Dead End Diner: Book one

by Bea Biddle

  "No, no I would not." She laughed again and walked away. He was a horrible flirt, well, sexual harassment might be more what he was about, but she generally liked him for some reason. She was very sure she would never share his coffin, though. After all, she had Colin to go home to. Even if Sylvester was a very beautiful man. But all vampires she had met that evening were beautiful, like delicate porcelain dolls. She figured it had something to do with being able to lure in prey. Like the colorful, beautiful petals of a giant meat-eating plant before it closes on the poor fly dumb enough to land on it. She could never let herself be that fly.

  She was still chuckling to herself, had just slapped the wet rag onto the surface of a table when the door was torn open. Dreadlocks was back again, stomping into the diner. "Alyssa?" he demanded.

  "Office, paying bills." Sylvester pointed to the kitchen door.

  Dreadlocks pushed his way past Karen, almost knocking her into the table she was wiping down. "What the-?" Karen spat after him. She whipped around facing Sylvester. "Who the hell does he think he-?"

  But Sylvester gently grabbed her shoulders, pushed her behind him into the diner. "Stay here." And then he followed Dreadlocks through the kitchen.

  "What the hell?" She growled, now alone in the diner. I guess I'm cleaning then, she thought to herself, Where are those Ghosts when you need them? She started wiping down tables, thankful that Alyssa had invested in nonstick tablecloths as the bloodstains were getting to her. When she had finished in the diner she walked into the kitchen. The dishes were all done, and Pete's activity had seized, it was just a normal kitchen now. Except for the extra bottles of blood.

  Walking down the stairs to the blood cellar, she read the tags on the bottles. Female, thirty-four, B positive. Female, fifty-five, A negative. Easy. It was just about finding the right fridge for them. She walked down the row of backlit fridges with their handy glass doors, reading the signs. Once she had placed them, she made her way upstairs. Or she would have done if it wasn't for the fact that she heard voices.

  "And I'm telling you, no one has come through." That was Alyssa. Footsteps followed. She couldn't make out how many there were, but she was not alone.

  "Someone has come through." Dreadlocks. Karen felt a little bad for calling him that, but she didn't know the man's name.

  "That's impossible," Alyssa hissed, "It's sealed.”

  “We would have noticed,” Sylvester spoke up, “I would have noticed, I live here.” He hesitated, “Well, I am here most of the time anyway." Karen could practically hear Alyssa roll her eyes at the slippery insinuation he managed to pack into the words.

  Karen shook her head at him with a smile, about to step out behind the fridges to join them. But then Dreadlocks spoke again, “And this human of yours?”

  “What about her?”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “You think she's working with them?” Alyssa's shrill, disbelieving laugh filled the basement and Karen froze dead in her tracks.

  Oh no. No, no, no, Karen thought, panic beginning to spread. She had to get out of there, she needed to back away and get back up the stairs. But they had come down the stairs, the way out was blocked. She was trapped. Damnit. She should just step out from behind the fridge, let her presence known. But she had been there too long, it would look suspicious. It would look like she was eavesdropping.

  Sylvester snorted. “She's harmless. She's just a human.” Karen desperately looked around for another way to escape, another exit, although knowing there wasn't one.

  “I don't like her around. Not this close to the rift. Why did you have to hire a human?” he exasperated with a growl.

  Karen swallowed. She didn't know what a rift was, and she didn't care. Dreadlocks clearly didn't like her. Good, she hissed inwardly, she didn't like him either. What a rude obnoxious man. She decided not to care about him at all. Maybe she could sneak behind them and slowly walk up the stairs and they would never know she was there. She tried moving closer to the stairs, tiptoed on quiet feet, sneaking the long way around the fridges. But then she was suddenly faced with a gap between fridges that clearly showed the three of them. She could see Alyssa. And Dreadlocks, standing there with his hand holding on tightly to his other arm that hung limply at his side. She spotted Sylvester, standing with his arms crossed and a blasé expression on his face.

  “I have my reasons, you old grump," Alyssa said. "But they are none of your business."

  Ah, great, Karen thought as she pressed her hand over her face, letting her head hang in defeat. Now I really am eavesdropping. She had to get out of there, this was her first day of work and she was trapped listening in to a conversation she really should not be hearing. Fucking great. She glanced at them, then tried gauging the distance to the stairs. If she walked really, really quietly, they wouldn't hear her. Although they could probably see her. She stifled an annoyed groan, rubbed her forehead in frustration. And then stopped when she noticed exactly what it was they were standing in front of. It was a door. A giant, black door. Alyssa's hand resting on the wood made it so very apparent and then she wondered why she hadn't seen it before. She had been down to the blood cellar so many times that night. It was massive, taking up almost the entire wall. Made of ancient, black wood, the hinges the size of a head and the doorknob so big it looked impossible to use.

  "Perhaps someone has opened another rift, then?" Dreadlocks pondered, changing the subject.

  Alyssa dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. "That's not possible either."

  Dreadlocks grunted, shrugging off his coat, exposing his shoulder to her. A jagged wound cut deep into the tan skin visible through the torn fabric of his t-shirt. "This was not caused by some random weapon." Karen almost gasped when she saw, but she bit her tongue, willing herself not to make a sound. She could feel the wound pulsate, feel the vicious cut on her own shoulder. It didn't bleed, it was burned black around the edges. "This is from Demon weaponry."

  "Because someone owns Demon weaponry does not make them a Demon," Sylvester pointed out.

  "I could smell him," Dreadlocks said, "I could smell him, it was a Demon."

  "But how?" Alyssa stroked her forehead thoughtfully.

  "If that Demon didn't come through here, then there is another rift out there somewhere." Dreadlocks carefully pulled his coat on again. Karen almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. Even if he did wear a stupid hat. The nagging feeling in the back of her head, the feeling that she shouldn't be there, and definitely not be listening, kept poking her. No, she really should go, she should make her escape. Could she sneak past them? Was that a possibility? She tried moving backward. Her shoe made the tiniest squeak, barely audible, but she still froze, holding her breath. Dreadlocks eyes flickered, just a little. Karen bit her tongue. Did he hear?

  "I'll consult them," Alyssa said with a nod. Oblivious of Karen's presence. That made her breathe a little easier. "Perhaps they know. I'll leave immediately. You can handle things here, can't you?"

  Sylvester, too, seemed unaware of her. "Of course," he said, "Of course."

  Karen exhaled in relief and listened to them leave. She counted to twenty before she even thought about moving a muscle. Not until she was sure they had gone. And then she bolted for the stairs.

  Only she didn't get very far. Someone pulled her back and shoved her up against the wall. Without a second to scream or wince in pain, Dreadlocks' body pressed against hers, holding it in place. "What do you think you're doing?" he growled at her.

  Gasping in surprise, she squirmed to get free, but his body was rock hard against her and she couldn't move. A scent filled her nostrils, spicy, foreign, delicious. Something raw and musky. It was him. And it smelled real. He smelled real. There were no hints of artificial odors or scents. He smelled better, much better, no expensive cologne or aftershave could even come close. It was a ridiculous thing to focus on and she forced the thought out of her mind. He pressed against her harder, the grip on her arm tightened. "You're... hurting
me," she managed to get out through gritted teeth.

  "I'm going to do a lot more to you unless you tell me why you were spying on us." His eyes narrowed at her, she had thought them brown, but being this close she could see they were black. Black as night. His breath was hot on her cheek. She couldn't talk, her words crumbled away. "Tell me," he demanded, squeezing her arms harder.

  "I- I- I didn't mean it," she managed to stutter, "I wasn't spying. Ok, I was, but it was an accident, I really didn't mean..." She trailed off, his grip on her arms loosened but he was still holding her in place with his torso. She felt his chest pressed against hers and with every harsh breath he took, she could make out the muscles underneath his shirt. She wanted to blush, this was too close for comfort. This felt too intimate a position to be in with a stranger.

  "So you decided to listen in on matters that are none of your business?"

  She forced herself to look away from his dangerous glare and instead concentrated on his neck, his torn shirt exposed his throat, the top of his chest. She saw his pulse, slow and steady. She felt his heartbeat. Or was it hers drumming faster and faster in her own chest? She tried breathing steadily but failed, it wasn't at all possible with the hard length of him pressed against her, not when she could feel him, every bulging muscle, every hard plane, as he held her tightly. His chest wasn't silky smooth like Sylvester's, his skin was rough and brushed with hairs as dark as his dreadlocks. She had never liked chest hairs, but for some odd reason, the sight of these made her tingle. "I'm so sorry," she pressed out desperately, "I was only- I didn't mean to..." She trailed off again, she wasn't actually sure what she could say. She had been listening in. She couldn't deny that. She felt so bad she wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.

  "You smell..." he whispered, eyes narrowed further at her.

  Karen swallowed. "I smell?" That was unexpected, she knew she hadn't showered that day and she had worked her ass off her first shift, but smell? She was pretty sure it wasn't even remotely bad enough to mention. She felt embarrassed, then angry at herself for feeling embarrassed, and then angry at him for pointing out her damn smell. Even if she had been admiring his scent just a few moments ago.

  "You smell of fear," he stated, and added, what certainly didn't feel like a compliment, "Humans." He huffed, stepped back, and released her so suddenly she slid down the brick wall with a surprised shriek. Leaving her on the floor, he stomped away, muttering and grumbling to himself.

  She swallowed awkwardly as she rubbed her sore arm. His large hand had been warm, so warm. Not a vampire. A werewolf? Somehow, she doubted it, he did look wild, untamed, but he had been in such control of himself. No werewolf in the diner had felt so rock solid. And definitely not one of these watery Ghosts. No, there was an entirely different feel to him. She scoffed at herself, she couldn't sit there on the cold floor pondering this, that was insane. She needed to get out of there. Running up the stairs as fast as she could, she grabbed her jacket from the kitchen and ran into the diner. "Sly, I need to go, I-"

  Only Sylvester wasn't there. Instead, Dreadlocks sat at the counter. His large hand, the one that had been holding her so tightly in the basement, gently stirred a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He raised his head slowly, dark eyes landed on her face. They had softened, only a little, but enough to not appear too angry or harsh, this time curiosity flashed in the black pools as he raised an eyebrow at her. "I frightened you down there," he eventually said. She wanted to hear it as an apology, but there was no apologetic tone to be found in his statement.

  She opened her mouth to answer, hoping some words would come to her rescue, none did. Because at precisely that moment she noticed not just his eyes but the rest of him as well. And suddenly her gaze became very preoccupied traveling over his incredibly firm looking chest with large bulging pecs, his broad shoulders, his thick, brawny arms that flexed inadvertently when he moved. The gaping wound still pulsated on his shoulder, but how could she focus on that when the man had the physique that he had? And he was sitting there undressed, his torn t-shirt thrown casually on the counter next to him. She felt her mouth go dry, all words crumbled to dust on her tongue at the sight.

  He was kind of, sort of, maybe, a little good looking, she noticed wryly, in a sort of caveman-ish way. Not that she wanted to notice that sort of thing, but he was. He wasn't classically handsome, he certainly wasn't pretty, but his dark eyes were beautiful and mysterious, his jaw was wide and strong, his nose dominant, even though it looked crooked, as if it had been broken before, his eyebrows sharp, even with the scar, those thick black lashes would have made any woman jealous and they did something to her insides. His dumb scars only added to his annoying ruggedness. Instantly he made her think of a wild, untamed barbarian. She sternly told herself that that was not her type at all. She tried very hard not to stand there admiring him. Very hard. She failed.

  Dreadlocks cleared his throat, trying to break the silence that had fallen between them. Karen, much to her dread, realized she had just been standing there staring. He shifted on his stool, stirring his coffee some more. "Aren't you going to say something?"

  "You didn't scare me," she blurted out. She was lying and he knew it.

  “You were spying,” he pointed out gruffly, “I had a right to scare you.”

  “I didn't mean to," she quickly said, "I apologized." He had a point, she grudgingly admitted to herself. Annoyingly. And she still felt bad. And embarrassed. "I really am sorry. It won't happen again." He scoffed at her, turning his attention back to the coffee. The beanie was on the table next to him, she hadn't seen him without it before. She bit her lip when she understood why. In the mess of dreadlocks, snaking their way over his shoulders and down his back, two horns protruded. Thick and black, shining in the light from the dusty old fluorescent lamp in the ceiling. She instantly wanted to touch them, her fingers twitched at the thought. "You're- you're a-" the words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them, before she even knew what she wanted to say. "What are you?"

  He seemed to expect the question as well as her surprise. "You can call me a Demon if you want." Dreadlocks shrugged, lifted the coffee cup to his lips and took a sip. He grimaced and added sugar before stirring it again.

  Karen bit her lip. Demon? That wasn't possible. Sure, vampires, werewolves, why not? A Demon? No, no way. He was joking, surely. But she couldn't laugh, and he didn't seem to enjoy the joke either. She bit her lip again, acutely aware of another silence that fell over them. Fuck, he really was a Demon, wasn't he? She tried shaking the unease that clawed its way up her back. She had to break the silence, she had to. "So, I see you here a lot," she eventually forced out. She hadn't wanted to say that and had to remind herself that it was only the second time she saw him there. Never mind, her awkward conversation starter couldn't be helped.

  "Yes." He nodded. "I can sit down and have a coffee here without having to keep my hat on."

  Karen took one step closer, then another, after a few deep breaths she managed to walk all the way to the counter, only a few stools down from him. "Are you actually a Demon?" she asked softly. "You mean there are actually Demons walking around among us? Does that mean there are Angels as well?"

  Dreadlocks chuckled, instantly making her feel stupid for asking. He placed his cup on the counter. "No," he said in a laugh, "No Angels, sorry. I'm not that kind of Demon. I'm not the spawn of Satan or a servant of the Devil or anything along those lines. Sorry to disappoint you. I come from another world, another realm. It's known as Hell, I'm known as a Demon. It was simply named so because when the first idiotic people opened the rift between our worlds, they believed they had found a way into Hell and not another damn dimension," He explained matter-of-factly before raising the cup to his lips again. “We know better now, but the damn name stuck,” he added in a mumble, as if he spoke to himself, before drinking. Karen allowed herself to study his hands, his fingers, his nails. They were dirty, leaving marks on the cups. A bit of dried blood? She couldn't be sure. S
he followed the rim of the cup with her eyes, lingering on his full lips. They parted to let the tongue lick a stray drop of the black liquid from the rim of the cup, making Karen feel like she was interrupting a private moment. A moment that made her want to sigh.

  "What are you doing here in our world, then?"

  "I like coffee. It's quite excellent. We have nothing of the sort where I come from."

  ”Coffee?" Karen repeated, unimpressed at his answer. "That's why you came over from another realm?"

  "That and other things.” He shrugged dismissively.

  "What do you do here? At the diner? Do you work here?"

  "I'm-" He hesitated. "-Security."

  "Really? You're going to be that vague?" Karen took the last few steps towards him. Standing next to him she folded her jacked under her arms and rested her elbows on the counter. "You haven't really answered any of my questions."

  "You're human, why do you assume you have to know everything?" he growled. "This place isn't for the likes of you. You're here to wait tables? Do your job, get paid, then go home. Don't ask too many questions, you might not like the answers." He turned his back to her, stretching his arms over his head until she heard the crack in his back, and yawned loudly. This time she felt more than dismissed.

  But also more than annoyed. "I just spent my first shift, a twelve-hour shift, serving meat so fresh it was still moo-ing and bottles bought from a fucking blood bank, I had breakfast with a poltergeist, I saw a man transform into a wolf and stuck my hand through a Ghost." She scoffed at him and got up. "You could at least tell me your name."

  "You couldn't pronounce my name with your human tongue," he mumbled. Now she really wanted to punch him. What a rude man. Or Demon. A rude Demon.

  She never got the chance. Just at that moment, Sylvester barged into the diner with bandages in his arms and a bowl full of hot, steaming water. He placed it in front of Dreadlocks, his long fingers started dabbing a piece of cloth around the wound, cleaning off some dried blood and dirt. "Sit still," Sylvester told him. It must have been out of habit because Dreadlocks didn't move an inch. Not even when the cloth dabbed on the open red flesh. "Have you considered not getting cut up once in a while?" Sylvester asked him casually, “It does so improve the quality of life.”