A Dance at Midnight

Drunk humans were obnoxious. Drunk vampires were even more so.

Senar didn’t have to smell the blood on their clothes to sense that they were near because she heard them. Their stumbling gait, their raucous laughter, and their deafening conversations that flew spittle and blood and made no sense whatsoever...

...And still, vampires believed that they were better than humans.

She picked out the crowns of their heads but didn’t spot Adrian’s. Not that she was eagerly awaiting his arrival but after their promise, she had been unable to bring the nerves down.

Finally, someone else knew. What was more, he hadn’t killed her for it. Yet.

Then again, she knew his secret, so unless they battled until one of their heads rolled onto the ground, they were in a literal stalemate. There was no telling for how long the promise would last, but if Adrian kept his end of the bargain, she would keep hers.

Senar let go of the veranda rail and went back inside to her bedroom, leaving the French doors open. Henry stood by the bedroom door, his hands clasped in front of him.

“No news?” she asked him.

“No, Senar,” he said. “Not yet.”

Only twenty-four hours or so had passed since she sent a letter to Dr. Morrow stating that the blood didn’t work again. She should be more patient, but with all the vampires in her home and the divulsion of her own secret to Adrian Namgung of all creatures, she was, as the humans said, antsy.

She settled in front of the vanity. The royal purple fabric of her silk gown caressed her skin.

“Do you need anything else? Something to eat, perhaps?”

The other positive about being bloodwoken was that she could eat human food. Unfortunately, she wasn’t hungry. She was rarely hungry these days.

She gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Henry, but I’m okay. You go and sleep now.”

Her friend lingered.

“I’m fine, Henry. I mean it,” she said. “Shoo.”

He bowed then and left the room.

Senar brought her hands up toward her face and stretched the skin across her cheeks. They were no longer plump and dewy like they used to be; the skin around her eyes were tinted gray; her lips, too, were cracked in the corners. The tiny scar from where Adrian had cut her during their scuffle was a faint white line.

After the events of the night, she had taken a long bath. Afterward, she had put on all her lotions and oils; she had brushed her hair until her scalp tingled. She put on her favorite robe, made of the finest of fine silks, and she had sprayed perfume along her pressure points.

Still, she looked and felt dirty.

Worst of all, whenever she closed her eyes, she saw that human lying on his own driveway, that cursed tear sliding down his cheek.

She was supposed to be a powerful vampire, but here she was, ill and feeling sympathy for a human. She not only failed to look the part, but she now also failed to act the part.

It had only seemed like yesterday when she’d first become Mistress...

...The two women sat in Maggie’s parlor. They drank blood in wine glasses and chatted about the traveling circus that had passed through. Maggie’s husband was out at work, so the home was silent minus their voices and the clink of hard cookies against china plates.

With no preamble, Maggie said, “Would you like to be a Mistress?”

Senar almost choked on her blood. A mistress? She’d never been with a woman, and she certainly hadn’t come all the way to America to become a concubine - she was destined for more than that. Besides, Maggie’s husband ignored her as if she were another one of their colored servants.

Maggie laughed at her expression. Her strawberry blonde ringlets shook, and her painted lips revealed bloodstained teeth. “No, silly goose, I mean, would you like to be one of the most powerful vampires in the world?”

“I’d like to be the most powerful vampire in the world,” Senar joked.

But Maggie’s eyes sparkled, and, for the next hour, she filled Senar in on her plan to upscale the Bleeding Ball and, consequently, the meaning of vampires as they knew it.

“I’m not an aristocrat,” Senar reminded her when she finished.

“Not when you were a human. As a vampire? You can be anything you want, Senar.”

“An Asian like me pretending to be an aristocrat? That won’t do.”

“So what? I’m a woman scheming to take over the world while my husband works to keep the roof over our heads.” Maggie leaned forward slightly. ”We make the rules in here.” She twirled a finger in the air.

Maggie’s idea was daring but not wholly unattractive. She was talking about creating a community. A community of vampires, yes, but a place where she, Senar, might belong in this strange new land.

She straightened in her seat. “What do I have to do?”

Maggie grinned.

They talked the whole night. Servants replenished their tea and snacks every hour. From the moment Senar left Maggie’s home, just before dawnbreak, she was no longer Senar Kil but Mistress Senar Kil...

The sun was halfway up the sky now, and its orange blaze washed her reflection in sunlight. The memory faded. Sick of staring at her face, she stood up and made her way toward the closet.

“Ow!”

A sharp prick of pain bloomed from a point on the sole of her foot. She stopped and glanced down. She stood on the fur rug, but there was nothing under her feet...except...She gathered up the ends of the robe and squatted. She ran her fingers carefully over the fur until they caught something.

She grasped it and held it up to the sunlight: it was the plastic stopper from the vial of blood Dr. Morrow had given her.

She rolled the stopper between her two fingers. It was a tiny thing, barely bigger than her pinkie nail, but it was hard and sharp and held the cure to her bloodwake - should’ve held the cure to her bloodwake but didn’t. It never did.

Senar stood up. The point of the stopper poked into the pad of her palm, but she didn’t loosen her hold. In fact, the sting gave her the fuel she needed.

The doorbell rung inside the home. She heard a shrill “I’ll get it!” and a pair of light footsteps. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

A young girl of about ten looked up at Senar, her brown eyes curious. “Hi!” she said.

The sight of the girl made her heart ache. This girl was a few years older than Senar’s daughter, her Jihwa, had been when she’d taken her final breath.

Senar attempted to return the girl’s smile. “Is Dr. Thomas Morrow here?”

The young girl shouted, “Grandpa Tom! Someone’s here to see you!”

“Thank you,” Senar said. The little girl gave her a toothy grin and scampered off just as Dr. Morrow came into the hall.

“Senar!” He opened his arms wide. “My dear, please, come in.”

They embraced. He smelled like old books with a hint of chili as if he had chili for lunch.

The first and previous time she had seen Dr. Morrow was twenty-seven years ago when he had been in his forties. His dark brown curls had been replaced by thin silver hair. His once-smooth skin hosted lines that bracketed his mouth and the corners of his eyes. Dr. Morrow was never a tall man, but he had walked as if someone were pulling on a string attached to his head; now, she detected a slight stoop in his shoulders.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to come here: the nostalgia threatened to overwhelm her.

She gave him a final squeeze before letting go. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she said. “It’ll only take a moment.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “My door is always open, you know this, Senar.”

She did. “I received your package,” she said.

Understanding crossed his features. He stepped out onto the front steps, closing the door behind him. “Let’s sit and chat,” he said. “My knees don’t quite work as they used to.”

Hooking arms, they carefully walked down the steps and to the side of the home where a bench overlooked the sprawling lawn. A tall green ash tree stood like a sentinel beside the bench and provided ample shade.

Dr. Morrow settled into the seat first. After making sure he was comfortable, Senar sat next to him.

“Beautiful weather,” he remarked.

The lawn stretched away from the house, a sheet of brilliant green. Trees, tall and heavy with summer leaves, lined the perimeter of the lawn, separating it from the road. The clouds were fluffy, and the sky was an opaque blue. There was a faint breeze. Somewhere, the smoke from a barbecue filtered through.

“It is,” she said.

“Now, tell me, my dear,” he shifted to look at her, “how was the blood?”

Senar stared out toward the line of trees. “It didn’t work,” she said.

A beat of silence. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “You tried. Thank you.”

He placed a hand on hers. “Don’t give up, Senar. No matter what, don’t give up.”

“Respectfully, Dr. Morrow, I feel like I should.”

“I know my words may not mean much right now, but I still believe that there is a cure,” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

The doctor gave her hand a squeeze. “I understand that you feel hopeless right now, but, my dear, if my years have taught me any-.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

Senar pulled her hand from under his. “You don’t understand. Nobody understands what this is like or how I feel.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-.”

And just like that, the anger was back. Except it wasn’t just anger this time: it was irritation, frustration, and suffocation making the words spill out of her mouth.

“I’m the only one with bloodwake, Dr. Morrow,” she said. “The only one in the entire damned world as far as I know. I don’t have anyone to confide in, no one to understand what I’m going through. I don’t even understand half of what I experience.”

Dr. Morrow opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he could. “I have forty-nine vampires in my home right now - do you know what’ll happen to me if they find out I’m sick?” She pinned him with her gaze. “They’ll rip out my throat and cut apart my body and stick the pieces on pikes for everyone to see. Then, they’ll burn down my home, along with my staff. And that’s if they’re being merciful.”

She stood up, unable to sit still any longer. Her hands shook, and the beginnings of a headache throbbed at the base of her skull. “The worst part is,” she said; she stepped closer to the doctor until her shadow covered him, and he was forced to crane his neck up at her, “nothing you made me has worked. Tell me: did you do it on purpose, Dr. Morrow?”

His eyes widened in horror as he realized what was she was implying. “No!” he exclaimed. “No, I would never do such a thing! My dear, how could you even say that?”

“Answer the question.”

“Senar, please, you have to believe me,” he continued. He reached for her hands, but she sidestepped him.

Dr. Morrow fell onto the grass with a heavy thump. She watched as he tried to get his bearings. It was too easy. With just one hand, she could snap the doctor’s neck as if it were nothing but a baby carrot.

Do it, her inner voice urged. You’ll feel better. Who knows? Maybe the cure to your bloodwake lies in this old human’s blood.

“It’s funny,” she said, “you’d think I’d have lost my strength by now, but I’m still stronger than the average human, Dr. Morrow.”

True fear sparked in those hazel eyes now. An electric thrill ran down her spine. “Please,” he whispered.

She stepped closer still.

“Senar, don’t do this. Please, my dear. This isn’t you.”

This isn’t you.

Just like that, the spell lifted. Senar blinked. Dr. Morrow stared up at her from the ground, his white hair tousled and his face twisted in anguish. No, no, no.

Rancid disgust unfurled in her stomach. She came into this man’s home, not only took his time and presence away from his family, but also blamed him for her ailment that wasn’t his fault and worse, threatened to end his life for not helping her as much as he already had.

What was happening to her?

Suddenly, it was hard to swallow, and her vision blurred. She shook her head. “I don’t know why...” she trailed off. Her voice was hoarse.

“Senar,” Dr. Morrow began, but she spun on her heel and walked away.