Dancing Nitely by Nancy A. Collins Page B

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,