“You’re from Kentucky?” he asks, squinting at the photo (so not me). “And you’re five eleven?”
“Only when I wear my stilettos.”
He rolls his eyes, not looking all that convinced. “Run home and play with your dolls, um”—he glances at my ID—“Shaniqua.” He snorts, handing me back my license. “This is not the place for you.”
Okay, that’s it. No more Miss Nice Rayne. I drop my eyes to the ground and flutter my lashes. Then I look up at him with my best Angelina Jolie imitation, pre-Brad Pitt/mommy era. “I don’t play with dolls,” I say, making my voice sultry and deep. “I play with vampires.” I reach up and drag a lazy finger down the front of his massive chest. He stiffens immediately. Heh. Men are so easy.
“Well, I guess your license does say you’re twenty-five. . . .” He hedges.
“I am twenty-five. Twenty-five and three quarters, to be exact.” I smile coyly, reeling him in. “Now, please let me in. I’m dying to be sucked.”
At first I’m not sure if he’s going to go for this, but he surprises me by opening the door wide and gesturing me forward. I give him a little bow and step over the threshold.
“Fine, fine. But behave yourself,” he instructs. “Don’t make me sorry I let you in.”
“I will,” I promise. “I mean, I won’t. Make you sorry, that is. I will behave. You won’t even know I’m here. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Francis. And I run the door most nights.”
I rise onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Francis,” I say. “You won’t regret this.”
“I already do,” he says, his face turning a slight pink color. Close as vamps get to blushing, I suppose. “But go in and have a good time before I change my mind.”
I thank him once more, then head in. The door leads to a dark hallway, the walls painted with strange Celtic-looking designs that glow under the black lighting. Under my feet is a plush crimson rug. Weird, ambient mood music floats through the smoke-filled air. I guess the Blood Bar feels it’s exempt from the no smoking laws of the rest of our state. Which makes sense, really, as lighting up is just where the sinning starts here.
The whole thing is truly spooky and I have half a mind to turn around and run back out the door screaming. But something compels me to keep moving forward. To see this through.
I reach the beaded curtain at the far side of the hallway and go through into the main bar. The place is decorated like a Valentine’s Day card. Everything is red. Red velvet couches, red shag rugs, red walls, and red lightbulbs in the chandelier. The fuzzy lighting makes it hard to get a good look at the other patrons. Some are sprawled out on couches in a relaxed, almost sleepy manner. Others are sitting on the edges of their seats, looking tense. All of them look like junkies—underfed, drawn faces, trembling hands.
This one guy standing over in the corner looks particularly foreboding. He appears fiftyish and is wearing a well-fitted black tux. Sandy-haired, high cheekbones, and an athletic physique, he has a sort of elegance about him that the other gaunt Blood Bar inhabitants lack. If I hadn’t seen a photo of Maverick, I would have pegged this guy as the bar’s owner, given the proprietary sense he exhibits as he surveys the lounge, arms crossed over his chest. But while he’s definitely vampish, he’s no Trent Reznor look-alike, so he can’t be the big baddie we’re here to find.
He catches me looking at him and gives me a small nod. Freaked out, I quickly drop my eyes. The last thing I need is to start drawing attention to myself.
“Do you have an appointment?” A sultry female voice behind me makes me turn around. A tall, voluptuous woman with long black hair to her waist has focused her huge violet eyes on me expectantly, a clipboard in her hands. She wears a crimson corset top and a long silky black skirt that’s gotta be vintage or I’d so be asking her where she got it.
“I, um, do you take walk-ins here?” I stammer, caught off guard.
She frowns. “We certainly do not.”
“Well, good. Because I, um, have an appointment.” I squint down at her appointment book. Good thing I have excellent eyesight. “I’m Jane Smith.”
She glances down at her clipboard. “Do you mean James Smith?”
Hm. Maybe time to see the eye doctor after all. “Yeah, that’s me. James Smith. Evil parents really wanted a boy. Anyway, I go by Jane now. To my friends, anyway. Do you want to be my friend? I need more friends, actually. People to call me Jane.”
She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. I know she doesn’t believe me, but I’ve managed to annoy her enough that she just wants me out of her hair. Good strategy for dealing with teachers as well, by the way. Works every time.
“Fine, fine. James. Jane. Whatever. You’re in room six.” She gestures to the wall on the far side of the room. “Behind those curtains.”
I swallow hard. This is it. I thank her and head to the back of the room, pulling aside the heavy velvet drapes. Behind it are ten nondescript doors, each with a gold number. I find room six and slip inside.
The room is dark, without any windows. The walls are painted black and thus suck out even the dim lighting given off by a few candles in the room. In the center is a big canopy bed with black linens. Even the floor has a charcoal-colored rug. Maybe they make it black so the bloodstains don’t show as easily. The thought makes me a bit queasy and I close the door behind me and retreat to a wooden low-backed chair. What have I gotten myself into? This is totally Spooky World and I’m not just here for a visit.