Vampire Miami (6 page)

Selah followed. Lifted her chin, set a scowl on
her face, and pushed in right behind them into a reassuringly
average bathroom. The two women were older than Selah, college age
perhaps, and both stopped talking as Selah walked in. She ignored
them and their stares and hit the mirror. Shook her head. A
complete mess. And no purse, no makeup, nothing to work with. Ah,
well. All the more reason to hide in a corner like Maria Elena had
instructed.

The two girls had gone back to talking.
“Whatever. Some things never change. Anyways, are you going to go
with me or not? Or am I going to have to take Max?”

“Girl, are you serious? You really did score two
tickets?” asked the second, leaning back to stare at the first as
she applied eyeliner.

“You doubt it? They’re not exactly front row,
but who cares. It’ll be my first night at a Freedom Fight.
And
it’s going to be a special event. They say some big
fighter from UFC is being flown in to compete. Max won’t shut up
about it.”

“I bet you could shut him up if you really
wanted to,” said the second, straightening and checking out her
work. Her eyes slid over to where Selah stood watching, and she
raised one painfully elegant eyebrow. “Can we help you?”

Selah didn’t say anything, embarrassed at having
been caught. She wanted to ask questions, always with the
questions, but instead turned and fled back into the nexus. Stood,
irresolute, and then walked into the blue room with the bar. Up
three steps that she nearly tripped over, and then out to the left,
following the far wall. The music was almost punishingly loud, and
she watched people yelling into each other’s ears so as to be
heard, holding drinks and looking anxiously at the entrance every
few moments. Were any of them vampires? Selah found a vaguely
uncomfortable yet very modern black chair to sit on and scrutinized
them.

No. After a long search, she decided they
weren’t. Just regular people, nervous and getting drunk fast.
Occasionally, one of the women would laugh almost hysterically and
then begin to dance, arms raised, the guys turning to watch. It
never lasted more than fifteen seconds, though, and then the woman
would bend over laughing, as if what she’d done had been incredibly
brave and hilarious.

Selah felt lonely. She missed her friends. She
thought of Jairo, of Tomika, of Susan and Alessandra and her newest
friend Natalie Ballard. She wished they were here, or better yet,
that she were back with them. She dug out her Omni and checked the
connection. Alpha. She blinked. No way! She grinned and wished
she’d brought her Goggles and FingerTips, but what could you do?
She dipped into her Garden, and was pleased to see dozens of her
friends’ avatars standing there in states of suspended alarm. She
idly circled the Fountain, and almost went up to Jairo where he
stood in his Mecha avatar, his robotic face somehow still
expressing concern. But it was too loud in the bar, and if she
opened a connection, they wouldn’t be able to talk.

Instead she quickly began to sort through her
messages, reluctantly asking her Omni for subtitles, discarding and
saving them as they came. A glance at Connection Wall showed
literally hundreds of messages from acquaintances and people she
didn’t know, but even here in her Garden were dozens of recordings
from friends. It hurt so good to see their faces. Several messages
were group recordings, people together peering into their own Omnis
and sending her love, good wishes. Jairo’s latest poem that he’d
posted in her Garden was awful, as she had known it would be, and
she added commentary with a grin.

From there she entered her private Shrine but
suddenly impatient, she flew into Jairo’s Garden, and from there
visited each of her friend’s Shrines in turn, catching up on their
news, updates, what other friends had been telling them and more.
It was all so familiar, so achingly normal. After awhile, she
slowed down and stared at the screen. Alpha connection, but she
didn’t want to read about how Natalie was upset with her boyfriend,
or how Scott was thinking about saving up money for the latest Omni
upgrade. She sighed and looked up at the crowd at the bar. It all
seemed so unimportant.

She lowered her Omni and frowned. She felt even
more alone now, alone and bored at the prospect of sitting here for
six hours watching people drink and make fools of themselves.
Should she start asking around if people knew anything about Blood
Dust? Mama B’s recriminations came flooding back, her scorn for her
lack of a plan. She hadn’t thought past her arrival. Hadn’t been
able to envision actually being in Miami, and had instead vaguely
assumed that she’d figure things out once she arrived. What had
seemed simple back in Brooklyn suddenly seemed impossible; exactly
how did one go about learning where a drug came from?

She kicked her heels for a minute, and then
stood. Tucked her Omni away and wandered out of the room. Thought
about hitting the door to check in with Maria Elena, and then
disdainfully turned toward the dance floor. She hugged the wall as
she walked down it, hand trailing along the smooth paint, and
stopped at the room’s entrance. It was stunningly huge. Cavernous.
Another bar to the left, smaller than the first, but then she saw a
second bar set in an island on the dance floor, and a third against
the far wall. A fashion catwalk ran up to the island bar, but
nobody was on it.

The lights flowed and flashed, and the music was
good, the kind that got under her skin and into her bones. Not
enough of a crowd to really begin dancing, though. Just more people
at the bar.

An hour passed during which Selah explored the
green room, and found it to be an extended lounge where low and
sensual music played, all shadows and recesses. She sat at a small
table, and then panicked at the sight of white lines of powder
arrayed across the glass top. She stood, looked around to see if
anybody was watching, and then quickly left before she could get in
trouble. Eventually, she decided she liked the loud music in the
dance room and hung out there, watching the people as they slowly
trickled in, began to fill out the space.

“Hey, what’s up?” somebody yelled in her ear.
She started and turned sharply to see a lean-looking Latino guy
grinning at her. He was about her age, dressed in stylish black
clothing, and he stepped back and put his hands up. “Hey, don’t hit
me, I was just saying hi!”

“What do you want?” asked Selah. Was he hitting
on her? This guy couldn’t be a vampire.

“Can I buy you a drink? I’ll cover the credit!”
He tried his grin on her again. He smiled too much, she decided,
looked too pleased with himself. Still. Selah eyed the bar. The
glittering wall of bottles, the cornucopia of alcohol. She
shouldn’t. But she was on edge, half terrified, and what harm could
one drink do? Her rebellious edge arose and mixed with her fear and
impulsiveness and she nodded.

“Sure.”

He nodded, pleased, and leaned in once more.
“Awesome, what can I get you?”

“Vodka cran,” she yelled. She didn’t really like
drinking. Not most nights. But sometimes. Sometimes.

He flashed her a thumbs up and headed back to
the bar. Leaned in and waited to catch the bartender’s eye. Selah
scrutinized him. Was this a bad idea? But the music really was
good. And the drink might take the edge off. After the day she’d
had, she deserved it. And what else did Maria Elena think she was
going to do for six hours in club?

Selah waited nervously. She was definitely not
interested, she decided, but still wished she could’ve cleaned up a
little better in the bathroom. He came back with two drinks in
hand, his clear with ice, and handed her a glass.

“To wife!” he yelled.

“What?”

He leaned in, “I said, to life!”

“Yeah, life,” said Selah. She clinked glasses
and took a sip. It was smooth and cold: perfect.

“My name’s Michael!”

“Selah.”

“I haven’t seen you before. You new?”

“Yeah. Just arrived.” Selah forced a smile. This
was it. Her opportunity. “So, what do you do for fun?”

“Fun? I love to dance!”

“I bet. But I was talking a different kind of
fun.”

“Oh yeah?” His eyes took on a gleam, and she
realized he had completely misunderstood her.

“No, I mean, do you know where I can get some
Blood Dust?”

“What?” He jerked his head back. “No. Of course
not.”

“Oh.” He was staring at her now, brows lowered.
She smiled again and took a sip of her drink, and gave him her best
smile.
You idiot. Do you know where I can get some Blood Dust?
Now he thinks you’re a drug addict.
“You said you like to
dance?”

He nodded, and she kept hitting him with her
best smile until he nodded, raised his glass and finished his drink
with an impressively long pull. Apparently he wasn’t too picky.
“Come on! I’m an incredible dancer. Let me show you my moves!”

Selah stared at him. Had he actually just said
that? His grin was ridiculous, infectious, so she laughed instead
and finished her drink too. Why the hell not? The music was getting
better and better, and she absolutely loved to dance. Why the hell
not indeed.

“All right!” Selah laughed and pushed him toward
the floor. “Show me your damn moves!” He grabbed her hand and
pulled her after him. They threaded their way into the crowd, into
the center, and there he let go and turned to face her. She began
to sway, letting the groove sink into her, into her soul, not yet
letting loose, and watched. He began to move his shoulders from
side to side, arms up like he was jogging, face serious, bopping
his head.

“Let’s see those moves!”

He nodded, expression serious, and did a quick
scan to make sure nobody was too close. As if he was going to do
something truly wild and might kick somebody in the face. Selah
laughed, amused again, and then stopped as he crouched down and
threw himself into a backflip. For a moment he was all knees and
spinning elbows, and then he was straightening up. “There!”

“That’s not a dance move!” Selah shook her head,
grinning. She leaned in, cupping her hand. “That’s what you do into
a swimming pool! You almost kicked me in the face!”

Michael frowned and shook his head. “No, you’re
wrong. That’s a killer move!”

Selah didn’t care to argue. This was perfect.
The drink was warming her up now. She was feeling good, feeling
loose. The music was delicious, pouring into her like a river of
electric chocolate, making her feel alight, feel alive. She took a
step away from Michael and began to dance. To let go. Started slow,
but everybody around her was moving, and she stopped thinking,
stopped trying to figure out the world, and just danced.

Michael did his best to keep up. The music was
so loud it erased thought. The great room was the perfect
combination of darkness cut through with sizzling arcs of neon
light. Enough to give a sense of the scope of the joint, but made
most of the people around her but shadowed forms, a tapestry of
movement and dance against which she could lose herself.

Michael came back with more drinks. She tossed
hers back and got rid of it. The music began to sound more tribal,
more drums, the pounding rhythm changing the way she moved. She
danced to let go. Let go of Mama B, of her life in New York, of the
pain and insecurity, of the terrible fear and loss she felt
whenever she thought of her missing father, over the terror of
being in Miami. She danced to burn out those memories, those
emotions. To release, to rise above them, to fly. Nothing was as
good. When you hit the right moment, when nerves and energy and
emotion all combined into a pulsing, thriving, liberating mix,
nothing seemed insurmountable.

Selah danced. Another drink. Michael was joined
by friends, and they paired off, switched partners, danced as a
group, danced alone. Moved to the bar and did shots, came back,
diving through the crowd like dolphins, laughing and plunging
through the bodies until they regained their spot and fell ever
deeper into the delirium of physical release.

Hands on her hips, sure and strong. She didn’t
care. Eyes closed she ground back into the guy, moving like an eel,
arms raised. He moved in perfect synchronicity, matching her turns.
She threw her head back, face to the ceiling, to the lights, and
laughed. Finally, somebody who could dance. She began to test him,
moving more daringly, picking up the pace, and he was there,
matching each step, anticipating her, never tiring or stumbling.
Perfect, perfect, absolute perfection. The song began to rise
toward a crescendo, massive as a cresting tidal wave that rose into
the very heavens before it broke upon them and swept them away.

Selah opened her eyes, and saw that a space had
opened about them. Grinned, loving the attention. Saw their faces.
Did not see enjoyment or admiration. Saw guarded expressions,
somber faces, maybe even fear. Michael wasn’t even dancing, was
just staring. A stab of fear in her gut. That hand on her hip, the
other cool on the nape of her neck. She turned, nearly stumbling,
and stared at the man. He was dressed all in black, but unlike
Michael, his clothes seemed to be woven from the strands of night.
He was older, tall, head shaven and skin so dark it seemed edged in
blue. Strong features, striking features, twin scars along both
cheekbones. He slowed, met her gaze. His eyes were black, utterly
dark. The music pounded on, nightmarish now, and he wasn’t smiling,
wasn’t dancing, just standing there, watching her.

His soulless eyes burned into her own, seared
through her, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t act. She wanted to
run, but instead he held out his hand, the gesture strangely
plaintive, his face taking on a vulnerable cast that shocked her
even more than his eyes. It was as if he were as shocked to see her
as she was to see him. His fingers were long, his hand steady, and
not knowing what else to do, she reached and took his hand with her
own.