Well, it isn’t the worst fog I’ve ever seen, the vampire thought as he put a gloved hand on the old brass door handle. He blinked to force the mist from his eyes and realized he could only barely see the street sign at the corner. He turned his attention back to the old slab of a door, took a deep breath and steeled himself for the onslaught he knew was coming.
Cigarette smoke. It hit him before the weathered old door was even open enough to allow him to slip in. He hated smoke. His enhanced sense of smell was useless in it and it left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.
And it’s the first thing I’ll change after I buy this place, he reminded himself. Only a couple more weeks and the old bar will be mine.
“Hey, Erik.” Somewhere from deep within the acrid haze a familiar man’s voice called out.
“Hey, George. How’re things at the dock?” He tossed a quick wave in the direction of the voice and pretended not to hear the reply over the din made by the longshoremen, mill workers and fishermen as he fixed his gray eyes on the stool at the end of the long, polished bar.
He slipped the silky “Reserved” banner from the back of the weathered hide of the barstool and eased into the cool seat. It had been his seat for as long as he could remember. It had certainly been his seat longer than anyone else in this place could remember.