Chapter 2 ~Vivaldi~

I'LL BE HONEST, FOLKS—my blood runs colder than an Arctic river at that moment. This isn't going to end well.

I cock my head to the side, my lips forming a thoughtful 'O.' Now, what have I called him again? Oh, right—Mr. Bean Head and his glorious bald dome. I've really gone and stirred the pot now, haven't I?

“I say I want a mug of beer!” I chuckle nervously, trying to backpedal faster than a clown on a unicycle. But my new friend isn't buying it. Not one bit.

“No, no,” he growls, his chest heaving like a stormy sea. “What did you call me?”

I clear my throat, scrambling for a way to defuse the situation. “Uh, I said, Mr. Blonde Head!” I lie, hoping he'll buy it.

“But... I'm not a blonde,” he says, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Well, if he wants the truth, I'll give it to him. My lips curl into a mischievous smirk. Oh, this is going to be good. “If you're not a blonde,” I say, drawing out the moment, “then that means you're a...”

I pause, letting the tension build like a pressure cooker about to explode. And boy, oh boy, is someone's temper about to hit the roof! Time to spill the beans, or rather, the lack thereof.

“Don't you dare say it,” the barkeep growls, trying to silence me. But it's too late—the words are already on the tip of my tongue, itching to break free. And with a wicked grin, I let 'em fly: “Bald bean head!”

The man's face turns redder than a tomato, steam practically pouring out of his ears as he roars in anger. He beats his chest like King Kong himself, and for a moment, I'm sure he's going to smash me with those ham-sized fists. I flinch, nearly tumbling off the stool, but manage to grab the counter just in time. I squint my eyes shut, bracing for impact, but the blow never comes.

Cautiously, I crack one eye open, only to find the man frozen in place, his fist hovering in mid-air and his eyes as wide as saucers. He looks like he's just seen a ghost—or maybe he's finally realized that the customer he's been bickering with is no grown man but a kid.

So this dude, he's just standing there, jaw practically on the floor, eyes bugging out as he checks out my whole bad-boy vibe. I'm totally rocking the tough-guy look, leather jacket studded with gleaming metal, skintight black t-shirt, ripped-up jeans showing off my scuffed combat boots, and a backwards cap and graffiti bandana to really seal the deal.

But beneath the rebellious getup, my face tells another story. I've got these huge, puppy-dog eyes, deep emerald green and electric in the neon bar lights. My cheeks are soft and round, screaming "youth" despite the outfit, and my little button nose just adds to the innocent vibe.

Despite the tough exterior, my physique's on the smaller side.

With a confused look, I blurt out, “What?”

The guy looks at me, still kind of dazed, and just says, "You're a child." I mean, duh. But I have to admit, being called a child really rubs me the wrong way. I can't help but frown and roll my eyes.

“Quit calling me a child!” I snap, getting really tired of this guy's attitude.

He just laughs in my face, all mocking-like. “Oh, I'm sorry. What should I call you, then? A dwarf?”

“You better quit making fun of me,” I warn, “or I'll start calling you bal-.”

“No, no, no!” He cuts me off, hands raised in surrender. “I'll stop, I'll stop!”

I smirk, satisfied that I've found his weak spot. But then he goes and changes the subject.

“Seriously, though, what are you doing out this late? Shouldn't you be tucked in bed, dreaming of sugarplums or whatever kids dream about these days?”

“I told you already,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “I want a glass of your strongest brew!”

“Not going to happen, kiddo.”

“And why the heck not?”

“Because we don't serve children! I could get thrown in the slammer just for letting a little squirt like you taste a drop of booze.”

I shoot him a glare that could melt steel. “Watch it, pal. You just called me a child again.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, raising his hands in defeat. “But seriously, you've got to go. It's way past your bedtime.”

“Come on, man,” I plead, clutching my stomach for dramatic effect. “My poor gut needs this! Have a heart!”

The bartender, with a sharp gaze and a furrowed brow, eyes me suspiciously. That's when things take a wild turn. This guy digs his hand into his pocket, like he's searching for lost treasure or something, and pulls out a handful of change. He says, “Alright, see what's going to happen.” Then he tries to hand me the money, like he thinks I’m some kind of beggar!

“Here, take this and find something to fill your stomach,” he says, stretching his hand over the counter. I stare him down, and let me tell you, I'm not backing down. You could practically taste the tension in the air.

“Look, old man, I don't need your money,” I say, trying to keep my cool. “I can buy this whole bar if I want to,” I tell him. “All I want is a glass of your strongest beer.” I swear, the guy's stubborn as a mule. He just won't budge.

“Look, you're taking up enough of my time already,” he snaps. “I think it's time for you to leave.”

“Leave?” I think to myself. “That's not gonna happen. I came here for a drink, and I must get it.” So, I look him dead in the eye and say, “Not without my booze.”

“I said leave!” He's getting all red in the face now, like he's about to blow his top. But I'm not giving up that easily. “Would you rather make me choose blood over wine?” I challenge him.

Then, the guy wags his finger in front of my face, all threatening-like, and says, “Don't make me step out of this counter, or you'll only regret it.”

At that moment, I just know things are about to get a whole lot crazier.

So I stand there, a sly grin spreading across my face, and I tell the guy, “You don't want to send me out here.” His face is turning a lovely shade of crimson, veins bulging like angry worms under his skin. I can't help but wonder what it'd be like to sink my teeth into that pulsating neck of his. Don't judge me—it's a vamp thing.

"Sure, I do,” he retorts, all fired up and ready to blow a gasket. His rage is so palpable, I can practically taste it. It's a tantalising mix of adrenaline and fear, and it's getting me all kinds of excited.

“You're going to regret this,” I warn him. I flick my eyes to red—you know, for dramatic effect—and boy, does it work! His eyes widen in fear, and he flinches like a cornered rabbit.

“Omg!” he exclaims, shaking like a leaf. “Out,” he blurts, trying to sound tough, but we both know who's in charge now. “Out!” he shouts again, slamming his fist on the counter. That fear in his eyes—oh man, it's like music to my ears.

“Fine, I'll leave,” I say, jumping down from the stool and turning to face him one last time. But I'm not done with him just yet. “Uh, sorry to bother you,” I smirk. “Could you please hand me that cash you promised to give me earlier? I do actually need it.”

So here I am, watching old Bean Head roll his eyes at me like I'm some kind of pesky fly he can't wait to swat. He digs around in his pocket, probably where he keeps his old gum wrappers and pocket lint, and pulls out two crumpled bills. Let me tell you, these things look like they've seen better days—even a beggar would turn up their nose at 'em.

“Here, take this,” he says, shoving his hand over the counter. “Get out of here and never come back.”

Now, a wicked grin spreads across my face as I eye that bulky arm of his. He thinks he's got the upper hand, but, oh boy, is he in for a surprise? In a flash, my hand shoots out, grabbing his arm with a bone-crushing grip. I yank him so hard that he goes flying over the counter like a rag doll.

Before his body can even hit the ground, I feel my fangs elongating, eager for a taste. I strike like a viper, sinking my teeth into his neck and tearing through his flesh. The sweet, metallic tang of blood fills my mouth as his carotid artery gushes like a fountain, drenching my tongue in crimson ecstasy. His screams echo through the bar, but they're music to my ears.