Vamp'd

Chapter One: A Bartender's Lament

A special thank you to my beta/editor: Amanda Post.

If sarcasm, the supernatural, and magic turn you on, you might just have found the right story. If language and adult themes squick you out, turn back before it's too late.

This is more than a vampire story. Get ready to have the myths turned on their heads. 
Also, grab a glass of something strong. You'll probably need it. I apologize for nothing but a good time.

  Copyright © 2017 by Amy Elizabeth Taylor , aka A.E. Taylor

Chapter One:
A Bartender's Lament

An icy gust of rain pelted the windows of Who-Do-Voo-Do Bar and Grill, shaking Wick out of his daze. He found himself sprawled on the floor of his quaint apartment above the bar, surrounded by empty prescription bottles, two bottles of sherry (with no sherry inside), and his pants down to his ankles. His shirt was still on, thank the spirits, but somewhere in between attempting suicide for the umpteenth time and passing out, he'd vomited on himself. Maybe that's why the pants were down - he could only speculate. Giving a sturdy yawn, he stretched the muscles in his arms. Pain trickled into his wrists, and when he turned his eyes on them he noticed the scabbed lines of slit marks. Oh, so he'd tried that route again? The memory lapse most likely had to do with the sherry. It was awful stuff, but Trish never cared if a few went missing at the end of the night.

"Fuck." Sitting up, he ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced. His mouth tasted like shit, and he was sure he stunk to high heavens as well.

Knock, knock, knock. Someone pounded on the door.

"Coming," he croaked out.

Wham, wham, wham!

"I said I'm coming, damn it!"

All three chain locks on his door began to vibrate at a bewildering speed until they finally rattled loose. The door swung open with a mighty groan, and Trish d'Heur, owner of the bar downstairs (and Wick's current landlord), stepped inside. "Great Circe's tit, Wick. Put some pants on." She gazed over to the bottles of sherry, raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, and placed her hands on her hips. "You can't keep doing this."

As if to agree, Wick's stomach turned, and he upchucked onto the floor at her feet. Thick chunks of who-knew-what splattered across her boots. Disgusted, Trish kicked one of the sherry bottles under the bed and strolled over to the dresser, digging through its contents.

"You're lucky I called Benny in to carry the extra load tonight." She removed a pair of boxers, a wrinkled pair of black dress slacks, and a thin, white shirt that held a few faded ketchup stains. Giving it a quick sniff, she tossed it over her shoulder into the sick and continued ransacking until she found another white shirt, this time slightly cleaner. "Otherwise I would have had to fire you."

Wick gave a snort and wiped the dribble from his chin. "As if you would."

"Don't tempt me," Trish snapped, waving his clothes at him. "What does this make? The third time this month?"

"Mmh, fourth, but who's counting?"

"You are, apparently." Trish tossed the clothing onto Wick's bed, glancing around at the variant posters of grunge rockers hung on the walls, careful to avoid his blood on the floor. "I'm docking your pay tonight. Half of your usual tips." She shook her curls to add emphasis to her disapproval before reaching for the door handle. "Fifteen minutes. I expect you down there with a smile on your face and your wrists taken care of. The last thing I need is someone to take pity on you for acting like a shithead." The next moment she was gone, slamming the door so hard the bottles on the floor rattled.

Wick peeled himself from the muck on the floor and carried himself to the bathroom, where he discarded his clothes, flushed his face with water for five minutes, and then fumbled around until he found his glasses. The world visually fell into focus, but internally, Wick didn't know where he fit in the world anymore. Not that he ever really did. But this whole 'immortal' thing...it really was a drag. He glanced down at his wrists, cursing under his breath. So much for miracles.