Vampire's Feast Ambrose didn't do this often, or, it was more accurate to say, he hadn't done this in a while. He'd found his preferred club about ten years ago after all. And ten years ago wasn't even very long for a vampire, not to mention that he had been busy. There was his magic research and his lesson plans and just unlife in general, being a disgraced wizard was hard work after all. Still though, that goth club had been perfect for him. By contrast, he felt very out of place here. He had styled his hair into a fringe, put on red sunglasses, and wore a studded jacket over his button up. Quite frankly, the only thing he had in common with these people was wearing black and that he had an undead pallor to him. Everyone else was wearing mesh or tight jeans or some other such clubbing outfit Not to mention that the bass of the electronic music that was playing as he sipped his cocktail was incredibly unpleasant. The cocktail itself wasn't any good either. He had made a face when he first took a sip, the bitters and the whiskey not pairing well with the pig's blood and said blood didn't even taste fresh. It tasted like fridge. He vaguely wondered if the pig's blood had been chosen just to match the name of the drink, an "old-fashioned wallow." And while he certainly felt like he was wallowing in his discomfort, that didn't make it a good pun. He also wondered what the appeal of this place even was. Vampire nightclubs weren't exactly thriving businesses, what with the high cost and niche clientele. But this place was packed despite the dingy but not spooky surroundings, the middling yet too loud music, and the expensive, low-quality drinks. Maybe he was just getting old. He was coming up on his 80's after all, a time when vampires tend to stop keeping up for a while. When they start to act their age until they become truly ancient. But Dave insisted that Ambrose was just a young thing, that he needed to get to meet some more people before he turned 100, so here he was. Then again, he was pretty sure Dave had been a caveman when he was alive, so he wasn't sure why he took his advice. The only thing he could really do was people watch. It was while he was people watching that he noticed that he wasn't as out of place as he thought. There were other people in leather, who didn't exactly look like club-goers. But still, he felt like maybe a grey button up wasn't the right thing to wear under his jacket. Though it wasn't nearly as out of place as the man in the trench coat skulking around the fire alarm and staring up at the pipes. Maybe he was shy? Compelled to count the pipes? But then the music cut out and Ambrose groaned, putting his face in his hand. He wasn't sure if it would be worse for this to be a technical difficulty or the disc jockey making a speech. "Alright my vamps and ghouls, it's midnight! Ya'll know what that means here at the Sanguine Lounge!" The regulars cheered and they began to chant, "Sprinklers! Sprinklers! Sprinklers!" Ambrose raised an eyebrow at that. What did that mean? But then the fire alarm sounded, and the sprinklers indeed went off. At first, Ambrose yelped, not expecting his hair to get ruined. But then the scent hit his nose. The scents of iron and copper. He also looked down at his hands and saw that they were red. His interest already piqued by the scent, he licked his hand and his eyes immediately widened. It was mixed with some sort of anti-coagulant, but that was definitely human blood, mostly O and A positive. He kept licking his hand as he looked around. The music had come back on. Vampires around him were dancing on each other, kissing each other. It was an oddly beautiful sight, but not as beautiful as him. He looked like a man of 30, maybe a touch younger, but that wasn't an indication of age in a place like this. He was wearing black leather, but it wasn't a spotless trench coat. It was a battle jacket, covered in at least 25 years’ worth of patches. A pink triangle here, a vamp rights patch there, and more than a few anti-fascist patches. He was muscular, a life of hard work before his vampirism evident, his mohawk flattened onto his brown skin by the blood that fell from dingy heaven, eyes closed as he enjoyed the shower. And Ambrose knew what he wanted as he stared at those blood covered lips. He went up to the man, grabbed him by the jacket, and immediately went to lick and suck at the man's neck. He didn't bite down, he could never, but he still tasted the blood, the salt of the man's skin. The punk gasped and gave a moan but didn't stop Ambrose, he actually pulled him closer, gripping his hair and his back. He playfully told him, "Most people would say hi first." But eventually, Ambrose did pull away. Not to stop, but to kiss the man directly on the mouth, both of them moaning as they embraced. Ambrose's mouth opening up as he felt his stranger's tongue run over his fangs. He tasted like cheap whiskey and, of course, blood. Not just from here, but warm and fresh, contrasting against the coolness of his mouth. His hands even began to wander into the man's jacket and under his shirt, feeling his cool, soft skin. But then, just as quickly as it had started, it ended. The lights came on and the sprinklers stopped. Ambrose pulled away from his stranger to see that the man who had been lurking around the fire alarm was standing on a table. The man looked at all the vampires and said, "Alright, party's over!" Ambrose, the punk, and several other vampires hissed at the man. Ambrose also read the man's aura while he was at it. There was definitely the malevolent vampire's aura to him, yes, but also a human anger there. But it wasn't a wizard exerting an effort, it was all natural. The human and vampire auras one and the same and also not. And that could only mean one thing. This was a dhampir. A dhampir who was wearing all black and had interrupted a vampire's nightclub. His mind began to race in terror. He looked for exits, places where he could grab his stranger's hand and run. He both looked and felt like a scared animal ready to bolt. Prey. With his eyes blown and hair flattened against his face as he hissed, he was desperate to escape, especially as the slayer reached into his jacket and pulled out a wooden- clipboard? The surprise at the sight of simple office equipment in what looked like the hands of a slayer knocked every vampire out of their defensive stance. Hissing died down into whispering as the not-a-slayer pulled a pair of reading glasses out of a different pocket, removing his shades to put them on. "My name is inspector Frank Blade and, after doing a surprise inspection of this nightclub, am shutting it down under the authority of the department of health and safety of the state of Washington. I found dozens of violations today, including improper storage of blood, improper disposal of biohazards, and, worst of all, tampering with an emergency sprinkler system. And on a more personal note, you people are fucking nasty. Do you know how dirty the inside of a sprinkler is?" Ambrose would have turned bright red if he could. He had really drunk from a sprinkler like a dog from a hose. He finally noticed the aftertaste of rust and spiderwebs in his mouth. He even heard some people muttering and spitting, also realizing what they had done. Though there was booing from the regulars as well. The inspector spoke once more, "Hey, hey! Enough of that! Everybody out! This place is closed!" With that the vampires finally began to scuttle out. Some embarrassed and disgusted, others just frustrated. As Ambrose started walking out, he felt someone grab his hand and saw it was the punk he had been kissing. The punk said, "Hey, my name's Johnny, by the way." "And mine's is Ambrose," the wizard said, letting Johnny lead him out. Maybe this night wasn't a total waste.
Art of Ambrose is provided by my good friend Vigo aka fingerteeths, whose other art you can find here
copyright Sam Garcia 2024 |