Becoming

Ron sat in a booth near the front door of the Blood Spot, a glass of Shiraz warming in his hand. He enjoyed the dark, thick wine - not as much as the elixir of life it imitated, of course, but enough to sip happily at it until the right tasty treat happened along.

He enjoyed his spot near the door, liked being able to see what came into the bar, and the worst of the wannabees tended to congregate near the back out of his way. It made him smile, the way they lowered the lights and insisted on keeping the wall to their backs 'just in case.' Really. There was very little a real vampire had to guard his back from, and while lamplight was certainly meant to imitate the sun, it did not have the sun's blistering effect.

He wondered idly if they were really all that ugly that they needed to hide in the darkness and cover their faces with that silly white base make-up. He supposed they thought it made them more attractive. But really, the attraction was in pale skin that was warm to the touch, that smelled of the blood that rushed beneath the surface, not make-up and perfume.

Still, they could be an amusing lot, their folklore and legends about his kind so quaint and they themselves so earnest.

Low, pulsing music played over the speakers, the music matching the dark lace draped over walls and light fixtures. The bar boasted such drinks as blood shots along with the more traditional Bloody Marys.

Honestly, quaint was the best word for it.

He liked the wood of the tables though, thick, the grain hidden by only a few layers of clear varnish. It felt good beneath his fingertips, as did the thick velvet of the seats. Spills had to cost a fortune.

Rodrigue came in, a sweet honey on his arm, and Ron breathed deeply. Oh, this one was fresh, blood close to the surface, not yet tainted by experience or the various drugs these players used to make themselves believe.

Rodrigue gave him a nod and pulled the girl closer to himself and Ron's lips twitched. Had he wanted the girl, she would have been his before Rodigue could even blink. And he would do it one day, would rise amongst them, let them have a true taste of this thing that they played at.

He took another sip of his Shiraz, noting that it most definitely was not blood, no matter how dark and beautiful it was or how the liquid clung lovingly to the glass. He kept his eyes on the door, waiting with a casual ease for just the right donor to come along.

A group of little wannabes came down, almost hiding the breath of fresh air that swept down with them.

Almost, of course, being the important term.