Research Revelations

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky and snow descended; flurries swirled around yellowed street lamps like hungry moths. The darkness didn’t matter, the weather didn’t hinder it: New York City was alive.

Since Rosalind had become somewhat of a night owl as of late, she was familiar with the ever-changing night sky; in all of its shades it was immutable.

Forgotten at home were her knit hat and scarf. When she ascended Astor Place station and hit the street, wrapped up in the possibilities of that night, she couldn’t help but note the cold droplets that clung to her hair and reddened the tip of her nose.

Late January was always cold, the bone-chilling sort of cold. But her thesis paper didn’t abide the weather and there was research to be done. Rosalind was grateful, for the bar was only two and a half blocks from the station.

Varney’s.

The bar’s name wasn’t subtle, but it didn’t have to be. Not anymore.

When she breeched the small entrance beneath a painted sign of crimson and silver, it was a long brick hallway to remove her from the street and the windowed facade which took her back into the heart of the building before it gave way into the bar itself.

Honestly? It was nothing special. Well, at first glance.

A long bar ran the length of the wall to her left, with a mirrored backbar lined with liquor bottles and a decent selection of wine, mostly reds.

There were booths that wrapped the room, high-backed to allow a modicum of privacy to its occupants. Wooden tables created a grid — the bar itself was dimly lit and relied mostly on the candles flickering atop every available surface.

It was a slow night, but it was only a chilly Thursday. A few booths were occupied, a small group hovered by the back wall around a high top, and the bartender passed a rocks glass of dark liquid across the bar to a man in a leather jacket seated at the end of the run.

Rosalind took a seat at the closest barstool, happy to remove her messenger bag from her shoulder. Instinctively, she brushed her fingers through dark mane, damp and unruly from her travels but there would be no taming it now.

The bartender approached her and set down a napkin in the same crimson color as the sign out front, “What are you drinking?”

“Uh, house red?” She replied with a shrug.

“Our house is O-neg. We can serve it warm or chilled too,” he replied.

Rosalind was reminded where she was and changed course, “Oh no I mean red wine. Sorry,” she offered a ′must happen all the time smile’.

The bartender was nonplussed, “You’d be surprised,” he said before turning away to fetch a bottle. Rosalind didn’t understand what he meant but she wasn’t going to ask. She became preoccupied with the sign pasted to a cupboard: NO WEAPONS ALLOWED, the bold text was succeeded by basic clip art of: a gun, knife, brass knuckles, stake, and holy water font.

“Lots of people try it, you know.”

The man from the end of the bar was suddenly occupying the stool next to her, still casually palming his glass as if he’d been seated there the whole time.

Rosalind was startled but did her best to recover as smooth as she could, “Try what?” She understood now what both he and the bartender were referring to, able to get a closer look at the drink in the stranger’s hand. She was there on research after all, and wanted to learn as much as she possibly could to make her Iditarod-esque journey worth the trek.

He smirked and it pulled his lips over his flawlessly white teeth. His canine’s were surprisingly sharp and yet Rosalind was sure they weren’t fangs. His smile creased around his eyes that were light enough in hue to glint in the dim light. He sipped from his glass and the liquid darkened his lips until, with great ease, his tongue erased the evidence, “Blood.” He said it quietly, like it was a secret between them but he laughed a second later, giving away his game and the air filled with a low, hearty chuckle, “Sorry, just can’t help myself sometimes.”

Rosalind thanked the bartender who delivered her own glass of human appropriate red, “I don’t think that’s safe for people to drink, is it?”

He gave a shrug, whether he didn’t know or didn’t care was left to question, “If you’re not here to sample the wares, what brought you here, Red? ’S cold one out there.”

Red? However, Rosalind was distracted from the strange nickname by his dress: leather jacket, well-worn, dark jeans, and a black boot-type shoe, but not one Rosalind would advise for the season. She even found herself glancing at the mirror and back again.

Victor’s smirk gave him away; her checking for his reflection did not go unnoticed.

He had one.

They all did.

“You come here often?” Rosalind inwardly kicked herself, “I meant — ”

“Haven’t been in town for long,” he replied, his lips still holding the ghost of his smirk, “-but you can probably imagine why I chose this place.” The dark stranger shook his glass in emphasis before he threw it back and finished off the contents. When the glass hit the bar top again he ordered another and asked for an added shot of whiskey this time.

“Did you come from England?” Rosalind pried, noting his accent.

“Originally? Or just now?” He asked and his smile made her smile. He was cocksure, but it was oddly charming.

Rosalind couldn’t help herself and she laughed a little, “Both. Either.”

“Wales, originally. But it was a long life lived all over Britain…not sure I’m strictly one thing or another anymore.”

“And now you’re here,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. Was she flirting? This was not the plan.

“And now I’m here," he echoed in validation. “Name’s Victor,” he offered, “Listen, Red, your next drink’s on me if you give me your name and the real reason you came here tonight.” His index finger pressed against the lacquered bar-top, strong and precise.

Rosalind licked her lips in the pause between his question and her answer, “Ros,” she replied, making sure to remember ‘Victor’ even if she kept his appearance in her paper anonymous, “I’m a graduate student at Columbia. I’m working on my thesis — how the Revelation has affected modern society.”

It was obvious her answer surprised him, no matter how suave he seemed. The music of the bar filled the air when Victor’s second drink was delivered before he managed a response, “And you were hoping to meet a real-life vampire, hm?” His brows raised up towards his dark, well-styled hair.

“Maybe,” Rosalind had barely taken her last sip of wine before the second glass was delivered. She accepted, “That was best case scenario, but I could conduct a study by just observing. Seeing if there’s a difference here then in any other normal bar.”

“Normal?” he thought back fondly to the decade or-so previous when a certain subset of vampires announced their existence to the global public, “Normal before the Revelation.”

“Yeah, guess so. Did you mind, by the way? You know, being ‘outed’?” She asked.

“I thought it was about bloody time, but it’s not like we took a vote or anything,” he answered, “But, think of it this way, if you’d passed me on the street, would you have guessed what fare I enjoy at my dinner table?”

Rosalind shook her head, “No.” It was true. Although there was a lot of hoopla and buzz from their announcement, it was hard to tell an average vampire from a human at first glance.

“What other kind of boring fodder do you need for that paper? Hm?” Victor asked in a playful manner but it was when his hand came to rest on Rosalind’s knee that she felt her heart begin to beat with purpose. His eyes watched her knowingly; she was a willing prisoner in his web. He leaned in at just the right moment and his lips, which did not actually touch the shell of her ear, washed a cool, whiskey-laden breath over her skin, “There’s a lot I could tell you, but perhaps better told at my place; anything you want to know.”

Rosalind understood the inherent risk of going anywhere with a stranger, mortal or otherwise, but the promise of more was too tempting to deny, “Just the truth, that’s the deal.”

Victor’s sharp smile returned, this time in victory, “Deal.”