Free Vampire Seeker by Tim O'Rourke Page A

the saloon to the left. There was music, which came from a piano in the corner. The player
     was stooped over it, seated on a stool. The main floor area was covered in circular tables, and at them sat men who played
     poker, dominos, and dice. Unlike the westerns I had seen, there wasn’t the imposing atmosphere that I had expected.
     It wasn’t like being in a pub in central London, either, but it definitely wasn’t like the saloons I had seen
     in movies. There wasn’t any straw on the floor or a string of prostitutes patrolling the wooden balcony that circled
     the upper floor of the building.
    We followed the preacher to the bar and he ordered five beers. To be honest, it was too early in the day for me to start drinking
     beer, but I wasn’t going to say anything. The bitter tasting coffee which the preacher had given me that morning was
     the last time I’d drank anything, and my throat had started to feel dry. The bartender was smartly dressed in a clean
     white apron, and his black hair was greased flat. A circular pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his pointed nose.
    He poured the beers from a keg resting on a shelf behind the bar, and the preacher slid a handful of coins across to the bartender,
     who scooped them up in his fist.
    “We’re meeting a Mr. Spencer Drake here,” the preacher said, then took a sip of the frothy beer. His already-white
     moustache became covered in the froth and he armed it away.
    The bartender eyed him, and then looked along the bar at the rest of us. Turning back to face the preacher, he nodded towards
     the furthest corner of the saloon and said, “The gentleman you are looking for is seated right over there.”
    “Bless you,” the preacher smiled, tipping the brim of his hat at the bartender. Then, taking his beer, he headed
     across the saloon. Harry and the others scooped up their drinks and followed him. I took mine, and heading across the room,
     I took a sip and grimaced. The beer was warm, but it was better than nothing, so I took another sip.
    The corner of the room where Spencer Drake waited for us was the darkest part of the saloon. Even the oil lamps which were
     fixed to the wall did little to light it. He was seated at a table beneath the stairs that led to the upper balcony. He sat
     alone with his back to the wall, but even in the semi-darkness, I couldn’t help but notice how good looking he was.
     His hair was raven black and the ends of it rested against the crisp white collar of his shirt. His skin was fair and smooth-looking,
     and not one whisker shone through his skin. I glanced over at Harry and the untidy growth that covered the lower half of his
     face like a dirty shadow. Drake’s eyes were of the purest green and they were sharp and piercing. But it was his mouth
     that I was drawn to. His lips were perfect, with a cupid’s bow that any model back home would have died for, and I couldn’t
     help but wonder what it would be like to be kissed by them. Although his face was long and slender, his features were masculine
     and dominant-looking. Apart from his obvious good looks, which I could see hadn’t gone unnoticed by Zoe as she sat with
     her mouth open like a trap which had been sprung, Spencer Drake was impeccably dressed. Around the collar of his white shirt,
     he had tied a burgundy coloured silk tie. He wore a long dress coat, which was charcoal grey with black velvet lapels. Beneath
     this, he wore a waistcoat, with a gold watch and chain. It wasn’t scratched and kept in his coat pocket like the preacher’s.
     His hands were steepled before him and I could see that his fingernails had been clipped perfectly and were clean, not like
     the rough and dirty hands which Harry had held me with that morning.
    Once we were all seated, the preacher spoke. “Spencer Drake?”
    “Yes,” Drake replied, his voice soft but strong. “And this is your – how should I describe them?”
     he said, looking at each of us in turn. “Team?