by S. L. Eaves
“The others at the clinic would whisper about vampires, some patients were really into the idea of gaining these supernatural powers to face your kind. Many wanted to see a vampire in person. Your kind was a frequent topic.”
She pauses and takes a sip of vodka from the untouched glass.
“But you knew they were experimenting on wolves. How’d you know about that? You clearly know more about their operations than you’re letting on.”
“I don’t have much to disclose,” I lie. “A few werewolves came after my clan – when I was with a clan – and we linked them back to experiments at that pharma company.”
“Oh wow, that makes sense though. They really don’t seem to care for vampires much,” she sets the glass down. “For a minute there I thought you might tell me you were a product of their experiments, too.”
May as well have been.
“No, no medical procedures did this to me.” I shake my head, the werewolf thing is bothering me though. “Do you know if any of the wolves survived?”
She nods casually, pours more vodka into her glass, swirls it around before leaving it on the table and raising her eyes to mine.
“I know of one. We're friendly. We were in college together before either of us became lab rats. Nice guy, just wants to live a normal life. He can't transform completely anyways. He was one of their failed subjects. He suspects they were planning to kill him if they couldn't complete the transformation. But then things went bust.”
I stare at her unblinking. While everything about him being victimized by S&D and wanting to live a normal life registers, the fact remains: this vigilante vampire hunter has a werewolf friend.
Of course she does. I try to do something noble by saving her life and this is how the universe thanks me.
Werewolves are excellent trackers. If he wants to find her right now he can. He’s the only one who could. Son of a bitch.
“Your wolf friend – he lives in town?” I stiffen as I think about checking my security system.
“Why?” she asks nervously as she picks up her drink.
“Because wolves are great at tracking people down. And I don’t want one huffing and puffing on my doorstep.”
I’m trying to remain calm while running different scenarios in my mind. It’s a big apartment building and we took the elevator. There is no way he’d be able to identify which apartment she’s in, right? If he does, I’m going to have to kill him. I can’t have a werewolf knowing how to find me. And that’s not going to go over well with the vampire hunter I’m trying to strike a truce with… our relationship is teetering on the edge of a knife blade as it is. If he shows up, literally the best case scenario involves two dead bodies and me finding a way to dispose of them that won’t alert the rest of the building's tenants.
“He’s not going to come looking for me,” she assures me.
I stand and pace. “Are you sure? Cause I don’t want things to turn sour, but vampires aren’t exactly friendly with werewolves.”
“I've heard. But I don't understand why. If anything I'd think you'd have empathy for each other's situations. “
“Let’s just say there’s a long tumultuous history of each species trying to drive the other to extinction.”
“Oh. Well this wolf is integrated in society, doesn’t turn, doesn’t maim and kill – humans or vampires – to my knowledge.”
“But he’s helped you hunt,” I’m not asking. I can tell by the way she’s started fidgeting with her hair that something’s not right.
She shrugs, “On occasion, yes. He says he can sense their presence, that they smell different than humans. He helped me avenge Eric’s death. After that he wouldn’t come out with us anymore. Said he was worried he couldn’t control himself. Adrenaline triggers the change.”
“Yes, it tends to have that effect.”
“Now seeing how concerned you are I suspect it may have had something to do with him not wanting vampires showing up at his doorstep any more than you want him at yours.”
Well sure. I find a pack of cigarettes resting on the table in the hallway and light one. I don't like smoking in my place, it makes my furniture stink, but I need one right now something fierce. After a moment I stop pacing and sit on the back of the couch, my feet kick at the cushions. Despite her explanation, I can’t bring myself to lower my guard.
“Look, I don’t want you to regret saving me tonight. I see no reason why my being friends with a wolf should jeopardize things. He doesn't view vampires as adversaries. He just helped me because I asked. That was it.”
“I can think of a million reasons. I just hope what you’re saying is true.” I shoot her a menacing glare. “For both out sakes.”
Now all I want to do after sundown is make her take me to the wolf. I want to kill him. The thought of a werewolf living nearby churns my stomach.
Killing him just for being a wolf is so wrong on so many levels. It's also exactly what I'm trying to convince this meta not to do to vampires. Sadly, it's how I was trained to react. I’ve never met a wolf that didn’t want to rip my head off. The day I come across one that doesn’t want to tear me apart maybe I’ll be able to open my mind to the idea of them being more than a fury target.
I swing my legs over the couch and cross to the kitchen. If a wolf shows up I better be at full strength.
“So you like don’t drink human blood?” Hailey points at the fridge quizzically.
“I do,” I say, looking into the fridge. “This stash is from a blood bank.”
“Oh.” She seems disappointed and her tone grows increasingly concerned. “The way you act, I thought maybe you were on a bovine diet or something.”
“Nope. I would be if I could tolerate it. But I’m not talking difference between good beer and cheap beer. I’m talking cream and rotten milk.”
She makes a disgusted face.
“You rob blood banks? Do you pay off doctors?”
“I own a blood bank and it contributes generously to local medical facilities.” I prop my elbows on the counter; a cigarette in one hand, mug of blood in the other.
“Would you rather me be taking it from other sources?” A smile creeps across my face.
“Point made.” She shifts uncomfortably at the topic.
I’m still trying to figure out whether I need to get to this werewolf or not.
“Nice job changing the subject though. I just need time to process this information. It's a curveball I wasn't expecting. There's been a few of them today.”
“He's not your problem. He's not a threat to you or your kind. Plus, after I tell him you saved me that's the last thing he'll want.”
My eyes narrow.
“Or I could not tell him about you.”
At that I nod and stamp the cigarette out in my sink. I'm not convinced, but I'm trying hard to trust my gut on this one and it's telling me that they aren't the enemy. The vision that brought her into my world wasn't a warning, it was for another purpose. One I'm not clear on yet, but killing either of them at this point would be an overreaction.
“After sundown I'll drop you wherever you want. I'll stick to our deal, assuming your fury friend doesn't show up. In the meantime I'd like to hear more of what you know about my kind. How you hunt. Where you hunt. What you've discovered.”
Chapter 6
“It’s me,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Well it’s about time. Are you in L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me at 4400 Pacific Blvd just after midnight.”
And with that the line goes dead. Guess it's safe to assume he's in town.
The warm late summer night is just getting started. When I returned from dropping Hailey at her house the first thing I did was pick up the phone. Now it occurs to me I have several hours to kill before we meet and the revelations from the past twenty-four hours will plague me till then. I decide to head over to the bar for a distraction. Time goes faster there which is quite possibly my favorite thing about the
place.
***
“Hey, Lori, I didn’t know you were on the clock tonight.”
“I’m not, I just had a rough day and didn’t want to go home to wallow.”
They think I work as a customer service rep for a mobile phone provider during the day. I had to pick something boring so no one would ask too many questions. Something with presumably low pay that justifies the need for a second job. It helps that it is also considered painful enough that no one has ever asked me to hook them up with a referral. Not once in the five or so years I've been working here has anyone asked me: “Hey any openings at the call center?”
The most common response when my day job comes up is “I thought they outsourced that” and “Can you look at my phone?” to which I remind them that I can pour them a drink and they can call me during the day if they really want to discuss phone issues.
They always take me up on the drink.
The best part about my fake job is that it’s widely understood as a twenty-four seven type of gig, so when summer kicks in and sunset is later or when I need a night off, I just blame the shitty hours: “Not enough people to answer the phones tonight. Place is a revolving door. You know how it is.”
Besides, the bar opens at four o’clock and the other three bartenders often vie for the happy hour shift. The working class stiffs are more generous tippers than the late night drinkers who often ask to run a tab indefinitely then argue about how much they consumed. Most of them are regulars, but they are also drunks who routinely need us to call them a cab. We do not get rewarded for the effort.
So I’ve inherited the “closer” role and it has worked out just fine for me. I usually come in around eight, sometimes earlier if there’s a big dinner crowd and dusk permits. I work with some of the coolest humans I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. They are very entertaining and always have interesting stories about their friends, roommates, and significant others. If they are low on drama, the patrons always fill in the gaps.
I forget what I am when I’m with them. I don’t have to deal with the stench of an eviscerated werewolf, the sound of a human’s neck snapping, the pain of being shot in the chest, the sight of a friend’s face being blown off… It’s glorious.
“Good call,” Calvin pours me a vodka rocks and sets it in front of my usual off-the-clock bar stool as I come around to claim my perch.
“Work drama?” he asks.
“Nothing a drink can't erase. Did the whiskey shipment arrive?” I ask, well versed in the art of deflecting any talk about my job and personal life.
Calvin also moonlights as the assistant manager. He’s got seniority over the rest of us, but it doesn’t really mean much. We all respect the guy, but we love to bust his balls. He’s obsessive about his appearance. Always up on the latest trends, Calvin is the ultimate metrosexual; a staple of Los Angeles culture, he takes pride in his superficial ways. I don’t mind it at all. He’s always got stories about going to the latest movie premiere, restaurant opening, and art exhibit. He keeps me current.
“Yep, it was here when I arrived. It’ll be nice not having to constantly apologize for being out of Jack.” He smiles. “Of course no one has ordered it yet.”
“Ain’t that always how it is?” I look around, it’s dead. Tuesday night’s usually are.
“Hey, your friend runs a night club around here, right?”
Calvin turns from stacking glasses. “I'm friends with a few club owners, you'll have to narrow it down.”
“Any of them mention incidents at their places lately? I mean more than the average bar brawl.”
He thinks for a moment, “Come to think about it – you remember that girl Becky that used to work here?”
“Of course.”
“She bought TJ’s old club last year. I help out behind the bar sometimes. Anyways, she had a rough go of things the other night. A girl OD'd in the bathroom. She was discovered in a stall after closing. Track marks on her arms.” He shakes his head. “Becky's worked hard to turn that place around and attract more upscale clientele. It's a shame.”
Track marks or bite marks? I stare into my drink.
“Yeah...that's sad. So cops just wrote it off as an accidental overdose?”
He nods, “I think. Why do you ask?”
“Just heard some people talking at lunch about a guy being jumped in an alley outside a bar the other night, they were under the impression muggers have been targeting night clubs and such, taking advantage of drunks. Wondering if we need to step up security around here.”
Calvin laughs. “This dive? The locals leave here with one dollar in their wallet, about the same they walked in with.”
“Where's Becky’s club?”
“Hill Street. By The Orpheum. Why?”
Gwen bursts through the door, looking frazzled.
“Way to be on time,” Calvin scolds.
She starts to say something snide, catches herself. “Sorry, rough night. My ex decided to pick a fight when he came to pick up Joey.”
I swear they fight more now than they did when they were together. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
“Hey, Lori.” She smiles when she spots me at the end of the bar. It’s forced because she’s wondering if I’m here to take her shift since she’s two hours late.
“Hey.” I raise my glass as if to say I’m not on the clock. “Sorry about your ex. What a nightmare.”
“You have no idea,” she exclaims with an exasperated tone that lets me know she’s about to give me an idea. By the time she’s done ranting, I’ve got an address to find.
“I have an early morning tomorrow,” I announce, calling it a night. “Hang in there. Pretty dead tonight, you can probably close up at one.”
She nods. “Thanks for listening to me bitch.”
“Night, Lor,” I hear Calvin shout from the back room as I head out the front door.
O’Maleys is an Irish pub located on a prominent corner of downtown. There is nothing Irish about it except the name and a few of the drink specials. I’ve heard claims that we serve the best Irish coffee in town, but I wouldn’t know from experience. The owner is a German guy who also owns several German-themed beer gardens throughout Greater Los Angeles, but for some reason when he bought this prime corner of downtown, he opted to go Irish with it. I’m still not quite clear on what motivated the theme.
During the week it’s a sports bar with quizzo, darts, and the usual staples. We had to stop karaoke night though. This was bitter-sweet for me as I like to sing, unfortunately so does every drunk wannabe pop star in this town. A DJ takes over on Saturday nights and the pub tables are replaced with a dance floor.
We’re far enough from any major university to avoid being a college bar and not along any of the Hollywood tour routes, so we avoid the tourist crowd, too. I’d say our clientele is mostly the unglamorous side of Los Angeles. The assistants, the crew members, drivers, stylists…with the occasional studio exec or agent wandering in for an off-the-books meeting. If you need to meet your mistress someplace dark and discreet, we can accommodate.
I look at the sign as I zip up my light jacket. It’s a mild September night and I don’t really need the extra layer, but I don’t want anyone to see the gun tucked into the small of my back.
***
My bike eases to a crawl as I pull up to the warehouse. The address Vega selected is a familiar one. It's a spot I've been to hundreds of times over the years, but for the first time I feel uneasy parking my bike by the entrance. I'm not used to feeling exposed and Vega has made it clear he's turned over some stones in seeking me out. He's making a point to show me he knows what's under them.
The keypad beeps when it recognizes my thumbprint and the latch releases. Stepping inside, I flick on a couple of the overhead lights before sliding the door closed behind me. I set my helmet down on the equipment shelf. A helmet might seem unnecessary for someone such as myself, but it keeps my face bug free.
“You’re early.�
� Vega emerges from the shadows.
“Well it was easy to find.” I offer a knowing grin, “This is it isn't it? This is how you found me? Not the apartment, not the blood bank...it was the damn warehouse I bought at auction. I paid cash but the city has a record of the exchange.”
“I'm not sure, I'll have to ask Malik. It took us awhile to find you, if that makes you feel better about your efforts to go off the grid.”
He continues, running his hand over the canvas surface of a heavy-bag as he passes it, “You can't live in today's society without leaving a footprint, but you knew that was a risk. Otherwise you wouldn't have rigged your apartment like Fort Knox.”
“Fair enough.”
“I'm pleased to see you never stopped fighting.” Vega gestures around the warehouse-turned-gymnasium. I'd modeled it after the one in the mansion, the one I'd spent hours in with Catch learning how to survive in my new world. He was never more alive than when he was fighting. It was his undoing as much as I was. That fire, that passion, he claimed to see it in me. Maybe that's why I built this cross-fitters dream of a training facility. To honor his legacy. Or maybe it was more selfish than that, maybe I wanted to recapture that passion.
“It keeps me out of trouble.” The grin is less forced this time.
He points at a table along the wall topped with boxes.
“May I?'“
I nod. With one swift move he brings the table between us, onto the center of the mat. He frowns disapprovingly at its dusty surface.
“What can I say, no housekeeper.” I pick up a towel from a pile in the corner and push the dirt around. Vega sighs and slides a paper thin device the size of an envelope out of his robe.
Vega’s alabaster skin shines even in this dimly lit environment, almost as if he can glow in the dark. Most of his skin is concealed beneath a dark maroon robe. Its hood is draped loosely around his face, eyes lost in its shadows.
“Before we start, can I ask what’s with the get up?” My tone is not meant to be disrespectful. He reminds me of Adrian, a departed Pureblood who dressed like a monk, and I’m genuinely curious why he’s borrowing a garment from Adrian’s wardrobe.