Okay, experimenting with limited omniscient, so bear with me here. -.-; Not as easy as I thought it would be. Right, vampire-y goodness, standard disclaimers, leave a review, and have a nice day! (Or night. Whatever. -)
Thicker Than Water
Chapter One
Kurama sighed, wiping out the inside of the glass with a well-worn but clean rag. The redhead's absent gaze flickered to the clock on the opposite wall for what seemed to be the millionth time that night. 10:32. If he could hold on for another twenty-eight minutes, this torturous monotony of a shift would be over.
Not that he didn't enjoy working at the bar, on most nights, quite the opposite in fact. The building was of old, faded brick that made the dark interior warm and inviting, instead of the ominous black of most of the bars in New York, making the name Nocturne's Nest a laughable title. As a result, it was a relatively quiet tavern, rarely hosting more than twenty-five customers at a time.
Emerald eyes swept the room. He was the only occupant, save a man slumped over a table in the far corner, bottle in hand, snoring gently. He'd have to make sure someone woke the poor fellow before closing.
His ears were assaulted by the roar of an engine pulling away from the mainstream of traffic and into the parking lot of the Nest. Looking up from the glass, Kurama watched through the front window as a motorcycle halted in a parking space and the driver cut the engine. A shadowed figure swung of the seat and locked the kickstand into place with the ease of practice. The black helmet came off to reveal a gravity defying hairstyle, and an equally black leather jacket was removed as well, joining the helmet to rest on the bike's seat.
The figure sauntered through the door of Nocturne's Nest, and Kurama got a clear view of the young man. His build was on the short side, but his spiked-up hair added the few inches that made his height about average. A white starburst exploded in the front of the black mass, and several dark strands leaked out over a white bandana. Besides these two minor details, practically everything about him was black; black hair, black jeans, black boots, black shirt, complete with torn-off sleeves. Even the tattoo of a dragon that curled sinuously around his forearm was black.
The newcomer glanced around the room in a manner that suggested he was assessing the place. Obviously finding to his satisfaction, he sat down on a barstool, leaning his muscular arms on the bar, his stare focused on the shining surface.
"Can I get you something?"
The stranger looked up, and Kurama jerked back in surprise. The eyes that locked onto his with dry amusement were red. Blood red.
He smirked a bit, his lip curling to reveal pointed incisors in an otherwise perfect mouth. "Hn," he scoffed, closing his eyes briefly. "Scotch." His voice was soft and deep, whispering of hidden secrets and dark promises.
Kurama fought to calm his racing pulse, pouring the drink into the shot glass with a hand that had begun to tremble. He placed it and the bottle in front of his mysterious customer.
Without a word, the man downed the alcohol with a tiny grimace as it seared its way down his throat. Reaching out, he refilled the glass, staring at it moodily for a moment. Again, his bloody gaze lifted to meet the wonder-struck field of emerald, and held them as he swallowed the amber liquid, pulled a bill from his pocket to lie on the counter, only breaking as he turned to walk out. Kurama watched as he put on his jacket and helmet, swung his leg over the bike and revved it, speeding away into the stream on neon.
Even after the roar of the motorcycle faded, Kurama still stared out the window, stunned past the point of motion. It was true, he had seen his fair share and then some of the nuts that would hang out at a bar, but this was vastly different. The redhead had never seen him before, and the Nest wasn't well-known. His eyes glazed over as visions of that angelically demonic face swam before him. The pale features were fine and strong, enough to make his heart leap to his throat. And the eyes . . . in all his years, never had Kurama seen such eyes. They were hard and cold, but behind the ice was a fiery warmth that completely contradicted itself. Those magma colored orbs had been deeper than the darkest chasm, full of secrets and shadows. They almost screamed of agony and wretchedness, and the faint, but undying glimmer of determination driven by a hope or dream long dead.
He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. Though the next shift had yet to arrive, Kurama untied his apron, folding it on the counter and walking around the bar. Nocturne's Nest would be fine in the ten or so minutes his co-worker took to get there. Slipping around the back, he unlocked the door of his worn, red Honda and slid into the driver's seat. Igniting the engine, he shifted gears and made his way downtown.
The streets of New York City had never been the most scenic of places. It was, after all, the city that never sleeps. But despite the bustle of traffic and the seedy characters that prowled the sidewalks, Kurama made his way home with ease, casually turning dime-drop corners and moving down hidden roads.
Pulling up in front of an abandoned, undersized church, Kurama shifted into park and locked the now-silent vehicle behind him. Walking up to the sturdy double doors, he inserted a key and twisted. The door swung open to reveal a tiny sanctuary, filled with pews and an alter, a single door leading to a side-room.
That was his goal. His own little niche, a comfortable room that hosted a couch that served double duty as a bed against one wall, a TV/VCR set next to a closet on the opposite side. A minute archway, whose door hung partially open contained a bathroom and washer-dryer set. Everything he needed in the world, right in his own little paradise.
Kurama pulled off his shirt and replaced his faded blue jeans with black ones. A black tee was pulled over his head, and he tied his crimson locks back with an elastic band. And blood that was spilt wouldn't show up until he could wash it off, provided the observer only got a glimpse of him.
Another night, another satisfying death. He would rid the world of the blight that had taken over, single-handedly if that was the case. He would make this place safe for others.
Clasping a cross about his neck with no small hint of irony, he strode into the sanctuary, through the pews, and was gone into the night.
The motorcycle sped down the roads and between the tightly packed cars, shouts and horns blaring after it. There! Down that ally, he was all alone. All the dark-clad being had to do was pick him off. No one would even know he was gone, until it was too late to help him. And he would never be suspected . . .
The man had tried to run. That was a mistake. When the victim ran, he reveled in the chase. Hearing his prey's heart race as they began to tire, to smell their despair as their footfalls became slower and less sure.
Within seconds of the thrill of these tell-tale signs, the man stumbled, pitching to the pavement. Fangs flashed in the light of the moon as they protruded from his upper lip. He grinned, revealing his incisors to their fullest extent, ruby eyes glinting with sadistic joy as he began to toy with his meal.
"Your ankle is twisted, you know. There's no way you can stand on it, let alone run. And even if you could, I'd still find you."
"Wh-what the hell d'you want with me?" the voice that emanated from the man trembled with the fear of the unknown.
Oh, it was too much, he couldn't resist. Kneeling beside his prey, he whispered softly, almost alluringly in his ear, "I want to drink your blood . . ."
The man's eyes widened. "What sort of freak are you!?"
Lips quirking into a smile that would have made the Devil himself cower, the reply came in a cold, heart-wrenching purr of malice. "I am the shadow, the things your nightmares are made of. I am the damned, and I'm taking you to Hell with me."
His mouth lowered, brushing against his victim's throat. The pulse beneath his lips raced. Using a single fang, he oh so carefully slit the vein open the tiniest bit, running his tongue along the cut, feeling it widen as the pressure from the man's wildly beating heart opened it further. Closing his mouth over the wound, he grinned as his prey moaned, feeling the intoxication of his blood lust.
He couldn't take it any longer. With a sigh born of pure bliss, he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of the neck, letting the blood flow unchecked into his mouth, swallowing as fast as it came. The warm metallic liquid danced erotically around his tongue, trying in vain to rid himself of this unquenchable thirst.
The life-giving substance slowed as the last blood was taken and the body lay lifeless on the concrete. Standing, he looked down at it in contempt, a low growl forming deep in his throat. It was never enough. He could drain them completely, but the longing inside never abated, never gave him peace. And when his thoughts turned to pessimism as they did now, he lost all pleasure in the kill. There was nothing for it but to feed again, to stalk the shadows and drag down another to sate his desires. But the night was young still. And he was thirsty. So thirsty . . .
The shadowed one walked out of the ally to his waiting motorcycle, glancing over his shoulder at the bloodless body behind him. Never turn your back to anything but a corpse. Those words, spoken so long ago had served him well in the past, and would continue to do so until he finally drew his last breath.
Black and silver streaked down the street as he roared towards his apartment. Ignoring a red light completely, he turned a sharp corner, scraping his elbows on the blacktop as he leaned into the curve.
He pulled to a halt outside the complex, locking the brake as he snatched the keys from the ignition. He didn't bother to secure the vehicle, if anyone tried to hijack his bike; they would find it would be more trouble than it was worth.
Entering the lobby, he sneered as he passed the elevator, as was his custom. Elevators were for the weak in his mind, and no power on earth could make him go into one of those birdcages, for he was anything but. Opening a door and slipping through it, he proceeded to sprint up the fifteen flights of stairs to his level.