Sunday. Going to be a bloody Sunday.
Sunday is Jazz Night. Can’t think of a better reason to shed some blood than being forced to listen to five hours of goatee-stroking, off-rhythm, snap-inducing, pseudo-intellectual, haughty, self-claimed-superior cacophony.
Seriously, I hate jazz more than Johnny. And if you catch my obscure reference, you belong at ‘80s Night with the rest of us.
All I want to catch is Ruby’s blue-maned, careless friend and get the three of us the hell out of here. Keep Ruby’s hand tight in my own. Haven’t feared anything in half a century, but I fear I’ll lose her. Fear it so much it hurts. Been like that since I brought her back into the city.
Scared to have her here. Scared more to leave her in the woods where I can’t see her. Edgar knows right where Ruby was—has to know by now that the number I gave him was to call upon a dead girl. Roderick probably knows right where she was in the woods by now too. Edgar’ll be all too happy to tell him to get back at me. Be his way to get Roderick off his own back for not returning to him right away—wasted his time on the chase I sent him, searching for veins that were long dry.
We walk into the bar and look around. I don’t see anything blue bopping. Don’t know if I’m happy or sad not to see her. Maybe she wised up. Or, maybe they’ve already found her before she could come out here. That seems more likely.
Still only 10:15. Place doesn’t get hot till 11 or later.
Sounds of a four-piece drum kit solo reach my ears. The awkward stops grate at me. Why can’t it be Tuesday night Burlesque? So glad they have that here—without it there’d be no pyro at the edge of the stage, and this tale would’ve been a whole heck of a lot shorter. A lot sadder too.
A guy across the bar squints his eyes behind his thick-framed glasses and waves one finger in the air—keeping his other hand at the brim of his bebop hat. Have to admit I kind of like the hat. Not my style, but a nice hat.
Ruby squeezes my hand—my eyes slide up her arm, along her shoulder, over the sleek contour of her neck—still unmarked by me, along the slender cheekbone, up her delicate nose, and to the intoxicating green of her eyes. That’s exactly my style.
Every bit of it.
She pulls my hand down, guiding my body toward her own. Her luscious, full lips press into mine, filling me with the warmth and hope that my fear had drained from me.
Knew what I needed without a word. She looked into me, knew what I lacked, and poured it out of herself into me.
Such a small package filled with so much. Even after our time in the wild—our time on the run without shower or refreshing, her hair smells wonderful—her kiss sweet.
Worry what is happening that I can’t see. Don’t want anything to harm her—even while she thrills me.
I slowly back off, fighting a pull to return to her lips as we separate. She smiles and slides her arm around my waist, running her fingers across my lower back.
I scan over the bar, trying to find anything blue or anything menacing. The night would go better if I never saw either of them, but the urge to have this weight off my shoulders—some kind of end to this stress and worry—makes me wish I’d find either of them right now and face fate head on.
I look to the DJ booth. It’s not Mark. He loves jazz about half as much as I do, although I don’t find it all that different from the drum and bass stuff he digs so much.
It’s an older guy named Jeff. Know him but not really friends. I wave and get his attention—not too much else for him to look at in the bar that’s not yet very populated.
I make a gun with my hand, aim it at my forehead, and pull the trigger with my thumb. He smiles. I hold up eight fingers and then just a fist. He mouths the word Sunday down to me. I point at my wrist where a watch would be worn if I were ever concerned about the time. He shrugs his shoulders and fiddles with equipment in front of him.
“Always Something There to Remind Me” starts, its uniquely ‘80s keyboards and chiming bells invading the jazz-only event. Beebop guy doesn’t seem too upset, still waving his lone finger around as conductor.
“How’d you do that?” asks Ruby.
“You know by now—I’m a magic man.”
She dances slowly up to me, brushing against me, “You just get us all out of here tonight—that’s all the magic I need to see for awhile.”
I nod and look around.
Her slim fingers reach up and slide over my chin, “Not that I don’t love the magic you’ve shown me, or the sparks in your fingertips.”
I smile and look at something moving over her head near the stage. It’s the emergency door—it’s not all the way shut.
I pull her around to the other side of me.
“What? What is it?” she asks.
I bang my hand on the bar as I call out, “Angie?”
The bartender shuts the lid of the cooler she was stocking with beer bottles and bops her way over toward me.
“What’s the big dea—” she starts to ask before I interrupt.
“Keep her behind the bar—don’t say a word,” I say grabbing Ruby at her waist and lifting her up onto the bar.
“What? Why should I kee—”
“Please, no questions—someone’s here that wants to hurt her—bad.”
“Okay. Okay. Try to keep things cool. Please.”
“Thanks, Angie.”
I turn to the emergency exit.
“Wait!” calls from behind me.
I look over my shoulder and see Ruby behind the bar now and watching me intently.
“I’ll come back for you,” I say.
She looks slightly relieved.
“Now, down,” I say pointing, “Stay below the bar.”
I look back to the door and rush toward it. Quick hop on the stage, pass up the door, lean on the wall with my ear close to the crack between the door and the sill.
Hear voices, but nothing clear.
I look up to Jeff and see him watching me curiously—again nothing much else to look at in the bar but bebop guy’s soul patch and his finger waving. I motion for him to turn the volume down. He looks pained, but turns the level down for me. Voices become clear.
“…been here three nights in a row—what makes you think she’s ever coming back?”
“Trust me,” this voice is Roderick’s—definitely Roderick’s, “She can’t stay away much longer—this is her drug.”
A third voice chimes in, “Look, I’m starting to get the itch, man—can’t be here all night.”
Third voice is Edgar’s. Those words could be his epitaph. Definitely him.
Roderick again, “You’ll stay as long as I tell you, junkie. She’ll be here: trust me.”
“Not here now—wasting our time. Could be anywhere in the city if she even came back at all. This place ain’t even gonna get going for another hour—playing freakin’ ‘80s music right now—it’s supposed to be stupid jazz night. Ain’t even started yet.”
“All right,” barks Roderick, “We’ll go check out the damn market, and if she ain’t—isn’t—see you’ve got me talking like an imbecile—if she isn’t there we’re coming right back here. She’ll be here all night anyway once she comes.”
The door slams roughly—right beside my ear. Probably kicked by Roderick. Just glad that they didn’t come back inside.
Time. At least we have a little time. Don’t know how much or what good it’ll do, but we’ve got a little. Hope it’s enough to keep her alive.
I see her two defiant and gorgeous eyes peering over the edge of the counter full of concern, and I know I need a way to save her from all this—even though my mind has no idea how to do it.
Like being trapped in a glass tomb, I press my hand against the clear pane blocking me from the burgeoning life on the other side that I’m not a part of. Dark blue, the color of a dream, and muffled on my side—loud, bouncing, and alive on the other.
It seems that with every new song, the crowd below grows out of itself, people spawning out of people—filling in every tiny bit of available space with another sweaty, dancing body.
Hard to believe so many people would show up for a jazz night at a wild place like this—and on a Sunday at that, but as the night’s progressed, the jazz has gotten funkier and people have started dancing. Some of them seriously over-dancing. Never seen people gyrate to this style of music, but they sure seem to be having a good time.
I recognize a lot of the more flamboyantly dressed people from ‘80s Night. I think this bar’s regulars would show up for a combo Do-Your-Taxes/Root-Canal Night as long as it was here and there was going to be some dancing.
Despite the undying enthusiasm of the usual crowd, I don’t really want to be here. Only here looking for my crazy friend—my crazy, innocent friend who’s gotten herself tangled up with a monster. Until her blue hair bounces into the bar, I’ll be here—hiding behind the upstairs bar, pretending to be a bartender. The girl who is the legitimate bartender is none too thrilled to have another female crowding her workspace, but she smiled and agreed right away when Simon asked her to keep us here.
The upstairs bartender certainly hasn’t minded having Simon within her close quarters, having found countless opportunities to brush up against him while fixing drinks and taking orders—her hands sliding across his back, her hips rubbing against him as she passes.
Simon’s stayed with his eyes to the window all night, taking no notice of her behavior—not even a flinch—as if his body’s lost all feeling.
The lights from the dance floor reflect and flash in the window, falling on his unmoving reflection. He’s like a jagged mountain in the middle of a lightning storm, light explosions and thundering carnage falling all around him, but he remains still and certain.
It all moves in his eyes—all the frantic activity mirrored inside his beautiful blue irises, but his stare moves not. A stillness usually only reserved for the dead.
He’s only taken his sight off the window a few times in the two hours we’ve been up here. He’s blinked as if remembering something, and then he’s turned to me and given me a smile or a kiss. Immediately, he’s turned right back to the window, and the bartender’s given me a sneer.
Whenever I could, I’ve taken a few orders, filled some cups with ice, grabbed some beers out of the iced bins—not so much to help her out, although I wouldn’t mind helping her if she’d keep her hands off my man, but to give me something to do and to keep the illusion that I have some unsuspicious reason for being here behind the bar.
Most times she’s said nothing to me when I’ve helped her; sometimes she’s graced me with a nasally, “I got it, hun.”
Maybe I should just tell everyone the unbelievable truth: I’m hiding up here from bloodthirsty vampires that are after me and my blue-haired friend. No one’d believe me anyway—this place never has a shortage of delusional eccentrics. Then I could just stand here and put my arms around Simon—wouldn’t need to pretend to be a bartender, and I could block her nasty hips from touching his delicious body again…yeah…maybe just push her down the crooked, old stairs. Two rounds of free drinks and everyone up here’d forget all about it…mean, you’re getting mean in all this madness, Ruby…okay, okay…maybe just lock her in the little bathroom all night.
Despite it all, the upstairs bar is a great place to hide. There are no signs letting people know they’re allowed to go upstairs—it’s a narrow, unevenly constructed, wooden staircase that is dilapidated and dimly lit. It turns at 180 degrees in the center, offering no view to those on the bottom floor of what it leads to.
The dark blue upstairs room itself is tiny, about the size of a large bedroom, with a one-person unisex bathroom. Getting to use that closet-sized bathroom, locked in and alone while Simon stood guard outside, has been the only small joy of the day. But, it’s hard to enjoy regaining my feminine mystique that I so crudely lost under the trees and moonlight—because my friend’s in danger, and we could all be killed trying to save her. That kinda sucks all the joy out of reclaiming my dainty appeal. Never been too big on that frou-frou stuff anyway, but the incident in the woods was a bit much even for me.
Most people don’t come up here—most don’t know it exists—and some of the ones that try don’t make it all the way up here on their drunken, creaky stairway climb, crashing to the uneven steps beneath them or onto their annoyed friends who came along on their ill-advised and inebriated expedition.
As crowded as it’s been downstairs, it’s been calm and steady up here all night. Simon found right where to put me. Safest place in the unsafe storm, perched above the raging waters below.
Suddenly Simon’s eyes light up—jolting from complete stillness to furious intensity, shocking me as if a statue has just reached out to grab me.
My eyes follow his stare down to the dance floor—sure enough, it’s Ambrosia, bopping her way up to the bar, smiling and strutting like it’s just another night out—no fear of creatures of the dark on her face, just a mischievous smile welcoming the energy of the night.
Before I can take my eyes off her, Simon’s whispering in my ear.
“Stay here—I’m going to get her.”
“Okay,” I say, filled with fear and relief at the same time.
So close to getting her and us out of here.
So close to being away from the beasts that want to tear us apart.
But so close to being caught.
So far from the exit.
Simon rushes into the crowd to grab the only blue-haired girl in the joint. He stands out like a man among children—a tiger among kittens, and Ambrosia…well, she’s Ambrosia. Can’t be hard to spot—even for the bad guys…if they’re here…
God help him. Crazy dancing people better part a path for him. In the name of love and all that’s good, let us get out of here.
Maybe I should wait at the bottom of the stairs. Makes no sense for him to have to come get me and then go back down the stairs again to the exit. But then I won’t be able to see him. Can see Ambrosia here. Will see him going after her here. Wait till he has her then run to the bottom of the stairs.
He’ll want to kill me for leaving here before he gets back, but I’ve got to help. Only thing I can do.
Always thought Juliet was foolish—immature and infatuated. But now, I feel that wherever Simon is at the end of the night is where I want to be too. I’d rather it be here, but couldn’t live with myself if I knew I let him slip to the next life without fighting alongside him.
Wait. There’s something below. Something awful. Is that…
Body slams off me—crashes into the wall—and starts to slide toward the ground.
Didn’t see him coming round the turn.
Catch him by his arm with one hand and his bebop hat that has fallen off with the other. Steady him quickly on the stairs—toss his hat on his head—give him a nod but not a word and rush down the second part of the stairs that squeak beneath my boots louder than the booming music flooding from the dance floor and into the narrow stairwell.
Rest of the steps are a blur and then gone.
Feel like I’ve hit a staggering herd of cattle as I smack into the mass of bodies that stumble, some of them to the beat of the song and some to the pounding of the arrhythmic alcohol rushing through their brains.
Push with my hands—a sea of human waves—trying to swim through them. Some spill. Some shout. Most just get the hell out of my way.
Two bouncing strands of blue. Her hand grasps a drink from the bartender—takes a sip—looks around. Can almost see the liquid light up her eyes. Heartbeat races through her—two of them.
See something moving near the stage. Emergency door opens wide.
Ambrosia spots me coming toward her. Pulls cup from her lips. Nervous lips.
Roderick steps off the edge of the stage onto the floor. Followed by goons.
She turns away from me toward the dance floor, with the look of a child swimming away from a parent, not ready to get out of the pool.
By the stage, Edgar is the last one through the door, letting it slam closed behind him—the noise covered completely by the music, unheard even to my ears from this far away.
Unknowing that the four of them are ahead of her in the crowd, Ambrosia bops toward the stage, a wave in the sea of bodies, sliding through them effortlessly, while they crash into me angrily like a rock on the California shore.
I shove through the people, struggling to catch her without hurting anyone.
Someone shouts behind me. Hostile voice. Very. Not familiar—not a vamp. No time to look. Must be someone I pushed out of the way.
She slides through the crowd like she’s truly liquid, keeping ahead of me like an object you can’t catch in a dream.
Crash and splash explode against the back of my head. Bits of brown, beer-bottle glass shatter and fall down the front of my shirt and down my back.
Keep walking. Faster.
Roderick looks in my direction. Grinning. Looking ahead of me in the crowd—he discovers her.
Feel blood drip down my neck onto my shirt.
Rush toward blue hair. People jump out of my way—must be the blood.
Roderick steps closer to her.
Facing the left corner of the stage, Ambrosia starts dancing with a guy, her back turned to us. Oblivious. Death a few dance partners away.
Roderick’s closer than I am. Just a few feet to go.
A red-haired girl stands in front of Roderick and starts jamming her finger into his chest. Looks familiar. Girl from the other night—one he called fire crotch—it’s her. Three tattooed guys stand behind her, one of them bald, tall, and meaty. Seen them at the metal bar down the street before—regulars here—bouncers there.
Roderick shoves the angry and red hundred-and-three pounds out of his way. The group of guys attacks Roderick—largest one grabbing his throat.
Roderick smiles—diving his fangs into his lower lip, striking his own blood. Carvelli rushes to help him. Quint’s nowhere to be seen. Lost sight of him. Damn it. Edgar’s gone too. Not good. Not good at all. Better fly out of here.
At least Ruby’s upstairs.
Reach out and grab Ambrosia’s wrist. Duck down low. Turn my back to her and pull her arm until her torso is across my shoulders. Hook my other arm around her knee—stand up with her draped over my shoulders.
Only two of the tattooed protectors still stand—missed one being knocked down. Carvelli has one staggering from punches he’s just landed.
Ambrosia slaps my face to put her down.
In a fast burst just a few feet away, Roderick slams his hands into the sides of the face of the meaty guy who tried to choke him. His fingernails drive deep into the flesh of both cheeks. Agony is the big man’s face as he falls to his knees. Roderick stares at his victim a moment, absorbing his anguish—savoring it, then quickly dives his fangs into his adversary’s forehead.
Ambrosia stops slapping—must’ve finally seen what’s going on.
Exposing himself again. In front of all these people. Roderick wants something in Ambrosia more than his own life. Never been this reckless. Desperate.
People run to the exit. Jamming the doorway. Not gonna be easy.
Would normally wait my turn, but they’re in no danger—just my blue passenger and Ruby. God, Ruby. Get to her. Shove people out of my way with elbows. No one fights—all push to the door. Force my way in front of them.
Finally the stairs. No one coming down. They may not’ve even seen up there—in their own little world—can’t even see out the window if they’re sitting down. Even if they did see the mayhem, they may think staying up there is the safest place for them to be. Might be right.
No safe place for us.
Three steps at a time. Have to keep at an angle to keep Ambrosia’s head from hitting the wall. Into the dark blue room in a flash. Not here. Scan room again. Gone. She’s gone!
Dashing toward the bar, I scream, “Where the hell is Ruby?”
“Left after you did, Simon—not her babysitter.”
“Mother—”
Don’t finish my cursing. Dash back downstairs. Heart lunging.
“Ruby!” squeals Ambrosia from my shoulders, realizing her friend was here and is now missing.
Eardrums rumble with my pulse, thundering with the storm that’s my fear. Flashing—rumbling—pouring over me.
I look at the area between the stairs and the exit—no sign of her. Maybe missed her in the main room—look fast—deserted. Except for the DJ frantically unhooking some gear up on the balcony.
Outside—she might be outside.
Sprint to the exit. Nudge past the last of the stumbling evacuees.
Outside’s crowded. Sidewalk, street, and opposing sidewalk—all cluttered with people. Looks like a street party—Bourbon after a parade.
People are panicked—terrified as individuals, yet enticed, enjoying sharing the event as a group—somehow gaining coolness points like they’re witnessing Woodstock. Few leave. Stand around. No idea how fast Roderick and his three minions could rip them apart if they felt the urge to.
Madness.
Lucky for them, Roderick is so obsessed with the package on my shoulders that he cares for little else.
Scan the area.
Scan left—nothing.
Scan right—nothing.
Push through people.
“Simon!” shouts Ambrosia over my shoulder, trying hard to wiggle free.
Just as her voice invades my ears, I see Ruby. Above the crowd. Eyes lock. My heart leaps, but then it crashes back in panic—too high—she’s too high above the crowd—she’s not that tall. Terror runs in her eyes.
“Simon!” Ambrosia shouts again over my shoulder.
“Shh! I see her. I see Rub—”
Sting shoots into my shoulder blade—the bottom ridge. Eyes try to roll back. Ambrosia falls from the tops of my shoulders. Sharp pain rushes through my veins.
Sickness.
Spreading.
Struggle turn around. Fall to one knee.
See Carvelli just as he punches my face, syringe still in his hand. Needle jabs into my cheek and tears out as he pulls away.
Visions of Ruby being dragged away by Roderick send me into a rage. Fling my fist into Carvelli’s groin. He bellows as his breath leaves him. Grab his head—diving my fingernails into it. Slam my knee at full force into his face—feel his nose break and go flat beneath me.
Again and again—slam my knee into his mess of a face. Let him drop to the ground. Hands cover his face, but he doesn’t move except to breathe.
Frantically look around. Ambrosia, holding her hip as she gets to her feet, turns to run away. Crowd has backed away from us.
Rush at Ambrosia, grab her shoulder and yank her to me. Having trouble keeping my balance. Growing dizzy.
Blackness behind eyes becoming heavier.
Bark into her ears, “Get on the ground—crawl upstairs—hide behind bar—wait there! Now!”
Shakes her head—refusing.
“Ruby needs us! Now! Now!”
Half tossing her to the ground, I push her in the direction. On all fours she makes her way to the bar. For once—hope she listens. For all our lives—hope she crawls fast—low to ground. Fast. Low. Or all dead.
Ruby.
Only thought.
Ruby.
Don’t see her face.
Carvelli on ground still breathes—doesn’t move besides that.
Look where I saw Ruby held above crowd. Nothing. Just people. Stumble that way. Still nothing.
Crowd parts out of my way. No doubt why. Blood back of head. Needle hole in cheek. Wish crowd did this earlier. Could’ve saved her.
Ruby. Ruby. Ruby…
There she is. She is! Above crowd again.
Step closer. Those in the middle rush to sidewalk. Path clears a view into hell.
Roderick has Ruby by her waist, hoisting her above his head, making sure that I see her—luring me in.
Sting from shoulder spreads into my lungs—breathing slows. Stinging through head—thoughts sludge. Eyes heavy. Ruby…my poor Ruby…
“Ruby!” my one thought pours from my lips.
“Simon!” she cries, voice cracking, tears glistening down her cheeks, over her lips, and down her neck.
Roderick drops her to her feet to the side of him. Quint grabs both her arms—pins them behind her back, keeping her from falling to the ground.
“Sad thing being separated from what you want, Simon—from what you need. Isn’t it?”
Try to speak, but blackness floods vision, drowns thoughts.
“See what hell you’ve been putting me through, dear boy? Not fun to have someone toy with what you crave, is it?”
“La-let her go, Roderick. Kill you. Swear I-I’ll—” words trail, my body sways.
Blackness.
Voice cuts through the void, “Can’t even say it, you fool, much less do it.”
“Simon!” her voice stings worse than the junk they shot in me.
Try shake head clear. Nothing. Shake again.
Jump at Roderick—kick square in his chest. Falls back step.
Swing at his head. Glances over jaw.
Blackness rises in mind.
Raise hands to swing—block—something—can’t see.
Punches pummel my head. He can’t be moving that fast—mind so slow—numb—just seems fast.
Concrete smacks back of head and neck.
Laughter. Hear it above me.
Shouts. Cursing all ‘round me.
Cursing and laughter fighting.
Hear crash—beer smell—glass and wetness falls on me again.
Roderick snarling now—no laughter.
Ruby. Damnit, get up—Ruby.
Finally see something. Roderick yelling at crowd—beer running down his face—his shirt and head drenched in beer. Fingernails and fangs threatening them. Crowd shouting back—only side of crowd not facing him. Changes when he turns other way. They shout something about nice Halloween costume. Something ‘bout let girl go.
I dive at him. Take him to ground. Pounding his head fast as I can. Dizziness worse with every punch.
Not much left.
Hang on. For her. Hang on.
Sirens. Swirling—coming to my ears. Losing it or police coming.
Heavy hit to back my head. Swirl like hurricane. Quint. Boot. Head.
Blackness floods. Vision—gone.
Roderick curses.
Love cries my name. Sweet voice. Agony. Worse than darkness.
Bottle crashes into my head. Spinning in mind speeds up.
Only New Orleans—flee violent scene—carry drinks out with them.
Ruby………Ruby……………Ruby…
Hands grab at my head—feel like they’re spinning with me.
“Bring me Ambrosia, or I’ll rip into your little lover here, and see how red Ruby is on the inside.”
Can’t see. Feel my fangs dig into my lower lip.
“Bring her, Simon. Bring her to me.”
Sounds fade into darkness. Softer. And softer. Hear her call my name. Stings my heart. Darkness takes ove—