A Dance at Midnight

Vampires didn’t bleed.

Everybody, even humans, knew that.

Except, the one who tore out the throats of enemy soldiers, avenged the brutal death of her child, and bled dry her own sire was bleeding. Mistress Kill was bleeding.

The aromas of bergamot and osmanthus flowed from the cut.

From her expression, she seemed shocked, too.

That makes two of us.

Adrian reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his handkerchief. He handed it to her. She glanced down at it.

“Take it,” he said.

She stared at it a moment more. Then, she reached into her pants’ pocket and pulled out a handkerchief of her own. She dabbed the silk against the cut.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He dropped his hand and tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket.

Meanwhile, the gears in his brain turned. The lit-up room, the lack of daysleep, the need to vomit...the blood - her blood - on her face.

“You’re bloodwoken,” he said.

“Say it louder, will you?”

He paused and concentrated on his senses: no other vampire was near.

“Since when?” he asked.

“You’re going to kill me?” She ignored his question.

She was bloodwoken, and she’d still managed to make him sweat during their scuffle. He didn’t know whether to be awestruck or terrified.

She’s Mistress Kill, after all...

“Why would I kill you?” he asked.

“Why would you not?”

“I don’t want to clean up after you,” he said. “This suit cost me a fortune.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Annoyance pricked at him, but he squashed it down: now was not the time to debate the cost of his suit, which, indeed, had costed him a fortune, despite what she thought.

He said, “I’m not going to kill you.”

She continued to hold the silk against the cut near her eye. “Why not?”

“You want me to kill you?”

“You kill everything,” she said, her eye contact steady, “and everyone.”

A bird flapped its wings. Something - a squirrel - scurried along the ground, rustling bushes.

“Like who?” His voice was steady and even.

A tiny smile graced her lips. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Actually,” he said, his turn to smile, “I don’t. I’ve killed so many people throughout the years.”

“Right, you’re The Bleeder.” Sarcasm was thick in her voice.

“We’ve been here long enough; let’s go back before they notice.” He began to walk up the hill, out of the woods, when Senar called after him.

“Celeste,” she said.

He halted. A twig crunched under his shoe. He had never thought he’d hear that name again; he certainly had never uttered it since that horrible night.

Slowly, he turned back around. Under the faint glow of the moonlight, he saw that she was neither smug nor frowning.

Adrian looked up at the moon. It was a crescent moon, tiny amid all the black of the sky and the shadows of the trees. Its soft, luminous rays only reached halfway down, as if knowing it was in the company of sinners.

He could’ve ignored her or denied her or threatened her even. Instead, sighing, he said, “Not a day goes by when I don’t regret what I did.”

“Regret?” Her tone was acerbic. “Vampires don’t regret. You don’t regret.”

He had no idea how she knew, but he supposed it didn’t matter. “As you somehow know, her name was Celeste,” he said. “I was in love with her, and I wanted to change her, so we could be together forever. But I was also thirsty. At the time, I...couldn’t control it. Not as well as I should’ve.”

“You killed a donatora,” Senar said.

“You think I don’t know that?” It was his turn to snap. He ran a hand through his hair.

Vampires didn’t bleed, that was a given. But vampires also didn’t kill their life source. Donatori were sacred among the vampires. They were the nobles of humans, prized for their blood and altruism. Donatori could only conceive with other donatori - that was how pure their blood was, and because their blood was that pure, vampires worshipped them.

To kill a donator or a donatora meant death of the vampire because for one, it was unlawful to kill something so sacred, and for two, it showed that the vampire was uncontrollable - a trait that tainted a Master or Mistress.

Margaret wanted only the best of the best vampires to not only attend the Bleeding Ball but also to drink from donatori - a tenet that was shared among the Masters and Mistresses to this day.

Adrian turned back to Senar. She no longer held the square of silk against her face. The blood seemed to have dried, though the notes of bergamot and osmanthus still lingered in the air.

“You going to kill me now?” he asked, lobbing her words back at her.

She stared at him for another beat before her shoulders sagged, and her spine bent ever so slightly. “No,” she said. She leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. “I’m too tired.”

“Gave you a run for your money, huh,” he said.

“You wish.” She winced.

Something akin to concern flared inside of him. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

He couldn’t help it, he laughed.

“I see my pain makes you happy,” she said.

“Did you know that laughing adds seven seconds to your life?”

“We’re vampires,” she said, “human adages, especially ridiculous ones like that, don’t apply to us. Besides, laughing is not going to save my life.”

Touché.

“We should go,” Adrian said again, “before they” - he jerked his head toward the houses behind them where blood continued to spill and screams continued to pierce the air - “find us.”

She shook her head. “Henry’s waiting for me. You go on ahead,” she said.

He stepped closer to her, still a respectable distance apart. “I was born in 1694,” he said, “you really think I’m going to let a woman walk alone in the dark?”

“Yes, because times have changed, old man.”

He smirked. “Nice try. Let’s go.”

“I’m a vampire,” she said.

“A bloodwoken one.”

“And you killed your donatora.”

Adrian searched her eyes. Dark brown and long lashed, they held everything and nothing for him to see. “I’m still walking with you,” he said. “Now, come on.” He offered her an arm. He saw a million thoughts pass through her brain at that moment; eventually, she tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm.

Only after they cleared the woods did Senar let go of his arm. They emerged out onto the street -

- where a hundred blood scents assaulted them both.

Adrian was prepared for them, so he’d turned off his senses in advance. Beside him, Senar straightened, her shoulders set back not in confidence but in fortitude. He could only imagine how horrible it must be for her in her bloodwake.

There was not much known about bloodwake, since everyone who had had it were immediately killed upon discovery, but he did know the mere whiff of blood was enough to make one sick. That was, sicker than they already were.

Which was why she went to throw up that first night, he thought.

“Mistress Kil! Master Adrian!”

Adrian immediately stepped in front of Senar, to hide her from view and, in the unlikely case, shield her. At his back, she scoffed. He ignored her.

Ahead of them on the street was Heather. Mistress Heather Johnson of Georgia. She was waving and grinning at them like a drunken fool. Blood covered her front; some of it stained her box braids. She was a younger vampire, just under two hundred years old and as bloodthirsty as they came.

Adrian opened up his arms. “Look at you!” he called out.

“Look at me!” Heather squealed. “You having a good night, Master Adrian?” Her southern accent was more apparent in her blood-drenched ecstasy.

“Sweetheart, need I ask you who I am?”

She giggled. “No, sir,” she said. She tried to get a peek behind him. “Mistress Kil, is that you?”

This was it: Adrian had to kill Heather. Before he could make a move, however, Senar stepped from behind him. “Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be? Just finished off a family of four, and I don’t know about you, but I’m spent. I’m glad to hear that you’re having a great time, Mistress Heather!”

He could only blink at Senar. She had...transformed. Her voice, too, was higher pitched, more bubbly, as if Heather were her best friend. Women were all the same, both alive and undead.

“I am, Mistress Kil! Everyone has been so delicious so far,” Heather exclaimed. “I’m so full, but I can’t stop!”

Senar laughed, the hearty sound straight from her stomach. “Well, don’t let us interrupt you,” she said. And then, holy shit, she winked. “Save some for the others now.”

Heather laughed. “Bye, Mistress Kil, bye, Master Adrian!” She bowed to each of them. “See you back at the house!”

As soon as Heather turned her back to them, Senar’s lips flattened from a gracious smile to a pursed line, and the set in her shoulders grew even stiffer. “Let’s go,” she said.

Adrian quickened his step, and she kept pace despite her obvious discomfort. Soon, they cleared the neighborhood and, up ahead, past the curve in the road leading out of the cluster of neighborhoods, he saw the black Porsche parked along the curb. Beside it, standing like a blade of grass after a fresh trimming, was Henry.

He bowed when they approached. His light eyes betrayed no emotion at the sight of them both, but his eyebrows did furrow at the sight of Senar.

“Senar,” he said. He opened the door of the back seat.

Senar didn’t get in, and Adrian didn’t move.

Out here, on the empty road with her fairy-like features against a backdrop of midnight sky, Senar looked...

...unstoppable.

He hadn’t been breathing, but if he were, he would’ve forgotten how to.

“Adrian,” she said.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I won’t tell them, if you won’t,” she said. Her hand rested on the top of the car.

For support, he suddenly thought.

Adrian nodded. “It’s a deal.”

“You have to promise,” she said.

He came up to her, close enough that she had to look up at him. He knew she hated doing that, but, for once, he didn’t bask in her discomfort. “I promise,” he said. He didn’t say it loudly, lest someone heard, but he said it deliberately, holding her eye contact as if his life depended on it.

Which it did.

A few moments passed before Senar nodded. One curt slash of the head.

“Good night, Senar,” he said. He stepped back, just one step.

“Good night, Adrian,” she said. She slipped inside the car. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see her inside.

The car peeled away from the curb, its engine a low purr. He watched as the car disappeared around the bend in the road before turning back toward the rows of houses.

The moon shimmered behind thready clouds. The leaves of the treessh-sh-shhed against each other. A cat meowed. A dog whined. Humans groaned. Vampires moaned.

The night was still young.

Adrian breathed in. The air smelled like summer nights, raw blood, and bergamot with a hint of osmanthus.

Delicious.

Only as he advanced toward the crying woman, her husband lying, glassy-eyed, in her lap, did he realize that tonight was the first time that Senar hadn’t called him “Master.”

Only as his fangs pierced the sensitive skin of her throat and felt the sweet, musky blood cloud the air and slide down his gullet did he realize that tonight was the first time that Senar, the one and only Mistress Kill, had called him by his name.