Path of the Vampire forum

It didn’t matter if the audience was made up of a bunch of old school friends in a church hall, gathered together to celebrate the birthday of one of their fellow pupils, or several hundred rowdy rockers in a sweaty music venue, the buzz of playing would always send a shiver down the spine of even the coolest, calmest performer. That sudden flutter of butterflies inside your stomach, the rush of adrenaline shooting through your bloodstream like an almighty hit of the most addictive heroin; getting up on stage was an exhilarating sensation.

Even as a vampire, without a beating heart to get the pulse truly racing, Aaron still relished the opportunity to soak in the atmosphere of a heaving music venue like a sonic sponge. It made him feel almost childlike, as if he’d been dragged back through time to a Christmas morning when he was only five or six years old, eager to rip open his presents, wide-eyed with anticipation about what treasures lay buried within the shining wrapping paper.

Did Kaspar still get that kick from performing? Did he surf on the wave of adulation, milking every minute for all it was worth, or had the singer become so used to the attention that it now washed over him like a daily shower? Maybe Aaron would ask him, but not right now.

A round of applause, more like a gently meandering stream than a raging river, rippled across the sticky floor of the nightclub, signalling the arrival of the next act. As Aaron’s hazel eyes watched the enthusiastic band members take to the stage for their moment in the limelight, a beaming smile exploded across his face. The seasoned drummer knew exactly how they’d all be feeling. The budding rock-stars were gulping down that heady cocktail of excitement and nervousness, filling their tingling bellies with the noisy ambience of the club. This was their chance to impress, to indulge themselves in a slice of minor notoriety for the evening. For a fleeting second or two, Aaron was mildly jealous that he wasn’t getting up there himself.

Turning to face Kaspar, the slightly envious punk nodded.

“Yep,” he said in agreement, “probably a student crowd, out for cheap beer and cheap thrills.”

Aaron pointed towards the stage, his finger aimed like the barrel of a pistol at the chunky drummer who was taking his seat behind a kit with the band’s logo plastered across the bass drum.

“That’s the young guy who handed me the flyer,” said Aaron. “I totally hear what you’re saying about making like bananas, and splitting, but let’s just give them a couple of songs?”

Aaron didn’t owe the teenager anything, but he thought that he should at least give the punk protégé and his band the benefit of the doubt, after all, the kid had made the effort to come across to Aaron’s academy to hand out the bright yellow leaflets. A tune or two from The Sexy Pistols probably wouldn’t destroy the eardrums of the two vampires, well, hopefully not the eardrums of both of them!

Just as Aaron was seeking approval from Kaspar to extend their musical soirée, something, or rather someone, snagged the teacher’s attention. It looked like Michelle, the mother of one of his students, had decided to throw caution to the wind, and come to the gig. Good on her, thought Aaron, smiling internally. He’d handed her a flyer earlier in the day when she’d brought her son, Gary, to Skin Trade for his weekly lesson. Hopefully, the troubled woman would enjoy a great night at the concert, otherwise Aaron would undoubtedly have to act as her pseudo-psychiatrist when she next visited his drumming school, pouring her heart out to him yet again.

Aaron was about to mention rather proudly to Kaspar that he had finally recognized someone in the club when somebody else caught his gaze, somebody who instantly caused Aaron to scan the room for others like him. It wasn’t that Aaron’s keen eye actually knew the person, a muscular-looking man with a closely-shaven head, but he was most definitely very familiar with the weaponry that the beefcake was attempting to conceal underneath a knee-length black leather coat.

“Hey, Kaspar,” said Aaron, an uncharacteristically serious tone masking his normally cheery voice, “ignore what I just said, and check out the dude in the wannabe Neo jacket to the left of the stage. Is he packing an assault rifle, or is he just incredibly excited about the show?”

One of the key things that Aaron loved so much about punk rock music was its raw aggression. The way in which a combination of a killer guitar riff, a pounding drum and bass rhythm section, and snarling vocals projecting politically charged lyrics, could utterly captivate an audience. Crowds could become drenched in a sonic thunderstorm, soaked to the bone by the electrifying tunes that blasted out through the stacks of shuddering amplifiers. A mosh pit full of pogoing punks was a maelstrom of pure, unadulterated energy. Once the punters had been whipped up into a frenzy by a band, a club would suddenly be transformed into musical Molotov cocktail, ready to explode with adrenaline. It was such an amazing buzz!

However, there was a monumental difference between the artificial anger and zeal generated by the barnstorming performance of a few musicians thrashing around on stage, and the genuine danger and hostility caused by the sudden arrival of mysterious figures wielding machine-guns. In a split second, the atmosphere within the venue had switched from one of excitement and enjoyment to panic and confusion.

Kaspar’s move to calm the alarmed crowd was inspired. He clearly had the ability to bewitch an audience; a skill that experienced allurists seemed to possess. It was like watching a wise old wizard cast an enchantment spell. The charismatic singer would probably have the clientele eating out of the cool palm of his vampiric hand in no time. But time was definitely in short supply. The situation was balanced on a knife-edge, about to erupt like a growling volcano.

Someone else had already decided to enter the fray, a woman whose face was instantly recognized by Aaron. Was she the person out in the wilderness near the Wendigo Forest? Was it her? The intricacies of their previous meeting could be discussed later. Right now, there were more important things on Aaron’s mind.

The woman had engaged the gun-toting assailant, taking him down with the prowess of a deadly tiger. To a drunken partygoer, the incident may have simply looked like a crazy barroom brawl, akin to something from of a Wild West movie. If Aaron and Kaspar were able to work swiftly, then perhaps this potentially lethal scenario could be nipped in the bud. There were so many innocent bystanders who could be turned into Swiss cheese if the **** hit the fan.

So many questions started to race through Aaron’s brain, the main one being the identity of the gunman, quickly followed by a deep concern that the terrorist wasn’t acting alone. The phrase “lone wolf” was often regurgitated by members of the media: it was a sound bite thrown around when they were reporting on deadly attacks, but it was a label that Aaron found difficult to swallow. Wolves rarely acted alone: they were pack animals, hunting in groups, not as solitary predators.

Aaron had duly taken note of Kaspar’s request to protect his friends, and was now observing his companion trying to take control of the crowd. He’d also seen the woman bravely jump into the thick of the action, throwing caution to the wind. It was time for Aaron to play his part. Just as the vampire was about to rush towards the skirmish, his highly perceptive eyes caught sight of a second gunman, also armed with a strangely familiar looking assault rifle, charging towards the stage. Suddenly, a mental light-bulb burst into life inside Aaron’s mind.

“Oh ****!” exclaimed Aaron, his powerful legs propelling his agile body towards the stage in an attempt to avert a massacre. “These dudes aren’t hunters!”

Racing towards his friend like a thoroughbred horse, the reality of what was happening slowly began to dawn on Aaron. The reason why he recognized the firearms so easily was because the keen weaponsmith had stripped down dozens of the lethal lead-slingers, having taken them as trophies from fallen enemies. The new, mysterious club shouldn’t have been named The Hell Hole; it should have been called The Helhiem Hole! Aaron was convinced that the gun-toting saboteurs were Helheim guards. This was bad, very bad.