Chapter Text
“Oh, everywhere she goes, all the guys,
dig her ruby lips and her hypnotic eyes
And I’m heartbroken, I’m a mess
‘cause everybody wants to date the vampiress!”
The singer turned her red-painted pout to the crowd, hamming it up as she crossed the stage. Her backing band wore shabby suits, and her slinky black dress looked like it had come from a costume trunk, a poor person’s idea of what a rich person might wear, but she had a certain jaunty charisma, an infectious smile, and the beginnings of a healthy flush on her cheeks.
On the edge of the marble dance floor, Sabina closed her eyes and massaged her temples.
“Enjoying the party?” said Leander from the vicinity of her left shoulder.
“Did you,” said Sabina, voice low and dangerous, “while organizing the single largest vampire gathering of all of 1966, decide to book a bunch of humans in a monster-themed novelty act?
“Shh.” Leander grinned. “Don’t ruin the single funniest thing I have done in fifty years.”
Sabina opened her eyes, the better to glare at him.
“They’re called Vera and the Vamps,” Leander added, voice choked with suppressed laughter. “They’re from Hoboken. Their agent promised an evening of hair-raising musical thrills and chills.”
“The next time some aspiring young Van Helsing goes looking for our kind, I’m giving him your home address,” grumbled Sabina. “This is absurd. This isn’t even the fox in the henhouse, this is hens in the, the fox den. They won’t make it to the end of their first set, and then we’ll have to spend the rest of the night either in stone silence, or listening to Dimitri attempt to play the flute.”
This, at least, earned a flinch. Dimitri’s flute playing sounded a little like an endless shrieking wind, if that wind somehow also had diarrhea.
“He’s had five hundred years to practice.” Leander sounded almost awed. “You’d think he would’ve at least learned proper breath control.”
“I think he mostly performs for mortals, and lets the pale skin and chiseled features do the heavy lifting, as it were,” said Sabina. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen the appeal.”
“Well yes, I know you haven’t,” said Leander.
Sabina didn’t reply, too busy watching the stage. The band had moved onto a new song; from the refrain, Sabina deduced it was called “Twist and Scream.” The singer—the eponymous Vera, if Sabina had to guess—was doing a credible Twist, only with her hands hooked in theatrical claws.
“Dancing with a demon, every ghoulie’s dream / it’s the hit of the graveyard, do the twist and screeeeam!”
“Absurd,” Sabina said again.
“I’ll make sure nobody eats them,” said Leander, patting her on the arm. “That seems like the least a host could do. Speaking of which, I should probably mingle. Hey, you’ll talk to someone tonight, right?”
“I’m talking to you right now,” she said. “I’m regretting it, but it is happening.”
“I mean it,” he pressed. “You won’t simply stand here glued to the spot watching a human sing about what Freud would probably call some sort of death complex?”
“That cocaine-addled fraud can go choke on his own cigar.”
“He’s been dead for decades, doll. You need to get with the times.”
“Groovy,” said Sabina flatly.
“That’s the spirit,” said Leander. “Now promise me, you’ll mix at least a little? Enjoy the extremely elaborate party that took months to plan? Take in anything other than the band I hired as a prank?”
“I promise.”
“Thank you very much!” said Vera into the microphone. “We are Vera and the Vamps, and you all are a lovely audience. We’ll be taking a short break, and then we’ll be back with our second spine-tingling set!”
Sabina watched as Vera shucked off her high heels and hopped down from the stage, nimble even in the form-fitting dress. She glanced around the room nonchalantly, as if trying to blend in.
Dimitri was making a direct line for the poor human, either because he hadn’t gotten the memo about not devouring the entertainment, or he was intent on fulfilling other carnal desires, or worse, he was going to try to bond with her over their “shared musical talents.” At any rate, Sabina didn’t think about it too hard when she crossed the distance between herself and Vera in a few short strides and discreetly elbowed Dimitri out of the way.
“Sabina Merchant.” She extended her hand to shake. Vera took it in both hands, a press of delightfully warm human palms even through Sabina’s evening gloves.
“I’m Polly Thomson,” said—well, Polly, apparently. “Vera’s just for the alliteration. And hi, it’s always nice to meet a fan.”
Sabina blinked slowly.
Polly smiled, not looking taken aback at all. “You’ve been watching all night,” she said. “So either you like our music or I’ve got something on my face. Maybe it’s the latter but I’ll take my chances.” And with that, she winked.
Sabina tried to think of something to say that wasn’t either ‘Did you just wink at me with full sincerity?’ or ‘Remind me again, what is your era’s cultural mores around women sleeping with women?’
“Your band has eleven different songs about how everyone wants to date monsters,” said Sabina instead.
“Nineteen!” said Polly. “Plus various assorted covers. We’re saving the best for later.”
“Do you have anything that isn’t about longing to step out with an infernal creature of the night?”
Polly pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hmm...now that you mention it, not really.” She shrugged. “Look, I know it ain’t Stravinsky—it’s nonsense, really, but they’re fun to write, and it almost pays the bills!”
Almost. Sabina made a mental note to talk to Leander later about properly compensating one’s musicians, even for the sake of a joke.
“Ladies, if I may,” said Dimitri smoothly from behind Sabina.
“No, you may not,” Sabina replied. Then, to Polly, “You write your own material?”
“Yeah, everyone always thinks it’s the band, or that we’ve got a male songwriter somewhere pulling the strings but most of the time it’s just me and my piano,” said Polly. “Why, do you play anything?”
At various points in her immortality, Sabina had mastered the pan flute, the Roman cithara, the psaltery, the lyre, the lute, the hammer dulcimer, and the hurdy gurdy. Mentally she cycled through them, trying to decide which one sounded the least out of date.
“Guitar,” she said, because how different could it be from a lute, anyway?
“Neat!” said Polly. “The world needs more girl guitarists out there. Who would you say is your inspiration?”
Sabina, who tended to only take in popular culture as it suited her, racked her brain for the name of any person who had ever played a guitar of any kind since the beginning of time.
“Hey, Polly,” said one of the shabby-suited humans. “There’s food in the back if you’re hungry. Just a tray or two of canapes, but—”
“You can have all of them,” said Sabina. “Leander must have forgotten to explain. It’s specifically for the band.”
“What if you get hungry?” asked Polly.
“We already ate.”
“Okay,” Polly said, “Thanks, and thanks to your...husband for hiring us.”
Sabina snorted. “He is not my husband.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“The guy you were talking to earlier.” Polly tilted her head to one side. “Your very fancy manservant?”
The thought made Sabina chuckle. “My friend.”
“Oh,” said Polly. Their eyes connected. Polly raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.
“Food,” said Polly’s bandmate plaintively. “C’mon.”
“Are you sticking around for the second set?” Polly asked over her shoulder as her bandmate began to drag her away.
“Perhaps,” said Sabina airily.
“Good evening, once again,” Polly intoned into the microphone. “We’re back, and we’re kicking things off with a song dedicated to a very new friend of mine.” She scanned the audience, found Sabina, and grinned. “Here’s one that isn’t about wanting to step out with an infernal creature of the night. With every apology to Mr. Jay Hawkins and to Mrs. Nina Simone.” She turned to the band, counting off until they struck up a vaguely familiar, slightly menacing-sounding tune.
Then she spun around, grabbed the microphone with both hands, threw her head back, and sang, “I put a spell on you...because you’re mine—”
Sabina laughed. She hid her head in her hands. When she uncovered her face, Polly was still singing. It was ridiculous, a mortal serenading a vampire with a song about spells—it was ridiculous, a human woman in a cheap faux-glamorous dress entertaining a room full of desperately wealthy monsters—it was ridiculous, and Polly’s persona was a parody of a femme fatale, a cartoon. She smirked and slinked across the stage and dipped the microphone stand with her eyes bright, as if she was in on the joke.
“I love you, I love you
I love you, I love you anyhow...”
“Should I tell the others you’ve called dibs?” said Leander, at Sabina’s shoulder once more, as the crowd applauded.
“We agreed we weren’t going to eat her,” said Sabina.
“Ah yes,” he said. “Let us pretend that’s what I meant. I can dwell in that fiction if you can.”
“I’m not—I don’t sleep with humans anymore. What’s the point in getting involved when either you must lie to them about everything, or else tell them and watch their eyes fill with fear?”
“Yeah,” said Leander as Polly shimmied her shoulders to the last of the music. “Poor thing looks petrified.”
“Because she thinks it’s all a lark. If she knew, she’d be singing a different tune.”
“Oh, lighten up,” said Leander. “Haven’t you heard the one about the times, and how they are a-changing?”
“This next one is a return to form,” Polly announced to her audience, who were paying considerably closer attention than before. “It’s called ‘The Whole Town’s Talking ‘bout that Vampire Kiss.’”
Sabina thought about it all through Polly’s final set, and when the band had made their last bows, she was at the edge of the stage, helping Polly back to the floor.
“Thank you,” said Polly. Sabina’s hand was still holding Polly’s. Neither of them stepped away for a long moment. “So, what did you think?”
“Excellent delivery, enjoyable melodies, questionable lyrics,” said Sabina.
“Harsh.” Polly laughed. “I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but surely the undead need love, too?”
“Listen.” Sabina let the hand drop. “I don’t think you understand what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“I almost never do,” Polly agreed.
Sabina pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Polly, have you ever drained the lifeblood from a squirrel?”
“No,” said Polly. She glanced down at herself. “Why, do I have that look about me?”
For a moment, Sabina was brought short. “You’re hard to wrongfoot,” she said, and Polly shrugged.
“Touring life. You meet all kinds of people, who say all kinds of things.”
“Well, monsters are frightening,” Sabina pressed. “They do not conceive of life in the same terms, the same scale, as humans. Even when they try not to be monsters, that is what they are, inescapably. You know nothing about this, and you shouldn’t.”
“Excuse you,” said Polly. “I watch Creature Features every Friday. I could beat you in a horror trivia contest, no question.”
Sabina had hoped it would not come to this. “Do you have a purse with you?”
“Yeah?” Polly retrieved a cheap black clutch bag from the edge of the stage.
“Do you have a compact, with a mirror?”
“Oh no, do I have something on my face after all?” said Polly. She rifled through her bag, grabbed the compact, flipped it open, and scrutinized the glass. She sighed as if in relief. Then she frowned. She carefully rotated the mirror around to catch the reflection of the rest of the room, and the lack of reflections of the guests. She did this several times, as if the results might be different on the next try. Tremblingly, she put the compact away and looked up at Sabina with wide eyes. “Are they—the people here—”
“Vampires,” Sabina affirmed. “Everyone but you and your band.”
“So, you are…”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” said Polly. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No.”
Polly swallowed. She glanced down at the floor and then met Sabina’s eyes again. “In that case, do you want to get out of here?”
“Are you asking me if you can run away screaming?” Sabina asked. “Because you can.”
“No.” Polly laid her hand on Sabina’s elbow, warm and deliberate. “I am asking if you have a place nearby where we might spend the night together. I was planning to before, only I couldn’t decide if I wanted to risk a visit from the Vice Squad. But if vampires are real, I am suddenly a bit less afraid of what the NYPD might do to us.”
“They won’t do anything,” said Sabina fiercely. Nobody was easier to mind-whammy than a cop. Then she turned her thoughts to the rest of it, to the part she wanted to sink down into, the fact that she apparently had not been imagining the pull between them, even before Polly had known what Sabina was. “I do have an apartment, very near here. And.” Sabina placed her other hand over Polly’s and squeezed lightly. “I would like that very much. Just, one thing first.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you won’t write a song about this.”
“Oh,” said Polly, taking a step back. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t. I absolutely will.”
Sabina nodded, already resigned. “Fair enough. Shall we, then?"
"We shall," Polly said with a grin. "We shall."