Aucoin sat with his elbows on the bar in front of a
glass of beer. The beer was for show, really, since alcohol
has no effect on vampires–or not for show exactly, he
ordered the beer because it made him feel like he was part
of the group at the bar, doing what they did.
A comrade. A buddy. One of the gang.
Which–there was no kidding himself–Pierre was
not.
Most of the men he knew were married now, and they came to
the bar for a quick nip before going home to their wives.
Some of them had children. None of them knew about
his…status. The only other vampires he knew of were
the la Mottes, and they wanted nothing to do with him,
beyond occasionally keeping him out of trouble when they
thought he might be giving up their secret to the local
gendarmes.
He was terribly, terribly lonely.
And right now, as usual, he wanted a woman. He wanted to
drink blood, not beer.
The bartender was talking sports to a couple of guys
standing near the bar. The bartender’s wife was in
the back room, mopping the floor. The whole place was
brown, tired, and had the air of a place where nothing was
ever going to happen worth telling about.
Pierre tossed back the rest of his beer–he was a
legend in the bar, no one could believe the amount of
alcohol he could put away without showing any
effects–and said good night to the few remaining
patrons. They nodded and said their goodnights as well,
ever polite. Pierre was sick to death of polite. He wanted
something a whole hell of a lot better than polite.
It was agreeably dark out. He strolled down the back street
by the river, amusing himself by popping out the
streetlamps with thoughtbursts, wondering how much money
the poor old village of Mourency had had to spend over the
years to replace bulbs he had ruined.
He stood on the corner, trying to decide which way to go
next. He lifted his face to the sky, inhaling deeply,
hoping to catch the scent of a woman.
Pierre had long ago given up on finding a female of his own
kind, a
labri
, so that particular pain did not
bother him anymore, at least not consciously. There were
still female humans who ventured out at night, alone, too
trusting. He inhaled again. Nothing. He smelled only the
mossy smell of the river and wet stones, and dust from the
street. He walked slowly, aimlessly kicking a stone.
It came out of nowhere. An enormous hand clamped over his
mouth while something lashed at his legs. In an instant his
legs were bound by an incredibly tight rope and he used all
of the impressive strength in his arms to reach around
behind him to try to grab whoever was attacking him.
Pierre had been in many fights over the years, and he had
never come close to losing.
He felt the rope beating at his arms and starting to bind
them too, almost as though it were something alive, like a
tentacle. With a huge surge of power, Pierre ripped his
legs apart and turned to face the man behind him, crouched
and ready to spring. His fangs tingled as they began to
slide down.
The man was very tall, and wide, and had the biggest
muscles Pierre had ever seen except in a bodybuilder
magazine. But big muscles didn’t scare him. Lifting a
barbell at the gym was nothing like a street-fight. And
human muscles? Pfft.
Pierre sent a thoughtburst to the man’s head, but it
seemed to do nothing. He sent a burst of three, quick and
hard, and the man simply shook his head a bit as though
bothered by a mosquito.
What the hell?
And there were two of them?
He hadn’t seen the other guy at first, who stepped
out of the shadows now, his eyes narrowed, observing.
Pierre circled, keeping his center of gravity low, getting
ready for whatever the brute tried next, keeping his eye on
the second man, who was looking bored and a little
impatient.
“Maloney!” he yelled. “The whipster, you
idiot!”
Pierre threw a punch and knocked the man’s jaw, hard.
glass of beer. The beer was for show, really, since alcohol
has no effect on vampires–or not for show exactly, he
ordered the beer because it made him feel like he was part
of the group at the bar, doing what they did.
A comrade. A buddy. One of the gang.
Which–there was no kidding himself–Pierre was
not.
Most of the men he knew were married now, and they came to
the bar for a quick nip before going home to their wives.
Some of them had children. None of them knew about
his…status. The only other vampires he knew of were
the la Mottes, and they wanted nothing to do with him,
beyond occasionally keeping him out of trouble when they
thought he might be giving up their secret to the local
gendarmes.
He was terribly, terribly lonely.
And right now, as usual, he wanted a woman. He wanted to
drink blood, not beer.
The bartender was talking sports to a couple of guys
standing near the bar. The bartender’s wife was in
the back room, mopping the floor. The whole place was
brown, tired, and had the air of a place where nothing was
ever going to happen worth telling about.
Pierre tossed back the rest of his beer–he was a
legend in the bar, no one could believe the amount of
alcohol he could put away without showing any
effects–and said good night to the few remaining
patrons. They nodded and said their goodnights as well,
ever polite. Pierre was sick to death of polite. He wanted
something a whole hell of a lot better than polite.
It was agreeably dark out. He strolled down the back street
by the river, amusing himself by popping out the
streetlamps with thoughtbursts, wondering how much money
the poor old village of Mourency had had to spend over the
years to replace bulbs he had ruined.
He stood on the corner, trying to decide which way to go
next. He lifted his face to the sky, inhaling deeply,
hoping to catch the scent of a woman.
Pierre had long ago given up on finding a female of his own
kind, a
labri
, so that particular pain did not
bother him anymore, at least not consciously. There were
still female humans who ventured out at night, alone, too
trusting. He inhaled again. Nothing. He smelled only the
mossy smell of the river and wet stones, and dust from the
street. He walked slowly, aimlessly kicking a stone.
It came out of nowhere. An enormous hand clamped over his
mouth while something lashed at his legs. In an instant his
legs were bound by an incredibly tight rope and he used all
of the impressive strength in his arms to reach around
behind him to try to grab whoever was attacking him.
Pierre had been in many fights over the years, and he had
never come close to losing.
He felt the rope beating at his arms and starting to bind
them too, almost as though it were something alive, like a
tentacle. With a huge surge of power, Pierre ripped his
legs apart and turned to face the man behind him, crouched
and ready to spring. His fangs tingled as they began to
slide down.
The man was very tall, and wide, and had the biggest
muscles Pierre had ever seen except in a bodybuilder
magazine. But big muscles didn’t scare him. Lifting a
barbell at the gym was nothing like a street-fight. And
human muscles? Pfft.
Pierre sent a thoughtburst to the man’s head, but it
seemed to do nothing. He sent a burst of three, quick and
hard, and the man simply shook his head a bit as though
bothered by a mosquito.
What the hell?
And there were two of them?
He hadn’t seen the other guy at first, who stepped
out of the shadows now, his eyes narrowed, observing.
Pierre circled, keeping his center of gravity low, getting
ready for whatever the brute tried next, keeping his eye on
the second man, who was looking bored and a little
impatient.
“Maloney!” he yelled. “The whipster, you
idiot!”
Pierre threw a punch and knocked the man’s jaw, hard.
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