Sapphireundead

Chapter 1: Mind the Gap

“Mind the gap.”

That’s the words I heard when I came to. With a jolt. Probably jumped like a goddamn idyot and startled the surrounding passengers, just minding their own business.

Where the fuck I was, I had no clue.

A flash of red filled my brain.

Then the announcement repeated: “Mind the gap.”

I saw my reflection in the window, hovering like a skinny-ass ghost above the image of the pristine white walls of an underground train system. Gaunt. Tired. Hungry. Confused as shit. The passengers all around me ignored this scrawny black chick, holding their own conversations or scrolling away on their phones as more people climbed aboard.

Faded scar across my neck, too, looking like some asshole slit my throat with a fucking machete.

Red again. Like a symbol or warning, flashing in my head.

What does it mean?

Then it hit me like goddamn Canelo Álvarez: forget the fact that I had no clue where I was, I didn’t even have any idea who I was.

“Ki kaka sa?” I whispered, feeling queasy all the sudden. Or not all the sudden. Like, maybe I was queasy before I woke up in a goddamn train in who the fuck knows where?

“Mind the gap.”

Better believe I fucking mind the gap. And I needed to find out how it all started. Who am I? Where am I? And what is the music playing in my ears?

The train took off at a rapid speed as I studied the reflection in the mirror and noticed the earbuds stuffed in my ears, playing a song by H.E.R.. I tried to remember anything about my life before that moment. H.E.R., I remembered. Me, nothing at all. I recognized the song Could’ve Been but wasn’t paying much attention as I patted my low-cut purple dress down, trying to find a phone. I had no purse, so hopefully this boob-show had pockets; not that my boobs were looking like Beyonce’s or anything. Maybe in the past they were. Maybe. But I let the thought drift away with all my other questions when I found my phone. Luckily it had facial recognition, ‘cause I wouldn’t have a clue how to turn it on otherwise.

Home screen told me it was Friday, June 15 and that the time was 17:17. 

I felt like I should have had a literal heart attack right then, as anxious as I was, sweaty palms, haggard as shit, but my heart wasn’t racing at all. It seemed the only part of me that was calm.

I’ll have what she’s having.

The pic of myself on the main screen showed a healthier, more radiant version of myself than the sickly image in the mirror’s reflection. I had a fuller face; rounder. And a healthy light brown and smooth skin tone, like some would call mocha. Full, pursed lips ready for a good time, too, and mèd, look at my eyes: sexy-ass sparkling hazel eyes. And no scar on the neck, either. God, I was hot. Who the fuck was I? 

Am I?

“Remember the night in Miami?” H.E.R. sang to me as I studied the image. No, I don’t. I didn’t remember shit. But in the image, I’m in an apartment, boring off-white background and shadowy as crap. Poor selfie, but guess I liked my face on this one if I kept it as my main photo. My hair was blue, same as in the train window reflection, but brighter, healthier, and very poofy. I’ve also got a rad pair of purple shades. A gold necklace with some sapphire jewels is in the photo. Same one I was wearing on the train. In the image, though, my cleavage looked good in a tight black top. I’ve also got a faded denim shirt over that. I was hotter than Hell. Probably vain as shit, too!

But then I looked at my reflection in the window again. I wasn’t the same person anymore. The person I saw in the window looked like a fucking drug addict. Hollow eyes, limp hair with no life. Boobs hanging without purpose.

Who am I?

“The fuck?”

I noticed the tiny, crimson bead of blood on the tip of my thumb. 

Red. Crimson. That flash in my head again.

I guessed I had got a nervous habit of biting myself. I had no tissue, and I didn’t want to wipe it off on my dress, so I sucked it clean.

Stealing a quick glance around the train, I found clues where I’d just woken up. Going to Heathrow Airport? Paddington Station. Kings Cross. Oxford. And a handful of giant-ass maps. I was in London! 

I wondered if I’d ever wanted to visit this city.

Then I wondered if I ever had visited it before.

Or if I even lived there.

Still no racing heartbeat. I should have been having a complete panic attack!

Everyone else was calm, though, or grabbing their belongings. The digital sign in front of me read The next station is Covent Garden.

Since I had no fucking idea where I was, I figured I’d wait a bit longer and explore who I was, according to my phone. I slid the screen up and found a shit-load of apps. Definitely not organized, that much I knew. FaceTime. Maps. Photos. I stopped there and opened up Photos, expecting that heart of mine to skip a beat in anticipation of answers. Still nothing.

Both ends.

No photos saved, except the one where I’m puckering up.

My hand clutched my left breast. And no fucking heartbeat.

Crimson. Violent. Death.

My skin, cold to my touch, trembled like a minor earthquake. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. I leaped to my feet and gripped the nearby pole to hold myself up, startling the old dude with a beard in front of me. He even dropped his newspaper at my sudden move. “Sorry,” I think I said out loud. I had no idea who I was, where I was, and now I had no fucking pulse, either!

Was I dead?

Crimson. Darkness. A coffin.

Was this Hell?

I just needed out of the goddamn train and into the fresh air of London. 

Did London even have fresh air? Or was it all foggy and thick with smoke, like the old movies?

I was about to find out.

“Mind the gap.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered under my breath as I shoved my way past a man with a briefcase and a girl about my age with headphones and about a million shopping bags, nearly losing my footing over the gap that intercom man warned me about. Cute violet Converse I had on, by the way. Wish I remembered where I got them. I brought my eyes up to see a swarm of Londoners, polite as shit, not pushing and shoving each other at all during this going home traffic, each calmly moving about in their work clothes, ready to start their weekends. While, fuck me, I just want the hell aboveground. A quick look around and I found a sign that read Way Out and an arrow pointing to my right. I wanted to hyperventilate, but I wanted to do it in fresh air, not in a tunnel who knows how many miles below ground. I tried to push my way through the damn crowd to get to the lift, but after accidentally knocking some blue-haired bitch in a pink Prada jacket to the ground, I took off instead. I might have said “sorry” again. I needed escape, not persecution. I ran like hell towards the signs for the stairs.

Fuck me again.

193 steps. Spiral.

The temperature was okay, maybe mid-70s, but I felt suffocated, nauseous. Dizzy. I just need out.

How many miles below ground was I?

Deep below ground. Blackness. A vision. A memory?

At least there were no crowds, mostly.

I ran past a family of four, two kids, Mom, and other Mom, a fat zozo santi in a dark brown overcoat, trying to block the path by turtle-walking up the middle and speaking some foreign tongue while recording himself on his adventure in the goddamn tunnel. Then there was the pack of teens running faster than I, calling out some shit about a game they were late for. Spectators maybe, since they had no uniforms, just casual jeans or shorts, and t-shirts with an assortment of sports teams designs. An old couple in New York shirts and tan shorts were pausing for a break in front of the 57 steps to the top mark. There was a small crowd of office-looking workers, all dressed for success, leaning against the walls and wheezing as the stairs ended finally. But why were they stopping and blocking the fricking path when they were done? Fuck, of course, there were more steps to go. Assholes were blocking the signs that said whatever number was still to go on this pathway from Hell.

The straight and smooth floor with its red and yellow tiles greeted me as I finally saw the exit doors. And the two black-suited guards with their cute yellow vests next to the massive amount of large ticket gate scanners. God! Please let my phone work on these electronic bastards! I hustled my skinny ass over to the scanner, double-clicked my phone, hoping for a bank card app that I wasn’t sure existed, saw a flash of a World Hekspress Priestess card and my phone, and tapped the screen. Holy shit! Something finally went my way!

Next thing I knew, I was finally in the streets of London, breathing!

Can dead people breathe?

I sucked in a whole lotta cool air and some cheap cologne that some wanker had bathed in, and released it in a coughing fit. First thoughts: Why is there cool air in the middle of June? And, I definitely don’t live here. If I did, I should have some knowledge of average temperatures, right? Next thoughts: I can breathe! I put my bony fingers to my breast again. Nothing. Damn.

I checked my other breast, too, just in case my amnesiac self didn’t know where my heart was. Still nothing.

Fuck!

I decided then that I was some sort of monster. Maybe a zombie with some sort of brains still remaining? Maybe a robot? No, not the second choice ‘cause I was fucking starving, too.

Crimson. 

Did I kill people in the past?

It was then that I eventually allowed my eyes to take in London in all its glory. I would need a place to get some food, sit my black ass down, and study my phone, try to figure out just who, or what, I was.

I found myself standing on a sidewalk just before the black cobblestone road of Covent Garden, the clamor of chatter, hawking calls from market vendors, and thumping pop music all around me, an insignificant fish lost amongst a sea of sharks. Just like Nemo. 

Why the fuck could I remember a Disney movie from my childhood, but nothing about me at all? 

The surrounding buildings seemed mostly to be about four to five stories each, mostly beige or brown in color. Lots of trees, too. Potted plants. Boxed bushes and crates of sweet-smelling blooming flowers. I found out later that the city is the greenest in Europe. Green everywhere! I spun myself around to discover one building had an actual living wall, green plants rising from its second floor to its roof. Darkened windows between each column. But I really just wanted food, and answers. I moved forward and stopped at the corner of Long Acre and James, smelling fresh coffee and delicious pastries somewhere in the distance, but my internal navigation was for shit. I debated whether I should explore the city and hunt down food and a place to sit down, but decided to just use what little brains I had and cheat with my phone instead. A search of coffee shops did not pull up any Starbucks near enough for my taste, but I did find Teamatés just a block away.

Walking, I passed a Kate Spade along the way and made a mental note to stop in and see how much money was on this World Hekspress Priestess card of mine.

“I wanna love you in every kind of way. I wanna please you, no matter how long it takes,” H.E.R. sang in my ear. Yeah, right. Nobody wants this body right now; the shape I’m in, I mused, but I’ll figure it all out soon enough.

Chapter 2: The Big Smoke

I did learn one thing about myself before I stepped into Teamatés: my Spotify profile identified me as Sapphire! No last name, though, just like Adele, Rihanna, or Beyonce. Maybe I was a singer, too, before I died.

“Thanks,” I said with a cough, after tapping my phone on the PDQ machine and slipping it back into my pocket. My throat wasn’t used to talking. No idea how long it had been since I’ve had a genuine conversation with anyone. Even ordering a blood orange maté and chicken empanadas from Alejandria, the cute Argentinian girl (according to her name tag), behind the counter, seemed to be a chore for my voice box.

Earbuds still in my ears, but H.E.R. turned off for a while, I allowed Shakira on the café’s speaker system to serenade me while I investigated just whose face I was about to stuff. I settled myself into a warm vinyl stool by the front window counter, the bustling of bikers and walkers in full force on Floral Street before me, while the outdoorsy, smoky aroma of the freshly brewed smell of maté behind me was trying to overtake my senses. 

I swiped up, an intense desire to know just who I was, ready to be fulfilled. My phone let me know that I had no important dates marked on the calendar app, no saved timers in Clock, no friends or family in Contacts, and nothing noted in Notes. No saved text messages, either. I also clicked on Settings to find confirmation that my name is indeed Sapphire. Same sexy-ass bitch in my Settings profile pic, too. I did some more scrolling in Settings, hoping for clues, but found shit. I googled what kind of personal information I could I see about myself on my phone, but none of it helped. Even my fucking credit card showed only my single, 8-digit name, and that was it! I tried clicking on account information, but the screen read that it was doing some system maintenance. Same luck with social media. Facebook, Instagram, and Bluesky showed me shit about myself or any possible friends. The apps were on my phone, but I had zero friends or followers or followings. Other than that, I found that I had a lot of apps for beauty, dating, food, health, celebrity gossip, and music.

I was a fucking enigma.

A big smoke.

I closed my eyes, released a heavy sigh, and set my phone on the cream-colored acrylic counter.

“Sapphire!” Alejandria sung out from behind the counter.

I grabbed my phone and turned to go get my food, nearly bumping into a tall dude with a white beard, taking a seat at a small dark brown table behind me. “Sorry,” I said, stepping around him as he was removing a newspaper from under his arm. The place was almost packed with its patrons, mostly all healthy-ish looking, save for one strung-out addict named Sapphire. All nicely dressed, cute faces and hair, and smelling clean. Totally beddable, for the most part. I figured maté was just finding some kind of popularity here with the youthful crowd. I wasn’t sure how I knew about the drink, or even if I liked it, but it felt right, like a link to whatever home I once knew.

Alejandria wore a pretty smile, stunning with rosy pink lipstick, as she placed my empanadas next to my paper cup. The image on the paper cup was four happy-faced cups of matés holding hands, with the word Teamatés above them. The cups were a team. LOL.

“So, what’s with the teeth, hm?” she asked, completely throwing me off.

I didn’t know what she meant, so I ran my tongue along the bottom of them.

“You, like, into vampires and shit?”

Shit.

She meant it as a compliment; I think. Even though I know I looked like shit, she saw something in me that interested her.

I had fucking vampire teeth.

She chewed on a fingernail, her elbow on the counter, as she waited for my answer, dark brown eyes watching me. Wanting me?

Crimson flashed before my eyes.

Her neck was fucking sexy as hell. Long, soft, caramel. Chewable. She smelled like coconut cream pie and I just wanted to eat her right then and there.

Mèd! 

I’m a fucking vampire.

Instead of hopping over the counter and having my way with that arousing Argentinian barista, I hastily lunged at my food and drink and returned to my counter.

My heart should have been racing like Usain Bolt, but it couldn’t.

I’m dead. 

I’m a vampire.

Is such a thing even possible?

My gaze drifted, unfocused, across the street before me, watching the blur of normal fucking people move along in their normal fucking lives. I used to be one of them. Maybe not in London, but somewhere, right? Somewhere I was once a living, breathing black girl who enjoyed fucking, gossip, fashion, makeup, and music. Behind me, I could feel the others watching me, their curiosity burning within their bodies, all wanting to know more about this undead bitch in their midst. Some wanting to put a stake in my heart while others wanted me to fuck them and puncture their necks with my teeth. No, they couldn’t know that. They couldn’t know what I was. They only know it’s a sickly-looking chick with sharp teeth.

But I could still feel their eyes. I somehow knew it.

I shoved the empanada into my mouth, ripping off a hunk of that flaky meat pie like the starving bitch I was. I chewed hungrily.

Mèd!

I rolled the food around in my mouth, confused as shit. There was no fucking taste. Even though I was famished for it, and I could smell it, and God, it smelled good. But I couldn’t fucking taste it. I studied its form, its shape, its texture as I swallowed. It looked delicious, but it was like nothing in my mouth. I took a long chug of my blood orange maté.

Goddamn it.

I set the cup in front of me next to my bland as shit food.

Of course, it all tasted like nothing to me! 

I’m a fucking vampire!

Vampires don’t eat food. They drink blood!

I spun back for a look at that tall drink of Argentinian girl. She was busy with some new customers, but she gave me a wink.

I shut my eyes and faced the window, eating my food anyway. At the very least, it would curb my hunger, right? The empanadas were gone in minutes. I ate like a fout kochon and it did shit for me. I even scraped the crumbs off that yellow plate into my mouth hole. 

Nothing.

I was still hungry.

It was then I smelled blood behind me, making me even hungrier.

I whipped my head around to find that the white-bearded dude that was sitting behind me earlier was now standing behind me. Too close. God, if he knew what I was and how fucking hungry I was, he wouldn’t be that close. “What?” I almost shouted.

He apologized. Stepped one foot back. Looked scared as shit. Good. Almost six feet. Going bald. White hair, dark beige skin. Bags under his blue-gray eyes. Cute, if he was about ten years younger and not 30-40 pounds overweight. Blue blazer. Black shirt from a department store, unbuttoned at the third button, probably just got off work and wants to hook up with an easy lay.

“Pardon,” he stammered, before turning to walk away.

“Wait,” I said, standing and touching his shoulder. Firmer than I’d expected. Almost solid. “I’m sorry,” I attempted a smile, but didn’t want to show my teeth, probably looking like a trashy bouzen. He coughed into his arm, more nervous than I. Probably did think I was a bouzen and was afraid to ask. He couldn’t look directly at me, and I understood why. I was hideous. Not even sure I should be out in daylight. Probably should stick to the shadows for the sake of all humanity.

“I — I saw you on the tube.” He had a weird accent. South African maybe? 

“And?” I shifted to my left and sighed too loudly.

His fingers danced with one another underneath his newspaper. “You…were frightened.”

His words dragged like my mouth would like to do to Alejandria’s svelte neck, but not as sexy. I wondered if she went to college here and what she was studying. I looked back at her.

Another wink my way as the dude’s hand bravely touched my arm. He looked into my eyes.

Crimson red.

“Do you need help?”

Fuck! Goddamn right, I need help, is what I wanted to say.

Give me your neck, old man. I’m starving, is something else I wanted to say. 

But I sighed instead. It wasn’t that I had any answers to clear up the choking smoke around my life, nor was I ready to seek help from the bold stalker that followed me from the subway, but, at the very least, I had the ears of someone who wanted to help me. Presumably. He seemed intelligent, if awkward. Maybe some sort of scientist or school teacher.

“I — I come here weekly to get my yerba maté,” he stammered, holding up a light brown bag with the image of the same cute four smiling cups. “Best in London.” He put his hand down stiffly. The other still held his newspaper. “I did not follow you. It is — accident that we are both here. But you seemed frightened.” He repeated himself. Just a big, scared teddy bear, talking to a girl. A vampire girl. Totally out of his element. “You jumped out of your seat as if you were awakened from a nightmare, but you were awake already. Something is very amiss with you. You are troubled and I want to offer you — a friend, or help.”

I scratched my cheek as I nervously needed something to do with my hands. I stepped back, my butt against the stool I was sitting on. “Not sure you can help,” I mumbled, tight-lipped.

“You are new here, yes?” he nodded, like he already knew the answer. 

Meanwhile, I had no fucking clue. So I went with it. “Yeah. Just got off the boat.”

“The boat?” You could see the wheels churning in his scientific noggin. “The train. The tube, as they call it here. You just arrived in the city on the tube! Yes. Please, sit. Sit.” His arm was gesturing me back into my seat. I did as suggested and took a sip of my drink. Still nothing. He sat next to me, placing his paper and bag on the counter in front of him. The air seemed cooler than before, like if I reached out and touched the window, it would be chilled. Or maybe it was just me. I realized then I was shaking. Without a word, Pops had his blazer off and placed it around my shoulders. “You have family here?”

I shook my head and sipped my maté.

He tsked, saddened at my answer. “You have work here?”

Again, I shook my head, focusing on the Dishy vintage shop across the street. I figured I could use some more clothes after this.

He was totally thinking I was for sale at that point.

He sighed heavily before they called “Doc!” from the counter.

“Be right back,” he told me as he stood, patted my back quickly, lightly, and walked away.

Fucking blood from my thumb again as I pulled it from my mouth. I wondered if the good doctor had any to spare. That might help. The jacket helped some, at least. It was heavy. Good quality. Tweed, maybe. But what the hell was I supposed to do with Dr. Pops? Yeah, I needed help from someone, but I didn’t think he was the one with the clarity to see through my shit. Even if he was an actual doctor. He feels no heartbeat in me and it’s a quick call to some secret government science team that would spend the next several years cutting me open to see how I tick. No, thank you.

“They call this city The Big Smoke,” he announced as he returned with a large, lidded plastic cup. A light brown creamy drink filled its shape. No ice, no straw. Looked bland as shit. “From all the smoke and fog and factories of its sordid past.” He sighed again as he sat down beside me. “We all have sordid pasts, and secrets we may not want to share. We all have secrets we may not even remember. You are not alone, young lady.” He slid a napkin beside my drink. A phone number was on it.

He had a weary smile on his face. Like he expected me to call his ass and accept a pity fuck and a place to sleep for the night. Like he was helping me. Doing me a favor.

I know my eyes nearly popped out of my head then, as pissed off as I was.

But then he laughed a hearty, loud as fuck, bold-ass laugh.

“Oh!” he tapped my hand with his meaty paw. “You are thinking this is my number?” He laughed some more. “Oh, you are… not my… not my tastes. I am sorry. This is Alejandria’s, behind the counter.” Another laugh. “She is a student of mine. She thinks you are… cute. You should give her a call.”

I held the napkin in both hands, confused as shit.

“What kind of doctor are you?” I blurted out.

“Hematologist. I treat blood disorders. I may be able to help you. Alejandria can get in touch with me if you like.” He slurped his drink through the tiny hole in the lid, an annoying noise that a simple straw could cure. “You are ill.” No filter on his mouth, either. “If you seek treatment, or answers that you cannot find, I may be able to help.” He stood and held out his hand boldly. 

So now, after insulting me, he thinks I’m ready to go with him and spread my legs? “Fout ou!”

He released another bold laugh. “Fuck me? It’s my jacket, please. Please.” His fat fingers danced again. He wasn’t offering me his hand. He wanted his fucking blazer.

I apologized again and removed the blazer from my shoulder. He chuckled when he took it before tightening his lips suddenly. 

He saw my teeth. 

Fuck.

He nodded, slipped his jacket over his enormous arms, picked up his paper, bag, and creamy drink, nodded his head and chewed his lip for a long moment as he considered me. “Do you need a place to sleep tonight?”

It was not a proposition for a cheap bouzen. Something in those sagging blue-gray eyes, like a sad Jared Leto, revealed a kindness that I felt like this amnesiac vampire hadn’t had in quite a while. Doc wanted to help me. “Fuck you,” I laughed, baring my teeth cleanly.

Doc smiled, then walked out the front door.

I buried my face in my hands and closed my eyes.

Big smoke indeed.

A soft hand touched my shoulder.

Smelled like coconut cream pie.

Chapter 3: Scrummy

My heart should have been fucking heaving as I stepped out of the café and into the cobblestone streets of Covent Garden. Not that I had any real clue what that name meant. The throngs of people around me knew where they were, though. Who they were. Where they had just come from. Where they were going.

But I was an amnesiac vampire in London.

And I was out in daylight, which also made no sense to me at all.

But, no, my heart would not heave, because there wasn’t one there to heave. Or beat. Or bleed.

My mind was whirling as I tried to make sense of it all. Where did I come from? Who was I? How did I become a vampire? Why was there a huge fucking scar across my neck?

And why was the café girl hitting on me? I looked horrible. Baggy, red eyes, skinny and pale as shit, weak as fuck. An addict. And let’s not forget the weird vampire teeth.

But she was hot. Long dark hair, tan body, full lips. Long neck that smelled like coconut cream pie.

She put her hand on my shoulder after the doc left. She wanted to make sure I was okay.

I’m not fucking okay, are the words that exploded in my head.

But “I’m fine” was what squeaked out of my mouth before I ran away.

I had to run, or I would’ve regretted my next action. 

I would surely have ripped out her jugular if I hadn’t.

God, she smelled good.

“Fuck you,” I growled as some idyot in a red ball cap shouldered me, nearly knocking me off my ass in the process. Tèt zozo didn’t even turn to acknowledge me. Neither did his old-ass friends. World is full of assholes.

I closed my eyes, trying to find my center.

What would an amnesiac victim do to help herself? Google it, of course.

Another shoulder, from another group of assholes, laughing away like I didn’t matter.

Thing is, I think they may have been right.

I was nobody.

I glared at their stupid faces, laughing away like carefree little assholes. Their necks stretching out from the contractions within. Oh, they looked tasty. So did the handsome man kissing his girlfriend next to the light post, his hands on her ass. I licked my lips as I took notice of a middle age couple entering TK Maxx. He smelled like bourbon, she like citrus. I closed my eyes.

Crimson.

I could see myself kissing both of them, my hands on their pulsating necks.

Blood so tasty.

Mèd!

Eyes open wide, breath rapid, body trembling. I fled my thoughts and hurried towards Dishy. I needed a distraction before I hurt somebody.

A flush of warmth greeted me as I tumbled into the vintage shop, my eyes immediately zeroing in on its exposed brick walls and rustic charm. A mix of free-spirited bohemian, bright 80s and 90s retro, and European fashion engulfed its wooden tables and shelves, coat racks, and various hangers; the air of the old shop alive with ancient fabrics and an eclectic atmosphere. 

I almost felt at home here, like shopping was a favorite pastime. Clearly, based on the apps on my phone. And my bitchin’ violet Converse. I almost felt like saying screw trying to figure out who I was and just go shopping instead.

Almost.

“Alright?” a heavy young woman with an incredibly rich and dark skin tone asked as she stepped out from behind a rack of trench coats and bomber jackets. Full, fresh face, thick eyebrows, and a legitimate smile with a gap between her two front teeth. The owner, I figured.

“Yeah, yeah,” I stammered, stroking the fabric of a burgundy sequined dress. “Just stepped in. Wanted to check it out.”

“Yeah. Yeah. That would look good on you,” she lied. Nothing would look good on this body until I could put on a few pounds. She took notice of a couple of young girls in the rear, trying to get her attention. “I’ll leave you to it, love. Give us a shout if you need anything.”

“Oh, for sure,” I lied. I wouldn’t need any help. Not right then. Not from her. I just wanted somewhere quiet to Google some info. I glanced around and found a handful of chairs in the middle of the shop next to the dressing rooms; one a 1970s yellow Gucci velvet armchair that soon had my ass in it.

A hasty glance around the shop, or what I could see around the multitude of fashion, furniture, and various decor, revealed about thirteen people busy with their own shopping, hopefully all unwilling to impede on the studying of an amnesiac vampire.

A sigh escaped my lips as I touched the internet app on my phone, ready for some answers. I typed in What does an amnesiac victim do? That brought me shit for an answer, basically telling me what I already knew: I was confused, couldn’t remember shit, and I’d need some fucking help to piece together my identity and current situation. What scared me is that it also said I may have trouble making new memories.

Ki kaka sa!

I needed a new phrase to search.

What should an amnesiac victim do to get help?

The internet told me to go make a doctor’s appointment, talk to a therapist, or see a support group.

Ugh! 

Help! I’m an amnesiac vampire in London!

It was worth a shot, but it was still for shit. A ton of story creation crap for gaming appeared on my screen; jack shit for helping an actual amnesiac vampire in London.

I realized I was out of luck. There was nothing on my phone apps and nothing on the internet that could help me. I was a lost cause. I set my phone in my lap and buried my face in my hands, scratching my scalp as I debated crying, screaming, or attacking someone in the shop. Maybe blood would help? I opened my eyes and peered at the cracks between my fingers at the wood flooring, my frigid breath against my cheeks. I ran my tongue along my sharp canines. Maybe I was onto something. I remembered hearing somewhere that if loved ones aided the forgetful piece of shit they were trying to help to do some familiar things, it could help gain memory back. And apparently I was a fucking vampire, so I should do some vampire shit.

Accept to stay out of the sun, because apparently I was immune to burning to death in the sun’s rays.

I nodded and took a breath.

But how was I supposed to take someone’s blood? Had I ever done it before?

Crimson flashed in my head once more.

I have done it before.

I remembered no details, but I knew it anyway.

“Do you need some help?” Same fanm as before, but now with a worried look plastered on her face.

Fuck!

My wrist was bleeding like it sprung a leak. I’d moved up from my finger to a better, bloodier location apparently. 

“No, no,” I spluttered, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. I pulled my wrist closer and sucked it dry; not using my teeth this time. “Sorry.”

She knelt beside me, her hand on my leg. Warmth. Smelled like spearmint gum. Heartbeat strong. “Do you need help?” Her eyes were on my wrist, probably wondering if I was a cutter. Her eyes found mine. Pretty eyes she had. Soft violet, like a blooming flower in spring. I wondered how edible this flower was. “Name’s Tabia, honey.” She stroked my arm, studied my eyes. “Do you need help?” she repeated.

I’m a vampire, I thought. I need blood. “I’m hungry,” is what I said.

She made a sound with her mouth somewhere between a sigh and a cough. She then shook her head and pulled me to my feet. “Come here, honey.” Her arm around me, she led me deeper into the shop, past the retro jackets and earthy-hippie wear, past the hooked corkboard full of humongous hats, old scarves, and leather belts, and past the racks of flower-print dresses from by-gone eras until we reached a section of vintage chairs and tables near the cashier’s table. She guided me to a plush purple loveseat straight out of an old black and white movie and sat down beside me. She took hold of my hands.

“Blimey, you’re freezing, honey!” She stood immediately and lunged for a pink woolen sweater hanging on a nearby rack. “We got to get you warm now. Lachlan, fetch the miss a cuppa,” she called out to a skinny little dude with curly orange hair who gave her a nod, said something in a fast accent, and disappeared behind a door with a poster of a cute red dragon with its tongue hanging out of his mouth as if it were a dog. “Very scrummy. You’ll love it. Lord, what have you been through?” She wrapped the sweater around me and gave me a warm squeeze. Random customers passed by us, taking a peek at the skinny little homeless bitch being cared for by the shop owner. “What’s your name, honey?”

My chin rested on her shoulder, exposed in her daring yellow romper; her bright red afro soft against my skin. It felt nice having someone hold me and ask for my name. No idea how long it had been since someone did that for me. I wanted to answer her, but I also wanted to feed. “I don’t remember,” I lied.

“Oh, sweetie.” She pulled me tighter.

I kissed her shoulder as she petted my back.

God, I was hungry.

“Why don’t you let me call the bobbies for you? They can get you some help.”

I licked her skin. Sweet. Salty.

“Let me stay here, Tabia,” I breathed. “Just for a little while.” My eyes were on her shoulder. My mouth open. My hand on her back. One clenching her thick leg. My mind told me to slide my fingers up under her shorts, give her a treat while I took what I so desperately needed. Blood would make everything better.

“Ow,” she exclaimed. 

“Mèd! I’m so sorry,” I said. I pulled my head out from the warmth of her hair and skin. I had accidentally dug my nail into her thigh. I cut her. She bled.

That’s when I fucked up.

My right hand found her mouth. My other gripped her calf. My mouth was on her thigh. And God, it tasted damn scrummy, as they say in London! I could feel Tabia’s hands on my hair, holding on for life as I dug my teeth into her thigh and fed like a newborn baby. She moaned loudly in between her repeated, but unconvincing, whispers of “no”. Crimson flooded my brain. I pictured a house of mud. The smell of decay. Roof of straw. Was this a fucking memory? I sucked away at her leg, my hair under the fabric of her shorts as she slipped deeper into the loveseat. I adjusted myself, propping my knees on the cushions, helping her to ease down into a more comfortable position. I heard the other shoppers talking. I felt Tabia’s hands trying to guide my head north, trying to get my mouth into something wetter. But I wasn’t having that, not that moment anyway. I saw a face in my mind, weak, bony, hungry. Gray hair. I saw a fist come at me. 

Crimson.

I pulled away.

“God,” Tabia sighed, her mouth wide open as I sat up, my knees between her legs. Her hands were under my dress, on my ass. Her thigh was clean.

I turned at the clinking of a cup of tea. Skinny Lachlan looked like a dumbfounded lackey in a pink and white striped polo and white khakis. There was a stain on his shirt, too. The dude just witnessed a strung out vampire go down on his boss. Of course, he couldn’t keep it straight. Cute blonde in a striped dress stood behind him next to her brunette friend in a black sweater and plain skirt, their hands gripping each other and mouths ready to let flies in. I swung my feet on the floor and stood, taking the cuppa before sitting my ass back down again, resting on my new friend’s soft legs. With a sigh, I crossed one of my legs over the other as several more customers gathered round, their shocked, murmured whispers filling the shop. Tabia brushed the air off her legs; her brown eyes fixated on me, and a bright blush encompassing her face. The place was silent as a coffin. The tea was excellent, though. Had a hint of cinnamon. Creamy, too. Fuckers were all entranced as I rested my back on the cushions behind me.

“Um — the bobbies then?” Tabia coughed, her face pale.

“Is that British for police?” I asked.

She shook her head. Her legs were still spread out beneath me, warm, sweaty, tasty, and inviting.

“Fuck, no,” I said as I finished my tea.

I could taste again.

And it was amazing!

And I was starting to regain some memory.

“What time does the sun go down, Lachlan?” I asked.

“B — bit after nine,” he stammered.

I checked my watch. 19:25.

“Hm,” I said, handing him my empty cup. “Anyone else wanna ride on the couch?” I wore a perfect smile as I said this, most likely a trace of blood visible on my sharp canines. One hand massaging Tabia’s thigh. Nothing. No one was volunteering, not even the horny six foot tall Hispanic kid with a boner that just stepped out into view, his hand on the back of a cute girl with long curly hair. “No?” That was okay. I had my fill for the time being and felt like doing some shopping. “Tabia, honey, can you show me some sexy retro dresses that would match my hair and skin?”

She nodded, still quite startled after being attacked by a vampire.

I stood and pulled her to her feet, my body notably warmer. A mirror showed off the same skinny, unhealthy black chick, but less on the sickly side. More blood would change that, and the night was young. But first, some fucking retail therapy with my World Hekspress Priestess card.

“Let’s see how much of a priestess I am.”

Chapter 4: Just A Snog

The second I left Dishy and turned the corner into a tiny cul-de-sac, the world spun and I puked my brains out.

The tree, in the center of the green, teak wood circular bench outside Uniqlo, probably didn’t appreciate it much, but fuck it, I just didn’t give a shit. I’m a monster, after all. This did totally gross out a group of young adults enjoying some quality pot, probably thinking I was an addict on withdrawal. They called out words like gross, minging, junkie, whore, and a bunch of racial slurs, too, as they staggered away. While I wasn’t in the mood to rip their throats out right then, I truly hoped some of my bile splashed on their clothes. Salo ki gen odè.

God, the taste was metallic and creamy, and earthy, sour, and acidic all at once. Just fucking awful. My bony knees perched on the bench, my skinny ass in the air, and my head next to the poor tree. What a sight for all the Londoners and tourists who poked their heads in the little alleyway to see what all the commotion was about. Meanwhile, as all the colors of the rainbow were waterfalling out of my mouth, I was busy wondering why. Why was I puking? What was the cause? Was it Tabia’s scrummy scrummy blood? Or maybe the chicken empanada, which I could finally taste, but not in a good way? Maybe it was the blood orange maté, or the tea? Maybe it was even the cream in the tea? Maybe I was fucking lactose intolerant?

I closed my eyes.

At least I could finally taste something.

I released some more shit from my mouth, wiped it with the back of my arm, and sat my ass down, legs open wide, one hand holding my Dishy bags between them, and one hand on my cold forehead.

I could hear all the noise out there on Conduit Court, its Christmas-style lights starting to come alive as night was slowly approaching. They were watching me, talking about me. Some were concerned, some appalled. 

I wanted to throw up again, but had nothing left in me.

I was an amnesiac vampire in London still.

And starving, maybe even moreso.

I sighed and picked my head up.

Crimson flashed in my head again.

So did the warmth of Tavia’s thighs on my face.

I was hungry. And horny.

Fout tonè!

I pictured Alejandria in my arms. On my lips. In my bed.

Why did she like me? And why did Tavia allow me to go down on her like a two-dollar whore? Was it some kind of automatic vampire entrancement? Could I have my way with anyone I wanted? Flash some teeth and have Timothée Chalamet let me suck him dry?

Goddamn.

What had I become?

What sort of damned monster takes others’ blood? Wait. I know. I know. A fucking vampire; that’s what. But why? Why must I feed off their blood? Tavia had no choice. I just went down on her like she was nothing. God, it was good. But, fuck! It’s wrong. It’s wrong, I kept telling myself. I sniffed back a tear. I tried to hold back the rest of them as my eyes began to burn. It was useless. The flood of tears streamed down, not giving a shit what I wanted. I wasn’t aware that vampires could cry. My chest felt empty, not just from hunger, but from where my heart should have been beating, like I knew something was wrong. It was regret. I regretted attacking that poor shop owner. But the temptation was too powerful. My instincts took over. Sitting there defeated, I couldn’t help wondering what I did before waking up with amnesia on an underground train. How many victims had I taken blood from before then? Did I kill anyone? How many? I had already figured I was vain, based on that hot photo on my phone, but what else had I been?

Sapphire, a vain vampire.

That was all I knew.

But I had learned more after drinking Tavia’s blood. I learned that I probably lived in some mud shack with a roof of straw that smelled like shit, most likely in a third-world country somewhere. And that someone in my past beat the shit out of me. I touched my right cheek instinctively. I had a feeling there had been a horrible bruise there at one time. I ran my fingers along the faded scar across my neck. Still had no clue how that got there. Someone likely killed my ass before someone else turned me into this. Or it was one and the same person. Or vampire. Did it happen in London? Did I have a home in the city somewhere? I checked my purse again, but still found no keys. My phone showed no address. With trembling hands, I held Alejandria’s number up to my face and felt a shiver snake its way up my spine. I was starving. And I had just learned that blood brings some memories back. The barista girl was willing. I clutched my breast, tenderly fingering its soft, cold skin. What could I learn about my past with an ounce of her blood in me?

Her deep, dark brown eyes filled my mind with a desire.

I wanted her.

My heart should have been racing as the goosebumps spread upon my cold skin.

If I drank her blood, if I took her, I would surely regret it. It would sicken me. I didn’t want to be that monster, but what other choice did I have?

I took out my phone and put her name and number in my contacts.

I held the napkin to my nose and took in the faint smell of delicious coconut cream pie.

The fatty skin of my thumb found its way into my mouth as I bit into my flesh and drank hungrily.

My blood has a taste that is hard to describe. Like a warm red wine with hints of sweetness, like brown sugar. It was unreal. I held my hand in the other as I descended into what I’m sure looked like a crazy woman’s persona. I didn’t give a shit. It was succulent. Scrummy, even. God, I felt better just allowing myself to feed. My body felt warmer. It was like sex, but without someone else to please. An arousal of touch and taste. My body tingled as I pictured that Argentinian girl on my lips. God. I breathed heavily, licked my thumb clean, and swallowed the last of my snack.

It brought no memories back.

It did nothing to sustain my hunger.

In fact, it made me hungrier.

The fuck was I going to do?

I stared at her number and bit my lip.

My finger hovered over those magical digits of hers.

One call to satiate my hunger.

One call to feel the embrace of someone who likes me.

One call to make me feel like something other than a monster.

Until I bite her and take what I need.

Fuck.

With a loud sigh, I shoved my phone into my purse and rested my arms on my legs, frustrated by the lack of better options.

I winced. The odor of my vomit was terrible.

I covered my mouth with my hand and sniffed.

Mèd! Fuck!

I leaped to my feet. I had to move. I had to clean myself up, rinse my mouth out somewhere, and eat.

My phone remained in my purse. No tracking on Maps necessary. I hustled back to TK Maxx, trying to avoid all the wonderful fleshy smells and perfumed skins of those around me, and purchased a bottle of water and a tin of mints. I hurried outside, screwed open the water and vigorously rinsed out my disgusting mouth, spitting the crap-filled fluid into a nearby trashcan. I repeated the actions a few more times before polishing off the rest to quench my thirst. The bottle went into the can and a mint went into my mouth. At least my mouth wouldn’t smell like a corpse anymore.

Deep breath.

I looked around me. I was in fucking London. Its old brick buildings and shops surrounded the narrow, winding cobblestone road. This was a place to breathe and enjoy, to release anxieties or worries out about who I was or where I’d been. This was a place that people save for years to visit, drawn in by its history and culture, its kings and queens, and its rock stars. It was a place that people desired to live in. Or so I imagined. I woke up in the city for a reason and it was time to figure out what that was, and try to enjoy it while I could. There was no going for help, either, not from authorities anyway. They would have my ass locked up in a heartbeat. LOL. It was all up to this skinny vampire bitch to find her own way. I opened my Spotify app and clicked to shuffle my liked songs. Tyla sang to me: “Make me sweat, make me hotter. Make me lose my breath, make me water.” That was just what I was going to do. It was all I could do if I wanted some fucking answers. I needed to feed. Fuck the regret. I gripped my bags and headed eastward, not sure where I was headed at all, but I knew I needed to keep moving If I wanted to figure out just who the fuck I was. The only way to do that was to feed.

A black chick in a pair of white high heels, a pretty floral mini-skirt, and a black mesh top brushed by my bags, pushing them against my legs. I thought her Fulani braids were chic, but what I really liked was the smell of her gum that she was chowing down on, like a horse. The scent was an intense peppermint. So strong, I could feel it in my lungs. I wanted some, so I stopped her and her little crew of girlfriends. I touched her arm. Warmth flowed up my skin. She stopped. Her gaggle of girls stopped just a few steps after, watching her.

“Hi,” I said, reminding myself that I looked like a strung-out anorexic bouzen.

But I had her rich, warm brown eyes.

“Hi,” she said. A resident. She lived here. My hand was still on her arm. Her heart skipped a beat.

“What gum are you chewing?” I asked. Her posse scoffed at this tramp, pestering their friend. 

She smiled, taken with my vampiric boldness. Her mouth agape. She was into me. “Extra.” She was nervous. Her friends called out to her to hurry and come on. The show was about to start. “Fancy some?”

I smiled and released her arm. “Smells delicious. Thanks.”

Her eyes on mine the whole time as she dug into her Cambridge leather purse and pulled out what looked like a pill bottle, but it had the Wrigley’s Extra logo printed on it. She popped it open and poured one out. I opened my mouth for her. She placed it in the priestess’s mouth dutifully, without hesitation.

“Mmmm. That’s some scrummy shit. Thank you, babe.”

She sighed a laughter and ran a hand along her hair. “We’re headed to the cinema.” She breathed. Nervous. “Want to tag along?”

My god. The fucking power I had. Her friends were being rude, calling after her. But it wasn’t them I was testing. It was her. Her hand held her heart in anticipation of my answer.

“No,” I responded, much to her dismay. “But give me a kiss goodbye.”

My god. I could hear her heart stop for just a millisecond. She gasped. “Just a snog?” I nodded. She stepped closer and put her mouth on mine. Her hands in my hair. Her skin on mine. Her tongue tangoing with mine. I held her lower back with one hand and her soft cheek in the other. I could easily take this girl anywhere I wanted and have my fill for the night, but I couldn’t. Not yet. This was just a test.

I pulled away.

She backed away two steps. “Um, wow,” she spoke falteringly. “That was some snog!” Her girls were silent.

“Enjoy the show,” I said, chewing the gum and turning East.

I heard them laughing and throwing out question after question for the gum girl. She was enamored, but dumbstruck and unable to answer a word of their questions. They were in tears and an uncontrollable laughter. But they didn’t matter. What mattered is that I could have whatever I wanted.

Except a peaceful way to recover my memory and satisfy my hunger.

Chapter 5: Supper

A pair of asswipe construction workers, perching their fat asses on a white concrete planter wall and drinking coffee out of paper cups, muttered slurs of rude remarks about the pedestrians on Floral Street as they passed. The din of the city’s relentless noises - the blare of a nearby construction site, chattering voices, and music in the air - made it hard for anyone else to hear them.

But I could.

According to the bearded one, I’d go down on both of them for a pound.

“Really?” I said, loud enough for them to hear me. I laughed, standing before them as their stench of sweat and grime assaulted my nostrils. I hadn’t given them the eye. Not yet. “A whole pound, huh?”

Apologetic coughs and unclear mumblings followed.

Then I met their eyes.

Weak. Bullies. Lowlives.

I planted myself in front of them, my eyes bearing down on them. My legs touching their knees.

“Which of you do I start with first?”

“Just a bit o’ banter, miss.”

“Yeah, no harm innat.

“But don’t you want me?” I asked.

Of course, they nodded.

I cracked my knuckles and knelt down, my hands on their fat legs. Their stench was sickening, so this sinister game of mine had to move along quickly. “You can’t have me, but I know who you can have. Someone who wants you so bad. Do you want it? Do you want it now?”

Of course, they nodded.

“Good. Kiss each other.”

They did. I owned them.

“Harder.”

Fat greasy, stubbly face on fat, greasy bearded face. My god, the two lovebirds were going to regret fucking with me in the morning.

“Go find an alleyway and show each other how much you want them.”

Hand in hand, they scurried off like a pair of horny gorillas, knocking their coffees into the plants behind them. A cruel smile firmly planted on my face, I almost wished I could see the devastation reflected in their eyes when my influence wore off them.

A flash of crimson. I used to do worse to some people. I was sure of it. 

But my feet moved on as the sky darkened and a chilly breeze blew past; the tantalizing aroma of grills and bakeries, blooming flowers, and fruity drinks filled the air, intensifying my hunger.

Looking at the exercise equipment through the spotless windows of Peloton made me wonder if vampires got fat. Side note, would more blood help bring my weight up? I couldn’t stand the thought of remaining a sickly, anorexic vampire for eternity.

The colorful, brightly lit ice cream parlor and its sweet smell of waffle cones that followed brought back memories of my childhood. Just kidding, but it sure smelled damn good. My tummy rumbled worse than Pooh Bear’s infamous hunger pangs ever did. I was about to stroll inside to test my lactose tolerance stamina when a handsome young man across the intersection of Flower and James caught my eye. The sounds of the city seemed to fade into the distance as my focus landed on him. He had just ambled out of The White Lion, a four-story work of art on the outside with a riot of colors from overflowing flower boxes all over the exterior of its lower two floors, and was approaching The Broken Bottle, another tavern housed in an ancient four-story, faded red-brick property. The blond cutie, a charming smile on his lips, stood under the image of the two halves of a broken bottle, typing casually on his phone. Standing at nearly six feet tall, he fueled my hunger even further. I ignored all the other passerbys and focused on this one boy. My skin seemed to cool even more, though my blood flowed warmly within. I could feel my nipples hardening, too, with the thought of his almost perfect mouth suckling at them. Apparently, I needed more than just a drink from this one. My eyes locked in on his robust frame, bags firmly in one hand while the other wiped my mouth to make sure it was free of any lipstick, blood, or food. Gotta look my best for dinner. This tasty meal had short, curly hair that was a bit messy, covering his forehead and most of his ears. He had a smooth complexion with some tanning, (either just visiting The Big Smoke or using a tanning bed), a large, firm chin, and green-brown eyes. Sexy as hell. Smelled like the woods, too. I could just picture taking him behind some trees and exploring just how woodsy he could be.

“Hey,” I said, my shoulder to his bicep. It wasn’t bare, unfortunately, as he had on a breathable, athletic, light blue shirt, untucked and very form-fitting. I just need a snack, and maybe a quick shag, is what I wanted to say.

“’Lo,” he responded quickly before returning his full attention to his screen. He was swiping away, unconcerned with this former hot black chick standing next to him. He was waiting for someone. Obviously.

But I was hungry. And I saw him first.

“I’m new here. Do you know where I can get a scrummy cup of coffee?”

I just needed his eyes.

Then he’d be mine.

“Rather fond of Costa Coffee myself. About three or four-minute walk from here to Shelton.”

Fucker wasn’t looking. 

I made with a fake, stupid girly-girl laugh. “Can you show me?”

He seemed annoyed for just a second. With a sigh, he said, “I’m meeting some —“

I smiled brightly as I had a grand look at those sexy eyes of his. Oh, we were going to have some fun, my dinner and I. “Yes?” I said.

With a courteous nod, the cutie extended his arm for me to take. “Of course.” 

Oh, the British. So damned polite.

I took hold of his arm, smiling at the feel of those warm biceps, as he led me to the right, just in front of the glittering windows of Tiffany and Co.. Fuck, I thought maybe I should have my new boy-toy take me shopping, but what I really wanted from him was not in his wallet. “You live here?” I asked, as if I were actually interested.

The boy happily answered, ready to share his life story with me. He grew up in Epping, a market town about forty minutes North. He moved here after university and works at a bank near Covent Garden. Just came from a gym and was going to meet his girlfriend for dinner. But then I came along. Plans changed for the better. For me, at least. He said he was hungry for supper and asked if I would like a bite, too. 

“Honey, you have no idea.”

About the time we were strolling in front of Dr. Marten’s, I realized how naturally the flow of small talk came to me, like I used to do something very similar. It felt as though maybe it was part of a past job, some sort of confidante, getting people to open up to me, share their intimate secrets. Maybe I was in sales of some sort? The more they opened up to me, the more comfortable they were, the more I got whatever it was I wanted out of it. I watched his face light up as he spoke of his favorite restaurant, The Hawksmoor, and I could almost smell the sizzling steaks in the air. The boy was a meat eater. Me, too! 

Perfect teeth. Bright eyes. Breath of whiskey. Boy knocked a couple back at The White Lion after his workout. Solid habit: alcohol after being healthy. Didn’t matter to me, though. Not one bit. Costa Coffee in view, I stroked the boy’s chin. “Do you live around here?” I did not want coffee, dear reader. I wanted blood. And maybe something else.

He nodded. A flat just east of our location, along Shelton Street.

I released a breathy sigh as I turned his face to mine. Eyes locked. I licked my lips. “I don’t want coffee,” I confessed.

The boy smiled back. He thought he knew what I meant. And the boy was eager to please.

Crimson in my eyes.

***

His flat was just above a candy shop. The sweet aromas tickled my senses and made me hope that I could taste some next time I was in the vicinity. This night, however, I had only one taste in mind as we entered the alleyway behind the shop. There was just enough light in the minuscule path, thanks to the lit-up string lights, for me to take notice of the charming rock garden, ceramic birdbath, overflowing flower pots, and a pink bench with an insatiable young couple thoroughly examined each other’s mouths and the skin beneath their clothes. He took my hand as he led me up the creaking stairs to his third-floor home. As he opened his front door, I stood just outside, on the welcome mat, adorned with a faded Halloween Snoopy image. He turned and held his hand out to me.

“Are you inviting me in?” I asked.

He stood there, stupefied, for an all-too long moment. Why had I asked that? Why hadn’t I just followed him in? I had no genuine explanation except I did not know. It felt wrong to just enter the home of someone whom I had intentions of stealing from without an invitation.

He nodded. “Of course.”

I took his hand. Suppertime at last!

I followed him through an off-white, short hallway, adorned with a handful of mass produced, store-bought paintings of nature scenes: birds, oceans, forests and the like. On my left was a door to a closet with a metal, rustic sign above it, letting me know it was the Storage Closet. Such a single man sign. The next closet was for his coats, as identified by the same style of signage hanging over it with a dark Command brand hook. He turned to me and said something kind, though I had no care in the world what it was. I smiled and nodded as he quickly disappeared down the hall and around the corner. Just be naked and have your neck exposed when you come back, boy, I thought as I dropped my bags to the hardwood floor.

A few fake potted plants, cheap plastic imitations of living things, that I’m sure he thought girls would find cute, lined the floor and one more sat upon a storage shelf with dark gray fabric boxes. A box of mints, several keys on rings, a cell phone, earbuds, and a few other knickknacks filled a rectangular box that sat on top, too. A diffuser, emitting a warm, spicy scent of cinnamon, sat to its right, making me crave something cinnamony after dinner. There was an open door to a clean bathroom just before the hall ended at a built-in shelf, lined with boring books about money, a couple of Michael Crichton novels, small picture frames of a younger him and some siblings and parents, and a group of cute ninja figures in various poses. The scanty living room had the same cinnamon scent wafting throughout as he called out something from another room about music. He must’ve been talking to his virtual assistant device because a stereo all the sudden lit up and started playing some old Beatles’ music. Fucking London. A bohemian-style, russet orange sofa with brown angled legs sat in front of two small sash windows, blinds pulled back to reveal the darkening gray skies of the city. A matching coffee table with some stacked magazines, (that I gently brushed aside to add a little disorder), Broken Bottle cardboard coasters (barely used), and a Rubik’s Cube begging to be scrambled, all screamed for the boy to add some topsy-turvy in his life.

My skinny ass found the sofa to be ultra comfy; a soft chenille fabric that looked like a modern update on something a woman would be seduced in by the evil movie vampire. I crossed my legs and stroked my cool skin, ready for the warmth to be reintroduced. He entered the room with two glasses of red wine and joined me on the sofa, asking me questions about my life, what I thought of London, why I was there, and some other shit. I felt like I’ve been in this movie before, taking drinks from men, sitting with them, laughing at their lame jokes and listening to their incessant stories before taking what I needed. I feigned taking a drink before setting the glass on the coffee table, just to the front of the coaster he had placed for me. I smiled and stroked his leg.

I think he said, “Not thirsty?”

“Oh, I am,” I responded, taking his glass from his warm hand and setting it down next to mine, not on a coaster. I placed my hands on his cheeks, feeling the shiver in his skin from the assault of my cold, dead hands. “Sorry, it’s chilly.”

“Let’s warm you up,” he said. So manly. So tedious.

My lips met his. His hands gently slipped beneath the straps of my dress, the warmth enveloping the skin on my back like a warm summer’s day. His breath hit my face, hot and heavy, fully enticing me for so much more. I bit his lip with a low purr as I unbuttoned his shirt, eager for the heat of his skin against my body. After I freed his chest, he proceeded to lower my dress straps around my arms and waist, exposing my breasts for his welcoming mouth. I shut my eyes and licked my lips, savoring the sensation of his nibbling and licking, my hands urging him closer to me, his skin doing exactly what I needed it to do. I could feel the excitement through the fabric of his pants pushing firmly against my entrance below, my dress concealing our lower halves as our upper bodies explored each other freely.

“What’s your name?” he breathed, eyes peeking up at me from between my breasts.

Something within told me to lie, as if I’d done it a million times before.

I don’t remember what I told him, but he repeated the name two or three times before I told him to shut up and kiss my mouth. I grasped his wrists tightly, pinning them below the arms of the sofa, my body gyrating against his. I could feel him, so stiff, so powerful, right against my thigh. I wanted him in me so badly, I could almost taste it. I reached down and unzipped his pants, setting him free to enter me as I dug my teeth into his jugular vein. God! Crimson, once and for all! It was like magic as we moved in unison, as I was pleasured in two spots at once.

Until I wasn’t.

The blond boy exploded inside me within moments while I felt nothing.

I mean, I felt it, but the build-up was all that mattered. The flirting. The controlling. The excitement. Once I had him where I wanted him, it didn’t matter anymore. To add to my dismay, his blood tasted like fucking air. God damn it! 

But then, crimson!

I saw more of my past as I took my supper.

That same face. Weak, bony, hungry. Gray hair. Water logged belly. Skinny, black arms. I saw that fist come at me, knocking my ass to the dirt floor. I was just a little girl. Mèd! He slapped me again, threw me on a bed and held me down. Fout ou! No! Granmè! Granmè, ede! Ede! He told me to shut up, or he’d kill me. God, I wanted him to stop. I wanted to run. I was a kid. Just a kid. The floor was dirt, the roof, straw. The wall, mud. Windows were just holes in the wall, spilling daylight in as tropical birds chirped away outside, completely unaware of my pain. Ow! Ow, God! Stop!

Was that me, or the boy?

I forced my eyes open, the jarring light of the apartment a blow to my senses. The memory gone from my view, but embedded firmly in my head. My torso still exposed, but with more color than before. My breasts were firm, healthier than when I first came to in the subway that morning. The boy beneath me, pale as a dead man, blood tricking from his neck. Fuck! Jesus Christ! I placed the back of my hand on his cheek. I touched my own. I was warmer than he. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My lips found his. A faint breath.

That was still good, right? He wasn’t dead. 

Yet.

Mèd!

I shook the boy’s shoulders. Nothing.

All that and the sex was just mediocre. The taste of his blood, meh. But the fucking memories that I recalled, even fucking worse, but still a success. This vampire had a life before, and the more of these blood-filled morsels I fed on, the more I would remember. Sorry, boy-toy. You weren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last. I climbed off my meal and excused myself. Dude was out cold, or near death. I figured I had time to use his shower and wash away his spunk before he woke.

If he woke.

Then I’d find a place of my own for the night.

I stepped out of my dress, slung it over my shoulder, and looked back at the unconscious young man on the sofa.

My stomach rumbled.

Fuck!

I was still hungry.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and headed for his bathroom as I hummed along with that old band on his stereo. 

“Was she told when she was young that pain would lead to pleasure? Did she understand it when they said that a man must break his back to earn his day of leisure? Will she still believe it when he's dead? Ah, girl, girl, girl. Ah, girl, girl.”

Chapter 6: Fish & Chips & Blood 

You know I threw up again, right? In the boy-toy’s shower.

Why the fuck couldn’t I keep anything down? Not food. Not drink. Not blood.

At least the steaming hot water made me feel clean again. Too bad the water pressure sucked. It was barely a trickle. Afterwards, I checked myself out in his mirror as I was putting on one of my new outfits (tight jeans, crimson red fuck-me pumps, a black Rihanna shirt, and an assortment of bracelets, rings, and arm cuff) and noticed my darker, healthier complexion. The scar along my neck, barely noticeable. The fresh blood was revitalizing my body and returning some of my lost memories. I grew up poor as shit somewhere. The sharp and raw language I cursed in made me assume my home was somewhere in Haiti. How I arrived on a tube in England, still no idea.

I used one of the boy-toy’s electric toothbrushes to get the fucking taste of sour, salty blood out of my mouth. I know, gross, right? What did I care? Apparently, I was already dead. How much worse could things get for sticking someone else’s toothbrush in my mouth?

Probably not much.

I checked out sleeping beauty and placed my hand on his chest. Still beating. Me? Nope. Still no pulse. Oddly, his skin was still cooler than mine. His body, still so fuckable. I entertained the idea of climbing on top of him and seeing if I could feel anything with a second ride, but decided against it. I did hold his cheeks in my hands and planted a solid, passionate thank-you kiss, though. Boy-toy gave me what I needed and for that I was grateful. But, after nearly killing him, I figured I’d worn out my welcome. I grabbed my bags and left him, cock and chest still exposed. I wondered if Girlfriend had keys to his place. I hoped not, for his sake.

Outside, the evening had fully arrived and the aroma of the candy shop only faintly lingered in the nippy air; its doors closed and lights out. I turned on some more H.E.R. to drown out the noise of the energetic city. My body was cold again, but I blamed the temperature, (63° according to my watch), not my condition. Rummaging through my bags, I pulled out a faded Levi’s blue-jean jacket from the 90s and put in on. Time to see more of the city, maybe find some dessert, and figure out where to rest my head for the night. Headed back in an easterly direction along Shelton, I found colorful doors and windows, all locked up tight. Garage doors closed to vehicles, too. Nothing to see here, they seemed to call out. Londoners and vacationers still strolled the sidewalks, laughing, kissing, and chatting with their companions as they ignored the vampire girl in their midst. One tasty redhead caught my eye for a hot second, turned to say something to me, but even though my stomach was rumbling, I wasn’t yet ready for more blood. I blew her a kiss and kept moving. I wanted to test a theory. Could I taste again, as I did after going down on Tabia’s juicy, scrummy thigh? She tasted amazing, as did the tea that followed. However, the boy-toy’s blood was bland. Did it matter that she was my first since I came to? Or that she was a girl? Or black? I wanted a taste of something else. Something humans ate or drank. I wanted coffee.

I found Costa Coffee down the street again. Closed. Pret A Manger closed, too.

Mèd!

I backtracked to a tavern I had just passed. Crown & Anchor. So many people. So much blood. My hands trembled and I unconsciously bit into the fatty skin of my thumb.

Across the road was some shopping choices: Urban Outfitters and Diesel. Both closed. What the literal fucking hell was a goddamn vampire supposed to do on a Friday night in this big-ass city that didn’t involve fucking and sucking?

I stepped up to the door of the tavern and pulled it open.

Goddamn it.

The smells were almost overwhelming. Musky cologne, flowery perfumes, putrid sweat, sweet cigars, stale cigarettes, fried food, mulled wine, and so much more. I almost gagged at the intensity, but I forced myself past a couple of young model-types as they hurriedly brushed through me. 

What was I doing?

Crimson.

Oh, yeah. I was still hungry.

I wanted to taste food again.

I think I was also looking to score again. I needed more blood, more memories. On top of that, I wanted the gnawing hunger to quell itself.

The interior was all old England, with its brick and wood walls, classic leather seating, and old signs and black and white photos galore. The downstairs was too packed with people to find a proper seat so I made my way upstairs and made over to the bar, squeezing myself in between a young bearded dude in a gray Mr. Fogg’s jacket and a backwards ball cap and a fat, balding Spanish bastard in a black Polo T-shirt. God, he wreaked of cheap pot! I dropped my bags next to my feet as the young bearded dude made a face like someone just farted and gave me a quick dirty look.

“Fuck you, man. It wasn’t me.”

“Oh, shit. Blimey, I didn’t mean — I mean, I’m sorry.” Weird British accent, like one of the sleeping blonde boy-toy’s Beatles.

“This guy’s the one smells like shit,” I spat out purposefully, throwing the Spaniard under the bus. Papi caught my eye, coughed nervously, and sipped his cerveza. 

“I don’t think he speaks English, miss,” bearded dude laughed, covering his cute little mouth as he did so.

I shrugged. Didn’t care. “So you weren’t making that face for me, thinking I was the one that stunk to high Heaven?”

His face went full-on red. I embarrassed the kid. “No, no. I…had just remembered something. Nothing to do with any odor at all.” He was lying. Heart rate sped up like a motherfucker. Cute, green eyes though. “Can — can I get you anything?” He held his thick glass of unknown spirits and waved over the bartender.

“Fish and chips and a beer. You pick the beer for me.” While in Rome…

He smiled, happy to befriend me and ordered the food and a Stella Artois. “Just visiting?”

I gave a quick, flirty laugh and nodded my head. “Just arrived today.” I checked my watch. I would still need to find a place to sleep after testing my taste buds and my stomach’s ability to hold down food. “Haven’t gotten a hotel yet though. Any suggestions?”

I don’t think I gave him the power of my hypnotic eyes strong enough yet. He didn’t offer me his home. Or his bed. “The Waldorf on Aldwych is popular with holidaymakers. My girlfriend — sorry, ex-girlfriend’s family stayed there often, visiting from Canada. Marvelous hotel, in the West End. Lots of theaters nearby. Muzik: When the Lightning Crashed just opened round there.”

I shrugged my shoulders. No idea what he was talking about.

He scratched his beard. “Oh, um. About the American musician who went to jail after getting the lassie pregnant. Has all his bangers.” His turn to shrug. “I could take you if you like.”

“How about you let me eat my food before getting me alone in a darkened theater, babe?”

“Oh, God. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to suggest anything inappropriate.”

I rubbed his leg. Too skinny. Nice jeans, though. Joe and Co. Brand. “I’m only kidding,” I said with a smile. “You’re sweet.”

His eyes had grown. He saw the teeth.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’m a vampire.” Fuck it. Why not?

Dude laughed; thought I was fucking with him. He lowered the shoulder of his jacket, exposing his pale, freckly young neck. “Why don’t you go ahead and suck me, then?”

Oh, double innuendo already, huh? I chewed on my fingertip and smiled. “Maybe after supper, if you play your cards right.”

He coughed and laughed as he fingered the rim of his glass. Eyes down. “Sorry. That came out all wrong.”

“You’re a horrible flirt, aren’t you, babe?” I crossed my legs, the fabric of my jeans brushing against his. Oh, I had this boy for as long as I wanted. But all I wanted at the moment was fish and beer. “What’s your name, cutie?”

“Greg. And you?”

“Sapphire,” I said proudly. One of the very few things I knew about myself.

“That’s a pretty name. Any special reason why you were given it?” He only gave quick glances, his eyes darting away before I could lock onto his gaze. Shy-boy couldn’t hold his eyes on me for more than a second or two.

I rested my elbows on the bar counter and my chin in the palms of my hands, watching him all the while. “No idea, Greg. You named after anyone?”

He took his first sip of his drink before answering. “My pop. He’s a sound technician for Warner Brothers. He and my mum live in Watford.”

My lager arrived. I thanked the girl who brought it and took a sip. Bitter, but fruity. Thin, white head and a crisp, golden color. Just barely as cold as I think I normally like my beer. I wondered what beers I used to drink before I woke up in London.

“Not bad, is it?” he asked.

“I can taste it,” I answered out loud. The words were meant to stay in my head. I had just realized that, indeed, I could taste again. But for how long? I wanted that fish asap. “It’s good. It’s good,” I announced as I chugged some more. “This your beer of choice?”

He shrugged. “My choice lager, yes.” Ooh, lager. He just had to correct me, didn’t he? That’s why his girlfriend dumped him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to — you know…” His hands flailed around, attempting to explain the rest of his dropped sentence. Definitely not good at flirting at all. “Sorry, I misspoke.”

But he was sweet. I wondered how his blood would taste when I got him alone.

“Do you live around here, Gary?” My hand on his thigh. His face a beet red. His eyes on my hand. His hands on his glass.

“My mates and I have a flat on Earlham.”

“Your mates?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we go to university together. King’s College. Stone’s throw from The Waldorf.”

Roomies. Yuck. I had no intention of taking this boy’s blood when others would see me doing it. I bit my lip; a little disappointed. 

He sensed my dissatisfaction and boldly tapped my shoulder. “Hey! I’ve an idea. I could walk you to Waldorf if you’d like; point out some of my favorite spots long the way. If you’d like.”

My dark golden crispy fish and plain yellow fries…chips…arrived with a secret grin from the girl behind the counter. I blew her a kiss and turned to my dessert. “I’d actually love to see your favorite spots, Greg.”

***

The fish was buttery, crispy, flaky, and seasoned like I don’t know if I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating before. The chips? I’m sure I’ve had better, though I had no evidence for that claim. At least I could taste once more! And dessert would arrive before that night was over.

Before dessert, however, Greg the shy-boy took me on a private tour of London at night. My favorite was a busy walking street, alive with laughter and singing from the groups of people there, where five brightly colored telephone booths stood in the backdrop of a statue called Young Dancer. Shy-boy tried to talk me down from taking a selfie of me frenching the dancer girl but was all for the selfie I took one of our tongues dancing in front of one of the phone booths. He also made sure to warn me not to open the phone booth doors, as the insides supposedly smelled of piss. I took his advice; not wanting to test it. My senses were already involved at the moment. He showed me some of his favorite coffee shops, theaters, pubs, and views. He pointed out a circular blue plaque that represented famous people who lived or worked in the area. The only ones I recognized were Charles Dickens and some guy from Pink Floyd.

Eventually, we arrived at a walking path facing the enormous River Thames, placing ourselves on a park bench with The Waterloo Bridge to our right, boats lit up to find their way in the dark of the night before us, the pretty London Eye in the distance, and a darkened lamp post nearby not allowing anyone to see what we did to each other as I took what I needed from this young cutie. It was dessert time, finally! And after so many flavors invading my mouth that evening, I couldn’t wait to see what flavor Greg was. I was guessing vanilla.

The bench was meant for us. Dark, alone. We kissed like long-lost lovers. I unzipped my pants and allowed him to touch me. I’m not going to lie: I still felt nothing. The boy was cute, and I wanted to feel something, but I didn’t. It was almost as if he was just an object. A thing. I allowed him to guide my hand to his zipper. I did what he desired. If I was going to take from him, I’d let him have some fun, too. I slipped my hand into his underwear and took hold as I let him nibble on my tongue. He moaned loudly, and I had to tell him to hush. I didn’t want any attention. He said he didn’t care. That he loved me. Poor boy. My lips found his neck and he let my teeth sink into him. I did tell him I was a vampire, didn’t I? “My God,” he cried as he vise-gripped his mouth on my ear.

The memories returned just as before. This time I saw a school. I somehow became sure that I was in Haiti at the time. That’s where I grew up. Ugly little worn-out blue dress. Uglier pigtails. Uglier kids, all crammed together at long, dilapidated tables. Some of us sat, some stood, dancing to keep from falling over asleep. Young male teacher shouting angrily. Cracked, faded walls, leaky roof. Dimly lit room, even with the windows open. Stunk to high Hell, too. But I had friends. We ran out the door at dismissal. I kissed one of the boys, even with his ugly face. Pretty blue eyes, at least. I was sure we were around eight years old. We clapped and sang on the way home. Played soccer and hopscotch on the dirt roads. Stray dogs and cats licked our toes and legs, let us hug them as we called them over. It was hot outside and inside the school and our little shack of a home. My papa wasn’t around. My manman was, though. She loved me, gave me black beans and rice, hot and tasty, but not always. Sometimes we had nothing to eat. Sometimes she brought home scraps that she secreted away from her job. Granmè lived with us. A one-room, straw-roofed, mud floor shack. Manman’s boyfriend came over often, even when she was out. He made me wash his filthy feet with a rag, touched my face as I did so. Called me pretty.

God, no.

I opened my eyes, back in London. My hand was still in Greg’s pants, sticky with his spunk. I kissed his cheek. Cold. I pressed my lips to his skin a moment longer. So damn cold. “Greg?” My clean hand on his bearded cheek, still cold. I put my lips to his. Oh, God.

Fucking hell.

I pulled my hand out of his pants and tugged up his zipper with my clean one, afraid to run away, afraid to stay. Our heads faced the river, but our eyes saw nothing. What the fuck was I going to do? I drained the boy dry. My hand was a sticky mess and needed washing. I latched onto my phone to check my face in the camera. Just a bit of blood on my lips and cheek, which I scrubbed away with my old purple dress. Mèd! I used it as best I could on Greg’s mess on my hand as well. I’d wash the dress later. Or trash it.

Fucking heart would be racing right now were I alive.

But it wasn’t. I wasn’t.

Worse, my stomach growled.

After the fish and chips and beer and all Greg’s blood, I was still famished.

I closed my eyes.

I needed to throw up, too.

“What the fuck kind of vampire am I?”

Chapter 8: Vampire Scientist

I knew that the hotel could’ve chauffeured me anywhere I wanted, but the endless possibilities overwhelmed me that Saturday morning. I knew I had time to kill until 4 PM and I just wanted to find out more about the strange, amazing city I woke up in the previous afternoon. I still craved answers about myself, but it appeared that I would only uncover them when I fed on someone’s blood.

BTW, I woke up in the tub, covered in my vomit, thanks to Australian Barbie’s blood. 

Was that the only fucking way to get answers?

After a long shower and a toothbrush, I put on some clothes and hit the streets. First goal was to try that coffee that the blond boy-toy had gone on and on about.

The Weeknd sang tunes from his After Hours album as I stepped onto the sidewalk and looked up at the sky, overcast and so beautifully gray. Apparently, it had stormed like a motherfucker while I slept, oblivious to the world in the tub. The streets were choked with cars and bikes and the sidewalks were teaming with so many scrummy necks from people of all over the world, making my tummy rumble like a fat guy in a pizza buffet. I was looking pretty hot in a low-cut vintage sundress adorned with a pattern of colorful flowers, but if anyone dared to hit on me, they’d be drained within minutes. A pair of black Dr. Martens and an assortment of arm bracelets, rings, and other jewelry pieces I found at Dishy completed my attire. I also saw so many cute little cafés on the way, with handsome tourists and residents sipping their cuppas under cover of the table umbrellas. The city was alive with sounds of noisy construction, joyous conversation, and thumping music from the passing cars. It was so alive, making me quite jealous. Could I ever live again? Regain a beating heart beneath my bones?

“Come! Come in!” some little Italian with a handlebar mustache called to me from the door of the gelato shop. “Free licks!” he laughed as he eyed me mischievously.

“You couldn’t handle my licks, buddy,” I laughed, flipping my hair back as he slipped me a bright orange coupon for a free sample.

“Oh, a challenge for ole Andrea! Come back later and I show you I be a jovial host for your tongue!” he called out as I strolled past yet another café.

I was soon passing the Royal Ballet & Opera House, the faint echoes of music playing within its walls. Both sides of the street with such classic buildings and interesting architecture; the first made use of columns on its upper levels, reminding me of photos of Roman structures, while the other, a hotel in the former The Bow Street Magistrates' Court and Police Station, made use of a Greek style of long, symmetrical lines amongst its warm, white fake bricks and hundreds of windows. To the building’s side, I saw the Young Dancer statue, its pose frozen in time, and the red phone booths where Greg and I stood beside and French-kissed. Cute boy. But then he died. Leaning against the cool bronze statue, I blankly stared on at the row of red under the heavy sky of gray, arms folded across my breasts. He was a nice boy. So hot, too. And for his death, I learned I had been repeatedly raped by Manman’s boyfriend. Then I threw up again. How could I control my beastly hunger and my violent nature? How could I avoid another unnecessary death like Greg’s? I removed my pinky from my mouth, groaned as I took notice of the blood, sucked it clean, and walked away.

Nestled in the ground floor of a charming three-story building, (white brick on the lower, red on the top two), Costa Coffee was just a few minutes away, down Shelton Street, enticing me in with its aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Blond boy-toy had liked this place. My stomach grumbled loudly as I opened the door to the café; the rich scent of strong coffee, sweet pastries, and warm, crusty sandwiches assaulting me in the best way possible. Anticipation filled my insides as I found myself hoping that I could taste what I was about to shove into my mouth. Better still, if it would actually fill me up!

Only five people stood in my way of testing my stomach and taste buds.

Closest was a tall, shaved head dude in a dark blue puffy vest. He reeked of gallons of Old Spice.

In front of him was a couple in their early-twenties. He was ugly with pockmarks, receding hairline, freckles and big-ass ears, but rich as Hell. His girlfriend, hanging on his arm like he was her property, was a Hispanic chick with long curly hair, a tight black Prada shirt to show off the size of her titties, and high heels that brought her hair-sprayed poofed-up hair to the level of his ears.

At the front, stepping up to make his selection, was a serious business-like gentleman in a clean white shirt and tie, proper glasses, and a freshly shaved face.

The enormous menu, hanging behind the several baristas, offered an array of ways I could enjoy my coffee or tea, while a glass case showcased the delectable-looking foods they had to offer. God, I was hoping I could actually taste some of it. The last foods to tantalize my taste buds were the crispy fish and chips and cold beer from the previous night. Not even the six-foot tall guy or the 19-year-old Barbie girl had much flavor. When my turn finally arrived, I ordered a Cinnamon Bun Latte and a Triple Chocolate Brownie Cheesecake, hoping for a miracle. A plush chair near the window accepted my ass as I awaited my breakfast; the morning sun beginning to push through the dissipating gray clouds. Idle scrolling through pointless apps on my phone brought up nearby shopping, nearby singles, hot music., hot guys, hot girls, and hot food.

“May I?” a female voice pulled me out of my searching. Indian. Long hair. Voluptuous. Crooked nose, but full, luscious lips, and sexy hazel eyes framed by dark, smoky eyeshadow. Smelled like a spring morning in a flower garden.

I shrugged my shoulders as if I didn’t care if a cute girl sat next to me. I’d rather she climb on my lap and let me suck at her neck, but whatever.

“Ah, thank you. Feet are murdering me.” Smoldering body, not too thin, not too thick, about five-and-a-half feet, and in a stunning, black, skin-tight sleeveless dress that clung to her curves all the way to her calves. She carefully sat her large dark brown Coach bag on the ground and withdrew an Apple tablet from within. I pretended to stare into my phone as I watched her cross one leg over the other and turn on her device. She let out a sigh.

“Just beginning your day?” I asked, not looking directly at her.

A reserved smile graced the subtle curve of her lips as she stole a glance my way. “Work’s never done for the go-getters, right?”

“What do you do?” I inquired.

“Marketing. Working on a new bakery up the road. Opens next month. You?” Tablet on her lap. Hands on the screen. Eyes on me.

I faced her. “Nothing at the moment. Independently wealthy.” I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. Wasn’t lying at all. And I had Possible Snack’s attention.

“Wow,” she exclaimed. “Your teeth.”

I licked the bottom of the top row. No more hiding. “Sexy, right?”

Red flushed over her, not sure how to respond to my boldness.

“No idea how I got ‘em. Amnesiac,” I added.

“Reeeeally?” 

Oh, my God, I thought. She was mine for the taking.

“Sapphire?” A barista called out.

“Be right back,” I said, stroking my new friend’s shoulder as I passed behind her.

‘Sapphire’ with a heart replacing the ‘a’ in my name was hand-written on my cup. I smiled, gave a wink, and gratefully took my coffee and dessert from the short, tan girl in the Costa Coffee t-shirt behind the counter. Our hands touched for a fleeting moment. She was so warm I could eat her up, too. But I had other things to wrap my tongue around first.

“Amnesia?” the alluring Indian asked as I sat beside her; her tablet returned safely to her pricey bag. 

“Yeah.” Cheesecake on the small table, ice cold Cinnamon Bun Latte in my hands.

“How did it happen? Car accident?” Eyes on mine.

“No idea. Just woke up in the tube yesterday afternoon,” I said before taking a sip.

“God, that’s awful. Do you have your ID?”

“Mèd,” I exclaimed softly. No fucking taste. Smell was so damn good, though. Creamy texture. Cold as fuck. But no goddamn taste.

“Okay?” She was studying my face intently. “Bad mix?”

I shook my head, put the cup down, and forked a small piece of dessert into my mouth.

“How’s the cheesecake?” Her hand touched my knee. Warmth radiated from her fingertips. Sometimes being a vampire wasn’t so bad.

Ugh. My face fell, illustrating how utterly disappointed I was with my taste buds, but then my eyes zeroed in on my new friend’s pulsing carotid artery, and figured I’d play vampire scientist for a bit. “Can I kiss you? Just a quick little snog,” I asked, returning my fork to the plate on the table.

She was even sexier when she blushed. “Um.” Her fingers traced the silken strands of her long hair as she inched her chair closer.

Her fingers then threaded through my hair as I held her face softly next to mine. I parted my lips and allowed her to slide her tongue inside. Our lips kissed feverishly, our tongues tangled passionately, hot and wet, as we explored each other’s mouths as only lovers could. I gently tilted her face back and gazed into her eyes, silently seeking her consent for what was to come next. She nodded desperately, wantonly, her hair falling across her face. She shoved my head against her neck, releasing a restrained moan as my canines sank into her skin. She clenched my hair in one hand and dug her nails into my back as I drank deeply, trying with all my willpower to force myself to a limit, not wanting to knock her out or kill her. Her fingers moved from my back to fondle my breast through the fabric of my dress as I continued holding her face in place like a venti cup of Starbucks Café Mocha. Images flew inside my brain of me, running through the ugly streets of some destitute town at night. Still a child. Still fleeing from the murder scene. But I had to stop. 

I was playing scientist.

I released her.

With a heavy sigh, she withdrew her hands from my hair and breast, still quite conscious, and very flushed. She wanted to talk, to state the obvious, that I was a vampire, as I handed her a napkin and nodded for her to apply pressure on her neck. 

Erogenous hazel eyes studied me as I took another sip of my drink. “Fuck, yeah.” My hand caressed her knee in thanks before eagerly taking another scoop of Triple Chocolate Brownie Cheesecake. My backside slipped deep into the chair. I closed my eyes and my mouth opened wide enough for a thousand fucking flies to enter as I released a moan that should only be reserved for porno. “Holy fuck, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Plate resting on my boobs, I shoveled in a few more bites when my eyes took notice of my Pre-Snack staring, stupefied, at me. “Wanna bite?”

No words left her mouth, but I leaned in anyway and gave her a bite and a quick kiss on those sultry lips of hers.

“Food is so much better after a bit of blood. Thanks, babe.”

A simple “uh,” slipped from her lips as she was still in shock, or just somewhere deeply enamored in her own head, as her glossed-over eyes dreamed on while watching me polish off the rest of my scrummy dessert. “Love to meet up with you again one day. You taste like a cinnamon crumb cake somehow. Got a boyfriend?”

Nothing but glaze.

“Girlfriend?”

Ditto.

“Got a name?”

Beauty dug into her purse, pulled out her phone, tapped away from a quick bit, and showed me her name and number.

“Feroze?”

She nodded.

“That’s a lovely name.” I stood and retrieved her flat white and berry-covered yogurt from the same barista, (but with a freshly made-up face), and placed it on our table. Her phone was still in her hands. I studied her number again and sent her the hot selfie from my phone and my number.

“Call me for a good time, Feroze.”

***

The cool thing was I didn’t even throw up after. Sexy scientist vampire learned that a little bit of blood was okay for my fragile stomach.

I was still fucking hungry, though.

Chapter 12: Wonderland 

My violet Converse sneakers parked on the sidewalk while my ass leaned against the red phone booth in front of Five Guys, facing the magnificent St. Paul's Cathedral. Strawberries and cream Norwegian waffle in one hand, blueberry matcha in the other. No taste in either, but at least it was something hot to put in my cold, dead stomach.

H.E.R. was whispering in my ear about how we’re all like Daniel, surrounded by lions and getting ready to be killed. How no one is coming to help us. Gotta wait on God. I glared at the enormous dome on top of the gothic structure, so high in the sky, listening to her words when a strange sensation crept inside my head, feeding my thoughts with the idea that I’d met Him before, and, to contradict the singer H.E.R., He is not coming to help anyone.

The color of white blinded my closed eyes.

Why the fuck I felt like I’d met God before, I had no idea.

But I did know H.E.R. was correct about men. They were just lions, looking to exploit and hurt anyone they could, and no one was there to give a shit or lend a hand. I would have to do it myself.

Through the crowds of pedestrians and churchgoers, and at the base of the steps to the ancient church, a small group of angry white men in black robes were holding signs and chanting, “See Him Not!” Their signs featured an assortment of slogans and anti-whoever the fuck’s image was painted all over them. It looked like Jesus Christ almighty, but with a big blood-red X scrawled over his face. Slogans on the signs spat verbiage like, “Beware the False Prophet for He is Here! Satan Has No Power Here! The Anti-Christ Cometh!” I recognize the hippie on their boards was, but I knew he was doing a solid job of pissing off the conservative Christians. Maybe I should find him, I thought, an eager, sudden urge filling my insides. We might have a lot in common.

“You eat?”

The voice belonged to a female, but lacked something in her voice. It was oddly flat, like the heart in my chest: dead, without feeling, without emotion. Cold. As I turned to face her, I also took notice of her unnatural stillness and her heartbeat, or lack thereof.

She had none, just like me!

Standing tall at a couple of inches shy of six feet, this Japanese-looking young lady had long, silky jet black hair, a pale white complexion, and had a pair of sexy as hell, bright ethereal blue eyes. She looked so goddamn worthy of a night in my bed with her round, delicate fairy princess face and cute little button nose that I wanted to grab the back of her skull and plunge my tongue into her mouth right then and there. Her outfit was smart, professional: a baby blue, long-sleeve V-neck cotton blouse underneath a tight, black pinstripe polyester dress that fell just above her knees. A pair of mirror-clean black COACH pumps secured the velvety skin of her feet. The only jewelry she wore were the pearl drop earrings that swayed gently from her adorable little ears; she wore no makeup, either, save for a touch of light red lipstick, glistening in the sunlight. She had an otherworldly beauty, surpassing any need for enhancements, as she was made perfect already.

“Who are you?” I asked as soon as I had taken my future one-night stand in.

“I am Alice,” she answered without hesitation. She blinked, but the action seemed off, planned deliberately.

“Of course you are.” I leaned to one side, scrutinizing this exquisite beauty. What was her deal? “Why did you ask me that?”

“You are a vampire. You do not need food.” Her right hand raised, flattening out as if she were explaining something I didn’t already know. “You are also standing under the sun, contradicting yet another general assumption of vampire lore and their aversion to sunlight.”

Well, consider me perplexed as I stood there speechless for an uncomfortable moment, wondering who this sexy bitch was. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I have already answered that, but I will repeat my reply for you: I am Alice. However, I am resolutely positive that you would rather understand why I am here, or how I have knowledge of your race. Would you prefer that I answer one of these queries?” Her hands flattened to her sides when she finished speaking.

“Holy shit! You’re a fucking robot,” I spurted, immediately adjusting my food and drink into one hand and touching her face with the other, not giving a shit if she cared or not. She wasn’t human, after all. It felt like skin. Soft, but too perfect. My finger traced those supple lips of hers. Somehow, they were moist! “The fuck-!” She, it, just stood there perfectly still as I examined her face, her neck. Holy shit, it moved, as if it had some sort of pulse in there! I opened her mouth to find a flawless set of teeth. Her ears, clean. Nose? Hairless. Boobs? Yes, I squeezed them, too. Firm, like a twenty-something’s. I had never seen anything like it, I assumed. Maybe I had, but, you know, amnesia. “Where did you come from?”

She did not budge as I squeezed her firm ass and examined the back of her neck, looking for a plug, battery lid, or anything unusual. “Originally, I was created in the labs of Wyvern Mechanix, in Washington, D.C.. I am presently on a field operation; my capabilities and autonomy being analyzed for civilian use. I am on loan to user Dr. Reginald Haarhof of King’s College. You initially encountered him Friday upon your arrival in London, and yesterday at Creme De La Crepe.” Fucking perfect French in those last words. “To answer your two unspoken questions…”

“Do you have woman parts?” I asked, standing close behind her, still examining her elegant neck. “Can you fuck?” 

“I was created with the intent of scientific exploration, not for the sexual pleasures of my users. Would you like for me to answer your two unspoken questions now?”

Satisfied with her flawless build, I sipped my matcha and returned to face her. I’m going with her because it’s just weird to call this flawless body a thing. She’s a woman, mostly. “Shoot,” I replied with a dumbass smile plastered on my stupid face.

“First, I am here because the doctor has directed me to ask you to come to his laboratory. Second, I knew you were a vampire because of the doctor’s description of you; that, and the previously analyzed 11% chance that vampires have existed in the shadows for centuries now.”

I think my eyes nearly popped out at that revelation. “11%?! How do you know? Where the fuck are they?”

“Shall we walk as I explain what I can to you? The doctor is expecting you and should not be kept waiting.” Her feet clopped along at a rhythmic pace, headed West along the smooth, buff-colored Portland stone sidewalk, clearly with purpose. She didn’t even look back to see if I’d follow.

I did, of course.

“The most expeditious routes to King’s College would be to walk or take a bus; the latter will save approximately seven minutes. Which would you prefer?”

I took the last bite of the waffle and tossed the wrapper in a nearby can, muttering, “walk” as I chewed my breakfast. I wanted to talk to the robot, not her foster dad.

“Vampires have been rumored to exist since the 11th century, originating in Eastern Europe, though no concrete evidence has ever been found to confirm their species. The doctor believes that you may serve as that viable proof.”

I wanted more. “Where’ve the most recent sightings occurred?” 

“Sightings and rumors occur infrequently in the modern age. The last recorded report was here in London, early this morning.” She did not turn around, just shook that ass on down Ludgate Hill. “You need to be more careful.”

My eyes zeroed in on a newspaper machine next to a coffee shop. “Another Vampiric Death in London! Second Bloodless Victim in 2 Days!” They only found two. They would find the other when the smell alerted his neighbors. I smirked at the thought. What kind of fucking crazy ass monster was I? Alice noticed my focus and paused her strut to wait for me. Next to the headline article was another story about who the Christians were protesting: “Two Dangerous Americans Poisoning Our Streets”. The color photos beside showed the Jesus Christ looking dude and the rock star whose musical was to premier Monday evening.

“As I previously stated, you need to be more careful. Come, please.”

“Hang on,” I dismissed the ‘bot. These two men in the paranoid little paper, Pure Europe, had something special about them. The rag described the Jesus Christ lookalike, Charles Simms, as a pawn of Satan, guilty of denouncing God and ushering in the End Times. More venomous accusations followed for the second man, Jack Bonilla, aka Muzik, spewing him as an evil child rapist. I only read as far as the “reporter” for the article calling for action, a boycott of the men’s visits or speeches, the musical, their books, and an urge to take matters into your own hands in need be. Holy fuck! Go ahead and put a target on their heads, why don’t you. I placed my hand on the glass over the men’s faces, trying to focus on their energies and my knowledge of them. A profound feeling that I somehow knew them intimately crawled around deep in my empty chest. We shared a connection that I’d have to explore while they were in The Big Smoke. 

“Are you ready?”

“Just a second.” 

I closed my eyes, searching for any kind of recognition or memory. A Cross. Rock and roll. White. Flashing lights. Pulsating music. Crimson. A pressure on my head, pushing me down. 

“Nothing,” I whispered as I turned toward the robot with the looks of a librarian in a porno. “So, how did you come into the possession of the illustrious doctor?”

She smiled as if programmed to do so, turned on her heels and walked away, assuming correctly that I’d follow. “He does not possess me. He applied for the program with a thirty-page report when Wyvern Mechanix offered the chance to host me and other like me to many individuals and countries worldwide. His use of my services are for a limited time.”

“So there’s more of you? How many? Are they all made to look like fucking models?”

“Do you find my body attractive?” she asked. I could’ve sworn I’d seen a blush, but quickly brushed it off as a lack of blood in my system. My stomach was still rumbling, after all, even after the human breakfast.

“Mèd! With all your AI computer programming, you have to know you’re a knockout. Don’t pretend to not know.” Then, it came to mind: “Do you feel? Like, do you have emotions at all?”

Still walking, but I moved faster than normal just to pass the putrid smell of a dozen garbage bags full of old shit piled outside an abandoned pharmacy. “The Quetzalcoatl2025 is an adaptive learner. We do not feel, exactly, though we do have the basic understanding of human conditions, with the ability to adapt our behaviors to the emotions of those humans around us.”

“What do you mean, ‘adapt our behaviors’?”

She halted, as if her processing found the question difficult, and faced me. “We are to meant to make the lives of our users easier. If he or she requires assistance, we help with whatever the task may be. If that is readying equipment for experiments, that is what we do. If the user has had a rough day, we can make a drink or give a massage. If our users are in turmoil, we can provide counseling sessions. We have an endless amount of capabilities at our disposal in order to assist our users with meeting their needs. Through direct contact with our users, we can learn their patterns and predict their needs before they even know themselves.”

“So, your purpose is not all scientific research?”

“The primary aim of my programming is to further science. Protecting my user’s mental or physical wellbeing is just as important. If my user is unhappy, scientific discovery may be hindered.”

“But do you care for your user? Or anyone? Can you feel sadness or joy?”

“My programming is adaptive,” was her answer. Her feet moved again, but at a quicker pace. 

Can robots get nervous?

“Would you like to know more about Dr. Haarhof’s request to see you?” Bitch was avoiding my questions.

Amongst the rest of the pedestrians, we were forced to hold for traffic at the corner of Fleet and New Bridge as a blaring slew of police and firetrucks roared by. I shrugged, not sure how to win an argument with a walking computer. “Shoot.”

She gave a quick, tiny smile, seemingly pleased with the change of subject. An emotion? Or just adaptive programming? “Dr. Haarhof noted how sickly you looked upon your initial meeting. Your complexion was pale, your constitution was too frail, and a lengthy scar traversed across your neck. He stated that you were highly irritable as well. Upon your second meeting, he noted that you seemed even more unwell; paler. Your canine teeth, sharpened with the purpose, presumably, to puncture the skin of a human and drain their blood, has not gone unnoticed, either. The doctor states that you are also suffering from amnesia. He would like to take a sample of your blood and analyze it to see if he can discover a cure to improve your health and lifestyle.” We crossed the road with the throngs of others, many smelling so fucking scrummy I almost couldn’t stand it. I wanted to feed so badly. “He has provided you his phone number; however, you failed to contact him. He is available today and is prepared to proceed with research on your behalf, if you desire.”

“How do I look to you?” I asked, just curious how she would respond, pitching my empty cup into a nearby trashcan.

She turned her cute little face my way and squinted, analyzing the simple question. “You do not appear as sickly as he described.”

My turn to smirk. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She paused in front of the sun-blinded window of Sondheim Barbershop. The aroma of fresh, flaky pies flowing in from somewhere nearby. “I do not comprehend your question.”

Intelligent as a computer is supposed to be, they’re nowhere near perfect. “Use your adaptiveness.” I put my hands on my hips, leaned toward one side, and tilted my head to the sky, as if posing for a picture. “How do I look to you?”

She considered, or processed, my request for a long moment. “You look as if you are posing for a photograph.”

“Fuck you,” I laughed. Clearly, I was mistaken about how advanced this robot bitch’s adaptiveness may be. She was just a thing, a robot. And that was all she was. The ‘bot ignored my insult and kept walking, drawing me closer to the man who could supposedly help me. What the fuck he could do for me, I had no clue. “How did you find me back there? How did you know I would be right there?”

“That was simple: I searched the city’s cameras for your location and followed you.”

I planted my feet firmly on the sidewalk, got slightly pushed by a bastard who couldn’t watch where he was walking. We just so happened to be next to a Controlled Zone sign, warning any asshole looking that there were Traffic Enforcement Cameras in the area. “You can find a needle in a haystack, but you can’t tell when a vampire girl is looking for a compliment?”

Behind this sexy, intelligent, yet somehow stupid as shit robot girl was the coolest statue of a dragon I’d ever seen in my life (maybe). I’d found out later it is the symbol of the City of London, marking the boundaries between Westminster and London. The scary reptilian fucker, mouth open wide with deadly teeth exposed, holds unflinchingly onto the city’s shield as it guards the entrance. The Temple Bar Monument also features the faces and bodies of famed Londoners, including Queen Victoria and her Son Prince Edward, who later became King Edward VII. But, damn, I just liked the dragon. I wanted to climb on top of it and fly around the city. I heard the robot talking, but I didn’t hear a damn word she said. My imagination was too busy soaring high above the London skies, burning villages with my dragon.

A bit after I found the ability to move once more, a horrible car accident site, full of the emergency vehicles from earlier, with their bright flashing lights, made us go take a detour just as we were nearing King’s College, placing us in the vicinity of my hotel. That’s when I finally took notice of the show Greg had mentioned before I sucked him dry: Muzik: When the Lightning Crashed. The theater had signs lit up, promoting the fact that it was opening Monday night. “Come,” the robot called after me. Bitch could wait, though. I was reading. 

The God of Rock and Roll had everything he ever wanted until one fateful night when his world came crashing down. Experience the life of Jack Bonilla, aka Muzik, as it is meant to be: Muzically! Opening Monday, 18 June.

Then, it read: Opening Night Sold Out.

We’ll see about that, London. I needed to know more about this man, and it would be on opening night.

“Fuck.” I took my thumb out of my mouth and licked the remnants of blood off it. Why did my blood taste so much better than everyone else’s? 

“Come,” urged Alice, her hand on my shoulder and a “warm” smile on her mouth. “He is expecting us.”

Robots, dragons, and music legends all in one. And vampires. Don’t forget vampires. London was such a fucking Wonderland. 

Chapter 13: Janequin’s Strip 

“Ah! It is good to see you again,” Dr. Haarhoff announced warmly, pushing himself up from his cherry and birch wood executive desk as Alice and I entered his office, the thick scents of polished leather, musty wood, and bitter tea encompassing the room. He wore a crisp and clean starched-white lab coat, a clip-on badge swaying from his left breast pocket as he moved.

“You, too,” I replied softly as Alice silently closed the heavy glass-paneled door behind us, secluding us in the doctor’s large, square, red-brick office.

The River Thames glistened brightly in the distance from his sizable, crystal-clear, 16-paneled window. The London Eye slowly circled the City of London’s magnificent skyline beyond that. 

The doctor circled around his desk, an organized maze comprising one desktop computer and two laptops, three thick medical books, two open spiral notebooks full of scribbled notes, two pens, and a steaming London Underground mug half-full of hot tea. His eyes flicked immediately to his black Hoka sneakers as he clumsily shook my hand. “It is good you came. So good.” His gaze then shifted toward Alice. He smiled for a just a moment, as did she, before he focused on my forehead (not my eyes). “Please, sit. Sit,” he offered, gesturing towards the two guest burgundy leather seats on wheels, their polished surface revealing barely a crack. Doc took care of his shit. 

Consistent with his chairs, the rest of the room was meticulously cared for: ancient, but gleaming, thick brown wood bookshelves, intricately carved with birds in flight, and perfectly aligned with a miscellany of thick medical books, worn paperback textbooks, and a collection of leather-bound history books. There was also two shelves’ worth of biographies. Numerous framed awards and certificates hung neatly along the office walls, congratulating Dr. Reginald Haarhof on all his accomplishments. Near the window was a spotless white mini-fridge. A cherry red counter adjacent to that held an electric glass kettle, coffee machine, and microwave oven.

 I placed my ass on the thick leather cushion and placed my arms upon the arm rest. Robot chick stood behind me, near the exit.

 “So, how exactly did you get a fucking robot?” I asked.

 Doc instantly had a nervous coughing fit as he crossed behind his desk. He then fell heavily into his chair and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief; RH monogrammed in a corner. “Oh, we do not f—.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, almost releasing a laugh. “You meant that as an expletive, yes?” 

The window revealed the reflection of the robot’s quick smile. A dead giveaway. She adapted to suit his needs, alright.

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” I crossed one leg over the other. My tummy rumbled.

“Would you like something to eat? I can have Alice fetch you a sarmie or a pastry, or anything you like.”

“Any chance you’ve got a hot junior assistant with nothing better to do?”

Doc rested his elbows on his desk, eyes almost facing me. “To feed on, yes?”

I smiled. He knew what I wanted. I felt I could be honest with this man. If he could help me control this hunger, and my throwing up, I would totally fuck him silly.

“How much do you require?” With a flip of his wrist, he rolled up his coat sleeve, exposing the skin of his forearm.

Just like Alejandria, though not as pretty, he was offering himself to me. “You’re not scared?”

“What of? If you kill me, the cameras in the building will alert the police of my assassin. And if I die, it would feel just as if I were going to sleep as you drained the blood from me. It would not be painful, aside from the initial puncture.” He shrugged, nonchalantly. “Besides, I have no family, save for some distant cousins. We do not keep in touch. Please, help yourself.” 

His arm lay on the desk. The image of a delicious steak served on a platter screened in my head.

Alice’s eyes were on me. Can robots get jealous? I didn’t give a shit.

I eased down to my knees in front of him before carefully sliding his heavy, hairy arm off the desk and resting it on his knee. I gazed at those baggy blue-gray eyes of his. He averted my eyes, staring at the door behind Alice instead. I licked my lips as my stomach released another deep growl. With both hands on his arm, like a Viking eating a humongous barbecue rib, I sank my teeth in, feeling his slight pull with that initial bite. He was scared, but he left it in place. As I ingested the first taste, bitter and sweet, I glanced at his crotch and considered what a favor the doc was doing for me. It was only right to return it in kind. One hand on his arm, the other slid up his muscular left leg, tracing the contours of the thigh to the indentation of his dick. Huge for an old guy. “No,” he whispered. “No, please.” But I didn’t care. You scratch me back, I scratch yours. I closed my eyes as I lowered his zipper, feeling the snug cotton underwear beneath with my pinky-finger. “No,” he moaned, touching my hand and sliding it away. 

I wanted him even more after that.

Then, enthralled with the good doctor’s blood, I inched closer to the answers I’d been seeking.

***

I hadn’t been living in Las Vegas long. It wasn’t very clear in my head, but I had the feeling it had only been a couple of weeks before I found a job. Not sure what I was doing till that point, but probably involved sucking men off in dark back-alleys or cheap motel rooms. A reddish-brown, two-story building with large arched, covered windows became my place of work. Above the building, an overpass that overflowed with so many fucking vehicles at 8 and 5 every weekday. Pulsating neon lights outside the building let everyone know that this little desert pleasure-dome was Laetitia’s Strip. I’d seen the owner’s photos in the manager’s office, glamorously beautiful, creamy white skin, and hypnotizing eyes that pierced through each photo, but I never met the lady or madam or whatever the fuck she wanted to be labeled as. She didn’t live in Vegas. I saw myself pushing my way through the lengthy, dangling Mardi Gras-style beads and onto the dance floor. A searing KISS tune with an intense, metallic riff played over the club speakers as short-haired, half-naked girl with an overabundance of tattoos gyrated for her drunken fans on the worn circular, wooden stage, letting them stroke her cleft chin, her tiny boobs, and her flat stomach with dollar bills. Snatching the damp, crumbled bills from their sweaty hands and tucking them into her g-string, she’d stick her tongue in their mouths, stroke their chests, and tell them to come find her after her set, before dancing away into the smoky blue stage lighting and onto the next John. 

Patrons of young and old, rich and poor, men and women filled the brown leather recliners placed strategically throughout the gentleman’s club, all surrounding circular metal tables with a plenitude of drinks and tiny, battery-operated, shaded glass candles that gave off a certain cheap, yet warm, atmosphere that so many came for. Along the rear of the club was the red-lighted bar counter, complete with about a dozen customers and a plethora of colorful alcoholic drinks. Two winding staircases with wrought-iron railings led patrons up to the second floor of the dimly lit gentlemen’s club for more private entertainment venues. My mind told me the club, thick with tobacco smoke and sweat, was normal, though something was still creeping along my mocha skin, warning me that there was something amiss. 

A rough, military-looking crew sat near the stage. A couple of girls were already taking advantage of their monetary generosity, smothering the men’s faces in their perfumed bare breasts. Maybe they were drunk and loaded, I thought, so I sauntered up to the tall, dark and ugly one and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, toying with his long, shaggy hair in the back of his enormous skull. “Care for a dance, Daddy?”

He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and smiled lustily. “Got all the time in the world, momma,” he laughed, spreading his legs for me to move in closer.

Still nothing different. Still a creeping sensation along my skin.

I unfastened my sparkly, sequined red top, exposing my breasts for Ugly. God, he wreaked to high Heaven of pungent sweat and cheap perfume. I began my dance, gyrating my ass in his lap, feeling that bulge grow all too quickly. Dude was gonna pay, I could feel it. I practically owned his wallet.

KISS ended.

Shakira began.

“Captain!” he called out to a muscular blond man I felt like I knew, waving him over with his cigar in hand, my bouncy blue hair brushing against his scruffy-assed, muttonchop-covered face. I glanced up nonchalantly as the man approached and went back to the business at hand. “Have a seat, Jack. It’s your place; get comfy! Andy, give Jack your seat, will you?”

I held my breath as I ran my tongue along the ugly man’s neck. His dick acknowledged that this would be worth it in the end, as long as he didn’t blow it too soon. 

“La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,” Shakira sang loudly as the blond guy quipped some sexual innuendo shit with a hot blonde military girl behind me. I should have solicited her, I thought.

“We don’t have to make this hard, Jackie,” the hairy, smelly animal continued as he pushed me on his lap and held me there with force, his powerful arms wrapped firmly around my frame. He licked the side of my neck with his rough tongue; a sick action before he followed it with a quick, sloppy kiss.  

“Stop! You’re hurting me,” I snapped, trying unsuccessfully to break free of his unrelenting grasp.

“You come with us politely, Captain Jack, and everybody’s happy, right?” His grip tightened on my waist, his muscles bulging within his powerful arms.

“You okay, Sapphire?” the blond guy asked me. Jack was his name! He was our bouncer!

The electronic beats of Shakira’s song intensified. My heart raged within; fear taking over. I knew that song. This is where it all happened. Fuck! I could feel my heart once more, racing faster than ever before, knowing sure as shit the end was near.

“Be a whole lot better when this prick lets me go,” I answered, knowing that I could not move until the bastard released me.

“Just keep squirming, little bitch. Makin’ we all warm and hard inside,” he countered before returning his focus to Jack with a devilish grin. They knew each other from somewhere, probably having worked in a same unit or some shit. “How about you, sweetheart?” Dickhead asked me. “You want some cake?” he asked, pressing my ass tighter against the growing bulge in his lap, moving me back and forth. “We can put whatever topping you want on it as you jam it in your mouth,” he howled with laughter.

“I’d like you to let me go, you sick asshole,” I growled.

Fuckhead laughed out loud. “This cunt has got some balls, boys and girls! Maybe we should add her to our team. What do you say, soldiers? She could probably give us all blowjobs before each job, too, before kicking ass with us on the field.” He whispered in my ear: “I’m gonna fuck you to hell and back after this, little bitch.”

Military. Got it! But how would I get free of this hairy bastard’s grip?

Shakira seemed to prepare for something illicit as she sang, “Is it true that you love me? I dare you to kiss me. I dare you to touch me.” 

The chorus shouted dangerously, “Hola! Hola!”

His left, tattooed hand found its way to my uncovered nipple and twisted it harshly as he kissed me once more. His other hand was inching up my thigh, roughly moving toward my clit. “Now then, you don’t have much choice, Jack. You’re coming with us. Unless you want some nice people to get hurt here. He paused and looked around at the crowds of people in the bar. “Your nation needs you, soldier,” he warned. 

“Jack?” Another man came into view. Pale, slim, red-headed. The manager? My boss? His icy blue eyes rested on me. “Are you well, my dear?”

“I’ll be better when this pervert lets me off his tiny dick and gets the fuck out of here!” 

I couldn’t focus on what was said next. The manager was trying to calm everyone down. Hairy dude shook his head for a quick, violent second as if a fly was in his ugly face. He then released one hand from me to rub his eyes. That’s when I took advantage of the opportunity and elbowed the motherfucker in his large, scarred nose. Bastard let loose an enraged roar, and, before I knew what happened, he slashed open my throat with a fucking knife the size of my forearm. I saw myself then as if I were frozen in time, or a ghost, hovering over the club. Like some shit straight out of a horror movie, my body stood still for just a brief moment, my fucking eyes wide open, my neck erupting with crimson blood all over the fuckers who let this happen before I finally plummeted to the floor in front of the bastard who did it. Shots fired. People screamed. Mass exodus.

Blackness.

Crimson.

Did Shakira just shout out, blood on the dance floor?”

***

“Fout lanfè!” I shrieked in unadulterated fear, my body twisting and writhing across the dance floor, away from anyone who wanted to harm me, though I couldn’t back up any further as I was already pressed into the god damn wall, blocking my exit. “Ki kaka sa! Stay away the fuck away from me!” My hands shielded my teary-eyed face, palms out and shaking uncontrollably like the goddamn addict I was, trying to use the fucking force to keep everyone back, especially that hairy bastard that took my life. Reaching behind me, I groped blindly with one hand, trying to find something to defend myself with. I found a book. It was a heavy-ass leather-bound book, but still just a fucking useless book.

“Sapphire! Sapphire, please, stop. Stop,” the large bastard was trying to talk me down. Dark blood trickled from my forearm and onto the floor in a small pool of crimson. I latched onto my neck, feeling the fresh wound that was just inflicted upon me. God, he murdered me! He fucking murdered me! Bastard was on the floor, too. I decked him good. His arm was bleeding worse than mine. He had it bandaged up, but the redness was still showing through. Fucking got what he deserved! “Please, listen to me.” He thought he could lay his hand on me again. Thought he could rip my clothes off and take me dead. Fucking sick fat bastard! “Alice, please, assist!”

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Fucking hell, I thought for sure I shit my undies then as the bitch turned to face me.

She closed the fridge door with a click and approached me calmly as a soulless robot.

“No, no, no,” I begged, sure it was the end for me.

She knelt beside me and gripped me, a strange warmth emitting from her body.

She adapted! 

***

“I don’t know if I can get drunk, but I need a fucking drink,” I laughed, wiping my eyes one last time, sitting with my legs wrapped underneath me in the doctor’s leather chair.

Alice sat next to me, our chairs pushed together. She still held me.

It was nice.

“While I bandaged my arm, Alice took a sample of your blood. I do hope this is permissible to you. It is why you came, yes? To get my assistance? With this sample, I may find a cure to your…condition…and your memory loss.”

“My blackouts, too? And the eternal hunger?”

He shook his head before answering. “That is my hope, yes.” He paused, considering something secretive. He smiled then and almost laughed. “And how does my blood taste?”

My eyes found the warm robot. I kind of wanted to unzip that dress of hers and check out what lay underneath, but I didn’t. She was just so warm, almost caring. I wanted to, at the very least, kiss her. But I didn’t. I answered the doc instead: “not half as scrummy as mine, babe.”

Chapter 14: The Broken Bottle 

Fucking hairy animal viciously sliced my goddamn throat wide open. The weight of that violent act smothered my brain as I plodded out the glass doors of King’s College; my view of the Big Smoke obstructed by the gold cruciform atop the spire of St Mary le Strand Church, doing its best to stab at the ominous, darkening skies. While my eyes absorbed the attempted penetration, my mind considered how many men raped and murdered young women in this city, all in the name of God, or government, or education, or whatever the fuck insane reason they had in their tiny brains? I popped a mint in my mouth. My inner rage decided to play some Lauren Hill tunes on Spotify. While she growled in my ear, I felt a need to know how many women were raped or murdered around this whole fucked up world on a daily basis. Google told me the staggering number was approximately 85,000 women murdered yearly. 51,100 of those were by loved ones or intimate partners. 140 women murdered daily across this goddamn world. About 1,871 raped daily. I closed my eyes and allowed the rush of tears to burn my eyes as I collapsed to the asphalt floor. How many men had taken advantage of me in my past life? Raped me because I was young and scrawny and helpless? My face fell into the palms of my hands. Elbows on my knees. How many have I allowed to use my body for a wad of cash? I was nothing but a pussy to all of them. As Shakira’s Brazilian electronica drums pulverized its way through the smoke-filled club, that evil fucker threatened to rape me, but then murdered me instead. I was a helpless little twat then, ready to spread my legs or open my mouth freely to anyone with a dick and a handful of bills. I wondered if there were any decent men left in this insane world?

My head rolled with the images of me trying to give Dr. Haarhof a hand job. He stopped me, practically begged me not to. His warm hand had slid mine away.

He was the exception. He was a decent man. Maybe the only one, I decided.

I sighed out loud and stood up. “I need a fucking drink.”

***

My stomach was aching for food. I knew it really wanted more blood, but I just fed off the doc and I didn’t feel like vomiting again. People food would have to do. Some alcohol, too. Pushing through the heavy oak doors of The Broken Bottle Pub, I was taken in by the dimly lit, low-hanging, Tiffany stained glass ceiling pendants, the cheerful din of glasses clinking, boisterous conversation, the Beatles banging away on the speakers, and the waft of draught beer, fried foods, and perfumed flesh.

The elongated, rectangular room featured mahogany paneling walls trimmed with framed black and white art reflecting the history of the Big Smoke, polished oak chairs, stools, and benches with leather cushions throughout for patrons to sink their asses into while chomping down and drinking at the tables and the mahogany bar counter. Crowds of people gathered in the secluded booths, each separated by paneled columns. Past the smooth, ornate bar counter lay the red brick and wood fireplace and the stairway, guiding those in need to the toilet, sport on TV, and the concert deck. The immemorial fireplace carried the inscribed Fuck Hitler carved into its brick frame, a message hearkening back to the building’s historical, almost total destruction during World War II.

While the gray skies outside released a torrential downpour, I climbed onto a stool at the bar and released a sigh of relief, knowing that something would be in my tummy soon enough.

“What’ll ya have?” asked the tall, dark, and thin man behind the counter.

“God, I don’t know. What’ve you got that’s good?” I asked the young man.

He smiled, one gold tooth gleaming in the light, and pointed at the QR code set to my left. “Everything’s good here, miss. Take your pick.”

I rolled my eyes and scanned the menu on my phone: traditional British tavern food. I had fish and chips two days ago. Burger didn’t sound good enough, though its photo looked so scrummy. Then I saw the Sunday roast. Hm. Sirloin, chicken, pork, or veggie. Its sides were potatoes and steamed vegies, too, and something called a Yorkshire pudding. I had a feeling that I loved pudding as a kid, so fuck yeah! I lowered my phone and saw that the bartender had gone to the far right of the bar. A fat Hispanic lady with bushy eyebrows and a Broken Bottle t-shirt smiled pleasantly as she crossed over to me. “Ready, love?”

I checked out the first guy. A tan fedora, slightly worn, rested upon his neatly trimmed head. Long, black arms with an assortment of bracelets protruded from his light blue, long-sleeved, collared shirt. The first few buttons were undone, revealing his shaved chest, and three fresh scratches from, presumably, a hot date. Or a cat. His smoky, alluring scent lingered on my nose. 

“I see. You want Theo.” The woman touched my hand, sending a chill down my spine. With a knowing wink, she moved toward him. “Cute black girl needs help,” she whispered in his ear.

Mèd! I took notice of those dark, emerald green eyes of comfort and kindness and the silver ring embedded in his right eyebrow. “What shall we have today, darling?” Hands with long fingers on the counter before me. Lots of silver rings. Ancient gold Aztec-looking medallion hung from his neck. Dude liked fashionable accessories. Sex shouldn’t matter as I couldn’t get off anyway, but damn, I wanted this guy and was ready to give my chance at coming round another try. I raised my eyebrows, holding back on those thoughts for just a bit at least, and focused on the sustenance that my body craved: “How’s the sirloin roast?”

A kind, inquisitive smile formed between his dark mustache and wavy, lengthy beard. “Jamaican?” he asked. The fuck was he talking about? Was the food in this place spicy, like jerk chicken or something? My face clearly showed how confused I was, because he immediately clarified: “Where’re you from?”

A round of giggles fumbled out of my mouth, like I was some stupid ass high school girl ready to drop her panties. Get it together, I screamed in my head. I only needed food; that was it! “Haiti,” I answered.

“Yeah? Lovely accent y’ve got. Me mum and I been to Kingston and Savanna la Mar a few times growin’ up. She met me pop there. Never made it to Haiti yet.”

“Fucking place ate me up and spit me out. I’ll never go back.”

“Fuuuuuck. Sorry ta hear that. You should try Jamaica. Loads more fun. Goin’ back next year, once this place is on solid footing. Anyhoo, the roast is quite savory. Still prefer the chicken myself, but the sirloin is more popular here. It’ll fill ya up if y’r lookin’ for a solid meal. Fancy a pint with that?”

My head bobbed in agreement.

He held a clear glass mug above the beer taps. “Preference?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Fuck if I knew what beer I liked best. “New here. Choose for me.”

Eyes on me as he dispensed the golden Camden Hells lager into my mug, the thick white foam flowing from the rim. “Here for holiday?” he asked, setting the beer in front of me.

I wasn’t trying to get laid. I didn’t care if I scared anyone, so fuck it. “No idea. I woke up in the tube two days ago with amnesia.”

“Bloody hell! Are you being serious?”

I nodded as I took my first gulp of the brew. Thick. Foamy. And the taste? Thanks to Doc Haarhof’s blood in my system, I could taste the dry, clean, biscuity flavor. “Mmmm,” I sang. “Ho! This is scrummy!”

“You’re pickin’ up the dialect. Cool.”

Mug on the counter. Both my hands wrapped around it. “Thanks. And yeah, I’m being serious. No clue how I even arrived in London.”

“Blimey. ‘Ave the coppers helped ya?”

I shook my head.

“D’ya have a place to stay?”

If I had a heart, it would’ve surely stopped right then. Hot guy was ready to take me home within minutes after meeting me. Hell, I immediately realized, he wouldn’t be able to get me off anyway, so I told him the truth once more. “I’ve got a room at the Waldorf. Got a working credit card still.”

He smiled like a big brother, or like someone who wanted in my pants. “If you’re in need of anything while you sort it all out, give me a call.” Then he held out his palm. “Mobile.”

I turned it on with a flirty face and handed it over to him.

He typed away, took a quick selfie with a stupid smile, and handed it back.

“Slicer?” I snickered as I read his name.

He glanced back at someone calling his name and held up a hand, signaling to them he needed a moment more with me. “Me pop’s name. Theo Slicer Seacole at y’r service.” Palm up.

“Sapphire,” I responded, placing my hand in his.

He laid a soft, warm kiss on my skin. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sapphire.” An awkward silence followed. Dude was entranced, and I wasn’t even trying. “I’ve gotta…”

I nodded. He turned on his heels to go help some other customers at the other end of the bar. I took another mouthful of lager, wiped my mouth, and turned to observe the room’s inhabitants while I waited for my meal.

First booth had a bunch of flannel-wearing bros with trim beards, laughing and drinking light beer while snacking on chicken wings and fries.

Behind them was a young couple with two kiddos. Dad was a little overweight, with a trim haircut and a blue and white striped shirt. Mom was pretty enough, with long blonde hair held together with a pink headband. She was in a low cut white tank top, cleavage ready to burst out. Kids were teens: a long, dark-haired girl in an I Heart London t-shirt and a curly-headed boy in a Led Zeppelin long-sleeve athletic wear top. Burgers and fish sat before them.

The booth behind them had just one patron, quietly scrolling on his phone and sipping on a beer. Pale blue eyes. Rounded nose that fit his face in just the right way. Wavy brown hair reaching just below the base of his neck. Trim mustache and goatee. Long sleeve beige Columbia shirt, rolled up to his elbows. Faded blue Levi’s and a pair of Nikes. No jewelry.

Fuck, I knew this guy!

A couple of seconds later and I was across from him, fangirling.

“Hi!” I practically shouted as I almost slammed my beer down on his table a little too hard, spilling some of its liquid on the table.

“Hi,” he laughed, stunned at my sudden appearance. 

Silence followed for a moment too long. I’m not sure what I expected to happen, whether he would expose his neck to me, go down on me under the table, or tell me he felt something supernatural between us. Instead, I spoke: “Do we know each other?”

He put his phone down next to his beer.

I put my hands on his and studied that cute face of his. Almost movie star looks, but tired. He’d lived a life already, but was just in his early 30s, I guessed. My ADD kicked in then, wondering how old I was. Could be 200 for all I knew. Then he spoke.

“Not sure.” His eyes squinted a bit as he searched his memories. “You seem sorta familiar, but I’ve come into contact with so many people these past fifteen years, I…”

“Why fifteen years?” I interrupted. 

“That’s when it all began,” he answered, like I should already know his fucking life story.

“When what began?”

He slid his hands out from mine. Mèd, I hadn’t realized I was still holding them like I owned them or something.

“You really don’t know me at all, do you?” He seemed utterly confused.

“I mean, I saw your face in the papers today. I saw the protests condemning your visit. But no, I really have no fucking idea who you are yet. But I want to.” I chugged some cold beer while I let that sink into Pretty Boy’s brain.

He sucked his cheeks for a heartbeat. “Fifteen, sixteen years ago, I became a symbol of hope in the world. I set about on a mission to make things better. I was given powers to heal, to convince people to… do the right things…”

“You fucking control people’s brains? Hell, yeah!” I wasn’t ready to tell him I could do the same shit. Not just then.

“Well, I try not to. It’s not really the right thing for someone to do…”

“Why the fuck not? If you’re really on a mission to heal the world and shit, then you’ve gotta make people do the right things. Fucking control them. If not, the world’s not gonna change at all.”

“Who are you?”

“Sapphire,” I answered, extending my palm for him.

“Charles,” he responded in kind, shaking my hand gently. “Have we met before?”

I shrugged, placing my elbows on the table and resting my chin on the palms of my hands. “Don’t know. Amnesia.” I then explained some of what had happened to me since waking up in the tube two days ago, but leaving out the parts where my vampire hormones make me fuck and suck everyone in sight.

“And you haven’t checked yourself into a hospital yet?”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

Fuck. This is where I had to either be honest or make some shit up real fast. Couldn’t really tell this guy that I have no heartbeat and that I drink blood, could I? So I made shit up instead, kinda.

“I may be in trouble ‘cause I’m not sure I was a very good person before I lost my memory. I don’t want to be found by the wrong crowd.” Like cops, for one, since I’ve literally murdered three people since waking up here.

He raised an eyebrow and pondered his next statement. “Would you like me to heal you? To try and get your memory back?”

An image of this movie star-looking guy naked and on top of me, hands cupped around my breasts and mouth on my neck, healing me. But I didn’t think that’s what he actually wanted. Maybe. He sipped his beer as I considered his offer. If he was really a healer, and could get my memory back, what are the chances he’d also learn my secrets? I wasn’t ready for the peace and healing, fake Christ-man to figure out I was a blood-sucking vampire. I would have to figure it out my own way, or rely on Doc Haarhof. But there was still something important, or desirable, about this man, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. My eyes traced the lines on his cheeks. I felt as though my tongue should do the same. I wasn’t ready for him to heal my mind, but I desperately wanted to see what he could do for my body. I took his hands again.

“No, not today. However…”

“Yes?”

“Where are you staying?”

Charlie boy’s lips twitched as he laughed nervously. “Why?” He pulled his hands away, latched onto his beer, and took another sip.

I was playing Vampire Scientist again. I endeavored to seduce this boy without powers first. If that didn’t work, I would make him do what I wanted. I had a strong feeling that he was what I needed to solve a lot of my problems. There was something extraordinary about this man. 

I slid out of my shoe and stroked his leg with my foot. “I want you to take me to your bed.”

That was all I said. I could’ve been more explicit, but he knew what I wanted.

Fucker simply shook his head, like this happened all the time to him. “I’m afraid not, Sapphire. You’re very attractive, but I’m not looking for anything to distract me from my mission. I’m sorry.”

My foot did not stop caressing his leg. “You married?”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

He sighed quietly. “Power got to my head.”

“You fucked some followers, and she found out, huh?”

He shook his head. Savior-man was not perfect.

“How did you get your powers?”

“That’s well known.”

“Amnesia. Remember?”

“Alright?” It was the handsome skinny bar owner with my plate.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, babe,” I answered.

He set the dish before me. “Okay, Mr. Simms?”

Charlie smiled uncomfortably as my toes massaged the enlarging muscle between his legs. “Yeah,” he whispered.

I leaned back in my seat, crossed my arms, and enjoyed the show.

Slicer nodded and walked away.

“So, how’d you get your powers?”

“Can you first remove your foot from my dick?”

“You sure you want me to?”

Silence.

I lowered my foot so we could move forward with our serious discussion.

“So what happened fifteen years ago?”

Before he could even speak, a flash of white appeared in my head. Mèd!

“This is why the cynics want me silenced.” He sighed again, frustrated. “It’s not like I asked for any of this, but I feel I have to do something with it.” His eyes stole my attention. “A man, a demon, a god, or all in one, tricked me into this life, gave me these powers. This is what I tell people attending my speeches, or in the books I write. Co-write. This world is not what we believe it to be. It is not governed by God as we know it; not that God anyway. The Architect of this world gave me these powers, hoping I’d abuse them, pushed me to choose the wrong path and recreate a world as I saw fit, to upend governments and its citizens and mold it into a world of my choosing, all to cause chaos and disruption. Mass violence and hysteria is all it would bring, though. I have that power, Sapphire. I can do pretty much anything I want, have anything I want.”

“Or anyone, apparently. How many times did you cheat on her before she left you? How many did you fuck in the bed your shared with her?”

He could’ve gotten angry. Could’ve thrown my roast on the ground or poured his beer over my head. I would’ve deserved it, but he didn’t do any of that. He didn’t answer my question, either. So I gave him another one: “Why you? Why did this god choose you?”

Without hesitation: “I’ve answered this a million times already: I don’t know exactly. I can only assume it was a power play, to see how much he could corrupt me, to turn me into someone else. Something… not necessarily evil, but darker. A darker version of myself. I fought back, basically told him to go to Hell.”

“But he left you with the powers?”

Charlie nodded his head.

This cutie dealt with the something, or someone, so powerful, that he was given powers to shape the world into whatever image he wanted to make it, but he chose goodness instead, to speak to people instead, to attempt to convince them to change on their own. I decided that somehow, some way, the two of us were connected, and I was going to find out how. It was time to use my powers on him.

I took his hands again. “Kiss me,” I commanded.

“No,” the fucker answered.

I squeezed his hands. “Charles, I need you to kiss me right the fuck now.”

Fucker scoffed and pulled his hands away. My powers didn’t work on the bastard!

“What are you?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what happened then. I was in shock. I thought I could control anyone with my powers and just found out I couldn’t. I shrugged defiantly. Of course, I knew what I was, but I would not give this fucker the satisfaction of an answer after he turned my ass down. I shook my head. 

Cute bastard then said something to bring me back: “Your thumb is bleeding.”

God fucking damn! I was sucking my thumb right in front of him. I didn’t apologize. I licked it clean, took hold of a napkin, and wiped my mouth. Then the bastard had the gall to reach across the table and lift my lip. His eyes grew two sizes then. He was gawping at my fucking vampire teeth. My hands lowered his away from my mouth and held it securely on the table. I know what he wanted to say. I did not know what he wanted to do with that information. He was somewhere between pissed and confused. Was I a victim or a monster? Charles shook his head and pulled his hand away from mine. Asshole polished off his beer, wiped his stupid mouth, and said the dumbest thing ever: “Stay away from me.”

My soul, crushed as fuck, slipped out of my body and onto the floor of the pub as Charles Simms stood and walked away without another word. It was as if I’d just been dumped by a boy after losing my virginity to him. Asswipe found out I was a vampire and walked away like I had something to do with it. Manman pute. Fuck him and his powers. I dug into my food, not paying attention to its flavor, or lack thereof, at all. I was pissed. And turned on. This man had powers that I wanted. This man and I were somehow connected, and I was going to find out how. I could not stay away from him. I needed him in the worst way. My mind exploded with the images of him and me kissing. Fucking. Biting. I saw how I would become stronger with him by my side. Charles Simms would be mine. I needed him so badly I could taste it. I glanced back to the bar and found that tall man in the fedora. He was no Charles Simms, but he would have to do for the night.