June 12th, 2011. Sunday, 12:05 a.m. Ibiza, Spain. The Brothel.
It took him hours to wash the blood off his skin, perhaps more so for he compelled a human to bathe and feed him. He had a lot to drink while he was washed, blood and wine, both equally intoxicating to the vampire. There was a lot for him to mourn that night: the city he buried in its own ashes; the treasures he lost once the ground swallowed it whole; and even the betrayal of someone he once considered to be worth of his trust. How foolish of him, to believe such a fugacious creature would offer him eternal loyalty. The living had nothing to offer him but momentary entertainment, both witches and humans alike. He could not trust them. He should not fool himself into thinking otherwise.
And there he was --- stuck in Ibiza for another night. Soon he would leave the island and never look back, but until then, he was in need of solace; a pleasant distraction. Decent company. The thought and his feet guided him into the brothel and, the moment he set foot in the place, he regretted his choice.
He could see through every look and smile that was thrown his way, a myriad of lies, a collection of rehearsed gestures that did not appeal to him at all, at least not that night. That night he'd take the ugly truth over a beautiful lie a thousand times and he moved across the whores and the patrons with disinterest painted over his sharp features. Perhaps he’d have better luck someplace else, the vampire thought just before his sight settled above a lone figure at the bar.
For a moment, all Philippe did was watch the young man bid his client farewell. Then the bartender pouring him a drink and the smile he offered him in return, a smile that was gone as quickly as it came to be, rehearsed, polite, unreal, taking the perfect alongside itself as it faded into nothingness. And what was left then was the man behind the mask.
He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the whore’s real self, wondering what was that glimpse of darkness that he saw under the young man’s glowing skin. Curious. Perhaps he should dare to find out. Perhaps it’d be better to leave that to his imagination. The living did manage to disappoint him over and over again, did they not? He watched the man sip from his drink and he tilted his head, wondering if a leap into the dark, just for the night, would make for a better last night in the city.
Philippe threw himself into the darkness and that would be his last time. Threading through the crowd, he found his way to the bar, taking a seat on the stool next to the young man. He signaled the bartender over, ordering a glass of whiskey. Then he turned to the stranger by his side, eyes flickering between the man’s to the glass he held onto. His lips curled into a crooked smile.
“I’ll buy you a proper drink if you swear you won’t lie to me tonight”, Philippe offered, meeting eyes with the young man. The shade of blue in his irises was bright and clear, but he knew better: somewhere under his skin, there was something dark snaking through his veins. He wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know just how dark it could get.
