* WIP means, still not polished and things may changed, you have been warned.
He tried to pat her knee, but Beka pulled away.
“I'm a vampire,” Vincent said.
“A blood fetishist?” Beka asked, disgust filling her voice.
Vincent shook his head. “No, not one of those. A vampire.” He said.
Beka felt her face turn hot. Her chest tightened and her hands started to shake. “Don't lie to me,” She said.
“I'm not,” Vincent said. “A real vampire.”
Beka remembered how his teeth were buried in the woman's neck, how his red his eyes were. How could he have faked that? He could have been wearing contacts, which he took out. And the teeth could have been fake. Yet, that woman had been laying in some sort of happy trance. And he had caught up with Beka in no time.
“Tell me what was going on?” Beka asked.
“I was having a meal.” Vincent said.
“You killed her?” Beka tried to move further down the bench. Her back was now pressed up against the glass.
“No, no, no,” Vincent said. “I don't have to. I haven't had to kill for a few years.”
Vincent must have seen Beka's expression. He continued. “It's not like in the books.”
“But that woman...” Beka said.
“She's fine. She's going home with a sore neck and a good memory,” Vincent said, “I can switch things around in a person's head. I just tried it with you, but you fought back. That's pretty unusual.”
Beka slapped him. Vincent didn't flinch. He turned his head away for a moment and nodded.
“Stop screwing with me,” Beka said.
“I'm not,” Vincent said.
“Tell me it's a joke.”
Beka studied Vincent's face, for any sign that he was joking. He rubbed his goatee. His blue eyes watching Beka.
She took a deep breath. “So what? You can read people's minds?” Beka asked.
“People are hard. I can read impressions,” Vincent said. “But, I can change memories around. So that woman, her name was Betty by the way, thinks we spent the few hours in the lounge making out. And that's all.”
Beka bit her lip. How could he be a real vampire, she thought.
The Rathskeller was a Gothic bar. Which meant that most of the people that came there, dressed up as vampires. They would wear theatrical costumes, in black, red, and silver and have fake fangs made. Vincent never wore black or velvet, except on special occasions. He was one of the normal looking people in the club.
Vincent looked down the street for a moment, watching a car that was playing it's music so loud, they could hear it at the bus stop. Then he sat back on the bench. “John and Lorelei are my main, ah, donors.” Vincent said.
“John?” Beka asked. “My brother does what?”