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“You boys lost?”

The man’s voice, with its slight Southwestern twang, came from behind me to my left.  As Pedro, my Patron, was sitting on that side, I ignored it.  To be honest, it was hard to focus on it in the busy, bustling diner as it was.  Pedro had told me the place’s name, saying that it had the best salsa burger in the entire country. I gotta admit, that’s not exactly what I imagined a vampire who’d been around for half a millenia would remember, but whatever.  I’ll admit the tomatoes, peppers, and Kobe beef were like someone painted a sunset on my palate, but that’s what happens when all your senses increase by a few orders of magnitude.

Place has a bit of a fly problem, I thought angrily, as it suddenly seemed like a horde of the buggers had taken up residence just outside of my arm’s reach.

“Hey, shit for brains–talking to you too,” the man continued from right behind me.  I nearly whirled around whipped out his throat just for the hell of it, but caught myself.

Don’t want to announce to a room full of gazelles that a lion walks amongst them, I thought.  Although this asshole is definitely moving his way to the ‘slowest gazelle on the veldt’-territory.   I glanced over at Pedro just as the diner’s cook slammed his hand down on the bell in the order’s window.

The look on Pedro’s face that was my first warning. The Old Ones tend not to show fear.  I think part of it is showmanship, but most of it is because after walking the earth for centuries there’s not a whole lot you haven’t seen.  So understand, when an Old One has a face like a seal who has just seen an orca hop out the water and start walking up the beach towards him, that’s a bad sign.

My second warning?  Well that was the fact the sound of that bell just kept ringing…ringing…ringing like the sound had been suspended in mid-air.  My master, before turning me over to receive my training as a young vampire, had told me sound or light seeming to be off was a sign of magic.  What particular brand of magic was not important, as generally magic is a big neon sign saying “GTFO” in 100-point, bright neon green font. (more…)

The knock came early on Sunday morning, between my second cup of coffee and my first beer. I didn’t get much company. The last ten people to knock on my door were UPS drivers, and they fled in their big brown trucks before I even answered the door.

I peeked out the front window, expecting my landlord, who would want to know when to expect last month’s rent. Instead, I saw Mack Davis, the guy who had made my two years at Bobtown University a little piece of Hell. He didn’t look like I remembered. A couple of decades wore everyone down, but his once full frame had grown slack. His gray temples faded in to a receding hairline. Time had erased his trademark smirk and had left crow’s feet in its wake.

I opened the door as far as the brass security chain would allow. “What do you want?”

“Hi, Sammy. Do you still go by Sammy?”

“It’s Sam, now.”

Mack took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay, Sam.”

“What do you want?”

“Can I come in for a second?”

This man had taunted me. I skipped classes just to avoid him. He once beat me so badly that I couldn’t sleep and spent the night sitting on the benches at student health, waiting for the doors to open. Now, he stood before me, turning a yellowing piece of notebook paper over in his hands. His slumped shoulders stole at least three inches from his height, and he had lost at least thirty pounds of muscle.

“Why?” I asked. (more…)

Knock knock. Knock.

I opened the door.

“’Hey.” The man at the door was barely an adult. He wore baggy jeans and a t-shirt, a pair of glasses sitting on a pimply face under a shaggy mess of hair. He slouched confidently, if such a thing was possible, thumbs hooked in his belt, looking at me expectantly like he expected to be invited in.

I didn’t respond to him. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. Everything about him bothered me. His slouch. His clothes. His glasses. His hair. He chewed on his lip as he waited for me to say anything.

“Aw shit,” I said.

 A familiar smirk crossed his face. “Yep,” he said. “You gonna let me in?” I stood aside and he walked past me. There wasn’t really any other choice. He looked around, feigning disinterest but paying attention to everything about my small apartment. I knew what he was seeing. The dripping faucet, scuffed walls, dusty shelves, and dirty carpet. I closed the front door and followed him.  “This is where you live?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“It’s kind of a shithole.”

I wouldn’t let most people get away with saying something like that, but I didn’t have a lot of options here. He looked out the window, and his face on the glass reflected next to mine. A slightly different haircut. A few less pimples. Other than that…. “How old are you?” I asked. (more…)