Greg, B̶l̶o̶o̶d̶thirst ̶y̶ ̶&̶ Trapped

Three vampires, their valet, and a physic walk into a bar. There was a punchline in there somewhere. Right under my fangs, I bet.

"Nay!" Dmitri slammed a wrinkled fist onto a table. "I shall not let thee dishonor my beloved so!"

Sloane hissed. She reached across the glass pentagon and shooed his yellowed nails away, running her fingers over the spot he hit, checking for cracks. "Thought I was your beloved, dearest husband, you mother fucker."

"My instincts were deceived," Dmitri grumbled. He slumped, seething into his chair like petulant teenager, flicking the glass table as he did. "My fearsomeness wanes!"

Julian flanked his master.

"Nonsense, My Liege, you're plenty fearsome!"

Alright, so it wasn't a bar, but the household banquet room as Dmitri announced. It evidently featured more of Sloane's minimalist tastes than the library. Centuries of learned lessons had me instinctually clinging to the black painted walls. They were mostly bare, aside from one accented with golden, crisscrossing, straight lines. A long shelf holding a line of geometrical candles and crystals all in pastel shades ran across the other. In here, the wood floors were polished instead of scratched. The chandelier was gold too, but held a more industrial, abstract shape.

I strolled over to a golden bar cart at the end of the room. Atop it sat a blood-filled decanter coagulating between dozens of mismatching wine glasses. Counted one, two, three of those pesky rose goblets were among them.

There was a bit of Dmitri's flair hung from one wall. Was a large portrait of hellish battle scene, renaissance era if I had to guess, that seemed to depict a horde of winged vampires dueling a herd of unicorns. Savage fangs. Torn wings. Broken horns. Miles of arterial spray the color of glittering rainbows. Very bloody. Caught Isla's attention immediately.

Her hair was mussed. Perfect waves had gone frizzy and wild. Dirt splattered her shoes and stockings. There was a tear in one, snaking up the back of her calf. Sticky looking splashes of red—wine, not blood, by the smell of it—also decorated her legs. Otherwise, she seemed unharmed.

A bubble of pressure popped in my chest. Relief, warm and thick, dribbled down through my ribs.

As the little vampiric family squabbled, I sidled up to Isla, grazing my fingers softly down her elbow as to alert her to my presence. Her shiver rippled through us both. Gooseflesh rose under my touch.

She nodded at the painting. "This how they went extinct?"

"Are you alright?"

"Could use a smoke."

"What happened? With Sloane?"

Isla glanced over my shoulder. "Oh, you know, girl talk."

Apparently determining the table was still in fine condition, Sloane dropped a basket of human bones into the center of it, earning the room's full attention. A skull bounced out. I flinched as it rolled to a rest at the place setting nearest to me. Its jawless smile seemed to taunt I know something you don't, vampy boy. Silly of me to give the thing Isla's voice.

Sloane picked a bone out the basket and pointed it at Dmitri. "If, this time, the little barista slut is your beloved reincarnated then by that fucked up logic these aren't hers anymore so playing with a few femurs won't fuck up anybody's night more than it already is fucked."

Hang on. "This time?" I asked.

"She isn't!" said Julian, now seated beside Dmitri and gently placing the skull back into the basket. "Greg helped master come to understand that Lily is just a scammer, right my Liege? We don't need to desecrate your lady's remains to prove it. Right? Right, Greg?"

While Dmitri pouted – eyes dilated and fixated on the bones – Sloane huffed and rolled hers. He was undecided. Geezer still sat on that fence, not quite convinced the gal he'd been mooning over the last several months was just a con. Got to admit, that's one hard clot to swallow. And I needed my old pal Dmitri to swallow it now so I could take his cash and forget about this whole thing and the way dropping it made my gut all twisty.

Cleared my throat. "Seems things may've snowballed. Seance is a bit much, ain't it? Graverobbing too? I agree, it's a tad disrespectful to the dead lucky enough to sleep here."

"Oh, now prying into shit that isn't your business has your tits in a twist?" spat Sloane.

"I'm sure our," I swallowed, ignoring her, "psychic will agree."

I reached for Isla's shoulder but felt only air. She had scooted herself far from the table, at least five feet, back against the wall. She rubbed ankles together as if scratching an itch. Her stare too remained on the bones, only breaking after she seemed to notice me watching her. She brushed a stray hair from her flushed cheeks, winking at me as she plastered on a sassy grin.

She pulled a cigarette out from between her cleavage and my mouth went dry.

"Greggy's got a point," she said, placing the cigarette between her lips. "The spirits don't take kindly to graverobbers and rubberneckers of the great beyond. It's all very invasive. Gives them such a case of the grumps. Last time we met, this peach was particularly rude and unladylike. Sloane, you still got my lighter?"

Isla, perhaps unconsciously, rubbed the faded bruise along her hairline.

Dmitri threw back his chair and levitated beside the table. Fangs bared. Jaw extended. Talons curled. Eyes red and glowing. His wrath was aimed at Isla. Julian grabbed onto the end of Dmitri's cape to anchor him. It failed.

"Enough! Gregorio rein in your insolent bloodbag! She insults me! And my love!"

As he loomed forward – toe talons scraping against glass – I positioned myself between him and Isla. Her breath tickled the back of my neck.

"Watch it, old pal," I growled, allowing my fangs snap forward. "Thought this shindig was BYO. It's uncivilized to take a chomp out another vamp's donor, isn't it?"

Dmitri halted. He snarled at me but said nothing else. Instead pursing his withered lips just so. Even senile, the old loon knew better than to pouch another vamp's claim.

"Sit the fuck down! All you!" Sloane leapt onto the table. The force of her stiletto smacking the glass made the room tremble. Eye to eye with Dmitri, she kicked him in the chest, throwing him backward and onto his chair. "This is my house too, honey-bunches-of-fucks. And I want to settle this shit. Especially since some people," she side-eyed myself and Isla, "Don't know how to take a hint. Or a check."

Julian reared back.

My cheeks felt hot. Usually so. I tore Sloane's check up right in front of Isla last night. Flaunted my integrity to a broke woman. Fanging fool.

"We all knew Lily just hustling for a sugar vamp, but what about the next girl? Huh?" Sloane continued. "What about the next gullible bitch you decide is Rosemond 'cause she gives nice handies?"

"Next girl?" I asked. Nobody answered. I glanced at Isla. She sucked in a breath, curling her lip and pointing at Sloane.

Oh.

I rubbed my aching eyelids. "For fang's sake, Dmitri. Just how many Rosemonds have you loved?"

"Enough." Sloane gave the femur a long lick, clanked it against Dmitri's thick skull, and dragged it down the side of his face and up her leg. "We're tackling this fucked up mess like it's spring fucking cleaning." She pointed the femur at Isla. "Skank is going to summon sweet Rosie's grumpy ass ghost right here and fucking now and prove that bitch is still as dead as she's always been."

"Yesss," Dmitri hissed quietly, caressing Sloane's foot still pressed against his chest. "Of course. I had nearly forgotten how exciting you can be, with that strong will of yours, my dearest. How radiant!"

His serpentine tongue squished between Sloane's toes.

Isla gagged.

Hell with this. I'd had enough of this kooky brood. My veins itched and head ached, and my professional pride was just about worn bare. I offered Isla my hand while they were distracted, mouthing let's go. Careful not to let the others see, I flashed her a glimpse of the check up my sleeve.

She shook her head. Sweet hell, woman!

"And you!" Sloane spun, practically pirouetted, to point the heel of her stiletto over my shoulder at Isla's pulsing neck. "You two stay. Seriously, I'll stake you in the fucking balls if you whisk her out of here."

Isla forced a grin. I could see it, the way she struggled to maintain the mask. Her eyes were steady but her pulse thumped in time with her heaving chest. Was her dress lower? The skimpy velvet 'sleeves' hung off her shoulders, caressing the dancing the carnation petals as she quivered. They did absolutely nothing to hold the garment upright as it shimmied further and further down her chest and how may more cigarettes did she have stashed there I wonder...

"I'll do it," she said.

"Fucking A!" shouted Sloane. "Oh, fuck, let me grab refreshments before we start."

She leapt off the table and strode across the room, beelining for the drinks cart.

"What?" I snapped. Didn't mean to. Couldn't help it. This night; I'd already had enough of it and here it kept getting longer and longer. As the others were preoccupied, forcing Julian to pour them half congealed blood in fancy glasses, I leaned into Isla, inhaling her mint and orange scent. "Can you even do this?"

"Don't insult me, or the spirits, Greg, I'm professional," she said loudly, sauntering over to an empty seat beside Dmitri. She dragged it several feet out from the table before plopping down. "Just give me a moment to consult the, uh, star charts, for this evening."

Isla whipped out her phone.

I snorted. Professional isn't exactly what comes to mind when replaying the messy conversation between her and me and Phoebe in my head. Chaotic. Rude. Creepy as all hell.

A buzz in my pocket signaled I'd gotten a message. Probably Phoebe, complaining about my not returning Mrs. Cabroni's calls again.

Isla scooched her chair in a smidge closer to me. She elbowed me and mouthed 'phone.'

Oh!

I dove into my pocket and retrieved my cell. Sure enough, I was in the midst of receiving a string of texts from Isla. She knew the extent of our vampire hosts' hearings and pivoted to find us a way to 'speak' in private. Clever girl.

Before reading, I stole a sly glance at the other vampires. They were preoccupied, it seemed, as Sloane had removed her shoe and allowed Dmitri to slather his tongue all over her bare foot. Sat between them, Julian held her heel aloft, eyes closed and inhaling deeply. I gagged at the sound of the old vamp's tongue scraping against her toenails. Isla – eyes now too wide to have not seen that – pretended not to notice. 

I pinched my nose. I just didn't get this dame. Was she ever going to tell me she'd already tried contacting a ghost for this case? And damnit my head hurt. And my stomach. Not with emptiness – the itching, burning cravings for a drink were momentarily drowned in a heavy, toxic feeling. Like sludge oozing down my throat and pooling in my belly because I was conspiring with the self-proclaimed con artist to pull some wool over the eyes of an old friend—er, acquaintance? Former employer.

On top of it all, said con-artist was the only one of us who seemed like she still gave a damn about this missing gal. She talked a lot about her clients needing comfort last night. Maybe Isla was so broke because she took on charity cases.

Pocketed my phone without replying and scooched into the remaining seat between Isla and Sloane.

Isla wrinkled her nose at me.

Hell, you really fanged this one up, old boy.

"Can we get this show on the fucking road, kids?" called Sloane, sliding her foot back under the table.

"You're right. The spirits hate to be kept waiting," Isla said, voice smokey and thick with her Madame Margarita charm. "Actually, Jules, be a sweetie, turn down the lights and fire up some candles. Incense too, if you got it. We need to set the mood in here. The spirits are fickle. Shy even. They won't come to play with us if they're not feeling the vibe."

"I don't work for you—oooooh."

Dmitri punched Julian in the ribs and the valet moaned, eyes fluttering shut. He stood obediently and set to work to lighting Sloane's pastel candles. They smelled of burning dust and wax, vanilla and musk and floral. Chemically. Fake. And although he dimmed chandelier it was still brighter than the candles. This wasn't the same vibe as Isla's home at all. No comforting shadows and incense and real herbs.

"My cigarette too."

Julian clenched his teeth as he lit the smoke pinched between her lips. She took a deep puff and blew into his face. Wine lipstick smeared the little stick.

I settled in my chair and laid a hand on the table. A moment later Isla's warm fingers blanketed it. She stroked my knuckles with the tip of her pinky, twirling it distractedly around each joint. The sludge in my stomach lightened, replaced with a tight fluttering. The kind that makes the breath hitch in your throat. When you got to breathe, that is.

At her right, sat Dmitri. The tightness in my stomach hardened when she took his hand, patting it gently.

"If you're religious, I suggest you say your prayers before we begin."

Sloane and Dmitri hissed in unison. (I managed to hold my tongue like a gentleman).

"Fair enough," she pushed on. "Dmitri, babe. Your love for your dearest will guide our communion with the spirit realm tonight. Call upon her, ah, radiance and strong will." Isla waggled a brow and if I didn't know better I'd say Sloane chuckled. "For our séance, think of me as your switchboard operator. I'll dial but this is your call. I do, however, get to say when your minutes are up. Understood?"

Dmitri leaned in close (Isla flinched as he exhaled in her direction). "And you shall, swipe me right, as they say, to my beloved Rosemond?"

"Sure," she purred and ashed her cigarette. "Now, nobody go chipping a fang over this, but, uh, I will need to draw blood. My blood."

I bit my lip. Hard. Saliva pooled on my tongue at the thought of Isla splitting one those smooth veins. Allowing her wine like taste to flood my mouth. To stain my lips the same shade as hers. To absolutely soak my teeth and chin and throat till she soothed that itch crawling under my skin. I rubbed my chin to hide my fangs.

Just like last night, she carefully pulled her long glove away by the fingers, revealing the warm and scarred flesh underneath. I rolled my tongue over my teeth, imagining them as the delicate ripples of her scars.

"Anybody got a knife?"

Dmitri and Sloane hastily volunteered by extending their razor canines well past their bottom lips.

Julian even pulled a set of ridiculous fakes from his breast pocket, clicking them like a pair of castanets.

"Yeah, should've expected as much. Thanks for the offers, but, ah, I just need a pinch," Isla looked at me, offering her thumb. "Just a tiny bit. A fingertip."

Oh. Fangs.

I couldn't look away from Isla's dark, pleading gaze, but I felt the others inch closer. No. They'd rip her throat out and pass her trachea around like a funnel like frat bats. Immortal cretins doing keg stands on her cooling corpse. Nope.

"You do it," I said to her, opening my mouth to show her my teeth. I kept my fangs tight. There was no need to extend them fully and add to the horror show. All I needed was to remain steady. Be cool. A standup guy, not an animal. Don't move. Don't react to her hand reaching to my mouth. "Be carethul," I added, perhaps more to myself, mouth agape.

She was. Holding her breath, Isla dragged the pad of her thumb under my right fang. Her skin tore open on me. Just a tiny prick. Heat engulfed my mouth as her blood bubbled to the surface. I tensed, swallowing the groan slithering up my throat. Isla, watching my mouth, shuddered.

A drop of her landed on my tongue. The hairs on my arms stood on end. Like I'd be poked with a cattle prod. Wine. Rich and full. Red fruit and cinnamon and vanilla. Thick. Smoky. Like the air. The shadows in the corners of the room lengthened, stretching out like willows over us. Scents of smoke and incense invaded. Warm. Soothing. Coaxing. Begging to be inhaled. Consumed. Ravished. I griped the arms of chair to keep from lunging at her, but I was still a fanging fool and closed my mouth around her thumb.

She gasped. Inhaled deep. A new flush painted her cheeks and chest as blood rushed under her skin. Her heartbeat danced. A quick tango that spun all my nerve endings into corkscrews. Slowly, too slowly, achingly and knowingly slowly, the damned woman took back her thumb from my mouth. She let the open cut linger a moment on my tongue, and then my lips, and she rubbed her thighs together and sweet hell what were we doing here when I had her in my office only hours ago, where I could have had her, where I could've opened her—

"Get a fucking room," groaned Sloane.

Isla ripped her thumb from my mouth. The loss of her heat was like an open wound. I licked my lips.

"Ahem, shall we begin?" she said, voice husky.

"About fucking time."

Isla stretched over the table, massaging her thumb – a phantom shade of her taste still tingled in my mouth – over a small bone. Was that part of a vertebra, or a foot? Hard to tell with them all jumbled together and my head so fuzzy. Dizzy with wine and mint and smoke. Droplets of her blood sizzled on the bones, flaring up like sparks. Hell! The nostrils of all the vamps in the room flared, as did those shadows in the corners. Dmitri and Sloane and Julian paid no attention to them. Did they notice at all? The way the darkness spread over the walls like a frost, creeping its way toward Isla, threatening to capture her and her heat?

"You can pull the chair closer," grumbled Julian.

"I'm good here, thanks," Isla replied. She took one last, long, drag from her cigarette and stubbed it out on a crystal. "Let us hold hands and form a circle. Do not break this circle. Trust me, last thing anybody wants is an untethered ghost spooning you in your coffins, or whatever."

"I want my wife, witch."

Dmitri took Isla's right hand.

She looked at me. "Seriously. I normally use salt for this as backup at home, but the pantry is bare, if you can believe it. If the circle breaks, the spirit goes free. I won't be able to push them back to the other side. And, uh, they aren't always pleased about being pulled over to this one."

I nodded. Wanted to ask why, if she was planning on just putting on a swell show, did that warning sound so grave? I didn't. Just slipped my palm into hers. Isla relaxed a pinch. Her hand was warm and smooth and gave mine a nervous squeeze. As her wound clotted, she rubbed the last bubbles of her blood into my palm.

Shadows loomed, hazy and heavy, over her shoulders.

Fangs. I had a bad feeling about this.

"You don't have to do this," I said.

"Yeah, but, I don't want your balls to get staked."

Sloane took my other hand.

We fell quiet. Isla closed her eyes. She breathed in. Slow and deep. The room warmed. Air got heavy. It pressed down on my neck, on Isla's too, pushing her carnation petals down. Felt like a cow sat on my back. I rolled my shoulders, struck with the urge to throw the weight off. Nobody else seemed affected.

"Spirits. Souls. The ones beyond the veil," Isla whispered. "We welcome you here, on the mortal plane, tonight, Lady Rosemond F... uhhh."

"Favichia!"

"Lady Rosemond Favichia! Wife of Dmitri. His beloved. Hear our call to you from across the void."

Her voice lowered, but Isla continued to whisper and chant. Head dipped down to her chin. Grip on my hand loosening (I held tight). I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that one particularly shifty shadow was eyeing us though. Watching for any sudden movements. But nothing actually happened. No shaking tables or flickering lights. No voices whispering back from the great beyond. Zippo. But that was the plan, wasn't?

'Cept I wasn't the only one who noticed that. The others grew restless. I could sense them fidgeting in their seats.

Julian sighed.

"Shhhhh!" Dmitri snapped back. "I wish to speak to my Rosemond. My dearest beloved. Woman! Why is thee dawdling!"

"Don't shake her like that!" I kicked at him from under the table. "She's doing you a favor."

"My Liege, I think we've been scammed again."

"Charlatan! She—"

"Yo, fuckos, look!"

As Sloane nudged me, Isla's grasp on my other hand went slack. I squeezed her. Sweet fangs burning in hell.

She glowed. Isla's bones glowed. From the inside out her bones were lit up beneath now translucent skin. But instead of the same chalky whiteness of the pieces on the table, hers were black and vibrant. An almost neon hue outlining her. Every knuckle and collarbone and arm and even ribs beneath her dress. Her skull possessed a shimmering, black glow. An ethereal halo. I never thought darkness could look so bright. She was beautiful. And terrifying.

Isla spoke in a hollow whisper – I could count every one of the teeth in her skull as she did. But the language changed. Different from any I'd ever heard. Low and raspy and slithering. I couldn't place it. But it just felt wrong. The kind of words reserved for the real nasty, spooky demons and nightmares and boogeymen and ill-defined terms and conditions. The stuff that ain't supposed to be spoken aloud.

"Isla?"

She exhaled. The breath escaped her in a plume of black smoke (that made Julian cough and even Sloane grimace). Smoke danced with the shadows on the walls. Another tango. I didn't like it. This wasn't right. I don't know what was supposed to be happening, but I was willing to bet my canines this wasn't it.

I rubbed my thumb over her knuckles. "Isla? You hear me, darling?"

Her eyes shot open. My stomach dropped. They were black. Completely. No whites or irises left in them. I fought back a recoil. It felt like someone had my spine by both hands and just gave it a good shake.

A breeze that seemed only to touch her wafted Isla's hair. Those eyes and the shadows playing on her skin hollowed her. She was haunted. And dead. Looked deader than me. Her skin flickered in and out of existence, leaving only the shimmering skeleton in her place.

I could still feel her soft, hot palm clutched in mine and I didn't dare break that circle and let her go. The darkness would take her, completely. I don't know how I knew it, but I did.

This was black magic. Heavy. Dark. Bad vibes, as she might say.

"What the fuck?" I finally gasped, surprising myself with my own eloquence.

Isla's mouth smiled. Her head lolled to the side as she closed her eyes again, raising her voice into a high pitched hum to the tune of some old jazz diddy.

But that wasn't her voice. Her mouth, but not her smoky voice. This was the voice of a twittering bird. Ringing and echoing endlessly around the room. I knew the song. It was an old tune. Hell, where had I last heard this? When had I last?

"Rosemond?" Dmitri gasped. "Is that you, my beauty? My truest love!"

Isla's head snapped to Dmitri. A wave of platinum hair hung limp over her black eyes.

"Rosemond. Isn't. Here. Sugar bean."

Struck me then. Like a fist to my chin (Yeah, that does sound like you get punched in the face a lot). I'd heard this little bird chirp before. On stage in a smokey bar hidden under a barbershop, humming sweet tunes between sips of illegally distilled gin. Her dress glittering in the spotlight. When was it, '24? '25? The first iteration of Irwin's. My first stateside gig.­

"Pearl Lau? That you hogging the stage?"

Pearl was a pip. A human jazz singer in a hideaway for both her kind and mine alike at the time. Sweet voice. Infectious laugh. Slim wallet and no shame asking the bouncers, myself in included, for cash (her and Isla'd probably get along under better circumstances). She was still in the game when I'd left. Penchant for vampire fellas and gin rickeys after every show. Now that I think back, rumor had it Dmitri might've been one of those fellas.

Isla giggled. But this time the birdlike voice of Pearl wasn't alone. A chorus joined. Distinct yet echoing all the same. Us three vamps cringed as the voices clanged like feedback on a microphone, laughing together in a metallic harmony. "We've always been here. Because of you, truest love."