Sayre knew better than to go back to Hazel the next day, or even within the next couple days. In fact, while he imagined a terse and fuming Hazel having to fumble her way through ordering a ham and pineapple slice and trying to summon Bodhi, Sayre walked his way back to the venue and bar to his friend: Leah.

Without greeting him, she pulled a bottle from below the counter, gave it a shake, then poured it into a high-ball glass. She was about to slide it to him, but she gave a huff, dropped a little paper umbrella on the top, and bit back a shit-eating grin. 

“Here, your Eminence.”

“Ha.”

“What’re you doin’ here?” She turned to her side, busying herself with the bar.

“Came to check on you.”

“To check—? The hell for?”

Sayre plucked the umbrella from the drink and spun it on the counter. It flailed little droplets of drink across the dark bar. “Make sure you weren’t in love with me yet,” he teased, then took a drink.

Leah froze. Turned a wicked eye on him. Then, she exploded with laughter. It was practically a witch’s cackle. “Damn it,” she said and leaned her hand into the bar. “I can’t stay mad at you.”

“Mad?” The drink on his lips lowered. “Why were you mad?”

“Oh! Nothing, no reason at all, Sayre. Not a damn thing could have happened in the last couple days that would have made me mad at you.”

“Lee, what happened?”

“Your little Vampire Porno. They took over the basement. My God! Like fucking ants on a crumb.”

The drink hit the counter a little harder than Sayre intended. “He did fuckin’ what!” He cursed. It wasn’t often, but every once and awhile the accent slipped, and grew stronger than normal. It was especially potent when he was drunk, furious, chuckling like a mad man, or when he summoned the voice of an Old One.

Leah counted herself lucky she had only heard a few of them. Though, his accent while he laughed heartily was hardly something she would consider English, American or Queen’s. It was a garble of syllables that oftentimes she just stared and blinked, and nodded, and wondered how a face so stern and serious and oft times vicious, could break into something…unbearably and endearingly human. He didn’t laugh like that often, but she was sure she was of the few who had ever heard and seen it.  Best Friend privileges. 

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh, because that went so great last time?” She whipped the rag over her shoulder. It was a shocking artist’s smock of colors against her white, breast-suffocating shirt. 

“I gave him a warning, last time. This time—”

“A warning? What are you, a fuckin’ teacher? That asshole took over my basement. Our club. How am I supposed to rent that out to bands if there’s a fucking gaggle and fuck of fangs down there?”

Sayre traced a line down the side of the drink where condensation had gathered. “Oh, love, your way with words would have had Shakespeare on his knees, begging for your hand.”

Leah snorted. “Sayre,” she growled.

He stood and leaned over the bar beside her, up to the bare tips of his toes in his Docs. His eyes scanned over the wells of ice and containers of fruits and whatnots for mixed drinks. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

He shifted his eyes to her—white shirt and leopard print pants, leather booties. Her jacket of black suede with fringe lay in the corner where her purse sat, gated behind a turned over milk-crate. She barely wore jewelry. She barely wore much else. His human sapphire eyes rolled over her and up, up, up to her own eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s in your fuckin’ purse.”

Leah pinched the apex of his chin with her hand and lifted him until he was eye-level. “Get out from behind my bar, and stop giving me those eyes.”

“Lee—”

“You okay, Leah? This guy ain’t botherin’ you, is he?” came a voice behind them. A brawny, young guy, with wild teased hair, a metal band shirt, and an impressive collection of rolled bandanas that graced his forehead, wrist, and back pocket of his acid-wash jeans.

“I’m good,” she said, still holding Sayre. “He’s an old friend.” Her eyes flicked back into his. “Ancient, you could say.”

Sayre’s expression soured with a growl in his throat.

The metal-head nodded, his hair wispy and  floating about him, before he turned and walked back to his bandmates. He wasn’t as stealthy as he thought when he glanced over his shoulder to sneak a side-smile at her. 

“Sweet kid,” grumbled Leah, “but—”

“Betty would be furious.” Sayre smiled. His still pinched cheeks butted against her fingers.

“Ha.” She threw him back to his stool and leaned into the bar with both of her hands. 

“It’s better if she doesn’t know about every guy that tries to hit on me. I’m sure she already knows, ya know, with me workin’ here. It’s just…” Her eyes drifted away, somewhere distant.

Sayre didn’t let her stay there long. He leaned in closer. “It’ll get better.”

She snorted. “You’ve said that, but somehow I don’t believe you. Feels like it’s only getting worse.”

“It’ll get better. It always does. Sometimes it takes a little longer, but eventually, it rights itself.”

For the first time, her eyes faded into something sad and longing. She offered a weak, closed-lip smile, but nodded. “I’ll just have to trust you, then, huh? Your old-ass would know.”

“I’ve been around for a long time.”

“You know, you’ve never told me for how long. I imagine old, but…were you riding T. Rex? Didja meet Charlemagne? How was the Inquisition?”

Sayre moved to his drink and took a long pull from it. He didn’t answer. The only thing he did say was another round of “Where is it? The stake?”

“Got it. Tangoed with Ghengis Khan.” She rolled her eyes, then turned her back to Sayre. “It’s a secret. Wouldn’t want you to know where I stash it. Just in case…”

“But…it is easily available?” When Leah snorted and huffed, he stood again and put a hand on her arm. “I’m ser—” Her body jerked erect and the glass in her hands fell to the mat on the floor. Then, she was on the ground, her eyes rolled back. “Leah!” He vaulted over the bar and landed beside her. His hands cradled her head as the session overtook her body. 

Metal-head and the others peeked over the bar. One of the servers ran to a phone to call an ambulance. 

“Is she—?”

“Oh, my God! Leah!”

“What happened?”

Metal-head glared at Sayre. “What’d you do?” he hissed.

Sayre ignored him and held his friend steady. He clenched his jaw watching her expression—a vacant stare into the void—as he lifted fingers to brush her hair out of her eyes. Betty will stake me if anything happens to you, he thought and channeled into her, hoping she could pick it up. 

A couple moments later, as the roar of a siren moved closer, she blinked, once, twice, then rolled her eyes around to Sayre who still hovered over her. 

“Hey,” he soothed. “Where’d you go this time?”

She groaned and put a hand to her head. Around her, the others watched, then shuffled as two paramedics circumvented the bar to her.

“How’re you feelin’, Ma’am?” one asked.

“Ugh. Ma’am?” she cringed and tried to ease herself off Sayre’s lap. He let out a chuckle.

“Stay still, we’re just gonna check—”

“I’m fine.”

“Ma’am, you had a seizure. Have you had one before?” 

It wasn’t, but yes. Leah wasn’t magically gifted or supernatural, but she was sensitive to it. Sometimes it meant she had a migraine. Sometimes, she got chills. Sometimes, she had visions. 

“I’m fine,” she pressed.

“I’m sure your friends and your boyfriend would feel a whole lot better if you let us confirm that,” said the other.

Sayre felt her tense. He tensed, too.

“Honey,” she gritted through her teeth as she sent eyes up to him, “tell them: I’m fine.” A.K.A. Enthrall these assholes to leave me alone.

“Babe, you should let them. Your co-workers are around.” He faked a smile, and returned the eye. A.K.A. Bitch, the whole bar is here looking at us.

She reached her hand to his arm and squeezed her nails into him. “Darling.”

Sayre’s expression flattened. He looked up to the Paramedics and opened his chest with a booming, magic-layered voice of an Old One. “She’s fine. Everything is fine. You can go now,” he said, covering her ears with his hands.

The paramedics, and the entire bar, stared and blinked, then shook their heads.

“She’s all good. Get some rest,” one said as they pushed themselves to their feet. They circled around the bar as the others returned to their senses and resumed themselves.

Metal-head lingered. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Peachy,” Leah grunted as she forced herself up with Sayre’s help. “Get back to work, I’m not paying you to stare at my ass. I’m paying you to play.” She threw a hand towards the stage with the grace of a miffed grandmother.

He smiled anyway. “Yeah, sure thing.” He turned and left the two.

“I can’t believe you did the whole bar,” she said, turning to Sayre. “Holy shit, maybe you are—Hey!”

Sayre wobbled and shook his head. His fingers bore into the corners of his eyes. With a groan, he opened his mouth where his fangs were bare. “You still have that bag?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s in my office. C’mon.” She wrapped an arm around him. “Bart, watch the bar, I’ll be back.”

Then, they limped to the red door that led to a staircase, and her office.