My Precious Nightmare

1: A Ruined Night

Aster Morianton watched the neon flicker through the Benz's heavily tinted windows. After three blinks, he heaved a heavy sigh and peeled off his suit coat and tie. Once he'd rolled up his sleeves to make his button-up shirt look more casual, he pulled a black fedora from underneath the seat and put it on his head after mussing up his dark hair.

"Tell Lane I'll be late," he told his long-time driver, Nick. "Bring a less ostentatious ride when you come back."

"Same time as usual?" asked Nick. All that could be seen of him from the back seat was his buzz-cut and rather broad ears.

Aster hesitated. "I'll call."

Nick glanced up at the rear-view mirror. "Bad day, sir?"

"Would I be here otherwise?" Aster snapped open the door and kicked it out. With a nod and a last-minute check to make sure his phone was in his pocket, he stepped into the shadows next to the low-key night club. As Aster walked away, Nick reversed into a dark side street so no one would be the wiser when they saw Aster stepping out into the lights.

Even so, the bouncer recognized him off the bat. "Long day, B-man?"

"Always." Aster flashed the money and accepted the plastic wristband.

"You're gonna like tonight's special," said the bouncer. "They just finished building the second floor, so they've brought in some dancers to celebrate."

Aster didn't care either way. If he had wanted pole dancers and strip teasers, he would have gone somewhere else.

No, there was a reason he came to such a low-brow joint, and it wasn't for the price, the drugs, or the cheap women.

As he stepped through and into the haze of fog and flashing lights, he breathed in deep of the perfume of moving bodies, alcohol, and hair spray. The floor writhed with dancing patrons, though the fog made it difficult to decipher any faces.

Feeling the expected calm wash over him, Aster found his favorite spot in a lounge chair next to the bar, the one with old springs. It nearly swallowed him whole. His butler would never allow such a chair back at the mansion. Aster ordered sweetened bourbon and sipped at it as he stared out into the fog, lights, and movement.

No one glanced his way. Not one.

And after a week of playing the youngest CEO of one of the most successful and powerful companies in the world, having the opportunity to not catch attention was priceless. The loud music pounded out the whirling numbers and figures of his busy brain, and the darkness and fog gave him the impression of being alone somewhere deep underwater where no one could find him.

He sighed in relief and let his drink burn away the knots in his muscles. He closed his eyes to better feel his body softening. Since this was the only time he drank, a little alcohol went a long way, just as he had intended it to be.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes to measure how much bourbon he had left and happened to see two figures stumble out of the fog. Or rather, the girl did on her impossibly high heels, tittering and giggling as her wrist was pulled along by a man. Aster's eyes narrowed as his training read their lines like a business report; after all, he wasn't the youngest billionaire in history for nothing.

The girl was drunk. The young man was not. But what set Aster's hair on end was the slightly hunched, predatory way the young man held his shoulders. There was a fluidity to his steps that spoke of physical strength, or at least a higher-than-normal awareness of where he held his weight.

The couple passed into the shadows on the other side of the lounge, far from the view of the bartender, to an unlit side door.

Aster put down his bourbon and stood. He wondered for but a second if he should let someone know what he was doing before stuffing his hands in his pockets and making his way through the tables and chairs. This would only take a moment, he reasoned, and he knew the bodyguards he'd hired to do their job out of sight would step in if it got bad. Not that Aster needed bodyguards, at least not for something as little as this. He was taller than most and well built, and most people trying to do something secretive would balk at being found, let alone by someone bigger and scarier than them.

The door they had vanished behind had a scratched and worn 'Employees Only' taped to the front. He straightened his shoulders into an intimidating posture he knew too well, schooled his expression to match, then threw it open.

A short set of steep, L-shaped stairs sunk around a red-lit corner. The red lighting, common for places of performances so that opening the door didn't disturb the darkly lit shows, gave the stairwell a foreboding air.

He inwardly groaned. This place just screamed rape. Why didn't they have anyone guarding this? And in a hovel of unchecked human wanton no less. And why did he have to have a conscience now of all times? Maybe it was the alcohol.

Careful to roll his feet from heel to toe to minimize noise, he edged down the steps. As his sole hit the bottom, a small, feminine yip sent him whirling around the corner.

His chest went hard and cold.

In the dying, orange light of a lone, naked lightbulb, the man, dressed all in black and with startling pale wild hair, held the young girl to the corner where the wall met the floor with one knee, and had his face buried in her neck. She had arched her head back, but not in ecstasy, but in a silent, open-mouthed scream. His bulging eyes gleamed white in the dim lighting.

Aster moved. Years of martial arts training had the crazy-haired man loose from the girl and face first into the cement floor beneath Aster's knee. It didn't help the guy's case that Aster had a whole head and possibly fifty pounds on him.

"Go," said Aster to the girl. "I'll hold him."

The girl just stared at him with wide, glassy eyes. It was then Aster noticed that she had blood trailing down her throat and ample cleavage, staining the collar of her deep-cut blouse.

Ugh. This guy just had to be a kinky sicko. "Go!"

She flinched, and with surprising dexterity for someone who was obviously drunk and in mile-high pumps, clomped out of sight.

As Aster reached into his back pocket for his cell phone, the body beneath him jerked. He tightened his hold.

Yet in a whirl of orange-red light and cinder block walls, Aster found himself on his back, winded and alarmed.

The young man in black was atop him, the backlight of the swinging lightbulb bringing out the red tips of his pale hair, sticky with blood.

The man's eyes glowed red from his shadowed face, pupils dilated and shivering.

Aster stomped his feet against the ground, meaning to unset the smaller man, but it was like the guy had turned to lead. Sharp, cat like-nails dug into Aster's wrists and a shout of surprised pain escaped him.

"Get off me, freak!" He balled his fists and wrenched up. But the nails just dug deeper, if they could even be called nails anymore.

The red eyes drew closer.

It wasn't until sharp teeth pricked his throat that Aster began to doubt that his attacker was more than just some scrawny, horny punk with too-bleached hair and a vampire kink. It didn't even occur to him that the owner of the fangs wasn't human until he woke up several hours later with his head spinning, every vein in his body pulsing, and his throat on fire.

He didn't recognize his apologetic bodyguard when his hands shot out for a drink.