Dead until Dark

I was carded at the door by a vampire. Of course, she recognized Bill as one of her own kind and acknowledged him with a cool nod, but she scanned me intently. Chalky pale, as all Caucasian vampires are, she was eerily striking in her long black dress with its trailing sleeves. I wondered if the overdone "vampire" look was her own inclination, or if she'd just adopted it because the human patrons thought it appropriate.

"I haven't been carded in years," I said, fishing in my red purse for my driver's license. We were standing in a little boxy entrance hall.

"I can no longer tell human ages, and we must be very careful we serve no minors. In any capacity," she said with what was probably meant to be a genial smile. She cast a sideways look at Bill, her eyes flicking up and down him with an offensive interest. Offensive to me, at least.

"I haven't seen you in a few months," she said to him, her voice as cool and sweet as his could be.

"I'm mainstreaming," he explained, and she nodded.

what wereYOU telling her?" I whispered as we walked down the short hall and through the red double doors into the main room.

"That I'm trying to live among humans."

I wanted to hear more, but then I got my first comprehen­sive look at Fangtasia's interior. Everything was in gray, black, and red. The walls were lined with framed pictures ofevery movie vampire who had shown fangs on the silver screen, from Bela Lugosi to George Hamilton to Gary Old-man, from famous to obscure. The lighting was dim, of course, nothing unusual about that; what was unusual was the clientele. And the posted signs.

The bar was full. The human clients were divided among vampire groupies and tourists. The groupies (fang-bangers, they were called) were dressed in their best finery. It ranged from the traditional capes and tuxes for the men to many Morticia Adams ripoffs among the females. The clothes ranged from reproductions of those worn by Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise in Interview with the Vampire to some modern outfits that I thought were influenced by The Hunger. Some of the fang-bangers were wearing false fangs, some had painted trickles of blood from the corners of their mouths or puncture marks on their necks. They were extraordinary, and extraordinarily pathetic.

The tourists looked like tourists anywhere, maybe more adventurous than most. But to enter into the spirit of the bar, they were nearly all dressed in black like the fang-bangers. Maybe it was part of a tour package? "Bring some black for your exciting visit to a real vampire bar! Follow the rules, and you'll be fine, catching a glimpse of this exotic under­world."

Strewn among this human assortment, like real jewels in a bin of rhinestones, were the vampires, perhaps fifteen of them. They mostly favored dark clothes, too.

I stood in the middle of the floor, looking around me with interest and amazement and some distaste, and Bill whis­pered, "You look like a white candle in a coal mine."

I laughed, and we strolled through the scattered tables to the bar. It was the only bar I'd ever seen that had a case of warmed bottled blood on display. Bill, naturally, ordered one, and I took a deep breath and ordered a gin and tonic. The bartender smiled at me, showing me that his fangs had shot out a little at the pleasure of serving me. I tried to smile back and look modest at the same time. He was an American Indian, with long coal black straight hair and a craggy nose, a straight line of a mouth, and a whippy build.

"How's it going, Bill?" the bartender asked. "Long time, no see. This your meal for the night?" He nodded toward me as he put our drinks on the bar before us.

"This is my friend Sookie. She has some questions to ask."

"Anything, beautiful woman," said the bartender, smiling once again. I liked him better when his mouth was the straight line.

"Have you seen this woman, or this one, in the bar?" I asked, drawing the newspaper photos of Maudette and Dawn from my purse. "Or this man?" With a jolt of misgiving, I pulled out my brother's picture.

"Yes to the women, no to the man, though he looks de­licious," said the bartender, smiling at me again. "Your brother, perhaps?"

"Yes."

"What possibilities," he whispered.

It was lucky I'd had extensive practice in face control. "Do you remember who the women hung around with?"

"That's something I wouldn't know," he replied quickly, his face closing down. "That's something we don't notice, here. You won't, either."

"Thank you," I said politely, realizing I'd broken a bar rule. It was dangerous to ask who left with whom, evidently. "I appreciate your taking the time."

He looked at me consideringly. "That one," he said, pok­ing a finger at Dawn's picture, "she wanted to die."

"How do you know?"

"Everyone who comes here does, to one extent or an­other," he said so matter-of-factly I could tell he took that for granted. "That is what we are. Death."