Quarter Moon- A Vamp City Novella

QUARTER MOON

A Vamp City Prequel

C.D. Brown

Quarter Moon by CD Brown

© 2015, 2018

Cover Design by Thais Lopes

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Worldwide Rights

Created in the United States of America

Published Gryphonwood Press | www.gryphonwoodpress.com

One

At one in the morning, Danny Johnson emerged from One Eyed Jacks with a slight wobble, ears buzzing from the music, sludgy local metal.  The band Suplecs rarely pummeled the French Quarter with their bruising rock, but still his wife Lily had little interest in the music. With no one to talk to in the club, Danny had occupied his mouth with bourbon and sodas.  Seven to be exact.

Doing his best sober impression, he staggered up Conti towards the Treme neighborhood and their newly acquired house, but he knew he was failing as his Doc Marten's clopped on the sidewalk in a heavy, unsteady rhythm.  He didn't worry as he was out of cash and carried no credit.  A mugging would only mean a few bruises.

But the large truck caught him off guard when it pulled up next to him.  He was used to people asking him for directions, since he cultivated a friendly look to draw in conversation, all part of his business.  He tried to focus his alcohol-soaked eyeballs on the young man leaning out of the passenger window.

Say, brah.  The man was Asian and Danny went through a characteristics check.  Not Japanese, no.  Vietnamese.  Yeah, that was it.  Where the vampires at?

The young man didn't speak the halting English of most of the local Viets, instead sounding like a true local, nasally and Brooklyn-esque,

What?

Brah, where the vampires at?

Danny, who usually had an answer for any question, stood dumbfounded.  The question was so ridiculous on its face.  Maybe it was the bourbon.  Yeah, this kid must be talking about some club or something.  Danny took a few steps toward the truck.

Okay, what club are you looking for?

The only club concerning the young man was the baseball bat he lifted up and pointed at Danny.

Brah, I'm asking where the vampires at?  You follow?

Danny held his hands up and backed into a parked car.  His lubricated vocal chords squeaked out, Decatur?

The truck's tires squealed and smoked as the driver floored it towards Rampart.  Danny, his head a little clearer, caught his breath and hurried home.

The Dungeon, a bar on Toulouse Street in the French Quarter, rested its reputation on the fact that it didn't open until midnight.  But this was only half true, because, although it stayed locked to the regular public until the strike of the witching hour, at seven in the evening there was an alternative clientele.

The Vampire Rehab and Gourmet Society held their weekly meetings within the windowless bar with short ceilings and gloomy side rooms.  They had finished giving their testimonial for this session, sharing their feelings about wanting to kill humans but refraining from it.  Fritz had even earned his five-year chip.  After the Serenity Prayer, the group walked to the front bar to try the new delicacies.  Chip fell in step with Fritz.

I am so sick of looking at your toes.  Could you please wear some shoes to the next meeting?

Fritz looked down at his Birkenstock sandals.  Nah.

Seriously, you're a vampire.  You can wear anything at any time, regardless of the weather.  But you choose to dress like a filthy hippie.

I resemble that remark.  Fritz gave a Groucho-style shuffle at his quip, then pointed at the black and white spectator shoes encasing Chip's feet.  Besides, I don't take orders from guidos.

Slander my people all you want, but check these puppies out.  He lifted his right foot up onto the seat of a bar stool.  These are vintage 1937, hand made in Hong Kong.  This shirt ...  He held up his hands to indicate the four-pocket white Cuban guyabera with snaky scarlet stitching.  ... comes from a master tailor in Calle Ocho, Miami.  And then a perfect black suit, Kenneth Cole, tailored to fit my never-expanding waist.  I'm just saying, you could be this classy.

You were a stock boy at The Progress Grocery when you were turned, not a mobster.

Class is not inherited, my friend.  It is learned.  Or, in your case, ignored.

Would you two quit it already?  Sophia brought two wine glasses filled with a viscous burgundy liquid.  Taste this.

Chip swirled and sniffed.  Wow, this is rich.

Yeah, Fritz said, swirling the blood over his tongue.  Earthy, grassy, with a ... mushroom finish?

Sophia nodded.  Hay-fed Tuscan truffle pigs.  The farmer gives them tastes from the haul.  Did you get the smoky highlights?

Chip tipped back the glass, swallowing a third of his portion.

Slow down, big boy.  It ain't the neck of a co-ed.  Sophia twisted her smile at him.

Sorry.  Chip ran his finger along his bottom lip.  It's just so good.

Fritz held back a laugh.  I can smell your class from here.

Can't smell worse than your feet!  Besides, you still have the human kind.

The Boss said ...

I know you follow the rules, but allow me my indulgences.  Chip, flushed with nutrients, looked on the verge of exposing fang.

Can it!  Chip, you have no right to judge Fritz.  And Fritz ... Sophia ran a hand along Chip's jaw.  This boy may be a French Quarter wop, but he's all mine.  She pulled him close and kissed him.

Fritz went to the jukebox and dropped some coins.  Soon Sugar Magnolia filled the air and he danced his marionette bop, pausing to tip his glass.

God, that music does not make me grateful to be dead.

Let him have it, Chippy.  He's just a kid.

After fifteen minutes of socializing and finishing the provided liquids, Sophia called for attention.  They had tried the truffle pig, which Chip insisted was better than Wagyu even if Sophia disagreed, then some local free range chicken blood and, as a palate cleanser, reduced sugar beet juice with lemon zest, but it was nearing midnight, so they had to clear out.

The Boss regrets he hasn't been around in a few months.  He's happy to hear reports about all of you and how you're working your way through his program.  He's been traveling around, trying to get other families to join in.

With varying degrees of success? Chip’s sarcasm solidified Sophia’s resilience.

His version of personal law is a tough sell.  He's glad all of you bought in.  She raised her hands above her head and the gathered vampires engaged a soothing chant that harmonized into a rumbling sound wave.  The walls vibrated at the top of the crescendo.  Relaxed by the convergence, Sophie clapped once.