17

In better nights, your first stop would be eBay, to buy something flashy and cheap. But you don't have the time, so you talk to one of the blood dolls and manage to haggle for a clean and half-decent set of clothes that don't make you look like someone who loses a fight in a biker movie.

The Viper might be off-limits, but you can see two more nightclubs from the rooftop Elysium. You head for the Red Rock. Rather than the Paul Cezanne-themed bar you were expecting, it's a hard rock club; the wall of noise hits you the moment you step inside, a discordant wail of '70s fuzz-grunge.

You push your way through the sea of long-legged white girls with straight brown hair and halter tops to the bar and scan the crowd for older women. The problem with a lot of hard rock venues is the ratio. But looking around, you see plenty of women here, and several in the crowd skew older. You're not restricted to grandmothers, after all—just "older." You scan the crowd until you spot a dark-skinned woman with a streak of white in her chestnut brown hair, wearing a black T-shirt with the Led Zeppelin IV runes on it.

She plays it cool as you approach, then glances your way. You see her interest, and the way she tries to hide it.

"You play?" she asks. She nods to the band's lead guitarist, who's shredding his way through a solo.

"Not like that," you say. "Is he your husband?"

She laughs.

You're not here to talk, though. You enjoy the music together, letting it connect you. She doesn't say anything, and neither do you. There's just the music. When the band finishes and another starts to take its place, she says, "Let's get out of here."

"The next band isn't any good?" you ask.

"Oh no, they're fucking great," she says. "But my ex plays bass."

You slip your hand in hers and head outside, then scan the streets for another club. It's been a while since you were in Tucson. When you see one, you start to move, but she doesn't.

"On second thought…" she says. "My house is a block away."

Her eyes glitter when you turn to look at her.

Next

One night you're going to be old enough that you can't learn anything even from your favorite prey. But that isn't tonight.

The woman with the white-streaked hair teaches you a few things about endurance, patience, and pleasure. Exhausted and satisfied, it takes you a moment to remember why you're actually here.

"Another go?" she says with a laugh as you move on top of her again. "Don't you have to go to work in a few hours at a coffee shop or something? Because—"

You embrace her, and she moans. Then she screams as your fangs slide into her throat. You start to drink as she runs her hands through your hair.

You take your time, letting the blood pool in the middle of her throat before lapping it up. You force yourself to stay in control, to take only what you need.

Her breath wheezes as you lick her clean, then use your tongue to seal the two puncture marks on her neck. A final kiss leaves a slightly darker carmine smear across her lips. And then you're gone.

Next

It won't always be that easy, you think as you sit on a park bench, sluggishly moving your stolen blood around your body. New vampires can always have fun for the first few nights, but then other Kindred learn about your tricks, or hunters notice statistical anomalies, or the herd itself instinctively reacts to the invisible predator in their midst. But tonight you feel good.

A Lotus Esprit Turbo in powder blue rolls up to the curb, blaring synthwave loud enough to scare the crows. The driver flings a parcel your way. When you pick it up, he peels out.

The parcel contains a card for a pawnshop. Written on the back: Cars. There's also an extended-stay ticket for a parking garage, with a four-digit key code written on the back. So it looks like you have a place to park.

Next