THE CHIMING OF the hour sounded as if it were miles away amidst flashing of camera bulbs, the anxious chattering of bystanders as they huddled together in the chill February air, and the occasional echo of the police sirens as one by one the officers began to make their exit from the scene.  A couple of the remaining policemen tried, almost in vain, to turn away the curious onlookers, who stood and gossiped to one another despite the wind biting through their thin, scandalous club attire.  Ah, two a.m. on Second Avenue.  One of the busiest times of Nashville's nightlife… I love it.

Even with the ominous atmosphere that always accompanied a robbery and the bitter cold of winter, you could still feel the energy that emanated from this city and its occupants.  The sense of history, of evolution…so strong, so beautiful.  Looking out past the crowd, I could make out the neon lights of the trademark guitar above the Hard Rock Café at the end of the block.

In the not so far distance, I could hear the fiery standing ovation given by a packed house at B.B. King's House of Blues.  The king of Blues was finally retiring after all these years.  His diabetes was taking its toll on his health, but that didn't stop him from giving the greatest performance of his life for that audience.  He knows his legacy will continue to shape music for generations long after he finally leaves this Earth.

All around, the neon lights of the clubs were almost dulled by the glaring office lights of the rest of the city.

Taking in the smell of the Columbia River, sewage and all, I turned and was greeted by a young woman armed with microphone and camera crew.  Her complexion was dark, a few shades darker than myself, with wavy black hair and equally dark eyes.  I agreed to a quick interview, and stood at the ready as the crew finished setting up.  I was perhaps three or four inches taller than the woman and she looked almost child like as she glanced up at me.  Her face looked young and reddened by the cold, and a make-up woman came by and tried to hide this fact as well as she could.  I politely refused a touch-up, and gave the collar of my jacket a quick adjustment just as a young man counting down on me hand.

"Thank you.  I'm standing here at the Lovely Goddess, a popular bar located at the corner of Commerce Street and Second Avenue.  With me now is the owner of this establishment, Ms. Isis Fleetwood."

I knew as the camera zoomed out to fit me into the shot that the two of us looked like a clash of timelines.  My attire fitted more with the 1940s, rather than the twenty first century.  My suit was a vintage styled, two-toned pinstripe ensemble that I had made myself.  It was tailored snugly, with a white, silk blouse and black, satin collar accented with an oval shaped garnet set in an eighteen caret gold border.  The matching fedora was a bit oversized, and tilted in such a way that it concealed a portion of the right side of my face.  Folding my, still gloved, hands in front of me, I nodded my acknowledgement behind smooth, dark tan skin, hazel eyes, and glossed lips.

"Can you give us any idea of had happened here tonight?"

"I really don't know, personally." I pronounced each word carefully in order to make my thick accent less of a problem.  "I was on the way in to open up, when my assistant manager called and told me that the bar had been robbed.  She called the police and took care of things until I got here."  The standard question and answer period continued for a few more moments, making sure they got as much information as they could for further reporting.  Most of which would happen sans video.  I explained how this particular break-in had been worse than the others, as quite a few of my most valuable décor pieces were taken.

"The Lovely Goddess has been a name in Nashville for over seventy years."

"Yes, yes it has.  My grandmother started the business when she was still young, just after the prohibition amendment had been lifted," I lied.  Only a select few patrons and my assistant knew the truth about the origins of the bar.  "She wanted to start a tradition, and when I was born, I inherited her name and the bar."  I told them that I was the youngest of three girls; one passed away in an accident, and the other worked in international trade.  This was partially true, save that I had adopted the girls personally.

After she thanked me for my time, I had to repeat the story for three other news stations, changing the wording so that they all felt like they had something better than the other.  Such will always be the way of competition.  After my song and dance, I had to take care of the small group who stood by my 1989 Pontiac firebird.

I was quickly embraced by a brunette, who slipped beneath the police tape.  She was bundled in the winter coat I had gotten her for her birthday two weeks ago.  She was shivering fiercely against me, and I hugged her close to warm her.  Her blue eyed looked all the more vibrant against the redness of her cheeks.  She didn't speak until she let me go.

"Ye Gods, Isis, what the hell happened?"  Her voice had the pitch of a child of eight, despite her twenty three years of age.  Her concerned echoed through the group behind her.

"It's nothing, Nicky, really," I adjusted her earmuffs, and turned my attention to the others.  "Some punks thought it'd be funny to break-in.  No one was hurt, so there's no reason to worry."  My smile did nothing to lighten their spirits.  "I'll let you guys know when everything's back in working order.  Until then," From my jacket pocket I withdrew a handful of business cards and handed them out, "Go anywhere you like tonight.  Tell them to send the tab to me when you give them this."  After a few moments of hesitation, they started taking the cards and disbanding.

When there was only one police car left, the crowd finally broke up.  It was late; they needed to get home now that the clubs were all officially closed.  The man in blue waited for me to approach him.  He stood five foot ten, with salt and peppered hair.  His uniform was in need of ironing, and it looked as if he had probably spent the past two nights sleeping in it at his desk.  His skin lacked color, and his grey eyes looked even paler in perspective.  He was visibly worn to the bone, so to speak.

"Mitchell, when was the last time you spent the night at home?"

"This isn't the time or place-"

"You're killing yourself over Teresa walking out."

"Is there anything else you think might have been taken that we haven't accounted for yet?"  He tried to change the subject, knowing good and well that I left out no details.  "Do you have any enemies who might have wanted to do something like this?"  He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with the hand that held the ink pen.
"Get something to eat.  Go home and get some rest.  You know they won't let you work in this condition.  File the paperwork in the morning.  It's not like it's going to kill me if this isn't taken care of post haste."  The bad joke didn't even faze him.

"We'll call you if we have anymore questions."

"…Alright.  Fine."  I let him leave, but now he knew I'd call and make sure he went home.

Nicky and I spent the next hour and a half wandering the streets doing nothing in particular.  We walked as far as the football stadium on the other side of the river before we decided to return to the bar.  

We were about a block from the bar when I began hearing arguing.  I would have thought nothing of it any other time, but things deviated from a lover's quarrel into something far worse.

"I'll teach you not to run away from me, you little tramp."

"Daddy, please!  Let me go!  Please, don't!  Stop it!"

The screams that followed echoed through the street and sent Nicky into a full run towards the bar, where it was coming from.  I soon followed suit.  When I arrived, Nicky was on the ground rolling around with a middle aged man with his pants undone.  Almost ten feet away was the victim.  

Blood from her eyebrow and nose matted sections of dirty blond hair.  Both of her soft green eyes were bruised as a result of a concussion.  Her clothes were shredded in several places, with her pants thrown to one side and blood in a small pool beneath her.  She couldn't have been any older than fifteen.

When I heard a knife unfolding, I moved, threw Nicky off the man and took the blade in my own side.  He was surprised to see Nicky one moment and me the next, panting out some obscenity before he tried to swing at me.  His fist only met with my hand, and I shouted for Nicky to stay with the girl before she had the chance to come back at him.  He struggled against me for a few moments before I got his arm pinned behind him.  However, the smell of the girl's blood, and the stinging pain of the knife lodged just beneath my ribs had become too much.

I was seething in his ear by that time, trying fiercely to keep myself under control.  As I parted my lips to speak, I could feel my canines as they pushed through my gums and became another inch longer.  I gave a short laugh before I pulled him against my chest, "Don't you know it's rude to hit a lady?"  Nicky kept her eyes locked on me as I punctured the major artery in his throat.  She casually removed the cell phone from her coat and called the cops back to my bar, this time reporting a rape, rather than a robbery.  The girl grew hysterical once more as she looked on.  The man's screams became gurgled.

Soon, all I could hear was the rapid heartbeat as it surged through his chest, up his throat and into my mouth.  I had to be careful; I had already bitten too deep.  I didn't need to kill him.  Though, the urge to do so grew stronger as I witnessed his evil as it had been committed through his own eyes.  

The sudden slowing of his heartbeat jolted me back to my senses, quickly enough.  Biting off the very tip of my tongue, I used my own blood to heal the holes I left in his neck.  As I licked the physical evidence of my attack off his flesh, I dropped him on the floor and reached for the knife.  I grunted as it slid out of my left kidney and dropped it to the floor beside him.

It took me a moment to regain my bearings, and I stumbled over to the two across the room.  My side was soaked in my blood, and my hair was a mess.  My fedora lay beside a bar stool.  The act of brushing the loosened hair from my face caused the young teenager to gasp sharply.  Glancing up at her, my finger brushed my cheek, and I realized why she had reacted that way.  Beneath my fingertips was the ragged, raised scar tissue that spanned from the apple of my right cheek to an inch above my eyebrow.  It was jagged and rough, and its angle was slightly slanted.  I turned that side of my face away from her and told Nicky to retrieve my hat.

My side was nothing more than a deep gash when the ambulance and police arrived.  A female officer made a comment about it "just not being my night."  As I stood there and allowed one paramedic to treat m wound, I noticed something amiss in the very center of the room.  On a small table sat a vase.  The reason why this suddenly stood out, was because not only were there candle holders on every table in the place, but this vase held a rose.

After insisting that Nicky and I both ride with the girl to the hospital, I walked over to the table to examine the table.  The entire rose was dark red, including the stem and leaves.  As if that wasn't unusual enough, it was the only thing in the whole bar that hadn't developed a single bit of frost.  Just as my hand was within centimeters of touching the rose, it suddenly dissolved into nothing but liquid in the vase itself.  It was only then that I discovered that it was blood.  However, this blood carried no scent at all.