West Bloomfield, Michigan
Muffled hip-hop hooks and the persistent droning of a sub-bass beat took Raiden out of his brooding. Pulsing vibrations buzzed under his feet. He spied the door indicating the basement and headed towards it.
The real party’s going on down there.
He felt the rhythm of humans bumping, grinding, and pumping their fists to the psychotic beats the DJ hammered out. Opening the door leading downstairs, he smelled a variety of cocktails lining the counter of the wet bar. Blood and alcohol mingled in the air, a heady perfume. Raiden curled his lip, barely managing to keep his fangs in check.
I could waste them all in less than thirty seconds.
With more than a twinge of reluctance, he plastered on a fake grin and urged down his bloodlust. Other than keeping his day job, the main reason behind his choice to refrain from engaging in spontaneous mass murder was his loyalty to Taro. Friends and creative partners for a decade, they had genuine love for each other. Despite the myriad changes Raiden’s human-to-vampire transformation had inflicted upon his behavior and personality over the years, Taro still had no clue his best friend was an undead bloodsucker. The tension of keeping this secret led to fierce disagreements from time to time, especially when Raiden rebelled against Taro’s demands for additional public appearances. Some days, the guise of humanity became too hard to bear. In these instances, Raiden would fashion a legitimate-sounding excuse as to why he needed to decline attendance of the mind-numbing soirées meant to boost his band’s fame.
The price he paid for his absence, however, was facing Taro’s wrath. Although this was never the scariest experience, it certainly ranked among the most annoying. His best friend was so tall, and so animated in expression, that ending up on the receiving end of his displeasure was like suffering a lecture from a humorless Japanese Big Bird.
Still, Raiden could grudgingly admit that the bassist usually made smart decisions regarding Scent’s exposure. During one of Taro’s frequent Internet search binges, he had discovered the trend of certain rival visual kei bands enjoying success when touring Detroit and various Midwestern cities. Taro was convinced Scent could surpass the achievements of the other groups—provided they kept up aggressive advertising tactics and stoked their sizeable fan base.
After all, Scent had played in a J-rock multi-band concert a few years ago in Los Angeles’ House of Blues and managed to stand out from the pack. Taro had pointed out this previous accomplishment to band manager Matsuda in hopes of adding credibility to their upcoming tour with Prodigal Son.
“We know what we’re up against—and we’re not much impressed by the competition,” Taro had said.
“But, Taro-san,” Matsuda had said, “Detroit is where the criminals live.”
“Trust me, Matsuda. There’s an underground fanbase for us in the D.”
Raiden frowned when he remembered this conversation. Detroit was a mixed bag. Downtown, the buildings were deserted and rotting, though a handful of them remained prestigious, and select businesses continued to thrive. Despite the city’s post-apocalyptic, nuclear-fallout-zone vibe, the few remaining residents seemed curiously proud to call it home. The architecture, a mixture of pretense and brilliance, was impressive, but there was little else positive to say about the ruined metropolis.
He found it hard to imagine how things used to be when Detroit was the golden city of automobiles: one of the top places in the country to covet a modern lifestyle. Now the scenery that unfolded in and around Detroit’s underbelly painted a different picture: one of doom, gloom, and general mayhem.
Figures I’d end up staying near a city that’s gone to the shitter. Well, at least it’s not LA.
Raiden did not want his thoughts to take him back to the past, but he was unable to help himself. Five years ago, he had spent the last night of his human life at the LA House of Blues after Scent’s only performance at the J-rock Music Festival. The horror he had endured there had resulted in more than one kind of death.
Naomi.
Raiden shuddered. Time had not healed his loss. Five years later, he still could not help fixating on his final memories of her.
Before I killed her, she—
A woman bumped into him near the bottom of the basement stairs. Naomi’s face vanished from his mind. Distracted by the proximity of the blood-bag beside him, he muttered an apology and moved away from her.
That chick’s lucky I’m here for work. Otherwise, she might never make it home tonight.
Raiden put on his party face as he prepared to search for Baza, the host. Might as well get this over with before I get too hungry to care.
He ventured deeper into the basement. No one seemed to notice him, probably because they were too busy whoring themselves out to each other and swapping metaphorical dick size one-uppers. Stopping in the middle of the floor, he spied Baza. He felt tempted to leave. The idea of engaging in stilted small talk, forcing canned laughter, and kissing this unpleasant man’s ass for a couple of hours made his stomach churn. Baza was one of the most repulsive humans Raiden had ever had the unfortunate displeasure of encountering.
He had met the rich French film director a couple of weeks ago, at a charity benefit for underprivileged kids. When he introduced himself, Baza pretended to mistake him for a girl. Though Raiden was used to people thinking he was female, given his pretty features, longish hair, and androgynous fashion sense, his intuition told him Baza was well aware of his true gender identity. After two minutes of listening to the pudgy pervert crooning sweet nothings (“You’re really the best of both worlds, aren’t you?”), Raiden excused himself to the restroom and promptly fled the scene.
Predictably, Taro pitched a fit and convinced him to donate an extra grand to Baza’s charity to avoid ruffling any feathers. Raiden forked over the dough without blinking an eye. He thought the generous contribution would conclude any remaining social obligation to that presumptuous son-of-a-bitch. Later that week, however, when Baza sent him an invitation to attend a private party at his mansion, Taro forced Raiden to accept it to avoid angering the influential millionaire.
In any case, Baza could use his power to stain Scent’s image and sabotage the tour’s success if the mood so struck him. Not only did he have connections throughout the growing Michigan entertainment industry, but he also carried a good deal of clout in Hollywood. The tour was supposed to end with a bang in LA, but if Baza bad-mouthed Scent, it might instead whimper into obscurity.
Raiden fidgeted with the lapels of his ebony smoking jacket as he approached the dreaded host. Acting as spokesman for Scent never failed to send him into a state of unease, but his discomfort soared to new heights due to the murderous urges he was trying to suppress. Biting his tongue, he sighed in relief as a droplet of blood trickled from it and wet his previously parched throat.
Baza’s fleshy back was turned. Raiden lifted an unenthusiastic finger to tap him on the shoulder. Baza picked that precise moment to sling an arm around the icily gorgeous model he was currently terrorizing. Raiden’s finger froze in mid-air as Baza leaned forward to whisper in the woman’s ear. Using his preternatural hearing ability, Raiden lowered his finger as he listened to the Frenchman’s request: “Oh, Mommy, take me to the bedroom and spank me. I’ve been a naughty, naughty boy.”
Raiden swallowed a chuckle and rejoiced at the possibility of being spared the torture of Baza’s company for the remainder of the night. Looks like the naughty boy has other plans. He allowed only the merest of smirks to grace his expressive features and slowly retreated. Baza did not notice his presence since he was hurriedly ushering the impassive model upstairs. Raiden shook his head in disgust at the chick’s blatant disregard for her self-respect, though a part of him could not help admiring her for keeping a straight face during the host’s humiliating request.
People fascinated Raiden as much as they repulsed him. During his time as a vampire, he had learned to disassociate himself from humans, now viewing them as a separate species. He could not pinpoint exactly when this change had occurred, but there was apparently no way to reverse it. Once bitten . . .
The need for a drink was stronger than ever. Blood was preferable, but it was far too risky to select a victim from a crowd of well-known faces. Raiden decided on the next best thing. He sniffed out the bar, which was located deeper inside the cavernous basement. Along the way, he had to resign himself to permitting a violation of his personal privacy. An indie songstress, her famous producer husband, and his gay lover flagged him down. After a couple minutes of preemptive introductions and idle chatter, Raiden formed the distinct suspicion that they wanted him to participate in an orgy. Thankfully, the conversation did not last long, since the trio was already extremely intoxicated, and Raiden was the king of excuses.
Comments (2)
See all