I felt sleep beginning to leave me. I wish it left like it used to, slow and warm like a soft blanket being pulled back. Now my slumber is replaced by a quick, vivid state of alert and awake. The worst part is I was dreaming tonight, which didn't happen often. Already the details of my dream were quickly fading, reduced to blurred shapes and muffled sounds. My eyes flew and I gasped for air, a habitual reflex. Waking assured me I am still partially alive. It might seem odd to notice or even take pleasure in the fact I could be considered partially alive, being partially dead it was the best I could do. I have been dead, or undead for as long as I can remember. The change is different for everyone; my embrace resulted in far to few dreams and the feeling of my soul forcefully being returned to my body along with the other common changes that occur. I have talked with some other kindred and have yet to find someone else with the same sleep oddities I have. Then again I have yet to find someone as old as I am.
I greet this night like most others, with a half-hearted yawn, a stretch and a conscious effort to sit upright. My room is dark; steel neatly welded over the pre-existing windows took care of all light that might attempt to enter my sanctuary. My vision sharpened in seconds to see that nothing had been disturbed since I fell asleep the previous night. The locks on the door are still secure, only accessible from the inside of the room. "Friday.... it has to be Friday doesn't it?" I mumble as I move across the room.
I flick on a light out of habit as I approach my closet, my next action to rouse my slumbering computer. After some clicks and whirrs the screen lights up, adding to the glow. My bedroom, without sounding like a braggart, is massive. The light provided by the lamp and computer did little to affect the shadows that still dance in the far away corners. Of all the rooms in my flat, my bedroom was by far my favorite. The vaulted ceilings reach up two floors and are styled such that one is reminded of an old, stone Catholic church, the kind that you generally find in Europe. My king sized bed barely takes up any floor space. The décor is spartan; instead of a massive four poster bed the mattress sits on a simple frame of dark wood. Opposite the bed a small seating area holds a full sized red velvet couch and a small purple settee. Just to the side of the sitting area sits a work desk, made of the same dark wood as the bedframe. Currently it holds a computer, printer, sorting baskets and a dark metal tin full of various writing utensils. The room is simple and functional, serving as my sleeping quarters and my home office.
I move to the closet as the computer boots up and grab my traditional Friday garb; a black cotton camisole, black ribbed turtleneck, black leather pants, black ankle boots and a hair tie. Easy to pick out, everything matches and little prep time involved. In a matter of minutes I am dressed and ready to tackle any messages I might find on my e-mail. Most, I predict, are going to be business related. Since supernaturals were 'outed' in 1930 and began to slowly gain acceptance through rulings and amendments life was somewhat easier. I am now able to manage and maintain my businesses independently and not hire a human puppet whose strings I would be required to pull and monitor closely. Previous puppets had been deceitful, stolen goods and money and required prosecution, which again I couldn't partake in until the Supernatural Rights Amendment of 1969. I now have full control of not only the condos I own, I also have full control my nightclub, The Red Room. I know, terribly cliché, a vamp owning a nightclub. When you can only work limited hours your employment choices are limited; of my choices nightclub fit my lifestyle best. So shoot me.
The e-mails inform me of delinquent tenants (luckily only one person was this month), The Red Room's upcoming band schedule and liquor order that had come in this afternoon. Nothing looked terribly stressful or like it required immediate attention. I take a second to shut down the computer before moving to the door to begin working the series of locks.
The second I step into the living area the phone begins to ring. It could only be one person this early on a Friday, Shandra. I smirk as I stride across the room to catch the call before the answering machine picks up. "Hey," she drawls, not bothering to wait for my salutation, "you plan on getting up and heading downtown anytime soon? I mean, you know it's well past 9:00....your boy Will is going to be wondering where his number one gal is." A chuckle ends her statement holding an implied understanding, one I choose to ignore.
"Shandra, give me 10 minutes, I'll be by and we'll head out."
"Sure sure Ash, 10 minutes." Another chuckle before her line goes dead.
Because it's Friday, it isn't acceptable to just walk out the door. Friday means pack meeting, which could mean trouble. My position as the pack's second in command requires me to be well prepared. I quickly strap a sheath on my left thigh that held a twenty-one inch short sword and two wrist sheaths, each holding 5-inch blades. Next to my knives lay a pair of black leather kid gloves. Pausing, I take a moment to assess my 'hand' situation. Being the advanced age I am, the longer between feedings the more translucent my skin becomes, with the hands being the first to show. Sure enough my hands look as if they are encased in opalescent white tissue paper with royal blue ribbons tracing beneath. It is definitely a glove evening. At least they are well made; the leather is soft and supple and provides no resistance regardless of how my hands move. After snatching up my keys I move to head out the door.
I take the stairs since Shandra lives two floors below me and waiting for the elevator would result in increased heckling, which is something I afford her the opportunity to do. Any other pack member, barring Will, would wind up on the end of my short sword for heckling me. I reach her door without difficulty, which opens at almost the same instant I knock on it. "Mmmm, 7 minutes. Does it really take you that long to come down two flights of stairs? Are you going wimp on me?"
Shandra and I can easily be a study in opposites, starting with appearances and ending with personalities. She is an extrovert; the kind of woman that easily is the life of the party without trying. Any kind of situation has the tendency to slide off her back; even if she winds up with a little blood on her hands she still is unnervingly candid. I've seen this happen first hand. To match her outgoing personality is a body that men over the centuries have lusted after and fought for. She is petite, coming to stand five feet four inches tall. Her Maker blessed her with curves humans wind up going under the knife to achieve, full but not obscenely so breasts, a narrow waist that flows into hips, and slender legs. As if this isn't enough a shimmering veil of chestnut hair flows down her back, highlights of red and gold catching the light. Her eyes are a deep chocolate brown, and at this moment they are fixed on me. "Girl!" she laughs out, "Your hair!"
My hair was only the beginning of my physical misfortune. I am rather tall, standing five feet nine. Luckily the average height curve has finally caught up with me, but I still tend to slouch to blend in with my surroundings. Whereas Shandra has a womanly shape, my shape hasn't progressed past adolescent female. It seems the artist who crafted me was a student of lines and angles. My hair is a flaming copper and unruly; a mass of curls most would find difficult to manage. The only thing I have come to fully appreciate on my body was my eyes. Before my change they were a soft green but with age the color has lightened, almost gone transparent, resulting in a vivid jade. The only way I could now appreciate the color of my eyes was to look at a picture of myself. It is true that some vampires can't see their reflection in mirrors, which brings us back to the hair situation I have created.
Shandra moves to stand behind me and fixes the unseen calamity. "You had half of it up and the other half...well let's just say you looked like you might have been playing with some electricity, hrm?"
"Thanks," I groan, taking a moment to feel my newly fixed hair. "You ready?"
She nods, pulling up the end of her jacket to reveal a Glock. "Girl, that new blood's just about driving me crazy. I'm two steps away from shooting him just to keep my sanity."
"Ilan?" I nod in agreement, beginning the walk to the parking garage. "I know. I'm going to bring that up with Will after pack business." Pulling a PDA out of one of my pocket I review the evening's agenda. "Not much going on tonight, at least not much is slated." We walk through a heavy steel door into an underground parking garage, moving towards a black Jaguar parked just to the right of the entrance. The locks flick open allowing us to slide into the cool leather seats and moments later we are headed into downtown Raleigh.
Ch 2
It still amazes me how quickly cities built up after the acceptance of supernaturals. Once supers began gaining rights it seemed there was an exodus of people from the suburbs and a rebuilding of the downtowns that humans were once so quick to vacate. Today the terribly wealthy, the terribly poor or those that have paranormal means of protecting themselves populate the suburbs. Not many would choose to be attacked by a roving pack of werewolves or a vampire and be far removed from not only protection but medical attention as well. Middle America along with anyone else that could afford it relocated to the townhouses, condos, flats and few houses that dot the downtown area. The reasoning is simple; live closer to the policemen, the firemen, the slayers and bounty hunters so when trouble did come to your door help was a stone's throw away. Of course supers also live downtown, but the humans feel safer with their protectors nearby. The suburbs have turned into a no-mans land, a place where if you have to travel you make very sure you are equipped to deal with a variety of situations that are likely to arise. The suburbs are known for rogue supers, from vampires to werewolves to mages and just about any other threat to human kind you can think of. All the better for me, I never have to worry about finding tenants for my flats and my nightclub stays full. Both of my businesses cater to humans and supers; I don't discriminate when it comes to money. It does make for some tense situations but business is business, and at this point I can't complain for money.
After a quick ten-minute drive we arrive at The Red Room. The parking attendant quickly recognizes my car and waves me through to the underground parking deck. I pull into my reserved spot and turned the engine off, pausing a moment before exiting the car. Shandra is already out and making her way towards the door before she takes a look back.
I need blood. I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I will need a feeding before the meeting and I don't have the time to find a willing donor. Luckily this is not a problem. "Shandra, I need to stop at my office. Head on without me." I give her a wave before moving through the door next to my car. Making my way up a softly lit hallway I eventually reach a large door, larger than the other doors littering the hall. The cherry finish shines dully under the lighting; a nameplate reads 'Ashling Malone'. To the side of the door is a fingerprint plate; I press my index finger to the plate before the lock clicks open. I wish I had more time to relax, to appreciate the ambiance I so carefully arrange my office to exude, but at the moment it is not an option. With a few quick strides I make my way to what would appear to be a mini-refrigerator. Instead of a cool rush meeting my hand as I open the door I am met with a warm but comfortable 98.6 degrees. It makes perfect sense; on would not want to drink chilled blood. It would be the rough equivalent of drinking cold red wine. Not only is it a social faux pas but it is unpleasant as well. I reach in, grabbing a bag towards the front and check the date.
The act of using blood bags is still a point of much controversy in the vampire community. There are those that argue vehemently our kind is made to hunt, to draw blood from a living, breathing human with a still beating heart. I completely agree...to a point. There are times when one is unable to hunt or find a donor. Blood banks realized they could turn a profit for blood bags and have been more than willing to sell their wares. At some banks you can arrange regularly scheduled drops and receive discounts for volume orders. The blood banks return part of the profit back to donors in the form of increased financial compensation. It isn't unheard of for some blood banks to offer $75 a pint to regular donors. Of course a certain amount of blood still finds its way to the hospitals. The increase in compensation has resulted in an increase in donors, quite the opposite of the donor shortages that characterized the seventies, eighties and early nineties.
The bag I pick was just drawn yesterday, still fresh. With a sigh I raise it to my lips, let my overly developed canines nick the surface gently before pressing them through the plastic to drink. It is nothing like drinking from a living human; there is no heart to send the blood coursing through my mouth, no body to hold, to gauge the victim's reaction of fear, anticipation or complete surrender. It is much like being presented with the choice of both a filet mignon and a vintage red wine from a five star restaurant or a burger and soda from a fast food joint. Both serve the same purpose and end with the same result, but one meal you savor and let all of our senses enjoy. The other you consume quickly, and just as quickly you discard the wrapper before your associates question your eating habits.
I know my feeding is spotless so I skip cleaning up to head back out into the hallway. The soft grey carped muffles my footsteps as I make my way to the meeting room, just several doors down. Although I know my delay is brief, I am certain I am the last to arrive. Pausing outside the door, I ready myself before pushing through.
Ch 3
The meeting room, much like all lower levels of The Red Room, is well soundproofed from the bar noise above. The subterranean levels extend three floors below the actual bar and serve as a communal haven for other, mostly younger pack members. Only a few of us live outside the communal, myself, Shandra and two other members. Will, our pack leader, stays in the communal to better maintain peace and order. As I enter the room all conversations stop as everyone takes a moment to eye the cause of the interruption. I move silently to my chair, pulling it back from the table and taking care as I sit so the tips of my swords don't pierce the leather of the chair. The moment I am situated Will clears his throat and asks, "Are all representatives accounted for?"
Our pack is large, numbering over 50. Several years back an executive decision was made that barring special circumstances 10 representatives would be elected and attend meetings as well as be responsible for communicating questions and concerns between the executives and the masses.
"Good," Will intones, "then to the first area of discussion. We are still investigating the threat of a werewolf pack encroaching on our territory, correct? Any updates?"
A plain looking man speaks. "I have yet to find information to validate this...unseen threat." The last part is delivered with a sneer, one that Ilan's face wears too often. It's easy to see why Shandra, several others and myself wistfully dream of sharp, pointy objects when Ilan is around.
"The information we received," I manage to counter smoothly, "is not only credible but echoes the apparent growing numbers of lupine in our area. Because you are unable to find information to support this on your own doesn't mean this concern is unfounded." Biting my tongue I restrain from calling into question his lax intelligence techniques.
Before Ilan can retort Will tactfully interrupts. "The threat of the lupine is valid not only in our territory but in many others." Pausing, his eyes sweep the room, falling on each pack representative before continuing. "It is well known the lupine have advantages we lack, and their virus can spread like a weed through outlying communities. While their numbers explode our numbers slowly climb. To ensure our dominance in this area and the country, even the world at large, we must take preventative measures before a lupine strike and remain in control of our holdings and our land."
"But there is no information to gather. They are too disorganized, too far flung. They behave too much like the dogs they resemble." Another smirk crosses Ilan's lips as he slouches confidently back in his chair, running a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. "Or," pursing his lips he pauses and turns his eyes to me, "perhaps your pretty little pet would prefer to do the work we peons perform.... to ensure it meets her...high standards?" He snickers under his breath before giving me a cocky wink.
"I have had enough!" I rage, decade upon decade of his prattling, calling my competency into question and general disrespect towards me have finally come to a head. "The tone with which you address me is better suited for a servant, not the second of this pack. You will pay for your insolence tonight." Kicking my chair back I rose to my feet, eyes not leaving Ilan's face.
"Will," Ilan laughs, "tell Ash to back off, there's no reason to come to blows over a simple joke."
"He continually insults me, and even continues to do so at this moment. I have a right granted me by my position to discipline those under me as I see fit." I state sharply before turning an eye to Will. "To deny this right is to take away my power as second. If you choose not to let me discipline him, I will step down tonight. Mark my words."
Nodding his head slightly Will noted his agreement with me. "As second, Ashling has the ability and authority to discipline those that would speak against the pack, myself and against her. Ilan, you must learn to respect your elders. Perhaps this is a lesson you will begin to learn tonight."
I move to the corner of the room, reaching in what would appear to be an umbrella holder and produce a sword similar to my own. Without a word I forcefully throw the sword to Ilan. He manages to catch it with a look of mild surprise on his face before standing.
I feel blood thundering through my ears and the beginning of an adrenaline rush. Fighting is something I do well and one of the reasons I am the second of this pack. I am also good at veiling my true age. While this might not seem terribly important it can prove to be the deciding point in a battle. When a vampire fights another vampire one of the first things we do is attempt to read our opponent's age. An age can give you an idea of what they're up against. Obviously the older the vampire you're facing the more skill, cunning and physical prowess it will take to defeat them. Older vampires are skilled at masking their age causing others to read their ages hundreds, sometimes thousands of years younger than they truly are. Young vampires such as Ilan wear their age on their sleeve, thinking it an achievement for them to have lived over three hundred years. From the smirk on his face I could only imagine how poorly he guessed my age.
"I'll make this fair." I sneer. "Three clean strikes before I join the fight."
Ilan obviously thinks three would be all he needs; he simply nods and strikes a half-hearted ready position. The first strike slashes across my stomach, a deep wound probably measuring six inches long, three inches deep. Unflinching I stand as my blood wells and begins to soak my sweater. The second strike is erratic, I can't tell if it's planned or not. It catches my left forearm, which isn't even my sword arm. The third strike shows planning; Ilan slashes his sword across my neck. A gash runs from ear to ear, probably an inch or so deep.
After the third strike I focus on the wounds, consciously willing my blood to them. I can feel the skin begin to re-knit, the wounds close quickly leaving bloody stains on my sweater. I cock my head to the side and take a moment to study Ilan before unsheathing my sword. My first strike is a roundhouse kick. It catches him off guard as he is clearly expecting my sword. The kick sends him reeling back until he can no longer maintain his balance. Ilan falls to his back and attempts to get up but I'm on him in seconds, my knees driving into his upper arms as I push my sword horizontally across his neck. I apply some force, sending the silver blade cracking through his windpipe.
Any attempts at struggling have ceased at this point as I have Ilan in an easy kill position. Beheading a vampire is one way to ensure they are dead and gone. I'm well aware of this, as is Ilan and every other vampire in the room. I hear a muffled gasp or two before I lean into Ilan's face, stray strands of hair brushing over his now blanched cheeks. "Do you choose this death?" I murmur quietly as I study his expression. The smugness is gone from him, replaced with fear. "I will ask you again," I whisper as I push the blade deeper into his throat, now halfway through his neck, 'Do you choose this death?" I can feel several others are standing, cautiously watching to see if they should intervene or flee. Ilan attempts to voice a response, but blood courses through his mouth as he opens it. Realizing he has lost the ability to speak he nods a hesitant no. I remain crouched over him for a moment more, a smirk crossing my lips before drawing my blade quickly through his neck, leaving his head attached by three inches of flesh and his spine. I leave him lying on the floor, bubbles of blood forming at his mouth and the gaping wound across his throat. I stand for a moment above him, take my now bloody sword and move it towards my lips. I watch his expression as I run my tongue along the blade and taste his blood. It's a sharp, metallic taste, more so than a human's blood.
"You," a decidedly feminine voice rings hesitantly behind me. "You need to feed him. You need to heal him." The voice grows stronger and more self-assured.
I am not surprised to turn and see Jenn now standing behind me. She is a constant companion of Ilan's and I'm certain there is a deeper relationship between the two than they will admit. Jenn glares at me with ice blue eyes, jaw set as she begins her rant again. "You have done the damage and..."
I can't stand to listen to her, to hear her tell me what I need to do. It only takes me three steps to cross the distance between us. My hand blurs as I move to strike her harshly across the face with enough force to dislocate the jaw of a human. The blow sends her sprawling. "You," I evenly state, "are not in a place to tell me what I am required to do. I am second in this pack and answer to one person. If you wish to challenge me then initiate the challenge." Jenn rubs her jaw roughly as she eyes me, but remains quiet. "That's what I suspected."
"I am ending the pack meeting for tonight." Will says, standing from his seat. "If anyone has any pressing issues please find me. Ash?" He extends a hand in my direction. Before turning to leave I warily look over the others, barring Shandra. A couple move to help Jenn up, others move to stand over Ilan and discuss what to do. Shandra's eyes meet mine; we give each other knowing smirks before I move through the door.
Ch 4