A Dance at Midnight

“What did you say?” There wasn’t much that surprised Senar these days, but this time, she could only gawk at Henry.

He had the gall to look away. “We have to kill her,” he said.

“We can’t kill a donatora,” she said. There was no way in hell that she was going to become like Adrian. Besides, if they killed the donatora, Master Dane was going to find out, and he was already suspicious of her.

“If she wakes up, you’re going to have to tell her that you’re sick,” Henry said. “If you don’t tell her that you’re sick, then she’s going to think that she got rejected because her blood wasn’t good enough, which Master Dane will definitely find out. There’s no way out of this.”

He moved toward the donatora. Senar snarled at him and inserted herself between them.

Henry’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. ”I’ll kill her,” he said.

“We are not going to kill her,” she said. She understood where Henry was coming from, and appreciated his earnestness to protect her secret, but she was not going to condemn anyone else in any way so long as she still lived.

They stared at each other, neither of them moving. Senar didn’t want to hurt him, but if worse came to worst...

Moments passed. Henry searched her eyes and then, eventually, stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she said, though she didn’t move from her position.

Henry did; he walked over to the French doors. “We can’t leave her like this.”

Senar clenched her hand, the one that caught the side of the donatora’s pale, smooth face. She flexed her fingers and clenched it again. Her breathing matched.

In. Out.

There’s an unconscious donatora on the floor. Because of me.

In. Out.

I can’t tell her. I shouldn’t tell her.

In...Out...

I’ll find a way. I always do.

“I’m not going to put blood on our hands,” she said.

“We’re vampires,” Henry said quietly. “We already have blood on our hands.”

He was right: there was so much blood on her hands alone that she wondered how she hadn’t drowned in it yet. But by virtue of being a vampire, they were always going to have blood on their hands; Senar only had to make sure that that blood was warranted.

“We don’t do anything,” she said. Henry opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, “Just until everyone goes to sleep.”

“Okay,” he said. He didn’t look convinced.

“You go back out there, keep an eye out on things,” she said. “They expect me to be here anyway, so I’m going to stay.”

At the doorway, Henry stopped. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. It was dark out, and her night vision wasn’t what it used to be, but Senar could make out the slope of his nose and the angle of his jaw.

“I’ll support you no matter what you decide,” he said.

Once Henry closed the door behind him, Senar entered the bathroom. All urges to vomit had fled at this point, but she still placed her palms against the edge of the basin and stared down at the drain.

She was only as strong as the moments she spent in here, leaning over the sink, waiting for the bile and blood to pass her lips and provide some twisted sort of relief. How much longer did she have to go through this? How many more people had to get hurt because of what she was?

The woods are lovely, dark and deep...But I have promises to keep...And miles to go before I sleep...And miles to go before I sleep...

She hadn’t known she’d memorized the poem; Robert Frost's famous words brought with them a sense of dread. Quickly, she gathered herself and when she went back out, the sky had lightened. Soon, sunlight would pierce through the blue-gray clouds of dawn.

The donatora lay, motionless, atop the rug. I should move her, Senar thought at the same time she realized what she had to do.

“The sun’s coming up,” she said to his broad back. He stood on the front steps of the mansion, taking in the view and breathing in the early morning air. Somewhere, a morning dove cooed.

Adrian turned around. “Senar,” he said, “missed me already?”

“I need your help,” she said.

“Must’ve killed you to say that,” he said.

“Unfortunately not,” she said.

He chuckled. “What is it you need from me, darling?”

“Your fangs.”

“For?”

“To open my bag of chips,” she said.

“Did you just make a joke?”

“Did you laugh?” she retorted. “Will you help me or not?”

“I’m the only one who can help?”

“I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“Admit it,” he said, “I’m amazing.”

Maggie had been the one who’d introduced Senar to Adrian. Her friend had been thinking about bestowing Adrian the title of Master and wanted Senar’s input. Senar had heard of Adrian, though she didn’t meet him until that moment. She didn’t like him from the stories, and she certainly didn’t like him in the flesh. His ego was like a putrid stink that followed him everywhere and affected everyone around him.

“What are you talking about?” Maggie had admonished Senar. “He’s the sweetest. Besides, confidence is sexy. He’s sexy.”

Senar pushed away the memory. “You’re wasting my time,” she said to him.

“Respectfully, it’s not like you have anything better to do,” he said.

She crossed her arms. “What’s your point?”

“What will I get in return?”

She forced herself to ask. “What do you want?”

His answer was immediate. “All of Dane’s donatori.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?”

He mock-gasped. “Never. We got a deal, remember?”

“That deal is to keep quiet,” she reminded, her voice low.

“Exactly,” he said. “And by keeping quiet, you won’t get killed.”

Is he...threatening me? Two can play at this game. “Do you want me to tell them about Celeste?”

“Will I be getting all of Dane’s donatori?”

Senar didn’t trust Adrian, regardless of whether they had a deal or not: they were vampires, for hell’s sakes. But she needed him and only him, not just for what she was about to ask him to do but for her own survival. She would be lying if she thought a vampire like Adrian Namgung being on her side wouldn’t come in handy. Of course, was he actually on her side?

Ha, I’m not foolish enough to believe that. “Fine,” she said.

His face split into a shit-eating grin. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “Lead the way.”

She led him toward her bedroom. She braced herself for an inappropriate comment, but surprisingly, the older vampire stayed silent. At the door, Senar halted. Her hand twisted the knob, its metal cool to the touch.

Inside, he strode over to the inert donatora. “Looks like someone took a page out of my book.” Excitement and pride shone on his face.

Anger flashed. How dare he. “She’s not dead,” she said.

He paid no attention to her rising temper. “You need me to change her.” He could have been talking about the weather.

Senar didn’t know if her idea was going to work; it could fail spectacularly. She was asking Adrian Namgung, The Bleeder, to drink from a donatora when he had a history of draining one dry already. Senar couldn’t turn the donatora into a vampire because who knew how her bloodwake was going to affect the human. Henry could do it, but he was sleeping, and he had already helped her enough.

The only other alternative was murder, but there was no way that that was going to happen. Senar may be bloodwoken, but she wasn’t a criminal. Then again, if The Bleeder couldn’t control it, the donatora was as alive as his dead love anyway...

A sharp pain stabbed Senar’s temples. All this thinking, all this stress, all this secrecy...she didn’t know how much more she could take before she broke completely.

“Yes,” was all she said.

Adrian undid the buttons on his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. The veins on his strong forearms snaked up and disappeared into his shirt.

“I’m not against an audience,” he said, “but based on your track record, you might want to look away until I’m done.”

Normally, she would have snapped back at him for telling her what to do; this early in the morning, though, she only nodded. She retreated into the bathroom once more. She counted to one hundred. She didn’t allow herself to listen or smell or even feel. Her knee shook. Her head throbbed. She wrung her hands.

Breathe. You just have to breathe...

...Adrian’s voice drifted in. “It’s done,” he said.

She nearly yanked the door off its hinges. She made her way toward Adrian. The donatora’s head was cradled in his lap; his fangs jutted out, and liquid gold coated the points.

The donatora didn’t look like how a corpse should; she looked like she was sleeping.

The Bleeder had done it.

Senar knelt. A strand of hair lay across the donatora’s forehead. Gingerly, Senar swept it aside.

“She’s going to need some blood when she wakes up,” Adrian said. “And I’ll need my new donatori.”

He stood, carrying the donatora. He laid her gently on the low sofa. He straightened. The two of them, The Bleeder and Mistress Kill, gazed upon the vampling. They didn’t celebrate - there was nothing to celebrate. But, they had avoided killing a donatora, and that was enough to tamp down the raging headache threatening to split Senar’s skull in two.

“Thank you,” she said.

Silence. She peered over at him and saw that the notorious vampire was...sleeping.

Outside, the sun shone, its hot tendrils warming the bedroom floor.

She didn’t have the strength to carry him to the bed, so she nudged him awake. His eyelids popped open only to immediately droop halfway down, so thick in daysleep he already was. “Mm?”

“You need to lie down,” she said.

He nodded. With heavy steps, he trudged over to the bed. He slid under the covers. She pulled them up to his chin as if he were a child and not a 330-year-old vampire with a penchant for murder.

In daysleep, Adrian didn’t look so domineering. In fact, he looked normal, whatever “normal” was for a vampire.

“Not so powerful now, huh?” Senar studied him a moment longer before she made her way to the sofa where the donatora lay.

What had Master Dane said her name was? Evie? Angelina?

Evangeline.

Senar adjusted the pillows under Evangeline’s head and covered her form with a nearby throw, the one made from natural seal pelt. It had been a gift from Mistress Clara long ago, and it still looked and performed as good as new.

Then, grabbing another throw, Senar settled into her chaise. There were three vampires in her room: one bloodwoken, one criminal, and one just an hour old: this made for either a very bad joke or the beginning of a gothic Breakfast Club.

In any case, they weren’t going anywhere for the time being, and neither was she.

She rested her head against the back of the chaise. The ceiling had been spackled in the shape of wide fans with thin ridges. She’d liked to think it was on purpose rather than the shape of the brush that had caused the pattern.

She closed her eyes. Sleep eluded her, as always, but sometimes, letting her eyes rest was a reprieve in and of itself.

...The woods are lovely, dark and deep, her inner voice hissed, But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep...