She Danced under the Stars ✔

14

He left me a message, stuck under one of the slats in my louvers. I saw it at once when I strode over my window ledge: Let's meet at the Shangri-La.

I had a vague idea of where that club was. I asked a passer-by for confirmation, and he gave me a funny look. The reason was either the Shangri-La's name or my unusualness. Or maybe both.

I picked the black leatherette skirt with a studded belt that a friend of mine had given to me—though I had never dared to wear it before—and the corset embroidered with violets that I had pinched from my mom long ago, and my lace-up boots. If you add to this my overly bright eyes, my overly sleek hair and my Snow White complexion, I grant you that the way passers-by react may have something to do with my unusualness.

I find the right street without mishap and I skip down to the club. Even though I'm racked with thirst, I'm thrilled at the idea of meeting my master again. The music reaches me: a deep, massive drum beat pounding over the roar of an electric guitar. I push the door; my soul quivers with excitement on contact with this dark, somewhat disturbing world.

I don't bother to stop at the bar and walk straight to the dance floor. Around twelve dancers are swaying their hips under the spotlights. A druggie strides past me, her red mane whipping my shoulder. That sharp eye of mine catches the track marks on her arm: fine, light brown scars along her vein.

I run my fingers through my hair and mingle with the crowd, adjusting my moves to the drum beat. My whole body becomes a backwash of sensuality. Little by little, people gather round me in a circle. I am too much of a magnetic thing for mortals: skin too smooth, lips too pale. My eyelids shut as I feel in perfect harmony with the heat and the theatrical smoke.

When I open my eyes again, the dancers have shifted: the closest is a man looking quite untidy in his jacketless suit, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His slicked-down hair is already in a mess; his grin is worthy of a toothpaste ad; he has a stubble on his cheek. My keen intuition profiles him in a flash: young doctor, single, in his early thirties. I notice his satchel on a booth seat, a few steps away from the dance floor.

'Who are you?' he asks. 'I've never seen you here before!'

'I'm your new patient!'

'What?'

I chuckle. 'You're a doctor, aren't you?'

He gazes admiringly at me. 'How did you know?'

My only reply is a wink. The walls around us are covered with pinup girls. Still smiling, I keep staring into the doctor's eyes. He slips his arm round my waist; I adjust my moves to his. There is some eagerness in his embrace already; that anxious, sweaty fumbling leaves no room for doubt. I slip my arms round his neck and chuckle again.

We drift toward the edge of the dance floor, without fully realizing it. We end up next to the booth seat where he's left his satchel.

'Will you have a drink?' he asks.

'Bloody Mary!' I say.

No sooner had he come back with the cocktails than I tease him about his tie, trying to take it off of him to put it round his head like a ninja headband. He bursts out laughing and responds by tickling me. I squirm and let out a squeak.

His hand slides down my back. A stir of excitement rises within me. I press up against him. His hand stops on my bottom. I don't even flinch when he pins me against the wall. We kiss full on the lips. My fingers creep under his shirt.

He pulls me away to a dark curtain that leads into a closet. The perfect hideout. While he begins groping me, I break off the kiss and nestle my head in the hollow of his shoulder. I can feel his heart thumping—boom-boom, boom-boom—louder than the drum beat in the background.

I bare my fangs and sink them into his neck. Piercing through the carotid, I suck out the rich, spicy, treacly liqueur. A boiling flow rushes into my body. I stifle a groan of pleasure. My lower abdomen presses up to his, and I can feel the zipper on his pants swelling as I raise my leg and wrap it around his hips. Now it's my turn to pin him against the wall.

I can hear him panting. His pulse is beginning to weaken. The stream of blood down my throat is beginning to run dry. My knees give way. I cling on to my dance partner until his bones crack. My mouth seems welded to his flesh, and as I bask in that swoon I can hear his heartbeat slowing down, slowing down . . . to a labored rate.

The warning sends goose pimples all over me. I shrug it off. God, it's so good . . . I keep on sipping blood from the wound, feverishly. Until there is nothing left. It takes me a couple of minutes to realize that I'm sipping in vain; it's like sipping through a straw when your glass is empty. I am forced to give up.

I pull out, rousing myself from my trance. The doctor's body is lying in my arms. I support him effortlessly, though he must weigh a good one hundred and seventy-six pounds. I blink. Like my anarchist last night, he doesn't wake up. I prop him up against a stack of cardboard boxes and I search through his pockets. Nothing but an e-cigarette.

Pensive, I gaze at the marks I've left on his throat: they are bluish and swollen. Much more visible than mosquito bites.

I reach down and pause before taking the young doctor's pulse. I can't feel anything at all. And I don't get better news pressing my ear to his chest. I stand up with a sigh.

That one has not survived.

'Sorry, sweetie . . . Looks like I enjoyed my food a bit too much.' My voice rasps the confined space of the closet. The roar of the guitar and the drum beat drown out the dance floor outside. No one can hear me. But I have to leave.

I push the body aside with my foot, concealing it as it slumps in a corner between the boxes. I open the curtain and walk back to the booth seat, where I grab the satchel. I rummage through it: nothing I can use to make his death look like an accident.

However, there's a blood bag with a label on it. O Rh positive. I bite off the cap and fall back into raptures. A huge wave of heat swells within me, as if I was sinking into a boiling hot bath that I had just run. It only lasts a few seconds.

I pull away, out of breath. The pouch is empty.

I throw the packaging down furiously. Why does it have to be so brief?

As my thoughts turn to the one who gave me that cursed life, I catch sight of a figure at the bar: long, deep purple hair; black velvet hood; silver brooch in the shape of a mask. My dead heart leaps.

'Nathaniel!'

I can hardly hear my own shout over the music. The figure puts his glass down, walks along the counter and merges into the crowd towards the exit. He wants me to follow him outside. He must have guessed what happened to my latest prey. But why is he going so fast?

'Nathaniel, wait!'

Elbowing my way through the dance floor, I rush to the door.