Red Nectar

Rose absolutely despised being a vampire. 

For one, ageing incredibly slowly was actually not at all what it was cut out to be. You see, it provided you with a lot more chances to forget things, with Rose’s few memories of her early life now only shadows. Not being able to leave the house during the day was also horrible. She had loved rambling the pre-civil-war countryside in her youth, exploring valleys and glens and woodlands, but for four-hundred-and-a-bit winters, springs, summers, and autumns now she had effectively been housebound. And then there was never being able to see how her outfits looked in the mirror. Oh, and don’t get her started on not being allowed to enjoy the culinary pleasures that garlic had to offer…

“Can I interest you in this one, Mrs Rose?” Bartosz leant the neck of the mottled glass bottle towards her. “I must admit, it has got a bit of something about it.” 

Rose leant only as far out of her cottage doorway as she needed to, wary that someone from the nearby village may be watching, despite it being two o’clock on the nippiest of January mornings.

“It dates from the French Revolution. Has a rich and vagrant aroma, wouldn’t you agree? And I must admit…” Bartosz winked. “… I find it rather velvety on the tongue.” 

For much of her vampire-life, Rose had ordered her BloodBox from Bartosz. Rumour had it that the always-smiling hunchbacked Hungarian was once actually one of the most powerful vampires around. Apparently, he could shape-shift into any animal he pleased, time-shift into any period of history he fancied, even carbon-shift to create anything that he desired, all of which must have been far too exciting for him, for now he spent his time doing door deliveries. Of course, it would be wrong for Rose to complain. Bartosz was nice enough to her whenever he visited. Odd. Yes, very odd. But nice enough. And at least having her blood delivered straight to her door took away the faff of having to go out and hunt. Why did victims have to wriggle and squirm? Why did they insist on yelling and screaming? Why couldn’t they just sit there and take it? No, Rose liked to have her blood presented to her bottled. At least that way she could enjoy it and not have to think about where it came from or how it came from there. In many ways, blood to her was what smartphones, or handbags, were to humans.

Bartosz’s aged, jabbering jowls reappeared from behind his milk float, a strange choice of vehicle to utilise for delivering crates of blood, but a vast improvement on the hay wagon he had trundled around on for the past however-many-centuries. 

“How about this lovely one, instead?” he said, displaying another bottle, this one an inky green. “Perugian. Mid-1800s. Straight from the aorta of a rather eccentric circus entertainer. Donated it himself, as the story goes.”

“Donated himself?”

“Or someone donated it for him. A meagre difference.” 

Rose supposed that Bartosz was the closest thing she had to a friend. That was a sad thought. Saying that, there weren’t many of their breed around these days, if any at all. A dying race, not built for modern times…

She sniffed the bottle as she always did to keep Bartosz satisfied, even though she never intended on buying anything from his so-called ‘premium selection’.

“You know, Bartosz, I’m content with just my regular order, thank you,” she said once she had felt her pretences had been held up for long enough.

“Content? But why not be happy, Mrs Rose?” 

“I’m sorry, Bartosz. Happiness and I have never been on speaking terms.”

“What do you mean?” The delivery man looked at her peculiarly, like a hen spotting seed on the ground.

Well, if Bartosz was her friend, she supposed she could at least be a bit honest with him.

“Being a vampire, Bartosz. I hate it.”

“You hate it?” 

It felt good to say it out into the open. “Every last stinking bit of it. I wish I had never been cursed with this life.”

Bartosz strummed his cheeks. He looked hurt, in a way, like Rose’s declaration punctured everything he knew.

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Bartosz, but it’s just how I feel. Oh, if only I had not gone to that ball.”

“Oh, you did not upset me, Mrs Rose, but it does upset me that that is how you feel. And what do you mean… ball?”

“When I was a young woman, I received an invitation from a man called Lord Braxen about attending his masquerade ball, but it was all a cover, you see, for he was a vampire. For him, it was an easy way to get young, innocent, gullible fools to stumble into his clutches and join his clan, and my friend Marie and I fell for it.”

Bartosz hobbled back to his milk float.

“You know, Bartosz, I must dash,” Rose peppered, deciding that she had shared way too much for one evening. “I need to watch that show… night… road… house. Yes. That’s it. Nightroad House. It’s my favourite. It’s just about to start.”

Rose went to turn back into her cottage but the ruby, gold embossed bottle now resting in Bartosz’s hands made her stop. 

“Please just try…” Like the sommelier he wasn’t, Bartosz unplucked the cork and offered it to Rose. She hesitated, but the look in Bartosz’s one good eye beckoned her nose forward once again.

It was nothing like she had smelt before. 

“My word…”

Wait. No. It was exactly like something she had smelt before. 

“What, what is this? I recognise it.”

Rose leant forward again.

  Fallen apples. 

Buttery, in a strange sort of way. 

It licked her nostrils as it ventured upwards. But where had she smelt it before…

The ball, of course, that was it.

Lord Braxen’s Masquerade Ball. 

How peculiar. 

So strong the nostalgia was, it was almost like she was back there. In a gown, arm in arm with her friend, Marie, their feet crunching over the moon-glistened gravel of the driveway, joining the stream of masked guests, slowly making their way past the vine-strangled gargoyles and into the grandeur and splendor of inside. The last time, the final moments, that she had been truly happy.

“Wow, Bartosz..." Rose breathed in the fumes. “I must admit, that does take me back…”

“Take you back?” Marie was talking now. “Rose, what are you on about? Take you back where?”

~

Rose felt like she had been punched.

“Marie?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s… it’s you!”

“Well… yes?”

Utter confusion reigned supreme.

“But… but where’s Bartosz?” Rose spun around. 

“Who on earth is Bartosz?” Marie, her young friend, looked at her curiously. “Are you okay, Rose? You look a little bit pale.”

Rose stopped spinning. “Where are we?”

“Lord Braxen’s Masquerade Ball.” 

“Why?”

“Because he put out an announcement to say that he was throwing a fancy party and that’s what young people do. They get invited to go to fancy parties.”

“But you’re alive?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“But you… but now…”

“Oh, come on you silly old goose, let’s get inside.”

Rose’s eyes watched Marie disappear into the light of the castle before they glanced down to see the hands of a much younger woman attached to her wrists. Much younger. She ran them across her face. Her skin felt fresh, not beaten or scratched or flecked with the struggles of time, and in herself she felt energised and carefree and ready for anything.

And so, Rose suddenly realised why Bartosz was not there. 

It was because she was not where she had been. 

~

A sea of glittering masks added some sparkle into the kaleidoscope of her thoughts as she stumbled into the grand hall of the castle. She felt an arm hook her by the elbow. Marie.

“Sorry about that,” Rose said. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Rose was not sure that she was. For the most part, she felt fantastic. Shrugging the years off had made her so light that right there and then she could have floated away. But every few moments her memories realigned and she felt like she was sloshing through deep, icy water. 

From a high balcony, the string quartet filling the space with their song quietened. The crowd looked up. A tall man, thick black locks tickling the back of his lace-collared doublet, held his arms wide.

“Welcome, my darling guests!” he called to rapturous applause.

“Lord Braxen!” Marie squealed with excitement. 

“Tonight, dear friends and acquaintances,” the Lord went on, now slipping down the sweeping spiral staircase with an elegance Rose had never before witnessed. “We dance, we drink, and we take our place in the hall of gods!”  

A roar. Stamping feet. Banging fists. The band struck up again, and a faster, choppier dance began. 

“Marie," Rose hastened. "I think we shoul–” 

“Ladies, welcome.” Lord Braxen appeared at their side, taking their hands delicately in his and pecking the back of their laced gloves. “I’m so honoured that you answered my call. I know many in the town sneered at such an invite.”

“Of course, Lord Braxen,” chirped Marie.

“Before we get into the party spirit, why don’t you join me for a little tour of my home and enjoy the pleasures it holds.” 

“No, Marie, we should really–”

But before she could fully answer, Rose found herself being shuttled with Marie and a group of guests through a slim doorway in the corner of the hall. 

What lay behind the doorway was a cave-like tunnel to a large chamber where candles lit the walls until darkness won out. A stone table, book-ended by two figures in two hooded cloaks stood at the far end. The air was musty, but tinged with something… tinged with… the smell of blood. The smell that had transported Rose back to her youth. 

 Lord Braxen, legs akimbo but sure of themselves, positioned himself at the front of the chamber. He appeared to be taking up much more space than he had done before. The crowd were under his spell. Entranced.

“Blood,” he said. He did not shout, or actually even speak. His words transmitted themselves straight into Rose’s ears. She didn’t like it, but in her dreamlike state she could do nothing about it. Lord Braxen raised a copper cup, nothing aesthetically special, but held with the utmost care and respect. “This cup of red nectar is all that stands between you and immortality. Now, new cohort of my clan, who will drink first?” 

A nervousness ruffled the group, before one guest stepped forward. Lord Braxen, holding out a delicate hand, took them in his embrace, to cradle them. Hand behind their head, he lowered them to the floor. A baptism. Now his mouth moved with words, but they were inaudible, mumbles of a historic tongue. He kissed his fingers and held them to the guest's neck. More words. Then with his hand he lifted the cup, pouring the richness it held past their lips. 

A pause, before an almighty snap, and from where the guest had been, now a bat flapped and whipped its wings. Then it disappeared. Up, up, up into the darkness.

“The first to join our clan,” Lord Braxen said proudly. “But who will be next?”

One by one, the members of the group, whether in complete control of it or not, stepped forwards and met the same fate. Snap. Bat. Snap. Bat. Snap. Bat. Before only Rose and Marie remained. 

“You?” Lord Braxen flicked a loose arm at Rose.

Rose faltered. She remembered being here. She remembered how scared she had felt. How horrified. How much she did not want to go through with it.

“Come, child,” Lord Braxen said, his voice sharp, cut, no room for allowance.

A cold hand pushed her, only a prod, but enough for Rose’s feet to gain enough momentum to guide her into Lord Braxen’s arms. 

“Are you ready to spend a lifetime in immortality?” he put forward. 

Was she?

Again? 

Fuck that. 

“No,” Rose said. 

Lord Braxen’s mouth fell limp. “What?” 

“I do not want to.”

Lord Braxen’s grip tightened. “What do you mean you do not want to?”

“Marie!” Rose said. “Marie, we need to leave. Now!”

“Guards!” Lord Braxen shrieked. “Guards, seize them. If we must force them to drink, we shall.” 

Neither hooded figure moved.

“Guards,” Lord Braxen said, gravel now in his voice. “I said, seize them!”

Again, neither hooded figure moved. 

The vampire lord glided to the nearest one to slap them into action, but as soon as his hand brushed their shoulder the cloak crumpled to a heap on the floor. 

“Your time is up, Lord Braxen.” 

The second guard stepped forward. 

“What did you say?” 

“I know the unhappiness this night causes. No more. This ends now.”

“What do you mean no more? Who are you?”

The guard let their hood drop. 

Rose gasped. 

“Bartosz?”

“I heard you, Rose. I’m here to help. But you must run.” He moved between her and Lord Braxen. A wooden stake slid from his sleeve. “Run and enjoy your life.”