Deamhan (3 page)

Stunned, Veronica froze.

The other woman squatted over the toilet with legs spread, her underwear tangled around her left ankle. Her tight red shirt bunched above her full breasts, revealing pale, perky nipples and a tight torso. As she stared at Veronica, her lips twisted into a half-grimace, half-grin, and then she let her legs fall farther apart, proudly showing Veronica her shiny, bright pink tissue.

The African American woman inhaled deeply.

“Mmmm.” Her eyes bored into Veronica’s. “Your scent is intoxicating.” She curled her upper lip into a snarl and jerked her thumb toward the squatting woman. ”Better than this whore.” She cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and sniffed the air again.

“You’re a virgin,” she cooed. “Untainted.”

When she smiled again, Veronica noticed the blood on her lower fangs. She took a step back toward the door, her hand hidden behind her, frantically searching the air for the knob.

“Hey,” the squatter snapped, crossing her legs. “She’s mine.” She wrapped her arms around her bloody-toothed partner’s waist, and pulled her back into the stall.

Veronica slid another step backward. The door loomed in the corner of her eye. It seemed a million miles away.

 “Tell her, tell her you’re mine,” the woman demanded as she jumped to her feet. “Tell her!”

“Shut up.” The African American woman’s command immediately silenced her lackey. She turned to Veronica. “What’s your name, honey?”

Her voice felt sensuous in Veronica’s ears, and her eyelids felt heavy. Veronica could feel her inching closer, and though she knew she had to move, part of her wanted to stay. The woman opened her mouth as if to smile, and her tongue languished out, slowly licking the blood from her teeth.

Veronica’s fingers grasped the doorknob; she jerked open the door and fled into the club.

“Where’re you going, baby?” the throaty voice called behind her.

The slamming of the bathroom door silenced her laughter.

Veronica rushed back to her table, her heart pounding out a cadence in rhythm with her hurried steps. What she learned on her own about the different kinds of Deamhan ran through her mind again now, in an effort to calm herself.

 For centuries their kind went unnamed. 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.  The Brotherhood labeled them as the strongest of the Deamhan.

Considered sexual whores, 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.

The Metusba, the quiet of all the Deamhan, fed off the psychic energy contained in their victim’s auras. They stood in the crowds without the need to be up and close with their victims and they drained only what they needed, nothing less and nothing more.

While the Metusba walked among the crowds, the Lugat slithered, feeding 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 they differed in feeding habits, they all died the same; beheadings, staking, starvation, and sunlight.

 “Hey!” The waitress again appeared in front of Veronica, stopping her in her tracks.

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. Maybe she’ll think I’ve been dancing. The air around her felt thick and heavy.

“You okay?” the waitress asked.

“I need a drink.”

“Another whiskey?”

Veronica nodded, and the waitress disappeared into the crowd. Veronica held her breath to calm her rapid breathing in hopes the adrenaline coursing through her body would dissipate. The pulsating bass emanating from the speakers grew louder and more intense, causing her to rub her temples. The dancer from the bathroom had returned to the stage, now even more scantily clad in a short skirt with white electrical tape X’ed over her nipples, dancing in gymnastic gyrations.

The crowd’s movement grew violent, with patrons pushing and shoving. The throng morphed into a mosh pit, and Veronica wondered how long it would take before someone was crushed. 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 Veronica could hardly make out the waitress as she returned, carrying a shot of whiskey.

“Here ya go.” She handed Veronica 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 asked. Veronica nodded, and the waitress left. Veronica dropped her face to her hands, trying to readjust. Damn, this is harder than I thought it’d be. Her mind raced: hide your thoughts, don’t show fear, stick to the plan.

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 is reading my thoughts.

The waitress returned with two drinks. She placed them in front of Veronica.

“Uh, thanks?” Veronica couldn’t recall ordering two whiskeys, but she pulled out a ten.

“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 pierced nipples and a six-pack. Beautiful.

He stared at Veronica 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. Veronica 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 shut her eyes and concentrated on emptying her mind. The pain diffused into a mild tingling.

Veronica snapped her eyes open when a male voice told her to not be afraid. She whipped around, but no one was near.

The voice came from within her head.

“It’s okay,” the voice said.

She looked at the man, who still fixed her in his stare, and he slid from his seat and headed her way.

She dropped her head and stared at the counter. She fought the urge to fling her glass at him and run. Leaving Dark Sepulcher wouldn’t answer the questions about her mother’s disappearance. Don’t think of Mom. She quickly visualized the brick wall.

“Your thoughts stick out,” the man said, taking the empty stool next to her.

His penetrating stare caused Veronica’s head to tingle again, but the tingle stopped as quickly as it started. She’d clouded his attempt to rummage through her mind.

Veronica cupped the whiskey glass and stared into its glowing liquid.

“Beautiful women like you shouldn’t drink whiskey.”

What a line. His respectful approach did nothing to impress Veronica. The Deamhan were naturally devious.

Veronica remained quiet. The stranger smiled and reached for the glass, grasping it from the rim and placing it front of him.

“I’m trying to start a conversation,” he prompted.

From the corner of her eye, Veronica saw him examine her. His eyes roved her short, formal straight brunette hair, her face, and finally her hands. Even over the din of music, she could hear him inhale her virginal scent. She tried hard to block her thoughts from him, but the tingle told her she was failing.

“You should know it turns me on when you do that,” he said.

She glanced at him, making eye contact for a second and then quickly looked away. He mumbled something, but his voice was too low for her to hear over the blaring speakers.

Veronica’s thoughts caught his attention again, and he leaned back on the stool, studying her.

Veronica understood now how a woman could fall for a man like that. 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.”

Veronica 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?”

Remy. The name sounded too familiar. Veronica recalled the name listed somewhere on the documents she’d stolen from The Brotherhood. His name was just one of the many that stuck out to her but at the moment she couldn’t remember why.

She fixed her thoughts on her napkin, staring at the condensation ring left by the wet glass. Still her mind wouldn’t quiet. What Deamhan type is he? Until she knew which, she couldn’t be sure of his level of threat. She couldn’t get too close.

Despite herself, she stole a quick look in his direction.

He flashed a ready smile.

Teeth aren’t sharp and pointy. He’s not a Ramanga. She stared again at her drink, wiping the droplets of water from the side of her glass.

“Am I scaring you?” Remy’s voice interrupted Veronica’s thoughts. 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, pale finger. “You’re new here.”

Veronica wanted to check him out but knew she should avoid his eye. She looked over her shoulder and then at the ceiling. She glanced at the sticky floor and 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 Veronica’s shoulder.

The dark woman from the bathroom sashayed over and leaned against the bar on the other side of Veronica.

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.

Veronica felt a fierce, electrical tension emanating from the two, and glanced back and forth between them. The woman smirked, and Remy smiled nonchalantly.

“She’s mine, Remy,” she said. “He said I can have her.”

Remy revealed his even, pearly teeth, his finger still tracing the rim of the glass. “Already tired of the other one?” he asked.

Unable to stand the crackling air between the two, Veronica slid from the stool.

The woman placed her hands on her hips, blocking Veronica’s 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,” Remy 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.

“Please sit.” Remy respectfully motioned to Veronica. “Don’t let Alexis scare you.”

Leaving again entered Veronica’s mind. If I ran, would they stop me? Alexis seemed to be the more violent of the two. Remy appeared relaxed and comfortable in the mini-altercation. Veronica wondered how easy it was for them to sense her discomfort. She decided to leave.

“Excuse me.” Veronica slid past Remy, intending to walk away.

Remy reached out his arm, blocking her path. “But we haven’t talked yet, researcher.” Remy tapped his index finger on the counter.

His comment stopped Veronica 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 researchers. Their blood tastes funny.”

A cold chill blew up Veronica’s spine. Try as he might, Veronica couldn’t allow herself to be associated with The Brotherhood. She was not a researcher, her father made sure of that. He kept her away from it, shielding her just enough to tell her what she needed to know. Even if her father wanted her to follow in her mother’s footsteps, Veronica wouldn’t allow herself to be used in the way that her mother was. The bad memories of The Brotherhood were fresh in the execrable minds of the vampires and Deamhan alike. She couldn’t risk allowing Remy to peg her with the title of “researcher”, thus immediately black-listing her in the club—and in the city.

“I’m not a researcher,” she blurted. Not like my father.

“Then who are you?” Remy asked, fixing her with his penetrating stare.

She buried the important pieces from her memory like names, cities, places, and the reason why she came to Dark Sepulcher from her mind.

“What? What is it?” Alexis asked Remy. “What do you see?”

Remy smirked. “Nothing now.”

“That’s why she interests you?” Alexis rolled her eyes. “Because she knows how to hide her thoughts unlike the whores you prefer?”

Remy tilted his head to the side, still studying Veronica.

“That should make you want to kill her even more.” Alexis turned her body toward Veronica, gloating over the fear she saw in her eyes.

“Now, now, Alexis,” Remy said softly, “let’s give Veronica a chance to explain.”