Free West Coast Witch by Justen Hunter

right, with no connections here?” At my nod, she answered. “First-timers aren’t as
     welcome here. You, however, you have spirit, and you’ve been bit before…” She moved
     to trace a finger across my arm.
    I grabbed her wrist, even if I knew I couldn’t out muscle her. “Not by choice.” I
     said. “Hands off, Missy.”
    “Missy?” She giggled. “I’m easily ten times your age, and you call me ‘Missy’? I think
     I like you.” She made as if to power my arm off her wrist, but froze as her hand darted
     to mine, mid air.
    I watched her as she remained there with an inhuman stillness. She didn’t breathe,
     didn’t move at all. “Uh, hello?” I waved my free hand. “Anyone home?”
    Her eyes fluttered a moment, the first sing of movement. Then her big dark eyes locked
     on mine. “Come with me, you’ve attracted his interest.”
    She took a step back, and I let go of her wrist. “And just who is he?” I asked her.
    “Why, the Count.” She said. “He has offered you his hospitality and wishes for you
     to introduce yourself to him.”
    She gestured in a direction, towards a corner where some stairs led up to the second
     floor. I started off, with her at my side. “I’m Eric.” I said. “Can I at least have
     the name of the woman who sniffed me up?”
    “Teresa.” She said, her voice practically purring. “In my defense, you’re an interesting
     smell, Eric.”
    “Yea, so I’ve been told.” I guessed, from the way she moved, she was a vampire. But
     what was that odd freezing thing? “So, uh, what’s the deal with you vampires and smells?
     And weres for that matter too?”
    We walked up the stairs, Teresa handling them very well despite the heels she wore.
     “Both of us have need of it. It allows us to tell territory, to tell what things truly
     are, to differentiate friend from foe, predator from prey.” She grinned when she said
     the last word.
    “And my smell told you what?”
    “Your smell lied.” She smiled. “You smelt like prey, but your actions proved otherwise.”
     A chuckle escaped her well-formed lips. “Tricky little thing, you are.”
    The stairs brought us to a hallway. Teresa walked up to the first door on the left,
     and opened it. I followed her.
    The room proved to be a suite, looking over the main floor of the club. The room was
     an interesting clash of opposites. It was well-furnished, but practical. I didn’t
     know interior decorating, but I could tell when people paid a lot for their furniture.
     Once upon a time, I had tried to move in those kinds of circles.
    The opening out onto the floor of the club showed the main floor, with the horde of
     bodies moving and writhing. To the side furthest from the door were several chairs.
     Only one was inhabited at the moment, with a few people standing.
    It was the man in the chair who caught my eye. He was definitely a vampire. I could
     feel, already, the power that pulsed from him, the sheer dark energy that emanated
     from him. His features were sharp. Strong jaw, angular features, and a widow’s peak
     defined his face. The man wore black, with a silk poet’s shirt and pants that I was
     sure cost as much as a month’s rent for me. It’s the little things that are the most
     disheartening.
    Teresa spoke, but what she said wasn’t English. High school French was nearly a decade
     ago, but none of the words were familiar. It wasn’t a Romance language, I could tell
     that much.
    The man nodded, and spoke. “I think that, to earn the trust of this one, we should
     switch to the tongue of the land, no?” His voice held an accent to it, one I couldn’t
     even begin to identify. Accents are hard to place, a lot of the time, because teachers
     and origins can seriously screw with our preconceptions of an accent. He wasn't from
     this neck of the woods, though.
    “Of course, Count.” Teresa nodded. “This one calls himself Eric.”
    “Eric Carpenter, sir.” I answered. “Or, uh,