Chapter 1

Mexico. El Ray. The sound of cheesy salsa guitar. The smell of whiskey, leather, burnt cigarettes, and sweat, mixed with the stench of dried out tortillas and guacamole. A crowd of faceless strangers engaged in the usual bar banter, some quite rowdy. The feel of those lonely and sitting in the corner, drinking themselves into a stupor via a good straight bottle of Margueritaville Tequila. The eyes of desperate men watching with arousal at the wild dancers upon the bar and tables. Sound of billiards being shot and hustlers demanding their pay. Shot glasses clinking. People laughing uproariously. Customers demanding refills, some of them cursing the barkeep in Spanish. Weary and resting truck drivers discussing their travels over a few drinks. Hells Angels cornering the market on the jukebox that played nothing but George Thorogood. They were far away from Delaware and the East Coast.

These were the sounds of a place quite familiar to the wandering fugitive from justice. They were reminiscent of a place he cared not remember, yet could not expunge from his mind. The place had been the Titty Twister. The event in question? The death of his only brother, Richard. It was no normal death either. No, that would have been too merciful for the sinful at heart. Richie had been a rapist, thief, murderer, and con artist. But he was still Seth Gecko's brother, and being so, had deserved a more respectable demise than having a wooden stake driven through his heart because he'd become a vampire. What was worse yet is that Seth himself had to deliver the driving blow, while Sex Machine and the Black dude had held him down. Then of course there was the whole deal with Jacob, Scott, and Kate. Kate and Seth were the only ones to have made it out of there alive. Kate went... God knows where, to a home with no family, for she'd lost her preacher father and her only step-brother in that awful place, on that miserably fateful night... the night the whole bar had turned Nos Feratu... the undead.

The infamous Gecko brothers were no more. It was only Seth now. He had nobody to look after, and he preferred it that way. Carlos and he still palled around a bit, like in the old days, but they never dared speak of what had happened at the Titty Twister. Seth had mostly been alone these past years, basically blending in with the locals down there and keeping a low profile. He was a wanted man back in the States. He had managed to dodge the feds all this time. He was well off financially, for he'd lifted quite a bit of dough before crossing the border. Seth didn't miss the States all that terribly; his home was where he made it, and most of the time, that was on the road. Time had been very good to Seth, as a matter of fact. He'd still retained his youthful glow after these seeming eons, still sported the black dragon tat that rested faithfully upon his back, parts of it extending upward and reaching around his neck. He had most of his hair, and it was still dark as the night. But his eyes no longer carried the same goal-driven venom that they once had. No, he'd mellowed out considerably. He had no choice. It was either brew and stew over what had happened and eventually end up on the funny farm, or just muddle through and deal with it. He'd chosen the latter. He was indeed a trooper.

Seth still harbored that sweet taste for sour whiskey on the rocks. He'd become a hard drinker recently. It was only because Richie was no longer around, that Seth had been able to keep his identity on the down low. Richie had always gotten him into trouble, whether it was raping and shooting the hostage, or whining about his eyeglass prescription, or some other damn thing. Richie was, had been, a natural trouble maker. Seth had grown quite tired of always bailing him out, eternally looking after him like a child, turning the other way to his sordid and lurid sexual appetite. Richie had been a true psychopath. But, there were some things in this world more endearing than self-preservation, one of them being the blood shared between brothers. Seth had remained true to that, even within his whacked-out state of beliefs.

Now he'd found himself in some rundown bar quite similar to the Titty Twister. Mexico was famous for them, and pretty much full of them. "One place is as good as another," Carlos had commented casually that dreadful morning, having no clue what had transpired in there overnight. Well, since Carlos had in fact pulled that place out of a hat, Seth's brother was dead. Kate's entire fucking family was dead. Haggle? Bet the farm he was primed for it then, despite the unspoken "law" that gangsters should never barter and bargain once an actual percentage deal had been arranged. But fuck that. Circumstances had drastically changed in the matter of an evening.

Seth was glad he'd ventured to haggle with Carlos. He had had him over a barrel. How does one compensate for the untimely death of a relative? By gangster code, it was with more money... a bigger cut. That had been just fine with Seth.

He stood somewhat aloof at the bar, just downing shots of whiskey like they were water. He was packing, as usual. He sported his usual attire for the warm climate... muscle tank and khakis with leather combat boots, the length of the tattoo stretching down his arm. At times he'd felt it was in fact a huge black beast of a dragon he'd slain that night. Must have been fate that he bore the mark of his brother's killer all over his body. A black dragon known as the race of vampires. And they were so fucking nasty.

They had fought to the bitter end... Jacob, Scott, Kate, Sex Machine, "Blackie", and of course, Seth himself. "I don't believe in vampires, but I believe in what I saw," had been Jacob the preacher's response. He truly had renewed his lost faith and become once more a "mean mother fucking servant of God" out of that experience. Hell, even Seth had come to accept the existence of God. Perhaps that was why he'd mellowed somewhat.

He sighed heavily and sadly as he thought about Richie and the others, in a place so similar to this one. He'd polished off an entire fifth of whiskey. He'd paid no attention whatsoever to the half-naked dancing girls above him on the counter, for he had no interest in a mate, lover, or fuck-buddy. He could, though, have done well with a friend... just somebody to shoot the shit with, somebody who may have understood his experience at the Titty Twister. He couldn't have been the only one who ever made it out of there alive, could he?

He'd grown so lost in thought, sad nostalgia, and self-pity, that he didn't notice the new visitor to the bar, who had taken a place right next to him. It had been the only open space at the counter. The scent was distinctly female... overly feminine, like a bunch of women in fact. Someone foreign had arrived, and whoever they were, they wreaked of women. It was probably some dude who had been carousing around with hookers. Seth didn't bother to look over toward the new arrival. So long as he didn't bother him, Seth wasn't going to start trouble, or even strike up a conversation. That is, until he overheard the stranger's voice.