Nervous Girl has a killer aesthetic going for her: stompy boots with lots of buckles, torn leggings, a lacey white dress with layered skirts, a septum piercing, dark makeup (including absolutely excellent black lipstick), platinum blonde hair kept long and straight, and a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses. She’s a tall, pale, and ravishing goth icon.

“I wouldn’t mind the company,” I tell her while I desperately try and think of something cool and flirty to say. “Maven Alice,” I introduce myself.

“I’m Lena,” she says, her voice soft and sweet.

The pretty goth slides into the seat across from me and tucks a bit of hair out of her face. She looks me over, then glances back at her still-giggling friends, then back to me, and despite all of Cheshire’s assurances I find myself uneasy. It wouldn’t be the first time a pretty girl has expressed fake interest in me on a dare from her friends.

Insecurity is self-sabotaging. Regardless of her motives, we’ll have a better chance of impressing her if we act confident despite our paranoia.

Lena finally works up the nerve to ask, “So, um, is that like, real blood?”

Huh. It actually takes me a second to register that, yeah, I showed up to a nightclub in a bloodstained skirt and blouse, and looking around I’m pretty sure I’m the only one dressed like this. Fair play, Labyrinth, that’s a pretty decent justification for someone taking interest in me from afar. Well, let’s try and run with this. Game face, Maven. You are a sexy, scary vampire.

I force a smirk and flash my fangs at the goth girl. “If I said yes, and told you it came from the last pretty girl to come my way, would that make you scared or excited?” Shit, is that too forward? How do flirt with cute girls???

Lena looks down at the table, bites her lip, then looks back at me and says shyly, “Maybe, um, maybe a bit of both?” Her eyes look big and soft behind those glasses, and the expression on her face feels flirty but I could just be reading too much into it.

“Heh. If it puts you at ease, I’ll only bite if you ask me to.” My smirk holds for a valiant moment, but then it cracks and I laugh weakly. “But, actually, most of this is probably my blood.”

Concern flashes across her face. “Wait, are you hurt? What happened?”

“I, uh, I’ve had a rough couple days.” I scratch the back of my head sheepishly and lean into the booth seat. “Got attacked by a bunch of horrible bullshit outside the city, stabbed a few monsters, got beaten and bruised. I’m fine now, mostly, but yeah, a lot of this is my blood and the rest is from the shit that failed to kill me.”

“Wow,” Lena breathes. “That’s… I mean, that’s pretty fucked up, but it’s also kind of impressive? Sorry, I don’t know if that’s insensitive,” she hastily apologizes.

I wave a hand dismissively. “Nah, you’re good. I’d rather laugh about it than mope.”

Lena leans her face on her hand and sighs. “I’ve never been in danger like that. Like… that’s the kind of excitement I dream about, you know? You wouldn’t believe how boring most of my days are.”

I quirk an eyebrow and tilt my head. “What’s your deal, then? What kind of life has you fantasizing about close encounters with terrifying monsters?”

“Oh! Um, well, I’m not that interesting.” Lena laughs nervously and fidgets with her hair again. “I’m actually a student at the local university, in the mathematics wing.”

“Oh, hella. I was a student myself before getting thrown into this world.” A very lazy student, but that’s the natural consequence of being a gifted kid. “What kind of math are you into?”

Lena brightens and leans forward. “I’m doing graduate work on differential geometry! I want to use it to prove the existence of mixed motives.”

Ah. I have no idea what that is. “That sounds rad. I stopped at pre-calculus because higher math is just not my jam, so I’m always impressed by people that have the brains and the patience to study that stuff.” Math is annoying because it takes effort and you have to memorize a billion formulae.

She blushes. “It’s not that impressive, I’m firmly middle-of-the-pack in my class. But, thank you. What were you studying?”

“Eh, something of a hodgepodge.” I wiggle my fingers for emphasis. “I wasn’t really pursuing a major, just taking humanities classes that seemed interesting. Literature, philosophy, whatever caught my eye that quarter.” I cough into my blouse and mutter, “I, ah, I wanted to be a writer.”

“That’s pretty neat too!” Lena laughs lightly and admits, “I could never do that, I’m not creative enough.”

“Bah, anyone can write. Creativity is a muscle, you just have to exercise it like any other.” I mutter, “The real difficulty is being able to do it with any kind of consistency.”

Lena gives me a visual once-over and comments playfully, “You know, you don’t really strike me as the exercise type.”

“Ha! Yeah, no, I was not physical in my old life.” I sigh at the thought of how much trouble that’s caused me. “I wasn’t very good at taking care of myself in any capacity, really.”

Lena smiles. “If it’s any consolation, I’m not much better; I think dancing is the only exercise I get besides walking to classes, and I only do this one day a week. I could do with getting in shape but it’s hard to start.”

“I think you look great anyways,” I say, stumbling over my words, “I mean, like, your whole deal looks great, good aesthetic.”

Lena blushes and responds, “Thanks! Um, I think you have pretty eyes.”

That immediately puts me on edge, but I understand rationally that it’s just my broken fucking brain and that all her signals are suggesting sincerity. Accept the fucking compliment, stop being so guarded! “I really like your piercing,” I blurt to cover up my discomfort. “I mean, like, your whole face has a really cool aesthetic, you have really nice makeup and I like your hair.” Oh gods I’m so awkward. Kill me now.

I am rescued–or perhaps further doomed–by the sudden appearance of Cheshire at our table, the catgirl having somehow acquired a waitress uniform and a pair of shots. “By the Eight, you’re both so pathetic. Here.” She shoves one shot glass at me and another at Lena, both full of some bright pink liquor. “Get drunk and start making out already. I refuse to watch you useless lesbians pussyfoot around what you’re actually here for.”

I glare at my geist, but she ignores me and I’m left holding a drink while she vanishes back onto the floor of the nightclub. I glance at Lena to see her reaction and she’s already downing the shot, tossing the whole thing back and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

Welp. I guess I’m drinking??? I mean. It’s probably fine, right? It’s just one drink, and I’ll say no if Cheshire tries to get me to drink a second, and Lena already took hers, so… it’s fine? Sure. I knock back my own shot and it goes down sweet and sharp, strong enough to have me coughing after I swallow. I massage my throat and wince. It was fruity, which I like–I favor pink wine when I drink, which is a rare occasion–but somehow packs a bigger kick than fucking vodka, which I have had once and absolutely hated.

I’m still recovering from the initial kick when the alcohol hits me all in a rush: my whole chest lights up with tingly warmth that starts to spread to my limbs, and my brain gets a bit fuzzy and pleasant. I blink my eyes a few times and shake my head to try and clear my thoughts. Holy shit, how strong was that stuff!? I only had one drink!

I see quite a bit of pink showing in Lena’s cheeks, and her eyes gleam as she seems to gather her courage to ask, “So, um, are those fangs actually real?”

I show them off again with a toothy smile and trace my tongue over my beloved fangs. “They are, yeah. And they’re genuinely meant for biting people, I just, ah, haven’t actually fed on anyone yet.”

“What are you?” she asks with a big grin.

“I… am a demon. New to the role, but still a demon.” I chew on my words, contemplating how edgy or self-aggrandizing I should be. “I am also this world’s first vampire, and a very dangerous woman.” On impulse, I cock my head and ask, “What are you?”

Lena shifts closer to me. “I’m the kind of girl with a taste for dangerous women, especially the monster kind. And I think it’s very, very hot that you’re a demon. So, if there’s, um, anything demon-y that you maybe want to do to me… I wouldn’t mind.” She bites her lip and looks up at me, eyes alight with clear interest.

There’s a part of me that wants to seize on that opportunity to launch straight into the bitey-bitey, but I’m still uncomfortable with all this. With the awkward flirting, sure, but also with the idea that this person I’ve had fruitful conversation with is, in fact, not a real person. Even through the fresh buzz of alcohol, I’m not ready to just throw aside my curiosity and my hesitation for the sake of biting a cute girl.

So instead of flirting back or going for Lena’s neck, I tell her, “Actually, I think what I’d like most right now is to know whether or not you’re a real person.”

“Huh. That’s a pretty interesting question. Am I a real person…” Lena blinks a few times, then settles back into a more comfortable posture and taps her chin thoughtfully. She looks at me with those big soft eyes and asks, “Are you?”

The counter catches me off-guard, but the question is far from alien to me, so I have an answer prepared. I shrug noncommittally and take the time to make sure I phrase everything correctly through the alcohol. “Some days more than others. I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to be a person, but I don’t always feel like one. I still feel… real, though.” I change tack. “Do you know what a figment is?”

“I do,” she answers, soft-spoken and thoughtful. “It can mean ‘figment of imagination,’ but here in the Labyrinth it’s more likely to refer to a specific kind of oneiric construct. Something that looks like a person and talks like a person but lacks a person’s internal world. A fake.”

I am silent, waiting, monitoring her responses. Her expressive face, her active hands, the shifts in posture and positioning. Her face is flushed, her breathing is heavier, and her pupils are dilated, but is that because of the alcohol or just for show?

Lena meets my searching gaze with those adorable eyes behind cute glasses, and when she speaks her voice is nervous, hopeful, searching for approval. “So, I guess, to answer your first question… no, I’m not a real person. But, I think I make a pretty convincing fake, don’t you?”

She looks and sounds so human for something that just admitted otherwise. How can you just call yourself a fake like that? “You know that you’re a figment, then, and you understand what that means. To be honest, I was expecting you to plead ignorance.”

The not-a-person shrugs. “Most would. More than nine in ten would act clueless if it was brought up, but those numbers might get skewed if you were in the room.” She holds a hand in front of her mouth and giggles, the sound full of life and emotion that seems to contradict her self-identification.

“Why? Why do they pretend, and why do I change the math? Are they pretending, or do they genuinely not know until something wakes them up?” I have to know this before I can even think about drinking her blood. I need to understand what Lena really is.

Lena plays with a strand of hair and asks, “Would it surprise you to learn that most people don’t want to think too hard about the nature of figments? It’s a lot easier to hurt a figment if you just take it at face value that they’re not people. Right now you’re poking and prodding at one to see what’s inside, but you could be doing so much more satisfying poking and prodding, if you chose to.” She winks at me and I try not to blush at the rather suggestive implication. “What’s holding you back, demon girl?”

“Forgive me for giving a shit about consent ethics,” I mutter.

“I don’t forgive you,” Lena blithely replies, “as I lack a consciousness capable of proffering either forgiveness or blame. I’m just an object pretending to be a person, Maven. I can’t feel pain, or hope, or fear. I can only pretend. Even this pretension of self-awareness is just another act, performed for your benefit.”

Everything about that makes my skin crawl, but I want to know more. “Why bother pretending, then? Why giggle and blush if it’s not real?”

Lena shrugs. “It’s what my character would do. The character of Lena is attracted to you, Maven. She’s excited by the idea of you sinking those pretty fangs into her luscious neck, and she’s a little scared that you might go too far, but that fear only makes it more exciting. She finds her daily life boring and craves thrills that a demon like you is perfectly suited to provide.” She smiles, again seeming so soft and sweet despite the horrors spilling from her lips. “So insofar as I am capable of giving consent, I give it. I want you to feed on me, because Lena wants it, and because it fulfills my purpose.”

“What is your purpose, then?”

Lena leans in further, close enough I can feel her hot breath on my skin, and says, “To make people like you happy enough to want to stay here forever.” She laughs again, the sound darker this time. “So go on, demon girl: tell me what will make you happy.”

I’m quiet for a moment, taken aback, processing. I could answer lots of ways, tell all kinds of lies and half-truths. I want to interrogate this figment’s existence further, I want to see what stories she can tell, I want to see what roles she can act out. But honestly?

I still need mana, and they say the best mood boost in the world is a good meal.

So I tell her, “Act human, and bare your neck.”

She tilts her head and brushes back her hair, and for all that I loved to play at being vampy in my old life I never felt hunger like this. I move forward on autopilot, a fresh set of instincts driving me toward exposed skin with bared fangs and deep, all-consuming hunger.

I sink my teeth into Lena’s neck and my fangs pierce her skin just like they were made for it, and I hear her gasp but she doesn’t push me away. I feel motion, sensation, my hand on her arm, her hand on my leg, but it’s all dim compared to the flood of ecstasy pouring down my throat.

Cheshire was right: it isn’t the taste of blood, not really. I’ve tasted blood, incidentally, in trace amounts, though always muddled by the taste of skin, and it’s more metallic than this. Blood is the taste of iron, for all that it’s easy to romanticize for internet edgelords like me.

This taste is something deeper. Something greater. The taste of blood and skin is there, too, but it’s dim like the touch of Lena’s fingers on my thigh. It’s all overwhelmed by the life coursing down my throat and pooling inside me. It tastes red like wine and meat and the frantic pulse pulse pulse of pumping in our veins, and it tastes red like the frantic red energy that builds and builds and builds when I’m at my most manic.

I drink a girl’s essence and it is more savory than any mortal meal.

All notion of going slow to spare her life vanishes from my mind, and if anything I bite down harder and my grip tightens, desperate for more of that glorious lifeblood. I want this. I need this.

Dim, muted, I feel Lena’s grasp on my leg grow weak, unsteady, frail–what are you doing what are you doing what are you doing–but I can’t make myself withdraw my fangs. I can’t stop. I need more. I need it all, I–

Rough hands grab my shoulders and I’m pulled from Lena’s throat and tossed to the floor of the club. I hit the ground hard and my lungs ache and I realize I haven’t been breathing since I started drinking from the figment. I gasp for air and spit blood onto the filthy dance floor.

“Fucking freak,” jeers a new voice. Female, sharp, mocking.

A second voice, male and cutting. “Yeah, but the fucking freak is probably a fucking demon, so don’t underestimate it.”

Footsteps. Footsteps on the floor, how can I hear them? Oh, right, my head’s on the floor. Vibration. Step, step, step.

A hand grabs me by the collar of my blouse and pulls me up, and that second voice spits in my face, “Who are you, what are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my club?”

Shit.