After my date/hang-out with Fred, we texted for a bit and made loose plans to meet again soon, but he's unavailable this weekend. Besides, we've been acting more like friends than anything else through our messages over the past week. So, when the weekend finally arrives, I open LINGR again from the comfort of my cushioned coffin and start swiping.

Huh, this nonbinary human looks cute. Up for yes. Ugh, no, I'm not into zombies... well, at least not that zombie, with their jaw hanging halfway off their head. Down for no.

After a while, I get bored like I would with Tinder. No one has messaged me, so I decide to finally get out of my coffin now that it's nighttime and stroll to my kitchen in my underwear to get a blood packet to suck on. As if in anticipation, my fangs quiver. They're thirstier than my sex drive, honestly.

By the time I stroll back to my coffin, my screen is lit up with two notifications: a text and a message on LINGR. I raise an eyebrow and lower the blood packet from my stained lips. Damn technology. Damn social media. You've got your hand squeezed around my heart because you know how fucking lonely I am.

I put my thumb on the sensor, and my phone unlocks. I open LINGR first, seeing a message from someone named Martha.

Martha: You seem cute. Plans tonight?

Vick: Not into hookups rn. Sorry.

Martha: You're pretty forward, jeez! No, I'm at a speakeasy not far from wherever you're at, according to LINGR's GPS feature.

Vick: Oh, sorry! I didn't understand what you meant.

Martha: That's okay! I'm just here by myself and looking for someone to hang out with. You seem cool. :)

I always wonder how people can tell from a simple profile how or who someone is. Eh, whatever. I have nothing else to do tonight... but if I tell Martha that she might think I'm desperate. Then again, she's the one who just said she's alone and looking for someone to hang out with...

Something that never disappears, even if you become an undead vampire like me: anxiety.

Vick: Thanks! Yeah, I'd love to meet up

Too excited. Come on, self, act cool and suave and whatever! Or is that too heteronormative? I have to pull myself together.

Vick: Thanks! It would be fun to meet up. What's the name of the speakeasy?

Martha responds quickly, and I open it in Apple Maps. Huh, it's really just a few blocks from my apartment. Dope. I scroll out of that and see the icon for a text message.

Abby: hey hot stuff, what are you up to tonight? ;)

I smirk. Abby's too flirtatious for her own good, even toward her friends. It's a wonder she even approached me that night those few months ago... It had been a week since I was turned. I was lost and had no one. I didn't trust myself to be around my family, and the world was still so chaotic after the revelation of the Underworld. Not knowing what else to do, I stumbled into an Underworld Irish pub, desperately seeking a thick Guinness to cancel out the rest of the world and the throbbing taste for blood in my palates.

Abby was there, bartending. Slowly—and sadly, as I got drunker—I revealed all to her, and I won't forget what she said: "Damn, this is pathetic," she said. "You're putting your number into my phone, and I'm calling you tomorrow." And she did, and I suppose that's the end of that. At first, I was really confused if she was flirting with me by insult or insulting me by flirt, but we're still friends, I guess, so that's something.

Vick: I miiiiiight have a date a la LINGR.

She responds immediately.

Abby: ooo, don't let me get in the way of that. What species?

That question is... weird. I don't respond and decide to hop in the shower and get myself ready to meet Martha.

***

The one thing I forgot about speakeasies: sometimes you don't know how the hell to get inside the damn place.

I have circumnavigated this entire stone building six times: three one way and three the other way. Currently, I'm stuck in this dark, dingy alley. Cats yowl. My head pounds. Ugh. It has been half an hour since I have given up and just stayed in the alleyway, hoping the secret entrance would appear. I can feel my fangs quivering again even though I had downed another blood packet before I left. Damn—I really am getting hungrier.

Unfortunately, beyond that, I also texted Martha one too many texts.

Vick: Yo, I'm here, but the entrance is hidden! Hahaha

Vick: I guess that's the point of a speakeasy, though...

Vick: Don't worry, I'll find it soon! Excited to meet you.

Vick: Yeah, still locked out here. Yikes. Am I missing something?

Vick: Hello? You there, Martha?

Stop! I scream to myself in my head. Stop now! Or she'll think you're a freak!

"Vick?"

I whip around, eyes wide, but I only see Abby, donning a strapless floor-length black dress and a diamond necklace. Her bleach blonde hair is straightened and thrown over her right shoulder. "Oh. Hey, Abby. You look nice."

"Can't say the same for you."

Scowling, I look down. I thought the tuxedo shirt was a cute touch and a little bit rebellious: remnant of high-end fashion but rebelling against high society by being comfortable as heck. When I look back up, Abby's snorting. "Kidding," she says. "Are you meeting your date here?"

"Word gets around."

She laughs. "Nah, there's just a cool vampire saxophonist playing here tonight. That's why I wanted to come." She waggles her eyebrows. "Shall we go inside then?"

"I've already blown it," I murmur, holding up my phone, biting my lip.

She snatches my phone, opens her clutch, and throws it in there, snapping it shut. My eyes widen. "Abby, what the fuck?!"

"We're going to find your date," she says, her cold hand grabbing mine. Before I can do more than sputter, she drags me further down the alleyway, kicks a random brick, and a darkened entrance opens up. We go in.

Down a hallway of mirrors, there are few lights, so the only glow is the red in Abby's eyes when she turns back to look at me. "Don't be scared," she says, and I swear I see her smirk.

"I-I'm not!" I realize she's still holding my hand, and I yank it back. She giggles but continues forward. I guess I have no choice to follow her, else I'm stuck in this hall of mirrors forever, my own red eyes glinting back at me. She pauses at the end of the long zigzag row of mirrors, then reaches for my hand again. I take it, and we enter the speakeasy.

This jazz is thrumming through my vessels and the speakers, and the speakeasy is full of throngs of Magical creatures and humans alike. Abby leads us through the first wave of the crowd, and I try to avoid bumping into others. At long last, we reach a clearing, and Abby lets go of my hand. "It's pretty dark in here," she yells loudly and staccatoed. "Are you sure you'll find your date in here?"

"I dunno! Wait... who are you here for?"

"I'm meeting a... secret friend." Abby's eyebrows do their signature waggle. "I don't think you've met her before."

"You have too many friends, Abby." Unlike me.

Just then, someone launches themself onto Abby. The two of them shriek and untangle their limbs, baring their fangs, only the stranger's are more square-ish, sharpened only at the tip, whereas Abby's are like mine, pointed and triangular. When the stranger's eyes meet mine, I withhold a gasp.

This is Martha. She looks exactly like she does in her LINGR photos: curly redhead, pale white skin dotted with freckles, but her irises are yellow. She tilts her head to the right, studying me. She does this for a bit too long because I clear my throat and Abby says, "Jeez, Martha, don't stare so much."

"Abby," I mumble, "Martha is my date from LINGR."

Martha perks up. "Date? Are we there yet? Is this... was this supposed to be a date?" She huffs out her breath and looks down. I too examine her and find her long-sleeved red cocktail dress to fit her well. She brings her eyes back up to mine, and I force mine back up to hers too.

"I was meeting Martha here for the performance," Abby says slowly. "What were you and Martha supposed to get up to, Vick?"

"Um, same." I glare at her. Damn it, Abby. Stop enjoying this so much.

Then, the venue kicks on the ceiling fans. They spin faster and faster, a pungent odor fills my nostrils, damp, a bit musty. I choke so hard I fall forward, my hands braced on my knees.

"You get used to it after a while," Abby says.

"What—is—that?!" I wheeze, staring up at her.

Abby chuckles—damn her!—and puts an arm around Martha. "It's not Martha's fault, you know. It's her natural scent."

"I could say the same about you two," she replies. Her yellow eyes find mine, and for some reason that makes me want to gag all over again. I bring a hand to my mouth; my cheeks bulge.

"Oh no." Abby laughs again. "You did know Martha was a werewolf, right, Vick? Our supposedly mortal enemy?"

"It was on my profile," Martha says softly.

I can't hold back any more: I vomit blood.