His Dark Embrace

As might be expected, big cities had the highest concentration of vampires and vampire clubs. It was easier for the monsters to hide in towns with large populations, easier to hunt in big cities. There were more transients in big towns, which meant fewer people who would be missed. Another draw was that in cities like L.A. and New York, people tended to ignore those who were a trifle bizarre in their behavior or appearance.

Girard grunted with satisfaction when he found a Goth club only a few miles away. He knew he was taking a chance, approaching a vampire and asking for the Dark Gift, but what the hell, life was a crap shoot. If his father had been a doctor instead of a slayer, Girard had no doubt that he would have learned how to wield a scalpel instead of a wooden stake and a mallet.

Going into the bedroom, he changed into a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeved black sweater. He slicked back his hair, swearing softly as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He had been a handsome man in his youth, his skin smooth, his hair thick and black, his shoulders broad and unbowed. Now, his hair was thin and gray, his skin as wrinkled as the hide of an elephant, his shoulders stooped, his eyes pale and sunken. McNamara’s potion hadn’t restored his youth, but it had restored his vigor, taken the gray from his hair, smoothed his skin, put the starch back in his posture.

Dammit! Becoming a vampire wouldn’t restore his youth, either, but it would give him immortality and the strength of twenty men.

A last glance in the mirror and he went to the minibar. He poured himself a good stiff drink, downed it in a single swallow before grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

The Scarlet Cabaret was exactly what it looked like—a hangout for Goths and vampires, real or make-believe. Girard thought of all the alternative lifestyles of the last fifty years—the rockers of the fifties, the long-haired, antiwar, peace-loving hippies of the late sixties, the punk movement in the seventies. None had lasted as long as the Goths. The Goth crowd loved all things dark and Victorian.

Girard paused at the club’s entrance, weighing the wisdom of what he was about to do. Chances were good that there was at least one dyed-in-the-wool vampire inside. He hoped it was a young one who had never heard of Girard Desmarais.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he paced away from the door. There was no discounting the danger of what he was contemplating. A young vampire could inadvertently kill him while attempting to turn him. An old one who suspected who he was would likely kill him out of hand. There was, after all, no love lost between vampires and slayers.

Putting his fears behind him, Girard walked quickly back to the entrance, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Lit only by candles, the large room was very nearly dark. The air reeked of perfume, perspiration, and weed. As was to be expected, black was the dominant color of choice for décor, clothing, and makeup.

Girard was aware of several covert glances as he moved toward the long, narrow bar and ordered a shot of whiskey, neat. Men and women at the bar edged away from him as if he were a leper. He wasn’t offended. He was new here and these people were suspicious of strangers, and rightly so.

He remained at the bar, quietly observing the patrons. As far as he could tell, only mortals were present. He ordered another drink, and then another.

Girard was about to call it a night when the atmosphere in the room changed. He noticed it first as a sort of tingle that skittered over his skin, raising the hair along the back of his neck. It was evident that the others in the club felt it, too. There was an instant when all movement came to an abrupt halt, when everyone’s attention swung toward the entrance.

The vampire was female. Even in the subdued lighting, Girard could see that her hair was dark brown, her eyes a brilliant green against the alabaster of her skin. She drifted into the room, her steps so light he had to look twice to see if her feet were touching the floor. She wore black, of course, the silky stretch pants clinging to her lower body like a second skin, the black shirt a whisper of silk covering just enough for modesty’s sake.

Girard was an old man, but not so old he couldn’t appreciate a beautiful woman. Or imagine taking her to bed, which was certainly what every other male in the room was fantasizing about.

He was startled when she moved purposefully to his side. His heart seemed to skip a beat as she gazed at him through the veil of her lashes. A faint smile played over her crimson lips.

Girard had never considered himself to be a coward, but the intensity of her regard brought a cold sweat to his brow. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely.

“You were looking for a vampire, were you not?” she asked in a deep, velvety voice.

“How ...” He cleared his throat. “How did you know that?”

She shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious. “I can give you what you want.” Her eyes flashed red as she placed the tip of one well-manicured fingernail over the rapidly beating pulse in the hollow of his throat. “Are you ready?”

He swallowed hard. Was he ready? He closed his eyes while his mind reviewed his options: grow weaker, older, and die, or live forever with a vampire’s strength and preternatural power? There really was no choice.

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. “I’m ready.”

A smile that could only be called wicked played across her lips as she took his hand in hers and led him out of the club.

Before he could ask where they were going, they were there.

Girard shook his head. “What happened? Where are we?”

“My place, of course. Do you like it?”

“What’s not to like?” he muttered as he glanced around. The room could only be described as opulent. The walls were white, the furniture deep red velvet, the tables black lacquer. A big-screen TV hung from the wall over a low, white marble fireplace. Black and red candles of every shape and size adorned the mantel, the tables, a bookshelf. His feet made no sound in the plush deep gray carpet as she led him out of the room and down a narrow hallway into a large bedroom that was just as sumptuous as the living room.

The round bed in the middle of the floor was topped by a thick black quilt and six or seven pink and white throw pillows in varying shapes and sizes. Candles were plentiful in this room, too, their yellow flames casting the room in a soft, golden glow. A chaise lounge covered in black velvet occupied one corner.

She dropped onto it, then patted the place beside her. “Come, Girard.”

His feet felt weighted with lead as he crossed the thick burgundy carpet toward her. This was it. The end of one life and the beginning of another. Unless ... He shook the thought from his mind. Surely, if she was going to kill him, she wouldn’t have brought him to her home. Would she?