Am I supposed to be taking this guy seriously?
The black liner that circled each eye was a stark contrast to the pasty white Halloween makeup that caked his face. He was attempting to stalk toward me; I held in the laughter. He got close enough that I could see he was wearing contacts. Yellow. I had half assumed they'd be something a little more original. Cat eyes maybe or black outs. The boy in make-up stopped in front of the table where I’d chosen to post.
Hmmm....could this be my little Philippe? Ding! Ding! Winner, winner type-o dinner!
He walked, well it was more of a sashay, around the table to get right in my face. He leaned in and whispered beer-breath in my ear. “I am Philippe.” It almost hurt to keep the hilarity from showing on my face.
“Hi. Dylan Hart,” I said as I stuck my hand out to shake. Instead, I received a kiss on my knuckles.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
He looked like he had just stepped out of a really bad B-movie. The super floofy-fluffy, for lack of a better word, blouse, was tucked into a pair of skin tight pleather pants. And to top off the ensemble, he donned a scarlet cummerbund.
I motioned for him to take the seat adjacent to mine. He swooped and swirled around holding the cape, which was not previously visible, making it whip and fly around him. I glared at him with all the hatred I could when he almost spilled my drink with his idiotic dance. He finished up, took a seat on the stool, and literally posed like a statue. I simply sat there. My mouth sat agape, eyebrows raised slightly. I wasn't sure where to even begin with this kid. Not to mention, I was afraid that if I attempted speech, all that would escape instead would be uncontrollable laughter. And we can't have that now can we?
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried very hard not to laugh. More alcohol might become a necessity before too long.
“So, Philippe, do you have a last name?” I asked the boy in make-up.
You better cut the attitude down a notch before this little vampire boy up and leaves you with nothing but the memory of his idiocy.
“My name is simply Philippe. Need not more,” he said with flourish.
Oh my God. I don't know if I can do this much longer.
“I see. And exactly how old are you?” I asked. He squirmed for a second; searching for an answer, I'm sure.
“Two-hundred and thirty,” he sputtered, finally. I had an incredible urge to do the bullshit cough.
“So you were born in what? 1765?”
“Yes, of course” He puffed his chest out at that, thinking he had been victorious; winning me over with his crap. Even though that would actually make him two-hundred and forty-two, but who's counting?
“Mm-hmm, well, then. And how old were you when you were, what do they call it? Sired?” I was trying to be serious hoping maybe he might know something useful. I doubted it.
“Seventeen,” he said quickly making me fairly certain that was his true age.
“Do you have, you know, fangs?” I couldn't help myself.
“Yes. Do you see?” He flashed me a plastic smile.
“Ah-huh. Okay. Can you tell me a bit more regarding 'vampire'...culture?” Yes. I did finger quotes.
“Oh, of course. Anything for a beautiful lady.” I think he was trying to be sexy. Really, I just wanted to call the little yellow bus to come pick him up. He began his lesson starting with, “As far back as I can remember…” I had the Oscar Mayer bologna song stuck in my head.
Two hours, four very strong drinks, and one stupid kid later, I had jack.
Killed with a stake through the heart, sunlight bad, coffin good, and blood is an excellent source of protein. So the freak had seen a Dracula movie or two. I was thinking more than two.
“Can you give me any insight into the recent vampire related incidents?” I asked after his painfully long story of his all too familiar vampire life. If he had included anymore vampy clichés, I was going to punch him in the neck.
“Yes, I believe this town is experiencing the wrath of a century’s old, enraged vampire. He is on a rampage, seeking blood, and possibly vengeance. There is nothing the police or anyone else can do until he is eradicated.” His face was motionless and mysterious.
What shit. “And who would be capable of killing an enraged vampire?” I asked without smiling once. Bully for me.
“Only a slayer has the strength to defeat an elder as this one likely is.” Seriously?
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr…Philippe.” At that I stood, shook his hand and hauled ass out of that bullshit bar. I’d had about as much as one little reporter could handle.
Well, that was a bust.
I thought it would be much simpler than all of this mess. I guess I didn't count on getting the rejects of the losers club. I needed to go about it a different way. I needed to hunt them out. Find the best of the Losers Club and drill them for information.
But where do I find pale-posers, consuming mass amounts of fake blood, and listening to annoying music? But could still give me a clue as to who might be killing these girls and why?
I needed a reference point. I needed a place to make connections and branch out from there. I needed a real club, not some underground, macabre boys and girls club. But I don't know dick about nightlife and the club scene.
I need to call Tatum.
CHAPTER 3
Tatum Price is my best friend. Honestly, nearly twenty-one years of friendship. I knew her number by heart of course, but I didn't have to dial it. It had been the last number dialed on my cell. I hit the little green “phone” button and waited. She had one of those call tones, some 80's hair band. Finally, she answered.
“Wow, and I thought you'd be out all night. Date didn't go so well?” Her sultry voice vibrated on the other end of the line.
“Fuck dude, I told you fifty fucking times it was not a date!” I was obviously irritated, but not at her. She was just an easy target.
“Shit, sorry. How’d it go?” Her tone was more serious, but I knew she was silently smirking.
“Shitty. What are you doing right now? Want to go out?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I don't really have anything to wear” She laughed at her own joke. Tatum Price is a true clothes hound. Her wardrobe makes mine look like the Salvation Army.
“Shut-up and get dressed. I'll be there in twenty.”
“Okay, okay. Where are we going?” she asked.
“Does it matter?” I answered blankly.
She sighed, “Not usually.”
“Get ready slut, I'm on my way.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
“Always,” I mumbled as I hung up.
I pulled my car away from the curb as quickly as I could and raced down Baker Street. I was irritated and tired. Two things you don't want me to be. I drove like a bat out of hell down the 110, passing slow motorists and leaving them in my dust. I weaved in and out of traffic, burning rubber and flipping the bird to anyone who dared look my way.
Okay, so I just drove the usual five over, passed one really slow guy, and flipped off some stupid bitch in a beamer. But I really wanted to do all of those bad girl things, honest. Just my luck though I'd get pulled over and hit with a DUI. Feeling slightly better now that I had unleashed just the tiniest bit of rage, I hopped on the 10 and headed straight to Culver City and my refuge.
After quite a long and tedious drive I was finally turning down Tatum's street.
Why can't that bitch live right off the freeway? Hello, where’s your cool house in the ‘burbs? Shut up inner Dylan you’re out of your element.
I pulled up in front of the little pale pink house and killed the engine. She had a cute little place, as far as crappy little houses in L.A. go. Tatum’s a tabloid journalist, paparazzi if you will, so she made the big bucks. They pay a lot for celebrity dirt. Way more than a lowly old spinster journalist makes. Also her parents died when we were in high school, so she got a large sum of money when she turned eighteen. That's what she bought the house with.
Even crappy little houses are expensive in L.A. My dad was killed when I was six; I didn’t get shit. Except maybe his snide sense of humor and tendency to have a crunchy shell over a gooey center.
I got out of the car and sauntered up the small steps to the even smaller porch. I didn't even bother knocking. I knew it would be unlocked. I just walked right in like I always do and called for Tatum.
“Marco!?” I yelled from the entryway.
“Polo!” Tatum cried from the bedroom.
I walked through the small yet utterly adorable living room; my shoes were making a lot of noise on the newly refinished hardwood floor. I made the right turn to walk down the hall, if you could call it that, and into her mid-sized bedroom. I immediately flopped down on her mammoth king size bed that was covered in enough pillows to fill a Motel 6.
I could see Tatum's silhouette in the tiny, one and a quarter bath, just off the master bedroom. She was what she called, primping.
Can't leave the house without that last coat of mascara.
“Come on bitch. Let’s go! Times-a-wastin',” I called from the comfort of her feather down comforter.
“Okay, okay, where’re we going?” she asked through tight lips as she applied her lipstick.
“I want to go to a club. Something different...something dark.” I smirked a little as she poked her head out of the bathroom door with a very confused look on her lovely face.
I shot her a smile as wide as my cold little heart would allow before fanning my lashes at her. My rendition of asking for a favor.
“Jesus, Dylan. If you need my help, just ask.” She said it sweetly but this was Tatum we were talking about here. She just wanted to hear me beg for help. And I would.
“Fine,” I huffed. “Tatum, my friend, my confidant, I need you. I need you to take me to a Goth club where pasty-faced, cape wearing, drama club rejects hang out. Please?” I jutted my bottom lip way out and gave her the big teary eyes.
“Hmm.” She stood there for a minute pretending to think about it; like she would say no. “I think I know a few places.”
“Yay!” I jumped to my feet and clapped my hands like a three year old.
“Oh, on one condition though.”
“What's that?” I said cringing already knowing what she would ask of me.
“You have got to change that shirt.” She smiled and grabbed me by the arm dragging me to her over stuffed closet.
“Whoa dude, I’m not going to fit into anything you have in there.” Tatum was a good five sizes smaller than me.
“Here, try this on.” She tossed a familiar black top to me. I held it up in awe. It was a black halter with intricate embroidery trailing down from the bust line. The back laced up like a corset and acted like one too.
“When did you get this? Is it the one-” She cut me off.
“The one you tried on when we went to The Bay for New Year’s? The one that made your boobs spill from your chest and your waist look wasp-tiny?”
I nodded.
“Yes it is. Happy early birthday.” She slapped me on the ass and I let out a grunt.
“But my birthday isn't for three months.” I was still in awe.
“Judging by your outfit you needed it now.” She laughed. “Speaking of birthdays, why are we not wearing the seriously expensive, ultimately perfect black leather boots I bought for you last year?”
Ooh busted. I should have gone with style over comfort this time.
“These were more comfortable. You’re lucky I’m not wearing my Converse, kid.”
“Shut up and put these on,” she demanded as she tossed me a pair of boots almost identical to mine except these had a much pointier toe.
Shit.
“Seriously? You’re serious with these right now?” I complained as I put them on. I knew she wouldn't let up until I did it, so I gave in before she got violent.
The boots didn't hurt instantly when I stood up, but I had a feeling they would before too long. Thankfully the heels were a little thicker than the ones I had at home; this made me hopeful I wouldn't eat pavement. I tried to change my shirt, but realized quickly I wasn't wearing the right bra. I got discouraged, but with a little coaxing from Tatum, I decided to ditch the bra and go free style.
I stood back and looked at my mini makeover in the mirror. I looked much better, like I might actually fit in where we were headed. Tatum came to stand to my right. She stood nearly three inches taller than me barefoot, and was still nearly that much taller with both of us in heels.
Tatum always looked beautiful. Her little black dress hit just above her knees showcasing her long slender legs. She's thinner than I am, but not skinny, pretty much just a perfect womanly form. She balanced elegantly on very tall, thin, black heels, topped off with the thinnest fishnet stockings I had ever seen. The seam ran perfectly up the back of her calf. Her corn silk blond hair was cropped short in a classic bob laying straight and swooping over one crystal blue eye. She spun her head around toward me exposing the cool chain mail earrings I hadn't seen before.
“Oh, I have something that would go perfect with that outfit.” She jaunted off into the bathroom, only to emerge a second later holding a pair of earrings.
“Here put these on.” She handed me a pair of the coolest skeleton earrings. They looked like a real skeleton, only silver and very tiny. They were hinged at the joints so they swung around when I moved.
“These are fucking bad ass, thanks.” I was smiling widely when I pushed the earring hooks through the holes in my lobes.
“You got it doll. You ready?” she asked as she grabbed her purse off the bed.
“Yes ma'am.” I grabbed my shit too and we headed out into the great unknown.
Tatum locked the door smoothly behind her.
Lucky bitch. My door doesn't lock smoothly.
We walked side by side down the driveway to my car, our heels clicking the pavement rhythmically.
The two of us got in and immediately Tatum grabbed a CD and pushed it into the player. Rolling down the windows, we simultaneously lit our cigarettes. I inhaled deeply and blew out a ring of smoke. Finally, I threw the car into drive and we were off.
Off into the sunset, or starry night. Whatever.
CHAPTER 4
Tatum and I were laughing hysterically as we neared the club. I had been filling her in on the events earlier that evening with Philippe and Midnight’s Dream. She directed me to the corner of Pico and Norton. We had to drive around three times before we found a parking space. Luckily, the Geo Metro is known for being as compact as a sardine can, so the bad ass parallel parking job I pulled off wasn't as triumphant as it would have been had I been driving a Plymouth.
We got out of the car, made the minor costume adjustments needed after a ride in the car, and began the walk around the corner to get to the entrance of the club. The two of us rounded the corner and had to stop abruptly before running into the man in the back of the line. Which was, need I say, long. Tatum grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to the front of the line. Women glared at us as we passed them. Tatum only smiled at them smugly and kept going. We came to the front door and stopped in front of a very large man in the tightest black t-shirt I had ever seen on a grown man. Tatum gave her sweetest smile and flashed her press badge. The man glanced at it quickly and waved us in.
Damn, that came in handy. Note to self: Remember to utilize press badge when stuck in a line.
I was smiling by this point, having been scared at first that we would either be turned away or beaten up by the girls in line. Not that we couldn't have taken anyone of those bitches, I just didn't want to scuff up my new shirt.
We strutted into the club as people shouted behind us. I was instantly relieved when I noticed this place was much nicer than the dump I had spent the earlier part of my evening. The chillingly hypnotic music thumped in my head. There were half-naked men wrapped in leather dancing on what looked to be huge speakers in front of the DJ booth. There were people, with what I refer to as RPG loser
syndrome, flailing about on the dance floor. Even with all of that this place, known fondly as the Macabre Saturnine, seemed fairly mainstream. While the bulk of the crowd were black leather clad losers, a lot of them looked like me...normal. The night was looking up.
Tatum headed straight for the bar, and I gladly followed. She ordered up a shot of tequila for the both of us. The bartender set them down with a side of lime and salt. We looked to each other, then to the thoughtful bartender.
“Thanks sweetie, but we don't need training wheels,” Tatum said sweetly pushing the lime and salt to inside of the bar.
We slammed back our shots like big tough men. Well, better, because most men need lime. I closed my eyes and sat for a second, feeling the liquid heat course down my throat and burn in the pit of my stomach. I opened my eyes and spun around on my stool when I caught someone in my peripheral vision moving in between Tatum and me, almost smacking into him as I did. I gave a loud burst of laughter, but caught it quickly before it got out of hand. This tool made Philippe look like king vampire pimp. He was wearing a cape as well, but this was not just your everyday cape. No, this must have been his dressy cape. It was a blue crushed velvet number with a high collar - flipped up of course. It added to the mystique, I guess. I thought he looked like a douche. He had your typical high collared, white, billowy shirt on with some stupid little brooch-thing at the neck. I honestly couldn't tell you what else he was wearing because I was mesmerized by his painted on widows peak. He looked like he’d just stepped off the cereal box.
He leaned into Tatum’s ear and said, in the most ridiculous Dracula-vanian accent, “They call me The Count.”
Tatum looked at him like he was retarded and without missing a beat she replied, “V'one. Ah-ah-ah.” She took the words right out of my mouth.
The Scene (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult Series) Page 2
