The sun rises in the municipality of Salem, California like milk slow-poured into coffee; a drop of light in the ink-dark sky, clouds touched with color and swirling with the current of winds from high aloft. The clouds often come heavy with the news of rain in winter, but the thin pink-orange wisps on this late spring morning promise nothing but heat.
Skrilliant reclines on the roof of the Vampire’s Nest, clawed hands wrapped around a steaming mug of blood cocoa. It watches the clouds as they idly shift, a sunrise that harkens the beginning of its daily bedtime routine. It takes a careful sip. It’s about 6:30AM, and in a few minutes, Skrilliant’s peace will be broken by its loyal underlings requesting to go home early.

Skrilliant holds no animosity towards the young undead the Vampire’s Nest employs, but it wishes bitterly and often that they would simply leave it alone. It wasn’t cut out for bar ownership.

Right on cue, the elevator pings. Brick, Jonsey, and Sophie pile out of the century-old elevator and greet Skrilliant with the “casual” affect they put on when they want something, or don’t want to get in trouble. Thankfully, today it’s the former.

Brick, as always, takes the lead. “Yo, boss! It’s closing time, we finished cleaning early.”

“Requesting early outs?”

“Maybe,” Sophie chirps, putting on her most innocent smile.

Skrilliant lolls its head back to make eye contact with the crew. “Why don’t you guys ever want your full night’s pay? You’re missing out on an hour and a half every week.”

Jonsey shrugs, silent as ever, and Brick just hums. “Better to be out enjoying the world than stuck behind a bar when every other creature of the fuckin’ night is sleeping. We’re not making any tips at this hour anyway.”

Skrilliant sips its drink. “Fair enough. Give me the clipboard.”

Brick hands over the schedule sheet eagerly, and Skrilliant signs off with its familiar scratchy signature.

“Don’t have too much fun out there,” Skrilliant murmurs.

“You too, boss.”

“Good day, Skrilliant!”

“Later.”

Skrilliant shoots a lazy two-fingered salute in response. The three turn tail and squeeze back into the elevator, chattering amongst themselves. Skrilliant sighs and settles back into its mug of blood cocoa. The sun is up, the sky is blue, the birds are chirping, and Skrilliant is working on a headache.
—

It’s an evolutionary fact for all social species that genetic and behavioral variety is amongst their greatest strengths. Lacking extreme speed, strength, bite force, body mass, or other notable traits that define solitary animals’ survival strategies, humans have adapted over millennia to form societies of varied individuals working together which have helped them survive cataclysmic events time and time again. One human alone, Oliver knows too well, is a tasty morsel in a world full of sharp teeth.

Oliver chews the inside of their cheek as they force themself to remember this fact. It’s currently the only thing keeping their ass firmly planted in the plastic chair as the woman at the speaker continues to bark.

“-And the zoning laws are there for a reason! This motion to kill them will kill our freedom! The people of Salem have a right to own their cars and enjoy the open road-“

This particular group of humans seems to have forgone Oliver’s notions of diversity of opinion in favor of forming a hegemonic group that seem to be afraid of sidewalks.

Oliver can only take so much, really.

They stand abruptly, waking up the other city council meeting attendees (all five of them). “Pardon me, ma’am.” Oliver smiles through gritted teeth.

The woman, Theresa, stops herself short and turns to meet Oliver’s glare. The council members seated at the long table in the back of the room sag with a mixture of relief and defeat.

“Do you really believe anything you’re advocating for? Have you ever been to a city where a car wasn’t a necessity?”

Theresa looks ruffled. “Young man, I-“

“Ah ah,” Oliver cuts her off. “Wrong on both counts. My name is Oliver of Havana, and I am anything but young or a man. Now, you, on the other hand-” Oliver is making their way to the podium, index finger pointing accusingly at Theresa, “You are little more than a half century old. All that you see around you is all you’ve ever known. How can y-y-you stand here preaching the m-merits of car-centric infrastructure when you’ve never seen the way people build anywhere else in th-the world? Don’t you see the desolation that comes with these massive parking lots? Don’t you see how your “freedoms” are sold to you by people extremely interested in k-keeping you isolated and dependant on y-y-your cars?” Oliver advances a step with each question. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like to live in a place where you can exist freely as a human being? Where you don’t fear your neighbors? Don’t fear kindness for kindness’ sa-sake?”

“You- I-“

“You would condemn an entire populace to live in th-this misery forever simply because you’re afraid of change?”

“I’m not afraid of, of-“

Oliver’s leaning close now, “You are. You halt progress at every turn because you fear what you don’t know.” They hold Theresa’s shocked gaze for a long moment before she remembers to breathe. She blinks and looks anywhere but Oliver’s face.

“I know you, Theresa. I know a-a-a, a thousand like you. Your idea of the world stopped forming in your youth, and everything that’s happened since is wrong. Everything would’ve been better if it had stayed the same, but y-your ideal is one bought and paid for in human misery. It tastes like poison.”

A council member clears their throat. “Oliver..?”

Oliver leans away from the speechless woman. “Yes?”

“No need for threats, now. I think I speak for all of us when I say,” the man, balding, in his fifties, checks on either side for approval, “your earlier presentation was… Lovely. We all appreciate the studies and works cited. But uhm.”

Oliver’s frown twists further.

“Well, to put it bluntly, she’s right. We have no right to take away people’s freedom to own cars. It’s the American dream.”

Red flashes in Oliver’s eyes. They face fully toward the table. “That has nothing to do with- I’m not advocating for the removal of personal p-property! I’m advocating for loosening the zoning laws for minimum parking requirements! Y-you saw my interviews!”

Oliver is met with a chorus of “yes, but”s, and their teeth find the bloody inside of their cheek again. Theresa is standing there with her arms crossed, shaken but triumphant, resin jewelry gleaming in the dim lights.

They attempt to refocus their hearing as white-hot rage builds up inside. The council members’ words of diplomatic rejection ring hollow in their head. It takes all types of make a society. Our differences are our strengths. You cannot hate them for what they don’t know.

Oliver repeats this in their head like a mantra as they stomp back to their seat, where their long black jacket is draped over the wooden chair. “I’ll return next month,” Oliver snarls, and leaves in the blink of an eye. The council members and the meeting attendees stare blankly in their wake.

Given enough time and evidence, they will see reason. They will, even if Oliver has to force their eyes open.
—

The industrial elevator carries Skrilliant seven stories below ground to the workshop. Stainless steel and concrete surfaces dominate here, less weathered than the old industrial steel and brick that make up the above-ground warehouse of the Vampire’s Nest. The hallways down here are wide, curved, and labyrinthine, marked only with vague signage and yellow padded bumpers. There are two industrial elevators in the east wing; one for palettes and supply loads, the other for raising and lowering trucks and other large machinery.

Skrilliant passes both without a glance.

The extensive underground complex was excavated and built piecemeal throughout the years, starting after the vampires bought the property in 1920. Skrilliant runs its hand down the wall curving gently to the right. This pathway leads to their habsuite, one of the first structures carved into the rock. The electric leading to their living room had been recently rewired, having caught fire after a surge from Oliver’s experiments. The scorch marks still mar the concrete walls that Skrilliant runs its hand over.
A few dozen steps later and the living room opens up, welcoming yellow lighting beckoning Skrilliant back to rest.
The familiar woven rug in the center of the concrete floor is rumpled as ever. The couches, a mixture of ostentatious and humbly low-class, were all thrifted or picked up from estate sales, none matching in theme or color. The few items of furniture that carry any hint of intentionality are the tables; side tables, a coffee table, and a television stand built during one of Oliver’s woodworking stints. Each is lovingly carved and skillfully crafted, unpainted but stained with a cherry finish. Atop most of the furniture is evidence of one of Salieri’s hobbies, bobbin lace weaving. White and pink doilies adorn chair backs, the arms of the couches, pillow covers, and tables. The familiar smell of the room envelops Skrilliant like a soft dusty hug.

It plops itself down on the nearest loveseat, legs dangling over the armrest, and promptly falls asleep.
-

Salieri holds her skirt tightly as she descends the spiral staircase, the grated iron clang clang clang-ing with every step she takes. Her eyes are wide in the near-total darkness, flashing red against the archival lowlights as she searches. There are three inventory punch cards in her hand, and she doesn’t have a clue if any of them are connected to the book she’s searching for.
Shelf after shelf pass by, each twice as tall as she is and their treasures protected behind thick glass panels. 5-A, 5-B, 5-C, 5-D; each shelf passes in a whoosh of skirts and clicking heels. She turns abruptly. 5-D, shelf 6, author Anonymous. Publish date 1769. She bites her lip as she turns the latch to reach the book. It’s rare that a volume surviving this long isn’t a religious or philosophical text, but Salieri’s been a book hoarder since before she was ever turned. This book, bound in tattered dirty cloth with gold leaf cracking off, has travelled with her overseas twice. It’s a volume of fairy tales and morality fables that predate the Grimm tales; she had read this religiously throughout her schooling in Arezzo, and found comfort in its whimsical nonsense when she struggled to see the beauty in the brutality of Christian teaching. Though it used to be one of her first favorite books, the memories are dim when her eyes skim the cover.

The next two punch cards are section 9, rows D and Y. She tucks the fairy tales into the crook of her arm and marches on through the dark.

Somewhere past section 7, a cobweb sticks itself to her hair and she struggles, spluttering and protesting to the empty dark.

After her second book is in hand, she trips on a crack in the stone and nearly crashes into one of the glass book cases. “Whoops!” she exclaims. “Good lord this place is a mess.” She angrily dusts herself off as she mutters.

9-Y is only a short stomp away. Skimming the shelves for her final and most likely target, however, comes up short. She blinks. Reexamines the punch card. 9-Y, shelf 4, author Galbiati, publish date 1801. Between Galbani and Galli. She shifts her weight as she steps away, tapping her chin.

“Maybe my library…? But when would I have…”

She thinks for a long while. The sections of lowlights behind her click off when they stop detecting activity. Salieri hardly notices.
Minutes pass in total darkness, before- “Aha!” Lights click back on as she bustles her way down row after row of books.

The spiral stairs with their emergency lights come back into view as she rounds on section 1. The section ends next to an entryway of sorts; a rug running into the archives, a bulletin board on the stone wall, and a row of filing cabinets full to the brim with decimal punch cards. A big printer sits dusty and derelict next to an old wax model of a human nervous system. Her real target is the pile of books she hasn’t sorted yet; the end of the book return chute, where the stack looms almost to the ceiling.

She stops just short of the mountain. She takes a deep breath, rolls up her sleeves, and gets to work.
—

The slamming door snaps Skrilliant back to the waking world, floundering for a moment as its brain reorients from under one of the couch cushions.

“Whoseuh?” Skrilliant slurs. It pulls its head out of the couch, black hair tangled and popping with static.

“Just me,” Oliver says flatly.

Skrilliant groans and relaxes back into the loveseat. “Where’ve you been?” It asks, rubbing its eyes.

“Pushing the boulder up the hill. The hell happened to you?”

“Work,” Skrilliant answers tiredly.

Oliver hums in acknowledgement. They tousle Skrilliant’s hair as they pass, heading for the kitchen.

“Would you like anything, dear?”

Skrilliant groans loudly in response. Oliver, one room away, snickers. They saunter back into the room with a cup of something cold, foul mood quickly evaporating as they sip. Skrilliant doesn’t know what’s in the cup, but they make a grabbing motion with both hands. “Gimme,” it whines.

Oliver only laughs. “Get your own.” They lean against the doorway casually.

Skrilliant flops back onto the couch. “You’re so cruel to me. I had a hard night.” One arm is thrown over its eyes dramatically.

“Aw, I’m sorry dear,” Oliver tsks. “But get your own.”

Skrilliant only lets out a haggard, long-suffering groan. “Salieri would get me a treat if I asked…”

“Where is Sali?”

“I’ll tell you if you share.”

“You are diabolical,” Oliver grins. Takes another sip. They already have a pretty good idea where Salieri is, but they hardly need to let Skrilliant know. “Tell you what,” they say. “I’ll get you an icey if you do me a favor.”

Skrilliant peeks out from under the crook of its elbow. “Hmm?”

Oliver pushes themself off the doorway and crosses the threshold casually. “I’ve had a shit morning. I need help focusing on my scheming.” They plant their hand on the armrest above Skrilliant’s head, leaning down to meet Skrilliant’s perpetually red eyes. Skrilliant’s gaze flicks between Oliver’s eyes, their mouth, and the cup they’re holding out of reach.

“I’m listening.” Skrilliant licks its lips.

Oliver’s gaze darkens with satisfaction. They lean closer. “You’re thirsty? Then here I am.”
—

Oliver is midway to climax, thighs pressed against Skrilliant’s face, when the door slams open again. The two of them nearly jump out of their skins.

“We have got to automate archive retrieval,” Salieri growls as she storms through the living room, books in hand and a bridal train of cobwebs trailing behind her.

“Knocking would be nice,” Skrilliant says, muffled under Oliver.

Salieri turns, startled. “Wh-?“ she does a double take. “Hey!”

“What?” Oliver grins. They grip Skrilliant’s hair harder and make a show of grinding down on its face.

She crosses her arms. “I see how it is. I’m downstairs for six hours and suddenly I get to miss all the fun?”

“I only just got home. Give me a s-second. Christ!” Oliver exclaims as Skrilliant does something vicious with its tongue. “Wh-what were you downstairs for?”

“Looking for my old fairy stories so I can summon a fae, and then digitize the books for shut-ins on the internet. I found one of my favorite ones but, lo and behold! The one I was actually looking for is missing!” She huffs and finally looks down at her dusty skirt. “We need to brainstorm some way to retrieve books from my archive without having to go down there. Look at me.” When she pats her skirt, another puff of dust explodes from the fabric.

“Little, ah, busy here. Give me-“

“Yeah, yeah, I see that. I’m going to go shower,” Salieri interrupts, waving her hand dismissively at the other two.

She continues muttering amusedly to herself as she follows the curved hallway to the bathroom. Oliver’s breathy moans follow her and she can only smile. No matter the mood she finds herself in, Oliver and Skrilliant always have a way of injecting enough levity that it slaps her back to reality.

The Vampire’s Nest, or, rather, its underground complex, was built for functionality rather than style, but the bathroom could be held as its one exception. The floor slopes steadily downward until the room opens up, with a vaulted ceiling and two large columns framing an in-ground roman style bath and adjoining Jacuzzi.
The room is tiled with mosaic up to the halfway point, where the warm colored concrete draws the eye gently upward. Lamplight illuminates the complex designs on the floor tiles; geometric shapes frame bats, deer, bison, bears, fish, birds, cougars, and the warm golden grass and grey-green trees that make up the landscape aboveground. The scene depicts a perpetual autumn, where the trees are full of acorns and the fish jostle for dominance in the river that winds across the floor to the bath. Each tile was plotted with Salieri’s artistic eye, but laying and setting them had been a group effort between the trio.

Stepping into the bathroom, there are three toilets on the right wall, each with a small accompanying sink. Next to the entryway on the left, towel hooks hold on to Oliver’s, Skrilliant’s, and Salieri’s chosen towels (each guarded jealously come bathtime). A laundry chute framed in mosaic as a hollow in an oak trunk is cut into the wall next to the towels.
Salieri strips without preamble and stuffs her skirt, blouse, and underthings into the chute.
She makes another fruitless attempt to sweep the cobwebs out of her hair.
Lamps in stained glass shades cast an almost romantic light as her dappled shadow falls on the tiles; even the scent of this room loosens her shoulders from the ordeal of the archive. She breathes a little easier in the warmth here; true to its roman influence, their floors are heated, and the smooth tiles bring comfort to her aching feet.

Hot water pours over her, spiraling away down the drain with shampoo and the remainder of her frustrations.
—