Chapter 45: A Vampire Walks Into A Bar…
In Which a pair of conspirators plot revenge.
Philippe sat at a table in the back of the dimly-lit bar, alone save for a neglected pint of Guinness, and examined his face in a small pocket mirror. Mortal legend claimed that vampires cast no reflections, but that was a myth. The reflection was subtle, and it took concentration and practice to perceive it, beyond the capabilities of most mortals, but it was there. Not pretty, but it was there. He tried tilting the mirror and squinting to see if it showed any improvement. It didn't.
The bar wasn't one of Philippe's usual haunts. He didn't want to be seen at the Cyba-Netsu; not with his face looking like this. The zinc oxide he'd slathered on his nose had kept it from blistering, but his cheeks and chin and the band on his forehead between his sunglasses and where the hood of his sweatshirt came down was an angry red and the skin tender to the touch; the results of his adventure at Miss True's apartment. He should never have attempted to enthrall the wench in broad daylight -- under the noonday sun, yet! But of course, he wasn't given an alternative.
A good feasting would probably heal up his sunburn in a trice. He hadn't fed since the night before, and going out in the daytime had further sapped his elan vital. Cecily was beyond his reach, curse her, but he had other thralls. There was Gwendolyn, whom he had visited after Cecily and the Cassandra bitch had fled from him at the Cyba-Netsu. Gwen made a sarcastic remark about why wasn't he with his new conquest, and he had to remind her who was master in their relationship. Thralls were like that sometimes, stubbornly clinging to the delusion of Free Will. All it took, of course, was a smoldering gaze to reduce her to a puddle of desire. Still, it was bothersome. It made him wonder what Gwen might be saying about him behind his back, when he wasn't around to dominate her. And if she saw his ruined face...
No. He wouldn’t give her the opportunity. She'd ridicule him. And even if he made her forget, he would still know that she had seen the mark of his humiliation; and even if she didn't say anything about it, he knew she'd still be thinking it. Were other vampires kept awake days by these kinds of nagging fears? He was afraid to ask. To do so would be to admit weakness.
It wasn't fair. One of the reasons he welcomed joining the Kindred was to be immune to the emasculating disdain of all those man-hating bitches. He wouldn't be an incel any more; they would have to submit to him. That's how it was supposed to go. But that wasn't how things went that afternoon.
There was nothing for it. He would have to find someone new to feed off of -- just for tonight. But how could he pick up a quick bite disfigured as he was? Then again, some women found a tragic disfigurement romantic, especially if he could play up the mystery. Maybe a mask... a half-mask like the Phantom of the Opera. Women found the Phantom of the Opera sexy.
Philippe was so busy trying to think of the nearest novelty shop where he could buy a cheap Phantom of the Opera mask that he didn't notice Saul Taylor approach his table until he sat down across from him.
"You!" Philippe glowered. "You have some nerve showing your face after what you pulled this afternoon!"
"I thought things went pretty well." Taylor set his gin sour on the table and drew a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, bespelling it in the same smooth motion so that as he placed it between his lips it was already lit. The kind of casual, yet pretentious magic witch-boys liked to perform when showing off.
"You set me up," Philippe said. "I almost had that True girl when you showed up. You never intended me to get her. You planned all along to play Galahad and come to her rescue."
"And you played your part splendidly."
"Fuck you! Why didn't you tell me that was your plan? And why did you insist on performing this charade in the middle of the fucking day?"
"I wanted to do it at a time when Cassandra would be off her guard, when she'd think she was safe. I wanted to show her that she wasn't, and to keep her off-balance. As for why I didn't tell you..." Taylor gave a mordant chuckle and blew a puff of smoke in Philippe's direction. "...you would hardly have agreed to do it if I had."
"Arrogant bastard!" Philippe lunged across the table and seized Taylor by his jacket. "I could snap your neck right now and drain you as you lie dying!"
"You could," Taylor admitted with an insufferable coolness. "But you won't." His hand slid back into his breast pocket, this time producing a slim vial of lavender-colored fluid.
For a long moment, Philippe held the vial in his gaze, almost able to taste its exquisite contents, as deadly as sunlight. He released his hold on Taylor's jacket to snatch the vial, but Taylor was too quick for him. He jerked the vial out of Philippe's reach and slipped it back into his pocket.
Philippe resumed his seat. "At least I have one satisfaction. You didn't get into her knickers either."
Ha. That nettled the smug witch-boy. "I'm playing the long game," Taylor replied. "Something I imagine an immortal vampire ought to appreciate." He paused for a moment to sip his drink, then said, "Would you like another try at her?"
"What do you mean?"
"Tomorrow night. She's holed up at Strephon Bellman's place. She thinks that Bellman can protect her, but Bellman will have other things to occupy himself. She'll be yours for the taking."
"And why would this time be any different than this afternoon?"
"Because it will be after sunset and you'll have the advantage. Also I'm arranging to give you back-up, just in case. And in any event, this time I will not interfere."
Philippe snorted. "Why should I believe you?"
Taylor shrugged. "Suit yourself." He leaned back and took another drag off his cigarette and sent another lazy puff of smoke spiral up into the bar's stale air. "She was laughing at you, did you know?"
If Philippe's eyes were stilettos, Taylor would be bleeding on the table; but he said nothing and waited for Taylor to continue.
"When I was talking to her after you left her flat," Taylor explained. "She said that you looked ludicrous. She couldn't believe that her friend, Cecily, could fall for such a pathetic wanker. Her words, by the way. But you're probably right. She isn't worth your bother."
Damn witch-boy. Taylor was pressing his buttons. But that True bitch had slipped out of his control twice now. The others would think he was weak. Kurayami would think he was weak. He had to teach the wench a lesson.
“Where does this Bellman live?”
Taylor smiled and passed a folded slip of paper across the table. “Be at this address tomorrow just after sunset. I have a few more details to arrange. We’ll coordinate there.” He rose and left the table. “See you tomorrow.”
Philippe glared at Taylor as he left the bar, but took the slip of paper. Tucked into its fold, he found the slim, lavender vial.
NEXT: Interlude at Ninny’s Tomb