A Dance at Midnight
Let it bleed

The first to arrive was Mistress Giana Silvestre of Florida. Giana crushed Senar into a hug, her perfume encapsulating them both in a haze of peony and berries.

“My darling Senar, I’ve missed you, how have you been?!” She let go but kept her hands clasped around Senar’s.

The vampire was older than Senar by nearly a century, but she looked as young as the day Senar first met her back in the ’30s: her chestnut waves were as sleek as ever, her bright red lipstick was perfectly applied, and her warm hazel eyes glittered under the chandelier’s glow.

The two women used to be close, but once Senar got sick, they grew apart. Entirely Senar’s fault, but for whatever reason, Giana continued to treat her kindly - a fact that made Senar feel even worse about herself.

Senar squeezed Giana’s hands. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’ve been counting down the days for this ball,” she said. She deftly avoided answering Giana’s true question: How has she been?

I’ve been busy dying, she thought grimly.

Giana’s gaze traveled upward. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself. Not that I’m surprised. Everything looks marvelous.”

Senar gave her a smile. “Thank you,” she said. “Please, make yourself at home. If you need anything, Henry and my maids -” she brandished a hand toward the side of the room where the nine of them stood - “will take care of you.”

Giana gave her a final squeeze and floated over to Henry. “Henry,” she exclaimed, “so good to see you...”

After Giana left with Henry, more guests arrived. As soon as Senar was finished kissing the cheeks of one, another came through the door until the whole foyer was filled with Masters and Mistresses from across the nation.

Chatter and laughs filled the air, along with the scents of forty-eight different perfumes and colognes. Refreshments and drinks were passed around on gold trays by maids dressed as waitstaff, and the soft peal of jazz filtered through conversations.

The curtains were drawn, showing a view of the clean-cut lawn under a sky full of stars. The chandeliers were lit halfway, and the low golden light seeped through shadowy corners. Gowns of silk and velvet rustled, and suits of crisp edges were smoothed down by steady hands.

Senar looked at it all from her perch on the staircase. Her hand rested lightly on the banister as if she were merely putting it there rather than for support. Her eyes scanned the room.

As if reading her thoughts, Henry appeared in front of her a few moments later. He bowed. His dark blonde hair was neatly trimmed and greased, and the bowtie near his throat was perfectly aligned. “Senar,” he said, his green eyes steady on hers, “the ballroom is ready.”

Some of the nerves fell away from her shoulders as she heard these words. “Good,” she said. “Thank you.”

The first time she met Henry Turner was during the second world war. They were both pilots; she trained him, actually. Just like now, he had been a reserved man, only speaking when spoken to and with succinct answers; although they didn’t bond like schoolmates, they developed a kinship.

And then Henry got shot down by enemy fire.

Senar turned him then. Life had been hard enough back then, having lived through the Yellow Peril and all its fallout, and she had finally made a friend, albeit reticent, who wasn’t afraid or suspicious of her. She wasn’t about to lose him.

He hadn’t been exactly thrilled when he found out he was a vampire - she didn’t blame him, she’d reacted much worse when she’d been turned. Decades passed with them not seeing each other, but then, one afternoon, he stood on the front stoop of this very house, with fresh flowers in one hand and a homemade casserole in the other.

“I realized I never thanked you for saving my life,” he’d said. “Thank you, Senar.”

He didn’t smile, and neither did she.

That moment on, they became inseparable - not as lovers or partners, but as soulmates of sorts. When she became Mistress, he followed her, and, though it took several years for him to stop calling her “Mistress,” they’d been together like this since.

The memory faded. Senar reached out a hand. Understanding flickered across his features. He reached out his own hand. She grabbed it, making sure not to grasp too hard in case someone was watching. She was just about to walk down when, suddenly, the front doors banged open, and the room quieted.

Senar looked up.

Adrian Namgung stepped into her home as if he owned the place. His head was held high, his broad shoulders were set, and his gait was even and steady, in no rush. His eyes traveled through the crowd until they found hers.

He grinned.

She frowned.

Adrian Namgung, also known as The Bleeder for he drained bodies, both young and old, dry until you wondered how blood had ever been in them. He also killed innocents and sinners alike and only ever wanted more blood after. In his plantation-turned-mansion down in South Carolina, he regaled a harem of not only donatori but also women, both human and vampire.

He stalked over to her, his crisp white suit standing out from the darker colors of the room. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, next to Henry. He didn’t even spare at glance at the butler who kept his head down.

Adrian bowed low. If it were any other vampire bowing, Senar would have accepted the gesture, but since it was Adrian, she could only view it as mocking. She let go of Henry’s hand. “Master Adrian,” she said.

At the sound of her voice, he straightened. He was a tall man, six three, but this time, with her on the stairs, he had to look up at her. “I’m sorry for being late,” he said. “Please accept these roses; I saw them and instantly thought of you, Senar.”

No “Mistress” or “Mistress Senar.” Just “Senar.” As if they were friends. They were not friends.

The roses were not as pretty or fresh as the ones Henry found. She took the bouquet anyway, the paper crinkling in her grasp. “Thank you,” she said.

He smiled, but it came off as a smirk. “You’re welcome, Senar.” His eyes traveled down the length of her, and appreciation sparkled in his deep brown eyes. “You look ravishing as always,” he said.

Men were all the same, both alive and undead. “We’ve known each other for two hundred years now,” she said. “When are you ever going to tell me something I don’t already know?”

He winked at her. “Never because you know everything,” he said.

She handed the roses to Henry. She started to step down, and Adrian offered her his arm. She stared at it for a moment before she laid her hand, lightly, on the pressed silk. “That is true,” she said, not falling for his bait.

At the bottom of the steps, she let go of his arm. He smelled like spring water and wood fire. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, inclining her head, “I have some matters to attend to. Please” - she gestured to the foyer where everyone else had started up their conversations again - “make yourself at home.”

“Don’t need to say that twice.”

With a short bow, he walked off. Senar watched as he greeted some of the other Masters and Mistresses, giving them kisses and hugging them as if he didn’t know what they really thought of him. She turned back to Henry, and they exchanged a look.

She smoothed down her skirts. “You said the ballroom was ready?”

“...I wanted to take this time to say thank you for coming tonight. I know that some of you have traveled far to make it here, and your dedication to keeping this culture - our culture - alive does not go unnoticed.” Applause rippled through the crowd. “Now, enough of my babbling-” Senar raised her glass of blood - “this blood is for you all, and I say to you, let it bleed!”

Cheers and whoops erupted in the air. Clinks of glass against glass rung in the vaulted space, and kisses - on cheeks, lips, and hands - were exchanged. Heads were thrown back as every Master and Mistress downed their glasses; golden blood dripped from their lips to their chins, but they only laughed harder.

Senar threw back her own glass. The blood, thick and metallic, slunk down her throat, and she all but avoided gagging right then and there. She swallowed it down, as smoothly as she could, keeping her empty glass raised and a smile plastered on her face.

“No one does it like Mistress Senar!” Master Óscar of California raised his empty glass and threw her a wide, lazy, bloody grin. He had a donatora on either side of him, and he burrowed his head into the neck of one of them now. The donatora moaned in pleasure.

Senar laughed, and she hoped that it didn’t come across as fake as it felt to her. The blood lingered in the back of her throat, but she forced herself to count to one hundred before moving. As she did so, she watched the scene unfold before her.

One...

The ballroom had transformed into a lounge that even a medieval sultan would be bitter for: plush velvet cushions, divans and chaises large enough to seat ten, imported rugs made of the finest animal fur. The wall sconces flickered with low flames, and candles, too, lent the air a musky aroma.

The heavy curtains were pulled back. Moonlight shone through, illuminating the scenery in a bluish hue and lending it - and its inhabitants - an otherworldly quality.

...forty two...

With blood in their systems, the Masters and Mistresses metamorphosed into creatures of the night: their bodies grew languid as they stretched across each other, laughing, kissing, and speaking in husky tones.

Blood dripped down pale necks and smeared across full lips. White teeth grew pink. Skin glowed, and fangs glinted.

Pheromones clouded the air.

...seventy nine...

Glasses tilted, spilling gold across the rugs. Her precious rugs.

The prick of skin and then, the squelch and bubbling of fresh blood from open wounds.

A giggle followed by a moan.

...one hundred.

Senar caught Henry’s eye; he was pressed against the wall closest to the doorway. He nodded, stepping forward to take her place.

Quickly, quietly, she slipped out of the room, letting the doors close softly behind her.

The blood was coming up now, she could feel it creeping back up like some sort of slimy eel. She clenched her jaw hard as she hurried to her bedroom and to the sink where, finally-

Blood spurted past her lips and onto the marble basin. A mixture of gold - from the donator - and red - from her - trickled toward the drain. She continued to retch until nothing but saliva and bile erupted, and her stomach cramped. Tears wet her eyelids.

She twisted the faucet. She splashed her face with the water; the cold jolted her, but she welcomed the distraction. When she opened her eyes again, she remembered that she was wearing makeup and now, with the water dribbling down, her lipstick was smeared, and her mascara pooled under her eyes.

A laugh bubbled out of her, high-pitched and gasping. The sound echoed loudly in the tiled bathroom, and she slapped her mouth with her hand; vampires had heightened senses, fed vampires even more so, and she could not have anyone hear her and track her down to replace her like this.

Still, she couldn’t help but replace the entire situation rather funny: she was a vampire, a powerful one at that, and she couldn’t stand the taste, smell, and sight of blood.

Pathetic.

She removed her hand from her mouth. The laugh in her throat retreated to its dark corner. She began to clean up the mess she made.

Senar didn’t know exactly how long she stayed in the bathroom, but any longer, and they were going to notice. She lightly touched her hair, to ensure that the chignon was still in its place; she rubbed her lips together once more to ensure that the lipstick was evenly spread out.

Smoothing down the skirts of her dress, she left her bedroom. There was no one outside. Relief rippled through her. Of course, that didn’t mean nobody heard her. When she approached the library, her steps faltered.

Spring water and wood fire.

What the hell is he doing here?

Biting back a curse, she rounded the corner.

Adrian Namgung stood just several feet in front of her, marveling at the original Hieronymus Bosch hanging on the wall. His hands were clasped behind his back. At her approach, he turned his head.

“Senar,” he said.

“Last I heard, the party was back that way,” she said.

“And yet you left,” he said.

She faced the painting. The Garden of Earthly Delights. One of her favorites. Not so much because of the theme of the painting, which was gluttony at its finest, but rather for the use of colors and sharp lines. “I see something new every time I look at this,” she said.

She felt his eyes on her; he had enough decorum to follow her lead. “I think I prefer The Allegory of Gluttony and Lust. Fitting for tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You didn’t feed?”

“It’s only fun when everybody does it,” he said. He emphasized the word, ‘everybody’ ever so slightly.

The toes of his polished Ferragamos pointed in her direction. She continued to stare at the painting. “The others back there will disagree,” she said.

“The others back there don’t know the difference between the finest donatori blood from pig’s blood,” he said.

“Are you saying the blood of my donatori is no better than pig’s blood?”

“I’m saying we’re better than them.”

Them. He wasn’t talking about the donatori.

She regarded him. His eyes were a deep brown, deeper than hers. She couldn’t tell what they were thinking. She didn’t understand what sort of game he was playing, but she wasn’t about to fall for it. “We should get back,” she said, “before anyone misses us.”

Adrian Namgung offered her his arm for the second time tonight. “Can’t let them have all the fun now, can we?” He gave her a slanted smile; she didn’t like it.

She hooked her fingers into the crook of his elbow. Her heart hammered inside her rib cage at the prospect of having to drink again. “No,” she said, “we can’t.”

Tonight was going to be a long night.