by Trisha Telep
“Forget the vamp bar then,” Tiffany said. “Maybe there’s someone here.” She looked around. “Or maybe someplace else.”
I sighed. I was being a bitch, really. This bar sucked. I didn’t have another place in mind. And my friend really wanted to try this so-called vampire one. Was that too much to ask?
“All right,” I said. “We’ll check out this bar and find you a vampire. And if he’s not tormented, I’m sure I can fix that.”
A vampire bar. Now that we were on our way, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little bit intrigued. And Tiffany wanted to go so badly that I could tell myself I was doing it for her sake . . . and almost believe it.
I’d met Tiffany three years ago in a support group for half-demons. As a rule, women don’t hook up with demons willingly and bear their children. Our mothers have no idea that we’re anything but human, and we don’t either, until our powers start to kick in. That power depends on Daddy. In my case, it’s enhanced hearing. Tiffany is a low-level ice demon. She can’t freeze a guy in his tracks, though she has a glare that does the trick pretty well. Mostly she just turns water into ice. Useful at parties when the freezer is broken. Otherwise not so much. She’s happy with it, though.
Not every half-demon is so content. Hence the support group. I’d first learned of my demon blood when I was “found” by a group that monitored medical channels and discovered I’d been trying to find an explanation for my super-hearing. They recommended the support group and I thought, Cool - I can meet others, then learn about my powers and how to improve them. Not exactly. As I discovered, it really was a support group - a place for half-demons to angst about the nasty blow life had dealt them.
Blow? Hello, super powers? They should have been celebrating winning the genetic lottery. Instead they whined about not fitting in, about having demon blood, about their slutty mothers screwing the forces of evil. I say, “Go for it, Mom.” She’d been single and I’m sure the demon was damned hot — metaphorically speaking, I hope.
I didn’t last long in the group, just long enough to meet Tiffany, who was every bit as puzzled by the “woe is me” sentiment. I also met Jason, my first supernatural boyfriend, who - as it turned out - wasn’t even a half-demon, but a druid who infiltrated the group to pick up chicks. And so I was introduced to the wonderful world of paranormal romance.
“It must get lonely being a vampire,” Tiffany mused as we walked down St James Street. “Just think of it. Centuries of watching everyone you love grow old without you, die before you.”
“That’s romantic?”
“Sure, don’t you think so?”
I wasn’t touching that one.
We passed a trio of wraithlike Goths, sticking to the shadowy edge of the sidewalks as if the streetlights would reduce them to dust motes. They took in our clubwear with sniffs of disdain. I returned the favour.
At least we seemed to be in the right neighbourhood. Which begged the question: how much of a secret was this place? Those kids were not supernaturals — we just don’t call attention to ourselves like that. If everyone knew about the bar, that meant the chances of it really being what it claimed were next to nil. And just when I was starting to think this night might turn interesting. I swallowed a bitter shot of disappointment.
“Maybe the books are wrong,” Tiffany piped up. “But I bet they got one thing right. What a vampire really needs is a mate. A life-mate. Someone he can turn. Someone to share eternity with.” She gave a mooning sigh, as if being asked to join a life of blood-sucking was more romantic than being serenaded by the Seine. “Can you imagine? Centuries together, bonded by love and—”
“Haemophilia? Please don’t tell me you—”
“Oh, look. There it is!”
She pointed to a sign on the corner. A neon sign, flashing first vamp, then changing to tramp. Vamp Tramp? Wasn’t that from a book?
This did not bode well. Forget the unoriginal name. The flashing neon screamed “fake” even louder. In a world where supernaturals still hid their true nature with Inquisition-era fervour, neon-signed vampire bars were . . . unlikely.
Oh, who the hell was I kidding? This place was going to be as authentic as chicken balls. One double-shot of disappointment to go. And add a big chaser of head-slapping duh. There were maybe twenty vampires in the whole country. Did I really think they’d band together and open a bar in my home town?
It was then, when I’d fully convinced myself the place was a fake, that I saw the guy lying face down in the alley. A small crowd stood around him like a prayer circle.
When I started towards the man, Tiffany grabbed my hand. “For once, Mel, don’t get involved. Let someone else handle it.”
That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Everyone thinks, Let someone else handle it, and no one does.
I shouldered past yet another Goth girl, this one so pale she lit up the alley like a flashlight.
“Has anyone called 911?” I asked.
Everyone looked at the person beside them, as if to say, “You called, didn’t you?”
“I think some old dude went to call,” said a kid so wasted he addressed the Goth girl behind me. “Or maybe he was just looking for another place to crash. I think this guy stole his spot.”
I thought he was joking. One look at his face said he wasn’t.
I turned to Tiffany. “Call 911.” When she hesitated, I said, “Fine. I’ll call and you can check him.”
She pulled out her cell phone. I crouched beside the fallen man.
“You’re not supposed to move him,” said a middle-aged guy beside me.
Oh, sure, now he was Mr Helpful.
I tried to get a pulse at the man’s wrist, but I’m an ad-copy writer, not a nurse, and I couldn’t find the right spot. To get to his neck, though, I had to push aside his long, stringy hair, which was why I’d started with the wrist. But I’d never forgive myself if the man died because I got icky about touching his hair, so I pushed it back over his shoulder. Then I jerked back with an “Oh!”
“Holy shit,” said the drunk kid. “Are those . . . ?”
“The kiss of the vampire,” Goth girl whispered reverently.
On the side of his neck were two red puncture wounds and a small trickle of blood, still shiny. Too shiny, actually. I reached for the mark. Goth girl yelped. I peeled off the sticker and held it up.
“Performance art advertising. Everyone suitably impressed? Ready to go for drinks at Vamp Tramp? Buy two, get this free.” I waved the “vampire bite” sticker, then nudged the fallen man. “Show’s over. Get up.”
He didn’t move.
“Listen, asshole, my friend just called 911 for you. You’re going to have some explaining to do, so get up and start now.”
I booted him in the side. Still nothing.
“The bite marks are fake, but I don’t think the lack of consciousness is,” said a voice behind me, with a rapid-fire accent that reminded me of a recent trip to Northern Mexico.
I turned to see a man in a suit striding down the alley. Another man stayed on the sidewalk, eyeing the filthy alley as if hoping he wouldn’t have to come any further.
“Miguel Carter,” the first man said. “FBI.”
He flashed a badge so fast all I saw was a blur. Nice try, buddy. I’d worked in advertising long enough to know a marketing ploy when I saw one. An elaborate and clever marketing ploy, but a ploy nonetheless.
“Can I see that?” I asked.
He handed me the badge. I inspected it, acting as if I had the foggiest clue what a real FBI badge looked like. I did know what an FBI agent looked like though, and whatever agency hired this guy had paid some serious bucks to get an actor who could play the part. He was in his thirties, dark hair and eyes, wide shoulders, square jaw. They’d added glasses, to give him that extra touch of intelligence, lift him above your average city cop. He wasn’t a typical gorgeous actor, but he had that Clark Kent geek-cute thing, the kind that makes you think, “Hey, big boy, let me rip off those glasses and—.”<
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Damn, it really had been too long.
I handed Carter back his badge. “So the FBI is taking 911 calls now?”
“No, I’m sure the local police and ambulance are on the way. I was in the area and heard there was a problem.”
“In the area? Let me guess. At Vamp Tramp? Investigating, oh, let’s see ... A string of murders possibly related to the vampire subculture.”
The surprise on his face looked almost genuine. The guy was good, I’d give him that. I knelt beside the “unconscious” man and touched the side of his neck.
“This one’s still got a pulse, Agent. Seems you got to him in time. Good work.” As I stood, I slipped a card from my wallet and pressed it against his palm, then lowered my voice. “It’s a good guerilla marketing campaign, but the scenario needs work. Tell whoever’s in charge to give me a call. I can help them smooth over the rough spots.”
I walked back to Tiffany. As I approached, she shook her head. “Can’t resist being a smartass, can you, Mel?”
“What? I offered my services. They do need to work out the scenario a little better. FBI has a certain cachet, but it would raise fewer questions if they just said they were city cops.”
“But someone in the crowd might know the city cops.”
“True.”
“Also true that you were being a smartass, proving you saw through their act.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Carter the FBI agent was still studying my card and frowning, trying to figure out where his performance had gone wrong. I smiled and continued walking.
We still went to the bar. My curiosity was re-piqued now. Would there be more of the show we’d just seen? A full viral performance-art campaign? Was it working? What were people saying?
I got the answer to question two as we reached the door, and found a line-up stretching around the corner. We got waved past it. OK, Tiffany got us waved past it. The bouncer took one look at her - blonde hair, high heels, low neckline and impressive cleavage - then he glanced at the line-up of middle-aged gawkers with cameras and teen goths with fake ID and frantically gestured us past the rope, as if terrified we’d see the line and keep walking.
Inside, it looked like a vampire bar. Or Hollywood’s Euro-trash version of one. Lots of dark corners, blood-red velvet and lighting that lit nothing in particular. I suspect the decorator doubled as a set designer. I could imagine him directing the “shoot”, placing the chaises lounges in the dark corners, imagining a dilettante vampire gracefully sprawled on each one, surveying the eager crowd for their next meal, the sexual predator at its most predatory.
Unfortunately, this set was inhabited by real people. On the nearest chaise langue, two private school “Let’s go Goth tonight!” girls were touching up each other’s nail polish. Pink nail polish. A middle-aged couple sat erect on the next, staring around them, eyes wide with delicious “can you believe we’re in a vampire bar, Frank?” horror. Chaise loungue number three was occupied by a fifty-year-old platinum blonde. She looked suitably predatory, but her prey - every guy under thirty - was scampering the other way every time accidental eye contact occurred. And on the fourth chaise loungue, a guy in his late thirties in full vampire gear, from the boots to the leather duster, lay with his eyes slitted, the tip of his tongue out, his expression rapturous as he stared at the frieze above his head - an erotic panorama of Dracula-style vampires invading the beds of virginal girls.
“One word,” I said to Tiffany as we walked in. “Eww.”
“That’s not a word.” She looked around. “But I second it. Damn.” She sighed. “I guess we should get a drink. Too bad those chaises loungues are all taken. They’re kind of cool.”
“You want one?” I started towards the guy enjoying the painted scenery.
She tried to grab my arm, but missed, managing only a chirped, “Don’t!” that was almost drowned out by a bass-heavy blast of unintelligible punk rock.
As I approached the man, he froze, the sight of an actual woman inducing stark terror. He adjusted his overcoat, and slid his hand from . . . wherever it had been.
“Are you—?” I garbled a name, knowing the music would swallow it.
“Um, yes. Yes.”
“Your wife is on the phone.”
He shot from the lounge and disappeared into the crowd. Two nearby college girls sidled towards the vacated couch. A look from me stopped them cold.
“Your throne, madam,” I said with a flourish.
Tiffany laughed and sat on one end, leaving the top for me. We lounged. It wasn’t easy with two people and one chair, not without doing that fake lesbian-show thing that seems to attract guys even better than a free beer sign.
We still attracted plenty of attention. Guys looked, and looked some more, and kept looking. Not one took even a tentative step in our direction, all wary, as if certain the presence of actual twenty-something single women had to be a set-up.
Had they already gotten a taste of the performance-art advertising? As hard as I looked, I didn’t see any other obvious scenes playing out around us. A few people were drinking fake-blood drinks, and a couple in a corner were going at it pretty good - neck nibbling included — but with the awkwardness of outsiders trying really, really hard to fit in.
“We have a contender,” Tiffany whispered in my ear.
She directed my attention across the floor to a guy who was definitely checking me out. He stood with a small group of men hovering, obviously corporate types scoping out the alternate nightlife. My admirer quickly looked away when I glanced over. He shifted, then cast a surreptitious look my way. Hmm.
“Well?” Tiffany asked.
“A distinct possibility.”
He was an average guy. Average height, average build, medium-brown hair. A pleasant face. Not someone who’d catch my eye, but when he caught mine, I took a closer look and saw nothing that quashed the deal.
“OK, he’s playing shy,” Tiffany said. “So I’m going to give him an opening. I’ll go to the bar and take my time getting us drinks.”
I watched Tiffany leave, the crowd parting for her, admiring looks following her ass as it swayed through. And when I turned back to my admirer, he was gone. His group was still there, but he was nowhere to be seen. I looked around, hoping he was making his way over to me. No sign of him. Great. Apparently I’d been hanging around Tiffany so long I’d learned her trick for freezing out guys with a single look. I considered going after Tiffany and switching my beer to a double Scotch, neat. Instead I curled up on the chaise loungue and tried not to sulk.
A few minutes later, Tiffany returned, blue eyes wide. “There’s a vampire here!” She plunked down beside me, setting the sofa rocking. “A real vampire!”
“Drinks?”
“He’s bringing them.”
“The vampire?”
She grinned. “Can you believe it? Probably one vampire in this whole place and I snagged him. I wasn’t even looking for one. I was up there at the bar, and this guy brushes against my arm and his skin is cold.” When I didn’t react appropriately, she leaned into my face. “Cold skin? Vampire?”
“Um, air conditioning?” I held out my arm, goosebumps rising on cue.
“He’s a vamp. Trust me. And when you think about it, it makes perfect sense, him being here.”
“It does?”
“Sure. This place looks totally fake, so it’d be the ideal place for real vampires to hang out, undetected.”
“Uh-huh.”
“See him? Up there. Beside the urn.”
I spotted the guy. Not too tall or too dark, but he did have that pretty-boy pout down pat. And while his clothing didn’t scream “I’ve seen Underworld fifty times,” it was suitably dark against his pale skin. “He definitely looks anaemic enough.”
She followed my gaze. “No, not him.” Gripping my chin, she redirected me. “Him.”
I looked. I looked some more. “Holy shit.”
I’m not usually one for gorgeous guys, but one glance at this one
and my ovaries were doing the cha-cha. He was at least six foot two and built. God, was he built. Wide shoulders, muscular biceps, slim hips, perfect ass. With effort, I pulled my gaze back up to his face, which was a sculptor’s dream. And, naturally, he was blond. And tanned. And so not a vampire.
When I said as much to Tiffany, she rolled her eyes. “Yes, he has a tan. So what? You said they can go out in sunlight.”
“But . . . But that’s ...” I ogled some more. “As a man? Perfection. As a vampire? So wrong.”
He still stood at the bar, his gaze fixed regretfully on a no smoking sign. I glanced down at his hand to see him toying with an unlit cigarette. A smoker? Normally a deal breaker, but in this case, I could adjust.
I did direct Tiffany’s attention to the cigarette though.
“And that proves what?” she said. “He’s a vampire. No chance of lung cancer, emphysema, smoker’s cough. I bet he doesn’t even get nicotine stains. Why not smoke?”
Now the Nordic god was heading our way, three drinks effortlessly fitting into his big hands. Big square hands, workman’s hands, the kind with old calluses that would scratch deliciously against the skin as he ...
“He’s mine,” Tiffany said.
I shook off the lust attack and nodded. “I know, and I won’t interfere.” Like I could anyway, though Tiffany was kind enough not to point that out.
He handed us our drinks and Tiffany introduced me.
“Adrian,” he said, then excused himself and scooped a nearby table and chair, and set them up for us. A gentleman too.
“I hope you don’t mind me hiding out over here with you two,” he said. “This place is—” an almost nervous glance over his shoulder “—not exactly my speed.”
Tiffany shot me a knowing look, as if this proved he was indeed a creature of the night, desperately trying to convince us otherwise. When I asked whether he was local, he shook his head.
“I’m working with a construction crew on a big job up here. Just got in this morning, asked the motel clerk for a good place to grab a drink and he suggested here.”
And so we started to talk. And the more we did, the more I really wished I’d taken my hairdresser’s advice about that stylish new cut or splurged for that amazing dress I’d seen last week at the mall.