Chapter 13
Will | London, present day
Where the fuck is a thirsty vampire supposed to get a drink?
After scouring the back alleys for likely victims in the late evening and coming up empty-handed (people are so mugger aware in this part of London), I give up and head to The Pale Heart.
I hate paying for blood, but I’m getting a bit desperate as I haven’t had a drink for three days.
When you gaze longingly at your own neck in the mirror, it’s a good sign you’re hungry and need to feed.
The Pale Heart, a discreet underground pub for nosferatu, has been around since Shakespeare’s time, which is why it’s located near the site of the original Globe.
All the theatre-going undead flocked there in droves after watching his plays; and the vampire landlord, Mick Sage, did a roaring trade.
Things are quieter these days, but it’s still popular, especially with visiting vampires like myself who need a quick fix.
I head down the secret steps and come face to face with a thickset thrall bouncer, who looks like he could crush skulls with his fists (and probably has!).
But he admits me entry after ascertaining I’m a vampire.
Ducking under the low-beamed doorway, I’m immediately immersed in the sixteenth century.
Mick is still running the place, and I swear he hasn’t changed a thing in over four hundred years.
Not even the cobwebs. Every rickety floorboard and shadowy candlelit corner feels like home to me.
You can keep your mobile phones and laptops—when it comes down to it, I’m a quill-and-paper kind of guy.
Speaking of mobile phones, although they are a necessary evil of modern society, there’s a strict ‘no phones’ rule here as it spoils the Elizabethan ambience. So I slip mine out of my back pocket and silence it, checking for any messages from Hester first (there are none).
My mind fixed on one thing, and one thing alone, I slap a tenner on the bar. ‘A pint of your best, thanks, love.’
‘Sure, gorgeous.’ The barmaid, a petite curvy thrall with blonde ringlets, flutters her eyelashes at me. I could flirt back, like I used to do here in the old days. But Mick is a lot more protective of his female thralls now. Since he has no living family, they’re like his daughters.
However, I’ve heard if a vampire has bloodlust for one of his barmaids and she’s open to being sucked on, Mick can be persuaded into arranging the hook-up—for the right price.
But he’s no pushover. I know I’d have to give him at least two hundred pounds for my night of fanged fun.
And I don’t want to pay for sex any more than I want to pay for blood.
Plus I’m not really in the mood to get laid.
I just want to drink my pint and go back to the apartment.
You were in the mood to get laid when Hester wiggled her pretty hips, a little voice whispers slyly. Fuck off! I tell it. I have to stay focused. I can’t let the fact that Hester is sexy and gorgeous lead me astray from my righteous path. Namely draining her so I can move on with my immortal life.
The barmaid plonks a dimpled glass tankard on the bar filled to the brim with ruby-red liquid, and my fangs spike at the delectable aroma.
Licking my lips, I take a sip. When it hits my taste buds, I can’t help moaning, and the first decent swallow goes down like smooth red velvet.
It’s tangy, tasty, and no hint of coppery aftertaste—quality stuff.
Definitely worth ten pounds. Fuck, I’d pay double, but I’m not telling Mick that!
The pretty barmaid is watching me, biting her lip seductively, and pushing out her ample chest. Hmm, she’s definitely horny for me.
Either that, or it was my moan of appreciation for my pint getting her all hot and bothered under her tight pink top.
Sorry, love, I’m flattered. But it’s not happening, I project politely into her mind, and she flinches.
I hitch a shoulder and give her a kindly smile but turn my back so I don’t have to put up with the pouting.
Slouching against the bar, I alternatively sip and scout the dimly lit pub for anyone I know.
I haven’t been in London for a while, so I’m not expecting to see any familiar faces.
But joining a table would be preferable to standing at the bar as I can feel the barmaid’s hostile stare drilling right between my shoulder blades. Awkward.
My eyes land on Simon Bowater as he spots me too. His face lights up, and he beckons me over. ‘Will Knight,’ he says as I saunter up. ‘Jesus, mate, it’s been so long I thought you’d been staked. It’s good to see you.’
I laugh good-naturedly, pump his hand, and take a seat at the small corner table, careful not to disturb the short tallow candle burning steadily in its brass holder. It’s purely for atmospheric purposes, of course.
‘Great to see you too, Simon.’ I check out the tall skinny metaller with his long straight dark hair parted down the middle. ‘Wow, you haven’t changed a bit.’
He looks down at his heavy metal band T-shirt partly hidden by a large black overcoat. ‘Why would I? It’s my look, dude.’
‘True, it suits you,’ I agree.
Simon is a vampire who I met at The Pale Heart in the 1980s after an Iron Maiden concert, and we got talking.
I’ve seen him a few more times since then; he’s a good sort.
A ‘nice’ vampire, if you will. He abhors violence of any kind and drinks only when necessary, hence his skinny appearance and the half pint of blood he’s cautiously clutching.
‘Still got your allotment in Finchley?’ I take another sip of my drink and shiver. Damn, that’s good blood.
He nods proudly. ‘Yes, just planted a crop of garlic and some broad beans. Planning on selling them at the local market to make some extra cash.’
I guess a vampire has to do something with their time, but gardening is not a hobby I’ve ever been into.
And planting garlic? Well ... that’s asking for trouble.
My eyes flick to the other member of our table, a stocky cherub-faced fellow with blond curly hair.
From his appearance, he could be the brother of the female thrall behind the counter.
But from the way he’s draining the last of his full pint and licking the inside rim with relish, he’s definitely a vampire.
‘Will, this is my mate Dan. He’s a retired fisherman from Norfolk,’ says Simon. ‘Dan, this is Will, my actor friend I was telling you about.’
We size each other up. Dan’s retired? He barely looks like he’s old enough to tie his own shoelaces. But the age someone looks doesn’t mean anything if you’re a vampire.
‘How old are you?’ I ask.
‘Two hundred, give or take. Simon and I were turned around the same time,’ he replies, and Simon nods to confirm it. ‘You?’
‘Four hundred and sixty-five.’
Dan whistles. ‘You must have seen some stuff.’
I shrug, not wanting to give any specifics. ‘Yeah.’
‘What are you doing for work now?’ Simon asks. ‘I seem to recall you had some money left over from your mercenary days.’
‘Good memory. I do,’ I reply. ‘But that’s tied up in investments. I’ve been doing some freelance consulting on the side. And acting, of course.’
‘Is that why you’re back in London?’
‘Yeah, I’m playing Orsino in Twelfth Night at Shakespeare’s Globe. It’s starting next month. I could probably get you guys free tickets if you’re interested.’
‘That would be great. Thanks, Will,’ says Simon enthusiastically.
‘Cool. I might come down,’ offers Dan offhandedly, sounding like he would rather clip his toenails than go to a Shakespearian play. ‘I can always stay with Trixie. She won’t mind.’ His eyes flick to the bar, where the blonde is giving me a glowering look.
Hah, I was right: they are related. I could read his mind, but it’s more polite to ask. I nod at her. ‘Is Trixie your sister?’
Dan nods. ‘Yes. She got the job here in 1840. It was either that or prostitution. But Mick looks after her. He’s a good guy.’
I’ll say he looks after her. Shit, she’s been a thrall longer than Elliott. No wonder Trixie’s so interested in me. Apart from keeping her young and bouncy, venom is like crack cocaine to a thrall of her age.
‘Strange. I’ve never seen her working here before,’ I remark. ‘She must have been otherwise engaged on the times I dropped in.’
Dan narrows his eyes. ‘Why are you asking about her? You wanna get with her?’
‘No, no,’ I say hastily. ‘Just curious about her deal.’ Poor Trixie, I don’t like her chances of getting a venom fix, with her overprotective brother keeping an eye on her.
‘Coz if you’re after a bit o’ that, you’re better off waiting for the Covent Garden gig. Heard those vamps are gonna be hot for biting action 24/7. Might even pay a visit myself.’ He grins lasciviously.
I drain the last of my blood and wipe my mouth, resisting the urge to lick the rim like Dan. ‘What Covent Garden gig?’
‘An exclusive vampire brothel,’ says Simon. ‘The vamp pimp, Alexander Dryden, has been spreading the word in our community to drum up business for opening week. Apparently, it’s going to be quite a large establishment, at least three floors and a bunch of different types of rooms.’
He looks disapproving. ‘You wouldn’t be interested, would you, Will? You’ve got better taste than that.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Yeah, not really my thing.’
Fortunately, Simon changes the subject because I really don’t want to hear any more about it.
Covent Garden and prostitutes remind me painfully of my friend, Darius.
He became involved with a powerful vampire called Anya in the 1750s, and he used to scour the brothels for her and have fun with the girls too—when she let him.
From what he told me, she was a right hard-nosed bitch, always slapping him around. But he seemed to enjoy it.
One fateful afternoon in 1758, I called at his house, and he didn’t answer the door.
I broke in and found him lying under the bed, with Anya nowhere in sight.
It was pretty obvious to me that she’d drained my friend in a fit of anger because he hadn’t obeyed one of her demands, then freaked out and scarpered.
It was a sad and unpleasant business. Especially since I was the one who had to discreetly dispose of his body in the Thames.
Thinking about it still enrages me, even two and a half centuries later.
Hmm, if Anya shows her face at this Covent Garden brothel, looking for undead pussy, I’ll end her along with Hester. I’ll be killing two selfish vampires with one stone, and it would be good riddance.