Blood Sisters_ Vampire Stories by Women - Paula Guran Page 0,138

than urban legend—but occasionally there’s something far more sinister going on.

The interior of The Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T-shirt, I’m somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code. I wave down the bartender, who doesn’t seem to consider it odd I’m sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn’t bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it’s not like I’m going to drink what’s in it.

Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the low down in places like this isn’t that hard. All I’ve got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I’ve developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once—sifting the meaningless ones aside until I find the one I’m looking for. I suspect it’s not unlike how sharks can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from a hundred miles away.

“—told him he could kiss my ass goodbye—”

“—really liked their last album—”

“—bitch acted like I’d done something—”

“—until next payday? I promise you’ll get it—”

“—of the undead. He’s the real thing—”

There. That one.

I angle my head in the direction of the voice, trying not to look at them directly. There are three, total—one male and two female—locked in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypical Goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie, wearing way too much eye make-up. One is tall and willowy, her heavily-applied death-pale face powder doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she’s a natural dishwater blonde. Her companion is considerably shorter and a little too pudgy for the black satin bustier she’s shoehorned into. Her face is painted clown white with tattooed mascara shaped like an ankh at the corner of her left eye, which I’ve learned is more in imitation of a popular comic book character than a tribute to the Egyptian gods. She’s wearing a man’s felt top hat draped in a length of black lace that makes her look taller than she really is.

The male member of the group is tall and skinny, outfitted in a pair of leather pants held up by a monstrously ornate silver belt buckle. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and his bare, hairless breastbone is visible underneath his leather jacket. He’s roughly the same age as the girls, perhaps younger, and constantly nodding in agreement with whatever they say, nervously flipping his lank, burgundy-colored hair out of his face. It doesn’t take me long to discern that the tall girl is called Sable, the short one in the hat is Tanith, and that the boy is Serge. The girl they are talking to has close-cropped Raggedy Ann-style red hair and a nose ring, and goes by the name Shawna.

Out of habit, I drop my vision into the Pretender spectrum and scan them for signs of inhuman taint. All four check out clean. This piques my interest even further. I move a little closer to where they are standing, so I can filter out the music blaring out of the nearby jukebox.

Shawna shakes her head and smiles nervously, uncertain as to whether she’s being goofed on or not. “C’mon—a real vampire?”

“We told him about you, didn’t we, Serge?” Tanith looks to the gawky youth hovering at her elbow for confirmation.

Serge nods his head eagerly, which necessitates his flipping his hair out of his face yet again.

“His name is Rhymer. Lord Rhymer. He’s three hundred years old,” Sable adds breathlessly. “And he said he wanted to meet you!”

Despite her attempts at post-modern chic, Shawna smiles like a flattered schoolgirl. “He really said that?

I can tell she’s hooked as clean as a six-pound trout and that it won’t take much more work on the trio’s part to land their catch. The quartet of black-leather clad young rebels quickly leave the Red Raven, scurrying off as fast as their Doc Martens can take them. I give it a couple of beats, and then set out after them.

As I shadow them from a distance, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something isn’t adding up. Although I seem