David Wilson - Vintage soul

“The last time this wine touched the open air, Lord Byron himself was present. It was a party, much like this one, though with considerably more…mortality.”

Every gaze was locked on the glittering goblet as Johndrow spoke. There was no sound. No breath. No whisper of air, or shift of feet.

“The wine was already in the bottle at this point, ready to be sealed, but before they could do so, I begged this single bottle from the vintner, who was happy to part with it. I would say the small bag of gold I presented him had something to do with his good humor, but that is another story entirely. The grapes that year were particularly sweet, and bottles of this wine have sold on the collector’s market for in excess of ten thousand dollars.

“This bottle,” he softened his voice slightly, though he could be heard clearly throughout the penthouse, “would bring a hundred times that amount, were it available for sale. Before it was sealed, on a dare, I convinced Byron himself to contribute seven drops of his own blood.”

“How in the world did you do that?” a man called out from a back corner of the room. He was tall with spiked platinum blonde hair and a long, egg-shaped platinum earring dangling from his left ear. More rings glittered up and down the sides of his cheek, and across his eyebrows. Some were gold, others copper, and still others glittered with jewels. “What would you say to a man of such power that he would willingly gift you with what must so often be taken?”

“That is a tale for another day,” Johndrow declared solemnly, “but let me state for the record: the difficulty was not in securing the blood, but in controlling my nerves once the vein had been opened. I do not know if such blood exists in these later days…if so, I have not found it. I would have had more than the seven drops, but if I had not sealed the bottle and taken it from the room, I would have a different bottle for you tonight and a far different story of my time with Byron. Even now…”

Johndrow took another whiff of the wine, and trembled visibly. He extended his hand to Meredith, who took the goblet eagerly. Johndrow snapped his fingers sharply, and the short man who had sealed the elevator stepped forward. He held a tray upon which one more goblet, and several ranks of slender, fluted cordial glasses were clustered. Johndrow poured half a glass into the goblet, and then a small splash into each cordial. The little man stood still as stone, and within moments the single bottle of wine had been divided into more than two dozen small portions. Vanessa twined elbows with Johndrow and they waited, gazing into one another’s eyes over the top of the larger goblet Johndrow still held.

The short man turned smoothly on his heel, not even jostling the precious glasses, and wound his way slowly around the room, dispensing the cordials carefully and quickly, until everyone was served. There were no extras. If there had been, Johndrow would have been outraged at the waste.

He stared at Vanessa a moment longer, and then he spoke.

"She walks in beauty, like the night,

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark, and bright,

Meet in her aspect and her eyes…"

He nodded at Meredith, who took a quick sip, and then downed the heady tincture in a single gulp. Johndrow smiled and nodded at the lucky guest. There were murmurs of jealous appreciation throughout the room.

Johndrow tipped his goblet to Vanessa’s lips and watched as her head fell back, blonde hair shimmering over her shoulders. Her eyes closed, and she stretched up on her toes, the heels of her too-tall shoes actually lifting from the ground. Her back arched and he watched as she drank. She took exactly half. He drew her to him then and lifted the goblet from her lips, which she pulled back reluctantly. When their bodies met, he drew the glass up and drank. In that moment, Vanessa’s eyes flashed open and her gaze locked with his. They melted together and Johndrow drained the glass, flipping it distractedly over his shoulder. The short man appeared very suddenly, plucked the glittering projectile from the air, and placed it on the tray without a sound.

“Enjoy,” Johndrow called to the others in the room. “Enjoy, and there is more to come. I have brandy, I have the blood of kings…I have the exsanguinated voices of an entire choir in three cases, from bass and contralto to the shiver of soprano. Tonight, we will celebrate the blood. Tonight I will feed my passion, and sate your hunger. To life, and those who grant it. To the blood.”

As he fell silent, two dozen glasses were raised and drained. Moans of pleasure and cries of delight rang out through the room. The conversations that had fallen silent when Johndrow stepped before them returned to full volume. Couples moved about the room, as bottles were brought forth and their cordial glasses were replaced by tumblers and goblets. The music rose slightly in volume.

Johndrow noticed none of it. He held Vanessa close. Their tongues danced, teasing the last droplets of the wondrously spiked blood from one another and blending it with the kiss. Vanessa had an inexplicable talent for caressing his body with hers, every inch of her a part of the motion and every raw nerve he possessed burned with the need of her. She knew it, and pressed closer, matching his heat but besting his control. She could keep this up all night, and he feared — and dreamed — that she would do so.

“Enjoying yourself, love?” she asked, pulling back slightly.

“Standing here like this, you ask me such a question?”

Vanessa laughed and stepped back, whirling away from him. The dress rippled with every shift of her well-muscled form and caught the candlelight perfectly, sending tiny reflected flames across her back.

“There is plenty of time, darling,” she admonished. “You have guests. You have cognac and whiskey. She turned back and pointed at him with one long nail. “You’d better steer clear of the soprano tonight. I believe I prefer you closer to bass.”

Then she was gone, and Johndrow shook his head to clear it. He had trouble imagining a world that did not center on Vanessa. Even his collection would be an empty pleasure if she weren’t there to share it. This concern troubled him, because he knew it was a weakness. Any addiction, no matter how pleasant, was a handicap.

Johndrow turned to the wall beside the stereo alcove. There was another control panel tucked in behind a potted fern. He reached back, flipped a switch, and a portion of that wall slid back to reveal a mirrored bar. Lit with dim, blue bulbs that were there more for effect than for any need of illumination, the bar was magnificent. Bottles of odd shapes and sizes lined four tiers of shelves. Johndrow reached to the bottom shelf, pulled out a round-based bottle of cognac, and tipped two fingers of the contents into a flat-bottomed tumbler. He thought briefly of the priest he’d first shared that bottle with. He closed his eyes — just for a moment — and the scent of the liquor brought back the man’s grey eyes.

“Take, drink,” Johndrow whispered, “for this is my blood.” He took a slow sip of the cognac, though he was reluctant to wash away the magnificent savor of Byron’s wine blended with Vanessa’s kiss.

The music shifted through a syncopated variance on the original heartbeat. Blood scented candles in various corners of the room fed the illusion that they all stood within the walls of a giant, beating heart; the speed and regularity of the music orchestrated subtle changes in the mood of those gathered. It was going well. The wine had been a major coup, a one time chance to present them all with something they had never had, and could never hope to have again. It was a moment’s distraction in an eternity gone bland, and he knew they would talk of it and relive it for days, years, possibly centuries to come.