Part 1 (1/2)
THE BROTHERHOOD.
BITE ME.
by Willa Okati.
Dedication.
For ”The Mouse,” who fell in love with Bree and encouraged me to make and keep him the wild, wicked bad boy he is. You keep me rockin'!
Prologue
”You're early.”
”So I am.” Julian slid into his accustomed seat at the bar's end. Amour Magique boasted several watering holes of varying cla.s.s and convenience, each with its own bartender specifically chosen to suit the typical clientele. Some were easier to find than others -- some had to be looked for with deliberate intent to make them appear, some hid in the shadows, and some catered to any who happened by. Julian had long since chosen this one, hidden by magic and shadows in a corner of Amour Magique, frequented only by those in the know and the occasional b.u.mbler who stumbled across it by curious accident.
His kind of people. His kin.
Not that they acknowledged him, or he them. They might throw him a glare, as one would toss a bone to a dog, but he had long since perfected a slight smile that drove them absolutely mad. None dared approach him for a challenge. They knew his power to be greater than their own, that he had risen as far above them as a G.o.d before an ant. He had worked to perfect his skills, something few of his lazy brethren could understand. Every so often, to his great amus.e.m.e.nt, sycophants would raise the banner for him to become king of their breed -- and were shocked at his refusal.
No, not for him the responsibilities of a monarchy. He took pains to make that clear. Despite all temptations throughout centuries of existence, he emphasized that all he wanted was to be left alone to savor his preferred drinks, amuse himself with beautiful men, and observe the richness of life as it pa.s.sed by the bar.
He was patient, for one of his sort -- another of the skills he had worked to perfect. Patient enough to put up with Silas's odd choice for bartender in this particular corner. While the owner of Amour Magique did have a peculiar sense of humor, he never failed to show good business sense, so Julian never complained, accepting that the specific choice of bartender was deliberate.
But, really. A garrulous, tactless, utterly unbeautiful, balding shrimp of a man in charge of a bar designed for his kind?
A meat puppet sent to control the vampires?
It delighted Julian to no end that Silas's odd design worked. The bartender, plain old Tom, brooked no nonsense from the blood-drinkers who liked to pose and threaten. He laughed off their threats to bite him and laid odds on their fangs even being able pierce his tough old hide. Julian often had to stifle his chuckles at the young undeads' absolute bewilderment at Tom's total unconcern over being their natural prey.
He didn't often decide he liked someone, but he believed, after weighing it thoroughly, that he liked Tom. Tom seemed to favor Julian, as well, so it all worked out.
The mortal had been humming to himself as he set up a row of gleaming shot gla.s.ses. Now, he cut a frankly curious look at Julian. ”So?”
Julian affected a blank face. ”So, what?”
”What's with the early? You don't stumble outta your digs until sundown. Least, not since I've known ya. Somethin' up, or goin' down?” Tom winked. He knew that such nosiness was akin to putting his foot in a bear trap, but he did it with all the vampires, most of whom were so taken aback that they blurted out all their plans.
Julian, however, was beyond such foolishness and had learned to guard his tongue. ”Possibly,” he responded, trailing his finger over Tom's polished bar. ”Are you set up for the night?”
”Nah. Not yet. Gotta wait for the Red Double-Cross to make their delivery.” Tom grinned. ”So, no good stuff yet. Guy tipped me off we might get some AB-negative, only a couple days past date.”
”It all tastes the same.”
”Yeah? I figured. Not like vodka versus gin versus rum, after all. Blood's blood. Too bad you can't taste it right. Got a fabulous Scotch in this morning. Fifty years old. Dust on those bottles near about made me sneeze up a lung.”
Julian quirked an eyebrow. ”How can I resist a sales pitch like that?” he asked dryly. ”I can taste well enough. I'll take a sample of it.”
”Your funeral. Or not.” Tom cackled to himself as he set up the gla.s.s and uncorked a still-dusty bottle. The heavy smell of peat and smoke filled Julian's nose. Hardly neat or polished in his approach, Tom splashed the expensive liquid in with abandon and shoved it across, grinning. ”Get yourself a snootful of that. Had a sip myself earlier.”
Julian took the gla.s.s and inhaled, wistful despite himself for the days when he could have enjoyed every nuance of the drink.
It would be costly. ”Add it to my tab, of course, but out of curiosity, how much does this run?”
Tom rolled his eyes, whistling. ”f.u.c.kin' fortune, man.”
”You might have said before you poured it out.” ”Like you can't afford the stuff. Drink hearty. I'll take ten percent off if you tell me, honest and true, how it tastes to a vamp.
I gotta know how it works on your kind of tastebuds. If it's still good, which I bet it is, Silas owes me fifty for betting no vamp would be interested.”
A wager? Well, anything to pa.s.s the time. Julian lifted the gla.s.s, breathing in the bouquet once more before trying a small sip.
He closed his eyes involuntarily as the strong wash of flavors raced over his tongue. Few things besides blood tasted of more than water or sand to a vampire, yet this had flavor aplenty For a moment, heady with the rush, he felt mortal again.
Tom didn't have to ask. He broke into a hoot of laughter and slammed the flat of his hand on the bar. ”Knew it!”
Julian allowed him a smile. ”You have a gift, Tom.”
”Nah. Just been hangin' around you creeps so long, I can figure what'll do the trick and what won't.” Tom rolled his eyes.
”Yet you still stock wine coolers.”
”Eh, the wannabe babies gotta have something that won't set them pukin' right off.” Tom grinned, whipped out a white cloth, and began polis.h.i.+ng the spotless bar. Julian watched with interest. Was it merely something all bartenders did out of habit, or was it to keep their hands busy, much like habitual smokers needed the feel of a cigarette between their fingers to keep their minds on an even keel?
It pleased him that he could be curious. As long as his mind remained active, even with regard to trivia, it meant he was still sharp. Still at the top of his game. Still in control of himself. Every aspect of himself.
Julian was a vampire and had long since accepted what that meant in every aspect of his undead life. He knew himself as few ever did, mortal or otherwise. That, above all else, was what made him dangerous. Very few were smart or lucky enough to understand that.
It kept him on top.
Allowed him to do as he pleased.
Let him enjoy the ages stretching on and on. True, maintaining his power and status took discipline, but it left plenty of time for other pursuits. One of which was indulging his taste in Amour Magique's clientele. And like a skilled hunter, he always laid careful plans to trap his prey.
He took another slow sip of Scotch, riding out the wave of bliss that came with its strong taste, then put it down. It would last him for hours. Tom didn't mind Julian taking up a stool at his bar, and he would, of course, be purchasing blood once the delivery came. In the meantime, this corner was a peaceful place to examine his latest acquisition.
Not bothering to conceal his actions, Julian slid an envelope from his pocket and opened it. A variety of pictures, from Polaroids to printed Web pages to mugshots, spilled across the bar top. Julian studied them with great interest, plucking up the sole line drawing amongst the others -- a drawing of a young, slender man with a fall of impish curls and sparkling eyes. He wore a blue crystal around his neck, the only spot of color in the picture.
”Liam,” he murmured. ”Son of Lilith.” They had met before on occasion, but it had been centuries since their paths last crossed.
Completely unashamed of being nosy, Tom paused in his polish work to poke his nose in. He made a noise of approval.