VAMPIRE MAFIA
If you learn anything from my story, have it be that smoking kills. I know somewhere along its happy trails the nicotine smog clogs your throat and chars your irreparable black lungs, but I hate to tell you that that is not the part of smoking that caused me so many problems.
“Meg, I’ve told you before–”
I singe another circle into the side of the barstool and let the stub drop from my fingers.
“No smoking allowed in the bar. I got it, Marley.”
She fixes me with one of her looks. Legend says one look from Marley has made crime bosses avert their eyes and vampires seek guidance from the Lord. Chills threaten to peak at the top of my spine, but I clench my hidden hand into a fist and fix Marley with one of my own glares.
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady. That attitude is going to get you in a lot of trouble one day.”
That’s the other thing. Marley is always right. I assumed, when I was new to the whole system, that she had some warlock or pixie mixed in her blood. Alas, I was wrong. Marley just knows everything that has happened, is happening, or will happen at some point in time. Nothing has gotten by her, is getting by her, or will get by her, ever.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Go smoke out back if you’re that desperate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t get up from my seat. It’s polite to excuse yourself before leaving a table. Do the same rules apply if you’re sitting at a bar?
Marley moves on to the guy next to me. He’s been ordering straight whiskey all night, and he smells distinctly of the pier. Both scents nearly burn my nose with their potency, but they don’t quite mask the signature stench of rot. Definitely a vampire. Vampires aren’t common here, in Marley’s. They always end up causing tension and catalysing trouble.
It seems this one is no different. Only seconds after I peg him as one, the lull of voices dims. Heels of boots shuffle against the floor and scratches of unsheathed nails on wood are muffled behind backs or under tables. Quieter, but quiet in a way one gathers power before a strike. My wrists crack as I roll them in preparation. Practice is practice.
“We want no fighting today.”
Damn.
I cannot see them. I’ve made it a habit to sit as far from the entrance as circumstances allow, but I feel this will be revised in the future.
Marley speaks, “Then what have you come for?”
There’s frantic shuffling and exchanging of confused looks. All of the movement makes it easy to pick out the guilty. The vampire next to me is slow and still as he releases his glass. He is staring at the ice intently, as if asking for it to melt quicker so he could look away.
I place both of my hands on the table. “Who are they?” My voice is below a whisper.
“I don’t know,” the man says. His gaze never wavers from the empty glass of whiskey.
Pressing the tips of my fingers into the bartop, I lean in. “You reek.” I make sure to be very audible. “I do not like liars.”
This is not true. I just don’t like vampires. However, declaring that to the whole room would be pointless.
“We’ve come for the liar, it seems.”
A man in in a dark pinstriped suit walks over to where we’re sitting, moving swiftly without disturbing the air around him. He dons a wide brimmed hat and black leather gloves, and the unmistakable scent of–
Huh.
I show my front teeth to the vampire as I stand. “What have you done to get in trouble with your own kind, liar?”
The accused hunches further over. He utters no words.
“Come on, Benny,” the suited man says, chidingly, “let’s get going. We don’t want to disturb this fine lady’s afternoon do we?”
He swallows. No one else in the bar dares to make a sound.
“Kal, could you help me with this, please?” His voice is projected to the small group of vampires by the door, but his sharp eyes stay on Benny.
This makes Benny jolt as if sparked by a witchfire. He immediately stands, knocking down his stool. “Th-That won’t be necessary.”
Pleased, the suited man grins. His smile is less about baring his teeth and more about falsifying charm. “Alright, then. We’ll be off.”
With a persuasive touch to Benny’s back, the vampire strides back toward the door.
I take a small step after them before turning back to the bar. Marley meets my eyes, heaving a weighted sigh. Shivers take advantage of the tension and seize the back of my neck.
“You’ve got that right,” Marley says, and she starts washing the bartop. Her rag doesn’t go near the empty whiskey glass at the end of the bar.
I did not know it then, but that was my first time face-to-face with the “King of the City,” Mr. Rafka.
You’re probably wondering why I brought up smoking in the beginning, only for it to be extinguished nearly right away. I could tell you it’s a metaphor for Benny, but that would be a lie, and, as you know, “I do not like liars.” This is me establishing an honesty pact. I will not lie to you, as long as you do not lie to me. That said, all of my other lies are still fair play.
The smoking will come up later, I promise.
I do it a lot.