Chapter 1
Five years have passed since arriving and I still have found no urge to leave the bloodlust and desirable torment that I have found in Las Vegas. The allure affected me like a musk of toxins pumped through the air vents of every casino ceiling. What’s more mesmerizing is witnessing the way it affects others. The way people stay past their limits, the way they empty their pockets while drinking and inhaling every other substance they can think of. They want an excuse to take a new risk, or escape entirely.
I understand that perfectly, having moved from place to place for most of my early twenties. Constantly seeking something else. Another destination. Another name change. Another credit card to pile debt onto. Another gig to save me from sleeping in my car.
Yet what I understood about being human is what makes for easy hunts.
At times I feel bad for them, plastering my own face upon their own while I fight to spare them. It’s gotten better with practice - in fact, nearly perfected. I do not kill anymore…more or less. Funnily enough though, hiding yourself while preying on the living is even more difficult than concealing a murder. Still, to stay in the desert is worth the effort. There is no need to leave as long as there is money - and money, there is. Apparently we have become quite talented at getting it. Under many disguises, working together and apart. We are unfairly fortunate. Enough for it all to become an addiction we refuse to stray away from.
I told you the fumes still affect me. Just differently than them.
Another advantage is the nightlife here. It is easiest to live at night, not that we need to avoid the sun as much as you would assume. I take in bursts of the sunlight now and again, as prescribed by my ever-increasing pale complexion. That comes with recovery time and ever persistent sunglasses and a hat and veil. Not exactly unassuming attire, but it occasionally fits with this place.
Truthfully, it is like my internal clock is reversed this days and that suits me just fine. The heat of the day isn’t exactly that appealing anyway. The neon and glimmering lights on the other hand, now that appeals to me more than expected. And the shouting, the delirium - gosh, it’s exhilarating. To be so quiet in the presence of those having the time of their life, enthralled with the flipping of cards, tossing of dice and flashing spouts of luck and pitfalls. There’s a mix of hopelessness and giddiness that feels never ending. It brings new meaning to enjoying the position of a silent observer. Sensations I felt like I had lost forever until I am right in front of it, feeling it all the more than any human could ever be capable of.
I suppose that is a consequence of being a vampire. Many things are fleeting. Time, emotions, sympathies. The meaning of it all depletes over time - noticeably so - even in my limited experience. It’s a method of surviving I suppose. One that humans are unfamiliar with. They never know when they are being hunted and should move on. Especially here. Somehow they don’t have the time for it.
Not while they are in Las Vegas.
Now is no different. Not while they have all the time in the world to eat ridiculously overpriced appetizers.
I wait for my queue with the swinging kitchen doors in sight, my face half illuminated by a dark shade of red, casted from the horrid mood setting of this place. This part is necessary despite how ridiculous it feels, forever hidden in the dark, my presence otherwise covered with the bustling of clattering dishes and snarky remarks among the staff that aren’t fond of being here either.
Another feeling I understand. I am nothing if not a waiter myself.
Just around the corner, the diners are having their taste of the pitch black as well. While for them it’s a giggling fest of adventuring outside of the norm, for me, well, it’s my dinner and adventure just as well as theirs. And I will be joining them quite promptly.
It’s my preferred method for now. Discreet. Quick. Unremarkable and seemingly harmless by the time the lights turn back on and the guests are left unaware of whose teeth nipped their neck or their wrist when their food was delivered. The following hypnotism helps cleans up the rest. Occasionally they will follow me to the bathroom for a more private and longer meal, returning with a headache at most - understandable in this place. All it takes is a brief mantra and they slip into a daze where thoughts do not exist until it is over. Selecting a table with more than two guests is ideal as well. More noise, less minds to suspect why their friend has gone silent for a minute.
I will often clear the table while I am at it. Another explanation for me being there, wearing my uniform after my shift just in case. I like when plates are clean, especially mine. Most have not yet indulged in excessive quantities of alcohol or drugs for the night and that is my preference.
When one of the waitresses fills her arms with four loaded plates, I look both ways before making my move behind her, a mouse sneaking through the door before it shuts.
I could enter with the rest of the guests, as I have during my more blundering days, but I found it irritating to pretend. The experience of it all felt like a spotlight shone down upon me as I waited for the right moment to swoop over to another unsuspecting table. Hiding entirely is better, even better to avoid a dining bill. Money there is, but money must be kept sacred. Not wasted. Besides, I have become miraculously skilled at walking quite silently behind their real waitress and that talent shouldn’t be wasted.
The voices are boisterous - obnoxiously asking for a little taste of their own annoyance. A small papercut never hurt anyone.
I follow her to the first table, matching her every step. Frieda is her name. Four years of service here has helped me match her gait to perfection.
’Enjoying your evening?’ She rattles on.
‘First time blackout dining?’
‘Is there anything else I can get you?’
I have to hold back from sighing aloud. They always say yes - because who would come back - but she always has to ask. How does she survive the repetition of it all?
I have to switch it up every few months to avoid that affliction myself. It won’t be long before I have to invent a new hunting ground. One with equal morals and decency, but exciting all the same.
Her chatting tests my patience further than usual and I scan the crowd to alleviate my boredom, one that I can see with my naked eyes, while Frieda is forced to wear night vision goggles - a mockery, but hers to choose. To distract myself, I narrow in on the clumsy hands that surround me. I can only hope to evade the words coming out of their mouths while I am at it.
‘Did you hear-’
‘Found dead-’
‘In their bathtub-’
‘Drained-’
I hear the blood in their veins, rushing and growing more heated the longer I am forced to wait and listen. An entirely new definition of anxiety mixed with hangry.
Plus, I am already running late. Vincent won’t be too pleased if I miss his show. I promised I would be present for the final act. An impossible commitment apparently.
“Police are coming to get our statements.” A waitress joins Frieda, whispering the news in her ear as she passes by. I swiftly dodge the interaction.
“Why?” Frieda mouths out her annoyance. Her patience only runs out when it comes to dealing with bumbling law enforcement, which is unfortunately often enough.
They never solve it. Properly, anyway.
The guests have not caught wind that their evening may be about to be ruined. They only eat, munching and giggling as I move silently up to their side, kneeling beside their arm as it rests on the table.
A swift haze rushes over their senses in response to my presence. The last few years have helped with my efficiency. Matters wouldn’t be so peaceful otherwise. As I’ve kept them.
I’ve chosen a man first. I begin by pushing back the sleeve of his button-up to expose his wrist. Despite being adorned with too much arm-hair for my liking, I dive forward, nipping with my incisors.
The blood is mediocre at best. But it’s enough.
One of the more disappointing realizations that I have had is that not only do I need to drink blood on a near daily basis, but a rapidly developing preference comes with that. One that I have not quite pinpointed, not that it would majorly change my selections in people.
Today is simply a bad day for me. Bad luck, bad blood, an unfortunate murder last night, and a new investigation is about to praise the gates of my fabricated home.
I doubt it will come knocking on my door specifically, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Especially when your husband is a prime pique of interest. The current illusionist and magician of the hour dominating Las Vegas stages…according to the more positive reviews.
Vince Crimson.
I hoped he would eventually choose another fixation; one with less eyes leering at his every public appearance. I hide my own face when seen with him, however, being known as his mysterious wife comes with many nosey spectators, always attempting to catch sight of what is beneath my various veils and hats. Some have tried to snatch it from my face, coincidentally found injured or near-death afterward.
He wouldn’t kill those. Not if he knew I would know.
It is as ridiculous as it sounds, but I can’t risk my face being known. It isn’t my way. Nor is it to ask him to dim his shine. We’ve agreed on that much over the past few years, as we have worked tirelessly to find common ground over our past transgressions against one another.
This is our new life now. The past is the past.
And I am not running from it. I have found a compromise to stay in one place for him, to make him content, and myself, despite the bloodlust we both experience. There are humane parts of us left. We both agreed not to kill. Whether we have kept to that, I am uncertain. These constant tragic occurrences are not helping.
My fangs left the man’s skin and he swatted his wrist swiftly afterward. “Ah!’
With that, I stepped back into the darkness of the corner of the room, out of the way of all the tables and the police officer’s way as they finally entered.
The night air is a relief, despite the smoke and stink of humans. I am no different, contributing with my own between my lips. What health do I need to care for anymore? Besides, it removes the foul taste of bad blood from my mouth only to replace it with another.
I stomp along, out of the way of any questioning, my heeled boots clicking along with me. I have mastered the walk. One that threatens anyone that would dare approach me until I am ready. My near black eyes help with said intimidation act.
Along the way, I stopped at our favourite diner, our bags already waiting on the table. They spot me and wave, and I try my best to bear through a smile. Whether or not they charge me depends on my level of generosity for the day. After a brief glimpse of eye contact I leave a few bills on the counter. The cashier takes it without a word.
A quiet understanding continues. I love it.
The rest of the way isn’t far. I weave through the red-carpeted lobby, the crowd moving around me without making contact.
Before heading upstairs, I decide to have a quick drink to calm my nerves. It won’t take long. Not when I am already late as it is.
The bartender recognizes me once I sit on the stool and I perch dinner in my lap while I wait for my usual. Simple and quick. A vodka cranberry.
“Evening Julia,” he acknowledged me with one of my many false names. I opened my hand just in time for the glass to slide into it.
I give him a nod. The most I’ll willing offer. It limits their expectations of my openness that way.
I clear my mouth of any remaining bitterness, finishing my drink barely before beginning to stand. My glass solidly landed back on the bar, smacked beside another.
Looking up, I see the face of a rather ordinary man in his thirties, red in the face from alcohol or excitement - likely both.
“Let me buy you another,” he offered, beckoning for the bartender.
I give him a blank look, weighing my options.
“Oh, come on. No expectations. It’s only a drink!”
I continue to stare as the bartender eyes me. I give a brief nod and only then does he begin to pour another.
“So, first trip to Vegas?” The man asks, taking a long sip of his beer.
“I live here.”
“Ah, a local. That explains it. I was surprised to see someone like you here, all alone.”
“Someone like me?” I mumble.
“Young. Pretty.” He sends me a look. “Vulnerable.”
I scowl, briefly looking away at my watch. He doesn’t notice. “I can handle myself.” I wince as the words come out. What hurts most is knowing I am still too late.
“That you can…that you can…” He trails off as I linger with my decision, the silence proving to be deadly. For him.
“Would you like to come up to my room? I have one here,” I said, attempting to smile.
This piques his interest, not questioning anything further before giving his resounding agreement.
The elevator ride is excruciating, mostly due to the expecting looks he keeps giving me. I clutch my dinner in front of me, maintaining at least three feet of distance between us.
“I’m Ryan,” he tells me, needlessly. I, in turn, focus my eyes on the ever changing red numbers above.
The elevator dings, revealing the musty red carpet leading us. I tap my card at the door once we arrive, giving him a sly look. It only makes him all the more eager to slip inside the darkness.
Despite that, the hallway light exposes the pant leg of the room’s occupant, patiently waiting and tapping his foot from the loveseat.
The man stops in his tracks at the sight of it, unable to do anything more before the lamp flickers on, exposing the rest of Vincent, his leg carelessly crossed over the other, handsomely still dressed in black suit and the accentuated crimson shirt from his performance. It’s as if he was expecting us all this time.
“Ah, Cynthia,” he greets me with his ever so mysterious smile. “You did not forget our anniversary after all.”
