The room was empty and dark, its cold marble floors lined with plush carpets and stuffed cushions to create the illusion of warmth. He remembered it had a special name, but couldn't recall caring what it was. Ivory columns stood like ghostly trees in the chilly half light, while moonlight filtered in through the dingy glass dome above. The doors of the cage were well oiled and silent with frequent use, but the bars were rough under his small, soft hands. Patches of something dark and dried pricked his tiny fingers but he couldn't bring himself to look and see what it was. As if from a distance, he felt tears well in his eyes, heard someone cry out for help in his voice, but no one answered. They could hear him, of course, but they didn't care. It was not in their nature. Before the cage there had been hands, cold and strong, pulling him away from his mother. She had struggled against them but they had broken her arms. Her quiet sobs still echoed in the darkness, mingling with his feeble yells for help. The only reason they had spared him was because of his age-- he was too young for their tastes.

The other women that were being kept in the room didn't even try to fight them. They knew better. Some even looked relieved. The boy cried out to them as well, hoping one of them would stand up and do something helpful, something adult, but they turned away from him. One woman even smiled as one of the vampires dragged a jagged knife across her throat and buried its face in her blood, as if somehow she had finally found the peace in death she had never known in life. They finished her off quickly before moving on to the others. Those who wouldn't fight weren't nearly as interesting as the ones who wanted to live.

The vampires gathered together in a tight knot at the center of the room, ignoring Peter. His cries were drowned out by maniacal laughter, frightened tears, and pleas for mercy that, one by one, faded quietly into silence. In their place came the unmistakable sound of blades and teeth and snapping bones, pierced by the occasional scream of agony as the monsters maimed the women they had neglected to kill first. Then, almost as soon as it had begun, it was over. There were no more protests, no more human voices. All that was left were the monsters. There were five of them, all male. They grinned wildly at each other as they wiped blood from their mouths, totally unaware Peter was watching them.

Another of them laughed, his shirt torn open and blood trickling down his front like sweat. He looked like a wild animal. "Screw 'em! It's their fault for not feeding us anything but cowed slaves and half starved children. If I'd had any idea taking a post here meant I'd have to make due on mere rations-"

Peter felt his heart skip a beat.

"Is that what that noise was?" asked the crazy one, looking around to see if he could spot the child. "I thought I heard-"

The others laughed while the cold one seethed. "Relax, Drake, it was just the one. I don't even know which one. Took the little brat from her earlier to get him out of the way but I don't remember what she looks like. Besides. A sow that old with just one kid means she was probably barren anyway. Trust me, if she was really important, we wouldn't have been able to get in here. Take a pill or something, Drake! Shit. You used to know how to have a good time, yeah?"

The cold one lifted the knife he had used to kill one of the women with and licked it slowly, his eyes never leaving the faces of his companions. When he finished he pointed it at each of them in turn. "I hope you all had fun, because this night will come back to haunt us. Mark my words." He put the knife away and turned to leave. 

The wild one threw his head back and laughed. "Ooh, I'm scared," he said. The others laughed with him as they followed Drake out the door, leaving the darkened room and its dead behind.

Peter could see them now that the monsters were gone. They were laying down in the center of the room, surrounded by pillows and blankets, just as if they were sleeping. Hazy moonlight revealed something dark and viscous all around, but he didn't want to see what it was. She was in the center, looking serenely upwards, eyes open, face pale and beautiful. His mother. He reached for her, but the cage was too far away. His short arms wouldn't reach, and there was no way out. He called out to her for awhile, but gave up when there was no response. Quietly, the little boy sank to his knees, and disobeyed his mother's final words.

I stared down at the glasses, keeping my eyes carefully averted from Marta's. "Why didn't he just send you, then, since you're so perfect?" I muttered.

Marta smacked me up side the head. I pretended to reel, but it was a soft blow. She wasn't really angry, just frightened. "Don't be a smart ass. In this place the only good smart ass is a dead one, and there have been complaints about you recently."

"You should care. You're not the only one who gets punished if something goes wrong, you know."

I felt my face and neck flush. She was right, of course, but I didn't want to admit it. "They wouldn't dare kill all their slaves." I said quickly. It was an old argument, but I couldn't help rehashing it just one last time in an effort to deflect Marta's disapproval. "There aren't enough of us to go around as it is."

My mind raced as I walked, glasses jingling. Table twenty was one of the feeding tables. Marta hadn't been kidding about this group being special. Almost no one got to use the feeding tables, and table twenty was especially prestigious. All the other feeding tables were kept carefully behind closed doors, hidden hidden behind screens or in back rooms where the patrons could go about their business unseen, and any Inspectors that might drop by to do a rations check wouldn't notice right away. Technically the club was only supposed to have one feeding table, if any, but the Master would never let something so trivial as a law get in the way of running his precious blood bar.

The fact that this group got to use table twenty at all meant they were special. The number and shape of the glasses on my tray indicated that they were very, very special. It also confirmed something that made me want to vomit on the spot.

Everything in Ultrakeen was, and always had been, about status. The Master was obsessed with symbols and prestige, especially when it came to his patrons. Of course, such lavish arrangements were part of what made Ultrakeen so popular. Anyone who was anyone visited this club. The Master told us so. But part of me, a little voice in my head that I tried to shove away as much as I possibly could, knew that it wasn't just the status. It was the humiliation. Table twenty and everything else in this place was just one more way to remind us exactly where we ranked on the food chain. Right down to the shape of the glasses the monsters drank out of.

The glasses on my tray told me tonight's victims were both women.

I reached table twenty and stopped, my eyes completely fixated on the tray. Ahead of me I could just barely make out the patrons, as well as the feet of the victims. The urge to look up at their faces hit me with an almost physical force, but it was overshadowed by the ceaseless terror of slavery. My mind coped with my stress by churning over the details of table twenty's feeding apparatus, imagining the women that had been attached to it. I created their faces in my mind, along with their thin, pale bodies, all desolate curves and showing ribs like the rest of us. I wondered if they were still conscious, or if the drugs the butchers had given them had given them the final mercy of unconsciousness. Judging from the lack of screaming, I guessed that maybe these girls had been lucky ones.

Technically, the apparatus on Twenty was quite ingenious. Fully adjustable, it was capable of holding two victims at a time, of any shape or size. The night before a feeding, two victims were chosen from the East End blood bank and kept in the back rooms. They were fed a lavish dinner laced with sedatives that had them drooling on themselves all night. The dosage was designed to wear off just enough by the time the feeding again so that they were awake and able to feel every single tube being surgically inserted into their body by The Butchers. According to them, the mark of true skill was not to put the tubes into any major arteries, thus prolonging the experience as long as possible.

Once the victims were ready, the hanging ceremony began. Barely conscious and naked, they were toted out onto the main floor and gently suspended by their wrists at the top of the long, twisting column that ran through the center of the feeding table. Next, their ankles were bound, and the tubes inserted into the proper slots, all leading down to six spigots arranged in a circle at the bottom. Gravity did the rest. All the patrons had to do was relax in the plush semicircle sofa underneath and enjoy their meal.

If I had my way about it, I would have burned all the feeding tables to the ground.

Slowly, I forced down my bile and bowed down before my peers, allowing them to exchange their previous glasses. They were still coated in the blood of the last two victims. I gritted my teeth while the patrons continued laughing and chatting casually as if I wasn't even there. I had to stay put until every last clean glass was gone, no matter how much I wanted to leave, and of course the bastards had left just one little glass behind to test me. The monsters enjoyed games like this. To move before my job was complete would mean a short trip to the Dens, and from there...

There were murmurs of assent from the guests. I heard someone slap something fleshy and laugh. "How do you do it, Daedalus?" He cried. "Every other blood bar this close to the Wall only has rats and flea bitten mongrels for sale. But every time we come to you, you bring us angels!"

Me. He meant me. It was his glass I still held. I tried not to shudder.

The Master chuckled softly. "This is Peter. I'm glad he is to your tastes. Unfortunately he is not for sale at the moment. I am somewhat short handed, much to my continuing dissatisfaction."

She was staring at me. My mother. And she was crying.

My shock hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. I staggered backwards, nearly dropping the tray. I could feel the patrons and The Master staring at me, and quickly I averted my eyes again. It was almost painful to do. All I wanted to do was look at her again, to see if what I'd seen was real. Of course it hadn't been. How could it? My mother was dead, long since, and even if she wasn't, she soon would be. Only patrons walked away from table twenty. All too aware of the attention I was getting, I turned on my heel and did what any good slave should—I ran away.

I looked at no one, spoke to no one, until I reached the bar. Behind it, I heard Marta gasp quietly as she took the tray from me. As soon as it was gone I realized my hands were shaking.

"Damn it, Peter, what have you done this time? What's wrong?" she asked as she ushered me into the back where Ultrakeen kept its dishwashers. The hot, stuffy air coupled with the smell of soap and human sweat brought back my nausea all over again, and this time I didn't try and fight it. I turned and retched into one of the sinks while Marta laid a comforting hand on my back. "Hush, Peter...it'll be all right. What's happened? Was it really that bad?"

I turned on the hot water and wiped my mouth with my hands. "I saw my mother."

Marta let out a little gasp. "That's not possible. Your mother is dead."

"Of course not," I whispered.

She muttered something in her native tongue that I didn't understand. "You must be tired. I'll say you've taken ill and get you excused from duties for the rest of the night."

I shrugged off her comforting touch and cooled the water a little, splashing some on my face until the room stopped spinning. Slowly, I turned to face her. "Do whatever you want, Marta. I've had enough of this place. I'm getting out. Tonight."

There was a sudden tension in the room, and things seemed to get quieter even though no one stopped working. Marta got a look in her eyes that made my resolve waver a little.

My rage came back all at once, pounding in my head like a hammer. I could hear my own heartbeat inside my ears. "What the fuck? How can you of all people say something like that?"

Marta fell silent, giving me a look that said I'd gone way past too far. A part of me agreed with her, but I was way too angry to listen. I refused to acknowledge any of the fear pounding in my head, no matter where it came from. And then something inside of me snapped. I don't know if it was embarrassment or just my twisted way of trying to avoid responsibility for my blow up, but before I could stop myself the words left my mouth.

I didn't even see her hand until it had connected with the side of my face. I stumbled, surprised, bumping into one of the dishwashers. This time there was no quiet hush, no secret listening. Everyone was staring at us outright, and I could hear them starting to whisper.

Marta straightened her shirt, a signal that I recognized. She was dismissing me. "I will inform the Master that you have been taken ill, Peter. With luck, he will overlook tonight's disturbance. I will do everything I can to keep you out of the Dens, but if I were you I would seriously consider preparing a blood gift. I wish you a peaceful, dreamless rest. Good night."

She wasn't going to help me. She was the leader of this sector's division of the Dreamers--a rebel group dedicated to preserving what was left of humanity--and she'd washed her hands of me. Literally. I wasn't a prominent Dreamer by any means but I knew enough about them to recognize an eviction when I heard one. Fine. Two could play that game. I watched her turn her back on me and walk out of the room, trying and failing to keep myself from shaking. Quietly I stalked out of the now completely silent washroom and made my way downstairs, into the darkest, filthiest, most crowded part of the club. The staff's quarters.

No one said a word to me as I located my bunk and packed my things. A nagging voice in the back of my mind whispered that they wouldn't be interested in commenting on something they'd seen me do a hundred times. Even my friends, if you could call them that, were silent as I pulled on a tattered jacket, shouldered a heavy bag full of what meager possessions I had, and walked out. I felt their eyes on me, suffered their oppressive, judgmental silence. They were thinking I'd done this before. They were thinking I'd never go through with it, just like always. Well, this time was different. I saw my mother's eyes again in my head, and shuddered as I climbed the steps that led out of the twisting, dark corridors that were our lives. Darkness. Darkness everywhere. It was like a poison cloud, suffocating us all. I wasn't going to take it anymore. I had to get out. Tonight was the night. I couldn't stop now.

I saw my mother standing in a corner as I passed by. She was smiling.