Rich women are tricky prey for a vampire like me.
I'm well able to charm and flirt my way into a one night soiree with the average woman, but the problem with rich women is that most of them have some form of protection detail or private security. So many watchful eyes make getting close way too risky.
Carefully navigating the banquet hall, I wander around and balance a tray laden with champagne flutes, free for the taking. It's a high class brut too. I've already had six. Or was it seven? And my good man Domino comped me an eight ball for my being here, so between the drink and the coke, I'm feeling swanky.
The hotel is packed tonight for a business conference or something–I don't know, I'm just filling in for someone. It's reaching the time of night where things are well and truly in swing. All around me are wealthy shitheads in overpriced custom made dresswear, with all their pompous laughs and their pretentious airs and prickish pretenses.
I must be invisible to these rich motherfuckers. It's like I'm part of the fucking furniture or something. They look past me, through me, around me, only recognizing my presence as that of a fixture. I am not here; some nondescript person is here in my place. I'm only background noise, a faceless drone, a human resource.
There's a lot of spite motivating my blood hunt tonight.
Eat the rich, and all that.
From the corner of my eye, I notice I'm being beckoned for. It's better than being snapped at. Not by much. My lady caller is a breathtakingly gorgeous woman, and my interest is immediately piqued. Here's an opportunity. Just a few words and a smile–she'll be captivated.
Hopefully. I'm thirsty for blood.
Making my way over, I offer the tray. "Champagne, Madame?"
She hums, accepting a flute. Not even a thank you for my efforts. Nothing. Not a word. She takes a drink and that's that. So much for opportunity. Oh well. There'll be other marks, I'm sure. As I walk away, she goes back to her conversation in some other language.
There, I did my job. I think that's drink worthy.
Take five. I'll hit another bump and puff a smoke–
Some huge woman in a black suit steps in my way. I stop on a dime, sparing the champagne flutes a grisly demise, and I look up to see a badass looking valkyrie warrior woman with dirty blonde hair tied back and a gnarly scar down the left side of her face. She looks like she could crush my head with just her bicep.
Welp. I'm scared. And therefore turned on.
With a thick Russian accent and a deep, terrifyingly calm voice, she tells me, "Lilia Vasilovna speaks to you."
"Huh?" I glance around, finding myself surrounded by well dressed Russian muscle. Shit, man, my horoscope warned me about trouble in the East. "Uh. M–My apologies. I didn't realize…"
"Spasibo, Anya," a soft but firm voice soothes, and the woman from a second ago, the one who took a drink without saying anything, steps between us. "Dumayu, eto khorosho. Ona milaya, kak zaychik. Eto tot samyy. Ukushu."
The valkyrie nods and steps back. The whole security team practically vanishes, out of the way but still close enough to rock my shit at the first sign of issues. Whoever this lady is, Lilia Vasilovna I guess, she looks me over with some seriously stunning hazel eyes, brushing her light brown hair behind her ear as she regards me with cold distaste. Her long black gown has a slit running up the skirt and those legs are doing something to my gay ass. She's half a head shorter than me, but it hardly feels like it. There's something that evokes a sense of sheer power from the way she carries herself.
Probably money.
"Did you hear what I said?" she asks me with a much lighter Russian accent, her tone flat. "Or were you so quick to disregard a guest of this fine establishment, zaychik?"
Oh, fuck, is this gonna be an 'I want to talk to your manager' thing? I stall for time by fixing the arrangement of glasses on my tray. If it weren't Dom's cousin's function, I'd be giving this bitch the skidrow dive bar special. The old town Chicago railway kalamazoo. But I gotta be on my best behavior, god damn it.
But also…
My mark has engaged me. Directly.
Goddamn, I love powerful women.
"Well," I say with all due reverence, "I wouldn't dare to assume someone as important as you would direct your words or attention toward me, Madame. My sincerest apologies if I've caused you any disrespect."
She lets out a short, dry laugh. "Ah, of course. So you do have manners after all."
The words jump out before I can stop them. "Says someone who doesn't thank service workers."
"No?" Her expression darkens. It's a little scary. "But I did. Spasibo. Even the most ignorant of Americans know that means thank you."
"Oh." I'm suddenly remembering the Cold War. "I didn't realize you were talking to me. Apologies again–"
"Spare me." Plucking at my black suspenders and my white collared shirt, she hums with a sour tone. "I ask you, zaya, do you suppose this is appropriate? A formal event for dignified and accomplished individuals of a certainly refined echelon, and yet here you are with all of these piercings and tattoos. Is the side of your head shaved?"
"It's an undercut," I huff, looking elsewhere and completely losing interest. "Guess I should've worn a different skin suit without ink in it. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience of having to see something so degenerate. I'll go straight to the laser removal center after this and have it all erased."
"My, my. Aren't you sarcastic?" she purrs, lips curling as she comes closer. "And defiant. Proud. I like that in a woman, zaya. Tall too. Handsome. Are you perhaps for sale?"
What the fuck? Did I hear that right? For sale?
Well, this could be interesting. I'll roll with it.
"Perhaps," I hum, playing right along. "Depends on the offer."
"I'm only joking," she laughs again, standing awfully close. To my utter fucking shock, she takes hold of my tie and yanks, pulling me down to whisper in my ear, "Thirteenth floor, elevator plaza bathroom, five minutes."
I'm stunned, but not in a million years would I fuck this up. "R–Right. Five minutes. I'll be there."
"Don't be late." She kisses my cheek then puts something in my shirt pocket and lightly pushes me away.
Holy fuck. That just happened.
Sex and an easy blood feed.
Two birds with one Russian.
With a faint smile on my face and much more of a bounce in my step, I wander off and gladly serve champagne to these one-percent fuckfaces, tonguing my fangs and daydreaming about fiery lesbian sex, ready to fucking go. It's been a minute since my last taste of action. Couple days ago, at that house party in the Bends. That bitch was cuuute. I think. Can't really remember that well.
When I get a chance, I step aside to check what she put in my–
"What the fuck?" I hiss, heart racing as I count out ten hundred dollar bills. Benjamins. Big dogs. C-Notes. Hundos. One hundred US American dollars. Ten of them. Holy shit. I glance around, trying to see if I'm on some bullshit livestream video. "A band. A thousand dollars. For–For what? For me?"
A thousand fucking dollars. Just like that, rent's covered.
Mostly. Cost of living is insane these days…
She said she was joking. But she's actually buying me.
"Am I so low that I would sell my body for a measly thousand dollars?" I ask myself, double counting, then triple counting, checking for counterfeits. "Shit, man, I was ready to fuck her for free! Ohh, Miss Vasilovna, my ass is sold! To the lady in black!"
Excited for the first time in years, I bullshit around and make myself look busy so it seems like I'm doing my job for the next few minutes that drag and drag and drag on. Thankfully the coke makes the time fly a little faster, and I take one last [CENSOR: DRUG USE] before it's time. Once the clock strikes five minutes, I toss my tray aside and go for a 'smoke break'.
"Oh. Wait a second."
I double back to grab two champagne flutes.
Hurrying through the fancy hotel lobby, I hop in the elevator with a bunch of other rich assholes. Thirteenth floor, elevator plaza bathroom, and there's the whole security detail of like ten people, with my dear friend Anya closest to the door.
"Um." I try for a smile, sniffling a little. Salty. "H–Hi. Um. For the Motherland?"
She barks a laugh along with the others, gesturing for the door.
When I go inside the fancy ass bathroom, beautiful Miss Lilia Vasilovna is pampering up, applying some more ruby lipstick in the mirror. Cutting those hazel eyes sideways at me, she hums, "You're late, zaychik."
"Am I? Oh, I–I thought… Like, five minutes and then come here. I didn't know you meant to be here in five minutes. Um. Sorry. Kinda autistic. I need very clear and precise directions or–Uh, anyway! My apologies for keeping you waiting. I brought champagne, Madame."
She caps her lipstick. "Stolen from the hotel?"
"Well, the hotel doesn't pay for the catering service. I think technically it'd be stolen from the event coordinator. But they're just giving the stuff away, so it's free. Thus, not stolen."
"Free to those invited to partake," she scolds me, coming closer. "Those who were intended to drink it. Not some… stray. Like you."
"That's like telling a chef she can't taste test her own cooking." I take a drink, watching her every move. "I do the work of carrying it around. It's only right that I should be welcomed to sample."
"I think you've done more than just sample tonight," she titters, accepting her glass. "And sneaking away to meet with a woman in secret while you're supposed to be working? How naughty you are."
"What can I say?" I wonder, transfixed by the breathtaking shapely legs through the slitted dress. "I'm a strong believer in work-life balance. That is, imbalance. On the side of life."
"Charming, aren't you?" she whispers, standing close and laying hands on me, fiddling with my tie, shirt, and suspenders, adjusting the fit of each. I can barely smell her perfume through my numb, coked out nose, but goddamn, she smells good. Like roses. Her pretty fingers feel my shirt pocket and she smiles a little. "Well? I'm waiting. Here you are, not saying your thanks for a gift I kindly gave you."
"I figured I'd thank you in… other ways. Words only mean so much. But actions…"
"Oh, you are sly. I like that. You strike me as a… Mmm. What's the word in English? A rather… troublesome young person. Rebellious. Causes problems for fun. Breaks things, spray paints, attacks police."
"Think that'd be punk, Madame."
"Da, that's the one. Is that not so?"
"Kinda more into emo or yell rap than punk these days, but close enough. From where you stand, it probably all looks the same. Either way…" I tilt forward a little, looming over her with a devilish grin, my fangs retracted for now. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm what people like you would call a fucking problem."
"Khorosho," she smiles, tugging on my tie again. "I like problems. And I love to tame wild animals. The ones who fight back always taste the sweetest when they're forced to submit to their proper place."
"I'd be willing to let you try. Assuming you can handle…"
I trail off because she just bit my fucking neck.
Lilia Vasilovna has her fangs in my external jugular vein.
It's kinda crazy. I watched her leaning in. I saw it coming. It just didn't register that it was actually happening. Completely fucking stupefied, baffled at the fact I didn't realize she was a vampire too, I stand frozen in place. There isn't a damn sound in this bathroom.
After a few seconds, she retracts her teeth and leans back, licking the blood off her ruby lips with a disappointed frown. "Hm… Zaya, how did we get here? Hm? Two vampiry, crossing paths by chance, then conspiring to bite one another, both believing the other is mortal?"
"Wha–Well yeah, I–I was planning to do the same to you. But how did we not…" I trail off again as I realize exactly how I missed it. "Fuck. I couldn't tell from your scent because of all that coke I snorted. And your fragrance."
"And you, that dreadful cologne."
"Dr–Dreadful? You really think it's–"
My words cut short when I feel the knife at my throat. Lilia Vasilovna has me by the tie, using it to keep me from moving away from the blade. I'm stuck like I'm on a fucking leash. Holy shit, it's hot. I love it when beautiful women threaten my life. She calls out for Anya, and half the security team comes in here with us to surround me, drawing easily concealable blades of their own.
"Silver," Lilia warns me. "I'll assume you're familiar."
"With–With silver?" I stammer. "Kinda hard not to be?"
"Shutish'?Nyet, I'm referring to its effects on our kind."
"Oh. Oh. Of course. Yes, its effects on vampires. Right."
She stares a hole through me. "You aren't familiar."
I crack a nervous grin, hoping I'm pretty enough to spare.
Shoving me back into Anya–who very gently puts me in a stranglehold with a knife poking at my ribs–Lilia slips her blade into an inner thigh sheath hidden under her black dress. Holy legs. "Pain and torment. Injury and agony. Silver cuts us deeply. Differently. Its wounds do not heal. Not until we next feed."
"Ouch," I choke out, holding Anya's kind hand with both of mine.
"A slit throat, for example," Lilia purrs, using a fingertip to lift my chin, "would leave you dead, and incapable of regenerating the damage. That is, until someone comes along and pours blood in your mouth. But if I bury you face down in a field three meters deep with a stake in the heart, an iron nail in the toe, and a sickle over the neck, I sincerely doubt anyone would ever find you in the first place. I could make you disappear, zaya, and with my resources, I could then erase all trace of you entirely. As if you never even existed."
Tapping Anya's arm a couple times until she lets me speak, I heave a quick breath and answer, "Babe, I'm depressed and suicidal. That ain't a threat, that's an invitation. Where's this going? Not like I'm gonna say shit to anyone. 'Watch out for that vampire!' exclaimed the vampire! Like, what?"
"You truly are clueless," she observes, studying me closely. "Or perhaps it's all an act. How am I to know? Hm?"
"Guess that's fair," I croak, getting choked out again.
"Whose are you, vampir? Who are you with? Where are you from? What company do you work for? Anya, otpusti."
The valkyrie lets go of me but knocks me to the floor on my knees, with a fist gripping my hair and her knife to my throat. Grateful for the freedom of my airways and the fierce hair pulling, also appreciating the new perspective and view looking up at such beauty, I tell Lilia the truth. "I have no fucking idea what you're talking about, sweetheart. Who–Whose am I? Um. My own? Nobody fucking owns me. What does that even mean?"
"Tsk. Lost in translation." She folds her arms, glaring down her pretty nose at me. "Who gave you the blood? And when?"
"Ohhh. True. Okay, uh… I don't know his name. I just call him Wino. 'Cause that old welcher's a real bum ass heel. As for when? Well…" I reach for the champagne flute on the counter. "Can you…"
Lilia moves it farther away. "And hand you a potential weapon?"
"Ahhh, you're a real crumb." With a heavy sigh, I come clean. "A'ight, hear me out. I met that cat Wino on the westbound rails, Cleveland to Chicago. Rainy week, that one. Torrents running top to bottom, us two cooped up with some mean cabin fever inside that rinky-dink boxcar. Got to talking. Mostly singing the blues. Now, singing ain't much a ball of mine, but I'd just crushed out on the lam after a long hitch to the big house. Real fuckin' hayburner, that. Thought I'd never break even. Told him if things weren't hitting on all eight soon enough, it was curtains for me. Shit, I was ready to call it a day. That man Wino, he looked at me, then said, 'And how!' It was a wrap. Two peas in a pod. He got to jawing about it all, the blood. I said, 'It's all jake here. I'm keen. Jinx me.' Year was 1908. I've seen him thrice since. Not a once in the last… thirty some years. Cat daddy keeps to himself. Don't take a gander to know Wino's out there drifting to this day."
Lilia stares for a few seconds. "Was any of that supposed to be English?"
"Aw hell," I groan, hanging my head, and my black hair falls in my face. "What else you want me to say? My guy is some tramp wanderer, an older aged black man with a scar over his eye, and I got no idea where he is. I drank in '08. 1908. Which still feels like it was twenty years ago. Goddamn…"
"I see. Yes, that is English. Only last century, hm? So very young indeed." She gives me a lasting look, revealing nothing. "Next, zaya. Who are you with?"
"Like, in terms of ties? Uh. Local Red Devils, but I ain't affiliated."
"Vampyry. Not human street gangs."
"Oh, oh. Gotcha. Well… Nobody. Just like Wino, I keep to myself."
"Hm. A stray. How endearing. Are you from Cleveland?"
"No, ma'am. Richmond, Virginia. But I ain't no Dixie fink, mind you. Dixie, yes. Fink, hell naw. Ahem. That is to say, fuck the Confederacy. And everything it stood for."
"Hmm. I agree. Final question." She dips low, takes hold of my face, and forces me to look her in the eyes as she coldly demands, "What company do you work for?"
"See, that's where you lose me again," I struggle to say. "This here tonight is just a gig. I'm unemployed. I don't have a job. For any company."
"You don't?" She lets go of me, straightening up. "Hm. I smell no lies. An independent fang, affiliated with no others, working for no vampiric force, simply happens across my proximity… I wonder. What are we to do with you, zaychik? Hm?"
"Uh." I'm all smiles! "Maybe you could let me go? And I would forget all about this and never tell a soul. Listen, I'm a jailbird, but I ain't no canary. Matter of fact, I'm actually blind and deaf, so I don't even know what you look like or what you've said–"
"No, I think I'll fuck you senseless after all."
My brain bluescreens. It's what the youths of today would call gay panic. Yes, I've kept up. I'm on the internet. I know things. I'm jiggy with it all. And as for me, I'm usually a top in terms of blood feeding just because it's easier that way, but as tough as I may look or act, with all my tats and piercings and general churlish, grouchy, irritable demeanor?
I'm actually a total bottom bitch.
"Well?" she purrs, standing over me. "Would you like that?"
"Y–Yes, please," I murmur, giving her the pleading eyes. "Please? Pretty please?"
She hums with satisfaction, lips curling. "You prefer women?"
"Oh, exclusively. Only women. I'm a girl kisser for real–"
"Good. My dogs here will have you after I've finished with you."
"Wh–Wha–Wai–Like, all your guards are gonna fuck me too?"
"The women, yes." Her cold hand caresses my face. "I share my scraps with my pack. You seem durable enough. Is this what you want, sobaka? Will you take it all for me? For my–"
"Yes! God, yes, please! Please, please, please, please, please–"
"Anya, privedi. Ty mozhesh' vzyat' yeye sleduyushchey."
I'm dragged to my feet, out of the bathroom, into the elevator, brought up to the penthouse suite, and tossed into the giant bed. Everything is happening so damn quickly it's hard to believe. Fuck my job, man, I'm Lilia Vasilovna's special girl now. Still speaking in Russian to her people, she starts unpacking a suitcase stacked with sex toys. Straps, paddles, whips, switches, gags, bars, wedges, dildos, more and more and more, to the point where I'm about to pass out just watching her set them aside.
"Anything you dislike?" she asks me with a glance. "Say it. I take this seriously."
"F–Fuck, I don't–I don't think I dislike any of that!"
"Khorosho. If your blood thirst is unquenched, Anya will be bringing up something pretty for us both to feast upon. You will not leave here wanting for anything, zaychik. I assure you of that. Now, it's time we begin. Clothes off. On your back."
I strip in seconds, tossing my nice clothes aside. Lilia does the same then crawls into bed with me. When our lips and our bodies meet, it's damn near intoxicating. I've been alive for over a century, and this is the second best thing that's ever happened to me. All the miserable tragedies and agonizing losses, they were worth it for this.
There's no chance I'll regret getting involved with Lilia Vasilovna.