October 18, 2 a.m. Year of the Curtain+5
Evansville, Indiana
Digger’s eyes twinkled behind his sunglasses. Perhaps it was primitive of him, human of him, but the gyrating motions of the dancers were activating his salivary glands and causing his gums to recede, his incisors protruding from their nest in a manner similar to the reaction the dancers were trying to inspire in their mortal admirers. He was thirsty, painfully thirsty. Sure, he’d slurped down a blood pack last night, and he had two more tucked away in the hotel refrigerator, but it was like craving a sirloin steak and instead getting chipped beef on toast. Yeah, it kept him alive, but what was the point?
He stared up at the girl presently on stage, a slender redhead called Trishelle, as she did some things in an oversized champagne glass with a bottle of bubbly that were almost enough to wake up some long-suppressed human reactions in his body. So intent was he on watching the stage show that he didn’t even notice when Aaron pulled up the other seat at Digger’s table and joined him. Aaron was younger than Digger by about fifty years, but thanks to their relative ages when they were turned, he appeared to be the senior by about a decade. Like a disapproving elder, he raised a thick eyebrow at Digger.
“You’re a pig, you know that? Why do you always insist we meet in places like this?”
“Two reasons,” Digger said, not taking his eyes off Trishelle. “Look at how you dress. The three-piece suit, the slicked-back hair, that stupid medallion you always insist on wearing. You look like Bela Lugosi threw up on you.”
“I’m less conspicuous than you,” Aaron snapped. Digger looked down at his own sandals, cargo shorts, and Hawaiian shirt, which he wore open over a peach-colored wifebeater tee. “Dude, I’m happening.”
“Sure, bottle blonds are all the rage in Indiana. How did you even get a tan?”
“Spray-ons have come a long way, my friend. The point is, we come to a joint like this, and no matter how we look, nobody is paying attention to us.”
As he said it, the rest of the men in the bar exploded into catcalls as Trishelle did something that resulted in several ounces of champagne spilling into the front row. Aaron nodded. “I concede your point. And the second reason?”
Digger smiled, and the points of his fangs appeared at the corners of his mouth. “The same reason vending machines have glass fronts. So you can check out the snacks before you make your choice.”
Aaron looked at the expression on Digger’s face, a look of ravenous hunter that would be easy to mistake for lust. “Digger, no.”
“Why the hell not? These bitches are perfect, Aaron. Young, usually broke and alone, the sort that won’t be missed until we’re long gone.”
“Because of the date,” Aaron snapped. “Don’t you remember what’s happening in two weeks?”
“Halloween. Since when do you care?”
“Not Halloween, Digger.”
“Then what…” realization hit him and his mouth was suddenly so full of saliva he thought he’d have to spit before he could talk. “No. Has it been five years already?”
“It has. That’s why I wanted to meet with you. The site has been announced.”
“We’re still going through with it, then? I know there was talk of cancelling it, what with this ‘Curtain’ bullshit–”
“We discussed it in the council, but we decided to go ahead as planned. We have so few real joys, Digger. We decided it would be a shame to let the humans rob us of our biggest one. The town has been in preparation for years, after all. I know you’d hate to let it go to waste.”
“Oh, I would,” Digger agreed. “I would.”
Aaron told Digger the name of a town, and the elder blood drinker nodded. Aaron put down a few dollars to cover the beer he’d ordered purely for show and walked out. Digger squeezed his own untouched beverage, trying to contain his excitement. So soon… so soon he’d be able to drink enough to slake his thirst for months. No frozen, stale blood smuggled from banks, no seeking out a victim that wouldn’t be missed and drinking quickly in some filthy back alley and hiding the body in a dumpster. One night of pure, blessed freedom.
“Hey, sugar.” He looked up to see one of the dancers, Trishelle herself, still smelling of champagne and freshly toweled down. She put a finger on his arm and slowly ran it up to his shoulder. “I saw you looking at me. How’d you like an hour in one of the rooms upstairs?”
He bit down on his tongue. It was like a pig asking if you’d prefer pork chops or bacon. But the most important thing about this celebration was that, in the weeks before, the vampires of the region had to exhibit some self-control.
“Sorry, sweetchecks,” he said. “Can’t tonight.” He held up a twenty and slid it into her g-string, grinning. “But maybe some other time.”
“Aw, too bad.” She leaned over and he felt hot, human breath on his ear. “A fella like you could even take me to breakfast.”
“Baby, you have no idea.”
