Blood Lite

He opened his coffin and felt under the satin along the false bottom until he found the little indentation. He then pressed the button and a panel slid open. He reached inside the tiny refrigerated box for the Hellma

Damn those bitches! They had stolen his blood! And his wafers! Rage boiled in his empty veins. He trembled and regaining control of himself proved to be a strug­gle. He knew it was Sephora—she was always sneaking around, prying into his things, meddling. . . . Well, when she got home there would be hell to pay! She would be severely punished! Black thoughts streaked through his mind in images of what he would do to the perpetrator. The tortures he would inflict. She had gone too far this time. No, he would not tolerate this!

He punched the TV's on button and sat down. There was still The XFiles—the TV Guide said it was a repeat of the vampire episode, one of his favorites because in the end, the female gets her just desserts.

It was five seconds after the hour and he expected to hear the familiar whistling, see the opening credits ... but the President of the United States was on television, giving a speech about war and budgets! He grabbed up the TV Guide and stared hard at the listing—nothing about being preempted. And then he glanced at the date. This was last week's TV Guide! Morgana must have taken the new one to look for vampire movies and forgotten to toss the old one again! Deflated, he picked up the remote. Surely with so many cha

"Great!" he said to the air, throwing up his hands. He got up and switched off the TV, too defeated to manually change cha

Well, they wouldn't get away with it! He'd hunt them down, drag them back here by their dyed roots and give them what-for!

He strode to the closet for his cape. It was gone! Damn! He'd told Morgana to pick it up from the dry cleaner! Would they never listen to him?

Capeless, he raced out of the house and headed to the Vampire Lounge. They would not get away with ruining another night of his cursed eternity!

He hurried past the chic restaurants and cafes. Most of the women and some of the men noticed him, of course. Even after half a mille

He followed her farther south, past the Humor Museum—an oxymoron if he'd ever seen one. She turned into the doorway of the Vampire Lounge. He adjusted the pointed collar on his shirt—maybe the evening wouldn't be such a write-off after all!

The cretin at the doorway stopped him with the words, "Five bucks, man."

Istvan felt in his pocket. Damn! He'd left his wallet at home. Normally, he kept some spare cash in the hidden pocket of his cape. "Uh, I seem to be without funds."

"Yeah?" the tattooed goon said. "Well, bro, I guess that's where you'll stay—without!" And he turned his back.

Istvan could see through the large plate-glass window that the joint was jumping. The little gothette stood in the middle of the room, garnering appreciative glances here and there. Suddenly, she turned, saw him at the window looking in like a starving puppy and motioned for him to join her. It was all too inviting.

Istvan touched the bouncer on the shoulder. "You vill admit me!" he said.

Just then, a minivan pulled to the curb. A dozen black-clad kindergoths bussed in from the 'burbs began to disembark, wearing more chain mail and noir leather than Istvan had seen worn throughout the entire Middle Ages. While the muscle began collecting hard cash and stamping bats around the ripped-lace, fingerless gloves that covered hands, Istvan surreptitiously made his way inside.

Music that on the street had been loud bass became ear-splitting on the other side of the door. His acute hear­ing magnified each note ten times, and the pounding reminded him of a human heart beating beyond its capacity. In the pocket of his cape he kept a pair of earplugs for just such occasions as this, but without that cape. ... He really couldn't bear this, and turned to leave.

"Hey! What's your hurry?"

The warm gloved hand on his cold arm belonged to the goth chick, who was now standing close and smiling up at him. It had been so long since Istvan had experi­enced a welcoming and guileless smile from a female that he felt disconcerted.

"Come on," she said to him, and grabbed onto his arm, pulling him through the crowds and to the bar at the back of the room. En route he spotted the three bitches, each chatting up a morsel for later. They were all too busy with the business at hand to notice him, although he had no doubt they would be aware of his presence soon, just as he had been aware of theirs.

As they reached the back bar, the music dimmed a bit. Not enough for conversation, but at least the stabbing at his eardrums ceased.

The bar presented another problem. He had no cash, and mesmerizing the quick-moving bartender wouldn't be easy with so many thirsty pseudovampires crowding the brass rail. But as it turned out the girl said, "What are you having, Mr. Nosferatu? My treat."

"Vine," he said, using the accent. "I only drink vine."

"Yeah, me, too," she said, seemingly not noticing either the accent or the reference. "Red, right?"

He nodded and she leaned over the bar, signaled the bartender and ordered, slapping a bill onto the metallic bar surface.

The wine came quickly and she handed him his glass.

Protruding through the glove tips were nails filed to a point and painted black as a Transylvanian night. Well, he was used to that. All three of his women preferred noir nails, for some reason, although from time to time they used crimson polish, "Just to lighten my mood," Sephora had said.

The girl took a sip of wine and looked up at him. "Where you from?"

"Transylvania." It never failed to impress—except this time.

"Yeah, cool," she said, as if he'd said Buffalo.

"I was born in the Carpathian Mountains," he went on, knowing he was trying to claim her interest, wishing he would just let it go, but unable to. "That's where Dracula is from."

"I know," she told him, sca