by Mari Mancusi
5
SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 8 P.M.
The Blood Bar
I must be brief—I’m actually writing this from my BlackBerry from inside the Blood Bar!! Let me tell you, this place is creepy with a capital C! Or ghetto with a capital G. Or someis kind of capital word for weird, sick, and twisted. (Which, kind of capital word for weird, sick, and twisted. (Which, I guess, would be three capital words: Weird, Sick, and Twisted, duh.)
First of all, I had to go through the total crackhead section of town. Wandering past pimps and prostitutes, drug dealers, and bums to find it. I half thought I’d get attacked and killed before I even got to my destination. Some slayer I’d turn out to be if I got myself killed by some punk mortal before I even got to stake my first vamp.
At least I look good. After all, one does not enter a vampire den unprepared and so I made a special effort to Goth things up even more than usual before I came. I’ve got on this black lacy corset top under my leather jacket, a black vinyl miniskirt, fishnets, and knee-high platform boots. The outfit, in conjunction with my overly blacked-out eyes, red lipstick and powered white face, makes me look pretty kick-ass, if you can excuse the vanity for a moment.
I find the address. A nondescript brick building. Which I guess makes sense. Obviously they’re not going to have some neon sign out flashing “Get Sucked Here!” or anything. But this joint is beyond subtle. In fact, I’m not even sure if I have the right place—until a street-light glints on a tiny stained glass window embedded into the door . . . the shape of a drop of blood.
Bingo.
Not quite sure what to do, I knock. This big, burly bouncer type guy creaks opens the door from the other side and looks down at me with suspicious eyes. I meet his gaze, hopefully appearing less freaked out than I am. I mean, the dude looks like Vin Diesel if Vin Diesel took steroids. Yeah, that big. Except unlike the tanned action hero, this guy is pasty white. So, like a ghosty Vin Diesel on steroids. Which throws me a bit. Usually the vamp wanna-be crowd is all scrawny and lanky.
“What do you want?” he asks in a grumbly, growly voice.
Hm. Not exactly the rising star in the customer service department. Good thing I’m a slayer and not a secret shopper or I’d so be knocking off points already.
“I, um, am interested in being, uh . . .” Jeez, what’s the correct terminology here? “Sucked?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I shake my head. Oh, so he’s going to be like that, is he? “Yes, you do. You totally know. You’re just pretending you don’t because you’re afraid I’m some cop or something. Well, I am not a cop. Obviously. I mean, since when do sixteen-year-olds become cops?”
“I don’t think you’re a cop. I think you’re underage. We don’t serve minors.”
D’oh.
“Ha-ha.” I laugh. “Did I say sixteen? Silly me. I meant twenty-one. Look, I even have an ID that proves it.” I reach into my black canvas messenger bag and rummage through the front pocket for my wallet. Grabbing my fake ID, I present it to Vamp Diesel, hoping he won’t notice my trembling hands.
“You’re from Kentucky?” he asks, squinting at the photo (so not me). “And you’re five eleven?”
“Only when I wear my stilettos.”
He rolls his eyes, not looking all that convinced. “Run home and play with your dolls, um”—he glances at my ID—“Shaniqua.” He snorts, handing me back my license. “This is not the place for you.”
Okay, that’s it. No more Miss Nice Rayne. I drop my eyes to the ground and flutter my lashes. Then I look up at him with my best Angelina Jolie imitation, pre-Brad Pitt/mommy era. “I don’t play with dolls,” I say, making my voice sultry and deep. “I play with vampires.” I reach up and drag a lazy finger down the front of his massive chest. He stiffens immediately. Heh. Men are so easy.
“Well, I guess your license does say you’re twenty-five. . . .” He hedges.
“I am twenty-five. Twenty-five and three quarters, to be exact.” I smile coyly, reeling him in. “Now, please let me in. I’m dying to be sucked.”
At first I’m not sure if he’s going to go for this, but he surprises me by opening the door wide and gesturing me forward. I give him a little bow and step over the threshold.
“Fine, fine. But behave yourself,” he instructs. “Don’t make me sorry I let you in.”
“I will,” I promise. “I mean, I won’t. Make you sorry, that is. I will behave. You won’t even know I’m here. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Francis. And I run the door most nights.”
I rise onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Francis,” I say. “You won’t regret this.”
“I already do,” he says, his face turning a slight pink color. Close as vamps get to blushing, I suppose. “But go in and have a good time before I change my mind.”
I thank him once more, then head in. The door leads to a dark hallway, the walls painted with strange Celtic-looking designs that glow under the black lighting. Under my feet is a plush crimson rug. Weird, ambient mood music floats through the smoke-filled air. I guess the Blood Bar feels it’s exempt from the no smoking laws of the rest of our state. Which makes sense, really, as lighting up is just where the sinning starts here.
The whole thing is truly spooky and I have half a mind to turn around and run back out the door screaming. But something compels me to keep moving forward. To see this through.
I reach the beaded curtain at the far side of the hallway and go through into the main bar. The place is decorated like a Valentine’s Day card. Everything is red. Red velvet couches, red shag rugs, red walls, and red lightbulbs in the chandelier. The fuzzy lighting makes it hard to get a good look at the other patrons. Some are sprawled out on couches in a relaxed, almost sleepy manner. Others are sitting on the edges of their seats, looking tense. All of them look like junkies—underfed, drawn faces, trembling hands.
This one guy standing over in the corner looks particularly foreboding. He appears fiftyish and is wearing a well-fitted black tux. Sandy-haired, high cheekbones, and an athletic physique, he has a sort of elegance about him that the other gaunt Blood Bar inhabitants lack. If I hadn’t seen a photo of Maverick, I would have pegged this guy as the bar’s owner, given the proprietary sense he exhibits as he surveys the lounge, arms crossed over his chest. But while he’s definitely vampish, he’s no Trent Reznor look-alike, so he can’t be the big baddie we’re here to find.
He catches me looking at him and gives me a small nod. Freaked out, I quickly drop my eyes. The last thing I need is to start drawing attention to myself.
“Do you have an appointment?” A sultry female voice behind me makes me turn around. A tall, voluptuous woman with long black hair to her waist has focused her huge violet eyes on me expectantly, a clipboard in her hands. She wears a crimson corset top and a long silky black skirt that’s gotta be vintage or I’d so be asking her where she got it.
“I, um, do you take walk-ins here?” I stammer, caught off guard.
She frowns. “We certainly do not.”
“Well, good. Because I, um, have an appointment.” I squint down at her appointment book. Good thing I have excellent eyesight. “I’m Jane Smith.”
She glances down at her clipboard. “Do you mean James Smith?”
Hm. Maybe time to see the eye doctor after all. “Yeah, that’s me. James Smith. Evil parents really wanted a boy. Anyway, I go by Jane now. To my friends, anyway. Do you want to be my friend? I need more friends, actually. People to call me Jane.”
She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. I know she doesn’t believe me, but I’ve managed to annoy her enough that she just wants me out of her hair. Good strategy for dealing with teachers as well, by the way. Works every time.
“Fine, fine. James. Jane. Whatever. You’re in room six.” She gestures to the wall on the far side of the room. “Behind those curtains.”
I swallow hard. This is it. I thank her and head to the back of the room, pulling
aside the heavy velvet drapes. Behind it are ten nondescript doors, each with a gold number. I find room six and slip inside.
The room is dark, without any windows. The walls are painted black and thus suck out even the dim lighting given off by a few candles in the room. In the center is a big canopy bed with black linens. Even the floor has a charcoal-colored rug. Maybe they make it black so the bloodstains don’t show as easily. The thought makes me a bit queasy and I close the door behind me and retreat to a wooden low-backed chair. What have I gotten myself into? This is totally Spooky World and I’m not just here for a visit.
Suddenly I realize the precariousness of my situation. I’m all alone in a vampire blood bar on the wrong side of town. And no one (besides Spider and I don’t give Spider’s rescue abilities much credit) knows where I am.
Some might call this a bad situation to be in. After all, I’ve got no plan. No idea what to do now that I’m here. What if I have to actually get sucked by some random gnarly vamp? What if I get some kind of awful disease? What if just sitting in here is infecting me?
Can we say Stupid, Rayne?
I take a deep breath, remembering what Mr. Teifert told me. The vamps here are all tested for diseases. I’m fine. I’m safe. From that, at least. And I have my stake, in case I meet with any danger. I reach into my bag, examine the chunk of unfinished wood, then sigh and put it away. Sadly, that so doesn’t make me feel any more secure.
And that’s where I am right about now. After forty-five minutes of waiting, my anxiety level has gone down and my boredom level has gone up. This is worse than the doctor’s office. Nothing much to do. I’ve already checked my e-mail, played Tetris, chatted with Spider on IM. And now I’m writing my blog.
Oh, wait! Someone’s coming. Ooh, this is it! More later.
POSTED BY RAYNE McDONALD @ 8 P.M.
ONE COMMENT:
SunshineBaby says . . .
Rayne! Are you just making this stuff up to see if I’m reading your blog? You’re not really a slayer, are you? I mean, you’d come tell me if you were suddenly a slayer, right? You can’t keep something like that from your twin sister. Especially when the twin in question is dating a vampire. Which, I might add, is sort of your fault to begin with. Not to mention that the Blood Bar place sounds really dangerous. But I’m guessing this is just a joke to freak me out. I hope . . .
6
SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 11 P.M.
Jareth
I’m so getting my hair dyed black. Tomorrow. I’d do it tonight if I could find a drugstore that was still open. Just get a bottle of dye and dump it over my head. Something. Anything. Just so I don’t look exactly like Sunny.
Sorry. Getting ahead of myself here.
So last I wrote I was in the Blood Bar, waiting for the vamp who’s supposed to suck me, right? And it was a long wait, let me tell you. But finally the door opens.
The guy who enters the room is nothing like the other vamps I saw hanging out in the sitting room. The half-starved, junkie looking ones. This guy, while definitely a vamp with gorgeous fangage, is like a Jude Law clone. I know! Drool, right? Seriously, the dude’s got the same dirty blond hair, same beautiful blue eyes (though his are rimmed with black eyeliner—yum!), and high cheekbones. He’s tall. He’s lanky. He’s wearing a black wife-beater tank and tight black pants. His buff arms tell me he clocks in mucho time at the gym, but at the same time, he’s simply tone, not bulky and meatheady like the bouncer, Francis, had been.
In other words, he’s the most gorgeous Goth guy I’ve ever seen. And he’s a vampire, too. Which automatically makes him not a poseur, like, uh, some of you. (Cough, cough, DarkGothBoy.)
Anyway, I’m all staring at him, totally and officially and instantly in love. I’m thinking, he can jump me, bite me, have his wicked way with me. Whatever his little black heart desires. He can take me on midnight strolls through ancient, ivy-walled cemeteries and kiss me senseless under the waning moon. Forget whiny, annoying Magnus. Sunny can have him. I want a blood mate like this guy.
“Hi, I’m Jareth, and I’ll be your biter tonight,” he mumbles in a deep, British-accented voice. OMG, yes! He’s English, too! Major w00t! At this point I’m thinking this guy is way too good to be true. I wonder if he already has a blood mate, but I can’t imagine he’d be working in a place like this, if he did. Maybe he’s a lost soul, waiting for the love of a pure heart to redeem him like you always read about in those Christine Feehan books.
I watch intently as he wanders to the far side of the room, not yet glancing in my direction. He lazily sinks into the bed, extending his arms spread-eagle across the width of the pillows. His movements are slinky, almost catlike in their grace. He closes his beautiful sapphire eyes and smiles the most seductive smile known to mankind, his fangs slightly protruding from his mouth. Aha! Now we’re talking.
I wonder if he’s really as attractive as I think he is or if he’s using the Vampire Scent on me. Vampires have this pheromone thing going on that makes them irresistible to humans. Probably how they rose to such power in this world. One grin and we’re putty in their fangs.
“If you have any special requests, please tell me now and I’ll do my best to accommodate you,” he purrs in a throaty voice, shifting in the bed a bit, eyes still closed.
OMG, this guy oozes sex. He’s practically dripping with it. I so want to jump him. Even more than I wanted to jump Ville when I went to see H.I.M. last fall. And that’s saying something.
I shake my head. No, no, that will never do. One, this vamp’s not really interested in me; it’s his job to turn me on. I don’t want to be like the fat guy who falls for the hooker. Two, he’s one of the bad guys, duh. So even if he did—for some unfathomable reason—take an interest in me, I so can’t start hooking up with one of Maverick’s men. Then I’d have to war against my sister and her BF and that seems kind of lame. Not to mention I’d be nanovirused by Slayer Inc. A lousy situation all around.
“Um, hi, Jareth,” I say, realizing he’s waiting for an answer to his special requests question. Not that I can think of any. Well, not that I should say aloud anyway. Hm, maybe I should at least introduce myself. “Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“God!” Jareth interrupts as his eyes flutter open and he looks straight at me for the first time. Though with that accent, it comes out more like, “Gawd.”
“Uh, no,” I correct, though not unpleased at the idea. I like this guy’s style. “I’m not God. At least I’m pretty sure I’m not. Though sometimes as a kid I used to pretend I was Aphrodite. You know, the goddess of love? But really, I’m just—”
“Your Majesty! What are you doing here?” he asks, scrambling off the bed and bowing low from the waist. “This is no place for you.”
Oh-kay then. I stare at him, confused as all hell at this point. Is this some kind of weird role-playing they do here? Creepy. “Uh, no,” I correct, “I’m not a queen or anything, either. I mean, sure, again, I wish. But really I’m just—”
“I know very well who you are, Majesty.” His lips curl into a snarl, his blue eyes now a dark and stormy sea. He looks so angry. I take a cautionary step back. What have I gotten myself into? Does he know I work for Slayer Inc.? Is he going to alert the whole Blood Bar? Am I utterly screwed?
“Uh . . .” I manage, not at my most articulate.
Jareth grabs me by the shoulders, his nails digging into my skin, his gaze boring down on me. I’m shaking like crazy and am this close to bursting into tears. Some cool slayer chick I am. The way he’s got me pinned I can’t even whip out my stake. “Why did Magnus send you? Does he not trust me to get the job done?”
What? I look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. Did he just say “Magnus”?
“You know Magnus?” I ask, my voice totally croaky.
This could be bad. Very bad. Is my sister’s boyfriend actually mixed up with the evils after all? Does this mean I have to slay him? Sunny will be so pissed if I slay her boyfriend, baddie or no. But then, I guess in
the long run I’d be doing her a favor, right? Saving her from the Dark Side. Like when Luke killed his father, Darth Vader. Sort of. Okay, not really exactly the same.
He gives me a strange look. “Of course. I’m General Jareth of the Blood Coven Army. But you know that.”
“I do?” I rack my brains. Then realization smacks me upside the head. Duh, duh, duh. “Oh! You think that I’m—”
“You know, I must say, I’m quite offended,” Jareth rants, releasing my shoulders and running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe Magnus doesn’t trust me. Sending his blood mate in to spy on me. And did he really think I wouldn’t recognize you? After that night at Club Fang?”
“Dude, you have the wrong idea,” I interrupt. “If you’d just calm down, I’ll explain. I’m not Sunny. I’m—”
“Insulting. Unbearably insulting. I must go have a word with him this very second.” Jareth pushes by me and heads out the door, slamming it behind him.
“I’m Rayne!” I cry after him. “Her sister.”
He’s so already gone.
I sigh, plopping down on the bed. These mistaken identity things really need to stop. First there was the whole Sunny getting my blood mate and almost becoming a creature of the night, now this. Definitely time to dye my hair black. Or develop an eating disorder like one of the Olsen twins. (Though that would force me to give up French fries.) But I have to do something. Anything to keep me from looking exactly like my sister.
Especially now that she’s the Vampire Queen and I’m the slayer.
POSTED BY RAYNE McDONALD @ 11 P.M.
FOUR COMMENTS:
ButterfliQT says . . .
Wow, Rayne. I can’t believe u went into that place by urself.
Weren’t you afraid they’d, like, kill u or something?
Rayne says . . .
Butterfli, we cannot all live our lives in fear. Some of us have destinies to fulfill. And, um, thanks for reminding me about the potential deathage. I really appreciate the support and encouragement. . . .