by Lewis Aleman
Something soft and fluffy takes my thoughts away from Roderick as it bounces down the one step from the bar onto the sidewalk. Her jiggle is almost a singularity. An unmistakable body in the universe sucking in the attention of all others around her. By design, she pulls others into herself, trying to fill the void inside her with whatever she can take from them.
Three friends of hers walk out after her. Leaving her behind, they move down the street and pass where I sit on their way to a less crowded bar on Toulouse, migrating away from the masses on Bourbon. Bouncy-fluffy stays near the opened French doors she has just gyrated out of, taunting the bouncer with the parts of her that sparkle.
Sometimes I think I’ll leave New Orleans—there are other cities with a large supply of what I like. Lot of cities are much bigger—more pretties to choose from, so many more flavors to sample. There’d be no Roderick. No one else to put up with. I’d be free to do whatever I wanted—I’d own the night—all by myself.
But it’s easy here. Roderick brings me smack when I can’t get it myself. He lures women to me when I can’t speak. And then there’s the new breed…
I’ve tried every fix under the sun, and nothing’s sent me flying like this new breed Roderick’s created. Still won’t tell me where it comes from. As long as he has more to give, I don’t care where—just how much I can get in me.
Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh—eyes roll and jaw drops open just at the thought of it. Better find some quick feed fast. Get to Roderick. Get the good stuff.
Now, where is that bouncy, fluffy thing?
She still talks to the bouncer who leans a meaty shoulder on the opened French doors to the bar, trying not to show her how interested he is in her. He’s worked here for years—I’ve seen him before. He knows the best method for a bouncer on this street is to ignore her, which’ll only make her want his attention more. He may fool her, but I can see the pulse of his blood through his body—speeding up faster and faster.
The girls that come down to this tourist attraction are easily fascinated with bouncers, thinking them the alpha males of the debauchery—the ones in charge of the chaos.
While they do go for the bouncers, you should see how easily they follow a man in black who claims to be a vampire. The fantasy melts them—they don’t care if he’s crazy—they never dream he’s telling the truth. They just enjoy the bad boy, and live the dream—the dark fantasy she’s created in her mind that he’s bringing to life for her.
Funny—the silly things they think about vampires. They think we’re all straight out of a Victorian romance.
Let me tell you, the affinity with antiquities and Victorian fanciness is all bullshit. Vampires have always been gluttons, addicts to desire. There is no room in a vampire’s being for pomp and circumstance. It’s hard to worry about staining a designer shirt when the lust for hot, spurting blood places my fangs inches from tender flesh. The desire is the glory, not some trinket or frivolity of fancy society. We have as little care for antiques as a lion on the prowl. It’s the bloodlust we crave. Had you ever experienced it, you’d see that nothing else ever comes close to it, and you’d never waste your time pursuing anything else. The only appetite that remains in me for things from centuries past is an affinity for women in poofy skirts, or perhaps it’s just the thrill in lifting them up that lingers.
As for attire, a vampire is more likely to approach you in torn clothing that he cares little about than dressed as a silly poet professing love up to a balcony. Your blood tastes the same no matter what he’s wearing.
Speaking of balconies, it’s not the decrepit, rundown buildings, tall pointed cathedrals, or even the legendary river itself that brings my kind to New Orleans. It’s the howling from liquor-soaked mouths, feet stumbling down beer-stained streets, and even the stink of it all. It knells like a chiming dinner bell, summoning us to its decadent streets. It’s a playground. A playground for things daylight would rather not touch.
It’s not just the drunkenness either. It’s the tourists who come here like Anti-Pilgrims, unfamiliar with the customs and the bizarre, crooked streets that follow the curves of the river—refusing to be restricted to any manmade grid. They travel here from all over the world, having left a substantial part of their sound judgment in their homes hundreds of miles away, looking to fill their own twisted desires. After all, it’s why most pay to come here—the anonymous romp in a decadent city where no one knows their names. It’s intriguing to watch.
Besides all that, this city grooms belles with attitude and a love for the macabre. This city worships things of the dark and breeds young women with a lust for that which is not common. Delving my teeth into any dainty flesh stirs my senses, but diving into one that poses even a hint of a challenge tastes all the better. One with dark lipstick, playful eyebrows, and intoxicated breath is what drives me.
Speaking of which, the painted piece of fluff kisses the bouncer on the cheek and walks down Toulouse toward the bar her friends have recently entered. Enticing.
I jump down from the top of the dumpster I’ve been sitting on. The bouncer signals to someone inside the bar. A man of similar size appears in the opened French doors beside him, and the bouncer heads after the girl. Bad news for him.
In a few short seconds, I’ll be tasting the sweetness of the pretty thing he’s after, and he’ll be tasting nothing but the after.
The place buzzes like it had two nights before. Libations, celebrations, and gyrations—it echoes, full of the sounds that appease the flesh.
The mass of people bounce as if they are all one body, flinging their hands in the air, surrendering to whatever temptation taunts them the loudest.
I don’t deny any of them their taste of the wild—surely I’ve had my fill here in days past. Although the rhythm is the same now as it was then, I’ve lost my taste for all of this. I long for a sweet treasure left in the woods—left with a she-vamp to look over her. But, if I’m to find a way to get those that hunt her to leave her be, this place is the only chance I have. Slim as it may be.
No longer ‘80s Night, but The Saturday Night Goth/Industrial Ball. Type O Negative’s “Blood & Fire” grooves through the speakers, blanketing the crowd with a dark, sexy vibe. Still an energetic and enthusiastic group of people, but the colors have changed from bright blues and pinks to edges of crimson mated to clothing ranging from black to blacker. Tank tops traded for corsets—short skirts and leg-warmers swapped out for leather and boots. Bright blue eyeliner has turned deep maroon. Red lips painted over like night. Dark and lacy. The more the outfit looks like it could line a coffin, the better.
Truth be told, I loved this night as much as the ‘80s soiree that always came two nights before. They were two different berries from the same wilderness. Both nights for us weirdos, just a separate event for each kind. Somehow I prowled them both. Two tastes to satisfy the same hunger.
Weave between people—edging my way to the dance floor. With every pulse of the bass from the speakers, I can see the blood flashing and shooting through the bodies around me. The bass makes my thoughts waver and flicker to black, on the verge of passing out, and the blood it reveals makes my fangs feel all the longer in my mouth—aching all the more to feed and stop this marathon torture I’ve been inflicting on my body.
Couldn’t feed. Was no time to leave Ruby and find someone to feed on. If I had left, they could’ve found her, helpless while I would’ve been gone. Not safe.
Had I gone to feed when Edgar attacked, she’d be gone now too—or at least in the hands of Roderick. Can’t let that happen.
Silly as it seems, don’t know if I could’ve fed anyway—even if a small town were only yards away from us in the woods. Only her neck seems right to feed from, but her eyes seem wrong to prey upon. Don’t want to dry up, don’t want to press my lips to another’s neck, and can’t look into her eyes and dive into her flesh.
This problem is becoming more important with every second. With every swaying of my mind from my purpose—the one I’m searc
hing for—the reason I’m here, and with every fading of my vision from the drinking and dancing that surrounds me to nothing but black, I know I’ll have to compromise something or die. But for the moment, as Ruby waits under the trees for me, it’ll have to wait. Flesh’ll have to find a way to rise and reach my spirit.
Something grabs my wrist.
Tugging at my arm is a tiny redhead dressed in a deep-red, skintight shirt, black leather skirt, and spiked, black heels. A smile and glossy eyes project an energy much larger than her little body.
Could feast on her neck, regain my strength, stop this wretched aching inside. A week ago, she’d already be wrapped in my arms. Now that I’ve met Ruby, this redhead may as well be as hard as stone, as dry as marble, and as hollow as a cave.
Muster a faint smile and keep walking.
Bass pounds. Vision’s gone. Torso sways.
Feel small hand on my back.
Step forward—vision still not back.
Heavy hand on my shoulder.
Squint eyes hard. Blurry, but can see outlines. Hazy black and white.
Turn around slowly—heavy hand guiding me.
“Well, Simon, seems we keep running into each other.”
The familiar voice stings. The face is still bleary, but the memory is sharp. Colors return, although faded.
“Was looking for you, Roderick,” I say to the blur.
“Were you now?”
Something hazy and red moves to the side of us.
I continue, “Want to put an end to this. Seems we both have things the other wants. Silly to fight.”
“Indeed. So silly to fight when we can take whatever we want.”
His blurry face turns toward the red movement. Squint my eyes again—things become a little clearer. Repeat. Can see again.
Roderick’s forearm slowly pushes against the little redhead’s upper chest as he says, “He’s busy, fire crotch. Find another guy to grind on.”
A thin, well-manicured middle finger extends in his direction as she kisses it and flings it at him.
“No need to be rude, Roderick.”
“She’s not that hot, Simon. And speaking of which, where is the little sweet thing that’s caused all this trouble between us old friends.”
I look to the redhead to apologize on his behalf, but she’s already turned around and has her arms wrapped around another guy with long hair.
“See, she’s fine,” he says putting his hand back at my shoulder, “You worry too much for these temporary beings—they’re pretty resilient for the brief moment that they’re here.”
“Guess you’d know about that better than me.”
“To my office then?”
“Yeah.”
Roderick steps onto the far end of the stage and waves his hand up at Mark in the DJ booth at the end of the balcony. Mark nods his head and flips a switch. Roderick pushes open an emergency exit door beside the stage, and no alarm sounds.
I look to Mark before I follow Roderick, and he raises his opened hands to me. Apparently Roderick hasn’t held a grudge for the pyrotechnics Mark unleashed the other night. Guess Mark’s a useful friend to have in a place so prime for hunting.
At least Mark’s not in danger. At least not for the moment. Roderick has bigger problems to decapitate. I step through the exit, feeling like I’m sticking my head into a guillotine.
Through the emergency exit is a narrow brick alleyway that separates this club from the bar next door. It’s closed in at the front, creating the illusion that the buildings are connected. It’s open out the back, leading to a service driveway and a loading zone, of which only a small portion can be seen from where I stand now.
In that opening I see Carvelli and Quint, standing and watching us. Carvelli grinds his fist in his hand, fangs exposed, and vengeance screaming across his snarling face. Can’t blame him—he’s taken a hell of a beating from me the past few days. The stool was a cheap shot too, but the only way I could get Ruby away from them.
Roderick talks, facing them, holding up a hand to keep me behind him, “Calm down, Carvelli. Simon and I have some things to discuss.”
Carvelli growls, taking a step into the alleyway toward us.
“Restrain yourself,” utters Roderick struggling to keep himself from growling, rasp taking over his tone at the end of self, “Or I’ll have to restrain you.”
Carvelli closes his enraged mouth.
“Now wait in the loading zone, but stay near. I’ll call if I need you.”
Carvelli punches the bricks with a deep thud, brick dust floating to the ground. He turns and walks to the loading zone. Blood drips from his knuckles.
My eyes focus on the blood. Sight grows unfocused again.
When I look to Roderick, even through blurry eyes, I see he’s been watching me.
“So hungry that you focus on such unappealing blood as his? A bit dry, Simon?”
Shaking my head to balance my blurry sight, “No, I’m fine.”
“So, the suburban queen that you’ve found already has you starving yourself for her? We’re never anything but beasts to them once they get to know us—something to enslave and subordinate. Whipped in two nights? Must be a vamp record. Maybe even a human record too.”
I could punch his smug, laughing face until my knuckles become worn down to nothing, but Ruby’s more important. Besides, don’t know how many of my punches would connect in the condition I’m in.
“Last two times I saw Carvelli and Quint, they’ve been trying to kill me—why shouldn’t I keep an eye on them?” Lying, I continue, “I wasn’t watching his blood—just watching an enemy. But, I think you may be the one who’s a bit dry, Roderick—so obsessed with one little party girl.”
I become focused over Roderick’s shoulder at what looks to be a broken, female fingernail wedged in the gap between two bricks. Definitely an office he’s used before.
“Well, that’s really not important now, is it, Simon? You seem to be weak and fading, so we had better get to it, shall we?”
“The girl—leave her alone.”
“She has something I need. Besides—what do you care for the blue-haired harlot?”
“Not her. Her friend.”
“Doesn’t she have a name, Simon? Are you afraid to mention it in front of me?”
“I know you know her name—know you know where she lives—know you already know too much about her.”
“Well, then, what do you think we should do about it? What can you offer me to forget?”
“You can go after her friend for all I care—but just leave Ruby out of it.”
“There lies the problem, simple Simon. Ambrosia has disappeared. Last I saw her she slipped away with your dear Ruby. Was beginning to think she was dead—‘bout to have Carvelli and Quint check the morgues for her body, but not now that you’ve just assured me she’s still alive—waiting to be found.”
“Damn it,” I grumble, squinting my eyes again, trying to keep them from losing focus.
“Thank you for that, by the way. I’m sure Carvelli and Quint will appreciate it too.”
Shake my head roughly—trying to keep from blacking out. Ministry’s “Just One Fix” can be heard through the wall pumping from the speakers.
“You’re only proving my points, dear boy. You’re dry and weak and fading—can barely keep yourself from passing out. Getting weaker and weaker. Why don’t we strike a bargain before something…un—fortunate happens to you?”
“Why do I suddenly feel like Faust?”
“You praise me.”
“Wasn’t meant as a compliment. Just that a deal with you can’t end well.”
Vision’s not what it should be. Just one bite in the bar could’ve fixed all this. The red one would’ve worked fine—she wouldn’t even remember it tomorrow. Just felt wrong. Now feel gone. Slipping…slipping into black…
Roderick’s face grows angry.
“I need to know where Ambrosia’s hiding. Now.”
“Well, that’s w
hat you need, Roderick. What about what I need?”
“I could care less about that bit of fluff that you’re so smitten with. Although she should pay for the way she spoke to me at the sch—”
I shove him open-palmed into his chest, breaking his speech, “Don’t even think about it. Ever.”
Roderick’s fangs flash in the dim light that the alley affords, “You’re tipping your hand, Simon. I know what you’re waiting for, and I hold all the cards to give it to you.”
“If it’s that easy, then why haven’t you already found Ambrosia and ended this?”
“It’s not over. I’ll find her.”
“Then do it without Ruby—do it without me, and you won’t have me in your way anymore.”
“Asking me to find a treasure without the map—can’t do it.”
“Trying to tell me that you’re too powerless to find one girl who’s fled your city—trying to tell me you know no one who can find her? Certainly you’ve grown weak. With all your power, one blue-haired girl is out of your reach?”
“Carvelli and Quint,” he calls, and two shadows loom at the end of the alleyway.
Glance down at the door—no handle on this side. Wall behind me. Rooftop too high to leap to. Three angry vampires between me and the only way out. Great. Simply spectacular.
I fling my hands in front of me, fingernails sticking out, fangs showing.
Roderick holds up his hand at them, “Just wait there, boys. May not need you, but be ready.”
Speaking to me again, he continues, “I know you, Simon, and you can tell me where the blue-haired mystery is hiding.”
“I don’t know where she is, Roderick. I was still here waiting for you to come out the fire while they were running away. Remember?”
“Look me in the eyes,” he hisses.
I stare at him, trying to hold my vision steady. It bounces between focus and blur—God, I hope he doesn’t see it. His hand grabs my chin and holds my eyes aimed slightly down into his.