I have always possessed a certain quality of effervescence, a zest for life, a joie de vivre which never left me even in death. After Le Th��tre des Vampires burned to the ground in 1864, that spark felt as if it had faded inside me, and so I went to sleep in a crypt at P�re-Lachaise cemetery. A little over thirty years passed, I would learn later, before I awakened.

My first conscious thought was of music. There was music, gaiety, taking place in Paris. Now, this was nothing new, of course, but something about this music, the passion of it, reached inside me and whispered that I was young and beautiful, and that I should be dancing and singing, not lying in waste grieving for a dead lover.

As I thought of Santiago the pain was almost unbearable, but I forced myself to push that sadness deep inside, back into the darkest corner of my soul. I told myself that he would want me to go on, not follow him into death. And even if that wasn�t what he would have wanted, it was what I was damn well going to do.

Next I became aware of my aching blood hunger, and entwined in that, the damnable music which gave me the strength to rise. Someone was playing music in the cemetery. There were mortals -- laughing and talking and drinking -- and playing music.

Stealthily I rolled open the door to my tomb and slipped out. I ran my hands over my hair and clothing, realizing that I was covered with dust. I wondered how much time had passed and if my clothing would be horribly out of fashion. No matter. Blood was the more urgent call.

Quickly I spotted the revelers. I watched them from behind a grave, taking in their youth, their beauty. What feast.

I knew they hadn�t much money from the state of their dress. There were four men and two women, all apparently drunk. The source of the music was a violinist, the oldest of the group, perhaps in his fifties, with wild gray hair. The playing was mediocre at best, but his heart seemed to be in it. It was his passion and not his talent that awakened me. One of the men and one of the women (and both women appeared from their daring yet rundown clothing to be prostitutes) were dancing to the fiddler�s wailings. A third man was fervently trying to convince the other whore to give him a free tumble, and the fourth... the fourth was a handsome young man with long blond hair that trailed into his face. He sat apart from the group scribbling into a leather bound journal and occasionally drinking from a bottle perched on the tomb beside him.

�I�m off duty, Jacques,� the giggling whore told her suitor, pressing against his chest with her fingers. �If you want my favors you must save up your coins and come visit me at the Moulin Rouge!�

The Moulin Rouge? The Red Windmill? What was that? I reached out into their minds and found that all of them knew of the Moulin Rouge. A dance hall, a night club, a brothel -- frequented by the rich and served by the beautiful.

The old violinist stopped playing and laughed so hard he nearly dropped his instrument.

�Marie, you bitch! You know the likes of us only get into the Moulin Rouge if we�re working there.�

�Oh, shut up and pass me that bottle!�

�But, it�s empty!�

�I�ll wager Luc has some left...�

All eyes turned to the blond man who was still busy writing. Without a word, without even looking up, he lifted his bottle, took a sip, then held it out towards Marie who snatched it greedily and drank it down despite the complaints of the others.

It was then I stepped forward. It took them a few moments to notice me, and when they did their reactions were as I expected. The men were attracted, the women were suspicious...and the writer did not lift his head.

�What�s this, then?� said the lecherous man who Marie had rebuffed. �Perhaps you�ll give us a kiss?�

�Indeed I will,� I said, �But I�m shy.�

He strode towards me eagerly and I ducked back behind the tomb. Immediately he seized me but I didn�t mind. He was young, but not handsome, and his blood was hot and rich. My fangs sank into his throat and as he died, he let out a moan of pleasure that drew laughter from his friends. I licked the last drops of blood from my lips, feeling the heat of the liquor he had drunk warming me pleasantly.

�Does anyone else want to kiss me?� I called out in a teasing tone. I heard the dull thud of the violin falling to the ground as the old man practically leapt over the stone to get to me.

The look of horror on his face when he saw his dead friend was priceless. I slapped my hand over his mouth before he could utter a sound and made short work of him as well. I knew I would have to kill all of them. I would leave no witnesses.

The couple who had been dancing had wandered off, leaving only Marie and Luc. Marie looked up at me and scowled. She took her empty Absinthe bottle and smashed it against a tomb.

At last Luc looked up when she did this and frowned. For the first time he saw me, and with satisfaction I noted his attraction to me. There was a clarity in his blue gaze, despite the fact that I knew, could feel, that he, like his friends, was intoxicated. He was young, and beautiful and he was writing poetry, filling his notebook with page after page of it.

Marie stood up, brandishing the broken bottle. I knocked it from her hand. She was taller than me, so I grabbed her arm and twisted it, forcing her down to her knees. I looked at Luc, whose mouth dropped open with surprise, but he didn�t move to interfere. I bent and sank my fangs into the girl�s throat, making short work of her. Luc didn�t even seem to realize that she was lying dead on the ground when I dropped her.

I looked at him, and I wanted him. My cheeks were warm and blushing with the blood I had already taken and my hunger was gone. I wished I could have him in the mortal way and leave him alive, but that would bring me no pleasure.

The little drink, perhaps. He didn�t have to die. I could make him mine. A mortal slave would be useful. I invaded his mind with my own. It was easy. The alcohol made him pliant, and he already loved me with that poet�s soul. I put my arms around him, looking deeply into his eyes.

�Thank you for saving me from the murderer who killed your friends,� I whispered, and this is what he would remember later. �Now take me to the Moulin Rouge.�