Saying Goodbye to the Sun Read online

  Kagan continued to smile, but Carl’s expression grew hard and cold. “I promise you, Vincent,” he said, “before this night is over you will beg me to kill you.” I didn’t doubt a word of it. “But long before that time comes, you will gladly tell me where to find Raine.”

  The name Raine jumped out of his statement and shone in my mind like a lighthouse at midnight. I knew that name. I remembered it. All at once Kagan and Carl disappeared and all I could see was her face. I remembered dancing with her, and a long kiss under a streetlight. My arms ached to hold her again. The power of that longing squeezed tears from my eyes as more and more, I remembered the events of the previous night. How could I have forgotten? What was wrong with my mind?

  Then I realized who Carl was. He was the other person in the alley, the one I ran into. Only then he hadn’t been made of the steel I felt hit the back of my head. Then he’d been soft flesh and bone, vulnerable, and without the crushing sense of fear that twisted my guts when I looked at him. Why was he so much more potent now?

  Then it hit me. In the alley last night, I hadn’t thought; I’d simply acted. There wasn’t time to think about anything. That’s the difference, isn’t it?

  The Raine in my vision smiled, the sun coming from behind a silver cloud. It was all the answer I needed.

  Without a conscious thought, I put my feet under me and stood. As soon as I was vertical the vision of Raine began to dissipate like the morning mist at sunrise. The ominous figures of Carl and Kagan loomed in front of me, and I realized that I’d only seen that image in my mind; it had never really been there at all.

  Real or not, it got me to my feet. And by the look on the two faces near me, that was not in their plans. They stared at me in disbelief. Gone were Carl’s black eyes and the cold fear that flowed from them. Gone was the chill of the grave that had pinned me to the sidewalk like an entomologist’s specimen. What was left were two very surprised looking men who, by the looks on their faces, might be feeling some of the same fear I’d felt a minute before.

  For a split second, I thought about trying to take them down then and there, but common sense stayed my hand. There had been no sense of fear when I’d encountered Kagan in the alley a while ago, and he’d still nearly spread me across the walls like jelly. What chance would I have against the pair of them? Particularly if Carl could make himself as tough and hard as Kagan. None at all, of course. I had about as much chance of taking the pair of them out as a snowman has of retiring in the Caribbean. I surprised them, that’s it. Soon they would regain their sense of control, then they would most likely start pounding away. And what would be left of me when they were done? Probably not much more than a red smear on this sidewalk that, come morning, might not even resemble blood anymore. I wondered for another half a second if I would feel the people walking on my earthly remains from the afterlife. I didn’t want to find out.

  While all that abstract thought has certainly taken a little while to write, I assure you it took only a few seconds to think, and so in less than the time it took my heart to beat twice, I broke the stillness of the scene and dashed into the street. My sudden movement caused the pair of them to blink back their surprise. The looks on their faces changed from disbelief to anger.

  “Get him!” Carl shouted, and with an angry growl from Kagan they took up the chase.

  I ran for all I was worth back in the direction of The Eye, thinking perhaps a very public place such as a nightclub would be a better alternative than trying to lose them in the back streets and alleys of my own neighborhood. I could have gone to JoAnn’s, of course, but Kagan had already been there and I didn’t think he’d have any qualms about going in again. Not only that, I didn’t want to take the chance that Rose might be there. She didn’t deserve to get involved in this, too. The Eye was the only other place in the vicinity I could count on to be sufficiently occupied. I made a beeline for it, running faster than I ever thought possible. It seemed like my feet only touched the ground once or twice the whole way. When I saw the doors I almost sighed with relief. I doubted they would follow me inside, and even if they did, there would be too many people in there for them to try anything.

  I ran so fast, in fact, that the pair lost interest in the chase. They must have figured out where I was going and realized they would not be able to catch me before I arrived. By the time I reached the club, neither Sanders nor Kagan were anywhere to be seen, which suited me just fine. I smiled, thinking I’d bought myself some time. After wiping my face as clean as possible with my shirt, I stepped up to the bouncer, grateful for the dim light, as it did wonders to hide the blood on my clothes.

  I was right about one thing: neither Sanders nor Kagan dared set foot in The Eye, no matter how much they wanted me. If I’d known why, I might have steered clear of it, too.

  That’s hindsight for you. Twenty fucking twenty.

  Chapter Eight

  The Eye

  I paid the bouncer – a huge, muscular guy everybody just called Rock – the cover and walked into the club holding my left arm close to my body. Rock asked if I was OK, but I ignored him and went straight to the bathroom to assess the damage to my clothes and person.

  I sighed in heartfelt thanks when I found that, for the moment, I was the only person in the Men’s room. No telling how long my luck would hold, so I set about washing Grabby’s blood off my face, arms and hands. As I did, I discovered an astonishing fact; my arm barely hurt at all. Neither did my ribs. In fact, I felt fine, as if nothing had been broken. As an experiment, I lifted my arm out to the side and moved it back and forth, looking like a mimed impression of a puppet with a broken string.

  No pain. Nothing. I took a deep, hesitant breath, filling my lungs and stretching my ribcage. No pain there, either. Had I only imagined that I’d broken them? As far as I knew, broken bones didn’t just heal themselves in a matter of minutes; they took weeks, and required casts and bracing. Could I have only imagined the broken bones? Probably. I had been pretty wired at the time. Thinking you are about to die can do that to a man, or so I am told. After the kind of night I had, I could have imagined just about anything.

  The issue conveniently dismissed, I appraised my appearance in the mirror. My face, hands and arms were now clean, but my polo shirt was a train wreck. Blood from Grabby’s jaw covered the front of it like splatter paint. There was no salvaging it, so I took it off, hoping the blood would not have soaked through to the black Harley Davidson T-shirt underneath. Some blood had indeed soaked through, but not much. The little bit that was there had mostly dried and would be difficult to see against the black cotton T-shirt, especially in the ever-changing lighting of the club.

  I couldn’t do anything about the crotch of my pants, still damp with piss. The result of my paralyzing fear of Sanders. Hopefully I’d be able to find a seat at a table before someone noticed the wet spot. I dried them as best I could with some paper towels by the sink, threw the bloody shirt into the trash, and walked back into the club, wanting nothing more than a good stiff drink and a few hours’ time to sit and think.

  The Eye was divided into two levels, connected by two identical stairwells on both the right and left wall. On the lower level, the far wall was completely taken up by the bar, a huge black marble monstrosity that stretched the entire way across the room. At first glance you would think it must have been several pieces as it was so large there was no way it would fit through the door. Upon closer inspection, however, you realized that it was, in fact, a single, huge piece of marble. The owner of the club, a genial monster of a man who went by the name of Bandy, had been asked time and time again how he’d gotten it inside, and each time he’d sworn to take the secret to his grave.

  Behind the bar sat a dazzling array of bottles. This is nothing spectacular in itself; most bars display the brands they carry in such a manner. What dazzled about it was the sheer volume of bottles on display. They had everything there. All manners of bourbon, whiskey, rum, scotch, vodka, gin, beer, wine, and cognac (i
ncluding, of course, Courvoisier), plus a few other liquors many people have never even heard of; Sai, Saki, some Middle Eastern brew I have never been able to pronounce, and many, many more. You name it, The Eye had it. All told there were not fifty, or even a hundred, but over one thousand different types of alcohol available behind the bar, as well as a few that were only available under it, if you take my meaning.

  During the wee hours, when things at The Eye really got festive, the lights from the club would bounce off all those bottles and cover the entire room with a stunning display of reflected and refracted points of light that exploded across the floor, painting everyone in the room with a brilliant, sparkling coat of shifting color. It really was quite a sight, and was one of the reasons the club had become so popular.

  Also on the lower level was a glass dance floor surrounded on all sides by tables. The dance floor of The Eye was nearly as striking a feature as the black marble bar. Lit from underneath by thousands of multicolored lights capable of flashing on and off in an amazing number of patterns, it rivaled the light from the bottles and often pulsed and swirled to the rhythm of the music. Sitting at one of the floor-side tables and watching the crowds of undulating, shifting people dance as the lights from bar and floor caressed their bodies could only be described as hypnotic. It’s why I started going there in the first place; for the visuals.

  Even though the floor held such a huge number of lights, I never saw one that had burned out. The bartender once told me Bandy obsessed about his dance floor, and maintained it with meticulous pride. He made sure it was always fully functional and never a disappointment to his guests. Having seen Bandy moving around the floor on a busy night, staring at the lights under the glass, I believed him.

  I guess that’s what clued me in to the fact that something was wrong. As I walked to an empty table near the edge of the dance floor, I noted several burned-out bulbs. Perhaps Bandy was on vacation, and thus unable to give his dance floor its twice-nightly inspection. I felt sorry for whoever was running the club in his absence. When he returned to see that a dozen of his lights had gone black, someone would likely lose their job.

  On the upper level resided another bar, though not as spectacular in appearance or selection, and more tables. The center of the upper level was open to allow those above to view the people on the dance floor below. These were the most popular tables in the club, and on any given night the tables around the railing would be full of college guys staring down the tops of the women on the dance floor. At one such table sat a group of Bandy’s buddies, who were talking among themselves when I walked into the club. One of them, a weasel-faced little guy named Drake, seemed pretty upset. When he turned to point at one of the dead bulbs I figured he was the one Bandy left in charge and was probably pissed about the lights.

  His hand froze in mid track as his eyes settled on me, and a shiver went up my spine. He stared at me, watching as I made my way across the floor to the table. His beady, rodent eyes fixed on me like a reptile watching its prey. What the hell was his problem? Hadn’t I been through enough already? I gave the table right next to the dance floor a pass and chose an empty one in a far corner instead, both to get away from angry stares and because, upon further reflection, it occurred to me that with a pissy crotch, I’d be better off away from all the action, anyway.

  The waitress, a very attractive redhead whom I had never seen before, came by and informed me that the specials that night were Top Shelf Long Island Iced Tea and Screwdrivers. I had no use for either, and asked her to bring me a Jim Beam on the rocks. She smiled and told me she’d be right back with it, and on her way by she casually bumped my shoulder with her hip. When I looked up, she shot me a wink and then went to fetch my bourbon.

  She returned a few minutes later with a glass and two cocktail napkins, one of which she placed under the glass, the other she put in my hand. On it was the name “Theresa,” as well as a phone number. She flashed me another smile, told me she got off at four o’clock, and then proceeded to get the orders from a table of rowdy college-aged guys a few tables over. One of them gave her shapely ass a little squeeze, which earned him a shot on the arm from one of his buddies and a scalding look from Theresa. I stuck the napkin in my pocket and forgot about it, having bigger things to worry about than a quick score with a hot redhead.

  Other than the usual crowd of dancers and drinkers going on about their business, there really wasn’t much going on in The Eye that night. I took a few deep breaths and started to relax, and the suffocating tension and fear began to roll off me in waves. Until then I hadn’t realized how much of it there’d been. As my muscles and my mind eased, my thoughts turned to Raine, and wondered how in the Hell I could have forgotten her.

  I thought back to the night before when she’d poured me glass after glass of cognac. It seemed obvious now that she was trying to get me drunk. I guess I could understand why; she wouldn’t want me at my full senses when she told me her secret. It made sense, and yet it didn’t. Why would she need me to be drunk when she told me she was a…what was it again? Oh, yes, Bachyir. Which was actually just another word for a Vampire. For that matter, why would she tell me something like that, anyway? Did she actually think I’d believe it? Was that the reason for the booze? To make my mind more pliable? If so, it didn’t work. I didn’t believe a word of it, not even when she did that trick with the chair, which I could only barely remember.

  Then I thought about the crucifix, and how Kagan had died. Really died. I saw the fucking body! The fact that the supposedly dead Kagan was somewhere outside the club even now, probably waiting for me to come out again, scared the shit out of me. Obviously, he was something other than human. But if he wasn’t human, what the Hell was he? He couldn’t be a vampire, could he? Grabby’s throat had been ripped open, and Kagan’s lips were red with blood that ran down his chin. True, I didn’t see any fangs on him, and weren’t vampires supposed to have fangs? Further proof he couldn’t be a vampire. But how was he still alive?

  And what about this man, Carl? I had seen fangs on him. I didn’t doubt that for a minute. They had reduced me to a whimpering mess. Granted they could have been fake; you can buy stuff like that on any street corner in New York twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. OK, so they didn’t look fake, but what did I know about fangs and vampires, anyway? Nothing.

  I couldn’t explain the debilitating fear that pinned me to the sidewalk when I looked up and saw Carl standing over me, though. In fact, I’m really not certain I can explain it now. I’d never felt anything like it before. When Carl looked down on me with those empty, bottomless eyes, every positive emotion drained from my body. Hope, love, happiness, everything. All that remained was the bad stuff. Fear, hopelessness, despair. I sensed the terrible fear of wandering through the darkness and the uncertainty of knowing it would never end; the darkness would go on forever. My life as I knew it over, nothing left but ash and dust for all time.

  No matter that I could explain away Kagan’s savagery, or Carl’s fangs, or even Raine’s theatrics. There was no getting around the raw fear that emanated from him and enveloped me like a freezing mist. I had only to look down at the wet spot in my pants to realize just how bad he scared me. It served as a poignant reminder that I hadn’t dreamed it all up. It really happened.

  But what would cause it? I had no idea. None of it made sense. The terrible fear, the fangs, Grabby’s throat, Raine’s stunts, Kagan being dead but then not dead. For that matter, the things I’d done myself didn’t really add up, either. Throwing up my breakfast for no reason, the hamburger meat. And just where, pray tell, had I found the strength to crush a man’s wrist to splinters with my bare hands? Hand, I reminded myself, I did it with one hand. Where had that come from? How did it fit in with the rest of it?

  It didn’t. None of it fit. None of it added up. It just didn’t make sense.

  Unless…

  …unless Raine was telling the truth.

  The thought hit me like a slap, and
I dropped my glass. It shattered on the floor, sending bourbon, ice, and shards of glass in all directions, but I didn’t notice. My thoughts had gone back to that night Raine met me by the streetlight. She kissed me, long and hard, right there on the sidewalk. I got lost in the passion of it, yet as wonderful as it was, there was something odd about it, too. A taste that hid behind her kiss, slipping in almost unnoticed.

  Blood, I realized with a start. That’s what I tasted. Fucking blood!

  I let out a slow, steadying breath. Could it be? Could Raine really be a vampire? Or a Bachyir? Or whatever it was they called themselves? For the first time, I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, the idea wasn’t so absurd, after all. Maybe Raine really was a…

  “Had a little accident, here?” A sharp, high voice cut into my thoughts and scattered them like the shards of my glass. I looked up to see Drake standing in front of me, accompanied by four of Bandy’s buddies. He looked down at the broken glass and shook his head. Then he raised his face to look at me. The smile on his face didn’t look friendly at all.

  “Had a little too much, sir?” He asked. “It happens.”

  I was just about to tell him I hadn’t had anything at all. Not even a sip. One look at his face told me to save my breath, though. He was no more concerned about the glass than I was. This was about me, not how much I’d had to drink. I had a feeling I was about to be invited to a little back room in the club where Drake and his cronies would ask me some questions. Maybe he’d seen the blood on my shirt and had taken it upon himself to figure out who’s it was and how it got there.

  “I’m afraid, sir,” Drake continued, his polite words mocked by the sarcastic tone of his voice, “I will have to ask you to come with me to the back, where we’ll call a taxi to see you safely home.” The knowing smile hiding just behind his eyes told me that the last thing on Drake’s mind was calling me a cab.