Rene Lyons - Where the damned come to play

The Daystar

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

The lithe brunette passing in front of Constantine Draegon, did a double take and stopped dead in her tracks. Such was the usual reaction of women. She arched a brow in appreciation of his dark and dangerous looks as the tip of her tongue peeked out from between her blood-red lips.

Dressed in baggy charcoal gray Tripp pants and a black tee which read `You laugh now... But you won't be laughing when I crawl out from under your bed', Constantine looked every bit the Goth-God. Long mess of black hair, deathly pale complexion, and a black leather collar with razor-sharpened spikes around his neck completed the look.

Over his clothes he wore an ankle length black trench concealing the Templar's sword strapped to his back. The back-hanging baldric was a gift from Sebastian of Rydon.

The woman didn't seem to notice the look on his face, clearly proclaiming he didn't want to be fucked with. She sauntered over to him swaying her hips seductively. The cheap black velvet gown was ugly and did nothing to accent the womanly curves hidden beneath it. She gave him an alluring grin as her gaze raked over him. One could almost see her mentally stripping him of his clothes.

When she was a few feet from him she froze when she noticed the scar cutting down the left side of his face. Her brown eyes widened, but to her credit she regained her composure and continued her advance. Only when he threw her a vicious frown did she smarten up and hurry away.

Seeing the woman run in the other direction, Raphael de Vere muttered a curse under his breath. "Jesus Christ, C, is this what we're doing tonight, scaring off potential females?"

No Templar was supposed to take the Lord's name in vain, but they've been doing it for centuries on the hope God would overlook their one persistent sin. After all, it was a pretty small transgression among the many, and much larger sins.

"Leave off, Rogue. I'm in no mood for your shit tonight."

"Bloody hell, Dragon, are you going to glower at every women who comes near you the entire night?" Raphael, also known as the Rogue, bitched, running a hand through his sandy hair. "I don't want to waste more time here than necessary."

They were at The Gate, the Gothic club in Scranton the Templars referred to as the Supermarket. This was where they hunted for willing females to take blood from.

Everyone was draped in so much black, if it wasn't for their God- awful pasty completions, they'd blend in with the black walls, floor, and ceiling. Granted vampires had a penchant for black, but they didn't wear Jerry Seinfeld inspired puffy shirts' and atrocious velvet frock coats. Most of these humans had the same long dyed black hair and the same black eye-lined eyes-as if any male vampire worth his salt would wear make-up.

Oh, and let's not forget their ridiculously fake plastic fangs.

No—don't even go there.

They were as far from what a `real' vampire looked like as any human could get. All they had to do was look to the two men standing at the bar to know what a vampire truly looked like.

At least what those vampire looked like.