Chapter 1:

 

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Mohawks And Mixed Drinks

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     The old rusted fans on a pulley system cycle on the ceiling, filling the air with the smell of rust and age, and a whisper of a current.  The smell mixes with the stale sawdust, and peanut shells carpet the floor.   I run my pencil across my sketchbook, I’m seated at a worn scratched up golden wooden table.  It has a high polished sheen from years of cleaning.     

 

     I finish the ear on the drawing of a small rodent like creature with huge eyes.  Next to the drawing, I start mapping out what its peptide strands in a DNA molecule would look like if it existed.

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     The hair on the back of my neck stands on end when a very male voice sounds, almost, in my ear.  "Aww, how cute!"  This condescending comment causes me to look up at the gaunt electric blue Mohawked man.  His canines peep through his lips and I know I am looking at a newly changed vampire.   My eyes wander down his sleeveless arms and I note the tattoos of vipers circling them, highlighting finely toned muscles.   I look at his face and take in his mocking smile, shimmering with light from his various earrings that catch the flames of a flickering candle on the table.

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     I look past him.  I meet the blue eyes of another man wearing an apron and bussing tables.   He gives me a knowing smile.   He is the head bartender of this establishment, of this little known bar called Sangria that caters to the undead community of Portland. It is located in the basement of the building south of Kell's Irish pub.  I take a breath as the room shakes while a light rail MAX train zips by on SW 2nd Street. He rolls his eyes, fills the bin and walks away.

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     I take a sip of the sweet red Shirley Temple sitting in front of me.  The tang of fake cherry makes me smile.  My gaze lingers on the booth in front of mine, where a suave man with red curly hair gives me a toothy grin that reveals his long canines before he starts talking to the over inebriated blond sitting next to him.  She giggles and starts to hiccup.   I know him, too.  He is Mothius, the closest thing to a vampire leader in the Portland area. We grudgingly tolerate each other.  I try not to think about what he is doing as I watch him start to nuzzle the woman's neck.

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     I look back at the Mohawked man.  I gesture to the seat across from me.  "Thanks for the compliment; mister?"

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     He grabs my drink as he slides into the booth across from me.   He takes a swig of my glass and starts to gag. "That's not blood!”

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    I'm amused, "Of course not, I don't drink blood."  I say it like it is a matter of fact, like any other option would be ridiculous.  I look back at my sketch.  I'm not sure it's a viable animal for my current project.

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    He sits back and scowls, then puts a bored expression on his face.  "What are you doing in a Vampire Bar, are you lost, little one?"

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    I want to laugh; he has just managed the right kind of intonation that I imagine a spider would say to a fly.  I sit straighter; before I speak, I make sure I will include the command frequency in my voice that insures an answer.  "Community service, what’s your name?"

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