The cops hadn’t found him, but that didn’t mean anything. Slash was out there somewhere; could be dead or dying. Here he was, in bed. Nos felt a fresh wash of shame. He pictured Slash as he’d leaned against the bathroom doorway, easy smile on his lips, crimson hair falling into his eyes. Saw Slash standing rooted to the ground, eyes huge as he watched the vampire eat with bloody abandon. Heard Slash’s scream, as God knew what happened to him.

Vampires were his favorite of the dark creatures. Goth he might be, but no stereotype; he’d known vamps to be things of fiction–sexy, yet dangerous, the stuff of a man’s midnight fantasies. Now he’d encountered the real thing.

A smart man would stay in bed, pull the covers back over his head and hope the whole situation would go away. Nos tried, but the heavy wool threatened to suffocate him. Conviction weighed heavy on his chest. He flung the blanket from the bed. Wasn’t 'man' the operative word?

What kind of man let down a friend?

He dressed quickly; black shirt and black jeans, tied his hair back in a rubber band, brushed his teeth and swished mouthwash in his foul tasting mouth. He opened the medicine cabinet, avoiding the high dollar fangs that had once been his pride. Pills lined the shelf, bright and colorful, beckoning with their promises of oblivion. Not to feel, not to care; God, it tempted him. Open a cap, pour a few of the suckers into his palm and presto, instant numb. A few more and . . .

His hand hovered over a bottle of Percodan. Hovered and then scooped it up.

Not yet. He couldn’t help Slash while in the middle of a narcotic stupor.

He pulled on his coat, cursing himself as he rushed out the door. Damn him for growing a conscience.

The drive to the Blue Dog was short. He went inside and ordered a beer. Chugged it and ordered another. Leaning against the bar, he lit a cigarette and proceeded to watch a little of the evening’s entertainment. A barely dressed woman gyrated her hips to the twang of some country song. He almost retched, and didn’t know if it was the music or the assault on his eyes. Gravity had not been kind--and they called him long in the tooth. Nos snickered and gave her his back. The bar had cement floors that they hosed down after closing. What kind of dancers could he expect in such a joint?

Speaking of, a joint sounded fine. He poured his beer into a plastic to-go cup, stomped out his butt.

First, a phone call. By now Slash’s mom had reported him missing. The cops would brush her off, figuring Slash had run away or spent the night with some chick. Word in the bar said the pusher’d been found. Pig interest would pique, then, when he gave them info that tied Slash’s disappearance with the dead prep. They’d come running like the Krispy Kreme was on fire. He only hoped they’d be in time.