Chapter 3: Hyacinth's Rest

It’s much easier to find the shop than it should have been. He had to tag down a few shady alleyways to find it tucked away. It’s the smell that does it in the end. It’s like blood, but not like anything he has smelled before, vegan or otherwise. He’s no bloodhound, but vampire’s are naturally more susceptible to certain scents.

The front entrance is actually quite charming since the lot directly in front of it is littered with thriving fauna and flora, basking in sun that splatters through the leaves of several old trees. Although, the boundaries beyond the lot are surrounded by the back ends of three large buildings.

It is truly a secret garden, and that should soothe Alastair since he needs this place and their fake vegan blood to completely disappear. But, instead, he feels an odd pang of melancholy. Though the plants run wild with no seeming pattern or order, the clever eye can see its well tended. Alastair’s opinion of this mystery shop owner softens for a moment before he recalls why he's here.

Anyways, that fake blood smell is not coming from the garden. Anyone could have tended to this garden. Who is to say the person who put vegan blood on their menu and the person who tended these plants are the same individual anyhow?

Resolved, Alastair dusts his expensive black button up and strolls confidently through the door. Or, at least that was the idea…except the door appears to be locked? Stuck? He is no superhero, but his strength is not insignificant. He dare not pull too hard given the loud complaints from the stubborn hinges.

He looks up from his hand on the knob and through the artfully warped glass of the door to see the disfigured silhouettes of a few empty tables and then, suddenly, his view is blocked by three shades of green and some horrible yellow blob where a head might be.

“Sorry! Sorry about that, ah, our door has been a little temperamental lately!” a muffled voice calls out from within.

He is also tapping and tugging at the door lightly, that yellow blob bobbing about nervously.

“If you’d just give the bottom left corner a kick and then pull—ah, yes, there we are! Just a little bit more…”

Alastair does as he’s told faster than the man inside had predicted because he’s breathlessly still hanging onto the door handle after Alastair at last yanks it open. Alastair realizes the yellow blob that is now hovering about his bellybutton is a poorly knit hat. The other man laughs and rights himself. He only has just enough time to spare a concerned thought at the proximity the circumstances have put them in before he becomes stock still and empty headed for the first time in all ninety five years of his life.

The man stands a solid few inches shorter than him so the horrid hat takes a long time to get past, but then the man tips his head up and Alastair tips his head down. Alastair feels as though he might stumble backward given the force of it all. His smile is that particular kind that no one can ever capture except in the most candid and lucky sort of photos.

Every thespian strives to portray such genuine joy. And over what? A silly mixup with a door frame? It’s not just the smile either, it's the olive skin and even deeper freckles, the dimple that appears to only exist on his left cheek and something….red above his left eyebrow. Blood? He smells of that scent that brought him here.

He smells a bloody potpourri. It should be off putting. He should feel strange. He should take a step back. He should do anything except continue to stand here nearly pressed up against a perfect stranger.

“D-did, you…?” the man speaks first. Alastair is glad for his sunglasses as his traitorous eyes dart right for the man’s lips and then his throat when he pauses to swallow.

“I’m sorry.” He blinks and laughs again. It sounds like he’d just gone for a run, gusty and nervous. Finally he steps away, back into the shop to allow Alastair access through the doorway. “Would you like to come in?”

Alastair feels oddly bereft and windswept as the moment passes and he steps inside. It’s no longer required for vampires to be invited in places, but it's become very common practice to do so for courtesy purposes. He wonders if this man already knows who he is or is simply overly polite. Regardless, it's business time.

Alastair scolds himself into focusing as he nods in thanks and enters the establishment. There is one other customer reading a book in the corner with something suspiciously red in their steaming cup. There is room for maybe seven other people, but from the look of the peeling walls, they’ve never seen even that many all at once. The only praise he might give the place is the valiant attempt that has been made to make the place seem charming in a worn in way.

Art and plants are clustered artfully between mismatched tables and chairs. The table cloths are visibly worn but clean and without stains. The smell of flowery blood is stronger inside.

“Make yourself comfortable anywhere," the man says from far too close beside him. Alastair does not flinch, but it's a very close thing. He clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he says, then clears his throat again when his voice sounds strange to his own ears. “I’ll have a cup of your vegan blood please.”

He’d better try the stuff or at least get a sample to figure out what’s in it. He steadies himself as he settles into the nearest empty table. Alastair needed to focus. He came here for a purpose and he cannot, for the life of him, imagine why this man’s overwhelming smile and god awful hat has got him so off balance.

Sure, it's true that you could say Alastair got out quite a bit, but he certainly didn’t speak with strangers all that often. Perhaps it has just been a while since he found himself having to have a fairly casual interaction with someone.

He braves a look back in the direction of the man and finds that he’s already gone to work behind the counter, a puff of purple smoke rising suspiciously from the pot he’s blocking with his…does he have a back tattoo?

Alastair realizes too late that the barista is wearing a mossy green shirt meant for individuals with wings. He does not have wings, in fact, he seems utterly human. So, the hemmed hexagons instead provide two windows of tanned skin with delicate black stencils of flowers vining in and out of visibility.

“You’ll have to excu-ah-“

Alastair’s eyes are torn from their overly intensive observation when the subject of his perusal turns and catches him watching. When had he taken his sunglasses off? He curses his curiosity, but finds he has nothing to say to cover himself. Blessedly the man steadies himself and the second hand mug in his hand before crossing the distance to place it on the lacey, green tablecloth spread before Alastair.

Alastair takes a sip before he can think, embarrassingly desperate to not have to come up with something to say to this poor worker whom he’d embarrassed himself in front of several times now. He’s so focused on not talking he’s not even sure what the drink tastes like. It doesn’t matter. The rim of the glass blocks his view and he hopes he’ll take long enough that by the time he puts the cup down, the man will have gone off to complete some other task.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you hear about us?”

Alastair squeezes his eyes shut in a secret display of agony before fixing his face and replacing the glass on the table. Right. Enough of this. He is Alastair Lenoir g*dd*mnit. He is a vampire and this is some college student working in a cafe. He’s just some human with an ugly hat.

Alastair sets his imposing gaze on the silly little man before speaking clearly and with no small amount of displeasure.

“I must speak with the owner of this establishment immediately.”