The moment I walked into the bar, I knew something was up. I couldn’t sense anything. No fear, no lust, no jealousy, no rage- in short, none of the usual emotions that hit me, (or any other clairsentient worth their salt) once I enter a bar. These people- were they zombies?
My eye fell on a woman sitting near the entrance. She smiled at a joke her partner was making, showing off canines that were very sharp, very pointy, and very, very un-human.
Shiiit, I thought earnestly. Shit shit shit. Of all the bars in LA, I had to walk into a damned vampire bar.
The patrons had fallen silent. Many, many pairs of unnaturally beautiful eyes of all hues were on me now.
Shit.
I walked very slowly up to the bar. The smart thing to do would not be to bolt. Like wolves, vampires are predators. You run, they chase. It’s a sign of weakness, and one does not go showing signs of weakness in a roomful of killing machines that can rip your heart out without even breaking a sweat.
Besides, the vampires in LA were supposed to be quite civilized, according to what I’d heard. Well- about as civilized as a lion can be to a gazelle, when not actually eating it.
I reached the bar and sat down, casually tossing a smile at the bartender. Okay. It was no big deal. I’d just order a drink, act dumb, and avoid all eye contact. Piece of cake.
I motioned the bartender.
“Could I have a margarita, please?”
“Straight?”
Don’t appear retarded. Don’t appear retarded.
“What- ah- types do you have?”
”Straight or frozen, apple, lime, grape, cherry-”he hesitated, “and plasma. Distilled.”
Plasma. Ok, definitely not that one. Cherry…red. Red bad.
“Grape, please. Frozen.”
He nodded. “Fifteen bucks,” he said, almost as an afterthought. Hoe looked very bartenderish. Paunch, balding, gruff, mustachioed, and complete with a dishcloth slung over one shoulder.
It was a small comfort to know some things stayed the same, even when you were dead. Or undead, more accurately.
He slapped a coaster on the bar. I almost jumped, cursing colourfully in my head.
He grinned at me knowingly. Okay, so the bartender knew I was human.
I reached for my purse and laid the money on the shiny mahogany bar top. “Keep the change,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and totally unconcerned about being dinner.
A male voice cut in. “Put it on my tab, Greg.”
The bartender nodded. “Yes, sir.”
I spun around, looking for the source of the voice.
When I found the source, I almost shut my eyes. Here was trouble.
He was tall, about 6 feet, and built solid, with well-cut muscles on his shoulders and arms. He had skin the colour of toasted almonds, and a mass of shoulder length curls, glossy chestnut streaked with honey. His hair kind of looked better than mine. On another man, it might have looked too feminine, but the way he was built, it just looked even more masculine.
He extended an arm, complete with a tracing of veins, and thick, strong fingers. Shiit.
He smiled, without flashing any canines. “I am Joao, Master of the City. Welcome to Los Angeles, pretty stranger.”
Double shit.
I shook his hand firmly.
Bad idea.
©Samantha De Silva 2006
