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He waited in line, taking in and filtering the scent of every male within a hundred feet, a few females too, especially the plump raven-haired beauty four bodies to his rear who reeked of menstrual blood. He instinctively slid his tongue over the front of his teeth then forced himself to look away.
Must feed soon.
Inside the club, the music was so loud that he instantly felt the bass tones thumping in his head. The disco was packed, as much as any time he could remember, strobe lights swirling, and on the dance floor, a smoke machine belching out thick silver fog. He took a moment, scanning the bodies lost in rhythmic dance, arms high, some grinding, with one couple gyrating their hips seductively. He moved on, the cacophony of music, voices and the occasional seductive simper by the D.J. on the intercom—maddening. He scanned the establishment testing the air.
Come on, chance your luck you no good, murdering bastard.
A couple, arm in arm bumped into him from the side, already intoxicated. He stepped back, searching for a seat, but the tables were packed, the night in full swing. The music settled upon him, the D.J.’s husky voice piping, “Get it on, baby!” A girl with platinum tresses and a mini skirt so short that it was immoral, moved in eyeing him up and down. He moved on for that was the last thing he needed. A fucking killer was at hand, a sadist, a blood sucking Iridescent psychopath. Hell, he might at this very minute have his eyes on victim number four. Torin took in air, his chest expanding.
Are you here?
A scantily clad waitress in fishnet stockings with black pumps and a spandex mini buzzed past him working the group, a tray full of drinks over her head. He caught the scent of rum and coke, tequila and grenadine. He licked his dry lips and turned, meandering through the crowd.
Nearing the bar, which dominated an entire wall, he noticed his reflection in the mirrored collage of bodies and his face was taunt.
Stressed to hell and back. Gotta catch this monster, get the Council off my ass.
He exhaled and relaxed his jaw then eased in to the packed bar. The bartender, a shirtless, steroid induced freak with numerous facial piercings, tattoos and a blonde buzzed head leaned toward him. “What’ll it be?”
“Spritzer with lime.”
Sipping his drink, Torin mingled with the crowd from the tables to the dance floor, scanning the faces, taking in every scent. He moved to the back corner, approaching the V.I.P. section which was an elevated arena overlooking the mayhem below. He took in air, his lungs expanding. Nothing.
Dismayed, he finished his drink, dived into the sea of bodies and tread a path into the hallway where the men’s bathrooms occupied the left and women’s the right. The middle of the sixteen-foot aisle had leather ottomans which were packed with mostly females laughing and talking, some texting. Down the wall he noticed males, sipping drinks, loners, eyeing the females, wolves, hoping to find easy prey. Torin noticed lust shimmering behind their eyes and he caught the scent of arousal. He walked the entirety of the hallway and then went into the bathroom to relieve himself. He inhaled, sorting the different scents of men inside the stalls while washing his hands, nothing.
Frustrated, he headed back to the bar and ordered another drink. Finding a bar stool, he perched himself high, back to the bar scanning the throng of bodies. Hours must have passed and after six drinks and two trips to the bathroom, a loathing disquiet settled upon him.
Damn you! Show yourself. This is the busiest club in town.
He finished off his drink and decided to try ‘Backwater,’ another club on the banks of the St. Mary’s. He scanned the room one last time unaware that a female had slid in beside him, that is until she leaned into his ear, her sultry voice all but lost in the deafening music.
“You’re awful hot to be sitting here alone.”
Torin, with his keen sense of hearing, turned his head, just inches from her face and it took a moment with their eyes locked before he could speak. She was a beauty, dark hair with thick lashes to match. He scanned her to the waist, then back to her breast, luscious and firm, half exposed and inviting. By no will of his own, for it’s the nature of the beast, he analyzed her blood.
Chippewa, but not Durent.
He dragged a breath, long and hard. She was luscious, fruit on the vine, ripe and ready for picking. His wife, Anstosa suddenly flashed in his head and he grimaced. “Alone is not always a bad place to be,” he said escaping her seductive eyes.
She dropped her hand to his leg and moved one of his knees to the side as she slid in between.
Torin met her eyes, which sparkled with life and as she placed one of her petite hands inside his white shirt which was unbuttoned and gently stroked the black hair that adorned his chest, a hard-core need tore through him. He swallowed. Damn she was hot, dripping hot and he was one blood starved Iridescent. By no will of his own, his eyes locked on her delicate neck, the hum of blood in her jugular enticing. He licked his dry lips and grasped her hand, pulling it way from his skin. “Like I said, alone is not always a bad place to be. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
She staggered, and he grasped her arm. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” he said.
“Then why don’t you take me home,” she replied, all but falling into his arms.
“Believe me, that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Torin said, fighting the hunger within.
He picked her up and sat her on the bar stool. He motioned to the bartender as he pulled out his wallet and threw down some bills. “Call her a cab, and no more liquor. I doubt she’s legal, you get my drift?”
She suddenly grasped Torin’s crotch, taking all of him in her hand. Fighting the overwhelming need to feed upon her, he tore her hand from him and walked away, his internal cauldron blazing. Outside the club, the cool air blasted his face and he exhaled, his need of the female ebbing between unbidden images of his wife. He hurried to the Ferrari and got inside, his heart pounding. “Anstosa, forgive me…I’m sorry,” he moaned, hands on both sides of his head, pressing tightly. “Start,” he said firmly. The Ferrari responded, lights on with the engine purring. He zoomed away, the deadly, Iridescent night stalker all but forgotten.
Must feed, that’s why I’m so affected by the female. It’s been too long.
Flying down the highway, with twin headlights cutting a swath through the pitch-black veil, Torin gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles blanched white. Hours later, he turned into the asphalt path that snaked the forest to his home. The garage door swung high and as the sleek black Ferrari ceased to purr, he stepped from the red leather and flashed out to the asphalt drive. He glanced to the moon, scarcely visible beneath rolling clouds. The whites of his eyes turned fluorescent green, penetrating the darkness. Fangs inched from his lips and he threw his head back, testing the air. He caught the scent of a deer as a growl tore from him. He flashed his body a blur, his hunger supreme.
Mental Misfits
