Death and the Blue Blood Blues

Everyone stilled as he stepped foot into the dive bar, except me. I watched him with intent, narrowed eyes. In Eaters of the Dead, scumbags, killers, thieves, whores, liars, miscreants, recalcitrant beings and generally foul people are routine, and this man was the freak. Hidden in a black corner, I watched him meander through like he owned the place, a dangerous attitude to have here.

He stood erect, but casual, as he retrieved an antique gold fob watch from the pocket of his over-priced tailored suit. He studied the hands before settling the watch back in its pocket and finally returned the bar’s collective glance. He reeked of egotism. The overlap of incandescent and neon lights across his pale skin belied his figure better than any spotlight. I sank further back into the shadows. He was from old money, blue-blooded, and looking for me.

All eyes were on the Money Man. He cleared his throat, fixated on each face for a moment through the smoky air. Unsatisfied with what he saw, he breathed deeply, and spoke powerfully.

“Beatrix Daniels?”

One by one, the patrons of the bar twisted in their seats, frantically searching the room to discover my location. Their wary eyes led the Money Man straight toward me. Great. I craned my neck, adjusted my weight on the seat, and felt confrontation sweep over me.