The Vampire from Hell

PART 2 - A VAMPIRE AMONG ANGELS (Prologue)

PART TWO - A VAMPIRE AMONG ANGELS

Prologue 

Earth - Present Day 

A drunk guy bumps into my table because he's not paying attention to where he's supposed to be walking. I stop typing and grab the sides of my laptop, so it won't fall. "Come on, buddy. I'm busy here," I say to him and bite my lip to keep my fangs from jutting forth as he passes by. The hunger is making me irritable. 

In the Golden Skull bar at the corner of Clayton and Haight in San Francisco, a few people are clicking away on their laptops. A few others are talking or watching the TVs hanging from the ceiling while they nurse their drinks. Typical evening in a bar. The customers aren't interested in me, but a waiter shows up wanting to chat. I consider hissing at him, maybe even baring my fangs, to let him know I don't want to shoot the sh*t. Instead I order a cup of hot water and a package of green tea, so he'll go away. I know that's not an ordinary drink order in a bar, but this is California and anything goes, from what I can tell. 

As he shuffles away, I slide my hand into my backpack, counting the vials of blood remaining. I retrieve one and place it on the table. Why didn't I realize I was low on blood? I'll have to get a new shipment soon. I add a calendar reminder on my iPhone and notice the time: 8:10 p.m. 

The waiter appears with my order. He shifts his weight from one leg to the next, looks at me, compulsively picks up my iPhone, and starts playing with it. "Dude! Is this the new one? The one with Face Time?" he asks. 

I nod back at him without speaking. My eyes flash. 

Quickly, he acknowledges his mistake and returns my phone to the table. "Sorry," he stammers. "Can I get you something else?" 

I contemplate the potential meal standing in front of me. He's not very old for a human, 28, maybe 30. Wearing torn jeans and a faded orange Jimi Hendrix T-shirt that must have been his dad's, the waiter seems disheveled, yet hip in his appearance. Anything goes here with the people's sense of style as well, I've noticed. His light brown hair is strategically tossed about in the Justin Bieber fashion I find rather amusing, and he reminds me of the surfer guy in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. 

Compulsively, I open up my browser on the laptop and search for the actor's name. Then I realize the waiter hasn't left. I make eye contact with him, yet restrict my mind from invading his. The jugular vein pulses in his neck, tempting me, mocking me. His eyes widen. Fear has frozen him within inches of my grasp. Even without touching him, my telepathy powers are strong enough now to reach out and grab him. It's the hunger. I could hypnotize him, escort him to the restroom, and my waiter friend would be no more. Remembering the warm taste of blood running down the back of my throat makes me lightheaded. Instantly, I stifle the savage instinct rising in me. I hear my father's words in my head, 'You are a killing machine now, daughter.' "No," I answer a little too loudly. Then I mumble, "I'm fine. Thank you." The trance is broken. 

Suddenly able to move again, the waiter dashes over to a few more customers who are staggering into the bar. He's happy to be away from me. 

A sting of guilt tightens in my chest. The eternal dance between predator and prey. Sigh. 'Even if I'm a killer, I still have this under control,' I say silently to the voice inside my head. 

It replies, 'Right, tell that to the angel.' 

I raise an eyebrow in acknowledgement. Michael, my angel. 

Dipping the tea bag into my cup, I observe the new group's activity. They settle in at the tables near the exit, and the waiter hastily starts taking their orders. It's been an evening of boozing for them. From where I sit, I can smell the wine they've been consuming. Raising my nose, I pause, close my eyes, and take in their scent.