Falling for Fangs

Maxwell

Maxwellhadseenmore than his fair share of bars, pubs, inns, speakeasies, and nightspots in both his life and afterlife. He considered himself something of an expert when it came to drinking establishments, and his standards were high.

Which was why he was surprised to find that Thelema, the bar where he had arranged to meet Tilly’s vampire contact, impressed even him. From the outside, Maxwell had admired the curving brickwork so typical of the Art Deco period, but inside was even more impressive. It was like stepping back in time. There was a parquetry floor that must have been original, a long marble bar with gold-framed arched mirrors behind, and intricate chandeliers in fantastical geometric shapes hanging from the ceiling.

Even the bartender looked the part, with a waxed moustached curled at the ends, as he vigorously shook something that smelled enticing in a silver cocktail shaker.

Maxwell approached the bar, glancing down at the menu. Impressive too, he thought. A few trendy cocktails he couldn’t quite come at, but the classics were represented in full force. Was he feeling more like a Gimlet or a Negroni, he wondered?

“I’ll be with you in a minute, mate,” the bartender said, nodding in his direction. Maxwell watched as he tossed the shaker into the air, catching it deftly for the amusement of a gaggle of women watching him with their phones held aloft, clearly filming his performance.

When the bartender had finished showing off, and Maxwell had acquired his Martini (why mess with perfection?), he sat in one of the plump velvet armchairs and waited for Sean to arrive.

When a tall man wearing a roll-neck sweater entered the bar, Maxwell knew that this was his contact. It was easy enough to detect the scent of another vampire. He raised his hand in greeting when Sean caught his eye, watching as he came to sit opposite him across a little gold-legged table.

“Maxwell Davidson,” Maxwell said, offering his hand. Tilly had told him he couldn’t spread the curse any further, and besides that, he was pretty damn sure he wasn’t feeling lustful desire in his heart at the sight of Sean.

“Sean St John,” the other man said, accepting the handshake, and Maxwell could detect a hint of a Scottish accent. Sean would probably have been very pale even before he was turned. “Good to meet you.”

“Can I get you a drink?” Maxwell asked. “This Martini is much better than I thought I’d get in a country town.”

A faint smile appeared on Sean’s lips. “Crowley Lake isn’t like most small towns,” he said and gestured to the bartender, pointing at Maxwell’s glass and indicating he ought to bring another. The bartender saluted Sean with a nod.

“You’re enough of a regular to get table service, then?”

“Not really. But I’m an excellent tipper.” Another ghost of a smile.

“I’ll have to remember that,” Maxwell said. “Americans have a reputation to uphold, after all.” He took a sip of his drink, already sure he’d want another. Or two.

“So, Tilly gave you my details,” Sean said. “I take it you’re in the market for the good stuff?”

“I am,” Maxwell confirmed. “I brought my own supplies with me, but I’m running dangerously low. If I drink any more pig’s blood, I’m going to be stumbling around like an ogre and ruin our kind’s reputation for cat-like grace.”

Sean let out a soft chuckle. “Well, we can’t have that,” he said. “Let me tell you about my operation. I’ve taken care to ensure an ethical supply chain.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Maxwell said. He had always looked down on vampires who bragged about robbing blood banks – it wasn’t like the humans were collecting the stuff for their own amusement. There were plenty of ways of acquiring blood that didn’t deprive hospitals of their vital supplies.

“I only accept donations from clients who would be unable to donate blood under the usual circumstances,” Sean explained. “And only from those who won’t suffer from parting with it and are not desperate for money.”

“But you compensate them?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sean said, and Maxwell frowned. “I make a large donation to the charity of the donor’s choosing.”

Maxwell let out a sound of surprise. “Wow,” he said. “Well, that would ensure that no one desperate is giving their blood.”

“Precisely,” Sean nodded. “And it provides a net good in the world. Which we could be accused of not being terribly cognizant of.”

“Selfish immortals, sucking out humanity’s blood and giving nothing in return?” Maxwell sighed. “Yes, that’s the reputation.”

“I hope to change that, in a small way,” Sean said and thanked the bartender when he brought over another Martini. Sean took a sip, and that faint smile appeared again.

“Well, I’d be pleased to pay you handsomely for that kind of providence.”

“Then I think we have an agreement,” Sean raised his glass in the mockery of a toast. It was then that Maxwell noticed the scars on his hands. They looked like burns, fierce and angry streaks of red. But he was far too well-mannered to comment.

“So, that’s business sorted,” Maxwell went on instead. “What is there to do for fun around here?”

Sean raised his eyebrows. “What did you have in mind?”

“The usual sort of thing,” Maxwell shrugged. “Parties, nightclubs, card games. Especially poker.”

“There’s not a lot of that here,” Sean said, looking faintly amused. “There’s a larger community of our people than in most small towns, but it’s not exactly Las Vegas.”

Maxwell laughed. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “Makes me homesick.”

“You’re from Vegas?” Sean took another sip of his Martini. “I didn’t think anybody was actually born there.”

“Not born there,” Maxwell clarified. “But I spent a lot of time there, especially in the early days. That’s how I ensured that my eternal life would be well-funded; I got in early. Bought a lot of land when most of the casinos had dirt floors and the west was still wild.”