Chapter 13

Alicia hated her job. Sam's Tavern was ostensibly a biker bar, but its true clientele was a horrid mix of wannabes and parolees. The parking lot contained far more beat-up Honda Civics and rusty Ford Escorts than it did Harleys. As she wiped up yet another spilled beer on the bar, the perpetrator of the mess gave her a sharp slap on the ass, laughing uproariously at his own daring. She sighed but otherwise ignored his actions; she knew from experience that showing a reaction would just make things worse. Idly, Alicia wondered what awful thing she had done in a previous life that had earned her the humiliations she was forced to endure here every moment of every working night.

She walked to the back of the pool room over a sticky film of spilled beer and chewing tobacco and filled a tray with empty PBR and Old Milwaukee bottles, again ignoring the hands that continuously snaked out to quickly grope her ass or tits as she moved between the tables. Yes, she decided, she would certainly quit tomorrow if her husband hadn't just dumped her for a younger woman leaving her destitute and barely able to pay her rent.

She had just resumed her perch behind the bar and returned her attention to the big clock on the wall, watching the seconds until last call slowly tick down, when she heard the front door open. She didn't pay any attention until she noticed that the bar had gone silent. Looking around, she saw that all eyes were focused on the door. Following their gaze, she saw a tall, distinguished looking gentleman in a suit, tie and trench coat. He practically exuded wealth. She snapped her gaze back to the clock. Midnight. Shit. Most of her customers would be well into their cups by now. This could get ugly.

The suit approached the bar and wiped off a section with a silk handkerchief produced from his coat pocket. Resting his arms on the slightly cleaner patch of bar, he peered about with a look of amiable curiosity. His actions were met with a collective jeer from the rest of the patrons and many of the leather and chain clad crowd began to close in. "Dammit," Alicia whispered to herself, "only two more hours to go and now I have to deal with this bullshit."

She hurried down the length of the bar until she was opposite the suit. Leaning over she rapidly whispered, "Excuse me, sir, but I really think you would be much happier at the Rosebud Lounge down the street."

He turned his cool, oblivious gaze to her and said, "Oh, no. This place has just the atmosphere I was looking for."

Alicia grunted in exasperation. "Look, sir. A lot of the guys here are drunk as hell. If you don't leave now, you might get hurt." Alicia wished this rich asshole would just take the hint and leave; she didn't want to have to go through the hassle of dealing with the cops.

He reached out and patted her hand with cold, smooth fingers while chuckling politely as if she had told a joke, "I'll be fine, my dear. I won't be rousted by a bunch of vagabonds and vermin."

Alicia winced. A number of the men had been more than close enough to hear the insult. One of her regulars, a beefy man named Stan, who was standing at the bar near the suit, immediately began to posture, pushing his chest out and shoulders back. The display reminded Alicia of a show she had seen on Animal Planet about territorial fights between silverback gorillas.

Stan moved forward, pushing his chest into that of the suit. "What did you call me, faggot?" Stan shouted. Alicia rolled her eyes; originality was apparently not one of Stan's strong points.

The suit slowly looked Stan over, a sneer of disgust twisting his features. "I believe the term applicable to you, Stan, would be 'vermin.'"

The wrongness of the whole situation suddenly hit Alicia like a brick. She wanted to scream, to tell Stan, to tell everyone, to run. The suit obviously wasn't drunk or stupid. He had to be a cop, or have a gun or ... something. With widening eyes, she recalled the rumor that it hadn't been a gang that wiped out the SWAT team the night before, as it had said in the newspaper, but a single unarmed man. Suddenly, it seemed that everything was moving in slow motion. She saw Stan's arm cock back, a stupid smile plastered across his face. She wanted to dive across the bar and stop him, but her legs were frozen in place. Stan's arm started forward, and it seemed to Alicia that the suit turned his face to her and winked, but in the blink of an eye the suit was again staring at Stan, a look of mild amusement on his face. Stan's fist came around in a vicious haymaker which rapidly closed in on the suit's head. When it seemed that the only image that yet remained to be seen was that of the suit flying back in a spray of blood, the suit's hand moved in a blur, catching Stan's fist less than an inch from his cheek. Stan's arm came to a complete stop in an instant, the backlash of its thwarted momentum staggering him.

Stan twisted and pulled, trying to free his fist, but it might as well have been stuck in stone. The suit stood motionless, continuing to stare at Stan dispassionately, showing no sign of strain from resisting Stan's frantic struggles. And then the suit smiled, the tips of long sharp fangs showing between his parted lips. Alicia felt hot urine run down her leg.

A terrible, crackling sound emanated from where the suit's hand gripped Stan's fist. Alicia saw a few drops of blood run down the suit's wrist to his shirt sleeve. The drops became a trickle which became a stream which turned into a river. Stan stared at the gush of blood with eyes wide in disbelief, and then he screamed in terrible agony, slumping downwards as his knees went weak. The suit's other hand blurred across his body before striking out at Stan with a viscous backhand that flung Stan across the room, the ruins of his crushed hand leaving a trail of scarlet droplets behind him.

The rest of the men in the bar closed in on the suit, alcohol and natural belligerence overcoming common sense. The suit danced sinuously among the mob, dodging pool cues, bar stools, fists and feet with ease. Every few seconds the suit struck out with fist or foot and another of the bar's patrons fell backwards clutching at a shattered face or broken limb. Hot, thick fluid splashed across Alicia's face and she fell, vomiting, to the floor.

Arthur reveled in the physical combat, not bothering to change or bring his will to bear. In less than a minute the bar's patrons lay about him groaning in pain, those still conscious cowering from him in fear. Arthur reached down near his feet and grabbed one of the men by his greasy hair, using it to pull the man to his feet. As the man whimpered in terror, Arthur's head thrust forward, his fangs sinking deeply into the man's throat. Arthur drank deeply, shuddering with the pleasure of feeding, until the man's heart came to a stumbling halt. Throwing the dry husk casually to the side, Arthur moved on to the next man and repeated the process. When he, too, had been drained and discarded, Arthur moved among all the others in the room, pausing occasionally to regurgitate the blood of his last victims to make room for the blood of the next. When he finally leaned back against the bar with a sigh of satisfaction, all seventeen men in the room were dead, but no necks had been broken. Ferals were difficult to control, but Arthur felt up to the task.

With a grunt of sudden recollection, Arthur locked the door and then walked to the back of the bar, briefly concentrating his will to clean his suit of blood as he did. When he rounded the end of the bar he looked down into the terrified eyes of the woman who lay trembling on the floor.

Arthur smiled down upon her malevolently, "Well, hello there, Alicia. Hiding from me? What a poor hostess you are. It may take several hours for our friends to awake, but I know that you'll keep me entertained while we wait. Yes?"

Arthur reached down and placed his forefinger under Alicia's chin, applying enough upward pressure to make her stand. He ran his eyes slowly up and down the trembling woman. She had been beautiful once, he decided, but only a shadow of that beauty still remained. Years of disappointment, poverty and substance abuse had taken their toll.

Taking her chin in his hand, Arthur tilted her head from side to side, examining it from every angle. Her features were well proportioned, her cheek bones high and delicate, but deep lines around her mouth and eyes gave her a perpetually worn and bitter look. Her nose, while straight and well shaped, was traced with veins and broken blood vessels due to the profligate use of alcohol.

Arthur held a finger up in front of Alicia's nose and her brown eyes crossed slightly as she attempted to focus on it. She gasped in fear and her eyes widened as the tip of that finger lengthened and curved into a cruel, sharp talon. Arthur drew the talon slowly along the quivering skin of her face, then down that of her throat and chest until he reached the neckline of her low cut sweater. There he slashed it quickly downwards, slicing easily through the polyester of her sweater, the naugahyde of her belt, the denim of her jeans and the cotton of her bra and panties. Arthur brushed at the ruined clothing with his unchanged fingers and it fell into a pile behind Alicia, leaving her nude before him.

Her breasts were large and heavy, though gravity and time had made them sag significantly. Alicia drew in her breath sharply as Arthur traced the talon around one of her large areola, small beads of blood rising from her skin in its wake. Arthur then drew the claw lightly down the center of her stomach, noting that while it was still relatively flat, the flesh was overly soft and deeply lined with stretch marks from a long ago pregnancy. When he reached the thick, black bush of pubic hair, still damp and matted from her earlier loss of bladder control, his mouth twisted in distaste. Turning the claw sideways against her skin, he drew it slowly across the top of the mass of hair, leaving only stubble behind it.

Arthur reached up to her head and grabbed a handful of her short black hair. He twisted until, with a grimace of pain, she was forced to turn around, giving him the opportunity to examine her from behind. Although her hips flared out nicely, her buttocks sagged and they, and her upper thighs, were thick with cellulite. Arthur ran the talon along the curve of one of her ass cheeks, stopping when he reached the center to circle it lightly over the delicate skin of her anus. His lips curved in a smile of satisfaction as she whimpered.

He leaned into her back and whispered in her ear, "Shame on you, dear, for taking such poor care of yourself. If I had any alternate sources of entertainment, I would surely kill you and move on."

Arthur suddenly released her and pushed her roughly in the direction of the sink behind the bar. "Now clean your piss off of yourself. You disgust me," he commanded.

Sobbing in fear and humiliation, Alicia dipped a bar rag in the basin of soapy water and did as she was told.

When she had completed her task, Arthur unzipped his pants and pulled out the thickest, ugliest dick that Alicia had ever seen. "Suck my cock, Alicia," Arthur ordered, "And remember that your life may depend on how well you please me."

Alicia's sobs grew more violent and tears ran down her cheeks as she moved timidly toward him. When he began to tap his foot impatiently, she dropped quickly to her knees and leaned forward to take him into her mouth.