Dave and Alisha and I went out and had good Chinese food. Mm. Eggplant with garlic sauce. And later, honey-bubble-tea. So happy.

The next and last intro is Jeff's character. In trying to describe my take on the "Three Sisters" to Jeff (themselves springboarded from Bram Stoker and the Stepford Cuckoos) I attempted to tell him that they were "wispy" and "thin" and "delicate", and then at some point I said: "They're like donut holes."

Pause. Blink.

"What?" Jeff said.

"You know. Donut holes. Pop one in your mouth, chew, swallow, and it's gone. They're like that. Fragile. Sugary. Why are you looking at me like that?"

But they are. Like donut holes. In my head. Oh, just read the intro.

(Hey, by the way, this text for this and all my Chronicle-related stuff is Rated R due to naughty words and some violence. Sorry, I've got characters who cuss.)

Cole's Introduction

"Where are we going?"

The voices slid, knifelike, in and out of Cole's consciousness. He tried to get a look at the speakers, but his eyelids weren't responding. Every now and then his legs twitched or his arms jumped, but nothing was under his own control.

I'm having a goddamn seizure, he thought. I'm at this goddamn party, and I'm fucking dying right here on this stupid couch, and no one is calling an ambulance for me.

There had been three girls plastered to him. They'd done...something...he wasn't sure what, or how. A whiff of E in his scotch? Heroin, maybe? There'd been a sharp sort of pain in his neck and then....

No, that wasn't heroin. He didn't know what had happened, just that it had been something damn-near spiritual, but only if your concept of god was Charles Manson on an ego trip.

I was dying, now I ain't dying. He focused on opening up one eye -- just one -- and succeeded. The pulsing lights of the warehouse flooded his retina, though for some reason he thought it had been brighter, harsher when he first came in. Rolling his gaze downward, he could see his scotch still sitting on the table.

Want...alcohol..., he thought. He was thirsty beyond belief.

"Lilith, I'm going to fucking kill you," said an angry voice somewhere above and to Cole's left. It sounded like the Dude. Cole didn't have a name for the guy, even though the Dude was who had gotten him into this freaked-up den of scum and villainy.

"Promises, promises," the object of his ire responded, rising from her loveseat like a queen from her throne. She flicked her fingers at three women dressed in identical dresses that clustered around her like Love, Angel, and Music without the Baby. "Kisses, Carlos. Come, girls."

"But where are we going?" one of them whined as the four women sauntered off. Cole watched their pert backsides vanish into the crowd, their conversation fading away with them.

"You goddamn cockbite!" the Dude yelled after her. With a noise that was half-growl, half-sigh, he sat down next to Cole. The couch bounced and Cole wobbled back and forth. He could move his fingers now. He tried annunciation.

"Um," he said. "Ummmm."

The Dude's head whipped toward him as if he'd never seen him before. For a moment, Cole could swear the guy's eyes were cat-yellow. Then Cole blinked (slowly, his eyelid moved like molasses in Syberia) and it was gone.

"Made it through the fire, eh?" the Dude said.

Cole made an inarticulate noise of pain.

"Good on ya." The Dude didn't sound happy.

"Unh," Cole said. "Nnh. Gnhrrr."

"Gotta do something. Gotta do something." The Dude was holding a one-sided conversation with himself. Suddenly, he bounced to his feet. "Stay here!" he yelled at Cole, and hurried off.

Like I was going anywhere? Cole found the motor control to get himself up out of the slump he'd slid into and lowered his hands into his lap. He could open both eyes now, and all he wanted was...something. He had thought it was the scotch, but now that he looked at it, it didn't seem quite so attractive, which was damned odd because he was pretty sure he was the textbook definition of an alcoholic.

He sat blinking and staring for what seemed an hour, slowly reconciling his mind and body. He'd just gotten control of his arms and legs again when the Dude rematerialized and dropped back into his spot on the couch.

"Good news!" he said. "I got a friend who owes me a favor coming by."

"Uh. Okay?" Cole ran his tongue around on his teeth. His mouth was awfully dry, but it wasn't uncomfortable. "Good for you."

"She'll take care of you," the Dude said. "I can't, too much to do."

"Right, man, whatever." Cole rubbed his throat. "Could you hand that to me?" He nodded toward the scotch on the table.

"What, that?" The Dude followed his line of sight. "Nah, man. You don't need that."

"I beg to differ."

"Nah, nah." The Dude pointed toward what looked like a wine fountain bubbling up the densest merlot Cole'd ever seen. "That's the stuff you want."

"Wine's for assholes."

"Damn, man, if I didn't know better I'd think you were gettin' all poetic and shit." The Dude grinned. "You're all about the red now, buddy."

Cole frowned at him, looking again at the bubbling fountain. Now that it had been pointed out -- so strange but, even from here -- he could -- smell? it wasn't a scent, it was an urge -- iron filings to a magnet -- he wanted it, he wanted it bad.

He'd succumbed to the ugly beast of alcohol since early adolescence. Right at that moment, though, a new, far more potent creature stirred inside him, waking and demanding to be fed.

Yes, it whispered. Yesssssssss.

Cole reached for the scotch anyway -- or tried to. At the moment he rose to cross the distance, a young woman in jeans and a t-shirt stepped between him and his single malt lovin'. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket and the sweet, round face of an Aztec princess. She smelled faintly of cinnamon and clove.

"Babydoll!" the Dude said, jumping up and hugging her. Cole would have expected her to be knocked over by the force of his embrace, but the young woman stood, rock steady, hands still in her jacket. A young man lurked a few feet behind her, obviously attached to her, but trying not to stay too close. He had the severe haircut of a military man, and the hooded eyes of a military man who'd seen people die.

"Hey, Carlos." She eyed Cole. "This the guy?"

"This the guy," the Dude agreed. "You sure this isn't a problem?"

She shrugged. "Mine could use a playmate." She looked down at Cole. "I'm Maria Rodriguez. This is Kian." She jerked her thumb in the direction of her short-haired shadow.

"And I'm outta here." The Dude gave her one last, solid hug and then clapped Cole on the shoulder. "Now you listen to the little lady, all right?"

"Right." Whatever. The Dude ran off, heading out the door. "What the hell was that all about?"

Maria started to say something, stopped, and then said, "Do you -- you know you're dead, right?"

"Hunh?" Cole replied, leaning around her to grab his scotch. He chugged it -- and promptly spat it out again as his esophagus rebelled against the alcohol's bite. Scotch and blood sprayed, thankfully avoiding Maria and Kian, but not sparing a pair of lurking partygoers.

One of them spun and sputtered. "You dick!" he shrieked. "This shirt was vintage!"

Cole stared at him, caught offguard by the pair of fangs the guy was baring at him. Goddamn. Those look really real-real. "Uh. Sorry. You want me to find you some wetnaps?"

To his right, he heard Maria sigh. "Santa Vaca," she muttered. "If I ever see Carlos again, I'm going to carve his nuts off with a grapefruit spoon."