A Dance at Midnight

“I have a gift for you.”

They were in the ballroom, spread across the various cushions and sofas and chaises. They had just finished their fourth round of hounds, a game where the vampires tried to match the blood scents to the donatori.

Now, they feasted on their efforts. Though unlit, the chandeliers glinted in the candlelight, their crystals scintillating like droplets of fire. Silk and skin moved against each other, and murmurings of sweet nothings gave the space a muted din.

The windows were open; night air swept inside, bringing with it the honeyed scent of lilac. Coupled with the scents of donatori blood and pheromonal musk, Senar should have found the smells to be pleasurable, but they weren’t. Especially not with blood churning through her system.

“What was that?” She sat on a divan with Elias, her oldest donator, pressed against her side. There were two puncture holes in Elias’ neck; these holes were dotted with golden blood. The rest of the blood was smeared across Senar’s fangs and lips and currently traveling down her esophagus toward her poor stomach.

Dane Harvey lounged across from her, in direct view. All night, he had been watching her. He had been discreet, but Senar, her hackles already raised thanks to her bloodwake, had noticed.

Behind him, a donator massaged his shoulders, while another had his head in the ancient vampire’s lap. His fingers more bone than flesh, Master Dane absentmindedly caressed the donator’s fine light brown hair.

His glass eye, with its chrome-black iris, appraised her. “I didn’t want to forget my manners, seeing that you’ve went above and beyond to accommodate us here,” he said.

Her gums ached. They always ached now whenever she let out her fangs. She lightly ran her tongue over the soreness and tried not to wince. “We deserve nothing but the best,” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Which is why I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer my thanks.” He swept a hand at the door. “Her name is Evangeline, and she’s the finest of my donatori. Of course, not as fine as yours, Mistress Senar.”

“Of course not,” she said.

It wasn’t unheard of of other Masters and Mistresses offering gifts to the host of the Bleeding Ball; however, it was uncommon. Immediately, the discomfort from the blood retreated to the back of her mind as suspicion crept in.

Master Dane may be the oldest vampire in this room, but his age wasn’t a deterrent. In fact, it was a testament to his resilience and cruelty. A war general, he carved out his own eye as an act of loyalty to his crown when he and his troops lost in the Hundred Years’ War.

But he was also a calculative man. He wouldn’t just bring a donatora, on the third night, no less, “just for fun.” No, he suspected something about Senar and was trying to figure it out without raising alarm.

Too late.

Did Adrian tell him?

From the corner of her eye, she spotted him in the very back corner of the room. Adrian Namgung entertained a gaggle of donatora, and their giggles and sighs could be heard even amid the other noises.

She was being overly paranoid, but after her disastrous meeting with Dr. Morrow earlier, her insides felt, for lack of better words, inside out.

“Well,” she said, turning back to Dane, “we wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

The doors opened. A human woman stepped through. The room quieted. All heads turned to gape at her.

She looked to be in her late twenties. She had a svelte build and hair the color of burnt sunshine that was expertly styled around her shoulders. Her irises were the shimmering gray of a geode.

Senar pursed her lips. “Finest blood, you say?”

“Surely you don’t believe I’m lying, Mistress Senar?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said. “I just know what I deserve.”

Master Dane laughed out loud, the sound like hacking coughs. Senar gently extricated herself from Elias and stood up from her chaise. She didn’t want this new donatora standing in front of her, head bowed and hands clasped, but she needed to take a trip to the bathroom; Elias had some of the purest blood in the world, and yet, it rolled like a lump of dirt in her gut.

The donatora, sensing that Senar stood so close in front of her, raised her head. Her eyes rounded, and her whole features seemed to glow in awe and adoration at her presence.

No, don’t look at me like that. I don’t deserve it.

“Now,” Senar said, taking the donator’s hand and whirling on her audience, “if you’ll excuse me, I hate to interrupt my own party, but I must see if Master Dane Harvey here is really telling the truth.” She winked at the crone, who chuckled and raised a glass of blood at her.

“Please,” she continued, “carry on. My staff will ensure that your every need will be taken care of.”

The other vampires whooped.

As she passed the door, the donatora keeping up with her every step, Senar tilted her head toward Henry who stood at his usual spot against the wall, in the shadow. She didn’t have to say anything to him; understanding passed between them.

The heavy doors of the ballroom closed slowly behind them until there was silence once more. Senar tightened her hold on the donatora who squeezed her hand back. She led her toward the bedroom where she locked the door behind them.

The blood was roiling inside her, but she had to keep it in for a little longer. She grit her teeth, but kept her expression neutral.

The donatora perched herself on the edge of the bed. The silk warped under her weight; it was the first time in a while since the silk sheets had anyone, vampire or human, on them.

The bedroom was dark, unlit from any candles or lights, but the half moon from outside streamed in through the windows. Half of the donatora’s form lay in shadow while the other half lay in an ephemeral white.

It blended in with the white of her wear: crafted of ivory silk and embellished with lace and diamonds, the coverings wrapped around her body in no rhyme or reason as far as Senar could tell. The garb covered the donatora’s pale skin, except for her face, ears, fingers, and feet.

Senar crossed the space between them; she lowered herself onto the bed. Their knees almost touched. Back at the ballroom, she hadn’t been able to pinpoint the donatora’s scent amid all the others. In here, alone together, she made out the notes of lemon and myrrh.

Senar wasn’t hungry, no. The last thing she planned to do was drink this human’s blood. But if not to drink, which the donatora was clearly expecting Senar to do, then what?

She raised a hand and brushed away a stray curl from the donatora’s forehead. Senar brushed the pads of her fingers against her pulse, the skin above it warm with the fresh blood churning underneath. The donatora shuddered.

Should Senar tell her?

Then one more person will know I’m sick.

If she didn’t tell her, then it was only a matter of time before she found out.

And then everybody else, everyone out there, will know I’m sick. And then, they’ll kill me.

Senar dropped her hand. She stood up and walked several steps away from the bed.

“Please, Mistress,” the donatora said, her voice barely above a whisper. She reached out for Senar.

Senar shut her eyes tightly. “I can’t.”

“Just a drop, Mistress, please, it won’t take long,” the donatora said.

“I’m sorry,” Senar said.

She heard the rustle of lace against silk; a moment later, she felt a presence behind her. She peered over her shoulder.

The donatora lay prone on the floor, her head resting against the rug, her body curled up, and her hands outstretched toward Senar. “Please, Mistress, Master Dane is not a liar; my blood has been cultivated throughout the years. It is the purest of the pure, and I promise you, Mistress Senar, that you will satisfied.”

To be rejected by a vampire, especially by a Master or Mistress, was akin to a death sentence to donatori. The donatora’s desperation wasn’t uncalled for, and in any other world, in any other time, Senar would have helped her up and fed from her.

This wasn’t any other world or any other time. No, this was where she was bloodwoken, and the donatora’s begging sounded like rusty wheels running across an even rustier train track.

She needed to shut the hell up.

Was anger a side effect of bloodwake? Senar didn’t know, and she would never know as there was not one single vampire afflicted with it to whom she could ask.

Worse: the anger was starting to feel familiar and comforting.

She clenched her fists. “Stop it,” she said. Briskly, she walked to the opposite side of the room, near the French doors where she could look out at the windows toward the nature outside. Nature was wild, but in its wildness, it was predictable, it was constant.

Through the reflection of the glass, Senar saw the donatora get up from her prone position and scramble after her. “Mistress, please, I-.”

“I said, I can’t!”

The strike was like a gunshot in the quiet bedroom. The donatora’s head snapped back violently, and she fell to the floor with a heavy thud. She didn’t move.

Senar’s palm stung. It trembled violently. She trembled violently.

Great. Another helpless human on the ground. Because of me.

As if to remind her, Dr. Morrow’s stricken face flashed in her head. She hadn’t touched him, but she had touched this donatora, and now she was unconscious.

Nobody is safe from you, her inner voice whispered.

A knock sounded on the door.

She stepped over the unconscious donatora and opened the door. It was Henry.

“I heard a noise,” he said.

First Adrian and now Henry. Soon, the entire horde of vampires in her home was going to descend on her. Unlike the other vampires, though, Henry was Henry. Thus, Senar widened the door, just enough for her friend to see.

He glanced at the still donatora and then back at her. He didn’t need to ask her what happened; he already knew.

He stepped through. Senar closed and locked the door behind him. She followed him to the donatora. She watched as he knelt down and placed a finger under her nose.

“She’s still breathing,” he said.

He straightened. Together, they stared upon the fallen donatora. Awash in moonlight, she looked like she fell from the sky. Her ivory silk coverings flowed like water along her limbs. The diamonds in the folds of her attire glittered.

She gave off every bit the aura of a donatora of the highest purity. Except, the bright red mark staining her cheek marred the perfection. The stinging in Senar’s palm had receded by now, but she still felt the phantom smack of flesh against flesh.

At least the donatora was still alive.

Senar glanced over at Henry. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his head was bent down toward his chest - he was thinking. She didn’t need to ask him what he thought; he would tell her soon enough.

Minutes passed. The night pressed on. Outside her bedroom, blood scents lingered but she neither heard nor sensed anyone nearby.

Eventually, Henry said, “We need to kill her.”