They were directly opposite the club now, and the music pounding from inside the building seemed to beat through her very skin as they crossed the street toward the entrance. The club seemed as though it had its own shadows, cloaking it from the clear light of the streetlamps. The design played up the Gothic angle, with ersatz gargoyles along the roof and “stone” outlines painted on the walls. The doorway was arched with torches on either side, and above it was a sign with NOCTURNAL URGES painted in blood-red, dripping letters.

“Subtle,” Isabel said.

Duane shrugged. “We don’t come here for the décor,” he said, paying the bouncer. Isabel tried not to be obvious about staring at him, trying to see his teeth. The bouncer was tall and somewhat slim, but when he handed Duane his change, Isabel saw that his nails were long and pointed.

Duane led her through the arched doorway into a huge, darkened hall filled with smoke that smelled oddly like incense, rather than cigarettes. The light was dark and red, lit from flickering electric “torches” in wagon-wheel chandeliers high above their heads. The walls and floor were painted red, with black curtains on the walls and black swirls painted on the dance floor.

The band up on the stage was playing loud and fast, with pounding drumbeats and an electronic rhythm that seemed without word or plan, just pounding on and on. There were at least a hundred people out on the dance floor, gyrating to the music, and many more at tables around the edge of the floor, each with a black lace tablecloth and small candles – red, of course – casting shadows between them. Beyond the ring of dance-floor tables, a few steps up led to another level of tables, all filled with couples.

All through the club, small recessed doorways were closed, nearly hidden in shadows.

Duane led her through to an empty table near the dance floor. Isabel sat down gratefully, preferring to watch the room for a moment or two. She didn’t try to talk to Duane – the enormous sound coming from speakers all around them made any discussion impossible.

The music never seemed to end. It pounded on, and Isabel could feel the vibration of it rolling through her skin, through the chair in which she sat, beneath the soles of her feet. Although the people on the dance floor were of every age and background, somehow the music rolled over them and made them into one, as if they each knew how to move without disrupting the rhythms of the others. It was fascinating to watch, in the flickering candlelight and the shadowed glow from electric torches high above them.

Duane was writing something on a piece of paper. Isabel touched his hand, and he looked up at her, leaning over so she could shout into his ear. “What are you doing?” she nearly screamed.
He turned to shout into her ear. “Our order!” he yelled. “You’re still up for it, right?”

Isabel nodded quickly, and he returned to the paper, marking X’s on the form. But the butterflies in her stomach were fluttering quickly now, and she was less sure than ever that she wanted to try this. It was nothing, everyone had done it – but she was unnerved by the protesters outside, by the dark shadows in this room, by the muted mystery of the closed doors.

But then there was the music. It rolled through her, making her heart beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. On and on, quickening her pulse, sending shivers down her spine if she concentrated on it.

Isabel glanced up at the stage, and noted with no real surprise that each of the band members had pale skin and long fingernails. A small placard before the drummer read CREATURES OF THE NIGHT. Of course, she thought.

She turned back to Duane. “Want to dance?” she shouted, and had to repeat herself twice before Duane understood her.

“No time!” he shouted back. “No waiting list tonight! We’re up next!”

Isabel nodded, biting the inside of her lip to keep from being nervous. It didn’t work. She fought the urge to grab Duane and take him back home with her, away from this strange place, back to his quiet, modern apartment where a blindfold suddenly didn’t seem that kinky.

A hand rested on Isabel’s arm, and she jumped a little. “Don’t worry,” said the red-haired woman beside her. “I’m not going to bite you.” She was shorter than Isabel, with generous curves readily visible beneath artfully draped, shimmering green robes. Her pale skin was nearly translucent, and a flood of dark red hair curled around her shoulders.

“Hey, Fiona!” Duane shouted.

The red-haired woman smiled, and Isabel saw the pointed teeth. She tried not to stare. “Mr. Russell, welcome back,” Fiona called. “And you have brought such a lovely companion with you.”

“First-timer, so make it a good one,” Duane yelled, smiling.

Fiona rested a hand on Isabel’s arm, and Isabel tried not to flinch. Fiona seemed to speak in a normal tone, but Isabel heard every word nonetheless. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said. “At Nocturnal Urges, we are here for your pleasure.”

She released Isabel’s arm and handed her a form. “Please ask if there’s anything you don’t understand,” she said, and tapped the form.

Isabel nodded, and looked at the form. CONSENT AND RELEASE, it read at the top. The letterhead read NOCTURNAL URGES VAMPIRE SERVICE, FIONA KNIGHT, PROPRIETOR.

She scanned through it – a lot of legalese, indicating she was there of her own free will, that she had not been bitten in the past two weeks or given blood in the past six weeks, that she was over 21, that she had had her immunization at the age of two along with everyone else in America.
She filled out her information, and when it asked which gender she preferred, she checked MALE.

“What does this mean?” she asked Duane, tapping the pen against the line that read LEVEL OF SERVICE.

“They want to know how far you want to go,” he shouted.

Isabel frowned. “What do I put?”

“Level one,” he yelled. “Bite only.”

Isabel blinked, and circled LEVEL ONE on the form. “What else can they do?”

Duane grinned. “I haven’t tried anything else,” he yelled. “I heard you can get fucked if you really want.”

Isabel grinned and glanced around, as though anyone could possibly hear them over the pounding music, still vibrating through the air. “Is it legal?”

Duane shrugged. “Everything’s legal in here!” he yelled.

She signed ISABEL NELSON at the bottom of the form, and watched him sign DUANE RUSSELL on his. Almost immediately, Fiona reappeared to take their forms. “Follow me!” she called, and Duane stood up.

Isabel stood to follow them, but her knees were suddenly a little weak. She took Duane’s hand gratefully, relishing its solid comfort in the swirling shadows of the club. Fiona led them around the dance floor to a dark, recessed door. Isabel blushed, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. She felt as though the entire club would know what she and Duane were here to do. But no one was looking at them.

Fiona unlocked the door and led them into the room. It was lit only by a candelabra on a small table against the wall. Shadows danced around the room, which was painted to look as though it had been hewn out of stone. A huge four-poster bed hung with black drapes was against the far wall, and a soft bench without a back or arms sat in the middle of the room.

The music was a little quieter here, but Isabel could still hear it pounding beyond the door.

“Your attendants will be with you shortly,” Fiona said, and slipped out, closing the door behind her.