Kage Baker: Dark Mondays

“Look, who needs her anyway? We have to get back.”

“It’s not like we’re really going to die if the sun hits us,” said Todd.

Julie, sounding outraged, said, “We’re creatures of darkness. It’s the principle of the thing, you know? She affronted the Kindred!”

“Whatever,” said Todd.

About ten more minutes passed before he exhaled loudly, said, “This is crap,” and got up. Shadow peered through the bamboo and watched the three of them trudging sadly down the street, in their white pancake makeup and black polyester cloaks.

Shadow had Sunday and Monday nights off. When she’d had the Impala, she’d gone driving. She’d head out Santa Monica as far as the beach, where she’d walk beside the dark water, or go to some of the clubs out there.

She didn’t feel like staying home that Sunday night. The nearest club was down on the Boulevard, just off Orchid; she left early, before sunset, and instead of going straight down Highland took the back way, all the way up and over the hill on the other side, emerging behind Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Once or twice, through the quiet residential section, she thought she heard footsteps echoing her own. When she turned and looked, though, there were no coven members swirling their capes; only a man, indistinct in the twilight, walking along without drama.

The club, The Pearl Diver, had been there since the 1940s and had originally had a South Seas theme. All the tuck-and-roll banquettes had been torn out, though, and now it looked vaguely industrial. There was a bar, there was a platform for the DJ’s equipment, there were a few chromed steel tables and folding chairs; all the rest was dance floor.

It was usually pretty quiet on a Sunday. Shadow liked it that way. She didn’t go to meet people. She liked to dance, but by herself; she liked to drink, and that was safest done alone too. But it was good to do these things in a public place, in a pool of colored light, to music so loud she felt its vibration in her bones.

Shadow ordered a vodka on the rocks, on the grounds that it had fewer calories than other drinks. It was pure, it was volatile; one drink and her exhaustion drained away, and she was out on the floor and jumping to the music. Her hair flew, her knees and elbows pumped, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass who might be lurking in the darkness at the edge of the dance floor. She was moving .

At some point she was in a bright warm place and the DJ had just put on Buzzcocks’ Ever Fallen in Love? There was someone dancing beside her, suddenly. She looked up at him, snarling, but her shout of anger died in her throat.

He was as caught up in the dance as she was, he wasn’t even looking at her. He was fast, he was sinuous, he was in perfect control. He needed nothing.

She thought he might be a surfer. What was a surfer doing in a punk hangout? His skin was tanned dark amber, with a red flush under it, and his forearms were tattooed. There were bright glints in his red hair. He wore ragged jeans, a torn shirt, but a fire opal winked from his ear.

Shadow felt all her breath going out of her. She staggered away from him, got another drink at the bar, found a vacant table and sat down. Her legs were trembling. Other people were staring at the guy now. Two older girls sitting at the table next to hers watched him with avid expressions.

“Damn,” said one of them, in awe.

“Who is that ?” said the other. “The God of the Beach?”

The music ended, and the dancer looked around. He spotted Shadow, walked to her table and loomed over her. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him before?

“Can I buy you a drink?” he said.

“Hell yes!” said the nearer of the girls at the next table, as she leaned forward to catch his eye. His unmoving gaze rested on Shadow.

“Okay,” said Shadow.

He went to the bar and returned a moment later with a pair of vodkas on the rocks. He put them down and seated himself next to her.

“Okay if I sit with you?” he said. He didn’t smile as he said it, and that lowered her defenses a little. Smiling people always wanted something more.

“Yeah, okay,” she said.

She waited for him to say the stupid things non-punks said when they came into a place like this. Most men, looking at her Doc Martens and black ensemble, assumed she was a lesbian and did something idiotic like jovially telling her they were lesbians, too, trapped in the bodies of men. She’d never known what that was supposed to make her feel, other than contempt.

But he said nothing. He just sat there, watching her.

“You can really dance, you know?” she blurted, and felt like a fool.

He seemed to think about that, watching her as he took a sip of his drink. “Thanks,” he said at last. “I liked your dancing too.”

Eyeing him sidelong, she tried to define what it was about him that was making her heart contract so painfully. He looked a little like Scott Rosenthal back in eighth grade, the boy she’d dreamed of marrying someday. He looked a little like Rick, the nice guy her mother had dated for a while.

No; Samantha had fantasized about a white wedding, without ever actually getting up the courage to even say hello to Scott Rosenthal. Samantha had hidden in her room, crying, while her mother had had a drunken quarrel with Rick and ended up throwing him out.

Shadow never wept over anybody.

The guy was talking to her in a low soothing voice, and she realized that he wasn’t nearly as inarticulate as he had seemed at first. He spoke quietly, patiently, yes, a lot like Rick. What had Rick’s last name been?

“…But I don’t really think you’re into this?” he was saying. He put his hand over hers. His hand was warm. It startled her a little.

“What?”

“All this,” he said, nodding toward the couples at the bar. “All these desperate people.”

“No,” she said. “I just come here to dance.”

“I could tell,” he said. “Me too.”

“You burn up the floor, man,” said Shadow. “Not like the rest of these posers. They’re needy . That’s why I like my space, you know?”

He nodded solemnly. Shadow looked down and saw that her glass was empty. Without a word he got up and brought her another drink.

She found herself talking to him about her life. He listened without comment, without smiling. What was there to smile about? But now and then he squeezed her hand.

It made her feel lightheaded. It made her want to do something stupid.

Someone was standing beside their table. It was the bartender, the older one, looking surly.

“What’s this Kiki says about putting drinks on your tab? You ain’t got no damn tab,” said the bartender.

Rick (No, that wasn’t his name. Had he told her his name?) looked up at the bartender and smiled. His smile was all light and warmth; Shadow leaned toward him involuntarily.

“You didn’t recognize me, did you?” he said pleasantly. The bartender peered at him, confused. Then he laughed.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with my eyes? Never mind! Can I get you another round?”

“Yes,” said the guy.

Shadow drank, but was no longer relaxed. She was shaking. Where was her self-control? She didn’t need this guy. But, she told herself, she could use him, couldn’t she? Of course she could. Samantha would be going all dewy-eyed and dreaming of a future right about now, but Shadow knew better than that. He was somebody, he was an actor or in a band or something, obviously. He must have money.

If nothing else, she might talk him into walking her home. She could tell him about the vampire covens, and they’d have a good laugh.

Her glass was empty. The music had stopped, the lights gone down; the DJ was taking a break. People at the tables around them seemed to be half asleep. When had she stopped talking?