~Mild Violence~

“I’ll take a Blue Lagoon.”

Svane Grímsson’s ears perked up at the order as he sat at the last seat of the bar. He’d been canvassing the joint since the real fun began around midnight. The Quarter was a sea of people on any given night, but it was Mardi Gras weekend, and people were packed like sardines in a smoky tin can. While the holiday brought out easy targets for pickpocketing and other petty offenses, Svane was looking for a major score. 

What kind of geezer orders a Blue Lagoon on a night like this? 

The geezer in question sat one barstool away from him, a feathered fedora sitting on the sticky wooden bartop next to him. Under the dim lighting and smokey haze, Svane couldn’t help but note how frail the man looked. Wrinkles lined the man’s hollow cheeks that appeared ashen in the strobe lights from the makeshift stage behind them. He seems to be getting older before my eyes. 

“Thank you, young man,” he heard the geezer say in a grave tone, a large knobby hand shaking as it reached for the tall drink. 

Thank you, God, or whoever above! Svane took a celebratory sip from his own drink, savoring the bite of the hard liquor. I couldn’t have asked for a better target! 

Too absorbed at his own cleverness, Svane missed the older man’s steady gaze on him. 

Filthy and arrogant. Brontes Nicolau sighed and felt his lungs rattle with his breath. It’d been a month since his last meal ended their agreement. Brontes demanded that all his meals be single and completely unattached from any existing family. Long ago he’d learned the young ones weren’t reliable due to the inevitable day they “fell in love.” 

As such, for the last two centuries, Brontes refined his pallet further by only going for the more seasoned ones. However, the well had seemed to dry up and he refused to settle for anything less than perfection. But as friends of long ago warned him, your need for perfection will be the death of you. 

He sipped at the tasteless drink, keeping an eye on the young thing sitting in the corner. Brontes wadded through the chattering surface thoughts, trying to gauge the threat level. In his diminished state, even the weakest of humans could end his existence. However, the distinct sound of an empty stomach gurgling gave Brontes pause. 

We both hunger… 

A sudden chill raced down Svane’s spine as he sucked the remaining contents of his drink dry. It was as if claws dug into his back and each second that passed they dug deeper. Did someone spike my drink? Svane’s skin burned hot under his leather jacket as the feeling of being torn open intensified. 

And then it stopped. 

What the heck? Svane would have thought he imagined it if it weren’t for how sensitive his skin felt as he shifted on the barstool. In his periphery, he caught movement and turned as the old man slowly rose from his seat. He threw a wad of cash down before walking with measured footsteps toward the door. 

Svane hastily rose from his stool, blending into the crowd before the bartender could notice his unpaid tab. He somehow managed to keep track of the stooped man through the crowd, and exited only a few steps behind his target. 

Yes, yes follow little one. Brontes cooed in his head, saliva starting to pool at the corners of his mouth. He’d been able to ascertain that there was promise in the unripe fruit stumbling behind him. However, the nibble he planned to take would be bitter and sour, which put a slight damper on the occasion.  

But Brontes couldn’t wait any longer. As much as he lamented his existence, he also despised the thought of dying so pathetically. And vampires were by definition, death adverse. He felt his teeth sharpen to fine points as he turned down the dark alley he parked his car. 

The owner of the bar had known Brontes since he was a young boy and often helped Brontes find his meals. The bartender also let him sleep in the upstairs flat when the weight of his empty estate pushed him to thoughts of suicide. Which for a vampire of his age, was damn near impossible. 

Here is as good a place as any. 

Svane reached for his pocket, and in the blink of any eye found he found himself being slammed into the brick wall of the building. Crap! 

“You know what they say, my boy, do not judge a book by its cover.”

Something hot was at Svane’s neck before he could make out the identity of his prey-turned-attacker. Heat seared into the sensitive flesh there, and he subconsciously gripped at the other man’s shoulders. “I’m sorry dude, so just let—”

Such a bitter taste, Brontes thought as his meal abruptly stopped begging. Even so, something was refreshing in its taste. It should only take a week for it to be pure. He could feel thrashing underneath him, something he tried to avoid under normal circumstances. However, Brontes was too ravenous to care. 

Am I… going to die? Svane tried to detach himself from the leech at his neck, but his head felt like a helium balloon and he couldn’t concentrate anymore. His muscles morphed into jelly and somehow the old man caught him with ease. 

This… sucks. 

Brontes forced himself to stop drinking the minute the thrashing ceased, his meal’s pulse fluttering weakly against his lips. Quite the hearty one. He smiled despite himself and easily lifted the limp body in his arms. He could feel the definition returning to his muscles and his organs starting their normal functions once more. 

“To be alive…” He mused, walking to his car hidden from obvious.