Vampire Miami

by Philip Tucker

  No. After a long search, she decided they weren’t. Just regular people, nervous and getting drunk fast. Occasionally, one of the women would laugh almost hysterically and then begin to dance, arms raised, the guys turning to watch. It never lasted more than fifteen seconds, though, and then the woman would bend over laughing, as if what she’d done had been incredibly brave and hilarious.

  Selah felt lonely. She missed her friends. She thought of Jairo, of Tomika, of Susan and Alessandra and her newest friend Natalie Ballard. She wished they were here, or better yet, that she were back with them. She dug out her Omni and checked the connection. Alpha. She blinked. No way! She grinned and wished she’d brought her Goggles and FingerTips, but what could you do? She dipped into her Garden, and was pleased to see dozens of her friends’ avatars standing there in states of suspended alarm. She idly circled the Fountain, and almost went up to Jairo where he stood in his Mecha avatar, his robotic face somehow still expressing concern. But it was too loud in the bar, and if she opened a connection, they wouldn’t be able to talk.

  Instead she quickly began to sort through her messages, reluctantly asking her Omni for subtitles, discarding and saving them as they came. A glance at Connection Wall showed literally hundreds of messages from acquaintances and people she didn’t know, but even here in her Garden were dozens of recordings from friends. It hurt so good to see their faces. Several messages were group recordings, people together peering into their own Omnis and sending her love, good wishes. Jairo’s latest poem that he’d posted in her Garden was awful, as she had known it would be, and she added commentary with a grin.

  From there she entered her private Shrine but suddenly impatient, she flew into Jairo’s Garden, and from there visited each of her friend’s Shrines in turn, catching up on their news, updates, what other friends had been telling them and more. It was all so familiar, so achingly normal. After awhile, she slowed down and stared at the screen. Alpha connection, but she didn’t want to read about how Natalie was upset with her boyfriend, or how Scott was thinking about saving up money for the latest Omni upgrade. She sighed and looked up at the crowd at the bar. It all seemed so unimportant.

  She lowered her Omni and frowned. She felt even more alone now, alone and bored at the prospect of sitting here for six hours watching people drink and make fools of themselves. Should she start asking around if people knew anything about Blood Dust? Mama B’s recriminations came flooding back, her scorn for her lack of a plan. She hadn’t thought past her arrival. Hadn’t been able to envision actually being in Miami, and had instead vaguely assumed that she’d figure things out once she arrived. What had seemed simple back in Brooklyn suddenly seemed impossible; exactly how did one go about learning where a drug came from?

  She kicked her heels for a minute, and then stood. Tucked her Omni away and wandered out of the room. Thought about hitting the door to check in with Maria Elena, and then disdainfully turned toward the dance floor. She hugged the wall as she walked down it, hand trailing along the smooth paint, and stopped at the room’s entrance. It was stunningly huge. Cavernous. Another bar to the left, smaller than the first, but then she saw a second bar set in an island on the dance floor, and a third against the far wall. A fashion catwalk ran up to the island bar, but nobody was on it.

  The lights flowed and flashed, and the music was good, the kind that got under her skin and into her bones. Not enough of a crowd to really begin dancing, though. Just more people at the bar.

  An hour passed during which Selah explored the green room, and found it to be an extended lounge where low and sensual music played, all shadows and recesses. She sat at a small table, and then panicked at the sight of white lines of powder arrayed across the glass top. She stood, looked around to see if anybody was watching, and then quickly left before she could get in trouble. Eventually, she decided she liked the loud music in the dance room and hung out there, watching the people as they slowly trickled in, began to fill out the space.

  “Hey, what’s up?” somebody yelled in her ear. She started and turned sharply to see a lean-looking Latino guy grinning at her. He was about her age, dressed in stylish black clothing, and he stepped back and put his hands up. “Hey, don’t hit me, I was just saying hi!”

  “What do you want?” asked Selah. Was he hitting on her? This guy couldn’t be a vampire.

  “Can I buy you a drink? I’ll cover the credit!” He tried his grin on her again. He smiled too much, she decided, looked too pleased with himself. Still. Selah eyed the bar. The glittering wall of bottles, the cornucopia of alcohol. She shouldn’t. But she was on edge, half terrified, and what harm could one drink do? Her rebellious edge arose and mixed with her fear and impulsiveness and she nodded.

  “Sure.”

  He nodded, pleased, and leaned in once more. “Awesome, what can I get you?”

  “Vodka cran,” she yelled. She didn’t really like drinking. Not most nights. But sometimes. Sometimes.

  He flashed her a thumbs up and headed back to the bar. Leaned in and waited to catch the bartender’s eye. Selah scrutinized him. Was this a bad idea? But the music really was good. And the drink might take the edge off. After the day she’d had, she deserved it. And what else did Maria Elena think she was going to do for six hours in club?

  Selah waited nervously. She was definitely not interested, she decided, but still wished she could’ve cleaned up a little better in the bathroom. He came back with two drinks in hand, his clear with ice, and handed her a glass.

  “To wife!” he yelled.

  “What?”

  He leaned in, “I said, to life!”

  “Yeah, life,” said Selah. She clinked glasses and took a sip. It was smooth and cold: perfect.

  “My name’s Michael!”

  “Selah.”

  “I haven’t seen you before. You new?”

  “Yeah. Just arrived.” Selah forced a smile. This was it. Her opportunity. “So, what do you do for fun?”

  “Fun? I love to dance!”

  “I bet. But I was talking a different kind of fun.”

  “Oh yeah?” His eyes took on a gleam, and she realized he had completely misunderstood her.

  “No, I mean, do you know where I can get some Blood Dust?”

  “What?” He jerked his head back. “No. Of course not.”

  “Oh.” He was staring at her now, brows lowered. She smiled again and took a sip of her drink, and gave him her best smile. You idiot. Do you know where I can get some Blood Dust? Now he thinks you’re a drug addict. “You said you like to dance?”

  He nodded, and she kept hitting him with her best smile until he nodded, raised his glass and finished his drink with an impressively long pull. Apparently he wasn’t too picky. “Come on! I’m an incredible dancer. Let me show you my moves!”

  Selah stared at him. Had he actually just said that? His grin was ridiculous, infectious, so she laughed instead and finished her drink too. Why the hell not? The music was getting better and better, and she absolutely loved to dance. Why the hell not indeed.

  “All right!” Selah laughed and pushed him toward the floor. “Show me your damn moves!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him. They threaded their way into the crowd, into the center, and there he let go and turned to face her. She began to sway, letting the groove sink into her, into her soul, not yet letting loose, and watched. He began to move his shoulders from side to side, arms up like he was jogging, face serious, bopping his head.

  “Let’s see those moves!”

  He nodded, expression serious, and did a quick scan to make sure nobody was too close. As if he was going to do something truly wild and might kick somebody in the face. Selah laughed, amused again, and then stopped as he crouched down and threw himself into a backflip. For a moment he was all knees and spinning elbows, and then he was straightening up. “There!”

  “That’s not a dance move!” Selah shook her head, grinning. She leaned in, cupping her hand. “That’s what you do into a swimming po
ol! You almost kicked me in the face!”

  Michael frowned and shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. That’s a killer move!”

  Selah didn’t care to argue. This was perfect. The drink was warming her up now. She was feeling good, feeling loose. The music was delicious, pouring into her like a river of electric chocolate, making her feel alight, feel alive. She took a step away from Michael and began to dance. To let go. Started slow, but everybody around her was moving, and she stopped thinking, stopped trying to figure out the world, and just danced.

  Michael did his best to keep up. The music was so loud it erased thought. The great room was the perfect combination of darkness cut through with sizzling arcs of neon light. Enough to give a sense of the scope of the joint, but made most of the people around her but shadowed forms, a tapestry of movement and dance against which she could lose herself.

  Michael came back with more drinks. She tossed hers back and got rid of it. The music began to sound more tribal, more drums, the pounding rhythm changing the way she moved. She danced to let go. Let go of Mama B, of her life in New York, of the pain and insecurity, of the terrible fear and loss she felt whenever she thought of her missing father, over the terror of being in Miami. She danced to burn out those memories, those emotions. To release, to rise above them, to fly. Nothing was as good. When you hit the right moment, when nerves and energy and emotion all combined into a pulsing, thriving, liberating mix, nothing seemed insurmountable.

  Selah danced. Another drink. Michael was joined by friends, and they paired off, switched partners, danced as a group, danced alone. Moved to the bar and did shots, came back, diving through the crowd like dolphins, laughing and plunging through the bodies until they regained their spot and fell ever deeper into the delirium of physical release.

  Hands on her hips, sure and strong. She didn’t care. Eyes closed she ground back into the guy, moving like an eel, arms raised. He moved in perfect synchronicity, matching her turns. She threw her head back, face to the ceiling, to the lights, and laughed. Finally, somebody who could dance. She began to test him, moving more daringly, picking up the pace, and he was there, matching each step, anticipating her, never tiring or stumbling. Perfect, perfect, absolute perfection. The song began to rise toward a crescendo, massive as a cresting tidal wave that rose into the very heavens before it broke upon them and swept them away.

  Selah opened her eyes, and saw that a space had opened about them. Grinned, loving the attention. Saw their faces. Did not see enjoyment or admiration. Saw guarded expressions, somber faces, maybe even fear. Michael wasn’t even dancing, was just staring. A stab of fear in her gut. That hand on her hip, the other cool on the nape of her neck. She turned, nearly stumbling, and stared at the man. He was dressed all in black, but unlike Michael, his clothes seemed to be woven from the strands of night. He was older, tall, head shaven and skin so dark it seemed edged in blue. Strong features, striking features, twin scars along both cheekbones. He slowed, met her gaze. His eyes were black, utterly dark. The music pounded on, nightmarish now, and he wasn’t smiling, wasn’t dancing, just standing there, watching her.

  His soulless eyes burned into her own, seared through her, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t act. She wanted to run, but instead he held out his hand, the gesture strangely plaintive, his face taking on a vulnerable cast that shocked her even more than his eyes. It was as if he were as shocked to see her as she was to see him. His fingers were long, his hand steady, and not knowing what else to do, she reached and took his hand with her own.

  Chapter Five

  He pulled her toward him and began to sway, his movement minimalistic in contrast to the heady cacophony of the music, and she fell easily in step. Couldn’t look away from those jet black eyes. No iris. No whites. Just smooth and liquid and utterly inhuman. But his face, his expression. It was still mesmerized, fascinated, as if he had never seen the likes of her before. No mockery, no hunger, nothing. Just that annihilating intensity. A thought came to her through the fog of blank paralysis, urgent and desperate: run.

  Selah pulled her hand from his and stepped back. He stopped. She shook her head, unable to formulate a word, and then turned and dove into the crowd. No dolphin now, no delirious streak of light plunging and weaving its way through a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors. Now she was a panicked deer tearing through the woods, forcing her way out, away from the wolves.

  She was drenched with sweat when she burst out into the nexus, adrenaline fighting the still pervasive influence of her buzz. She fought for calm, for control, clenching and unclenching her fists as she looked around. She did not look back over her shoulder. Instead, she slid through the crowd and returned to the club entrance, determined to find Maria Elena. Except her friend wasn’t there. The bouncer stood with his impossibly huge back to her, glowering at the crowd outside that was straining and yearning to get in. Selah thought of asking him where Maria Elena was, but thought better of it and instead faded back into the club.

  Not knowing where to go, what else to do, she fled into the only place that felt remotely safe: the women’s restroom. It was crowded, and she walked quickly down along the line of women waiting impatiently for a stall, and slipped into one just as its occupant stepped out. She closed the door and locked it, ignoring the angry cry and curses from the woman who’d been next in line.

  Selah sat and pressed the base of her palms against her temples as she fought for breath. Squeezed her eyes shut and saw him again, those strange wide scars smeared across both cheeks, his skin smooth and dry and a lustrous ebon. Those wide lips. Those eyes, devouring her. She shivered, and her eyes snapped open as she tried to dispel the image. She fought to not think of how his hands had felt on her hips, how they’d moved together. God.

  She tried not think of Mama B, what she would say if she could see her now, hiding in a toilet stall in a club on South Beach. Instead she thought of her father. His pale, lean, worried face. The kind smile, the exasperated manner with which he always greeted her latest mistakes and adventures. She thought of how he smelled when she hugged him, how he would lean back and listen to jazz each night as he wrote his articles, sometimes simply staring off and tapping his finger on his upper lip. How his hand felt on her shoulder when they walked to their favorite diner each Sunday morning. How hard he worked, or how he insisted on visiting her mother’s grave once a month like clockwork, though it had been five years since she’d died.

  Selah felt her eyes tear up. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t tough. She wasn’t this hard girl from the Brooklyn streets. She suddenly missed him terribly. His common sense, his quiet voice. He never yelled, no matter how far she pushed him. Missed how he would think things over before answering a question, how sometimes he would just watch her when she said something ridiculous to get a rise out of him. How tired he always seemed, worn out. By work, by her, by life. Where was he? Was he hurt? Was he even alive?

  Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and she wished she hadn’t accepted Michael’s drinks. It was cold in the bathroom, and her clothes were sticking to her, sweaty and heavy. She wanted to be in her room back home. On her bed, in her pajamas, surrounded by her things, warm and safe and away from all this.

  Somebody banged on the door. It rattled in its frame. “Come on already! I’m dying out here!”

  Selah wiped her face with the back of her hand, and then grabbed a wad of toilet paper and blotted her eyes. Stood, smoothed down her shirt, ran her hands over her hair. Pictured his eyes. Like pools of oil, reflecting the lights of the club but revealing nothing. She shivered, opened the door, and marched out, ignoring everybody.

  She paused at a sink. Washed her hands, washed her face. Thank god she wasn’t wearing makeup. Did her best to tackle her hair. Took a deep breath. All right. Maria Elena would be back soon. She just had to wait for her. Keep low, stay quiet. She turned to the door and hesitated. He was out there. Like a shark swimming through ocean waters. Walking out would be akin to diving right back into that ocean at nig
ht. Her stomach cramped, but she forced a deep breath down. This is what she’d asked for. This is what she’d dared when she told Maria Elena to bring her. No backing out now. She couldn’t hide in the bathroom all night.

  Selah stepped back outside into the nexus. Blue hues painted everything in surreal tones. She scanned the faces around her. Nobody was searching for her; nobody had scarred cheeks. Moved to the right. She would find a corner in the lounge to hide in. One of the recessed seats. She hurried into the green-tinted space, and immediately slowed down. The vibe had changed since she’d last visited, grown more sensual and primal. The music wasn’t for dancing. Couples and groups were lounging on wide sofas, talking in each other’s ears over tiny low tables on which their drinks and fake candles stood. A DJ was visible in the back, nodding his head in time with the beat. Selah wandered in, navigating around the seats, trying not to trip on any legs, and found a huge armchair in the back. It was large enough for a giant, almost a chaise longue, so she scooted right into the back, pulled her knees in under her chin, and stared out at a vision of decadence.