first time I came to the club. He said the character name made popular in the book Dracula represented a long-standing bloodsucker-human relationship, so most vampires adopted the term. I understood the phenomenon, because I had many human clients who put themselves in danger continuously in order to feel alive – to give meaning to otherwise empty lives. The vampire addicts were just another variation on the theme. The Renfields donated blood regularly, and were the vampire-world equivalent of fast food.
Still struggling to speak, John finally managed a garbled, “Welcome, Master.”
“Good evening, John.” Devereux nodded. “I trust all is well?”
John nodded vigorously, gaze locked on Devereux’s face, a ghoulish puppy, eager to please. I was apparently invisible. “Yes, Master. No problems at all. We’ve had a full house all night. The band is rockin’.”
Devereux touched the biker’s arm and the man sucked in a breath, reached out to brace himself against his stool, then moaned.
Holy shit. I unconsciously shifted my eyes to John’s crotch to see if he’d wet himself in either possible way.
“That is excellent news. Keep up the good work.” Devereux gently tugged my arm, propelling me forward.
“I will, Master. I will,” John panted as we moved away.
In the time I’d been involved in Denver’s hidden vampire world, I still hadn’t gotten used to the rigid power structure. Democracy need not apply. Vampires had little use for human rules, morals or systems. Unless, of course, the system was of benefit to the vampire, financially or otherwise. Then, they would manipulate to get what they wanted. They considered the mortal focus on rights and fairness to be amusing. It had been so long since most of them had been alive, they couldn’t remember the reasons for caring about such notions.
As one of the oldest immortals on Earth, and the most influential “master” in the western hemisphere, Devereux ruled with charisma and style. But none of his subjects ever forgot for a heartbeat that the velvet glove covering the steel hand could be discarded at any time. Rules in the realm of the undead were written in blood.
“Doesn’t that creep you out?” I asked.
“To what are you referring?” Devereux responded, distracted, gaze scanning the club.
“John.” I poked his arm, drawing his attention back to me. “The fact that he soils his shorts whenever you show up. Don’t you get tired of inspiring fear?”
He tilted his head, raised a brow and appeared genuinely baffled. “Why would I tire of what is necessary? You are still attempting to interpret the reality of the undead through a human lens. Our two species might coexist on the same planet, but we are fundamentally different. Why do you let John’s actions bother you?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The whole thing seems undignified. Pitiful.”
“I cannot disagree. But the Renfields choose their positions in the vampire hierarchy. No one forces them.” He nodded toward the customer-packed, sarcophagus-shaped bar running the length of a wall and walked us in that direction.
“Ah.” Devereux tapped me on the shoulder. “There they are.” He pointed to a booth in a raised, hidden corner, the most sound-protected spot in the room. The very booth, in fact, where my friends FBI profiler Alan Stevens, Dr. Tom Radcliffe and I sat during our initial visit to The Crypt last October. If I’d only known how much my life would change that night, maybe I’d have run, screaming.
The two men currently occupying the booth jumped out and hurried toward us, smiling widely.
“Finally! We thought your control-freak boyfriend would never get around to introducing us.” Moving vampire-fast, the tall, dark-haired one slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a tight hug. “Aren’t you just edible ?”
“Ack!” The breath whooshed out of me from his suffocating clinch.
“Laurence!” Devereux slid his hand in between