Hell's Belle

by Karen Greco

  Babe, who was sitting at the other end of the bar with a pile of bills, collapsed in a fit of laughter.

  She looked at Max over the rim of her glasses that were propped at the end of her nose. "He's a looker!"

  Glaring, I shushed Babe, hoping Max didn’t overhear, and pulled on the draught again, this time with a pitcher underneath. I placed the pitcher next to her and lifted the doorway to the bar. I took the pitcher to the small area of tables to the right of the door.

  Two women, their heads close together and arms intertwined, sat at a far corner table. Every now and then, they would stop whispering and the blonde one would trace the brunette's lips with her tongue. I saw the brunette slide her hand up the blonde's skirt. I felt like an intruder as I placed the pitcher on the table and waited to collect the five dollars.

  I peeked at Max while I waited for the cash. His slightly overgrown golden curls flopped a bit in his face. He reminded me of an aging surfer -- athletic body, skin tinged gold by the sun. Eyes as blue as the ocean, with slight good-natured crinkles around the edges. He must laugh a lot. What would bring Surfer Boy to frigid New England? He wasn't a student; that was certain.

  With the fiver in hand, I moved back to the bar and plopped down beside Babe.

  Short, feisty and well into middle age, Babe had long black hair streaked through with gray. With her t-shirt, jeans and an overload of Mexican jewelry, Babe looked strikingly out of place in a small New England city. She was a throw back from Haight-Ashbury.

  The front door opened with such force that it slammed into the wall. Frigid December wind burst into the room. Babe's paperwork went flying. I scrambled after the papers, shivering.

  A skinny guy with long black hair, pale translucent skin and a black overcoat stumbled in behind the bitter night air. He looked around the tiny bar, catching my eyes for a split second. I gave him a slight sneer. I didn't like the looks of him. He gave his hair a toss and joined the two women at the table.

  The voices on the television began to cut through the din of people talking in the bar. I looked up at the flat screen. Ami Bertrand, a wealthy philanthropist, was giving an interview. He was angling to be Mayor of Providence, running in a special election to be held next week.

  There was something familiar about Bertrand, and not in a good way. He had moved to Providence a few years ago, and his background was shrouded in mystery. But he said the right things publicly, and poured money into various social service and arts charities. He was hugely popular.

  Bertrand was a handsome, charismatic guy, in his early 50s, with short-cropped dark hair, graying in the right places, high cheekbones and an athletic physique. He could charm the habit off a nun. And he creeped me out.

  Babe was muttering something in Spanish as she rearranged her messed-up paperwork.

  Alfonso, our neighborhood drunk, had Max captivated with talk of Providence politics, probably inspired by Bertrand's television appearance. Three college students played a game of dirty word Scrabble.

  A commercial for Cirque du Soleil came on the television, reminding me of Frankie, one of my best friends. It had been a few months since I left my home in Nevada to make a new one with my Aunt Babe in Providence. I missed the dry heat of the desert, the Vegas strip, and my friends. Frankie was a huge Cirque du Soleil fan, and they had a new show opening on the Strip on Christmas day. I was sure Frankie would be there. I would have gone with him.

  But the rich history of New England was a draw. I was definitely enjoying the seasons, and living so close to the ocean was amazing. I always felt like a visitor in Nevada. Maybe it’s just the transient nature of the place. Rhode Island felt like home.

  I grabbed a clean glass from behind the bar, and headed over to the two women, and the skinny guy who had seated himself at their table. Two beers had been poured but the booze remained untouched.

  "You want an extra glass for the beer, or did you want to order something else?" I asked. I hoped that my question didn't come off as threatening, but they were throwing off a strange vibe that had me on alert.

  The skinny man gestured to the glass. As I placed it on the table, he grabbed my wrist and held onto me, his hand burning into my flesh.

  I tried to yank my arm away, but he held fast. I'm strong; very strong, in fact. But his grip was ironclad.

  "Let go," I said low and hard.

  He snarled back, showing me fangs. "I know what you are, Nina Martinez."

  Oh shit.

  My heart pounded. My canine teeth shifted and elongated, the adrenaline masking the pain as they tore through my gums. I flashed my fangs.

  "Who sent you?" I hissed looking straight into his black eyes, daring him.

  He simply grinned.

  I kicked at the table. The table, the pitcher, the pub glasses, even the two women went airborne. The man held tightly to my wrist. He pulled an old, rusted dagger out from under his coat with his other hand.

  I twisted my body and threw him over my back. He was still hanging on. We both sailed several feet in the air together. I landed hard in a puddle of booze, my assailant beside me, still with the death grip. But he had lost hold of the dagger in the struggle. I could see it just a few feet away from him on the floor. Cold beer seeped through my jeans as I scooted towards it.

  "Don't FUCKING MOVE," a deep voice bellowed.

  Max moved from the end of the bar, a gun in one hand and a badge in the other.

  Dropping my wrist, the stranger, with a sadistic smile on his lips, moved towards Max.

  With his attention on Max, I pounced. In one swift move, I dove at his knees and sent him tumbling to the ground. Before I could scramble to my feet, he snatched the dagger. He grabbed a fist full of my hair and pulled my head back, exposing my neck.

  The gun cocked and Max growled, "Let her go."

  The dark-haired man flashed a grin. He whispered into my ear, "Ego tineo tu specialis."

  I recoiled. "Who are you?"

  "Marcello." And with that, he drew the blade across my neck before rolling away. My hands flew to the gushing wound, blood hitting the worn wooden floor in spurts.

  Max dropped to the floor beside me, and I cowered with my back to him, trying to hide the wound that was already starting to heal.

  Marcello leapt through the front window, glass shattering, his companions following behind. The burst of frigid air sobered everyone left in the bar.

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time the cops showed up, my hair was crunchy and had that yeasty, dry beer smell. I sat at the far end of the bar, far away from the huge hole in the wall that used to be a window. I rubbed at my head trying to get the crunch out, while applying pressure to the gash on my neck.

  My heart was still racing, even an hour after the attack. The adrenaline surging through my system was giving me the shakes.

  The police milled around taking statements. Max raised his eyebrows at me when I gave my recollection of events. Just a neighborhood junkie trying to rob the place. It wasn't inconceivable.

  Babe's on the Sunnyside sits on the cusp of gentrification on Providence's east side. Brown University was buying up property to the south, but Babe's was just north of that line. It was an interesting mix of college students living in slumlord apartments along with Portuguese and Spanish old-timers. While the neighborhood was certainly rough around the edges, it wasn't gang-banger territory. But there was still crime, and a robbery at gunpoint was not out of the norm.

  Babe was furious. Her place may be a dive bar, but crime simply didn't happen here. Babe's was an oasis. Lulls in conversation with the cops were punctuated by her colorful curses in Spanish.

  Babe broke away from the police and stalked over, rolling her eyes. "Estupido." Then she sighed and looked me over. "Are you okay, Nina?"

  I nodded. An EMT pushed his way through the crowd of cops, zeroing in on me. I slid off the bar stool and used my short stature to my advantage. I didn't need an EMT probing me right then.

  "This was not random," I whispere
d into Babe's ear as I skulked behind her. I kept my voice low. "He knows what I am."

  Babe turned to face me with a look of fear that betrayed her calmness. "Does he know WHO you are?" Handing me a clean bar rag, Babe tried to shelter me from the incoming paramedic.

  I nodded and peeked past Babe's head to see Max at the other end of the room, giving his statement to the cops. I would totally take another gash on the neck to hear what he was saying. How obvious was it that whatever happened in here wasn't exactly normal?

  "I'll call Lochlan," Babe said as she moved toward the phone.

  I grabbed her arm to keep her in place, but it was too late. The paramedic was right beside her.

  "I need to take a look at your wound, ma'am," he said politely.

  "This little scratch?" I held my breath as I pulled the rag off. I didn't dare exhale until I saw that the gash had healed enough to indeed qualify as just a little more than a scratch.

  The poor EMT stared at the blood-soaked rag on the bar and then his eyes moved back to my neck, then back to the rag. His mouth gaped open in shock.

  "I'm a bleeder." I shrugged, doing my best to look embarrassed.

  "You need to go to the ER, get a tetanus shot and get checked for a concussion," he said, not sounding completely convinced of his own words.

  "Oh, I am perfectly fine, thank you," I said. The pent-up adrenaline was making me punchy. My fangs still hadn’t retracted all the way. I really didn’t want a close examination.

  "Ma'am, please." This paramedic was relentless.

  I turned my back on him and pretended to watch the television that was still humming above the bar. I took steady deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.

  My dad was a vampire. He was a very old and powerful vampire. Rumor was, he was one of the first in the line of vampires. My mom was human. And while I am very much alive, I have vampire traits -- traits that can be quite useful. I heal quickly, I’m crazy strong, really fast, and, my personal favorite, I look younger than my age. So even though I am in my early 30s, I still get carded at bars.

  But there are drawbacks, too. I am sensitive to sunlight. I have a temper and fangs that require a lot of restraint to keep in my gums. And I know it's gross, but sometimes I crave human blood. If I drink it, though, Lochlan O'Malley and the members of my team will stake me.

  Someone lightly touched my back. I whipped around, with one finger pointing outward, ready to tell Mr. EMT to piss off. But it was Max. He definitely saved my ass. Marcello was ready to pull me out of the bar to who knows where. I really needed to calm down.

  Max looked curiously at the dramatically healed knife wound on my neck, dipping his head close to my face. "So I guess that looked worse than it was."

  I inhaled. He even smelled like the ocean. Slightly salty. Definitely sexy. This was absolutely helping my disposition.

  "Yeah." I smiled. "I'm okay, thanks."

  "I can see that," Max drawled. "But how about you listen to the paramedic and go to the ER?"

  "Thank you, Agent Deveroux!" the EMT called out over my head.

  "No, thanks," I said, digging in my heels and gripping the bar. Now I felt bamboozled.

  "Should I make this an order?" Max sounded firm.

  Alfonso whooped, "Oh no he didn't!" and pushed Mr. EMT out of his line of site so that he could better see what would happen next. Babe, who was pouring Alfonso a shot of tequila, looked at Max with a mix of shock and curiosity.

  My blood boiled and I could feel my teeth shifting again. I took a breath to calm down. A roomful of cops and first responders wasn't the place to vamp out.

  "How about this? I'll take you myself." Max snatched me around the waist and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  "Put me down!" I shouted, while the entire bar turned to watch the show.

  First I heard snickering. Then Mr. EMT howled with laughter. His howl was so guttural, for a second, I considered the possibility that he was a werewolf.

  "Are you kidding me?" I pushed on his shoulders, trying to get down. It was an awkward position. I kicked my legs like mad, not caring that it looked ridiculous.

  "Nope, I am not kidding," Max said stubbornly. "We can either walk out of here like normal people and I will drive you to the ER. Or I'll carry you out of here just like this. How do you want to play it?"

  After one last kick, I stopped struggling. "Fine, I'll go."

  "You will?" He didn't trust me.

  "Yes. And I’ll walk."

  He placed me gently back down.

  "Thank you."

  His first instinct was right. I turned away and hauled a brutal right hook at him that connected with his jaw. He staggered back and then fell to the floor.

  "I could have knocked your ass out if I wanted to," I sassed, reaching behind the bar to grab my leather jacket. The room erupted into whoops of laughter.

  "But you didn't," he pointed out. "It must be love."

  The hint of sarcasm made the squirm. The cops really busted a gut over that one.

  "Just take me to the damn hospital," I grumbled. I bet I could lose him before we got to his car.

  Max rubbed his jaw and grinned. I held out my hand and helped pull him to his feet. Then he turned me around, put his hand on my back, and edged me towards the door. My body temperature rose at his touch. The entire bar stared as we walked out together.

  I was too hot to notice the blast of cold December air as we stepped out.

  CHAPTER 3

  "So do you always require police protection, or was tonight just for my benefit?" Max teased me as we stepped into the frigid night.

  I inhaled the cold air, taking it deep into my lungs. "It's never that exciting at Babe's. Tonight was definitely weird."

  "Well you proved you can hold your own in a bar fight," Max said, rubbing at his jaw.

  "Yeah, but drunks and junkies are easy to bounce." I tried to sound casual but I was sure he could hear my racing heart.

  "What did he say to you back there? It didn't sound English." Max looked at me, curiosity mixed with uncertainty, like he wasn't sure I was telling the truth. Which, you know, I wasn't.

  I shrugged. "Pig Latin?" God, I was not up for this conversation.

  I stopped short and stared into the shadows across the street. Marcello was there. I could sense him, even though I couldn't see him.

  "You see something?" Max gripped my arm and followed my gaze.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a little spooked," I said giving Max my best brilliant smile.

  I made my way down the hill that Babe's was perched on, with Max close behind me. The sound of loud music came from a bar that was tucked down a side street.

  "Funny, of all the bars for a junkie to hit..." Max stared at the other bar, clearly a better mark for a robbery, with its location off the main drag.

  "Drugs make 'em stupid," I said with a shrug. "So what's an FBI guy doing at a dive bar anyway?" I hoped to divert the conversation.

  "Trying to take a break from crime scenes," he quipped.

  "Clearly you weren't very successful at that," I retorted.

  "Very observant," he countered.

  I knew Marcello was lurking behind us. We had to get out of there, and my ride was right in front of us.

  I laid a smile on him and unstrapped the helmet from the bike. "Put this on." I shoved it into his hands.

  Max's jaw dropped at my custom Triumph. It took my best friend and partner Frankie months of intricate fabrication to get this bike into fighting shape. The 2007 Bonneville base was stripped bare of non-essential hardware, keeping it light. With its low-to-ground profile and black-on-black paint job, it was stealth. Now it was one sick ride.

  "I bet I can beat your FBI-issued Suburban in a street drag," I said with a grin. I mounted the bike, turning the key in the ignition. The engine purred. "Get on."

  “You’re joking, right?” He crossed his arms across his chest and gave me a withering look.

  “I don’t joke about my Triumph.
” I patted the rear seat.

  “You landed on your head back there.” He said it slowly, like he was talking to a child. “I really don’t think you should be driving a motorcycle.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure,” I grumbled, but I knew he was right. I felt a little woozy. But that might have been hunger, not the blow to the head. My metabolism spikes when I get vamped up.

  With Marcello lurking, I didn’t want a drawn-out pissing contest over who drove, and I had no idea where he was parked. I got off the bike, yanked the helmet out of his hands and shoved it on my head, hard, immediately sorry that I used so much force.

  “You know how to do this?” I motioned to the Triumph. Grinning from ear to ear, he jumped on the bike.

  I climbed on to the rear seat. It felt weird to be on the back. I slipped my arms around his narrow waist, feeling solid abs under the bulk of his winter coat. It was a small consolation to allow someone else to drive my baby.

  Max gunned the engine, and I held up my hand in a goodbye salute. Marcello had vampire speed, but he couldn't keep up with the Triumph. Frankie made sure of that.

  CHAPTER 4

  I sipped the piping hot coffee, enjoying the sensation of ice melting from my body. The coffee was out-of-a-vending-machine nasty, but it was hot, and I needed some heat. Riding a motorcycle was not the most prudent way to get around New England in the dead of winter. But fleeing vampires requires a level of speed and agility that most cars don't have.

  I sneaked a peek at Max through the steam of my coffee. Even ruddy from the cold, he had a fantastic face.

  We were at the Rhode Island Hospital ER, since I didn't know where else to go and needed to get out of the area fast. But Marcello didn't tail us, so we were good.

  "You know, I was going to offer to use my car," Max said. He looked amused. Cold but amused.

  "Consider tonight an adventure." I swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

  Clearly the ER was the popular place to be at 2 AM on a Monday night in Providence. The place was packed. Gunshots, knife fights, beat downs, car crashes. The worst of humanity was staggering through the automatic doors. Muzak played softly in the background, adding a surreal quality to the blood and gore amplified by harsh florescent lighting. I was sure I looked like a damn goddess against the bluish hues.