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
