¬ Paloma
The actor on stage died beautifully.
He clutched his chest, staggered three steps to the left, and crumpled with a grace that suggested he had practiced this particular death a hundred times. The audience below erupted in applause. Some even wept.
How tedious.
I lifted my glass and let one of my attendants refill it without looking away from the stage.
The boring drinks of this nation never quite matched the nectar I had tasted in older ages, in temples long crumbled to dust where worshippers had pressed infused grapes and offered the first pour to my lips.
But it was adequate.
The deep crimson reminded me of arterial blood, and the warmth of it spread pleasantly through my chest as I reclined in my private booth.
The theatre was a gaudy display of mortal excess.
I had seen better. I had seen far worse. This particular establishment had been built to impress the vampire nobility, giving it a bit of charm that didn't quite match those on the castle grounds.
