Of all the themed clubs I’ve ever been to, Coven is the best one, even though they overdo it a bit with the chalk drawings on the dance floor. You could really raise some serious demons if you do the right combination of steps on the one they have back near the bathroom. And, yes, witches are real, too.
Duh.
I’m dancing to Das Ich, which is a little goth even for my taste, when I see him. He’s young, probably close to my human age, and he’s lingering on the stairs that lead to the play loft like he’s waiting for someone to tell him not to go. He has thick waves of black hair that fan around his face and blue eyes that look sharp as glass.
And his skin. His fucking skin is so pale I’m surprised he’s not a vampire, too.
And he’s not. Because vampires have a certain smell to them, and I can smell him from here. He doesn’t smell like wet asphalt and old books. He smells like sweat, and salt, and nervous terror.
My cock gets hard.
Even as I walk toward him, I worry that I shouldn’t be. He’s scared to be here and he doesn’t even know what he’s about to walk into. I navigate my way through the dozens of dancing bodies and join him on the stairs, dragging my fingers along his on the bannister to get his attention.
His head snaps in my direction and his eyes are so wide I can see the whites of them all around his irises. He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen . . . and there’s no way I can do this.
I pull my hand back and hold it up apologetically.
“Sorry,” I mumble and turn to head back toward the dance floor, but he stops me; a trembling hand on my back.
I freeze and look over my shoulder at him.
His pupils dilate. Even in the dimness of the club, I see it. Because, well, vampire.
“Where are you going?” he asks me.
“Away.” I point toward the back door.
“Can I come?”
“I’d rather you not,” I tell him.
“I know this is weird, but you smell really good and I’d like to come with you.” He blinks lazily at me and leans forward. I can see his pulse strumming under the thin skin on the side of his neck and I bite my lips between my teeth to stop from bitinghim.
I focus my thoughts on this one thing I want from him—to just leave me alone and let me go away because there’s no way I can do this. Thankfully, it works and he pulls his hand back and shoves it into his pocket.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and he takes a step backward up the stairs.
I look toward the loft, and I listen to the sound of skin against skin and the moans. I can hear fluids gushing inside of people, and the smell of sex permeates the air around me. I’m hard for everything happening, and I worry I’m hard for him.
Maybe I should stay out until sunrise and end it all like my father suggested. Because I want this man. I want to touch him and kiss him and fuck him. I want to own him, and I just can’t do it.
Giving him a curt nod, I jog back down the stairs. I move to the center of the dance floor and the mood has changed, the smell has changed. It’s a different kind of charge here, and although it’s not sex, the feeling down here is more imperative, like these people are dancing to feel alive.
I let my body get jostled as people move around me, and then I’m dancing again, and for a brief moment I feel it. That surge of vitality I used to get when I was alive and I’d won a game of cards or dice. I close my eyes and the deep bass of the song vibrates through me, and I dance, and dance, and dance, and then there’s a hand on me.
Even though it’s soft, I’m aware of it. I open my eyes and focus on four fingertips that are grazing over the exposed sliver of skin between the hem of my shirt and the waistband of my pants. I half expect it to be the blue-eyed dream from the stairs, but it’s not. It’s an older man. Well, not old, but older than human me. He’s maybe in his early thirties and his hair is a bright blond and he has the pale eyes to match.
He’s wearing a camo jacket and a white t-shirt with black jeans, and his lips twitch into a smile when we lock eyes. I curl my hands around his fingers and still his descent down my pants.
“I’ve seen you around before,” he tells me. His voice is hoarse and scratchy, and I’m still painfully turned on from earlier.
It’s good news that he’s seen me around, though, because that means he knows who I am and what I like. I guide his hand down the front of my pants. It is what he wants, after all.
“Have you?” I ask.
His hand pushes further down, and I let it.
He steps closer to me and moves like we’re dancing. We turn in a circle and I stumble when I lock eyes with the person who made me this hard in the first place. He’s still standing on the stairs, but he’s talking with someone else. A tall, broad-shouldered man I haven’t seen before, but I can pick out the spicy smell of the one I want against the acrid smell of the traveling vampire he’s with. They’re standing close, and my blue-eyed boy nods; then the man slips his arm around the boy’s throat and holds their bodies together, back to chest.
