Free Vampires Need Not...Apply? by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Page A

elevator, one door down from his. It was his new neighbor, the one who paced day and night and never slept. Perhaps the man had finally passed out from exhaustion.
Or something worse…
    Antonio cautiously approached the door and listened. All was quiet.
    He knocked. “Hello? Is everything all right?”
    A muffled moan filtered through the door.
Caray.
Had the man been injured? Antonio turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. “Do you need help?”
    Dammit. He couldn’t see shit. The man might be a foot away, bleeding to death, and Antonio wouldn’t even know.
    “Hello?” He stepped inside and tried to listen for any sound.
    Nothing, dammit.
When would his Spidey hearing kick in? Wasn’t his body supposed to compensate for his lost sight?
Dios
, he sucked at everything, didn’t he?
    The door slammed shut behind him. “Who the fuck are you?” asked a deep, ominous voice.
    Antonio’s heart pounded furiously inside his chest. “I’m your neighbor. I heard a crash and…”
Santa Maria!
“It smells like blood.”
    “I punched the wall and cut open my hand.” The voice had moved in front of him.
    This guy sounded crazier than he was. “
Bueno
, I see you are alive and breathing, so I’ll be on my way.”
    A firm hand pushed him away from the door.
    “What the fuck?” Antonio extended his hands defensively, but the man seemed to be everywhere all at once.
    “Listen,
coño
,” Antonio said, dropping his arms, “if you want to kill me, you’d probably be doing me a favor, but make it quick.”
    He felt the man’s hot breath on his face right before his sunglasses were torn away. Antonio knew he had no use of his eyes, yet he couldn’t break the urge to open them and strain to see what was happening.
    “Your aura is too bright,” said the man. “I can’t kill you. Guess it’s your lucky day.”
    Right. Lucky. My day has been a giant
pinche
shamrock.
“I would not call it that.”
    “Mine neither,” the man grumbled.
    “Sorry to hear that.”
You
pinche
psychopath.
“If you’re not going to kill me and you’re not dying, I’m going back to my apartment to drink myself into a stupor.”
    “Stay. I will pour you a scotch.”
    “No, gracias. I think—”
    “I said, ‘Stay.’
Relax.
This is what you want.” Something in the man’s voice compelled him to obey. Ironically, the sensation felt far more unnerving than being threatened physically.
    “If you insist,” Antonio replied reluctantly.
What the hell is going on?
    The man grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the room.
Caray
, what a fucking grip this man had.
    “Sit,” the man commanded. “I will return in a moment.”
    Antonio’s body obeyed, but his mind clicked back and forth between caged-animal panic and an artificial complacency.
    Keep your cool. Get him to let his guard down and then run for the door…
    The man returned promptly with a cool-to-the-touch, smooth glass tumbler.
    Antonio took a whiff. Single malt scotch. Very fine. “Macallan 1926?” Antonio asked.
    “You have a good nose.”
    “I learned to drink scotch in my late teens; wanted to piss off my father, who happens to be a vintner.”
And possibly the most vile son of a bitch on the face of the planet.
    The man laughed. “A very expensive rebellion.”
    Scotch had only been the beginning of a lifelong pursuit to reject everything his father stood for. If it was the last thing Antonio did, he’d beat his father—and by beat, he meant kill.
    “These days my tastes have humbled,” Antonio said. “I’m a big fan of Belgian whites. In fact, I have a six-pack in the fridge if you’d like to try—”
    “You will stay and relax,” the man commanded.
    The anxiety instantly drained from Antonio’s body. “Yes, I’d like that.”
I think.
    Again the man laughed. “Good. So, you are my neighbor,” he said.
    “Yes. I am Antonio Acero.”
    “Kinich. Nice to meet you. So, tell me more about this bad luck,” Kinich said.
    “Why?” Antonio