Checking the steadiness of the two-foot wide concrete ledge with a swift kick of his black NK5 running shoes, Chuck Garcia nodded to the solid resistance before setting his foot firmly onto it. Ignoring the bickering behind him, he gazed out across the miles of tightly packed Los Angeles skyscrapers bunched like a fistful of glinting needles jammed into the night.
A primal fear — heights — churned in his undead guts as he shifted his weight forward.
Chuck gazed down the fifty-story building. Warm wind rushed car exhaust up the side. It whipped his black trench coat, black slacks, and violet silk tie gifted to him by North Lord Maze for his century of keeping peace up in Seattle. He eyed the cars honking in stop-and-go traffic far below.
He buttoned his coat to assure the silver stakes wouldn’t come into view until needed. And he would need them.
The fear inside turned to a full blown roil. Feel that, Chuck? He nodded to himself. That’s the good stuff.
The rumbling within twisted the corners of Chuck’s firm, bloodless lips breaking the grim line normally set above his wide, dimpled chin. Long idle, his sluggish blood lurched within his veins to light his muscles. Every iota of his vampiric might brimmed to fend for his life. He opened his mouth in to let his incisors fully distend.
Chuck glanced back across the gravel rooftop to the three dealers.
Peering at him from the shadows under the rooftop water tower — a sure sign of a vampire’s roost — near the fire exit at the center of the roof, they stood huddled close like Dixie court sycophants. Their bickering about rather to sell to him or not hushed to whispers. Even in the deep shadows, all three of their mouths glistened. Shine heads. A sneer scrunched Chuck’s nose. He let his contempt show.
Chuck said, “Boys, you got juice or no?”
The bulky, massive seven-foot tall vamp came from the shadows. He had the type of build that would’ve made him a lord of the fighting pits in the days before guns and flame throwers.
“Yeah.” Big Boy sounded groggy, like he’d just gotten up for the night. “We got juice.” Like most low-level L.A. Dragon-Turtles gang members, he only wore ragged blue jeans and scale tattoos covered every inch of his skin from his bald head to his bare feet. “What you got?”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Chuck dug his hands into his coat pockets. “Depends on how steeped your stuff is. Crap tokens for crap crimson.” He flashed two thin octangular copper coins, each good for eight nights of safe roost and feed at any of Dolgun’s EDM Clubs along the west coast. He stashed them away.
Given the man’s size, Chuck guessed Big Boy would appreciate strength the most so he thought about producing his blue fleck of giant’s blood. But that would make Big Boy have to get closer and Chuck wanted to keep the shine head as far away as possible for as long as possible.
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