Fanged Refrain- A Savage Songbird Novel

Was I crazy…. Yes. Did I do my best despite it…. Well… I tried. It was hard not to turn out a little skewed when you drank in the sins and secrets of others. Of course, it wasn’t seeing the sins through the eyes of the sinner that was the issue. No, you build up a resistance to the horrors of the world the longer you live and the more you see. What pushes you over the edge is the emotions that are tethered to them. You can’t dull the glee felt by a monster at their own hand-crafted cruelty. There was always a sliver of narcissism in their mentality, a false sense of power and, of course, they were the smartest person in the room. The only fleeting reward was that moment when they realized they were wrong. The thirst was clawing at the back of my throat and I still hesitated. Perhaps, I was a bit of a masochist or maybe I just had to reach that moment where my more animalistic instincts took over. Most likely, it was a combination of the two. Some vampires relished the hunt, that feeling of superiority and ultimate power as you overpowered your prey. Being able to kill a creature that lacked any defenses against me didn’t really stroke my ego. For me, hunting was a necessary evil. I leaned against the cool bricks, shadows concealing my form and waited, watching the crowd that had gathered outside of the club. I could smell the perfume, sweat, alcohol and pheromones wafting through the air. It was sickly sweet. It was barely forty five degrees out and yet most of the women had more flesh exposed than contained. Did they really think this was the path to happiness? Were their mornings filled with regret? Then again, I was the same back then; smokey jazz and debauchery, alcohol freely flowing. I had had decades of regret and very little happiness. I stepped from the shadows and made my way across the street. Every detail of my outfit was carefully planned. Black heels that weren’t too tall or too short, just enough to be uncomfortably feminine. Jeans, because I wasn’t trying too hard, and a floral top that flowed with movement. Everything was covered in a way that teased the imagination. I was beautiful, Évariste wouldn’t have chosen me if I wasn’t. It wasn’t a compliment or anything I took pride in. It was just facts and genetics; soulful green eyes and flawless porcelain skin. Eyes followed me across the street. I folded in upon myself, curling my shoulders forward and using my arms as a shield to conceal my curves. I cast a nervous glance towards the crowd before my eyes settled on the pavement. I looked lost and uncomfortable. I didn’t belong here. I had perfected looking helpless, looking like prey. I wasn’t looking for a nice guy… I was looking for the guy who thinks he is a nice guy. You know the type, the ones who think kindness towards women is worthy of a reward, as if affection is transactional. I was looking for the self proclaimed “alpha” males. They never went for strong, confident women. No, they wanted them weak and broken. I gave a nod to Mutt, the bouncer, as I slipped past the crowd. I was sure Mutt wasn’t the name he was given at birth and I had no idea why he chose to let people he could easily break in half call him that, but it was what he preferred. It actually suited him well. He looked like a doberman but acted like a golden retriever. He was the type of bouncer who very rarely had to get physical. There were very few people he didn’t tower over and he was built like a linebacker. His muscles didn’t come from the gym. Mutt had acquired them through hard work and struggling to survive. I had no idea what his day job was and it hardly mattered to me cause he was perfect for his night job. I hadn’t hired him only based on his looks. He turned the phrase strong, silent type into a way of life. Mutt knew how to keep his mouth shut in a way that was rare. Sometimes, I wished he was more communicative and I knew what was going on in his head. In the end, it didn’t matter. He did his job and he did it well. Despite Speakeasy looking like any other seedy club, we didn’t have the problems with drugs and gangs. Women were, for the most part, safe here. Mutt coordinated things with a glance and he saw everything. That’s why only my drinks ever got tampered with. Surely, Mutt had to have some idea of what was happening, but he kept those ideas to himself. Being Saturday night, we were at maximum capacity. Bodies tangled together in a throbbing mass on the dance floor. With the strobes and fog machine, it felt like the very room was alive and the dance floor was the heart. A live band claimed the stage. They were nobodies outside of Speakeasy, but here, they were the blood that kept the place alive. I found a small gap between the bodies that clung to the bar. Just a few inches that allowed me to slip in between. I could feel eyes on me. Whenever people gathered, they always looked at a newcomer. Humanity thrived on weighing and measuring. Some people glanced and moved on, others let their gaze linger as if they were figuring out a puzzle and trying to see where I fit compared to them. I never allowed myself to imagine what thoughts might be connected to those stares. It just wasn’t healthy. I shied away from the looks and nervously glanced down. I always hated this part of the hunt. It was rage inducing that if you appeared nervous and weak, you became a target. There was no honor. I felt dirty and a little guilty using such a tactic. I had debated the morality of it being a less than ideal means to a positive end. Given this was the most peaceful and unnoticeable manner to feed, it was the best solution I could come up with despite feeling like I was mocking those who had a natural disposition of nervousness.