Page 4 of Grave Throbbing
Now, the country was split into five regions with five separate vampire councils, and Harley held the coveted position of liaison to Empress Marcella for the two eastern regions. His counterpart, George Blackwing, was the empress's liaison for the three western regions.
On the earlier trip to New York, then Queen, now Empress Marcella had killed a vampire for siring another against his and the council's will. Two more were beheaded when that vampire's progeny had escaped her detection and skipped town. The young vampire, Ciarán, had immobilized Harley and slipped from his custody. Harley had been lucky enough to return home with head and heart intact.
Well, head, anyway. He'd liked Ciarán, and then Ciarán had paralyzed him with a bite that shouldn't have worked on another vampire. He'd run off toward the rising sun, leaving Harley barely enough time to return to Hotel Chelsea before sunrise. By that evening, all trace of the young vampire was gone.
Empress Marcella had been uncharacteristically lenient with Harley when he'd returned empty-handed. She'd been certain Ciarán would return, but Harley was still waiting.
He always thought of Ciarán in autumn, though the weather was less and less autumnal. Tonight, he was too frazzled to stay in his apartment on a rare vacation night off. He was a block away from a nightclub, sniffing at a familiar scent on the breeze. There were plenty of other vampires in Boston, but none who smelled as distinctly of cloves and mint. He caught a hint of brown curls and hazel eyes before the vampire ducked inside a nondescript employee entrance.
That's how Harley found himself in line for a vampire night club's haunted house party. He wondered how any of the humans around him still doubted climate change was real. He remembered celebrating Samhain in freezing fog and sleet when he was alive.
Today, the humans would still mistake him for a young man. His sire turned him at age 23, but that had been two centuries ago.
He wasn't the only vampire in line, but most skipped it. The bouncer in charge of the velvet rope let them pass through without scrutiny. Meanwhile, they drew the humans' attention and ire. Harley liked copacetic food. Angry humans tasted spicy, and Harley had a sensitive palate.
Not that he needed to eat tonight, not really. Thanks to synthetic blood, vampires no longer had to hide their existence from humans. Harley counted on the bland stuff in his refrigerator to keep him alive.
Tonight, he needed a different rush. He had three days to prepare for Empress Marcella's visit. He could read between the lines of her email announcing her secret visit to Boston. She suspected wrongdoing among the council, heads would roll, and his job as liaison wouldn't save him from scrutiny.
Harley hadn't seen Empress Marcella in person since that fateful visit to New York, when she'd asked him to help Ciarán learn to enthrall humans using his mind. She specialized in mind tricks, her vampire gift, though enthralling humans was something any vampire could do with enough patience and practice. Harley had perfected the technique when he'd been the empress's guest in Rome. She had asked him to teach the method to Ciarán, and he had. The young vampire had taken to it quickly and then disappeared.
Harley was desperate if he was seeing and smelling a phantom on the wind. Ciarán's scent and familiar countenance slipping through the back entrance were the only reasons Harley waited on queue at Fanglory, the trendiest vampire club in Boston.
Fifteen minutes later, he'd searched the bar front to back with no sign or smell of Ciarán. There was a locked door beneath an unlit neon sign. Why the club thought they needed a neon sign to advertise a storage room was beyond Harley, but he'd seen many inexplicable things in his long life.
He'd found no sign of Ciarán. He must have been mistaken, which was unfortunate. They'd had an interesting evening together before Ciarán had skipped town. Sure, he'd been angry when the young vampire had disappeared, but now he wished Ciarán well. Tonight, he'd followed to see … he didn't know what.
Harley glanced at the drink menu written in neon ink on a massive blackboard above the bar. Fanglory carried three different types of synthetic blood, along with the humans' usual alcoholic drinks. He ordered one infused with gin from the bartender. He didn't need blood for the night, but it would keep his hands busy while he continued to scan the room. His hands drifted to his neck when he was nervous. After two centuries, he had yet to master the stillness of the undead in social situations. Too often, he'd flagged down strangers by accidentally waving at them.
The bartender set an eight-ounce tumbler of what looked like tomato juice on the counter and dropped a little paper umbrella into it. Harley would never get used to the strange tint of the synthetic stuff. Actual blood was darker, but he supposed it was best to blend in with the humans if it looked like he was drinking a bloody mary, and not Mary's blood. At home, he preferred to drink it straight from the black plastic bottles so he wouldn't have to look at it.
"Need change?" the bartender asked when he handed them a twenty.
"No, thanks." He could afford to tip big when this would be the only drink he bought. There was a second floor he still needed to explore, but if Ciarán wasn't there, Harley would end his night early.
He reached for the glass tumbler to take a sip, but another vampire slid onto the bar stool next to his and blocked his hand. There was something familiar about her, and yet, not. She had Ciarán's same hazel eyes in a delicate, heart-shaped face. Where Ciarán had brown curls, her black hair was stick straight.
"For me?" she asked. "Thanks." She tipped her head back and drained it in one go, letting it slide down her throat and swallowing several times until the glass was empty, save for a ring of red at the bottom.
She licked the remainder off her lips and placed the lipstick-stained glass on the bar, giving a nod to the bartender. Then, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. "Nice henna."
Without his prop to stop him, his hands fluttered to his neck, putting the henna tattoo sleeves on full display. They were the best part of his Halloween costume. His neighbor, a tattoo artist branching out into temporary ink, had been trying to get him under her needle for years, but vampires metabolized tattoo ink too quickly. The henna would last longer since his skin didn't slough off as quickly as a human's.
"I said nice tattoos." The vampire nudged his boot with hers.
Harley had dressed as an 80s rocker, and they wore similar outfits. He'd laced up his boots over sparkling Lycra pants and pulled on a cut-off sleeveless t-shirt depicting some band from the 1980s.
In contrast, she wore boots over fishnets and a tight leather bustier instead of a t-shirt. She didn't have any markings on her bare white arms, though it was hard to tell with bangle bracelets ringing them from wrist to elbow. Her exposed midriff accentuated the barbell in her navel, but she had no tattoos. Her stick straight hair stuck out from her high ponytail at odd angles and stank of heat treatment. He couldn't tell her vampire age, exactly, but he sensed she was far younger than he was.
She seemed harmless enough, so he ventured an answer. "My neighbor is a tattoo artist. She's learning henna and might give you a good deal."
"He talks!" She met his gaze and held out her hand. "Name's Greed. You're Harley."
He blinked as he shook her hand. He'd remember someone named after a deadly sin. The only person she remotely resembled was Ciarán, and only because Harley had him on the brain in the first place.
"I'm going to make your night." She pointed to the unlit neon sign he'd noticed earlier and glanced at her phone. "I've got twenty-five minutes left in my break." She turned to study him, taking in his kohl and stubble with a smirk before examining the bulge in his Lycra pants.
He didn't know what she wanted, but he was, "Not interested."
