The Last True Vampire(3)

Michael Aristov was the last of the Ancient Ones, untethered and soulless, the lone remaining carrier of the collective memory, and the sole guardian of an orphaned race.

And if he didn’t feed soon, he would be the death of them all.

* * *

Claire Thompson spread the wad of bills out on the table, smoothing the crumpled edges, and put them in order, largest to smallest. She promised herself this would be her last hustle, just this once until she picked up more hours at the diner. Without the three hundred dollars she’d won off those guys at the pool tables, she wouldn’t have been able to make her rent. And there was no way in hell she was living out of her car again.

Truth be told, there was nothing like easy money. The hours at the diner were hard. Her feet ached every day, she was always tired, and half of her customers were filthy letches or undertipping assholes. She was good at hustling and it took a hell of lot less effort than balancing five plates of eggs and hash browns in one hand while trying not to spill the pot of coffee in her other. But she’d made a vow to herself that she was going to walk the straight and narrow from here on out. Well, from tomorrow on out. Tonight was about making her rent and getting the cash she needed for at least a week’s worth of groceries. Los Angeles was a jungle. Survival of the fittest, kill or be killed, all of that law of the wild crap counted here, and she wasn’t about to be culled from the herd because she couldn’t take care of herself.

Claire stared across the street, observing the circus that had begun to set up camp at Diablo, the newest hot-spot nightclub. The neon sign glowed bloodred in the encroaching darkness and the lineup of party girls waiting to go inside were a spectacle in and of themselves. What in god’s name would possess a woman to leave her house dressed like a sexy stuffed animal? Tall furry boots, shorter-than-short micromini skirts, and bikini tops weren’t enough for these hard-core partiers’ outfits. Nope. They topped it all off with pointy-eared furry hats and little fluffy tails that stuck out from the backs of their too-short skirts.#p#分页标题#e#

Gag.

However … with the drum and bass EDM party scene came a set of recreational drugs that would make a lot of them easy prey for a skilled pickpocket like Claire. And this wasn’t the usual down-and-out crowd you came across in the Valley. The clientele who frequented Diablo tonight consisted of overprivileged, spoiled-rotten daddy’s girls and unambitious trust fund boys. None of them would miss a diamond tennis bracelet or gold watch. They probably had drawers full of them at home. A single score would set her up for a couple of months. It was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Besides, after tonight she was going straight.

She looked down at her worn skinny jeans, simple black tee, and cheap Payless heels. Not exactly the type of grade-A hottie who made it past the velvet rope, especially when she was contending with a horde of plushies, all sucking on pacifiers—probably laced with Molly—in a way that would tempt Freud from the grave. Ew.

There were other ways to get into a nightclub, though. She didn’t need to look like a teddy-bear hooker to get past the gatekeepers. That’s what back doors were for. Claire stuffed all but a hundred bucks of her cash into her pocket and headed out of the pool hall and across the street. She passed up the line of clubbers at the front entrance and strolled to the back of the building as though she belonged there. That was the trick to sneaking around: Never look like you’re sneaking. A twentysomething guy in a red T-shirt with Diablo scrawled across the front in black script was standing outside the rear exit smoking a cigarette. He eyed Claire with suspicion, taking her in from head to toe. She smiled as though she’d known the guy for years, and tucked the two fifties against her right palm. Indecision gave her pause, and her step faltered as she headed up to the door. If she didn’t score inside, she’d be out a hundred bucks and she’d have to go out tomorrow night to make up the extra cash. Which would totally shoot to shit her vow to make tonight her last night.

“Hey,” she said to the guy at the door. “Sup?”

“The line to get in is around the corner,” he replied on an exhalation of smoke.

Claire kept the friendly smile plastered on her face no matter how badly the smell made her stomach lurch. Scent and memory were closely tied, unfortunately, and Claire had a lot of shitty memories to dredge up. “Oh, I know,” she said, and stretched out her right hand. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Janae.” Rule of the hustle number one: Never give your real name.