The bar was the kind of place that looked like it had once aspired to be a dive, failed spectacularly, and then just gave up entirely.
A crooked neon sign that simply read "Bar" blinked weakly above the door, as if embarrassed by its own minimalism. The windows were fogged over from the inside, and someone had scrawled something lewd into the condensation. Gianna shoved the door open with her shoulder, and the smell of stale beer, cheap perfume, and a hint of bleach wafted out to meet them.
Silas stumbled in behind her, panting dramatically as he bent over and placed his hands on his knees.
"Two blocks. We ran two blocks. Why do I feel like I just ran a marathon through soup?"
He said, barely catching his breath between words.
Gianna didn't even glance back. She glided toward the counter like she was floating. Not a single bead of sweat on her.
"Don't tell me you're tired already," she said, throwing him a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "I pegged you to be a virile man."
Silas straightened up, smirking despite himself. "Virile, huh? Big word for someone who hasn't even told me their name."
Gianna finally turned to face him, lips twitching at the corners like she was suppressing a laugh. She gave a mock curtsey, an exaggerated, sweeping bow that ended with one leg pointed out and her hand flicking out with regal flair.
"Gianna," she said in a terrible fake accent. "Charmed, I'm sure."
Silas clapped once, then a second time, sarcastically. "Well, Lady Gianna, thank you for gracing me with your royal presence."
They giggled and took seats at the counter, which was scarred with decades of cigarette burns and graffiti carved by bored drunks. A broken mirror ran along the back wall, and underneath it were rows of dusty bottles, most of which looked like they hadn't moved since the Nixon administration.
The bartender, a walrus of a man with a beard that looked like it housed rodents, emerged from a door behind the counter, mid-argument with someone still hidden in the back room.
"I told you not to touch my goddamn records, you tone-deaf gremlin!", a grating voice yelled at him.
He slammed the door shut and turned toward the bar with a stormy expression. When he saw Silas, his scowl deepened.
"You look like the kind of guy who asks if we have vegan beer," he growled.
Silas opened his mouth, unsure whether to be offended or proud.
Before he could speak, Gianna tilted her head and stared at the bartender. Really stared.
The man froze mid-glare. His shoulders slackened, eyes glazing over just slightly before he blinked and looked away, muttering something under his breath.
"What was that?" Silas whispered as his gaze flicked from the bartender to Gianna repeatedly. "Did you Jedi mind-trick him?"
Gianna just smirked. "I'm very persuasive."
The bartender poured two drinks without being asked, sliding a glass toward each of them. He didn't speak again.
"That's just unsettling," Silas said.
"Thank you," Gianna replied sweetly.
They sat for a while, sipping drinks and trading lazy banter. Gianna talked about veiled hints about a family that "wasn't worth mentioning," a past that slithered just out of reach. Silas said nothing about his own. He instead recounted his brief attempt at forming a band in college.
"We were called Panic Sandwich."
"Why?"
"Because when we forgot our lyrics at the open mic night, we all panicked... and then tried to cover it with free sandwiches."
Gianna laughed, a melodic sound that seemed to tickle the air around them.
Then the conversation meandered back to family. Gianna's expression didn't change, but her voice did.
"My family's... old. Traditional. Kind of obsessed with purity and legacy. That sort of thing."
"Sounds like a cult."
"I wouldn't call it that," she said with a dark smile. "Cults are usually more fun."
Silas didn't reply. He stirred the ice in his drink. Gianna didn't push him.
After their brief heart to heart, the night blurred into a whiskey-soaked streak, they hopped from bar to bar like a hurricane. First a sports dive with sticky floors and a single television showing an infomercial about garden shears. They drank something blue and radioactive. Then Karaoke. Silas sang terribly, Gianna sang surprisingly well. Silas declared her a witch. She almost choked on her drink. They later found themselves on a rooftop bar, fake palm trees, bad reggae covers. They danced ironically. Gianna refused to remove her boots even when someone spilled a drink on them. "Boots stay on." Bar five was Basement level, lit only by red light and questionable judgment. They played darts. Gianna won. Silas said it was rigged. Gianna winked. The city became a living thing, breathing its neon breath down their necks, and Silas, drunk on something deeper than liquor, let it swallow him whole.
The momentum died down at the sixth.
A hole-in-the-wall jazz bar with actual ambiance. Dim lighting. Velvet curtains. A jukebox in the corner, its surface scratched but still blinking with life.
Silas spotted it instantly.
"Wait here," he said, setting down his glass. "Audiophile duties."
"Make it count," Gianna said, twirling the last of her drink.
He wandered to the jukebox, running his fingers across the buttons like a pianist preparing for a concerto. He selected something classic: "Night Prowler" by AC/DC.
The slow, dreamy guitar started to play as Silas turned and crooked his finger at Gianna.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Dance with me," he said.
She didn't move immediately. Then, with a small sigh, she slid off her stool and glided to the middle of the bar.
They danced. Slowly at first, orbiting each other with half-smiles and cautious steps. The drunks around them barely noticed. One or two glanced up; hookers, addicts, lonely souls with glassy eyes; but no one said a word.
Gianna leaned in closer.
"You move like someone who watches a lot of music videos."
"You kiss like someone with secrets," Silas whispered.
"Do I?"
He didn't answer.
The song played on. Their bodies pressed closer. Time slipped.
****
They stumbled out into the night air, breathless and laughing. Silas realized too late he hadn't paid. Neither had Gianna. Neither of them cared.
They ducked into an alleyway, backs against the cool stone.
"You're drunk," Gianna said.
"You're not. That's unfair."
"Life's unfair."
They kissed. It started as a spark, then a fire. Gianna pressed him against the wall, fingers curled into his shirt.
She paused and too a deep whiff of him.
"Why do you smell so good?" she murmured.
Silas blinked. "Deodorant?"
"No... not that. I smelled you across the club... through all that sweat and smoke... I smelled you."
Silas chuckled. "That's either romantic or very creepy."
Gianna didn't laugh.
She kissed down his neck. Her lips were soft, but her breath trembled.
"I need to taste you," she whispered.
Silas was too far gone to register the danger. He murmured something unintelligible.
And then-
Fangs.
They slipped out, gleaming under the moonlight. Her eyes had darkened, it seemed as though shadows oozed out of them.
She bit him once. Then bit harder
Silas's eyes flew open. He gasped, trying to push her away, but she held him fast, trembling, drinking. His vision swam. The pain was distant, muted by the alcohol.
And just before the world went black,
His eyes flickered.
Not just open.
His natural hazel eyes were illuminated with a dull golden hue.
A light gold flicker, like a pulse of ancient energy trying to wake up.
Then darkness.
****
Above them, hidden in the shadows of a nearby rooftop, a crow watched.
It blended into the black, only the barest glint of silver in its eyes betraying its presence.
The light in its gaze shimmered for a moment, strange and unnatural.
Then it vanished, into the night.