We walked through a busy dining room, past the clanging noises of a kitchen, and down narrow stone stairs that were so old the steps were worn concave. When we reached a long, dark corridor, Wil took my arm.

“I can see in almost total darkness,” I said.

“Then you can lead me,” he said, and pulled my arm closer.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty-six, though I look twelve.”

“You don’t look twelve. You look like a really mature eighteen-year-old.” I liked that Wil was close to my age.

We reached the end of the hall and I heard the thumping of music. There was the soft whirr of security cameras above the stainless steel double doors. When the door opened, music and heat hit me in a blast. A hulking wrestler of a man in a skintight black T-shirt and black jeans stood in front of us. “Wil!” he shouted above the din.

“Jonesy,” Wil said, then tipped his head toward me. “This is Mil, my friend.”

The doorman waved us into the crowded club. Silver foil wallpaper reflected light from ornate red chandeliers. The band onstage squalled an unholy Euro-emo-electronic pop mix that actually kind of worked. Wil led me through the mass of bodies, yelling out to pals, grabbing a spliff from a girl and inhaling deeply. He tried to pass it to me.

“Don’t waste it on me,” I yelled into his ear. “I’m immune to altering substances.” I was so fascinated by a man sitting on a red velvet throne set on a raised dais that I almost tripped. I was even more fascinated with an eight-foot-wide box half filled with thick, dark red liquid and set atop a tall platform.

We made our way to the other side of the room, where tables lined the wall, and sat with a group of Wil’s friends.

“This is Mil,” he said.

“Wil and Mil,” one said, and waved to the waiter.

“Who’s that?” I asked Wil as I looked toward the man on the throne. The man had straight black hair and a look of satisfaction.

“The king.” To one of his friends, Wil said, “How’d that wanker get to be king?”

“You have a king?” I asked Wil. “No wonder you’re working toward a more egalitarian society. Royalty is so Dark Ages.”

Everyone at the table started laughing.

“Excuse me for having a more enlightened view of the class system,” I said.

“He’s not the king of the vampires,” Wil said, grinning. “We’ve got a running lottery and the winner gets to be king or queen for a night and choose the DJ and such. The money goes to a charity of your choice, and that arse is always sending it to the damned Windmills Trust.”