Dancing Nitely

by Nancy A. Collins

  DANCING NITELY

  Nancy A. Collins

  Copyright Nancy A. Collins 2012

  Published by Hopedale Press at Smashwords

  Originally published in Under The Fang (1991)

  Find out more about Nancy A. Collins at:

  www.golgothamonline.com

  truesonjablue.blogspot.com

  Published in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for a newspaper, magazine, website, etc.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  It was midnight by the time Mavrides got out of his coffin. Usually he woke around dusk, just as the sun started its descent behind the towering steel and black glass boxes that dominated the skyline; but last night had been a long one. His joints popped like rifle shots as he climbed from the confines of the narrow, satin-lined mahogany box.

  His temples throbbed sluggishly as his pulse restarted. He hadn’t been this hung-over in...He shrugged and let the analogy drop. He’d been Undead since the late Sixties—long before the Uprising—and the Human ability to measure time in such trivial increments as weeks and months had long since atrophied.

  He staggered into the bathroom and rinsed out his mouth, watching the previous evening’s clotted blood swirl down the drain. He took his shaving kit out of the medicine cabinet, no longer noticing the carefully opaqued mirror-face. He’d gotten used to shaving blind over the years, although the first time he’d tried it, he opened his throat from ear to ear—not that it mattered. Still, it was embarrassing to be seen in public with one’s nose sliced off. Mavrides was nothing if not image conscious. After all those years posing as Human, the habit was difficult to break.

  He padded along the unlit hall to the kitchen. He did not need artificial light to guide him. His apartment building was now Vampires Only, the previous Human tenants having been forcibly relocated to the pens on the outskirts of town or simply converted. The new landlords had thoughtfully installed floor-to-ceiling black-out curtains for the few windows that weren’t bricked over. They also brought in an electrician to remove all the overhead light fixtures. These perks had been instrumental in Mavrides’ decision to buy into the condo.

  He pushed open the kitchen door, prepared for the rank odor of cat piss that greeted him. “How are my kitties tonight, hmmmm?” he asked in a falsetto voice, scanning the row of wire cages arranged along the counter top.

  The cats hissed impotently, flattening their ears against their skulls, as he dumped a bag of kibble into the hoppers atop the cages. His prime breeder, a tortoise-shell dame with huge greenish-yellow eyes, watched him warily as she suckled her most recent litter. Mavrides watched the animals for a moment as they fed, then selected a large tabby for breakfast.

  The cat yowled in fear and pain as he grasped it by its nape, digging its claws into his exposed forearms. A pinkish fluid dribbled from the gashes. He snapped the wretched beast’s neck, cutting short its infernal yowling, and drank from the still-pulsing throat. After he finished draining the cat, he opened the disposal chute that lead to the incinerator and tossed the carcass inside.

  The incinerator was another benefit to signing with the condominium; he still remembered the Bad Old Days, when he’d had no other way of ridding himself of empties than a meat cleaver and the garbage disposal.

  Refreshed by his pick-me-up, he chose his evening attire. He was supposed to meet Smith and Wellman down at the club, and he was already late. He quickly pulled on his black silk shirt, black designer jeans, black motorcycle boots, black suede gloves, black raincoat, and black velvet beret. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him he looked cool.

  ***

  Club Vlad was the hottest bar in town. There were plenty of Vampire-Only places since the Uprising, but Club Vlad claimed the distinction of being the first and the best. It was located in the warehouse district, near the docks. Before the world’s vampires came out of their coffins and into the streets, it had catered to Humans with “special tastes”. When the owner voluntarily converted, it was only natural that the club do so as well.

  The building was a huge wooden structure, the roof adorned with a neon sculpture of Bela Lugosi glowering from behind his upraised cape. Beneath the dead actor’s likeness was a blood-red sign that proclaimed in glowing cursive: Dancing Nitely. All of the windows were boarded up and the front entrance was guarded by a muscular vampire with biker tattoos swarming his bare chest and forearms. The bouncer grunted and opened the soundproofed door as Mavrides approached. Stale air and the repetitive throb of electronic music washed onto the deserted street. Someone inside screamed.

  Mavrides hurried inside. He was missing the floor show!

  Once he crossed the threshold, he saw he needn’t have worried. A nouveau undead had a waitress pinned to a table and was busy trying to tear out her throat. The human woman, naked except for the leather collar that protected her neck and secured her to the length of chain that lead to the bar, kicked and clawed at her assailant.

  As Mavrides watched, the tattooed bouncer grabbed the drunken vampire and propelled him toward the door. “That’s it, dead boy! I thought I told you to leave!”

  The drunk, his face smeared with saliva and blood, tried to break away. The bouncer casually yanked the rowdy’s left arm off.

  “Ow, man! That hurts!” The nouveau whined.

  “Too fuckin’ bad! Now get out and stay out!” The bouncer snarled as he hurled the drunk out the door. “And take this with you!” he added, throwing the still-twitching severed limb into the street. Meanwhile one of the club’s vampiric employees leaned over the savaged waitress, openly licking his fingers as he checked her wounds.

  Mavrides shook his head in disgust and wondered what the world was coming too. It wasn’t like the Bad Old Days, when you had to be discrete in order to simply survive. Today’s new breed of vampire didn’t have to worry about waking up with a stake piercing their thorax, and the nouveau Undead were barely a step or two from being human. Few of them could handle their blood without getting sloppy. Most of them had a hard time metabolizing the straight stuff, let alone tainted juice.

  He shouldered his way to the bar, eyeing the pale-skinned, hollow-cheeked Humans tethered to the brass foot rail by spools of stainless steel chain. While alcohol and other narcotics had no direct effect on vampires, the tainted blood of addicts was a powerful intoxicant. While most undead clubs offered only a handful of junkies and winos, Club Vlad was famous for the quality of its cellar.

  A wispy, fair-haired youth, bled to a pleasing marble white, smiled blearily at him and languidly lifted his chin in ritual surrender. Mavrides shook his head in polite refusal and continued until he came to a short, darkish girl with sunken eyes. He ran his hand along the curve of her shoulder. The waitress jerked at his touch like a startled animal. Despite her wasted appearance, her eyes were hot and wet, the drug forced into her veins making her pupils shimmer in the dim light like candle flames. Mavrides motioned to the bartender, who provided him with a large hypodermic syringe and a wine glass. He stuck the syringe into the shunt implanted in the waitress’s elbow, withdrawing a half pint of tainted juice. He squirted the coppery liquid into a wine glass and quickly downed it before it had a chance to cool and coagulate.

  “Mavride
s! Over here!”

  He looked up, his head already swimming from the drugs leeched from the waitress. It was Wellman, waving at him from one of the booths near the dance floor. He could see he had his ubiquitous portable mini-cam clutched in one hand. Mavrides returned his old friend’s greeting and tossed a couple of crumpled bills onto the bar.

  “Shit, man! We thought you weren’t going to make it!” Wellman said by way of greeting.

  Mavrides shrugged. “I overslept. Is Smith here?”

  Wellman grinned, exposing his fangs. “Yeah, he’s checking out the talent.”

  Mavrides grunted as he slid into the booth. He’d known both of them for decades. In fact, Wellman had been one of his first converts. As for Smith, he had been responsible for Mavrides’ own conversion behind some god-forsaken rock venue back in ‘69. At first Mavrides had thought the quiet, bespectacled young man was just another drug dealer. But Smith had proved to have far more than grass and window pane to offer.

  Smith shouldered his way across the crowded dance floor, the flickering neon reflected in his glasses. At first glance, he appeared to be a mere human, dressed in ragged blue jeans and a rumpled t-shirt. This camouflage had served him well for over four decades. It was impossible to tell simply by looking at him that he was one of the most important and influential leaders behind the Uprising. Mavrides was uncertain of Smith’s exact age—or even if “Smith” was his real name. He’d occasionally overheard his mentor talking about Rasputin and Catherine the Great in extremely personal detail, and every so often the southwestern twang he affected lapsed into a vaguely Slavic accent.

  “How’s it look tonight?” Wellman asked as he sipped a snifter of A+ meth addict.

  “Promising. The first fight’s between Delphe’s George and Keckhaver’s Mueller. Looks like a good show. I’d put my money on the German.” Smith’s eyes glowed wine-red behind the lens of his spectacles. Despite their thickness, the glasses were purely decorative. Like most vampires, Smith’s vision was excellent, but he’d grown accustomed to wearing them as part of his protective coloration. As he spoke, he gestured to one of the waitresses tethered to the bar. The human obediently shambled forward, the spool whirring as the chain played out.

  Mavrides scanned the dance floor while Smith pulled himself a drink. He recognized only a few of the vampires gyrating to the electronica pouring from the speakers. Most of the patrons seemed to be nouveau, converted since the Uprising. They were easy to spot, since most were tricked out in drag, dressed like Bela Lugosi or Vampira. Back in the Bad Old Days, dressing that blatantly was tantamount to hanging a sign around your neck saying: ‘Drive A Stake Through My Heart!’

  Some of the wealthier attendees were accompanied by their own private stock: humans clad entirely in black rubber and leather except for their exposed jugulars. The faceless humans’ eyes glinted wetly from inside their zippered masks, reminding Mavrides of the cats in his kitchen.

  A gong sounded and the dancers halted their movements, turning as one to face the stage. Club Vlad’s official Master of Ceremonies, a stocky vampire dressed in a black cassock and floppy beret, raised his hands for silence. He held a cordless microphone and his voice boomed out over the club’s speakers.

  “Welcome and good eveeee-ning, fellow children of the night, to Club Vlad; the city’s premiere undead nightspot! We’ve got a fine floor show lined up for you, if I do say so myself! Something for everybody! We’ve got heavy-weights, welter-weights, bantams, and even a ladies and children’s competition to look forward to before cock crow! I don’t want to hold up the festivities by talking any longer than I need to, so let’s bring out our first pair of contestants!”

  Countess Delphe and Doktor Keckhaver emerged from the wings, leading their respective humans on chains. Delphe was a tall, statuesque vampiress with flaming red hair sculpted into a long, flowing mohawk that hung halfway down her back, while Keckhaver wore a mauve velvet tuxedo and a handsomely waxed forked goatee. The audience whistled and hooted appreciatively.

  Delphe’s human, George, was a strapping African-American with heavy scar tissue on his cheeks and nose, and the filigreed golden chain that connected the rings piercing his nipples and scrotum gleamed against the muscles of his abdomen. But as impressive as George might be, Keckhaver’s Mueller was the true center of attention.

  The German’s mouth was twisted into a permanent sneer by a scar that ran from his cheek to where his left ear had once been. His head was shaven clean of all hair, including his eyebrows. On closer inspection, there wasn’t a single follicle to be seen on the massively built German’s pale body; his oversized penis dangling like an albino python between the pillars of his thighs. Both fighters were outfitted in leather fighting harnesses and special razor-studded gloves.

  “Ladieees and Gentlemen! On my left is Countess Delphe’s George! Six foot three! Two hundred and twenty pounds! Blood type O Positive! Two fights, no losses...obviously.” The crowd tittered at the joke. “And on my right is none other than Doktor Keckhaver’s Muller! Six foot four and a quarter! Two-hundred and thirty-three pounds! Type A-B Negative! Three wins!”

  Mueller lifted his razored fists over his head, his sneer tightening even further. The audience clapped and cheered. George glowered at the big German but said nothing.

  The Master of Ceremonies gestured to someone off-stage and the sound of a diesel engine added to the already considerable noise inside the club. A large metal cage was slowly lowered from the rafters. The bars looked rusty, but they weren’t.

  The Countess and Keckhaver removed their tethers and stepped back, surrendering the field to their champions. The Master of Ceremonies opened the cage door and the fighters entered. The diesel motor changed gear and began to lift the cage high into the air, swinging it out over the packed dance floor.

  Mavrides and Smith remained seated while Wellman clambered on top of the table in order to get a better viewt. Only the nouveau were gauche enough to dance directly under the cages. The humans suspended above the mass of eager, hungry vampires stared coldly at one another as they gripped the gore-flecked bars for balance.

  The Master of Ceremonies smiled, exposing his pearl-white fangs. “Let the dance--begin!”

  The taped electronic music kicked back in, louder than before. Mueller and George surged from their respective corners, razored fists slicing naked flesh. The odor of adrenaline-heavy blood filled the air as Club Vlad’s patrons lifted their voices in an ululating howl of raw pleasure.

  George landed a punch on Mueller’s jaw, neatly slicing off most of his lower lip. The German staggered backward, his sneer transformed into a crimson grin. Before George could savor his coup, the bigger man grabbed the filigreed chain that connected his opponent’s piercings and yanked. George shrieked as the rings tore his nipples and scrotum. He instinctively grabbed his wounded groin, allowing Mueller the chance to smash a razor-studded fist into his unprotected face, nearly severing his nose.

  George’s eyes bugged as he strove to keep from strangling on the wash of blood filling his sinuses. The spectators below laughed and jeered as they jostled one another for a position beneath the cage, their heads thrown back and mouths open wide. George was losing and he knew it. He grabbed at Mueller’s hairless crotch. The German tried to sidestep him, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver. The big man bellowed like a bull in a gelding stall. The crowd screamed its delight as the German’s sex landed on the dance floor. There was a minor scuffle as some of the vampires fought to retrieve the tidbit.

  Maddened by pain, Mueller pounded George’s face unmercifully; slicing open his eyes and gouging huge ruts along his forehead and scarred cheekbones. Blood fell from the dangling cage in a crimson shower, splashing the wildly dancing vampires below.

  Blinded and mortally wounded, George offered Mueller his throat. The killing blow was swift and—compared to what had gone before—relatively painless. George dropped to the wire-mesh floor of the cage, his life pumping from his severed jugular onto t
he dancers below.

  “See? What did I tell you?” Smith crowed. “Keckhaver’s stable is the best in the city—if not the entire Northwest Sector! I trust you got that all on tape, Wellman.”

  “Every second,” he replied, patting the mini-cam. Wellman was justifiably proud of his private library of atrocity footage. Even Mavrides had to admit to being impressed by his companion’s personal archive.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like he’ll be breeding any further champions from this one,” Mavrides remarked drily as the cage was lowered to the stage. Doktor Keckhaver stood waiting to claim his winner, the veterinarian for his stable beside him.

  Now that the killing lust had fled, Mueller was feeling the effects of his emasculation. He collapsed across George’s body, his eyes glazing as he gripped his cooling flesh. The shivers caused by the oncoming shock made it look as if he was grieving for his fallen opponent. The vet hurried into the cage and squatted next to the fallen giant. He glanced at Keckhaver and shook his head. Either way, this would be Mueller’s last fight.

  The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, waving the chattering crowd into silence. “Well, ladies and gentlemen; what shall it be for our brave contestant? Is it ‘yea’ or ‘nay’?”

  There was quiet for a second, and then the audience answered in unison, their voices joined in a primitive singsong: “One of us! One of us! One of us!”

  The Master of Ceremonies nodded his approval and turned to look at Keckhaver. “So, Doktor? What will it be?”

  The tall, moon-faced vampire paused to stroke his goatee, lost in thought as he stared at his dying champion, then nodded. A ragged cheer burst from the spectators. The veterinarian pocketed his stethoscope and returned the pre-mixed lethal injection to his little black bag.