Chapter 1

Three months before Judgment Day...

The clock rang loudly and rouse me wake.

Ten O’clock.

“Hey, everyone! This is Radio JB and to those of you who are still on their bed, wake up and smell the roses!”

“Yea, yea...shut up...”

I waved my hand vaguely where I put the clock and pushed the off button, shutting up the perky radio personality. Too much perky in the morning.

After a big yawn and a stretch to my sore muscles, I opened the window to breathe some fresh air, which seeing as I am in New York, smelled like fish.

“Good morning, hon. Sleepin’ in again?”

Across my balcony I could see Martha, Grandmother of three and occasional customer, hanging clothes to dry. So I indulge her.

“You know me, Martha. Early to sleep and late to rise. Come visit us tonight! I have a bottle of nice aged Scotch waiting for you.”

“That sure sounds temptin’ dear. Let me see if I can make the husband take me.”

After that brief friendly jab, I know that it was going to be a great day.

And what would be better than a bit of Sinatra to start with? So I put on my prized stereo and danced my way to the bathroom.

After having a cold one, I brushed my teeth and flossed, taking care not to cut it with my long, sharp canines. God knows how many times I’ve pricked my fingers on them.

While looking at the mirror I licked my teeth and checked for traces of beard. Sharp jaw, brown eyes, and auburn hair to die for.

Yep, that’s all me. Alex Lucard. Owner of Bar Wallachia and an all around nice guy.

I put on some clothes and my necklace with a silver cross pendant. Something my late wife gave me on our wedding night.

Soon after, I descended down the stairs to my bar and spotted someone sitting on a table. Her legs swinging to and fro as they did not reach the floor.

Lilian Elizabeth Winterbrook, a petite girl with skin of ivory, eyes of azure gem, and long hair of golden silk, like a princess in fairy tales. My only waitress, accountant, advisor, and occasional respite from damnation. Like me, she lived above the bar. The other one was Ian the Cook. He lived in the kitchen. I don’t know much about him. No one does.

“What’s for breakfast today?” I quipped. I took the newspaper already on the table along with a glass of milk.

“Don’t you mean brunch? It’s past ten now.”

Her answer was apathetic, like her expressions. For some reason, there was always a headphone perched on her head. I never asked. I’m afraid she will answer me.

“Johann Melenkov, Dead by Bullet,” I read aloud.

“What are you reading?”

“Some murder story. Johann Melenkov…isn’t it that Russian mafia boss that runs the West Side?”

“Right,” her eyes didn’t move from the television. “But his death won’t affect us much, so let us refrain from talking about it. It will ruin brunch.”

Clink.

Clink.

Just as she mentioned that word, two plates of full continental breakfast suddenly appeared in front of me with a card that says, “Enjoy.”

And so I did. Until I found out a strange tang in the mash potatoes. I stuck my tongue out painfully.

“Garlic! Why did you put garlic in!? The atrocity! I don’t know why people like this horrid stuff.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you strong,” she commented, intently cutting the bread into small bites.

I appealed for reason. “Too much of these can kill me, literally.”

“Is The Impaler afraid of a bit of bulby vegetables?”

“If it tastes as bad as this coffee, yes.”

Just another day of my life. Lovely.