I spy a beautiful woman laughing with her friends a little ways away, and make my way through the revelry. People dance away from my path or just happen to walk or shift away unaware of the enchantments that parts the crowd. I tap on her shoulder and ask for a dance, I don't know whether she would have refused or accepted, but she hesitates as she looks into the darkness of my eyes and it is too late for the dance has begun.

With the first twirl her outfit transforms into black and long complete with black lace gloves, a vast improvement. As the dance continues, the bright light of day gives way to shadow taking the crowd with it. The dance itself is ancient and formal something from my long past that she executes perfectly without any hint of the next step in her mind. As the pace increases, I become aware of how alive she is, I feel her heartbeat, her breath, the warmth of her touch. We continue to dance alone in the shadow.

Now she takes the lead in this dance she doesn't know, her face a picture of joy. We do longer dance alone for the misty specters of the dead have joined in, drawn by her light. She twirls away and finds a new partner among the dead, lost in this dance that has no end. I watch as she dances ever more quickly and the light around her fades, her form fading amongst the dancers.

Perhaps, it's her beauty or perhaps some strange mood that overtakes me, I do not know. I walk to her, the dead parting before me. She is almost gone as I take her hand and draw her to me, stopping the dance. The daylight and crowd blink back into existence as I lower the limp form to the ground. She gasps as her body starts to draw breath once again, but I am gone before she opens her eyes. I blame my weakness on this season of Spring.

I can go a long time between reminding myself that the lucious Bob is, strictly speaking, a corpse. Oh, sure, there's no heartbeat under my ear when I'm getting comfy and going to sleep, and he's better than an air conditioner on hot summer nights, but that generally gets filed under the "That's just Bob" file in my head.

But in the middle of the springtime revelry, he suddenly stiffens and spins, scanning the room. There's a look on his face I haven't seen in a very long time: the look of a hunter, of something to be wary of. Worse, there's another element to the look: fear. The only thing that normally scares Bob is when I'm leaning over bridges and precipices. Something about me not being able to fly and being unlikely to learn in the few seconds between falling and splatting.

It takes me a moment to clear my throat. "What's wrong?"

"Death is walking here." And, damn, his voice is different, too. And I just saw fang.

I start to offer to leave, but he's gone into the crowd. Hunting death. And, again, it takes a moment for the dichotomy to sink in: Death is hunting death.

I need more food.

Helpfully, they've labelled the dips which have actual blood in them.

the dips with actual blood

Isn't that many of the attendees? t rimshot

Purple, red, yellow, white, and a hundred shades in between assault me as a pass a flower bed in the town center where the party rages on. I draw decay and plunge the blade into the soil. Even as a draw the blade back out, petals are wilting and falling to the ground, mold grows on the leaves as they to fall to the earth, and finally all that is left are twisted brown stems, infested with fungus. The dead plants help to lift my spirits, and make me realize that a snack would be appreciated.

As I head to the buffet table I notice a vampire on the hunt, taking advantage of dusk. Undead at a spring festival, as logical as a necromancer at a spring festival I suppose. The companion he has left behind, however, is quite alive. Interesting, that the living should be partnered with the dead. I wonder what facisnation with death has brought her to the vampire.

Ah, it appears that she is making her way to the buffet table as well. Perhaps the time has arrived for another dance.

eep

Something on the buffet table must be going bad. I'm getting the very faintest of scents of decay. Everything looks fine, though. And when did we start having problems with the power grid? The lights seem to be going dimmer.

It takes the cold breeze dancing on the back of my neck to tell me that it's not the power and it's not some potato salad that's been out in the sun too long. Something is behind me. If I don't turn around, perhaps it will pass by.

No, of course I turn.

I can't get a good look at it--him? The face shifts from skeletal to decaying to coldly handsome to things that simply don't register. My heart seems to be having a hard time doing its job. The animal sub-brain is yelling to run, but this creature projects an air of unescapability, the kind of inevitabiltity that kills the leaves in autumn, crumples flowers after they've bloomed, and closes the eyes of people at the end of their days.

It holds out its hand to me. Goddess, is it really time? Right now?

She takes my hand in the reflexive way they all do and we start the dance. Bystanders and dancers melt away as we follow the steps of an ancient dance from another time and place. Her clothing transforms into something more to my taste, a long formal dress dark as the heart of night. Shadows gather around us as the crowd begins to fade.

For the bystanders part, they see a woman dressed in black go limp in my arms, perhaps from too much to drink. For us, we continue to dance alone in the shadow, but another crowd will be joining us soon.

He wields the power of death and decay, but he is not Death. Death would have better fashion sense.

I try to yell for Bob, for anyone, but I'm beyond using what breath is left to me for anything other than life. I don't think that's going to be a problem much longer.

Back when I went by a name I can't even spell anymore, my mother would whisper to me, "Robbie, m'love, beware the dark man on the white horse. It's Death, come lookin'."

Death, when he came for me, walked on his own two feet. Maybe that's why I didn't realize who he was before it was too late. Since then, I've realized Death travels how he will. Sometimes he travels in me.

I don't know if what I smell tonight is Death Itself or someone usurping the power, but the stench is the same. And this is my town as much as anyone who draws breath, and Death does not play capriciously in my town.

I don't recognize the woman on the other side of the room who is being propped by her friends as she recuperates from something. I'd think it was too much dancing and singing and all the rest but for the faint scent that still drifts my way. I think she'll be all right. There are stronger traces of the smell, if I can just find--

No. No.

It's not her time. I know these things sometimes, and I know that she gets another 41 years, 8 months and 12 days. It's not tonight. So, have at thee, My Lord Imposter. You're not feeding any longer here tonight.