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The salesman sits. He waits. The wood bench is cold beneath the moon, the stone wall behind him colder. A silvery path, mere gravel in the sunlight, winds its way up and down the hill, rests beneath his feet. The boardwalk, so far below him, stops turning. Lights go out. People leave. Even from where he sits, the Ferris wheel no bigger than a quarter far below, the salesman can smell the remnants of the day, of the night. Hotdogs. Popcorn. Candy apples. Sweat. Blood.
The salesman lights a cigar, lets the smoke swirl around him, pearly in the moonlight. It’s warm, still. A good night to be out. Above him, spilling out over the stone wall, bushes rustle in a slight wind. A sudden wind. A supernatural wind.
He’s here.
The salesman exhales, smoke drifting up to the shadow perched on the wall above him. The vampire sits like a haunting gargoyle, dark eyes gleaming. He watches. He waits.
“You’re causing problems,” the salesman says at length, staring out over the ocean, the dead boardwalk. “People are noticing.”
The vampire’s voice is low, barely audible above the ocean waves crashing far below. “I was making a point.”
“Your point is made,” the salesman snaps. He feels the vampire flinch. Sighing, he softens his words. “Don’t screw this up for me. For us.”
The vampire doesn’t respond. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to be a part of it. He disagrees with the salesman’s logic, his plan, his desire. But what can he do?
Minds clash.
The vampire grudgingly backs off.
“I won’t.”
Then he’s gone. Bushes rustle. The salesman breathes a little easier, the confrontation averted. He’s not distressed by the vampire, not afraid of arguing with the vampire, of angering the vampire. It’s happened before, time and time again. Years and years of arguments. The salesman always gets what he wants. The vampire is no obstacle, no enemy, nothing to worry over.
But the salesman does worry. He worries for the vampire. His vampire. His foolish, reckless, lost boy. Son through blood and night, through death and necessity.
The salesman sits on the wood bench, shoes digging into the gravel beneath him. He stares out across the ocean, the darkened boardwalk. Things are going to change. He smiles, comforted by the thought.
Things are going to change.
The salesman sits.
He waits.
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