Neat as a button in a black lavish suit, humming You Sexy Thing, and relishing on his disarming simile in front of the mirror, Francis knew he would break the rules that night. Again.
Twenty minutes later, his Uber driver dropped him in front of the VIP door of The Crawford, the most exclusive club in New York. Without haste but confident as a panther looking for pray, Francis went directly to the top floor where he knew the crowd would be lost in alcohol, drugs, and syncopathic dancing. He could already hear the rumble from the hall right before the warm and golden atmosphere turned into strobe lights, unleashed merriment and sin. Francis smiled like a kid entering a candy store.
“Francis, you didn’t break the rules, you broke the law! Again!” Said Sybilla dropping on a chair with her hand on her forehead. Francis kneeled next to Sybilla and let her caress his blond hair. “I assume this time you cleaned up your own mess, Francis?”
Francis advanced through the spacious room letting his ample and charming smile thrive under the strobe lights. It wasn’t long until he stopped dancing solo. His partner had a delicious smile. The gentleman’s body was moving in sync with Francis’, who could feel the wood scent on his skin, mixed with black lotus. A little closer. Then a little more. Francis bathing in the oak aroma. Closer. He could feel his partner’s heart. Fast-beating. Pounding. Blood thrusting up and down, up and down. The music. The beating. The rumbling. Francis let himself drown in the deep darkness of his very own existence, his white fangs abruptly emerging, ready to feed, bright under the strobe lights.
Francis looked at Sybilla. He wondered if Sybilla would be crying if she could. He knew vampires were not allowed to feed directly from humans anymore. He knew he would be in trouble with the Vampire Authorities if discovered. He knew Sybilla would always be by his side because she loved him, and understood him. Sybilla looked tired, though. Francis was tired, too, because it was never true that vampires didn’t have a soul. Donated blood was supposed to stop everyone’s suffering, guilt, and shame. Francis sank his head again in Sybilla’s lap while she resumed her caressing.
Warm and comforting, blood transferred from one body to the other, both of them lost in a profound beating. Francis was exhilarated. The feeling of the blood, steel alive, pounding inside of him was intoxicating. All his senses heightened. The oak and black louts scent mixed now with sweat and blood. The pounding of the music. The strobe lights flashing. The fast beating on the hand holding the doomed gentleman’s head. The smell of blood, that was the opposite of the metallic taste humans felt. Francis could have stopped. But he wouldn’t.
It was almost dawn. Thick curtains covered the windows of the luxury apartment Sybilla owned on the West Side. Francis had been living with her since he was turned. Since she turned him almost fifty years ago. She broke the law back then as well. Francis stood up and sat in front of the piano. His skillful hands started playing Debussy’s Clare de Lune. Sybilla joined him shortly afterward, as she had done many times before.
