Six weeks pass like a dream. I'm finally awake inside.
The club becomes my sanctuary in ways the office never was. I arrive each night as the sun dies, slip into Emily's office, and lose myself in numbers that make sense. Accounts receivable, payroll, inventory—the rhythm of capitalism translated into spreadsheets. But now the work feels like choice rather than obligation.
"You're humming," Emily observes one night, leaning in the doorway with coffee she knows I can't drink but brings anyway. "I've never heard you hum."
"I'm happy." The admission should feel vulnerable. Instead it feels like fact.
"Looks good on you." She grins. "Better than that corporate zombie look you used to rock."
The club has taught me things I never learned in any office. How to read desire in the tilt of a head, the flutter of a pulse. How to negotiate boundaries with the precision of a contract lawyer. How consent transforms power from something stolen into something exchanged.
I've become known among certain clientele. The woman who delivers what others only simulate. They come seeking blood play, expecting theater, and leave with something transcendent they can't quite name.
Tonight, a regular sits at the bar. Colin—mid-forties, wedding ring he never takes off, here once a month like clockwork. He sees me and his pupils dilate with Pavlovian anticipation.
"Is she available?" he asks the bartender, and I feel the question like a caress.
I cross to him with confidence I've spent my whole life building toward. "Hello, Colin."
"Artemis." He uses the name I gave him months ago, before I stopped hiding behind mythology. "I was hoping you'd be here."
"I'm always here." I settle onto the stool beside him. "Same as usual?"
"Please." His pulse jumps, visible in his throat. "My wife thinks I'm at a work conference."
I don't judge. Everyone here is running from something or toward something. Sometimes both.
In the VIP room, I make it sacred. That's the word that feels right—sacred. Not profane, not shameful, but the careful intersection of need and fulfillment. When my fangs pierce his skin, when his blood fills my mouth warm and willing, when pleasure crashes through him so intense he forgets his own name—this is communion.
I stop before he reaches his limit. Lick the wound closed with practiced precision. He slumps against the leather couch, glassy-eyed and grateful.
"Thank you," he whispers. "God, thank you."
"Same time next month?"
"Yes. Always yes."
When I emerge, Emily catches my eye from across the room and gives me a subtle thumbs-up. We've developed a rhythm—she handles the business side, I handle the impossible requests, and together we've built something that feels less like work and more like purpose.
The hours blur together pleasantly. I negotiate with a nervous first-timer, reassuring her that pain and pleasure aren't opposites. I feed from a man who weeps with relief at finally finding someone who understands. I turn down someone too drunk to properly consent, and Emily backs me up without question.
This is what power should feel like. Not domination, but discernment. Choosing who to share myself with, when, how much.
Around two AM, I'm reconciling the night's receipts when I smell him.
Cedar and centuries. James.
I look up from my spreadsheet to find him at the entrance, and something about his energy feels different tonight. Not wrong—elevated. Like he's made a decision he's both excited and nervous about.
He crosses to the bar where I'm working, and even in a room full of beautiful people engaged in elaborate desire, eyes track him. The way he moves draws attention the way gravity draws objects. Inevitable. Inescapable.
"Busy night?" His voice is warm, familiar.
"Profitable night." I save my work and close the laptop. "You're here early. Usually you don't show up until closing."
"I couldn't wait." He settles onto the stool beside me, and his knee brushes mine—deliberate contact that sends heat through me despite the absence of body temperature.
"For what?"
"You." The simple honesty of it makes my breath catch. "I've been thinking about something. Planning something. And I can't wait anymore."
Curiosity sharpens to interest. "Planning what?"
He glances around the club—bodies moving, negotiations happening, the careful choreography of consent and desire. "Not here. Somewhere private."
"The VIP rooms—"
"Not here," he repeats, and his gray-blue eyes hold mine with intensity that makes my fangs ache. "I want to show you something. Take you somewhere."
"Now?" I gesture at the club. "I'm working."
"Emily can handle one night without you." He stands, extending his hand. "Trust me."
The request should feel manipulative. Instead it feels like invitation. Like he's offering me a gift I don't yet understand but already want.
Emily materializes beside us with that uncanny timing. "Go," she says before I can ask. "You've been here six nights straight. Take a break."
"But the books—"
"Will still be here tomorrow." She makes a shooing motion. "Whatever James has planned, it looks important. Don't make him beg."
I look between them, sensing conspiracy. "You two planned this."
"Planned is a strong word," Emily hedges. "More like... coordinated."
James's hand is still extended, patient as eternity. Waiting for me to choose.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine—ice meeting ice, matched in temperature and certainty. He pulls me to standing, and the movement flows with vampire grace that no longer feels foreign.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he leads me toward the exit.
He looks back, and the smile on his face is young despite centuries. Excited. Alive.
"Somewhere I haven't been in a very long time," he says. "Somewhere that made me who I was before I forgot how to be anyone at all."
The cryptic answer should frustrate me. Instead it makes anticipation coil tight in my chest.
We step into the night, and the city spreads before us full of possibility. Behind us, the club pulses with its rhythm of negotiated desire. Ahead, James has something planned that's making his two-hundred-year-old composure crack at the edges.
"Tell me," I demand, squeezing his hand.
He stops. Turns. Looks at me with an expression I can't quite name.
"London," he says simply. "I'm taking you to London."