From Turned, a vampire story I'm currently trying to finish up.
They arrived at midnight and none of them signed the guest book. Fuckers. That had cost me fifty bucks. I stood in the back of the room where the memorial service would take place, sunglasses hiding my eyes and tried to be as insignificant as possible, but their gazes still sought me out anyway.
They could probably hear my heart beat from across the room. I suppressed a shiver and gestured toward the refreshments. I didn’t smile. I wasn’t their friend. Dad was dead because of them.
Donor blood filled a crystal punch bowl and there were wine glasses with thin, elegant stems. The glassware was a rental from the funeral home. They supplied the blood, too. I didn’t ask where they’d found it. The line between willing donor and unwilling victim was often blurry. Some blood dealers called it consent if a victim didn’t complain after they’d been held down and forcibly relieved of a pint.
I watched as the last of them filed in. There were more than I’d expected. At least twenty. Some nodded toward me, acknowledging my existence. Others ignored me and a few watched me like they wanted to sink their fangs in my neck. The men wore dark suits and the women favored black sheath dresses with extra high heels.
The chaplain, a bald squat vampire the funeral home had hired for the service, gave everyone time to fill a glass with blood and find a seat before clearing his throat. I’d been assured he would say all the right things…to the vampires.