B.C. Sirrom

Beo stood by the bar. Sitting in her short white dress was a bad idea. While waiting for the bartender's attention she surveyed the mob. Of course, she knew everything that she would see. But the difference between her sense and sight was the same as reading the chemical compound H2-0 and watching a waterfall. There were no true vampires on the dance floor, though one woman in black leather was pretty convincing. Beo ‘sensed’ a vampire in the balcony along with his guards, but couldn’t ‘see’ him, probably Michael, the bar owner and chief of the territory of Detroit. Several more were scattered in the dark corridors that tunneled secretly below the dance floor. The only other vampire nearby was the bartender, pretending to be blandly human. He was failing spectacularly. He was six foot six of marble splendor. He had a warrior’s frame without being overly muscled. His ink black hair was buzzed close to his scalp and his face was clean shaven. As pleasing a composition he made, Beo would have paid no notice, except his eyes. They were black and bottomless. They were eternity.

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