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.

Spectral dancers surround us as the dead have joined.....oh hell. The dead and shadows disappear as I drop my dance partner, draw decay, and run the blade through the belly of the vampire pouncing on me from behind.

"I'm a master of death my friend, one such as you cannot surprise me."

"It's not her time." The vampire struggles to get pull himself from the blade, but I raise a hand and hold him still.

I give him a warm smile. "We shall see. Now let me show you something." Buttons fly as a simple spell rips his shirt open to reveal the bloated, black skin where decay has impaled him. I twist the sword and listen to him moan in pain. Maggots crawl from the ripped, rotting flesh as the cold steel of decay rotates in the wound.

"There comes a point where the decay cannot be reversed by the demonic forces that keep your corpse forever young." The vampire continues to moan as the blackened, rotting flesh expands to claim ever more of his torso. "Once we reach that point, they I will finish my dance and leave you to rot away next the corpse of your...."

Wham!

My head hurts and...where the hell am I? I return decay to my scabbard and take a look around. Down the street the spring party continues. I touch my head and find wine and shards of glass. That damn woman must have hit me over the head and triggered my ward to teleport me away from attack. I smack myself on the head in frustration and immediately regret it as my headache gets even worse. I should have just killed the vampire, why do I always have to gloat. Damn, damn, damn.

Hello, floor. Floor? Floor! Familiar floor. Still wearing the silly black outfit. Note to self: Ask Jilli how she functions in all this black lace frou-frou--

Focus, woman!

Breathe, breathe, breathe, look around for Mr. Freaky--

Oh, I bloody well do not think so.

Instincts go into overdrive. Knife, sword, blunt instrument, where's a weapon--ha! Nice, heavy, full champagne bottle. Ooh, Chateau Lafitte Rothschild, a good year, too. Too bad.

A picture-perfect flat snap into the side of the head of the bastard that's playing "Skewer the Vampire With an Icky Sword" with Bob.

"Nobody shoves a sword into my lover in my town!"

And, of course, the bastard--and Bob!--disappear right in the middle of my declaration of war. Adrenalin spent, I sit down hard.

People finally turn to look. I stare back, then carefully slurp down what's left of the very nice champagne from the neck of the broken bottle I'm still holding.