Author Archives: Ife Oshun

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.

Soon we were in front of a burger place where at least twenty racing bikes were parked along with a group of bikers of various ethnicities.

Markus whispered in my ear as we rolled to a stop. “All weres, most immortal Trads.”

One girl eagle-eyed me before shepherding her mohawk-wearing boyfriend’s gaze in my direction. In a husky Mexican accent, she introduced herself as Storm, from the all-female biker group Pink Mist, while her boyfriend and Markus slapped hands. I looked around at some of the other bikers and was met with more open stares. I asked Markus if they were Kat Trio fans. Storm answered my inquiry. “We don’t care what you do in the mortal world. It’s our world that counts. And we know who you are.” Her smile was full of glistening teeth. “You are danger. You belong with us.”

“Let’s call her that,” her boyfriend, Shank, said with a smile. “Danger.” The bikers who stared nodded in agreement.

They were different from the majority of immortals I’d run into since my Mahá. Instead of cringing away from me, they welcomed me into their group. It was nice to be surrounded by people who were acquainted with me, but not afraid to look me in the eyes.

Markus handed me a clove cigarette. After a brief pause, I took it, and he lit it for me.

“You’re a bad influence, Markus Seymour.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” His grin stretched expansively between his ears. “Live a little, Beacon Hill princess.”

He howled, and the biker crowd response-howled as smoke from various types of cigarettes rose up to waft and hover briefly above our heads before being dissipated by the breeze sweeping the twilight sky.

Bikes continued to line up along the curb until the gleam from their collective chrome rivaled the glare from the streetlights and illuminated storefronts. Leather was everywhere. Rap music blared from the bike of a Japanese werewolf named Black Mayhem, while rock flowed from another, and dubstep blasted from a third. Mortals wanting to be a part of the action rolled up on their bikes, too, while locals gingerly waded through the frenetic energy on their way to dinner. Tourists attempted to blend in, even as they stood gawking at the Hollywood wildlife.