Bring Me to Life

by Scarlett Parrish

  I'd better not keep looking. He might think I'm interested, and that would be a most unwelcome distraction. I'm not. He's not my type, and one could say I'm a man on a mission.

  A suicide mission, if I weren't already dead.

  * * *

  "Enjoy your stay at Shrouds, sir," the receptionist says, dropping my room key into my outstretched palm. "Do you require a porter to---?"

  "No." My reply sounds a little too abrupt, even to my anti-social ears, so I add a quick, "Thank you," wondering why I care what this fellow vampire thinks of me. He must see all sorts passing through these doors. A grumpy man who died somewhere around his thirties probably doesn't even register.

  "We have some fresh supplies being delivered later from the local blood bank; would you like...?" His voice trails away, as if he's expecting me to interrupt again.

  I shake my head no. "I drank recently."

  "Vintage?"

  Oh Christ; he's one of them. Making a strong effort not to shudder, not knowing whether said shudder is because of disgust at the receptionist or horror at my own recent actions, I say, "Young man, late twenties."

  "Ah." The receptionist nods, approving. "Not a favourite of mine, but willing, I assume."

  "Of course," I snap, this time not caring whether or not I sound rude. "Always."

  "Right you are, sir. One never knows these days. We see a lot here. My apologies. Just the other day, we had an Undead Liaison Officer in asking if we'd---"

  I clear my throat simply to interrupt him without having to come up with anything coherent to say.

  "I hope you enjoy your stay," he says again, and I wonder if he realises he's repeating himself.

  Half-turned from the reception desk, I look back. "It was a turning, actually."

  His eyes almost light up, I could swear to it.

  "No shit." Bang goes his already tenuous professionalism. "For real? You turn---"

  "Ssh."

  "What? You don't want anyone to hear?" He glances around, but there's no one else here. No one within earshot, anyway. On the other side of the foyer, a fellow guest makes his selection at a vending machine, which dispenses liqueurs in small packets. Chocolates that have a drink other than alcohol at their centre. The things they sell these days make my head spin. "If I'd turned someone, I'd want everyone to know about it," he goes on. "Unless...wait..." He leans across the desk, making a cursory attempt at discretion, and I take a step closer. "It didn't go wrong, did it?"

  Given his earlier question about whether or not Kieran was willing, I'm not sure which answer he'd prefer. "No. It went like a dream."

  "Oh." If the receptionist---and it's only now I notice he has a name badge, proclaiming Jason--- had need of breathing, I'm sure he'd sigh right now. As it is, he merely appears to physically slump, to shrink. "Good." There's no enthusiasm in his voice. God knows what he'd make of the story of my own transformation. Probably get a boner over it.

  "I'm going up to my room to rest now." It's the only way I can think of to put an end to this conversation.

  "And if there are any calls for you?"

  "There won't be."

  "But if there are, should I put them through?"

  "There won't be," I say again, and the only reply I choose to hear is the door slamming behind me as I exit to the stairwell.

  I can't believe I let you talk me into this.

  It's not one of those text messages I hesitate to send. I'm angry at Will and don't think twice about it. I'm angrier at myself, but venting to him is a better option than self-harm right now.

  I'm loafing on the settee in my room, half- listening to one of the cable news channels.

  Bankers and politicians are corrupt, there's a famine in some sun-drenched land I'll never visit, and a woman's disappeared, with her boyfriend suspected of foul play. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

  Channel surfing. I'm channel surfing in a dead man's hotel run by some horny, probably sexually- violent psychopath called Jason, about to embark on a search for the guy who's responsible for me being a vampire. How much worse could things get?

  My phone beeps. Have you found him yet?

  Give me a fucking chance; I checked in, and I've been watching reality TV, depressing news, and brain-numbing quiz shows.

  Using your time wisely, I see.

  His replies are prompt. Obviously not too busy with Kieran to see to my angst and complaints.

  Oh, screw you. Yes, I'm that grateful for his attentions. If I were back home, I'd have more interesting things to do.

  What can be more interesting than trying to find Adam?

  Oh, great. He had to remind me, didn't he?

  Drinking battery acid and going for a walk to see the sun come up.

  Ha bloody ha. Sundown passed; it's dark out. Go on, see what you can do.

  Thanks a bunch, Will Bosworth. You really know how to gee a guy up, don't you?

  I wish there was a window in this hotel room.

  It's more like a cell. Sometimes, I like to stand at an uncovered window late at night and watch the cityscape. My flat is down in the basement, so it does not have much of a view. But if I ever have occasion to be in a high-rise or skyscraper after dark, I open the blinds or curtains and turn every light in the room off. That way, I don't see the reflection of myself---yes, we have reflections--- and my gaze falls on nothing but anonymous buildings and lights, both neon and electrical. All human life is there, but I'm not intimately involved with it. I'm high up, an observer. Like a god.

  I definitely feel sick. It's like the time I woke up and realised I was dead and the first time I drank blood all rolled into one. Then, it was an unholy thirst that demanded to be satisfied, and even when it was, I still felt bilious, my stomach roiling with blood and disgust and the question, "What have I done?"

  Now it's nerves, plain and simple. I don't like to admit to being scared, and Sergeant Nathan Stephenson never deserted, was never prosecuted for cowardice in battle. Nor was my father.

  Stephensons never were. I'm not about to back away now. It's all about family honour. Living up to the name.

  Honour, indeed. I could laugh at my own thoughts but am cautious about drawing attention to myself. Occasionally, people pass, as I walk along this unfamiliar street, clearly full of alcohol.

  They'd probably think I was drunk too, if I laughed out loud, but discretion is the name of the game, at least for the moment, so I try my best not to.

  I'd asked the taxi driver to drop me off a couple of streets away so I could calm myself as I walked, but it's not working very well. The street signs are clear, and the driver gave me directions also, so I'm not worried about getting lost.

  I'm worried about actually getting there.

  A flyer stuck to a lamppost flutters in the evening breeze. Vlad's---all drinks a pound until the witching hour. Vampire-friendly.

  Ugh. It's all so brazen these days. Come to our bar, get drunk, and be picked up by a member of the undead. Although, why I'm so high-and-mighty about it, I don't know. I am one of the undead. I'm no better than the people who frequent these bars, am I? But I didn't choose this. I'm not here willingly. These idiots; they want this lifestyle. They see something glamorous in it, don't they?

  There's no need to ask for directions; I simply follow the flow of foot traffic. These intoxicated people aren't turning in for the night; they're just getting started, and I can tell from their party moods that they're heading to a nearby bar or club. Logic and experience both tell me that such establishments are usually grouped together in city centres, so I trail a small group whose voices are raised in what they would say is song. I, on the other hand, would use the word "caterwauling."

  The flyer had the correct street name on it, and even before that, Will looked up the bar on the Internet to check its location. He couldn't find a map, however, just an address. Even if there had been a map, it wouldn't have made much difference. I don't know this town at all, so I have no points of reference.

 
Turning a corner, I see a courtyard peppered with benches and wooden tables opening out onto the main thoroughfare. This courtyard is surrounded on three sides by buildings, and one of them proclaims in neon lettering---red, of course --- Vlad's.

  My heart leaps in my chest. It hasn't done that in a long time. Especially from nerves. Over the years, I've experienced lust, anger, anticipation, hunger, thirst, but this fear is new for me.

  I look over my shoulders, almost laughing.

  It's not often a vampire has to do that, but tonight, I'm understandably nervous. If I'm going to see him, I want it to be when I'm prepared, or as much as I can be. I want to see Adam first so I can acclimatise.

  It's cruel, I know, wanting to brace myself, while being willing to spring my presence on him, and though it's petty of me to say this, he kind of deserves it. That is to say, he doesn't deserve my consideration and respect. Not really.

  Tonight, if he shows up, if I see him, if we converse? I want answers. I'm here to distract him from the fact that Will's happy now and has a human, or at least until- recently-human lover, but if it gets as far as conversation rather than fighting and tearing each other apart, I want to know what the hell he was thinking back then.

  There's a light breeze, and I'm grateful for it, even though it does nothing for my body temperature. Corpses are already cold. It's heat that bothers us. We get jittery. Uncomfortable.

  Decomposition doesn't just happen, not in an instant, but that's why we avoid sunlight.

  Especially to new vampires---Kieran, for one--- heat is incredibly uncomfortable, and any damage incurred can be long-lasting.

  Once the transformation is complete, newborns have to be vigilant to avoid permanent consequences.

  But he has Will to look after him, and others at the safe house. No need to worry about them. I should be my primary concern right now.

  So, the breeze. I feel it on the surface of my skin, and regardless of temperature, it soothes me.

  As a young boy, I'd always liked the breezy part of the day, when things started to wind down. The cusp between day and evening. A fascination with the no-man's-land between night and day stayed with me into adulthood.

  The nearer I get to Vlad's, the more people swarm around me, not letting my presence stop them from getting to their destination. Either the beer's really good here, or they're fascinated by the undead and congregate at a vampire-friendly bar to really grab themselves an eyeful.

  Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I stand in the courtyard for a moment, staring at the building.

  It's low, only two floors, so unless there's a basement, I assume it's simply bar and dance floor on the ground floor, restrooms and office space upstairs. I almost wish I needed to breathe; I have an overwhelming desire to inhale just like normal humans, immediately before doing something with which they're reluctant to be involved.

  "Evening, sir." The doorman stands back to let me through without a word of protest. No request for I.D., no enquiry as to my current life-state. Either they're very good at separating the dead from the living, or they're lax about demanding to see my death certificate.

  In the early days of "acceptance," and I can never use that word without a wry smile tugging at my lips, there were constant demands to show our papers. The living resented being asked to present their I.D. as well, blaming these checks on "bloody vampires being allowed to walk the streets." Such folks alleged that, "If there were no damned vampires, the living wouldn't be expected to prove their living state; it's the vamps who are ruining it for the rest of us, making us all suspicious of one another."

  That was probably true. Is probably true.

  We've come a long way, but there's still a hell of a long way to go.

  Vampires started fighting back. "You want me to prove whether I'm alive or dead? Fine. Let me tear your throat out." Made it difficult for the rest of us peace-loving chaps, but I could understand their frustration.

  The in-fighting didn't do much good for vampire/human relations, but I can assure anyone who cares to listen: a far more difficult thing to deal with is waking up to realise one is now a member of the opposite group, without it being something one chose. But to make it personal, what I could never understand, no matter how hard I tried, was how a vampire could reach out to a human being, claim to love him, then take his life without permission.

  Maybe the staff in this club aren't especially good at telling one group from the other on sight.

  Maybe they're not lax when it comes to security.

  Maybe they're something I haven't encountered much in my lifetime. Or deathtime.

  Accepting.

  "Makes a change," I mutter, knowing no one will hear me above the music. It's not loud, but neither are my words.

  The foyer's small and cramped; to the left and through an archway is a room with a bar lining one wall; tables and chairs pepper the room. To the right, through another arch, is the cocktail lounge.

  Low chairs, sofas, and even huge cubed beanbags in place of chairs are scattered here and there, and I can just see lit floor tiles comprising a dance floor.

  Where first? Does it even matter? One could suppose people would head to the bar first to get well-oiled before daring to head for the dance floor, but others might show up here already tipsy and wanting to dance. Or perhaps the more sophisticated lover of the undead might be inclined to drink a cocktail as opposed to a half-pint of beer.

  Things were never like this in my day, I muse, going with my first thought: the bar.

  I slice my way through the crowd, excusing and pardoning myself as I move, but people don't seem too bothered about getting out of my way.

  Amused, I realise it's probably concern that I might be a vampire with a bad temper which encourages people to step out of my way. You don't know who you're dealing with in places like this. Not until you begin to huddle and consort and conspire in dark corners and the wrong word slips out, or a fang exposes itself.

  There won't be any trouble, though. An establishment like this wouldn't be allowed to stay open for long if corpses started showing up in skips and dumpsters every weekend. I would not, however, be surprised if local hospitals were frequently overwhelmed with people suffering from over-enthusiastic love bites.

  Speaking of trouble, I keep my eyes open, ever alert to even a mere flash of familiarity. It's been a long time, but I'll never forget what he looks like. For a moment, I wonder how Adam had looked in the sixties. Did he grow his hair? Wear tie-dyed shirts? And in the seventies, had his wardrobe been afflicted by bell-bottoms and kipper ties? Perhaps a Mohican and a safety-pin through his nose?

  Something tells me that no matter what costume he wears, no matter what mask, I'd still recognise him. And there's no tell-tale zip of electricity up my spine, so he's not here tonight.

  Not yet.

  "You're new here," the bar steward comments, leaning in close. The music isn't that loud, thankfully, so it's not a desire to be heard which brings about his conspiratorial proximity.

  "I am."

  "Looking for anything in particular?"

  My eyes flick up, and I stare straight at him. I can't think of what to say, so I remain silent.

  "I mean, if you're new..." He shrugs. "You might not be familiar with how things go down here."

  "There are rules?"

  "The only drinks to be consumed on the premises must be purchased here." With a grin, he points to a sign on the wall.

  An old-style vampire, complete with Dracula-esque cloak, leans over a maiden with heaving bosoms, fangs mere inches from her neck.

  There's a red line through the picture, and the underlying text reads No Necking. The terrible pun makes me groan. Jesus. My entire being is reduced to a cartoon above a bar.

  "There have been complaints," the barman goes on.

  "Unauthorised biting?"

  "Women saying it's too hard getting bloodstains out of their party clothes on a forty-degree wash. We've banned a couple of vampires, but...you know." He s
hrugs. "All in all, this is a good place to work. I'm Scott, by the way." He holds out his hand.

  "Nathan." Instinctively, because I was brought up that way, I reach out to touch him, and as his fingers curl around my hand, I realise it wasn't all about good manners on his part.

  "Ah." Scott nods. "You're cold."

  "You're not going to ask to see my death certificate, are you?"

  "No, no. Just curious. When a new guy turns up, you wonder..."

  "You're familiar with all the regulars here, then?"

  "I have a good memory."

  Well, isn't that just a gift for me wrapped up in a nice, neat bow? I ask myself. Swallowing back the nerves, I open my mouth to speak---

  "Can I get you anything?"

  Damn; he got there first, and I've lost my nerve. "I'm not much of a drinker," I blurt out.

  "No? What're you doing here, then?" But Scott's teasing. Even in the dim light, I see his eyes twinkle. "Don't answer that."

  "No, it's not like that; I---"

  "We've got a deal going with the local blood bank; fresh delivery of rhesus neg bloodsicles, if you fancy one."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Bloodsicles. Never heard of them? Like freeze-pops; new on the market. Apparently, there's a new technique involved that stops the blood fractions separating during the freezing process. I dunno how it works exactly, but they go down a storm with the less-than-alive of our clientele."

  "Bloodsicles," I echo. My God; I've heard of everything now. "Thank you, but no. I prefer to get mine fresh from the source."

  "You're the boss. Just here looking for some company, then?"

  "No," I answer rather too quickly. "No. I'm here to..."

  Scott lifts his eyebrows and leans on the bar, propped up on his crossed arms. "You're here to...? Hey, are you undercover? 'Cause that incident with the---"

  "Undercover? Good grief, no."

  "Press?"

  "No, look, I'm just here to...Listen, you said you were familiar with Vlad's clientele. You have a good memory."