Date: Mon, 14 Mar 1994 20:15:14 EST Explanation-- After I posted "Woman's Work," and admitted that particular bit of nonsense had been alcohol induced, I received a number of messages offering to spot me drinks in Boston, if I would write another story. The Vampire Dance seemed the perfect place to work. This story was written on Saturday, 3/12/94, between 10:00 PM and 12:30 AM, during the dance held at Dead of Winter (while the rest of the folks were taking pictures, dancing, and generally having a good time) in Boston. So, you owe your thanks to the following people for drinks and support during the dance: Cousin Laurie --LMS5@PSUVM.PSU.EDU Cousin Monica--russia@triton.unm.edu Tara, AKA LJC--johanna@hydra.unm.edu Sandye, AKA Bigwig--sac116@psu.edu Romana --Romana@aol.com Deborah--DBendr Mike--MikeC5867@aol.com and all the con-goers who stopped by to wish me luck, read over my shoulder, or ask what the hell I was doing (and special thanks to Cousin Laurie for remembering to drag me away from the keyboard for the list photo--so I'm in at least ONE photo from that evening, wearing the infamous black dress from my FK-Wars torment. You can spot me in the video tape behind Amy . . . especially after I pushed her over). Special thanks going to Tara for the loan of Bollocks, a very nice little laptop computer that happened to have a version of Word Perfect with which I was familiar and for loaning me a diskette so I could take the story home and post it. For those who care, I had five Amarettos and was sober as a judge. And, yes, it's true that I'm a two finger typist. But at 80 WPM, how many more fingers do I need? And now . . . the story. ______________________ An Invitation To the Dance by Susan M. Garrett There were four video tapes on the table. Nick pawed through the titles with moderate disinterest. Natalie walked into the living room, carrying a coffee cup. Frowning, she walked over to the coffee table and picked up one of the tapes. "Bad choices?" she asked. He shrugged, picking up another tape from the top of the pile. " choices," he corrected. "This one, for example." She looked at the tape in his hand. "You have a problem with Vincent Price?" "? No. But this--" "?" "It's wrong." Nick seated himself on the couch. "It's all wrong." Tossing her own tape onto the table, Natalie frowned, seating herself beside him. "Roger Corman's never been known for movies," she admitted, "but it's one of the best of his Poe adaptations." "Not the movie--the story." "What about the story?" "It's ." Natalie stared at him. "Edgar Allan Poe was wrong?" "Didn't I just say that? Now, are we going to watch this movie--" "No-no-no--hang on a minute." Natalie held up one finger, holding his gaze. "I read that story in high school. In fact, I read most of those stories in high school." "Congratulations." Rising to his feet, Nick, walked over to the VCR and inserted the tape in the machine. "All I'm saying is that he got the story wrong." "And you ?" "Of course I know. I was ." Picking up the remote, he turned toward her. "Do you want to watch the tape?" "In a minute." She smiled suspiciously. "You're putting me on, aren't you?" Then, when he didn't answer, the smile fell from her lips. "You're ?" "Of course." He returned to the couch and sat beside her. "I there." He was on the verge of pointing the remote at the machine when Natalie grabbed it from his hand. "What?" "So what happen? And how did Poe hear about the story?" "I'm not sure about the second part-- didn't tell him. And I know Janette and LaCroix couldn't have spoken to him." He paused, glancing down at the cover of the tape box. "As far as what really happened . . . ." The darkness came, as it always did, despite the bodies that littered the countryside and the panic that gripped the land. Yawning, Nicholas paused in the doorway of the main room of the house they'd chosen to inhabit, a small place, not more than half a league from a dozen villages, towns, and estates. The sound of laughter had awakened him. That, and the hunger that burned in his stomach. He'd no sooner entered the room than some filmy gauze scarf was thrown across his face, accompanied by a laugh from Janette. He wrenched it away, smiling, then his eyes opened wide in amazement. She was wearing the clothing of a woman from a harem, popular perhaps two centuries before. Seeing she'd captured his attention, she turned, raising her foot daintily in a dance step. Small bells chimed and the metal beads that decorated the number of scarves she wore clicked together as she moved. The costume would've been inappropriately daring in a harem. In the Italian countryside, it was positively scandalous. Quickly, he grabbed a cloak and threw it over her, asking, "You can't intend on going outside in ?" Laughing gaily, Janette threw off the cloak and wrapped her arms around him. "You don't , Nicola?" "I believe he's blushing," said LaCroix. He paused in the open doorway, dressed in the maroon striped toga of a Roman senator. "Nicholas, you must learn to rid yourself of that mortal baggage. Learn to enjoy yourself. You're well into your second century, after all." The situation was going from bad to worse. Nick was wearing a loose doublet, unlaced, and hose. He was certain of the century the place. Had he gone mad? "What are you playing at?" "We've been invited to a masque," said Janette, dancing around him, the bells of her outfit ringing as she moved. As if to confirm, LaCroix tossed him a rolled piece of parchment. Catching it, Nick unrolled the message, then found the ink was flaking off on his fingers as he touched it. Tentatively, he tasted one of the flakes, his eyes widening in surprise. The message had been written in blood. It was simple and concise--they were invited to a masque at the palace of Prince Prospero, this evening. Suspicious, he re-rolled the message and tossed it to one side. "What do we know about this 'Prince'?" "Oh, what does it matter." Janette flopped onto a cushioned chair, draping her legs over the arm, and pouted. "It's a , Nicola! We go." "It'll do us well to get out," agreed LaCroix. Walking past her, he flipped her feet to one side, forcing her to sit upright on the chair as he rested on the arm. "We're . The question is, what shall you be?" "Me?" Nick stared at them, as if they'd gone mad. "If you haven't noticed, they're dying in droves out there. The plague's spreading faster every day. They've even stopped burying the bodies." "That delay us," admitted LaCroix. "I'd arranged for horses, but if the roads become impassable--" "I fly," declared Janette, sitting up on the cushions and gesturing down at her harem outfit. "It's just too drafty." "Agreed. I've got that problem myself." LaCroix nodded toward her and she settled back in the chair, with a self-satisfied smile. Then he turned his gaze to Nicholas, frowning. "But that doesn't address our problem as to what Nicholas should wear. Something suitable. Something . . . clerical?" Janette sat forward quickly. "A bishop?" she offered. "Or a cardinal? Red suits him." Shaking his head, Nick sat down on a bench and clasped his hands together, "You're not listening. We don't have time for a masque. We have to move on . . . tonight. There's nothing alive for a league in any direction." "We'll feed at the masque," corrected LaCroix. "And much as I like Janette's suggestions, neither choice is suitable, no materials at hand. But . . . a mendicant preacher? Your boots are rough enough, and I think we've still got that robe from that monk you found last week, Janette?" Rising to his feet, he touched her arm, gesturing toward a pile of clothing in the corner. Sighing reluctantly, she rose and walked over to the clothing, daintily picking through the items until she held up a rough-hewn cloak with the tips of her fingers. Wrinkling her nose, she added, "It stinks." "Just as well, if he's to be a mendicant." He gestured and she threw the robe to Nicholas. "The cross might be a problem." Catching the robe with his hand as it almost sailed past him, Nicholas looked up quickly at LaCroix's comment. He couldn't believe they were . "Then again, if he's a mendicant preacher . . . perhaps he's too poor to own a cross." LaCroix smiled, then gestured. "Put it on. If we're to reach the masque in good time, we should leave immediately." LaCroix's expression left no room for refusal. Muttering beneath his breath, Nicholas slipped the tattered robe over his doublet, then rose to his feet. Janette walked over to him and adjusted the robe, stepping back to eye him speculatively. "Acceptable," she announced, after a moment's pause. Then she wrinkled her nose again. "But ride downwind of me. It still stinks." Nicholas reached out to catch her, but she slipped away, squealing. Janette picked up her cloak and darted out the door. Following her, Nicholas found himself outside. The horses were saddled, their reins tied to a post outside the house--that was where LaCroix had come from earlier. Realizing that he'd been duped into consenting to the enterprise, he took a step back toward the door, but LaCroix was standing there. Eyeing Nicholas, he firmly closed the door behind him, then slipped his cloak over his shoulders. "Let's be off. We don't want to keep our hostess waiting." There was nothing to do but follow along. With the population of the countryside dead or dying of plague, an invitation to a masque seemed sheer folly, but he knew that tonight, at least, it simply wasn't worth the effort to revolt. LaCroix was already astride his horse, pulling Janette to a pillion behind his saddle, where she swung her legs sideways. Untying the reins from the post, Nicholas climbed into the saddle and headed after them. Each time his horse drew too close to the one in the lead, Janette held her nose and shook her head. Annoyed, he spurred the horse to catch up with them, but she leaned forward and said something to LaCroix. Their horse's pace changed from a steady canter to a gallop. Despite the fact that the horse ahead of him had two riders, his own horse seemed unable to draw abreast or match the pace--LaCroix had chosen the faster of the two animals. He pressed his own horse, urging it onward as best he could, keeping them in sight, as they traveled through the Northern Italian countryside. With no idea of their destination, Nicholas knew that he might wander for hours before picking up their trail should he lose them. And however much he hated the idea of attending the party, he disliked spending an evening lost in the woods even more. Eventually, LaCroix's horse slowed and stopped before a fortified palazzo. A century ago, it had been a fortress, but the additions had changed it from an armed camp to the home of a wealthy nobleman. Unfortunately, there appeared to be no drawbridge or means across the stagnant moat. LaCroix dismounted and walked to the edge of the moat. Nicholas slipped from his saddle, tied the reins of his horse to a tree, then walked to Janette, who was still seated on the pillion. Reaching up, he lifted her from the saddle. She clung to him a moment, then took his hand as he led her down the rough dirt trail, to the water's edge. "So much for your invitation," he told LaCroix cheerfully. "It seems we're not expected." "Prospero closed his fortress to save himself and his own from the plague." LaCroix smiled at Nicholas, over his shoulder. "Drafty as it might be, a short flight seems to be in order." LaCroix took to the air, followed quickly by Janette. After a pause, Nicholas joined them, landing lightly on the battlements. "Are you we've been invited?" he asked, needling LaCroix. In response, LaCroix stalked to an iron door set in the tower wall. It had been bolted closed, but he ripped it easily from its hinges, then tossed it into the moat below. "We're expected," he said sharply, then ducked to enter the low doorway. Nicholas fought back a grin, then gave a mock bow to Janette, allowing her to proceed him down the steps. Her bells jingled as she walked and she held her nose in the air as she followed LaCroix down the winding staircase. Nicholas paused a moment before following them, still grinning--he fully expected to find the fortress empty, the inhabitants dead or having left long ago. But as he entered the stairway, he heard the faint call of music from the lower chambers. LaCroix turned to grin up at him triumphantly, over his shoulder, then took Janette's hands, escorting her down the rest of the stairway. At the bottom, the bolted door was dispatched as easily as the upper. And the music flowed through the opening in a sudden, desperate flood. Surprised, Nicholas hurried down the steps. LaCroix and Janette had been met by a woman. Her dress and cloak were crimson, the color of fresh blood. Her eyes and upper face were hidden by a mask, but her lips were redder than the setting sun. She smiled at Nicholas over LaCroix's shoulder. "My regards, Master LaCroix. I'm glad you and your friends were able to accept my invitation." She seemed very young, with fair skin and a fairer manner--he was almost certain he'd met her before. LaCroix bowed at the lady's welcome, then drew Janette forward. "May I present Janette. And . . . Nicholas." The lady smiled at each of them, but her gaze lingered on Nicholas. "You're most welcome, one and all. Enjoy yourselves. Dance as you will. But I must ask that you restrain yourselves from feeding until I give my approval." LaCroix frowned slightly, then met the woman's eyes through the laced edges of her red satin mask. "I saw no conditions on your invitation." "But you'll do as I ask. If you wish to stay." Janette leaned close to LaCroix. "Oh, let's stay," she whispered. "We haven't been to a party in so ." He glanced at her, then smiled and nodded, relenting. "All right. We'll abide by your rules." "My thanks." The lady moved to stand before Nicholas and held out her hand. "And will the brave knight ask his hostess to dance?" Nicholas looked out over the dance floor, amazed. While the countryside had been laid to waste, the interior of the castle was filled to bursting with food and drink and merriment. From where they stood, he saw apartment after apartment stretch before them, each hall a different hue. The first was blue, with curtains and ornaments and appointments all of the same color. A large brazier burned behind a blue stained-glass window, shading the dance and the dancers with azure-tinted air. Perfume floated, drowning out even the odious scent of the monk's robe and cowl in which he'd been hidden. But the lady still held out her hand. And Nicholas took it, moving past LaCroix and Janette. They moved to find their place among the dancers--the hurried heartbeats declaring them mortals, all--and they whirled and twirled the length of the blue room. But that room turned to another of purple twilight, which gave way to the green of spring, the orange of dawn, the white of light and the violet of soft flower petals. One room led to another, each of which held a large stained glass window, the light flooding the air with color and the musicians providing the sound. The costumes ranged from bizarre to hideous, none having spared expense or humility for sensation. There were mortal women there wearing more provocative costumes even than Janette, and other dressed like animals or demons or beasts of the field or forest or fantasy. Nicholas felt positively mundane in his mortal, holy masquerade, dancing with the red lady in his arms. And it was then, as they reached the last room, which seemed clothed in velvet as dark and forbidding as night, that the red lady took charge of their movements, swinging him away. And Nicholas caught no more than a glimpse of a scarlet stained-glass window before he danced back again, through the twilight and the other colors. A clock began to strike the hour, continuing with each stroke, until eight bells had tolled in all. The sound stilled the dancers in their paces, the tones echoing the length and breadth of the many colored halls. As the last chime sounded, conversation again continued and the dancers moved as they had before, missing no steps, as the musicians returned to playing. Nicholas had paused with the others, filled with sudden dread as the clock struck. "What was that?" he asked his hostess. She smiled prettily. "Time, sir knight. Nothing more than the passing of time." She said no more, nor did he feel moved to press her on the point. They whirled and twirled amongst the mortals. Occasionally, he spotted LaCroix or Janette, as they, too, joined the dance. The colors played over each of them in turn. But none would pass into the dark room at the very end of the hall. At one point, he saw what he took to be the master of the fortress, Prince Prospero, pass them. "Lady," he said softly, as they joined hands during a dance, "should you not be dancing with your lord?" The red lady smiled at him again. "I have no lord, sir knight." "But Prince Prospero is the master of this fortress?" "Yes." "And you aren't his lady-wife?" The red lady laughed gaily and twirled beneath his arm, bowing prettily. "He is my husband. So much as any man, or no man, may wed me." And Nicholas felt the flush rise to his cheeks, as he had when he'd seen Janette in her costume earlier in the evening. "My pardon, lady," he muttered, realizing that he'd mistaken a mistress for a wife. But the red lady continued to smile at him. "No pardon needed, sir knight. I am no man's wife. Yet I am mistress to all, in their time. Even we have met, but once. Or, more like, a cousin of mine." Nicholas stared at her, taking her hand as he stepped toward her, moving in the dance. "A ?" "But once," she replied, smiling cryptically. "When you became as your are, now. And once more, before the end. But for now, we dance." And dance they did. Each hour, the clock in the dark hall chimed and the dancers froze, each time pausing for longer, as a chime was added. But the dread and terror passed and the dancers continued to dance . . . and Nicholas felt the blood hunger growing within him. At the stroke of eleven, they were quite near the velvet room and he saw the clock. Dark, of ebony wood, it shone with a brilliant black light, the runes upon its face cast in gold and silver. And, as he gazed upon it, he felt a pressure in his brain beat unnaturally, once with each stroke, until he thought that his time was at hand. But the red lady raised a crimson glove to his forehead, wiping away the few beads of sweat that gathered there. They disappeared, swallowed in the color of her cloth covered hand and she leaned close to whisper, "Not for many centuries, sir knight. Don't be in such a hurry. Your time will come, in its own way." He shivered and looked up, for LaCroix and Janette, but they were nowhere to be found. There was only the pale face and blood red lips of the red lady. Who danced only with him . . . and no other. And then, at the first stroke of twelve, the dancers stopped again. The red lady broke from his hands and began to walk the length of the halls, leaving him beside the dark room. Nicholas desperately wanted to look into the velvet room, but he was frozen in place, as were all of the others, his eyes fixed on the back of her dress as she traveled up the length of the colored hallways. It was at the last stroke that she reached the hallway that spoke of blue dawns and new beginnings. He could barely see her-- barely see her, but knew she was there as he knew the lines of his palm or the edge of his first sword. It was time to unmask. But the mortals stood frozen in fear. And the red lady removed the satin, white- laced mask from her features. There was blood upon her forehead and upon her lips and in her eyes. Her face was frozen with the rictus of death. As she walked back the length of the hall, the dancers screamed or cried or moaned, some falling to the floor and others to their knees, wailing for hope, for help, for God. And still she walked, one step following another, color after color, light after light. Nicholas stared as she approached him and then passed him, heading toward the dark quiet of the velvet room. Behind her, a voice cried out "Who dares?!" It was Prospero, the prince and owner of the fortress, but not the master of the revels, as he thought himself. He raced after the red lady. Almost, Nicholas reached out to him, wanting to warn him not to risk anything further. But he stilled his hand, knowing that nothing he said would stop the proud mortal. Prospero ran the length of the hall, in the path of the red lady, calling for her to stop. He met her, just at the entrance of the velvet room. And it was then that Nicholas realized that the stained glass window in the velvet room didn't match the color of the walls and appointments, as did the other rooms. In fact, it was crimson against the black of night, and the light it cast made the room seem to swim in thick-blood red air. But even that didn't stop Prospero. Upon reaching the red lady, he touched her shoulder. She turned, smiling her rictus grin. And with a shriek that chilled Nicholas from his boot tops to the roots of his hair, Prospero fell dead. Nicholas knew death enough to recognize it at a glance. Prospero showed the marks of the other plague victims, his forehead covered with blood, matching the red of his lips and that which leaked from the corner of his eyes. And when the Red Death, for that was the true name of the mistress of the revels, turned her gaze to him, he felt fear in his heart. But she smiled, the death mask gone from her face. "One hour," she whispered, in a voice as soft as silk which seemed louder than thunder. "Feed to your fill, my guests. Waste nothing." Nicholas stared at her in horror, then turned. LaCroix was further down the hall, Janette further still. Around them were mortals--trapped by the death which they'd allowed into their midst, which had invited more death in its turn. And . . . they began to feed. At first, Nicholas could do nothing but stand in amazement as LaCroix and Janette stalked among the shrieking and dying, their laughter drowning out the cries of death and anguish, as the plague struck. Janette kissed the lips of pretty men and beautiful woman, taking their blood with ease and grace and delight. LaCroix fed where he would, not draining any one, but tasting a little of each. And eventually, the scent of blood and death reached past the point of sanity. Nicholas felt the hunger take over him. He didn't resist, as his fangs fell into place and his eyes glowed red-gold. Greedily, he grabbed a woman and plunged his fangs into her neck, drinking what was left of her before the plague took her. But he was not done with her before he tossed her body aside and grabbed another, and yet another. They fed that way, for the better part of an hour, taking what they would and what they could, swimming in the fear and death and terror of the place, intoxicated beyond the best of man's fermented drinks and more. The blood filled them, made them laugh and weep and dance among the fallen bodies. Until the clock struck one. It was then that some semblance of reason returned to them. And the red lady stood before them again, her mask in place. She walked toward Nicholas, but he backed away, staring at her, then down at himself. His monk's robe had been stained crimson from neck to hem, stiff and creaking with dried blood. As if awakening from a dream, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and shuddered, then looked to the others. LaCroix's garments were much the same, the stripe of a senator hidden by the brown of dried blood. And Janette had lost many of her bells and bangles in her frenzy, contenting herself by stripping part of the gown from a mortal victim. Crouching beside a victim, she looked like one of the plague homeless or dispossessed. "The feast is over, my guests," said the red lady, gesturing toward the steps by which they'd entered. "And although I don't mean to be ungracious--?" She wanted them gone. And Nicholas was in no condition to argue. He backed away toward the staircase, lifting Janette to her feet as he reached her. She clung to him, eyes wide and red and full, as he led her to the steps. For a moment, only LaCroix remained. "I'm . . . not finished," he informed her, standing straight and tall and stained with more blood than he'd tasted in many months. The red lady smiled. "Then stay, if you wish. We have room for even one of your kind. Or . . . more." LaCroix didn't flinch, nor did he make a sound. There was no surrender, just an acceptance of the inevitable. He bowed, with more grace or elegance than Nicholas could have managed at the moment. "Our thanks, for the invitation." In turn, the red lady bowed. "And my thanks to you, Master LaCroix. And to your friends. For accepting." It was only then that LaCroix turned, crossing the floor to the steps with his head high, his walk stately. Once there, he hissed to Nicholas, "Fly! Fly, for all you're worth!" They ran up the steps of the tower, flying where they could. For although night was not yet more than half-past, the fear of the dawn and of the sun and of death flooded through them. They reached the battlement, then flew for the horses, which whinnied and pawed, picking up their fear. And as they mounted their horses and turned toward their daylight refuge, the terror spurred them onward, through the forest and field, over stream and thicket, until, finally, they were safe--and sated. Nick sat back against the couch. "So, that's it." Natalie's eyes were wide. "That's not the story I remembered." "But it's the truth, Or, as true as it happened." Sighing, he closed his eyes, the smell and ferocity of the blood-fest still with him. "I think--maybe we'd better do this another time." "Uh . . . okay." When he opened his eyes, she was rising to her feet, watching him with a cautious gaze. "But, can I ask one more thing?" Suddenly feeling very old and very weary, Nick managed a half-smile--no matter how he answered Natalie, she'd ask the question anyway. "Shoot?" "Poe wrote the story . . . or a version of the story." "Yeah." "And only you and Janette and LaCroix made it out, right?" His eyes narrowed, then he looked away, knowing what was coming. "Yeah?" "So how'd Poe find out about it? Who told him the story?" He'd thought about the answer to the question time and again, and there was only one reply. "There someone else . . . ." Natalie's eyes widened, before she gathered up the tapes, touched his shoulder, then headed toward the elevator. Her exit was silent, befitting the moment, and its revelation. And Nick put his feet up on the couch and stared at the ceiling, the memory of the blood and the music and the changing lights flickering in his mind, as he wondered just what it was the red lady had to say to the storyteller. And when her cousin might come to visit him for the second time, in his near-immortal lifetime, to dance, for one last time. The End