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The building was ultra-modern and the exterior was mostly concrete and black glass. Part of me couldn’t help but to wonder if it were a building where all the vampires lived as we pulled into the underground parking garage and passed row after row of expensive new cars. As Aleksi eased into his parking spot, his car seemed out of place. He got out and crossed around to open my door, and I let him.

“I don’t think the subway runs this far out.” I commented idly breaking our silence as he closed the door behind me. His hand rested on the small of my back as he led me to the elevator.

“It doesn’t, but I will see that you get home.”

“I thought vampires couldn’t go out in the sunlight.” The moment the words left my lips I covered my face.
Mightily presumptuous aren’t you?
The elevator dinged.

“We can, we simply have to be covered.” He answered as he ushered me into that elevator with his hand still at the small of my back. “Though… I would think such a thing a non-issue unless you expect to stay the night.” The elevator dinged again and he ushered me off. That simple light touch was slowly driving me mad. We walked down the hall and it took a handful of moments to realize there were no other doors just dark wood floors and white walls filled with intricate art deco designs in silver.

“Is this whole floor yours?”

“Yes.” He glanced down at me for a moment.

“So this is your home?” I tilted my head to the side.

“Mhm, my sire holds dominion over most of the North West.”

“I thought the company was based out of New York and Paris?”

“It is, I don’t spend as much time here as I’d like.”

“Is Gertrude your sire?”—
Again, you sound like an idiot—
“Well… I know her real name isn’t Gertrude. I just mean the Gertrude that Tristan referred to.” I stammered as he unlocked the heavy dark wood door.

“Yes, Elizabeta is my sire. And yes, our relationship is just as strained as Hamlet and Gertrude’s.”

On the other side of the door was a massive apartment, which I had expected since it was the only one on the floor. His living room could have fit my entire apartment inside of it. Everything was all clean, modern lines and done in contrast, white and black. A large white leather sectional couch covered an entire corner of the room, as did a television that took up a good portion of the wall. Though the place was spotless there was dust on the television remote, meaning he didn’t watch television. Connected to the living room was the kitchen which surprised me. I didn’t think a vampire would need a kitchen—let alone one with such fancy appliances.

He took my coat while I oogled the tastefully decorated living space. I couldn’t help to note it looked like a hotel room more than a home. Off of the living room/ kitchen was what appeared to be a dance studio, complete with mirrors and a barre on the wall. The room looked lived in and surprisingly messy. The center seemed to be clear but around the walls were piles of pointe shoes, and ballet slippers in various states of decay.

“Pointe shoes?” I cocked my head to the side and he snickered as he returned from tucking my coat away.

“Some choreographers—like Tristan—enjoy pushing limits. I’m the only male in our company that will go en pointe. It is still fairly new to me.”

“Are you going en pointe for this production?”

“No. But if Elizabeta insists we stay—which she might, she kept us here for half of the eighties— I will for La Belle Morte.” He was unreadable, he spoke like he was rattling off inconsequential facts. Part of me was wounded, I wanted him to want to stay. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. Why is your relationship with your sire strained?”

“It’s a very complex matter. I could explain it, but it would take all night I’m afraid.”

“Oh...” I trailed off. I stepped into the living room and walked towards the kitchen. He was jacketless so I could watch all of the muscles in his arms flex as he uncorked the wine bottle and poured me a glass. “How long have you been a vampire?”

“What a curious phrasing.” He snickered as he approached me with the glass. The wine was red, being unfamiliar with red wine all I could do was note that its color seemed so very close to blood. He offered me the glass and I took it. He pursed his lips for a moment. “One Hundred and Thirty-Eight years.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-three.” I laughed and he cocked his head to the side curiously. “Such a sweet and abrupt sound,” left his lips in a sensuous purr which practically caressed itself over my body. My toes curled again, and it took a moment to regain composure.

“I’m older than you are.” I finally managed to eke out, my lips lingering on the wine glass.
That’s what you choose to say to him?

“In some way I suppose. You are physically more matured than I am.”

“I’m not sure I like that phrasing though.” I snickered as I sipped my wine. He smirked at me and sat on that large white couch sinking into the cushion. His skin was as white as the bleached leather he sat against, the sameness was startling. He reached his hand and patted the pillow beside him and I took the seat without a single word from his lips. “When did you start dancing?”

“When I was old enough to walk. I was raised in the orphanage the Bolshoi grew out of.”

“Oh… do you remember your parents?” I took another sip of my wine and noted that I had somehow drained half of the glass already. I reached to set the glass down, but there was something in Aleksi’s eyes that stilled me. Instead, I took another sip of wine.
He is trying to get you drunk.

“Not really, I remember my mother some. She had a very sweet voice, and very long, very blonde hair. My father… I’m not even certain my mother knew who he was. My mother was a French whore that some Russian noble kept until she turned up pregnant. But I remember my mother singing to me in French. She was having a hard time of things, she didn’t speak Russian. Rather than watch me starve to death she took me to the orphanage—I was three I think.”

“Were you in the first production of Swan Lake?” The moment Swan Lake left my lips he shifted uncomfortably.

“I would rather not discuss Maddox, Tchaikovsky, how I was turned or Swan Lake. I am very forthcoming about my past, but those topics are off limits.” He tilted his head to the side as he watched me sip my wine again. “What about you? What is your surname?”

“Darling.” I couldn’t help but to smile when I said it. The wine was starting to affect me I could feel the warmth radiating through me. I was suddenly a bit flushed, and somewhat giggly.

“Autumn Darling.” He purred my name like a happy cat. His cerulean gaze darted back to the glass and I downed the last of the wine as if on cue. “Your parents must have a sense of humor.”

“Oh, they do. I was very close to having my middle name as my first name. I would have been Sadie Autumn Darling or S.A.D. It was something my mother found uproariously hilarious and my father caught just in time. What’s your surname?”

“Mikhailovich, I guess. It’s a patronym which is different, kind of like a middle name. It’s usually the father’s name in Russia but given my fatherless status, it was the name of the priest who baptized me. I don’t technically have a surname.” He plucked the glass from my fingers and set it on the table. Those pallid digits made me shiver again. “Why did you quit dance?”

“I…” My cheeks flushed and I smoothed my skirt and crossed my ankles. “I had the unfortunate luck of… developing early. The academy I was in at the Westley had a habit of dismissing girls once they lost the desired shape. I was fourteen and I wore a D cup, so they kicked me out. They said officially it was because I had technique issues.”

“Well, I see absolutely nothing wrong with your shape, Autumn Darling.” His lips curled, and a blush took my cheeks. His fingers slid from his thigh to inches from my own.

“Thank you.” I breathed with a shaky little breath.

“You are most welcome. Did you grow up with Kendra, and… the other dancer I saw you with?”

“No, but they did. I met Leslie when I was seventeen, we both had auditions at Julliard the same week. She was there for dance and I was there for Cello.” I laughed a bit. “I am actually the only one out of the three of us who got in.”

“Impressive, you must be very talented.” I blushed and shrugged. “Are you a cellist then?”

“No. It’s weird. Leslie and I went for coffee the day after my audition. Our friendship was very new, but I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. I didn’t want to be a cellist. I only did it because my parents were very insistent upon it. We had a conversation that lasted for six hours, and in the end I decided to quit. The week after I got back I received the acceptance letter—not only did I get accepted but also a full scholarship. I hid it from my
parents and told them I didn’t get in. With Julliard no longer an option I was free to pursue my passion for literature.”

“Impressive, few people read anymore—let alone appreciate the written word. So… what is it that you do?” I jumped as he spoke, those fingers of his had found their way to my hand. His finger was like an icicle as it traced over my knuckles.

“I am a Graduate Assistant for the English Department at U of F. I’m also in the accelerated Ph.D. program. If I survive, I will have my Doctorate in Eighteenth Century Lit—which many think is the most boring topic you could focus on.”

“Do you think it’s boring?”

“No, I find it fascinating.”

“Which authors?”

“Wilmot, de Sade, Austen…Swift.”
You started with the consummate Libertine and the father of sadism—he’s going to think you’re a slut.
I blushed heavily. His finger never stopped tracing over mine. The constant touching kept me on the edge of my seat.

“Most people would have started with Austen.” He stopped stroking my finger and moved his hand back to his thigh.
He’s not interested.
I pursed my lips and smoothed my hands over my skirt and crossed my ankles. “Why didn’t you? Why de Sade?” He arched a brow. He shifted on the couch. I watched in my periphery as he turned to face me.

“I’m interested in sexualit—” I stopped myself and bit my bottom lip.
Stop it, you already seem easy enough no need to add to it.
I released my lip and trailed my fingers over my necklace, trading one nervous tick for another. “I’m interested in exploring…” I trailed off and glanced up at him. He was statue-still, on his face was a pleasant smile, but there was no insight there. He also didn’t attempt to soothe me and let me know it was okay.
He’s enjoying watching you twist.
I took a deep breath, “I’m interested in the preoccupation with sexuality in literature during the century. Supposedly as the century moved on, there was a distancing from the life of the libertine and a focus on morals. I don’t see it that way, even Austen’s work focuses on sexuality to a certain degree.”

“What do you think of de Sade’s work?”

“I think it was about pushing boundaries, for that I have an appreciation for it. Other than that…” I trailed off and went full on Lit student mode. “You have to have respect for his ability to push the envelope of acceptability. But as a modern reader, I cannot get passed the ages of the characters involved to find the eroticism of it.” He nodded slowly. “I did read somewhere that 120 days of Sodom was written after he actually hosted the Vampire Council for 120 days. One of the professors at the University has a theory that de Sade was a vampire. He says it explains away the constant theme of extreme violence mixed with his eroticism because it's commonplace amongst vam—” I stopped myself, but the damage was done. He turned from me. Snatching the wine glass off of the coffee table he stood and walked to the kitchen. I watched him as he poured another glass of wine. He then opened the fridge and set a glass canister on the counter which was obviously filled with blood.

Silence filled the room as he fetched another wine glass. I shifted uneasily as I watched him fill that glass with blood. I could actually feel myself frown.
Disappointed?
Drawing a slow, shaky breath, I shook my head and forced a soft smile on my lips.

“Is that what you believe?” I jumped at the break in the silence.

“I’m sorry… I… what do you mean?”

“Do you believe that all vampires engage in acts of extreme violence for sexual gratification?” He inquired, somehow keeping his voice admirably passive. I didn’t know how to answer.
Yes, you do. Which is why you’re an idiot for coming here.

After speaking he headed back to the couch with his blood and my wine. However, even after he took his place beside me, he didn’t give me the wine glass. He didn’t even set it on the coffee table. He did set his glass down, my gaze went to the dark red, opaque liquid. My mind couldn’t help but to wonder how he came by that canister of blood. The silence returned as he held the glass hostage almost. He wasn’t going to say or do anything until I answered him. My fingers nervously ran back through my hair, I then took to preening as usual. I honestly didn’t know what I felt.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. My only exposure to vampires before this… has been from the sex ed discussions we had in high school—we spent a week on the dangers of the vampire—and from what I’ve seen
on the news.” I wet my lips and shook my head with a bit of nervous laughter. “I suppose I don’t want to believe it.” My gaze nervously flitted up to meet his. He had turned back to face me. He held the glass out to me and I took it. My gaze danced between the two glasses. In literature, wine and blood are often compared, but in reality next to each other they don’t look a thing alike. Blood has a certain tension to it that wine just doesn’t have, and then there’s the color. Wine has a slight purplish hue that blood lacks.