The vampire leaned up against the bar, pretending to drink a beer. He tapped his foot to the music, inwardly cringing at what passed for art in these sorry times. Maintaining a pleasant, open expression he surveyed the crowd. It was comprised mainly of college kids, as it had been since the beginning of summer. Here and there he spotted members of his own, straggling hunters seeking easy meals amongst the drunken frat boys and underdressed coeds. But by and large, the proliferation of Undead was minimal.
Val was here to learn more about just why that was.
It was his third night on the 'club' scene. Another evening crawling amid the blaring noise and the flashing glare of nightclub lighting. He understood such places to be popular among neonates; but he'd come of age in a different time. He was more at home in a smoky pool hall or, Satan Forbid, even a Bowling Alley, than in a collegiate Nightclub. This particular one was not noticeably different than the last two, excepting its extremely pretentious name and equally ostentatious décor.
He swallowed some more of the tasteless liquid, as his stomach sank. She would not be here tonight, either. He'd chosen the wrong location; he'd yet to make her pattern. Tomorrow night, another of his kinfolk might be missing.
He affected a broad, drunken smile and hit up the middle-aged woman two seats down for a cigarette. She passed him one, and he pretended to smoke it, the air warming his lips and tongue if not his long-dead lungs.
When she finally arrived, he knew her immediately. He'd been afraid he might not, that she would be unnoticeably mortal. Somehow that possibility had been extremely unnerving. He was glad it was not the case.
Some of the humans sensed it, the thing that made her 'other', not like them. They moved away from her unconsciously, stepping back, thinning the crowd as she passed.
She stopped, and turned cool blue eyes towards the bar, sweeping her dull gaze over it, and him. He froze, and his mouth uncurled into that warm 'good-old-boy' grin, as he looked over her shoulder and pretended to smile at someone standing somewhere behind her. She turned back to the dancing throng, and he relaxed slightly.
'Very Good, Val'. She hadn't made him yet; he was passing. Bonus. It had been so long since he'd even tried.
Carefully he slipped off the barstool, and stubbed out the cigarette. On the floor, the girl gyrated lithe hips against one male, and another. She worked her way through the crowd, partner after partner, in time to pounding synthesized rhythms. Small white arms slid up through the masses, silver bangles glinting in the purplish spotlights. Val trained preternaturally sharp eyes on her; never losing her for a moment. A glimpse of satiny dark hair flying, or a quick glance of a heart - shaped face and bright blue eyes- it was enough to keep track of her.
He knew the moment she found her victim. Cyrus had picked her out, and Val shuddered momentarily. Might it not be best to let her have this one? He pondered. Not the brightest fella ever brought over; Cy was big, slow and stupid; frequently attracting unhealthy attention from the cop shop. He deserved no less than to meet his end at the hand of a half-assed stupid Slayer Wannabe.
But with a sigh and a shrug, he moved to intercept them. Cy was kin. Besides, the idiot girl had already gotten five of his people, and he wasn't about to let her get a sixth.
Enough was enough. The bitch would bleed pretty tonight.
**********
The music eliminated the necessity for talking; and so she was grateful to be spared the usual bullshit attendant to the mating ritual. He couldn't ask her about her major, and so she didn't have to make up stuff about being a Poli-Sci at UCLA. He couldn't ask her name, so she didn't need to invent one. All of that would come later, when the magic of the music wore off.
He'd spin a web of human sounding lies; to draw her out and get her alone. They always wanted to be alone. And she'd spin her web of half- truths and outright falsehoods; lulling him into complacency.
Somewhere tonight she'd take him to bed; when she'd convinced him he could have the Fuck and the Feed. Sometime later, some shred of self-preservation instinct would kick in, and she'd pay him back in kind; her penetration for his, as the stake rammed home with unerring expertise and years of experience.
Then she'd be alone again, and empty. Then the next day, or the next week, or the next month, it would happen again.
But for now, they were dancing. Tonight's boy was bigger than usual; broad-shouldered and thickly muscled; but the pickings were slim. He had fine white skin, though, and his hands on her shoulder and hip were icy cool. She snuggled herself in tight against him, and leaned her head back, tempting him with the warm pulse in her throat.
He'd never attack her here, in a crowd of dancers on a well-lit floor. It was all part of the game. And Dawn knew the game better than anyone. She watched the glint of yellow through his eyes as the demon briefly tried to surface, and it soothed her vanity.
"Can I cut in?"
The words were said in a soft southern drawl, the tone low enough she barely made him out over the droning technopunk beat. But her dancing partner stopped short, and she found herself surrendered to the interloper.
"Certainly, Sir."
Slender arms snaked around her shoulders, and she looked up into eyes as dead as her own. A quick turn of the head revealed her prey getting away- rather hurriedly. She turned back to her new partner, and studied him as he moved her to the music.
Really, she might have traded up. Dude was more her usual sort- wiry and lean, and not that much taller than herself. She always hated to dance with men who outweighed her by half. Her new dancing partner failed to dwarf her in the manner of the last one.
Cool, slender fingers rested against her back, at her waist, and he smiled into her confused face. It was an open, artless, smile- calculated to relax her. It didn't. There was a glimmer in his expression that looked an awful lot like malice.
She'd prefer he merely looked hungry.
"So, Sugar...What's your name?" he enquired.
Thus the real dance began.
********************
The scenery sped by in jarring snaps; momentary visions of brightly lit parking lots broken up by long spates of nighttime darkness. Dawn kept her head inclined towards the window, but her eyes frequently wandered back over to the driver.
His hands were delicate, almost womanly, the long thin fingers curling gracefully around the steering wheel. But she'd felt them against her shoulders earlier, and knew their texture was rough and dry. A bottle rolled under her foot and she shifted position, shoving it out of her way. A nasal voice twanged from the ancient radio, playing 'Xander Music'- steel guitar ballads about broken hearts and liquor. Beside her, the vampire jerked the clutch as his truck bumped and lurched along the road.
She'd told him she had a room at the Holiday Inn, but somehow, they were headed for his house, or so he claimed. She was still unsure how that came about; she'd made the right excuses. Yet they were on a dark highway headed towards the outskirts of town.
Her cute little rental car was still parked outside the bar, and she wasn't due back in California for two more weeks.
Even an idiot would realize just how dangerous this was. She knew better than to let things go this far.
He hummed with the radio, slightly off key and tinny. His name was Val, if he'd told her truly. For her part, she'd called herself "Samantha" but he'd been wise to her ruse when she failed to answer to the name. After than, he'd seemed to take mercurial delight in calling her "Matilda", "Ethel", and "Mabel" by turns.
He flicked the radio off silently with one hand, as they pulled onto a gravel road. Dawn took a deep breath, and ran a reassuring hand over her purse. It brought to mind its unusual contents: bottles of holy water, hand carved wooden stakes. She had a different idea of "protection" than most girls her age. She'd get through this. Maybe this would be her last one.
(Maybe he'll really be the last one, Dawnie.) But that was a dark thought, and so she shoved it firmly below her mental radar. Carefully she pulled out her cigarettes.
"Is it okay if I smoke in your car?"
"Truck, honey. It's a truck. And yeah, you can smoke in it, if I can have one too."
She passed him a lit butt in the darkness, and strained to make out the house just now coming into view.
It was a large, white farmhouse, set at the end of a long tree-lined driveway. But it was dilapidated to the point of appearing abandoned.
"You live here?" she breathed.
He made her no answer, as he clambered out the driver's side door. His boots crunched on the gravel as he made his way around the front of the truck.
As she reached for the door handle, he pulled it open for her, and handed her down gently by the elbow.
"Come on, sugar, let's get you inside."
**********
They picked their way through the shrubbery, thick tangles of vines and weeds choking the ancient plantings. The smell of honeysuckle here was fierce, but underneath it was a pervading odor of decay, of rotting wood and leaves. The steps to the porch had pulled away from it a good six inches; Val held Dawn's arm as she tried to navigate her way in the dark.
He laughed quietly when the board she stepped on gave way, dropping her foot into the space underneath. She sucked in a breath, as his hands came around her waist and pulled her up, settling her into a sturdier spot.
"Sorry about that. This old porch can be tricky."
She'd wondered if he'd attack her then, when he'd put his hands on her. But again he disappointed. What WAS he waiting for? It would be so much simpler if he'd go on and try something. They could get the initial scuffle out of the way, and maybe they could talk to each other. The rest of this was all so false.
The game had never lasted this long with any of the others. Most of them would have tried her in the parking lot. A few, hardier, or more inventive, souls, would have agreed to go with her to the hotel room, before trying to kill her.
None of them had ever tried to take her to their lair- yet she was reasonably certain that was where they were now. The house reminded her much of Angel's mansion, of Spike's factory...of the lairs of Sunnydale that she was familiar with. They always smelled like age and rot.
He took her by the hand, and carefully led her inside the house. The dark was so complete that her eyes actually hurt, with trying to peer through it. Suddenly a spark to her left blinded her. A moment later the room came dimly into focus.
He was holding a lamp in his other hand. She recognized the type, but she'd never actually seen one lit before. They tended to be decorative rather than functional pieces nowadays. This one held green oil in the base, and a small flame danced inside the sloping glass top.
"Kerosene," he explained, "This house was never wired for electricity."
"I'd never have guessed," she quipped.
She looked around, taking in her surroundings.
They were at the base of a staircase, in a short hallway. To her left and right were tall doorways, and she could make out a window on the landing above them. It let some light in onto the stairs, but the light failed to penetrate this far down.
The door they'd come through was a massive wooden thing, heavy oak or something similar. Above it was a small rectangular window, covered in a dark paper or fabric. Towards the back of the house was more darkness, deep and empty. It might have been another room; or it might have been a wall.
"Come on. You want something to drink?" he said. His voice had grown very cool and distant, a marked change from the warm playfulness he'd evinced earlier in the bar. Surprisingly she found that reassuring. Maybe things were about to get real now.
She followed him into the left room, where he placed the lamp onto a low table, throwing shadows all around it.
Now she could see better. This room had twin windows on its long outside wall. They were covered with heavy draperies, but the fabric was old and moth-eaten, letting snippets of moonlight into the room. She could make out the shapes of bookcases on the rear wall, and another door. To her right, she could see the outline of a sofa and some chairs. She moved towards them for a better look.
"Pretty pieces you have. Empire style, I guess?"
He grunted something of an assent, as he opened a chest by the bookcases.
"I'm sorry- no refrigeration out here either. You have your choice of gin, tequila, or bourbon."
"Bourbon, please."
She studied the furniture, and concluded it was probably from the same period as the house itself. The fabric coverings were in horrible shape, but the construction was sound.
He brought her a bottle, without a glass.
"So, Empire, you said? Hmm. Didn't know what they call 'em. I just knew they were old."
She seized upon the opportunity to talk about something.
"Yes. My- My parents run an antiquities business. My father could probably tell you more about them. The tables all match, but that's about all I can say on them. The sofa is a common style. But I think this might be the original fabric, which would boost their value."
She knew she was babbling.
He smiled grimly at her, as he replied.
"Yeah. I think they are. Original, I mean."
It occurred to her then that he might be original to the house as well.
She knocked back a little bourbon, and studied him more carefully. He was roughly Spike's height, with a lighter build. His hair was dark brown, and his eyes, when she'd seen them in the bar, had been a deep velvety brown. He was nice looking in a fairly ordinary way. The pale skin set off his dark hair nicely. He was a little too thin, and his nose was a little too sharp, but this imperfection helped compensate for a soft, almost feminine mouth.
Said mouth split into a grin, as he decided he'd had enough pleasantries.
"So, Mabel. Welcome to my home."
He pulled her onto her feet, and she stumbled a little. He caught her up tight against him, and pulled her mouth against his.
It was a quick kiss, but not a chaste one. When he released her, her heart was hammering in her chest, and her breath came in ragged gasps.
He smiled again, and taking her hand, led her up the staircase, deeper into the darkness. Her throat was dry, her pulse hammering... but he made no overt moves, no strikes.
Atop the landing, he leaned in close, cool breath in her ear.
"You shouldn't have come here, honey."
His tone was friendly, even concerned. But she stepped away from him, just outside his reach, and bounced up two more steps.
"You going to attack me now?"
She meant it to sound playful, flirtatious. It did not come out that way.
He stopped on the landing, putting his hands onto his hips, studying her in the pale light from the window above.
"You gonna stop playing dumb?"
He seemed genuinely curious. She stepped quietly back down the stairs, and stood in front of him.
"Who are you, really?" he asked. "You're too young to be the Slayer."
Her fake smile cracked around the edges as she answered him.
"No. I'm not the Slayer."
He stepped close again, and she flinched a little. But she raised her chin up at him, defiant.
"Why haven't you tried to kill me yet?" she demanded.
He leaned back against the wall and shrugged his thin shoulders.
"I don't know, really. I came out tonight to hunt you. Like you're hunting us. I thought maybe the Slayer had come to town. But you're too young to be the Slayer, ain't you? You're weak and human, and you don't smell right."
He paused, and his hand snaked out to grab her wrist. She let him use it to drag her closer to him, in the shadow of the corner.
"But you don't really smell quite 'human', either, girlie... I'm not too sure just what you are."
Her stomach knotted, and she struggled to form the words. Here was what she had known for so long- and he sensed it too. She felt on the tip of some great discovery, as if perhaps tonight the world would finally make sense to her.
"Wh-what do I smell like to you?"
His voice tinged with irony, he answered her.
"Death, girl. You smell like death and ashes."
He pulled her hard against his chest, and she angled her head back, presenting her throat. He laughed at her.
"Is this how you killed my men? You offer them blood, and then stake them while they feed?"
He raked human teeth across her throat, and bit her earlobe hard. His fingers stole into the hair at the nape of her neck, caressing even as he pulled it taut, mingling pain with what would otherwise be gentleness.
She pressed an open palm against his chest.
"No. I didn't stake them while they fed."
He pulled back from her, his dark eyes seeking out her own.
"I can smell them all over you, girl. You've the scent of at least a dozen on you."
He said this with repugnance, his tone implying that he knew she lied. Hers was icy as she answered him.
"I didn't feed them. I Fucked Them."
He slapped her face, and the blow was heavy enough it knocked her backwards. She stumbled, and he brought her up short, by the hair.
"You're not a very nice little girl, are you? That's an awful nasty mouth for such a pretty lil thing. Maybe I ought to teach you some manners.."
Her head was still reeling, and she knew a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She'd bitten off more than she could chew with this one. He was stronger, older maybe. Certainly smarter- she'd never had one question her before.
He began dragging her back up the stairs, but this time she resisted. The suicidal urge to bed him had begun to pass, and she was growing seriously frightened. His grip was tight against her scalp. She got several good kicks in at him, but he held her out at arm's length, preventing more serious damage.
At the top of the stairs, he shoved her tightly up against the railing, and with one hand pulled her chin up to look at him.
"This what you been lookin' for, Sugar?"
His features blurred and shifted as brown eyes took on a yellow hue. He laughed again as she squirmed in his hands. Then he brought his mouth to hers.
The kiss was brutal. It was as though he was tasting her, his tongue like ice inside the warmth of her lips. Stolen warmth, she reflected. His body, like hers, was a loaner- they had that much in common, at least.
She laughed at him, biting down. The tang of his blood filled her mouth, but it tasted no different than any other blood to her. Blood tasted like old pennies- there was no magic to it.
His head pulled back, startled. She laughed out loud and spat his blood back at him. It sprayed across his face, as he shook off the demon's visage and resumed his façade of mortality.
"Funny...You don't taste 'special'."
She said this in a breathy voice, her eyes wide, her manner playful.
He looked at her oddly, and released her head. His voice shook a little.
"What are you?"
She advanced upon him, smiling wickedly.
"Better living through necromancy."
Tilting her head to one side, she looked him up and down, studying.
"You know, you're the first one that's ever asked me that. What I am, anyway...I keep trying to answer it."
His voice lilted with unspoken laughter.
"And you think maybe if you screw enough dead people, maybe you'll figure it out?"
She shook her head.
"No, not really. But maybe if I do enough of you, it won't bother me anymore. The whole being dead thing. I mean- not that I'm dead now or whatever... Cos I'm not."
She indicated her body with one hand, the gesture unconsciously seductive.
"But this body. This flesh. It's stolen."
She stepped closer to him, placing a hand onto his middle. Almost tenderly she patted his stomach.
"Just like this is."
He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her back up against him.
"My flesh isn't stolen, girl...It's belonged to me for the last hundred and sixty some odd years."
He wasn't uninterested, she realized. The flesh he spoke of was responding to her nearness and her availability. She ground herself against him, her slim hips fitting his.
He growled at her, and slid his hands down towards her rump, and squeezed.
She knew she'd have bruises there in the morning. If she had a morning.
His lips were on her again, and she groaned into his mouth, her warm breath heating his cool lips. He pressed her up against the staircase again, wedging her bottom against the mahogany handrail as his hands wandered freely over her form.
He drew his head back, and studied her with a look of unconcealed loathing.
"You always this easy?" he asked her.
But his hands were still busy, working tender magic at odds with his gruff tone. His fingertips caressed her breasts through the thin silk of her blouse. She mumbled something inarticulate in reply, and he skimmed his lips over the pulse point in her throat.
The sound of fabric tearing brought her back to herself, and she looked down to see his hair against her bare breast. He'd torn her shirt open, and nuzzled against her, suckling. She heard a low moan, and realized it was hers.
He raised his face to her, the light from the window behind them bringing his demonic visage into frightening detail.
She didn't cower from him. Instead she put her hand to the back of his head and dragged him back to her lips.
He pulled away from her kiss, and seized the back of her head, pulling her hair. She winced, but didn't cry out. Then he dragged her away from the staircase, and deeper into the house.
He tossed open a door, and dragged her into a dark room. Carelessly he threw her onto what might have been a bed at one time. Dust flew up, choking her, and she heard skittering as something,
<mice? bats?>
fled the scene of the crime.
She raised up on her elbows, but she couldn't see anything. The room was dark like a tomb, and smelled musty and ancient. Her fingers trailed over the fabric beneath her, and she felt it tearing under her delicate touch, coming apart in shreds.
Dry rot.
She rolled to one side as his weight fell upon the mattress next to her, and she gathered some idea of how small the bed was.
Her feet trailed off the end, and in rolling, she nearly fell off.
He grabbed for her, pulling her back.
She couldn't remember where she'd laid her purse. The thought came unbidden, as he dragged her up the bed, away from the footboard.
She'd known men. She'd known monsters. Sometimes, they'd been one and the same. But they all had certain things in common, and she knew the rules.
When she felt his bare skin against hers, she knew he wasn't going to kill her yet.
Somewhere downstairs she'd lost the fuck-me pumps, and she'd lost the blouse in the hall. Now he tugged the denim skirt up around her hips, and she felt his cool stomach pressed up against her leg as he bit down on her nipple. His fangs nicked her, but he removed them, licking delicately at the bead of blood on her skin.
Then there was a painful tearing sensation, reminiscent of her maidenhead, that lost vestige of innocence she'd shed on a human boy at sixteen. The vampire was large, and brutal. His hands and hips assaulted her senses. His lips came down onto hers again, his tongue forcefully plundering inside her mouth.
He pulled back and shoved forward again, pushing inside her hard. The top of her head thumped the headboard.
His kiss mimicked his intimate thrusts inside her body, robbing her of breath. She thrashed underneath him, seeking her pleasure even as he found his own.
His fangs were inside her again, this time at her throat, and now she felt the blood flowing, her life force deserting her body for his.
But he was lost in sensation, and unprotected. Her hands found his face, as she pushed her thumbs against his eyelids.
He roared at her as he tore his head free, and slapped her with an open hand. She punched him in the nose, and together they rolled off the bed.
They landed hard, upside down, on the floor, still intimately connected. But their positions were now reversed, the girl astride the monster.
She raised her hips up, and sank back down upon him heavily. He rolled his head back and groaned, as his hands found her hips, and helped to guide her. She slammed herself against him, grinding and keening.
Their loving was vicious. They rolled across the floor, fighting for dominance, jockeying for the upper hand, for control... He hit her. She punched him. The blood flowed on both sides. He crushed her wrists above her head, and broke one. She got loose at one point and kicked him in the balls. He tackled her back onto the ground beneath him, cursing her.
She bit clear through his tongue when she came.
**********
She woke up cold. Thin streams of early morning sunlight pricked the darkness of the room, and the twittering of birds outside made her head ache. She tugged a quilt over her lap, as she struggled to sit up.
Her head ached, and her mouth tasted awful. She reached to push her hair back from her eyes, and discovered her wrist was broken. It twisted oddly, and appeared swollen.
The uninjured hand stole up to her chest, palm flattening against bare, shivering skin.
The heart hammered within her ribcage, comforting in its human fear.
Her eyes stole around the room, but she was alone.
It was a bedroom, nominally; in that it contained a bed. But it was a small bed, strangely short and narrow. It was made up with the remains of a chenille bedspread, on which she now sat. Once there had been a canopy of some sort, but it hung from the posters in tattered ribbons of grey, and through the ripped covering above she could see stained ceiling, the plaster crumbling away revealing bare boards.
She darted a leg over the bedside, and promptly fainted.
When she came to, she knew not whether minutes or hours had passed in the interim. She sat up, creaking the floorboards beneath her.
Down here, she saw more evidence of ruin and neglect. The floor was littered with debris- bits of newspapers and magazines, stacks of books long dusty, empty bottles. To the left of her a tapered closet door gaped, stacks of blankets sliding out from it, precariously teetering as if they might fall at any second.
Aged draperies skimmed the floor, marking where the windows were. They let pinpoints of light in where they'd rotted. Suddenly she ached for more of that warmth. Crawling, she reached out, and felt the smooth damask under her palm. It gave way with little effort, ripping from its moorings above the windowpane, bathing her in bright Kentucky sunlight.
She could see her wrist better now, and it looked bad. A glimpse down looked even worse; there was blood on her breast and belly, blood caked on her thighs. She became aware of the soreness at her throat, and an ache in the backs of her legs. Her right hand hurt as well, and studying it she realized her knuckles were bruised and swollen, and there was blood under her nails.
She stood up again, slowly this time, and waited out the lightheadedness before she began to walk.
Her steps were careful, cautious...She didn't know where the vampire was. She was reasonably certain she'd not killed him last night- She didn't remember doing so, anyway. So it only made sense that he was in the house, somewhere.
Silently, she pulled on her skirt. In the hallway, she located her blouse. It was torn right down the center, and so she flipped it over and made to pull it on backwards.
As she smoothed it down over her torso she caught sight of herself at the other side of the hall. The mirror was cracked and spotty, and everything in it had the yellow hue of its aged surface. She studied herself impassively.
She looked small and broken, amid the wreckage. Peeling strips of fading flowered wallpaper seemed brighter than her skin. The bruise that covered half her face seemed as dark as the curtains behind her, her eyes looked large and black in the sallow emptiness of her expression.
A bird trilled outside and she jumped nearly out of her skin. Hurriedly she pulled herself away from the mirror and stumbled down the stairwell.
At the foot of the stairs, she looked uncertainly into the room where he'd welcomed her last evening. The darkness inside seemed forbidding, and she backed away, uncertain.
She bumped the wall, knocking loose a frame. Her hand grabbed behind her back, grasping the picture before it could fall to the ground. In her head, the bump alone was earthshattering; the shattering of glass would be even more so. She turned to it, placing it back upon the nail, and paused.
A photograph, it was. Sepia tinted, under years of grime behind glass. She rubbed its surface with the side of her hand, and exposed a family.
Five men, two women, and a baby, in front of a lace backdrop. Their clothing marked the period; she saw wide hoop skirts on the women, and confederate homespun on two of the men.
She stepped back from the picture suddenly, her heart racing.
The younger of the two officers. He didn't look all that different now.
She turned back toward the door, and tugged
it open, suddenly desperate, and staggered outside into the daylight.