William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“So, I guess, all these guys.” Loving waved his hand generally about the room. “All Goths?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” She drew in her breath, her chest heaving. “No, despite the superficial similarities, there are two distinct groups. Goths are children, amateurs. Pretenders. Nothing like us. In fact, sometimes I wear colors other than black.”

“Like what?”

“A very dark midnight blue.”

Loving heard a cracking sound behind him.

“Bend over!”

He turned just in time to see a young woman with a supermodel figure and an endless mass of black curls bend over the back of a chair, which had the effect of hoisting her ridiculously short skirt and exposing her perfectly rounded snowy white cheeks. While Loving stared, a short, stout man-presumably he who had issued the command-brought his hand around and slapped her bottom with a wooden paddle. The woman winced as the paddle made contact-but her ecstatic smile grew broader with each smack.

“You have got to be kiddin’.” Loving turned back to Morticia. “Should I do somethin’?”

“Like what?”

“Like give that creep a taste of his own paddle.”

She brushed her hand against his. “My friend, he’s not doing anything she doesn’t want. Just getting her in the mood for the Ceremony.”

“But-”

“There is a decided correspondence between the Circle and the dark fetish world.”

“You mean-”

“Dominance and submission. Bondage and discipline. Sadomasochism.”

“Right out in public?”

“This isn’t the public. This is the Circle. We understand one another.”

“But isn’t this all a little… twistedish?”

She laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. “Don’t ask me. I’ve been into scarification since I was fifteen.”

“And that’s-”

“Hurting myself. Cutting myself. I used a razor blade. Sometimes I’d draw patterns, shapes.”

Loving winced. “Bet that stung.”

“Wonderfully so. After I was done cutting, I’d pour alcohol over the wounds. To prevent infection-but also because it hurt so good.”

Loving’s eyes narrowed.

“Once the welts formed I’d have the image of a raven, an ankh, whatever design I’d crafted.”

“But-why?”

She shrugged. “Who can explain why they like what they like? There’s no logic to it. We’re just hardwired that way. Some say it’s endorphins-the body releases them to help you deal with pain and you get a head rush. A natural high. It’s a deeply spiritual experience. Try it sometime.”

“Mmm… maybe later.”

“It beats living the usual life of quiet, desperate mimesis.”

“Uhhh…”

“Imitation. Doing what everyone else does, just because they do it. Never doing anything to please yourself.”

“Which is what these folks are planning to do, right? Tonight. What’s the Ceremony? Some big orgy?”

She glared at him. “Don’t be absurd. The Circle is not about sex. Sex is nothing. Anyone can do that. Animals do it. The Circle is about true blood intimacy.”

“Blood intimacy?”

“When you offer your own life energy, you give a part of your self, your essence. You need your blood to live. Nonetheless, you share it with someone else to give them pleasure. It’s a beautiful thing. Sex-that’s just selfishness. Two people gratifying their carnal desires. Blood intimacy is exactly the opposite.”

“And this doesn’t seem a little… whacked?”

“Who’s to say what’s whacked? I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I don’t drink… wine.” She giggled at her little joke. “Most of the people you see in here are perfectly normal citizens who work during the day at perfectly normal jobs. No different from anyone else.”

Whatever. Time to get back to the reason he was here. “Do you know a woman named Beatrice? I think she may be a member of the Circle.”

“No. But we rarely use our real names here. In fact, we rarely use names. What does she look like?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t really know. I believe she may have been blond. She’s been described as mousy-not by me-and as being, um, somewhat large around the hips.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t know that, either.”

“Then how did you expect to find her?”

Good question. He thought for a moment. “Any other places the Circle Thirteen crowd frequents?”

“Well, many of us are members of the Playground. But if you couldn’t handle that little spanking episode, I wouldn’t recommend it to you.”

“Anyone disappeared from the Circle recently?”

“Disappeared? No. Sometimes the minions select recruits for the Inner Circle, but-”

“Where do they go?”

“I don’t know. I’m not in the Inner Circle.”

“Who are these… minions?”

“The minions of the Sire, of course.”

“And these people-what? Take women against their will? Kidnap them for human sacrifices?”

“Don’t be absurd. I told you-we’re perfectly normal citizens who happen to share a common interest. We’re not even unique. There are vampire clubs across the nation. Take my word for it-I’ve traveled. There’s a network of them; the insiders know where they are and how to find them. My girlfriend runs vampire workshops-”

“Workshops?”

“Yeah, at science fiction and bondage conventions all over the country. Did you realize there are at least three hundred and fifty thousand bona fide blood drinkers in this country? Some people believe that we have a genetic quirk that makes us crave satisfaction in a manner… different from other people. ’Course, that’s the same thing they started saying about gay people a few years ago, right? ‘They’re not mentally abnormal-they’re just different.’ The Circle network is not unlike the gay bar world twenty years ago. We’re a minority, so we have to keep a low profile. The middle-class majority always fears anything that’s different. But that will change. Gay bars, gay men and women, gay marriages-they’ve come out of the closet. I think we’re next.”

“So you’re tellin’ me that you folks-every one of you think-” He wasn’t sure he could make himself say it. “You think you’re vampires?”

“Not necessarily. Some of these folks are just batting.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pretending. Playing dress-up. Plastic fangs, white makeup, scary contact lenses. It’s like a big role-playing game for them. We let them hang out here, but they aren’t actually members of the Circle. Some girls I know do it just so they can cruise the clubs. You know-Looking for Mr. Goodvampire. They’re in love with the undead mythology but aren’t actually-how to say it?-drinking from the well.”

“And that’s battin’?”

“Right. You know-like in the movies. Where the vamps turn into bats.” She paused. “Of course, real vampires don’t turn into bats.”

“And that’s what everyone else is? A real vampire?”

“No. Many are wannabes-they’re into vampires, they act like vampires. But they aren’t. Some are here for the S-and-M stuff. Some are casual blood sippers-like, from a cup. Only a relatively small fraction of the Circle are actual bloodsuckers who-you know, drink it in the traditional manner. They call themselves classicals or, worse, vampyrs. ” She pronounced the last syllable as if it were piers. “So pretentious. True vampires are immortal and dead, or undead, if you prefer. They’ve been made a vampire by another vampire. They have inverted circadian rhythms-in other words, they’re genetically ‘night people.’ They are usually photosensitive-meaning they don’t like sunlight. In addition to those made vampires by another vampire, there are also Inheritors-people born into it, who are either immortal or exceedingly long-lived. They tend to be the bad boys-the ones who earned our community its negative reputation. Nighttimers are regular people who have been altered to become vampires. Like me. Not immortal. Not undead. But we don’t turn to ashes if we go out in the noonday sun, either.”