"Santiago," he said, "It is important to me, this...to take only the ones who want to die."

"Armand," I replied, "They all want to die. Some of them simply don't know it yet."

Tonight is your night. You've come here, to Le Theatre des Vampires, to see me, as you have done many times before. Instinctively you know that only I can give you what you need. You've romanticized me. You've fallen in love with me, pursued me, waited for me all your life. And tonight, I'm going to give you what you long for. Yes, you have come here many times, but somehow you sense that this time will be different. And you're right.

You don't recall how you first came by your invitation to Le Theatre...a passerby on the street who joggled your arm, but instead of lifting your purse left the small, white card in your hand...an engraved envelope with no return address left on a silver tray with your morning's mail...or perhaps it emerged from beneath your glass as you indulged in fine brandy at one of a dozen nameless taverns.

"Vampires!" You scoffed...but something drew you here anyway. Curiosity, perhaps. Your own longing for something different...something greater. The wish that the fantastic might be real. Your own lust for blood.

And once you arrived, the very moment you stepped through the door, you were mine.

At first, you may have feigned indifference. You'd been to dozens of theaters; chandeliers and velvet curtains were commonplace enough, and the crinkled posters in the alley outside with their crude caricatures of caped creatures made you wonder if your evening couldn't have been better spent. But once inside, once seated, in anticipation of the show...you found there was a fluttering inside your breast which hadn't been there before. A sweet shiver of something yet to be tasted.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly warm. You fought the urge to jump up...to run from this place...but then the gas lights dimmed and the house fell silent. You dared not breathe. The orchestra began, tormentingly slow, maddeningly charming...melancholy, hypnotic.

And then I was there, upon the stage. I was your first vision of Death, in my black robes, with my black hair, my face and my hands a gleaming, bone white that was a shade unlike anything you had ever seen. You found me beautiful, and you were instantly enamored. As you watched me play my part, you felt a stinging jealous for those who seemed to die on our stage, comic though it was made to seem...until the end.

Did you think me a clown? A masterful actor? Did you wish that all you saw was real? I have a little secret to reveal to you, tonight, on your night. It was real...all of it. The only illusion we cast was to make you think it a play.

Don't pretend you weren't titillated when the girl was brought forward, the star of the grand finale of each performance. Don't pretend you didn't notice that it was never the same young woman...that occasionally it was not a woman at all. Occasionally a beautiful youth might star...but tonight, your night, it is a woman, a golden blonde in the pink of health, and you are tremendously jealous as Death seems to love her.

Perhaps, after all, that part is an act, for there is only one who I have ever loved--and it is not her.

You watch as Death prepares to take her, to drag her begging and crying into the grave...even as you know this will not pass. She is my bride. And then...from the shadows...an angel comes. An auburn-haired angel, with a face like a statue, and he promises our beloved that there will be no pain.

Suddenly, she is willing. She is his.

I withdraw and leave her to swoon in his arms, and now I am the jealous one, even knowing he will soon pass her back, having given and taken, and allow the rest of the vampires of Le Theatre to swarm over her warm and pliant flesh.

You watch him, you cannot help it.

And then it is done, and I am gone and you curse yourself for not having seen me go. The angel, he has the face of a child--but I am a man, you think, and you stumble from your seat out into the night. A deep breath of the chilled night air cannot clear your head. I am still in your mind, throbbing inside your flesh. Around the corner, a stage door, and you blush as you hurry towards it.

You are not the only one there. A velvet clad crowd jostles and elbows each other. Whispers of excitement pass from each to each. Surely they must emerge, the famous vampire players. How many there wait for the angel? How many for this or that raven-haired vampire queen? How many wait for Death himself?

"His name, I must know his name," a woman moans, and you know neither to whom she refers nor to whom she is speaking.

How much time passes before the door opens? You cannot say. But eventually, it does. And there I am.

When I smile, you do not see that it doesn't reach my eyes. You don't hear the mocking tones of my laughter. You don't understand, and yet you come with me anyway. Soon you'll know. Soon I'll whisper my secret to you, and then it will be too late... Too late for you. I am no actor. I am indeed Death.

Do you know what it means to be loved by Death?

Tonight, you learn.