Path of the Vampire forum

Yet another punk song ended in cacophonous flair, drawn-out notes and percussion reverberating through the floorboards behind the bar as the illusion of silence briefly followed. In that moment, the hum of conversation was overwhelming. Charlie looked up in order to take in the sheer number of patrons crowding the dimly lit room. It wasn’t her first shift at Serpentine, but it sure was her busiest thus far. Not that she’d expect any less on a Saturday night.

The blonde scanned the counter in search of an unattended customer. Satisfied no one was waiting or leaning too far across the counter, she returned to her task of taking the glasses out of the dishwasher. The steam had long dissipated, but the tumblers remained much too hot to the touch. Tending bar had done little to desensitize the nerves on her fingertips, but she bore the pain without any outward reaction. It was part of the job.

A glance over her shoulder through the glass wall revealed her boss perched over a young man’s forearm, busy at work with live needle in latex-gloved hand. Charlie watched for a few seconds before catching herself staring, and returning to the task at hand. Diligently, she placed the dirty glassware into the empty dishwasher before turning it back on.

Jesse Fforde was a meticulous businessman (and artist), but there was something about him that kept Charlie on her toes. There was no budding familiarity between the two, but it had been just under a fortnight since she’d started her employment. He kept things brief and to the point whenever they talked, which meant no gaps in conversations for her to inquire about the things she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. As for the blood drinks (yes, blood drinks), he’d given her a succinct explanation: Serpentine was a specialty bar that catered to an alternative crowd.

‘Alternative’ and ‘specialty’ were loaded terms, and Charlie wasn’t one to fuss with semantics. She was grateful to have found a job that paid fairly, and wasn’t inclined to push buttons until her first pay landed in her account.

(What a hassle it had been to open a bank account without a physical copy of her passport. Trying to get a replacement to her stolen passport was far more intricate than necessary, but luckily she’d been able to e-mail Jesse a copy of it without having to mention her loss.)

Wiping her hands on the front of her jeans, Charlie walked the stretch of the bar, looking for empty glasses and thirsty customers. If her gaze strayed to the glass floor at the centre of the room revealing the course below, it was out of curiosity. The winning combination of alcohol and parkour had already provided ample entertainment.

For a busy night, it wasn’t overwhelming. Her fingers tapped on the edge of the counter as she reached to wipe the surface with a wet cloth, thankful for the person settling into the stool across from her.

“What you drinkin’, mate?”

Charlie knew exactly what the blonde was after, and replied to the request with a soundless nod. Making blood-based drinks was... how to put it? Not a skill she’d had much practice with coming into this job. Depending at what temperature the blood was kept at its viscosity changed drastically, unlike any spirit she was accustomed to pouring. Luckily the order was fairly straightforward... except for—

“Would you like that warmed, or served cold?”
To an unsuspecting bystander, she could’ve been discussing the woman’s sake preference.

The human went about finding a tall glass and sleek cylindrical bottle of blood. It didn’t come in a blood bag, but then she hardly assumed it could be human blood given how much of it was going around each night. She contemplated the order itself as she broke the seal on the bottle. In these sorts of places—maybe not this one particularly, but definitely in some place in this city—an alternative virgin could very well mean a virgin who preferred her singers with big hair and heavy eyeliner. The thought both amused and terrified her, but her movements easily concealed the ripple it caused through her spine.

Who was she to judge other people? Just because her fantasies stopped at handcuffs and the sting of a hand didn’t mean she was to use it as a measure to appreciate (or depreciate) other people’s preferences. Whatever went on in places other than Serpentine, well, she could only assume to be consensual and within reason. (A contrary thought whizzed past, too fast for her to stomp it down, but it burrowed into the back of her mind seemingly without consequent. Something to ruminate on another day, perhaps.)

When Charlie had started tending bar, it had been at a quiet pub in the neighbourhood, where the beer was cheap and the patrons knew their favoured brand of whiskey. She was ignorant to the subtle differences between ales and lagers at the time, but over time she had come to learn what was what. It was in Australia that she’d truly struggled accomplishing her bartending tasks, the assimilation to the standard brews a minor inconvenience compared with the range of cocktails she was expected to produce. It all felt like a distant memory now, and while there were times her mind crapped out when it came to ingredients and measures, the confidence she’d acquired over the years made her unshakeable in the face of uncertainty.

Serpentine’s speciality cocktails had only taken a few days to get used to. The idea of there being blood in the drinks still caught her off-guard sometimes, but overall she had mastered the dosage and ingredients with no fault. It was all about having faith in her capacity to learn.

Warming the drink was not as difficult as it was inconvenient, but she followed through with the request without a hint of displeasure. The question tossed her way was a welcome distraction from the countdown of the makeshift microwave. It was the first bar she’d ever worked at which had a bloody (literally on bad days) microwave.

“Since the reopenin’. O’er a fortnight I reck’n,” Charlie replied good-naturedly, meeting the woman’s gaze before lowering her attention to the warmed flask. It was as she poured the last of the warmed cruor into the tall glass, that she cast another glance at client. A quick scan revealed her to be generously clothed with no tattoos in sight. Her curiosity was spiked.

Charlie put the coaster and glass down in front of the blonde.
“You scheduled with Jesse later tonight?”

It wasn’t uncommon for his clients to become her clients, or her clients to become his. Franky, they were all his, though she’d never seen him tend to the bar. The thought of it was absurd, even in a place like this Jesse didn’t seem like the type to stand behind a bar making drinks.

Observation was an intermittent trait when it comes to Charlie.
Tonight, she was only moderately observant.

Judgement and curiosity bled into one another as she quirked her brow at the stranger. The rapidity with which the drink was consumed made her skin crawl. Then again, if she were forced to swallow that much warm blood (from God knows where), she’d probably throw it back like a bitter pill too. And there was the catch that made of such reasoning faulty, for none of her patrons were forced to order the blood-based cocktails. Which meant they must enjoy them, right? And it was that likely explanation which she refused to ever dwell upon that had the back of her mouth press to swallow uncomfortably.

To be fair, it was one of the few times someone had so blatantly thrown back the drink in her presence. Usually they turned away, returned to their table, or were too concerned with their company to be so... obvious.

The chuckle went unnoticed, though the blonde was evidently pleased.
Charlie tapped the computer screen in order to process the bill.

What she did notice was the familiarity with which the women spoke of Jessie. It confused her, enough that she stalled to reply, her hand sliding the bill towards her.

“I—Yes, I suppose,” she replied. It seemed too forced an answer to leave it at that, especially if this stranger was well acquainted with her boss. Reaching for the empty glass and coaster, Charlie added with neutral inflection: “He’s a fair boss and mostly sticks to the parlour.”

It felt odd to be on this side of the counter and know less about the man who owned it than the patron on the other side. It wasn’t the first time a familiar came to the bar, but it was the first time it turned into a conversation.

“You’re welcome to go through and check with him if he is free later,” she added as an afterthought.

Charlie processed the card mechanically. As far she knew, there was no tabs system at Serpentine for familiars, none that Jesse had told her about anyway. Handing the keypad over the counter for authorisation, she stole another thorough look at the blonde.

The hair was no more natural than her own, though the apparent commitment that particular shade made Charlie regret the lack of upkeep on her own. Her roots had grown out and the tips had yellowed. Purple shampoo was a luxury she hadn’t been able to afford since her arrival. It wouldn’t hurt morale to restore her mane to its former glory at some point.

The resolution to lighten her strands had yet to crystallise in the forefront of her mind, but the question was already heavy on her tongue. Money wasn’t as big a problem nowadays thanks to Jesse’s generosity. Charlie wasn’t sure whether she was excellently paid because the cost of living here was much higher than she’d experienced before, or whether she had simply scored a great job. Either way, a tattoo would soon be within her budget. Ideas, she had plenty of; courage, less so. The mention of a big tattoo made her flinch internally, the buzz of the needle haunting.

Retrieving the machine and handing the card back to its owner in turn, Charlie shrugged at the question. If there was one (or five) question(s) a backpacker was used to, it was the ‘where you from’? People usually assumed she was Irish, as they often did with Western Scots, but she appreciated the chance to reveal her origins for herself.

“Scotland,” she replied with a smile. It had been over two years since she’d left, but the accent would never be left behind. Her time in Australia had thinned it considerably, but not enough to make it imperceptible. On the contrary, saying the country name seemed to double her accent’s thickness.

“What about yourself?” Local?

Canadians and American sounded exactly the same to her, though she’d learned the hard way that they were not keen on being confused with one another. Leaning to the side, she popped the dishwasher open to allow the glassware inside to cool.