Dancing Nitely by Nancy A. Collins

It was midnight by the time
Mavrides got out of his coffin. Usually he
woke around dusk, just as the sun started its descent behind the
towering steel and black glass boxes that dominated the skyline;
but last night had been a long one. His joints popped like rifle
shots as he climbed from the confines of the narrow, satin-lined
mahogany box.
    His temples throbbed
sluggishly as his pulse restarted. He hadn’t been this hung-over in...He
shrugged and let the analogy drop. He’d been Undead since the late
Sixties—long before the Uprising—and the Human ability to measure
time in such trivial increments as weeks and months had long since
atrophied.
    He staggered into the
bathroom and rinsed out his mouth, watching the previous evening’s
clotted blood swirl down the drain. He took his shaving kit out of
the medicine cabinet, no longer noticing the carefully opaqued
mirror-face. He’d gotten used to shaving blind over the years,
although the first time he’d tried it, he opened his throat from
ear to ear—not that it mattered. Still, it was embarrassing to be
seen in public with one’s nose sliced off. Mavrides was nothing if
not image conscious. After all those years posing as Human, the
habit was difficult to break.
    He padded along the unlit
hall to the kitchen. He did not need artificial light to guide him.
His apartment building was now Vampires Only, the previous Human
tenants having been forcibly relocated to the pens on the outskirts
of town or simply converted. The new landlords had thoughtfully
installed floor-to-ceiling black-out curtains for the few windows
that weren’t bricked over. They also brought in an electrician to
remove all the overhead light fixtures. These perks had been
instrumental in Mavrides’ decision to buy into the
condo.
    He pushed open the kitchen
door, prepared for the rank odor of cat piss that greeted him. “How
are my kitties tonight, hmmmm?” he asked in a falsetto voice,
scanning the row of wire cages arranged along the counter
top.
    The cats hissed impotently,
flattening their ears against their skulls, as he dumped a bag of
kibble into the hoppers atop the cages. His prime breeder, a
tortoise-shell dame with huge greenish-yellow eyes, watched him
warily as she suckled her most recent litter. Mavrides watched the
animals for a moment as they fed, then selected a large tabby for
breakfast.
    The cat yowled in fear and
pain as he grasped it by its nape, digging its claws into his
exposed forearms. A pinkish fluid dribbled from the gashes. He
snapped the wretched beast’s neck, cutting short its infernal
yowling, and drank from the still-pulsing throat. After he finished
draining the cat, he opened the disposal chute that lead to the
incinerator and tossed the carcass inside.
    The incinerator was another
benefit to signing with the condominium; he still remembered the
Bad Old Days, when he’d had no other way of ridding himself of
empties than a meat cleaver and the garbage disposal.
    Refreshed by his
pick-me-up, he chose his evening attire. He was supposed to meet
Smith and Wellman down at the club, and he was already late. He
quickly pulled on his black silk shirt, black designer jeans, black
motorcycle boots, black suede gloves, black raincoat, and black
velvet beret. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him he looked
cool.
    ***
    Club Vlad was the hottest
bar in town. There were plenty of Vampire-Only places since the
Uprising, but Club Vlad claimed the distinction of being the first
and the best. It was located in the warehouse district, near the
docks. Before the world’s vampires came out of their coffins and
into the streets, it had catered to Humans with “special tastes”.
When the owner voluntarily converted, it was only natural that the
club do so as well.
    The building was a huge
wooden structure, the roof adorned with a neon sculpture of Bela
Lugosi glowering from behind his upraised cape. Beneath the dead
actor’s likeness was a blood-red sign that proclaimed in