Lewis Aleman - The Anti-Vampire

Scared to have her here. Scared more to leave her in the woods where I can’t see her. Edgar knows right where Ruby was—has to know by now that the number I gave him was to call upon a dead girl. Roderick probably knows right where she was in the woods by now too. Edgar’ll be all too happy to tell him to get back at me. Be his way to get Roderick off his own back for not returning to him right away—wasted his time on the chase I sent him, searching for veins that were long dry.

We walk into the bar and look around. I don’t see anything blue bopping. Don’t know if I’m happy or sad not to see her. Maybe she wised up. Or, maybe they’ve already found her before she could come out here. That seems more likely.

Still only 10:15. Place doesn’t get hot till 11 or later.

Sounds of a four-piece drum kit solo reach my ears. The awkward stops grate at me. Why can’t it be Tuesday night Burlesque? So glad they have that here—without it there’d be no pyro at the edge of the stage, and this tale would’ve been a whole heck of a lot shorter. A lot sadder too.

A guy across the bar squints his eyes behind his thick-framed glasses and waves one finger in the air—keeping his other hand at the brim of his bebop hat. Have to admit I kind of like the hat. Not my style, but a nice hat.

Ruby squeezes my hand—my eyes slide up her arm, along her shoulder, over the sleek contour of her neck—still unmarked by me, along the slender cheekbone, up her delicate nose, and to the intoxicating green of her eyes. That’s exactly my style.

Every bit of it.

She pulls my hand down, guiding my body toward her own. Her luscious, full lips press into mine, filling me with the warmth and hope that my fear had drained from me.

Knew what I needed without a word. She looked into me, knew what I lacked, and poured it out of herself into me.

Such a small package filled with so much. Even after our time in the wild—our time on the run without shower or refreshing, her hair smells wonderful—her kiss sweet.

Worry what is happening that I can’t see. Don’t want anything to harm her—even while she thrills me.

I slowly back off, fighting a pull to return to her lips as we separate. She smiles and slides her arm around my waist, running her fingers across my lower back.

I scan over the bar, trying to find anything blue or anything menacing. The night would go better if I never saw either of them, but the urge to have this weight off my shoulders—some kind of end to this stress and worry—makes me wish I’d find either of them right now and face fate head on.

I look to the DJ booth. It’s not Mark. He loves jazz about half as much as I do, although I don’t find it all that different from the drum and bass stuff he digs so much.

It’s an older guy named Jeff. Know him but not really friends. I wave and get his attention—not too much else for him to look at in the bar that’s not yet very populated.

I make a gun with my hand, aim it at my forehead, and pull the trigger with my thumb. He smiles. I hold up eight fingers and then just a fist. He mouths the word Sunday down to me. I point at my wrist where a watch would be worn if I were ever concerned about the time. He shrugs his shoulders and fiddles with equipment in front of him.

“Always Something There to Remind Me” starts, its uniquely ‘80s keyboards and chiming bells invading the jazz-only event. Beebop guy doesn’t seem too upset, still waving his lone finger around as conductor.

“How’d you do that?” asks Ruby.

“You know by now—I’m a magic man.”

She dances slowly up to me, brushing against me, “You just get us all out of here tonight—that’s all the magic I need to see for awhile.”

I nod and look around.

Her slim fingers reach up and slide over my chin, “Not that I don’t love the magic you’ve shown me, or the sparks in your fingertips.”

I smile and look at something moving over her head near the stage. It’s the emergency door—it’s not all the way shut.

I pull her around to the other side of me.

“What? What is it?” she asks.

I bang my hand on the bar as I call out, “Angie?”

The bartender shuts the lid of the cooler she was stocking with beer bottles and bops her way over toward me.

“What’s the big dea—” she starts to ask before I interrupt.

“Keep her behind the bar—don’t say a word,” I say grabbing Ruby at her waist and lifting her up onto the bar.

“What? Why should I kee—”

“Please, no questions—someone’s here that wants to hurt her—bad.”

“Okay. Okay. Try to keep things cool. Please.”

“Thanks, Angie.”

I turn to the emergency exit.

“Wait!” calls from behind me.

I look over my shoulder and see Ruby behind the bar now and watching me intently.

“I’ll come back for you,” I say.

She looks slightly relieved.

“Now, down,” I say pointing, “Stay below the bar.”

I look back to the door and rush toward it. Quick hop on the stage, pass up the door, lean on the wall with my ear close to the crack between the door and the sill.

Hear voices, but nothing clear.

I look up to Jeff and see him watching me curiously—again nothing much else to look at in the bar but bebop guy’s soul patch and his finger waving. I motion for him to turn the volume down. He looks pained, but turns the level down for me. Voices become clear.

“…been here three nights in a row—what makes you think she’s ever coming back?”

“Trust me,” this voice is Roderick’s—definitely Roderick’s, “She can’t stay away much longer—this is her drug.”

A third voice chimes in, “Look, I’m starting to get the itch, man—can’t be here all night.”

Third voice is Edgar’s. Those words could be his epitaph. Definitely him.

Roderick again, “You’ll stay as long as I tell you, junkie. She’ll be here: trust me.”

“Not here now—wasting our time. Could be anywhere in the city if she even came back at all. This place ain’t even gonna get going for another hour—playing freakin’ ‘80s music right now—it’s supposed to be stupid jazz night. Ain’t even started yet.”

“All right,” barks Roderick, “We’ll go check out the damn market, and if she ain’t—isn’t—see you’ve got me talking like an imbecile—if she isn’t there we’re coming right back here. She’ll be here all night anyway once she comes.”

The door slams roughly—right beside my ear. Probably kicked by Roderick. Just glad that they didn’t come back inside.

Time. At least we have a little time. Don’t know how much or what good it’ll do, but we’ve got a little. Hope it’s enough to keep her alive.

I see her two defiant and gorgeous eyes peering over the edge of the counter full of concern, and I know I need a way to save her from all this—even though my mind has no idea how to do it.

Like being trapped in a glass tomb, I press my hand against the clear pane blocking me from the burgeoning life on the other side that I’m not a part of. Dark blue, the color of a dream, and muffled on my side—loud, bouncing, and alive on the other.

It seems that with every new song, the crowd below grows out of itself, people spawning out of people—filling in every tiny bit of available space with another sweaty, dancing body.

Hard to believe so many people would show up for a jazz night at a wild place like this—and on a Sunday at that, but as the night’s progressed, the jazz has gotten funkier and people have started dancing. Some of them seriously over-dancing. Never seen people gyrate to this style of music, but they sure seem to be having a good time.