All the unsual disclaimers apply.
Club Rules
The alley is dank and smells of piss. At first I'm not sure it's the right place but as I walk into the gloom a triangle of light is thrown at my feet. I turn to the left and walk through an open door, closing it behind me.
It seems to be better organised than most. A lump of muscle squats on a stool just by the door. When I step inside, he rears up and blocks my way. I say "Finn" quietly, and he looks me up and down. Vampire or human? I can't tell and probably, neither can he.
It's my first time here, but evidently I pass muster, because he sits again and indicates a flight of stairs, going down. This is redundant because there's nowhere else to go, other than back the way I came.
At the bottom I find a turn, and then a curtain made of jagged, glassy beads. Beyond it, the world is splintered and ruddy, as the beads catch and colour the glow. It's my last chance to retreat, and I try, harder than I ever have before; my hands are clenched so tight that my nails break the skin of my palm. I bow my head. Rubied chips cast deep red flecks of light on my fists. It looks like my hands are stained with blood, and I'm lost. I push my way through the curtain, into the main room.
No-one ever speaks in these places. There's no Madam to take your coat and ask about your pleasure. No-one asks whether you've been before, or if this is your first time. It's not the form.
Keep your eyes low. Walk slowly, but steadily forward.
Stopping is bad, because the room is usually crowded, and if you stop you'll be near someone and make them nervous. Rushing is equally wrong. You're liable to trip over a splayed ankle or find yourself in a dead end where there's no room, and have to back out, thereby attracting attention to yourself. Above all, you never do that.
You can cast a glance from side to side occasionally, indeed, you must. You have to find a place to sit. I'm ten paces in and happen to look right, and there it is. A busted sofa covered with spots of mildew. Perfect.
My coat has felt like a swathe of damp blanket for the last hour, ever since I knew I was coming, and I'm glad to finally ease it over my shoulders and spread it across the couch. Underneath my shirt is damp enough to stick to my skin. I sit at one end, leaving a liberal amount of space for anyone who wants to come and join me. Then it's a case of waiting.
After a moment, a form arrives in front of me and hesitates, blocking the light and depriving my skin of its borrowed blush. It stays, too still to be accidental, too long to be mistaken. I raise my eyes to ... hers.
Something in my glance troubles her and she moves away. That happens. Some of them can tell what you do, they see the ashes ingrained in your pores, or recognise the scent of burning vampire flesh, hanging about you like wood smoke.
But you can be sure there'll be others, younger, less aware, more stupid, uncaring. Sure enough, seconds later the sofa bows, tossing me sideways, and I rock into a creature with soft brown eyes and auburn hair. We don't speak, but she picks up my hand and lays it on her lap.
She's wearing a long, cotton dress that buttons up the front, or it would, if it was buttoned. As it is the dress hangs open from neck to waist and from thigh to floor. It falls away from her legs as she sits, so my hand is lying on her bare thigh. On top the sharpness of her nipples prevents the dress from slipping, but still I can see a generous expanse of skin between her breasts. Cold and beautiful.
She is unbuttoning my cuff. Her fingers are bleached and delicate and she is careful, but sometimes she can't avoid scraping the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist with the tips of her nails. The hair on the back of my neck bristles. Head lowered, intent, she rolls up my sleeve until she reaches my bicep. Then she twists and tucks the fabric, garrotting my upper arm, plumping the veins.
Clubs vary, but I know the rules here already; it's suicide to come without finding out. Here they say I don't have a choice. The vampires are bound not to kill me, but I can't select which I want or tell them when to begin and when to stop. My arm starts to pulse under the restriction, and from the corner of my eye I can see her watching me. Minutes tick by, and I wonder if she's amusing herself, seeing if I'll snap, hoping for it, because then I'll have broken the rules, and I'll be fair game.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the sofa. A few seconds later I feel the smear of her cold tongue on my arm, and she buries her incisors deep.
My muscles start to twitch as she draws from me, then she pauses and allows the shrunken vessels to flood again. When the blood departs it's painful, but this is balanced by a sweet, aching relief when the drained, collapsed flesh swells. It's like an itch being scratched, a tense muscle finally relaxed, a bruise stroked just hard enough to feel good.
When she's done I lie back. It's a bit like being a donor. I can have as long as I like to recover, and she brings me whatever drink I ask for, and sits with me to make sure nothing happens. I could touch her now if I wanted to, and she would have to allow it. Club rules. And I do want to, of course, except ... on an armchair to our right, two other members are well into phase two and I can't quite block out the insistent rhythmic creaking and stifled sighs. That's not a place I want to sink to, not yet.
I decide to leave, and she watches me rise and go, a slightly hurt look on her pale face.
I'm back at the door before I realise what I've left behind. The night feels cold without it, but I can't go back. As I hesitate, I find a trickle of blood, snaking down my bare arm amongst the pale blue shadows of my veins and pooling in the palm of my hand. Dried, brown and smelling of rust, it crumbles when I touch it, and when I step into the fresh and breezy night, it blows away.
Club Rules
The alley is dank and smells of piss. At first I'm not sure it's the right place but as I walk into the gloom a triangle of light is thrown at my feet. I turn to the left and walk through an open door, closing it behind me.
It seems to be better organised than most. A lump of muscle squats on a stool just by the door. When I step inside, he rears up and blocks my way. I say "Finn" quietly, and he looks me up and down. Vampire or human? I can't tell and probably, neither can he.
It's my first time here, but evidently I pass muster, because he sits again and indicates a flight of stairs, going down. This is redundant because there's nowhere else to go, other than back the way I came.
At the bottom I find a turn, and then a curtain made of jagged, glassy beads. Beyond it, the world is splintered and ruddy, as the beads catch and colour the glow. It's my last chance to retreat, and I try, harder than I ever have before; my hands are clenched so tight that my nails break the skin of my palm. I bow my head. Rubied chips cast deep red flecks of light on my fists. It looks like my hands are stained with blood, and I'm lost. I push my way through the curtain, into the main room.
No-one ever speaks in these places. There's no Madam to take your coat and ask about your pleasure. No-one asks whether you've been before, or if this is your first time. It's not the form.
Keep your eyes low. Walk slowly, but steadily forward.
Stopping is bad, because the room is usually crowded, and if you stop you'll be near someone and make them nervous. Rushing is equally wrong. You're liable to trip over a splayed ankle or find yourself in a dead end where there's no room, and have to back out, thereby attracting attention to yourself. Above all, you never do that.
You can cast a glance from side to side occasionally, indeed, you must. You have to find a place to sit. I'm ten paces in and happen to look right, and there it is. A busted sofa covered with spots of mildew. Perfect.
My coat has felt like a swathe of damp blanket for the last hour, ever since I knew I was coming, and I'm glad to finally ease it over my shoulders and spread it across the couch. Underneath my shirt is damp enough to stick to my skin. I sit at one end, leaving a liberal amount of space for anyone who wants to come and join me. Then it's a case of waiting.
After a moment, a form arrives in front of me and hesitates, blocking the light and depriving my skin of its borrowed blush. It stays, too still to be accidental, too long to be mistaken. I raise my eyes to ... hers.
Something in my glance troubles her and she moves away. That happens. Some of them can tell what you do, they see the ashes ingrained in your pores, or recognise the scent of burning vampire flesh, hanging about you like wood smoke.
But you can be sure there'll be others, younger, less aware, more stupid, uncaring. Sure enough, seconds later the sofa bows, tossing me sideways, and I rock into a creature with soft brown eyes and auburn hair. We don't speak, but she picks up my hand and lays it on her lap.
She's wearing a long, cotton dress that buttons up the front, or it would, if it was buttoned. As it is the dress hangs open from neck to waist and from thigh to floor. It falls away from her legs as she sits, so my hand is lying on her bare thigh. On top the sharpness of her nipples prevents the dress from slipping, but still I can see a generous expanse of skin between her breasts. Cold and beautiful.
She is unbuttoning my cuff. Her fingers are bleached and delicate and she is careful, but sometimes she can't avoid scraping the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist with the tips of her nails. The hair on the back of my neck bristles. Head lowered, intent, she rolls up my sleeve until she reaches my bicep. Then she twists and tucks the fabric, garrotting my upper arm, plumping the veins.
Clubs vary, but I know the rules here already; it's suicide to come without finding out. Here they say I don't have a choice. The vampires are bound not to kill me, but I can't select which I want or tell them when to begin and when to stop. My arm starts to pulse under the restriction, and from the corner of my eye I can see her watching me. Minutes tick by, and I wonder if she's amusing herself, seeing if I'll snap, hoping for it, because then I'll have broken the rules, and I'll be fair game.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the sofa. A few seconds later I feel the smear of her cold tongue on my arm, and she buries her incisors deep.
My muscles start to twitch as she draws from me, then she pauses and allows the shrunken vessels to flood again. When the blood departs it's painful, but this is balanced by a sweet, aching relief when the drained, collapsed flesh swells. It's like an itch being scratched, a tense muscle finally relaxed, a bruise stroked just hard enough to feel good.
When she's done I lie back. It's a bit like being a donor. I can have as long as I like to recover, and she brings me whatever drink I ask for, and sits with me to make sure nothing happens. I could touch her now if I wanted to, and she would have to allow it. Club rules. And I do want to, of course, except ... on an armchair to our right, two other members are well into phase two and I can't quite block out the insistent rhythmic creaking and stifled sighs. That's not a place I want to sink to, not yet.
I decide to leave, and she watches me rise and go, a slightly hurt look on her pale face.
I'm back at the door before I realise what I've left behind. The night feels cold without it, but I can't go back. As I hesitate, I find a trickle of blood, snaking down my bare arm amongst the pale blue shadows of my veins and pooling in the palm of my hand. Dried, brown and smelling of rust, it crumbles when I touch it, and when I step into the fresh and breezy night, it blows away.