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.