Uprising by Scott G. Mariani Page A

this?’
    ‘To see Rudi Bertolino,’ she said. ‘He called me to say he’s got some information.’
    ‘The ragu sauce guy. I remember.’
    ‘Rudi’s a little more than that. He owns the famous Last Bite Bar and Grill on St James’s. Wait till you see it. He’s also one of my prime informers.’
    ‘He’s…’
    ‘You’re so coy. Why don’t you just say it? Yes, he’s one of us, he’s a vampire. You’ll like him, too. Everyone does. A lot of us hang out there. It’s kind of a vampire restaurant.’
    ‘Right. So vampires can actually eat, like, real food?’ he asked, looking hopeful. The back of a bus was looming up alarmingly fast. ‘Watch—’
    She twisted the wheel smartly and missed the bus by an inch. ‘Sure, we can eat. It’s a social occasion, and human food tastes pretty good. Especially if it comes out of Rudi Bertolino’s kitchen. Thing is, though, you could pig out on it every day and still starve. There’s no nutrition in it, not for us.’
    ‘Shit. For a minute there, I was kind of hoping—’
    ‘We’re vampires, Greg. It’s what we do. Get used to it.’ She sighed reproachfully. ‘Not feeding yet, then?’
    ‘Don’t bring that up again. Makes me sick even to think of it.’
    ‘Of course it does. That’s normal enough. But that feeling doesn’t last. Trust me.’
    ‘Wonderful. Looking forward to it.’
    ‘Taken your Solazal today?’
    ‘What are you, my mother?’
    ‘When I see a helpless little vampire baby, I get these irrepressible maternal urges. Plus I don’t want you frazzling up too close to me.’
    ‘Thank you so much,’ he muttered. ‘Helpless little baby. So what information does this Rudi guy have for us?’
    ‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’
    The Last Bite Bar and Grill, open dusk till dawn, was one of central London’s most in and super-trendy hangouts for vampires, movie stars, rock musicians, other assorted celebrities and those wannabes that could afford to eat, drink and party there. Rudi Bertolino, its owner-manager, was a vampire with his ear to the ground. For a yacht-owning, Porsche-driving multi-millionaire restaurateur he moved in some pretty low places – maybe that was just him keeping in touch with his past selling fish in the street markets of old Napoli, back when he’d been human. In return for the information he passed Alex from time to time, she turned a blind eye to the fact that he occasionally violated Federation rules by knocking off a human and putting their blood in the food to appeal to the real vampires among his clientele.
    ‘On a strictly assholes-only basis,’ he always insisted in his gravelly bass rumble. ‘Who’s gonna lament the demise of a few pushers, pimps and paedos?’ And that was pretty much good enough for Alex.
    Rudi’s establishment sprawled across three floors between a yacht broker’s and a private members’ club on St James’s. His gold 911 Turbo was parked outside, glinting in the lights from the windows. The music was thumping out into the street. Alex and Greg bypassed the chattering throngs of hopefuls gathered on the pavement and steps outside, who were waiting to get tables. Two doormen dressed in cloaks and fake fangs spotted Alex and ushered her and Greg inside, bowing stiffly as they walked in up the red carpet into the lights and noise.
    The place was decked out like a gaudy gothic cathedral, lit by huge candelabras and chandeliers that looked like torture implements suspended on chains from the vaulted ceiling. Marble pillars gleamed in the swirling spotlights from the bar. Sumptuous red satin drapes billowed down from archways thirty feet high.
    The joint was packed. About a hundred people were crowding the bar, yelling to get their drink orders in. Waitresses in leather basques with pointy teeth and heavy eyeshadow roller-skated round the tables, and the waiters had slicked-back hair and long black capes. Mock-Transylvanian tapestries and giant framed prints from vampire movies