The Vampire and The Mocha

Gwydden stood outside the cafe, casting a long shadow onto the London pavement. Everything was still wet from rain. Drops streamed down the cafe window, catching light from street lamps and cars as they passed. Gwydden squinted, peering inside. It was busy. There was a line. Reaching into his coat, he checked his pocket watch. 11 o'clock. He sighed. The sign on the door read,

Moonbeam Coffee House

Hours: 6:00 am - 11:30 pm

A ring-ring sounded as people in rain coats stepped inside. Great, more people, thought Gwydden. Maybe I should skip tonight. He teetered towards the curb. He'd already visited the cafe three times this week. People would start to talk. Start to introduce themselves. He shuddered at the thought. The cafe door opened for the second time releasing the scent of hot brewed coffee and buttery, warm pastries.

Just one more visit, he promised himself and entered.

It was warm in the cafe. Everything was cast in a golden glow from the lamps and the candles, a light that almost looked like sunrise. There was gentle music playing. People typed on laptops, leafed through notebooks, and talked quietly in squishy chairs. Gwydden joined the line, keeping his distance from the person in front of him. He tucked his pale hands deeper into his coat pockets. Gazing over the heads of the people in front of him, he read the menu board.

Caramel Latte - £5.00

Vanilla Latte - £5.00

White Mocha - £6.00

Cinnamon Roll - £4.50

Apple Fritter - £4.50

Six pounds for a mocha, Gwydden shook his head. Though, he still had quite a bit left from that investment chap he found last week. And it was his favorite drink. The line dwindled until Gwydden found himself face to face with the barista. The same one he'd seen last night. And the night before that. She smiled at him. He scowled. Even if he'd wanted to show the girl some kindness, he couldn't. Not by smiling at any rate. Fangs are decidedly not normal. He simply nodded at the girl and said, "Good morning-ah, night I mean," he stuttered.

"You one of the night shifters?" she asked. Gwydden's shoulders tensed. Was that what they were calling his kind now? Night shifters? "At that new factory?" she continued. "We get them in here all week. We're the only shop open late enough for them."

Gwydden let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, no, I don't work for the factory," he pushed eleven pounds across the counter to the girl. "I would like a white mocha please, extra hot. And a fritter."

The barista gave him his change.

"So, what do you do?" she asked. Gwydden tugged at the scarf around his neck. "I've seen you here every night this week."

Nosey, pushy, little thing, thought Gwydden.

"I'm a bit of a night owl," he said and pocketed his change. He hurried to the pick-up counter. It seemed to be taking an eternity for his order to arrive. He checked his watch again. Then, glanced at the barista. Was she watching him? No, they just happened to catch eyes. But there she was again, looking his way. He pursed his lips and stared forward, ignoring her. Another employee clad in an apron went up to the girl. They whispered, then laughed. Gwydden wiped a hand across his brow. They were certainly talking about him. They must be pointing out his complexion. Or his height. Or maybe he flashed a fang. Gwydden checked his watch again. He had almost decided to leave without his latte, when the young man placed a cup and a little brown bag down on the countertop. Before he could call out the order, Gwydden had snatched it up and dashed off.

The door went ring-a-ling-a-ling! as he threw it open and rushed out onto the busy street. That was close, he thought. I shall have to skip a few years before I return there. Which was a shame, really. He was running out of cafes to haunt. He hadn't been to his last favorite, The Baked Bean, since 1971. Or was it 1791? At any rate, it had been a while. Gwydden sipped his warm, creamy latte. He walked a little faster until he had created a decent amount of distance between himself and the cafe.

The streets were beginning to empty as shops closed down and the buses stopped running. About this time every night, the lights in the department stores would shut off. Gwydden hurried to the corner where the stationary shop was. He gazed at the collection of journals and pens on display in the window. His stomach growled. He'd been up for a few hours now. It wasn't safe to be hungry outside of his apartment. He took another sip of his coffee and a bite of his fritter and admired the collection a little bit longer until the lights in the window flickered off.

He sighed, turning to head home. There were a few people still walking here and there. A group of teenagers laughed and squealed, traipsing through the dark streets. Gwydden scoffed. To humans, night time was a wild place they could visit every now and then to feel alive. But to him, the night was the only place he knew and it certainly didn't make him feel alive. Nothing did that.

He walked a little while longer, lost in his thoughts when round the corner came a man in a bright coat walking a fluffy little dog. The wind picked up and carried the most delicious scent to Gwydden's nose. He pulled his scarf up around his face, bracing himself as he drew closer. The scent was heavy and seemed to seep through the threads of his scarf. Oh no, he thought. Every once in a while there was a blood type so tantalizing just the scent of it could drive him into a frenzy. It was better than all the pastries and coffee drinks one could think of. The man was approaching. Panicking, Gwydden reached up with one hand and plugged his nose as he took two great gulps of his latte with the other. Though he plugged his nose tightly, he still caught the scent. The man smelled like savory hot, spiced blood. There was nothing left to do but get away. Gwydden dropped his hand and took off on a jog. He couldn't help but look over his shoulder. The man had stopped.

"You alright, mate?" the man called after. The little dog yipped and hopped on the pavement. The man was so easy, so friendly. If he wanted to, Gwydden could lure him into an alley in a moment and have the feast of a century. But, those days were gone. No, he mustn't break his vow. The man stared as Gwydden broke into a full run. Coffee spurted out of the cup and onto his jacket, but he didn't stop. He ran all the way down the street, past the park and straight to the door of his condo, gasping for breath.

There, he threw the fritter and the latte away in the trashcan outside. Once he had smelled such delicious blood, human treats weren't much help. Huffing and puffing, he dawned a pair of large black sunglasses before entering the building.

"Evening, Mr. Abernath. Your paper," said the doorman whose name Gwydden still did not know. He found it best not to put a name to possible meals. It made them easier to forget.

"Thank you," wheezed Gwydden. He must've looked quite strange, heaving for breath in a coffee soaked coat with large sunglasses on. But, the doorman simply handed him the paper. He never asked questions. Just the sort of uncurious person Gwydden liked. He took the newspaper and made straight for the elevator, shielding his eyes from the fluorescent lights.

Once inside, Gwydden crossed to his desk and got to work lighting candles. There were stacks of them perched on mounds of wax that had bubbled over the sides of the desk and begun trailing down the legs. Once he had enough light, he settled into his seat and opened the paper.

"Politics, promotions, projects…" he spoke out loud. As he had no friends, he had taken to talking to the marble bust that stood beside his desk. It was very old, but still intact, save for the tip of its nose which was missing. Gwydden leafed through page after page of the paper until he came to the Obituaries.

"Ah, here we go, Julius. Let's hope the buffet is better stocked this time," he chuckled. "No, no, no," he crossed off names of people who were old or sick, "Yes." He circled the picture of a young man, then scribbled his info in a leather bound notebook.

Mark Lewiston

St. John & St. Elizabeth's Hospital

Death by choking

Seems rich

"That will have to do for now," he sighed. His meals were few and far between. The only thing that kept him from guzzling blood from the neck of his doorman was a piping hot latte. And the fact that the man was chronically ill.

Gwydden tried to forget the smell of the man with the dog by organizing his journal collection. Such was his usual routine. Wake up, resist, drink coffee, convince himself not to eat the doorman, search for food, and start all over again. He crossed to the large calendar that hung over the sofa and using a bright red pen, marked an 'X' in today's box. Another day without killing. He sighed.

"What does it all mean, Julius?" he asked. Looking out of the balcony, he watched as cool rays of morning sun mingled with mist. "Perhaps it's time," he said, leaning on the edge of the glass doors. He really should've pulled the curtains shut right about then. But, if he didn't… if he left them open for once, he could be done with all this business. He turned back to his desk. "It's such a gloomy existence, don't you think? To kill, or not to kill."

To no longer be in a state of hunger that could not be staved. To no longer have to search in basements for scraps. That would be nice, he thought. Well, If I am going to end it all I should at least leave a note.

"Something classy, not too drawn out, Julius", he said. He reached for his finest journal and his most impressive feathered pen. He pushed aside the newspaper when an article under Businesses caught his eye.

"What's this?" he said. "Look here, Julius," he snatched the paper up and walked over to the bust as he read aloud, "New 24 hour cafe grand opening scheduled for this weekend. And it's in Leicester Square! Well, that's right around the corner," Gwydden laughed. "Well that's good news."

He gazed at the journal and quill. Then, placed the book back in its stack and the quill with his other fine pens. "I suppose it won't hurt to try it out. See if their mocha is any good," he said. He hurried over to the window and pulled on the rope that released the velvet blackout curtains. The room was filled with nothing but candle light once more.

"Next week," he pointed to Juilus. "We shall see how we feel, my friend. Though I do think dying on a simple Wednesday is very dull. I should think we would rather go out on a nice holiday. This Christmas perhaps? No, you're right. The peppermint mochas. We can't miss those."

And Gwydden continued discussing the matter with the bust as he laid out a number of suit jackets, worrying over which one to wear to the new coffee shop that weekend.