Path of the Vampire forum

[OOC: Following on from here.]

I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe, rather than the bartender making a drink for Ursula that she wouldn’t drink anyway, he could become the drink. I can see, I suppose, how he might be appealing to people. But, just as humans have their specific tastes in food, so too do I. And the bartender doesn’t particularly appeal.

The piece of ice bounces off the bartender, and he remains completely oblivious. Well, that’s disappointing. I do have a dagger tucked into my boot—I wonder whether he’d be completely oblivious were I to punt that at his temple. I don’t, however. Murder in the middle of a crowd is hardly a way to keep a low profile.

Ursula’s suggestion is tempting, but it’s not one that I feel inclined to take up. The girl in red has already garnered far too much attention. There is a rebellious side of me, a demon within kicking up dust as I mentally refuse to cause a fuss. We are capable of so much, and yet we must keep it all under wraps, as if we don’t exist at all. There is a small part of me that’s wants to say **** it all, and not give a **** about what kind of consequences might come from killing someone who has such a high profile.

Doesn’t matter. The bartender is pissing me off. He continues to focus mainly on the girl and her company at the bar, ignoring everyone else. And when finally he does move on, he moves in the opposite direction. **** him. His lack of good service is going to get him killed. I turn to Ursula and, failing the ability to actually answer any of her questions, I ignore them. I arch an inquisitive brow in the direction of the bartender—an expression that asks do you want him?

I figure it won’t be that hard. He’s the bartender, and though he does get quite a bit of attention, that will only work in our favour. When asked who he was seen with, witnesses will answer ‘He was seen with everyone. He’s the bartender.’

All we have to do, in order to make him our meal, is to get him alone. The guy has to take a break at some point. Has to take a piss. Has to go home. All we have to do is watch and wait, and sooner or later we will get the service that we demanded. Easy as pie.

But only if Ursula wants him. Only if she has the patience for such a game. Otherwise I’m sure there are some other delectable meals that we can select for ourselves in the this veritable buffet.

Teaching a lesson implies that a person will learn something that they will use in future. Lessons are noble things; the gaining of knowledge a furtherance of one’s own intelligence and social standing. We do not live in some archaic, traditional society, though. What’s the point in teaching a bartender a lesson about how to do his job, when there’s always another one—maybe better, maybe worse, it doesn’t matter—to step into his place.

Besides which—though we could act like ordinary humans and teach this guy a lesson in the regular ways, how would that be any fun? We cannot teach him a lesson, hoping for him to remember it, using our vampiric capabilities. It would be a breach of masquerade. I don’t tell any of this to Ursula, however. One—I cannot ‘tell’ her even if I wanted to. Two—there is a lesson that can be taught. And I’d rather teach Ursula via practical application.

As if everything is falling into place, just as it should, I notice, out of the corner of my eye, that our ignorant bartender is talking quietly to a colleague, his hand resting upon her shoulder. He then wipes his hands, drops the towel that had been draped over his shoulder onto the bench, and weaves his way out from behind the bar. I have no plan but to follow him, to see if we can’t get him alone.

I offer a wink to Ursula before pushing away from the bar. Although I’m certain she can probably keep up, if she tried, I still curl my fingers through hers as I lead her through the crowd. The crowd parts easily for me, like sluicing my way through the red sea, as if I’m giving off some sadistic aura and they want to keep away from me, even though they have no idea why. I follow our bartender into and through a ‘Staff Only’ door near the back, hidden in a dark corner. I pause just inside the door; there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. Still, sauntering in as if I belong there—and letting go of Ursula’s hand in the process—I notice as the bartender enters another room. A toilet, just for staff.

The music is muffled in here, a dull thud and rumble interspersed with laughter and revelry. I gesture to the small bathroom into which the bartender had disappeared with a flourish, a slight bow to Ursula. Ladies first.

The way Ursula is acting—well, it’s kind of infectious. I know I initiated the bow, but that small curtsy only fuels the notion that she is some damsel, and I am the man who must provide for her. The grin on my lips is steadfast as I follow her into the staff bathroom; as seems to be the case with all the women I’ve been with recently—and in the past—I am left to take the lead. I always, always took the lead as far as Felicity was concerned, thus the reason I grew bored, the reason why I have not sought her out. I took the lead with Abigail. And, as strong and independent as Yekaterina might seem, she seems always to be asking me what we’re going to do, rather than taking the initiative herself.

Here again, I find us stepping through the door, Ursula pausing; we cannot linger, we cannot be uncertain. Now that we are within sight, we must act quickly. The first thing that I do is check for security cameras. Although it seems unlikely that they’ll be set up in the bathroom, I check anyway. On the way out, I’ll check the staff room, too. We’ll make sure that all evidence of our little visit to the staff area is erased.

The next thing I check—are we alone with this bartender? The room is not large. It’s easy to ascertain that we are alone with him. In the time it takes me to check for these small things, the bartender realises that he’s no longer alone. He turns a curious glance over his shoulder; when he sees us, his brows furrow. His brain is taking its time to comprehend that we are not staff. He has never seen us before. I take advantage of the slowness of his brain and stride forward. I grab hold of his hand, and with preternatural speed wrench it behind his back. I hold his arm in such a position that, should the bartender struggle, he’ll risk breaking it. At the same time, I clamp a hand over his mouth so that he cannot scream.

As thirsty as I am—as I always am—I do not sink my teeth into the inviting vein throbbing beneath the man’s skin, made all the more prominent when I pull his head to the side, forcing the neck to arch and elongate. I force him forward—an invitation for Ursula. She can have this one. I’ll find myself someone else. Men aren’t really my taste.

Darling. A suitable misnomer, if ever I heard one. I hate it, when someone calls me darling, especially if they are my age or younger. It makes them sound like an old woman speaking down to a grandkid. I am no grandkid, and I do not like being spoken to like one—though I let it slide. From the look in Ursula’s eyes I understand her teasing nature; she’s just having a bit of fun, and that’s fine by me.

I do not answer the question. I remain stoic, holding the prey as if he is a fish that we have just caught and which has not died yet. Ursula is distracted by the prospect of a meal, and I have no need to answer her question; I am almost certain that it was a rhetorical question, anyway.

There is always something intimate in watching another person feed. It’s right up there, in my opinion, with watching another person have sex—and if not that, it’s like watching a striptease. There’s a certain pleasure one gets when watching someone else pleasure themselves—I have a thirst that never abates, and though watching Ursula indulge only arouses my thirst further, it also adds a special spice to the whole delayed gratification philosophy. I am a patient man, and always have been.

Ursula’s eyes open, and she stares at me while she feeds. I stare right back, holding the bartender steady as he shudders, as he tries to shout. He tries to struggle, forcing the tension in his arm to near breaking point—he whimpers, and finally stays still. When Ursula tugs at his head in clear invitation, I only smirk and slowly shake my head from side to side. No, the bartender is all for her. I will not take from her. I do lean forward, however, my cheek touching Ursula’s. Warmth radiates from the human pinned between us, and the heady scent of his blood wafts into the air from the open wound created by Ursula’s canines.

These are the small pleasures one can indulge in in this life. The new sensations that haven’t yet lost their lustre.

In the end, I don’t have to kill the bartender. All along I’d assumed that Ursula intended to leave him alive; given what she had already said, I supposed it was an easy enough assumption to make. She doesn’t leave him alive, however. In a moment (or few) of gluttony she drains him, until his heart cannot stand it anymore. It no longer has any blood to pump around his system, so the heart gives up. The steady rhythm of it, as Ursula fed, rivalled the thump of the bass of the music as it played out in the club. Now it is gone, the muffled sounds of the club eek back into the room.

Perhaps due to the fact that she took more than she needed, Ursula spilled the blood that she had taken. When I feed I like it to be clean. I feed slowly, tightly, so that no blood escapes the wound. No blood gets past my lips. It is too good to waste. Everyone has their habits, however, and it does not surprise me that Ursula’s habits are different to mine. She curses the inability to see herself in the mirror; she wipes at the spilled blood on her skin, but she does not get it all. I take the towel and wipe the smear of crimson still left across her jaw line. I wipe until it is gone.

I cant my head at the body on the floor. The back exit to the club is outside; to get to it, we’d have to go through the crowd. The wound on his neck is gone; no evidence of anyone having bit him. Again, this is where our habits differ. I do not drain my victims. I only take what I need (even though I am always hungry) and then I snap their necks. They are only missing, then, the blood that they’d be missing if they’d gone to give blood at some donation centre. With no bite mark, no obvious disappearance of blood, less likelihood of the authorities making any kind of conclusions about vampires.

I could of course offer a solution. I could do all the work. I found this meal for Ursula, however, and I am curious now. How would Ursula get rid of the body? And, for the matter, if I asked her to – how would she go about luring me a meal? So I lift my focused gaze from the dead body. I give a languid shrug. I nod at Ursula, pointedly, and turn my hand in a circular gesture, before pointing at her. Silently asking her to do it, to show me how it’s done.