Ishtar came to the bar.
The doors weren't even locked. Key under the mat, like the owner just dared someone to try their luck with the wards in the walls. The actual lock? Pointless.
Ishtar stood on the pavement outside, looking at the darkened windows.
Then she looked at the sign above the door.
Then back at the windows.
Of course, he's not here. Why would he make this easy for me?
The sign read: Back in a few days. Help yourself to the snacks on the counter. Do not touch the wine rack.
Beneath it, in smaller letters: Yes, I mean you specifically.
Ishtar stared at the sign for a good long while, trying not to break the door out of spite.
The walk had taken the better part of two days. She had taken a bus for part of it, which had required explaining to the driver that she did not have exact change, which had required a brief and unpleasant negotiation, which had resulted in her paying with a golden earring that the driver had accepted with the vacant expression of a man who had stopped asking questions about where his life is going some years ago.
Her shoes were still damp. Fantastic. Just what she needed.
Of course, he left.
Of course. I cross a damn ocean, walk through two cities, spend forty minutes fighting a vending machine that hates me, and he's still not fucking back.
A passing pedestrian glanced at her.
She smiled at him with great serenity.
He walked significantly faster.
Smart man.
She tried the door. It opened.
Inside, the bar was exactly how Cain left it. Too clean, too neat, smelled like old wood, booze, and something else she couldn't be bothered to name. The blood array in the walls? Most people couldn't see anything. To Ishtar, it was like someone left the embers burning just to show off.
Forty-three layers. Show-off. As always.
She set her coat on the nearest chair and looked around.
The snacks on the counter were a bowl of peanuts and a small note that said: Emergency contact is Azazel. Do not call him unless something is actually on fire. His number is on the wall by the phone.
A second note beneath it read: It is probably fine.
It is probably fine.
The first vampire. The big boss of bloodsuckers. The guy who made all the rules. Leaves behind a bowl of peanuts and a sticky note. Fucking incredible.
...
I missed you, Grandpa.
Ishtar sat down on a barstool.
She sat there for approximately forty-five seconds.
Then she looked at the bar.
At the shelves of stock behind it. The glasses. The taps. The ledger was sitting open on the counter with Cain's cramped handwriting noting the last three days of inventory.
She looked at the door.
Back at the bar.
I am not doing this. I swear to every god, including myself, that I am not.
She crossed to the other side of the bar and opened the ledger.
Absolutely not. I am a goddess. Antediluvian. Patron of beauty, war, and the goddamn stars. Seventeen civilisations worshipped me. I do not bartend for some asshole who can't be bothered to leave a note.
Stock list? Incomplete. Three bottles of Irish whiskey left, because apparently everyone in this city drinks like a fish. Out of limes. Beer tap's loose and dripping. Of course it is.
That needs fixing before it pisses me off even more.
She grabbed a rag and fixed it. Because apparently she runs this place now.
I am doing this under protest. Loud, angry protest.
By the time the first customer tried the door an hour later, Ishtar had the bar open, the inventory updated, and a look of composed authority that made the man who entered briefly consider whether he had come to the right place.
He had.
He sat down, ordered a beer, and did not ask why the woman behind the bar had red eyes and golden ornaments in her hair and the bearing of someone who considered serving him a personal favour on a cosmic scale.
People in this city, he had found, had learned not to ask.
She served him. Perfectly. With a smile that was entirely 'genuine' and only slightly terrifying.
This shit is beneath me. But if I'm stuck doing it, I'm doing it right.
She checked the ledger again.
He wrote notes in three different languages. Of course he fucking did. Pretentious bastard.
She translated the Sumerian without thinking, made the correction in the margin, and moved on.
The evening crowd was thin but steady.
Ishtar served everyone with the kind of efficiency you only get from running divine feasts for millennia. Smaller scale, same bullshit. She remembered faces, orders, upsold twice, and didn't feel the slightest bit bad about it.
I should charge more for this. Prices are a joke for this neighbourhood. The wards alone are worth more than half of what these idiots make in a year.
She wrote a note in the margin of the ledger. Suggested price adjustment, three items. Reasoning included.
He'll bitch about it, talking that he doesn't care about money, but who cares? I do.
The bell above the door rang.
Two people entered.
First guy: tall, long red coat, probably thinks it's a fashion statement. Dark hat. Moves like he hasn't rushed anywhere since the Black Death. Looks at the bar like he's been here before and didn't hate it.
Second one: younger, shorter, blonde hair, big blue eyes, scanning the place like she's expecting trouble. Civilian clothes, but walks like she just got out of boot camp and hasn't figured out how to relax.
Ishtar looked at them. Or especially at the massive milkers of the woman, with a look as if she were seeing her greatest enemy.
The man in the red coat looked at her.
A pause.
The kind of pause that happens between two very old things when they recognise each other across a room.
Dracula.
Fifth generation. The Mr. 'imma make you into a dining chair' still alive? Unbelievable.
Absolutely insufferable.
His expression was not quite a smile, but it was heading in that direction, with great enthusiasm.
"Oh," he said.
That was all he said.
Just oh.
With the tone of a man who had been given a gift he had not expected and intended to appreciate it thoroughly.
His companion had no idea what was happening.
"Hi," she said, because she was polite. "Is Karl around? We were hoping to—"
"He is not here," Ishtar said pleasantly.
"Oh." The blonde looked briefly disappointed. "Do you know when he will be back?"
"No."
"Are you a friend of his?"
A pause.
"More like granddaughter," Ishtar said, already planning to chew Cain out the second he showed his face.
The man in the red coat sat down at the bar.
Like he owned the place. Prick.
Ishtar looked at him.
"Well?" she said.
"Bourbon," he said. "Whatever he keeps for himself. Not the shelf stock."
He knows about the reserve shelf. Of course he does.
She found the bottle, poured it, and slammed it down in front of him with more precision than necessary.
He picked it up, swirled it, and regarded her over the glass with the calm amusement of a man watching something extremely entertaining happen to someone else.
"So," he said. "How long have you been awake?"
"Nine days."
"And you are already running his bar."
"I'm just keeping this place from falling apart while he's off doing god knows what. Not the same thing."
"Of course."
His companion had sat down next to him and was watching this exchange with visible uncertainty.
"Sorry," she said carefully. "Do you two know each other?"
"We have met in the past," Ishtar said.
"Several times," Alucard confirmed. "The last time was—"
"Do not," Ishtar said.
He smiled, but did not continue.
Progress, I guess.
The young blonde looked between them. Then at Ishtar. Then at her eyes, which were red, and her hair, which had golden ornaments in it, and her posture, which was not the posture of someone who worked in a bar professionally.
"Are you…" she started carefully. "A vampire?"
"Among other things," Ishtar said.
"Oh." She nodded. "I am Seras. It is nice to meet you."
She extended her hand.
Ishtar looked at it.
Then she shook it. Because Seras had said it with such complete and uncalculated sincerity that declining would have felt like kicking a puppy.
"Ishtar."
Seras's expression did not change for approximately one second.
Then it did.
"...The Ishtar?"
"Is there another one?"
"I—no. I just—" She turned to Alucard. "You did not think to mention that?"
"I was curious how long it would take," he said.
"That is—" She stopped. Took a breath. Turned back to Ishtar with the expression of someone performing a rapid internal reorganisation. "I apologise. You probably get that a lot."
"Less than I used to," Ishtar said. "Nobody remembers shit these days. Honestly, it's fucking insulting."
Somewhat.
Ishtar, goddess of Venus. Of beauty and war and love and the harvest. Antediluvian. Toreador. Patron of artists, architects, and poets for three thousand years. Somewhat offensive. Oh right. Her reaction means Dra... I mean, Alucard has not told her who Karl really is. Poor thing. Pranked by this guy.
"What are you drinking?" she asked, because Seras had not ordered anything and an empty glass was an empty glass.
Seras blinked. "Something not too strong? It has been a long week."
Ishtar made her a drink. Properly. With the kind of focus you only get from judging wine at divine banquets and being disappointed every single time.
Seras took a sip.
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
"That is really good."
"I know," Ishtar said, because of course she did.
Alucard refilled his own glass from the bottle she had left on the counter and said nothing, which was somehow worse than if he had said something.
"Do not," Ishtar said, without looking at him.
"I have not said anything."
"You were about to."
He smiled again.
The bottle was still on the counter. Ishtar snatched it up and shoved it back on the reserve shelf where it belonged.
He looked at where it had been.
Then at her.
"Are you going to make me pay for those?"
"You were going to pour a fourth glass."
"I was considering it."
"Then yes."
Seras watched them as if she were taking notes for a future therapy session.
"How long have you known Karl?" she asked.
"A long time," Ishtar said, forcing a smile that could probably crack glass.
"She is being modest," Alucard said with a smirk.
"Alucard..."
"Before the flood," he said to Seras, completely ignoring Ishtar's tone. "She was already old when Noah was building his boat."
Seras looked at Ishtar.
Ishtar shot Alucard a look that promised violence. Eventually.
"He talks way too fucking much," she said.
"He really does," Seras agreed, with the easy comfort of someone who had extensive personal experience with this.
For a second, both women gave Alucard the same look. The 'shut the fuck up' look.
He finished his bourbon, utterly untroubled.
"So," he said. "What are your plans while he is away?"
"I'll keep the bar running," Ishtar said, like she hadn't just spent twenty minutes cursing out the universe about it.
"Of course."
"Do not start again."
"I said nothing."
"I will unseal you just to diablerie you again. You brat."
Seras looked at her glass. Then at the ceiling. Then back at her glass.
These two could keep this up for hours.
She was not wrong.
Outside, the city didn't care. Inside, an ancient goddess ran a bar she never asked for, a fifth-gen vampire drank someone else's booze, and a young vampire sat between them, quietly finishing her drink and wondering if anyone would notice if she ordered another.
Ishtar noticed.
She poured her another. No need to ask.
The bell rang as a new customer entered.
Ishtar moved without thinking, picked up a cloth, straightened the bottles on the shelf that had shifted slightly, and looked at the customer with a composed expression of authority.
"Good evening," she said. "What can I get you?"