Misting drizzle soaked Roseland streets, automobiles splashed through puddles, and the city whispered to the night. Deep percussions shook stone walls, razoring up fire escapes, the muted music calling youth to the door of Club Necropolis. Heads nodded to the beat. A young woman shrilled and wrapped arms around another waiting in line for the big man to frisk them at the door.
The big, bad doorman, Axe, they called him, his scrutinizing gaze cut as sharp as his head gleamed bald. Nobody gets by the guardian dressed all in black without club membership or great tits. ɘniИ had on her slinky, red dress, but she feared her boobs weren’t quite enough for bad-ass, Mister Axe.
A name. That was all that she needed. Dancing was always a treat, but tonight the thought of capturing the right name set her groove in motion.
Spotting her new best friend waiting nearby, ɘniИ skipped the line and hurried to meet Tigris, or Tiger as her friends called her, and they were friends until the end. Returning her greeting, Tiger clawed at the air and growled in an endearing way.
With a wave, Tiger showed ɘniИ to the doorman. A nod and a smile, they were in! The doors opened, and singing guitars, heavy beat of drums called to them. Grooving to the beat they descended the steel stairs into white mist cloaking a sea of writhing bodies.
Club Necropolis, a lively contradiction in vampire worship.
Hunting. Not for a delicious man, although several tempting treats called for a caress, but tonight they hunted a little man, part of the trail leading to a certain thief. Watching Tiger prowl the dance floor was like watching a dangerous feline stalking her prey on the savanna. She blended in, slinking to the motion, dancing with each person in turn, making her way towards the stage.
Electric heat met cool mist. An operatic cry, undulating, guitars singing to the demons. Thunder. Dancing to the music was sex before the kiss.
At the edge of the stage, a small man played his guitar to a frenzy of screaming women. Tiger looked over her shoulder and motioned up at the guitarist. This was our man. ɘniИ squeezed in close behind as Tiger pressed her way through the storm of swinging hips and waving neon bracelets. The guitarist released a fury of sound and stomped with the crowd to the drummer’s beat.
Spotting Tiger, the man with the guitar shrank back a step, his instrument burping and squelching.
The girl with the feline name climbed onto the stage to the delight of two men sneaking peeks up her dress.
A shrill cry, and the guitar broke into a sputter as the prey fled behind the fat man with the bass guitar. Tiger chased after, and the band continued the beat. ɘniИ worked her way through the crowd. On the run, the man handed his guitar to the blue-haired vocalist. She shouldered the instrument without missing a word and played like her life depended on it.
Fists pumping the air, the audience cheered.
ɘniИ exploded from the crowd and jazzed her way between islands of dancing pairs. Spotting the fleeing guitarist shouting up at a bouncer in black, she cut in his direction. The bouncer laughed. Tiger dove off the stage and body surfed the currents, tapping arms and pointing her direction. Slipping free, she found her feet and met ɘniИ shooting for their prey.
Up the stairs the two chased their man out the main door.
And there he was, held up in the air by big, bad-ass Axe. The doorman released the catch into Tiger’s claws.
“Hey, Tiger,” said the musician, quivering. “Nice kitty. Yeah?”
“Little man,” said Tiger. She ran her finger down his chest. “We were curious to know if you’ve overheard anything about a big score.”
“Yo, Tiger, you know I’m not into that scene anymore.”
ɘniИ approached Axe and smiled. Taking hold of his shoulder, she climbed up and planted a thank-you kiss on his cheek. Slipping back down, she gave him a pat on the butt along with her best call-me smile.
Tiger poked her prey in the chest. “Still have ears don’t ya?”
“Hey, yo, maybe I, uh, overhead some shit. Uh, you’re still not into the biting thing, am I right?”
“Okay, nice Tiger,” said the guitarist. He held a hand up, palm open. “Old Town is buzzing about cracking the code. Vampire Ice, yo! So cold it packs a punch nearly as hard as authentic vampire venom, but with sky high blues. Royal bitchen ice, so I hear. For reals, kitty-cat gal.”
“Give me a name,” said Tiger.
“Marcus. Ask for Jon Marcus.”
Now they had a name of the thief responsible for the stolen drug. ɘniИ felt pleased with her new friend, Tiger. Pleased as punch. Best of friends until the end, or at least until she held that secret to imitation venom.