Veronica Austin stood in line behind a tall woman with long black hair, her blonde roots clearly visible in the streetlight brightening the corner. A circular tribal tattoo of jagged black lines decorated the base of the woman’s neck between her broad shoulders.
Dad never liked tattoos.
He didn’t like the idea of Veronica returning to Minneapolis after twenty years either, but that didn’t stop her.
A huge neon sign hanging above the entrance glared “Dark Sepulcher,” with the “L” blinking in rapid succession. Black paint peeled from the brick walls, now discolored from years of treacherous Minnesota winters. Posters of upcoming concerts and events lined the wall. Veronica wasn’t interested. At a glance, you’d mistake the building for an old factory, but she knew better. She’d been told that the building housed secrets—dark secrets—and she planned to discover each one. This was the starting point in the search for her mother.
She cleared her throat and the woman glanced back, giving her a half-smile. Instead of real eyebrows, the woman had drawn severe black swathes with an eyeliner pencil, and she’d colored her lipstick line above her upper lip, giving her mouth a full, yet abstract look.
Two bouncers stood at the front entrance dressed in black T-shirts with “Security” printed in white letters. Veronica handed the taller bouncer her California driver’s license and waited while he studied it under the glare of his bright flashlight. She sucked in her breath and prepared herself for questions about why she’d come and what she wanted with Dark Sepulcher. Instead, the bouncer flicked the license back to her and motioned for her to enter.
She slid a five under the steel bars of the cashier’s window, who snapped up the bill without a glance as she bobbed her head to the beat from her earphones. Veronica thought she recognized the chorus of “Devil Went Down to Georgia” by Charlie Daniels escape from the girl’s earphones, but it drowned under the bass coming from behind a thick, dark curtain blocking the venue’s entrance. She stepped forward, sucked in another deep breath, and pulled the curtain back.
Her eyes jumped frantically back and forth as they tried to adjust to the darkness. Life-sized macramé figures hung from the ceiling. White smoke spewed from fog machines and drifted ghostlike toward the crowded dance floor. Writhing bodies moved in trance-like motion to throbbing music blasting from massive speakers surrounding the floor. She felt an unexplainable euphoric vibe circling the club with the fog. It enthralled her.
She focused her stare on a small stage standing erect to her left. A wooden beam hung horizontally above the stage with a woman tied fast to the beam. Though mesmerized, she moved on, passing a row of silver-tinted booths next to the wall. A group of boys and girls, none appearing older than eighteen, huddled in the corner booth talking over a small lit candle in the middle of the table. They laughed aloud, shouting over one another until their voices jumble together. The music changed to a faster rhythm and they fled the booth, pushing past her in their rush to reach the dance floor.
Much to her relief, everyone looked human. None of the clubbers possessed traits of the Deamhan: the sharp fangs, the dark hollow eyes. She’d expected them to ooze from the woodwork, romping around like drug addicts looking for their next high.
The speakers pulsed with beats of industrial music. She felt the bass thumping and vibrating each inch of her body. She’d been to raves and dance clubs in San Diego before, but the music had never been this loud.
Of course, The Brotherhood had an explanation for the loud music. A vampire, quite different from the Deamhan, owned Dark Sepulcher. To her, they were one and the same—evil, foul and wretched, yet they also had differences. While vampires lived off the blood of humans, Deamhan lived off the psychic energy generated by humans in different ways.
The fog-filled room, the gyrating bodies, the electrified air, it all combined to assuage her worries. Despite herself, she felt her lips part in a seductive smile.
And that’s when she saw her first Deamhan.
In the writhing crowd, a woman tossed back her head and laughed. She twirled her pale hands above her head as she danced, her long brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. A true professional at mimicking human movements, she’d made a flawless attempt to hide her true identity. The darkness hid the most visible signs, but her razor-edged teeth could not be masked. “She’s a Deamhan Ramanga,” Veronica whispered into the deafening din. Even as she said the words, she felt her heartbeat pick up its pace.
A baby-faced guy dancing with the Deamhan seductively snaked his arms around her tiny waist and ground his pelvis against her. Is he crazy? He had to see those teeth up close and personal. He had to know she could sink them into his tender flesh at any moment. Why didn’t he run?
“You want anything?” she screamed above the music.
Veronica only shook her head, startled by the woman’s bizarre appearance. She wore a black wife beater, faded black pants, and her mascara was smeared and smudged. She winked then turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.
“You okay?” The waitress tapped her on the shoulder. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
A bottle of Jack popped into her mind. “Whiskey.”
“Whiskey?”
“Yeah, just whiskey.”
The waitress twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “Whiskey it is, then.” She headed for the bar.
The music changed tempo and volume. A slow song oozed throughout the club. One of the dancers left the stage with a line of men trailing behind her. She stopped just outside the bathroom door, blew a kiss, and entered, closing the door behind her. As if the spell she’d held over them had broken, the men glanced at each other in confusion, then each headed back toward the dance floor.
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The waitress seemed to appear out of nowhere again, and she placed a shot of whiskey on the table in front of Veronica.
She handed her a five. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” She folded the bill between her fingers with one hand, and tucked it in her cleavage. She waved and walked away.
Veronica tossed back the whiskey and gagged as it stung the back of her throat.
They were called demons, hell spawns, and even vampires. Centuries ago researchers in Ireland finally settled on the name Deamhan, due to their licentious behavior. Based on their feeding habits, they then split the Deamhan into the Ramanga, Lamia, Metusba, and Lugat.
Through blood and with sharp teeth, the Ramanga drained every drop of blood from their victims. Being the only Deamhan with retractable fangs, they relied on the psychic energy within the blood to survive.
Conceited, the Lamia fed by draining the same energy through the mouths of their victims. They had no need for fangs. All they needed was a viable opening and a willing or non-willing participant.
Metusba, the quiet of all the Deamhan, fed off the psychic energy contained in their victim’s auras. They took what they needed, nothing less and nothing more.
Lugat fed off the leftover psychic energy by using their hands. They could feed off of almost anything; where a person sat, what a person touched.
Though all four clans differed in feeding habits, they all died the same; beheadings, staking, starvation, and sunlight.
“Hey!” The waitress appeared in front of her. “You okay?”
How does she do that? Veronica glanced toward the bathroom, afraid she’d be followed. Her chest heaved and beads of sweat collected on her forehead. “I need a drink.”
“Another whiskey?”
She nodded, and the waitress disappeared into the crowd. The pulsating bass emanating from the speakers grew louder and more intense, causing her to rub her temples. Fog machines released a steady stream of mist from above the crowded dance floor, giving the huge room an ethereal atmosphere. The lights dimmed, and she could hardly make out the waitress as she returned, carrying a shot of whiskey.
“Here ya go.” She handed her the drink.
Veronica gulped her drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, this time thankful for the sensation of the amber liquid searing her throat. She preferred vodka, but at this moment, any liquid running down her gullet was good enough.
“You want another one?”
She nodded, and the waitress left.
She felt a tingling sensation deep in her forehead. In seconds, it had increased to the extent of a migraine. She looked up squinting, the pain becoming more intense with each passing moment, and she knew.
Someone’s reading my thoughts.
The waitress returned with two drinks.
“Uh, thanks?” She couldn’t recall ordering two whiskeys, but she pulled out a ten dollar bill.
“It’s already paid for.” The waitress pointed to a man sitting at the opposite end of the bar, his long brown hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore black jeans and a long black see through shirt, revealing his six pack.
He stared back at her with deep brown eyes and smiled, his pale skin resembling a Deamhan at its finest. She felt the pain in her forehead ebb and flow, subsiding a bit each time. She turned to the waitress, but she’d again disappeared.
Muddled, she downed the whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the table in front of her.
She looked at the man, who still fixed her in his stare. He slid from his seat and headed her way. She dropped her head and stared at the counter, quickly visualizing the brick wall.
“Your thoughts stick out.” He sat on the empty stool next to her.
His penetrating stare caused her head to tingle again, but the tingle stopped as quickly as it started. She’d clouded his attempt to rummage through her mind.
“Beautiful women like you shouldn’t drink whiskey.”
His respectful approach did nothing to impress Veronica. The Deamhan were naturally devious.
She made eye contact for a second then quickly looked away. He mumbled something, but his voice was too low for her to hear over the blaring speakers. Most of the men in Dark Sepulcher were attractive, but this man was hot. She stole a covert glance from under her eyelashes. Tall, medium build, long, glossy hair—stop it. Stay off that bandwagon.
His full lips broke into a smile. “Sorry I intruded on your thoughts. But I gotta admit, I like what I see in there.”
She felt heat rise in her chest, neck, and face. Busted. He offered his hand, another trick she wouldn’t fall for.
“I’m Remy and you are?”
What Deamhan type is he? Teeth aren’t sharp and pointy. He’s not a Ramanga.
“Am I scaring you?”
She shook her head and remained silent.
“Do you talk?”
“Not to strangers.” She immediately regretted her gutsy remark, knowing it would intrigue him further.
“Maybe you should.” He traced the rim of the glass with a slender finger. “You’re new here.”
She studied the woodwork on the bar.
“Nervous?”
He’d read her like an open book. She felt a tiny tingle as he tried again to read her thoughts.
“Your thoughts. They come to me kinda like a movie: sometimes clear, other times fuzzy.” He chuckled. “Right now, they’re crystal. Do you really find the bar’s wood grain that intriguing?”
Veronica couldn’t help but grin.
“Do you smell that?” His voice dropped to a loud whisper. “I smell a vampire.” Remy’s eyes fixated over her shoulder.
The dark woman from the bathroom sashayed over and leaned against the bar. Veronica hardly recognized her. She now wore the professional attire of a business woman: grayish slacks, a red blouse, and a gray suit jacket. She’d styled her hair into a chic ponytail and glossed her lips in red.
Remy and the woman locked eyes.
“She’s mine, Remy,” she said. “He said I can have her.”
He revealed his even, pearly teeth, his finger still tracing the rim of the glass. “Already tired of the other one?”
Unable to stand the crackling air between the two, Veronica slid from the stool. The woman placed her hands on her hips, blocking her escape with her elbow.
Remy smiled. “Not every female who strolls into Dark Sepulcher belongs to you, Alexis.”
Veronica made a mental note of the vampire’s name.
“But this little catch is stirring up the attention.” Her lips puckered.
“Oh, that’s it,” he said. “You just want to be the first to take her.”
Veronica eased sideways. They were playing a game to see who would be the first to have her. Well, she wasn’t going to be “had” by anyone.
She decided to leave. “Excuse me.” She slid past him with the intent to walk away.
“But we haven’t talked yet, researcher.” He tapped his index finger on the counter.
His comment stopped her in her tracks.
“Researcher?” Alexis visibly cringed at the mention of the word. “Well, then. You can have her.” She snarled her lip in distaste. “I don’t like them. Their blood tastes funny.”
“I’m not a researcher,” she blurted. Not like my father.
“Then who are you?” Remy asked, fixing her with his penetrating stare.
She ran toward the front exit, plowing through the crowd until she made it passed the security guards outside. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she drank fresh air in huge gulps.
She slowed her pace once she reached the corner.
Sloppy. Mom would never have acted like that.
As she continued her walk home, thoughts about her father’s warning before she left San Diego repeated over and over in her mind. He’d said she wasn’t ready to come back to Minneapolis. Nonsense.
She had to be.
The full moon filled the night sky. She zipped her jacket as the wind picked up. She turned her face to the wind and inhaled, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. Fall was the best time of year in Minnesota. She shoved her hands into her pockets and mounted the steps home.
