on, and their member stays where I can’t see it! Any man who can respect this basic law is fine in my book. Problem is, most men don’t seem to understand this rule exists. Therefore, if Cobain kept me plied with alcohol and kept his laser-pointer to himself, we’re good.

  “Shot of Tequila.”

  I slapped down a pair of bills. His eyes danced in amusement.

  “Rough night lass?”

  How had I missed the Scottish accent? I could have sworn his voice was purely Americana a moment ago!

  This is the moment I should have started to piece together the many wrong things in the room around me. Like maybe the dancing donkey in the corner! Or, maybe the fact that the bartender’s brown eyes were blue! Not to mention, that the man drinking next to me flicked out a forked tongue to taste his ale!

  While I do not proclaim to be Sherlock Holmes, I am in fact an extremely good detective! I am not studying criminology for the express desire to spend my life as a beat-cop. I study criminal minds. I study what makes them tick and how to capture them. I also have a gift with remembering anything I see. Ok, I am a little like Sherlock, but not as practiced or worldly.

  What finally did catch my attention was the flying eight-inch-tall butterfly-winged man trying to steal a sip from my beer! I shot up ramrod straight and my muscles tensed.

  That looked like a fucking fairy!

  “What’s wrong lass? Ye act like ye never seen a pixie before.”

  Flicking my gaze over to the bartender, I noted a hint of fang in his smile, fangs too long to belong in a human mouth. I picked up my beer and turned it up, and I began to chug. This night went from bad to fucking insane!

  “Is there a problem here, Liam?”

  That voice stopped my time, and my body froze as an animal caught in headlights. I really didn’t want to turn and see what face was behind the chilly feminine power licking at my back. Even before I saw her, my brain was yelling, “Run stupid!”

  Nevertheless, I turned, and all oxygen fled its escape at the ethereal beauty behind me. Her skin nearly white, but not in a nasty sort of way and she was about two inches shorter than my five-six, and her hair was strawberry-blonde. She was thin, possibly a few pounds lighter than me, and I was only a buck-twenty soaking wet!

  Her features were lean, and her face sharply angled with a cute button nose. And her eyes were like two pale-blue orbs crafted from the Northern Sea. Her breasts were small, but perked just right, invitingly. Her hips were belle curved, adding a grace to her slight build. Her arms and her legs were toned with perfectly crafted feminine muscles, as if she had spent decades, if not much
more, perfecting her peek conditioning. The term “warrior” fit this fragile looking and imposing, if short woman standing before me.

  Her gaze traveled from the Cobain fan behind the bar, Liam apparently, to me. Her eyes slid over me with a quiet appraisal of some sort. Her lips pulled into a small smile that the word “mischievous,” was ill equipped to describe. Her tone was cool, but there was a purr to her tone, and not some cliché catty sound. Her accent was impossible to place, timeless and forgotten in some dark corner of history.

  “Bruja, not very often we are graced with one of your kind.”

  I blinked, and my rapture of her sex appeal vanished into the smoke. I cocked my head to the side, and found my voice, pulling strength from my night of fucked up ordeals.

  “What the fuck did you just call me?”

  I didn’t mean to sound that combative! It’s been a very long night, so cut a girl some slack! She flicked her eyes to the bartender again.

  “Is she serious?”

  My gaze traveled to the bartender and he was scratching his head lightly.

  “As best I have seen, yes, that is why I summoned you Seri.”

  He said her name like it was something spoken only in hushed tones of reverence. He was a very powerful looking man of six-three, nearly an entire foot on this hot strange woman, but his throat bobbed as if he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun pointed at him. My danger sense was practically roaring now.

  Maybe I have landed myself in a mobbed-up bar?!

  Whatever, I wasn’t having any of this! My night sucked, with a capital S. No way in hell was I sticking around to play with the mob princess. Not even if she was my exact brand of girl candy, robed in a very sleek and sexy sheath red dress that matched her strawberry hair. Or even the fact that her lips were a perfect shade of kissable pink, and it was not lipstick. Nope, not happening, not tonight and not ever if I was smart!

  I pulled my jacket up and I dropped a twenty on the bar.

  “Thanks for the drinks dude, your micro-brews rock.”