Madeleine woke up with a start, sitting upright, sweat beading across her brow. She held the fabric of the sheets in tight balls in each hand, and her breath, the breath she did not even need to take outside of force of habit, was shallow and haggard. She blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dark and she made a mental note of all of her bedroom furnishings. No longer in that copse from her dream, she sighed in relief and released the bedclothes.

It had been just a dream. But she couldn't shake that feeling, that sense that something else had been going on.

“This is ridiculous,” she snapped into the darkness. “Just a dream, Maddie, just a fuckin’ dream!”

She slid her feet off the side of the bed and into her marabou house slippers, vintage replicas of her favorite shoes from the Roarin’ 20s. She snagged the velour burgundy robe off the hook on the back of the door, grabbed her laptop and wandered into the rest of the house.

On the outside, she had intentionally left this four bedroom two bath monstrosity unkempt and abandoned looking. She was aware of the ‘witch on the wash’ reputation she had in the neighborhood, and she had done a good deal to cultivate it over the years. It ensured she was left alone, aside from the brave teenagers who occasionally took the Halloween dare to ding-dong-ditch. And she gave them enough of a scare--fangs and wings out, eyes aglow—to let the stories do the rest of the work.

But inside, oh, inside how she loved her house. All the windows were double-paned with the interior wooden blinds and covered with double-thick blackout curtains. The floors were all bamboo—even vampires could be green—and all her furniture custom made for a pretty penny by up-and-coming designers. The kitchen, however, was the crowning gem.

From the silver-flecked black granite countertops and recycled glass backsplashes, to the stainless steel major appliances and gas four burner with center grill stove, she had created her own personal corner of Nirvana. No, she did not actually need to eat, though she could, but she loved to cook and bake and, well, the local soup kitchen was never hurting for donations to say the least.

She also liked to entertain her small circle of friends, of whom only one other was a vampire. Speaking of which…she was half-tempted to call Abby, her psychic medium friend, to ask about the dream, but her human friend had very human responsibilities at this time of night, putting to bed her four children, and the last thing she needed was Madeleine’s paranoid ravings. It could wait. She could do her own investigating in the meantime.

She set up her laptop on the counter of the breakfast bar. (Oh, the joy of a wireless router!) The small machine came to life while she got a mason jar of blood from the fridge and popped it into the microwave. It was not the same as fresh, of course, and while she envied the darling vampires on television with their access to blood banks and synthetic blood replicates, her supply was all donated through an intricate line of willing donors, doctors and even a few mages.

Mason jars were best, because they kept the blood vacuum-sealed and microwaved well and held up in the refrigerator. And they passed through the mail like jams and jellies. No one questioned it, and those that wanted to either found themselves rich or dead.

The microwave beeped, and she grabbed the jar out with one hand. She flipped the laptop around as she settled onto a barstool. A couple of clicks and a few sips of her brew du jour and she made her way to the dating site. The little mail icon was blinking again, and with a little maneuvering, she saw that Wasted Wraith had replied.

Age is just a number. Aren't you the least bit curious?

Madeleine smiled and leaned on the counter. She was curious between the responses and the dream…and that aftershock she had felt in the dream that had left a familiar buzz she couldn't quite put her finger on. But what to reply? What could she say that would leave her aloof and uninterested, yet continue this interesting, albeit odd, conversation? Another mouthful of blood, and she set her fingers upon the keyboard:

Dear Wasted Wraith,

While I admit you have piqued my curiosity with your lack of stereotypical boyish interludes, I think I must be upfront, perhaps brutally so, in where I stand.

One, I'm not interested in sex. I'm not seeking out new partners, nor do I wish to ‘hook up’ for a booty call. I have, quite frankly, had enough bullshit from the past few men in my life that I would rather, at this point, remain celibate and alone than involved with another asshat who finds fault in everything I do.

Two, in kind, I won't be sending, nor am I interested in receiving, pictures, videos, verbal or textual descriptions of body parts. Such things are given once trust is established, and I'm rather paranoid. Not to mention, in my experience, the size of one’s male member doesn't in any way correlate to either brain size or level of common sense.

Third, I have so much emotional baggage I could fill the baggage claim at LAX three times over. You don't really want to be involved with me beyond the most tenuous of relations.

She thought about adding in that she was, in fact, a real vampire and apt to eat him alive, but she felt that might be taken the wrong way. Not so much that she might actually be considered a fang-wielding fiend, but instead a goth wannabe. Equal parts angst, yes, but her pretend was simply going vamp to human, not the other way around.

But if you are just looking for someone to go see a movie (I prefer midnight showings) or grabbing a late night bite to eat, then maybe we could come to an arrangement. Just consider yourself forewarned.

M

Madeleine hit send before she could delete the message in a fit of self-imposed self-consciousness. Would it come off completely bitchy? Unapproachable? Had she waved enough red flags in the poor boy’s face to make him reconsider? More importantly, did she care?

Sitting there, sipping her drink, she found that she did.