A Dance at Midnight

“Can I help you, Master Adrian?”

Senar peered up at him, a question in her large brown eyes. But Adrian knew better: he’d heard the crash.

As a human, he’d been a light sleeper, and even now, even after centuries of being a vampire, daysleep had as much a hold on him as the night once did.

Thus, he’d woken up, thirsty for more blood, when he’d heard the sound of glass against glass. Specifically, borosilicate glass against tempered glass. The crash was not a natural one caused by a fall; no, the crash was created by someone throwing their arm back and letting go.

The sound was enough to wake him out of his dazed daysleep stupor. He ignored the sweet murmurings of his donatora who laid beside him, and got dressed. By the time he was finished, all was quiet once more; no matter, he simply traced what he had heard down to the ground floor toward the source of the noise.

Toward Senar Kil. “Mistress Kill.”

One story had it that, upon discovering her lover was killed on the battlefield, she wiped out enemy’s platoons with her own bare hands and fangs. Another story described her, in detail, tracking down the men who’d abused her then-child and leaving them mutilated and paralyzed forever without so much as breaking a sweat.

Finally, and most terrifying of all, Senar allegedly drained her sire and his entire family. For what, no one knew, and no one dared to ask. If a fledgling vampire could overpower and kill a sire, that vampire was better left alone. Or dead.

No surprise she was dubbed “Mistress Kill.”

He wasn’t afraid of “Mistress Kill.” How could he when he was The Bleeder? “Mistress Kill” may be feared, but he - Adrian Namgung - was a “force of destruction.”

Would he have used less trite words to describe himself? Obviously. But he appreciated the zest and fear in which the headlines were written. Besides, he’d made it to the front pages of not one but countless newspapers throughout the years and showed no signs of stopping - he was basically a celebrity. Could “Mistress Kill” say the same thing?

Exactly. He was The Bleeder, and if there was one thing The Bleeder could do besides drain bodies all night was sniff out deceitful vampires.

Thatwas what Senar truly was. Ever since that first night, she’d been acting strangely, and Adrian was going to find out why.

“I heard a crash,” he said.

“You had a dream,” she said.

He searched her eyes; she didn’t look away. “Looks like you didn’t have any,” he said. She looked as if she hadn’t slept at all.

“I don’t need dreams to sleep well,” she said.

She had closed the door behind her; the wood of the door pressed against her back. They stood toe-to-toe. Adrian’s gaze traveled down until they hit the edge of the door, at the gap between the door and the floor.

Interestingly, light streamed through this gap.

Had she turned on the lights? Probably. Was this light sunlight?

He returned his attention to Senar. “You slept well,” he asked, “with all that light?”

Something flickered across her features. Huh. “Definitely more than you since you’re spewing nonsense,” she said.

His eyes traveled down the length of her; he couldn’t help it. They may both be vampires, but she was still a woman, a beautiful one, and he was still a man. Though she had changed out of her gown from earlier into a long sleeve tunic and pants that covered most of her body, the fabric curved in all the right places.

“Darling, if you’re scared of the dark, you could’ve just called for me,” he said.

She laughed at him. “What, so you could snore like the old man you are and keep me awake all night?”

He was only 330, but whatever. “Yes,” he said, “but not by snoring.”

They locked eyes.

She didn’t blink.

He raised his brow.

She stepped forward suddenly. Their noses nearly touched. Her eyes searched his before dropping down to his mouth. It took him a couple beats to realize that the only reason she was staring was because his fangs were out.

He didn’t care: with her scent filling his space, those brown eyes staring up at him, and those full lips a mere inch away, Adrian Namgung was hungry again.

As if reading his thoughts, she smiled. Then, she leaned in, closing the gap between them.

“I’m not a donatora,” she said; her breath tickled his ear. “I won’t bleed out.”

The hunger fled. The fresh donatora blood churning through his organs froze.

She knows, he thought. She knows. How the fuck does she know?

“That’s what I thought,” she said, her voice soft. She reached behind her to grab the doorknob. “By the way, it’s ‘Mistress Senar’ to you.”

Before he could say anything, she slammed the door in his face.

Traditionally, the second night of the Bleeding Ball was the hunt. The hunt was exactly what it was: all the vampires gathered and hunted for blood.

Margaret Alder had wanted neither rules nor limitations on what a vampire could do: more than that, she wanted no vampire to tell what another vampire could do. To her, being a vampire was the ultimate form of existence, coming up just short to being a god. Therefore, for the hunt, there were no rules except for the ones you created for yourself.

The excitement - the thirst - was palpable in the air. Adrian Namgung breathed in deeply. He had two favorite things in life: women and hunts. Yesternight, he had his women, and tonight, he was going to have his hunt.

Anything to take his mind off the fact that Senar knew.

She’s testing you. She knows you know something you shouldn’t and so she’s trying to unsettle you.

But if she were testing him, she wouldn’t have been so specific; she wouldn’t have been so bold.

She wouldn’t have been right.

“...bitch’s blood was the best I’d ever tasted,” Dane was saying. He held a glass of blood in one hand, swirling it over and over. He didn’t bother wiping his mouth after drinking it, so his teeth and lips looked like they were bleeding.

It was the five of them: Adrian, Dane, Solomon, Clara, and Óscar. Adrian hated them all, but he hated Dane the most. The 600-year-old vampire with the glass eye and goatee that seemed to never grow was afflicted with a severe form of delusion: he believed that he was the most important and powerful vampire in the room when it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t.

Humans weren’t the only ones who suffered from the ill effects of old age.

“You do like them young,” Clara remarked. The Inuk Mistress had dark brown hair, braided in two, that reached to her hip and sported kakiniit on her face. She hailed from Alaska where she has reigned supreme for the past four hundred years.

“It’s the freshest,” Dane said. “Unadulterated from any of the crap these adult humans put in their bodies.”

Clara shrugged a slim shoulder. “Young blood is a little too...pure for my tastes.”

“Not for mine,” Dane said. “Adrian would agree.”

Dane slapped him on the back, harder than necessary. There was a predatory glint in those black eyes, challenging him to say something different.

Challenge accepted.

Adrian sipped his own glass. Sweet, hot blood traveled down his throat, warming his insides. “I like to diversify my tastes, see what else is out there,” he said. “I find that drinking only one type of blood can get boring and safe.”

Dane’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “We can’t all be so lucky to have as worldly of a palate as you,” he said.

Adrian grinned. “Don’t be too upset, Dane,” he said. He slapped the vampire on his back, just as hard. “You’ll get there someday.”

Dane scoffed. Óscar, since he loathed conflict more than he loathed humans, said, “Have you tried the blood of donator Mario? Tastes like damson plums...”

As the men talked, Adrian’s eyes drifted. They were out on the acre-lawn in front of the mansion; clusters of Masters and Mistresses dotted the grass as they waited for the sun to fully set.

On the opposite side of the lawn, he spotted Senar. She was walking, arm in arm, with the Mistress of Florida. The women were chatting between themselves. As if sensing him, Senar looked up.

Adrian widened his grin and raised an arm in greeting. She looked away. He chuckled.

The sky turned dark shortly afterward. Senar stood at the front of the group, and, by her mere presence, everyone - even Adrian - quieted.

Standing there, in the grass, her ebony hair flowing in the breeze, and her features backlit against a deep violet sky, she looked ethereal. The sight made his long-dead heart ache.

“Keeping with tradition,” she began, “I’m proud to announce that the hunt has finally come. And I’m honored to say that, just like tradition again, I will be leading it.”

Adrian cheered as did the rest of them.

“If she can keep up,” Dane said in low tones. He and Solomon bent their heads together as they talked; their hands clapped automatically.

Adrian picked out their conversation among the applause.

“Heard she was sick,” Solomon said. “Had poisoned blood and is still recovering from it.”

From the corner of his eye, Adrian saw Dane glance back at the mansion. Giddiness and greed practically wafted off him. “Five more nights,” he said. Solomon smiled.

Adrian thought back to the first night, when Senar had disappeared during the feeding and he’d found her smelling faintly of vomit; he thought back to earlier today where light - lamplight or sunlight - shone through the crack under her door, and she looked sleep-deprived.

Was it poisoned blood? Or was it something else?

Around him, vampires stretched, rolled their necks, cracked their backs. Their collective movement and noise brought him out of his reverie. Senar was at the very front, and he laser-focused his attention on her.

If “Mistress Kill” was sick, he’d know. They’d all know.

“Let the hunt begin!” Her voice rung loud and clear in the night.

And then they were off.

Adrian’s senses sharpened until he saw, felt, heard, and smelled nothing but the promise of blood. The scene before them changed from open fields and sky to family homes and driveways - a blur of colors as if a painter smudged his hand across a canvas full of paint.

Ahead of him was Senar, her hair flying out behind her in a river of black. She was fast - exceedingly so. He came up next to her.

She didn’t look tired here. In fact, she looked vibrant - alive.

Doubt crept in the back of his mind, but he pushed it away for now. He let out a battle cry, and, to his pleasant surprise, she laughed, the sound high and joyful. He found himself laughing, too.

They reached a town: Eastborough, if Adrian was remembering correctly. Rows of family homes, in their painted wood and tiled roofs, greeted them. Windows were lit inside, and the smells of roasted meat and spiced vegetables mingled with the scent of flowers and freshly-cut grass. Cars were parked out on the driveway. Somewhere nearby, dogs barked, sensing their arrival.

Their humans didn’t come out to check, though. Why should they? They were stupid, and they were vampires.

He breathed in deeply. Fresh, ripe, decadent blood traveled through his nostrils and down his limbs, filling him with a hunger that made his pupils enlarge and his nostrils flare. Saliva pooled in the corners of his mouth.

Adrian - all of them - waited.

Senar nodded.

His fangs shot down.