"They've booked us a fucking limo? What are we, in the nineties?"

I stare at the long black monstrosity parked before us. I never liked these things to begin with. Yeah, they have fancy lights and fully-stocked bars, but you can't even stand in them. It's like flying first class without the legroom.

"That's how long it takes trends to reach the dusty old geezers," Aeneas—or, shall I say, Iva Hardon—thankfully sounds as peeved as I feel. "Would it kill them to hire someone younger than the Venus of Hohle Fels for their outreach team?"

"Why do we even need it?" I groan as we approach the damn thing and the chauffeur opens the door for us. "We can sprint faster than these stupid shiny metal cages."

"Because The Elders are throwing this shindig and we don't wanna make them angry. Now stop complaining and move your hoe ass!"

Iva—Aeneas—smacks said hoe ass of mine and I begrudgingly obey. The interior is bathed in a sickly purple that instantly brings me back to frosted tips, bad MDMA trips, and ice beer benders.

"Shindig?" My face scrunches at both the word and what's around us. "I really am back in the twentieth century, aren't I?"

"You and me both," Iva adjusts her legs as the door closes. "I haven't seen this much neon purple since that twink threw up his lean at Coachella in '99."

We both visibly shudder at the memory. I wonder what happened to Rage Against The Latrine after he got out of that stall.

"On the bright side, Cuntralia is probably stewing in an identical box of shame right now," Iva says.

"Did you have to remind me that she'll be there?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, bitch tonight is about you. If you keep jumping like that every time anyone mentions her, you'll give me a heart attack."

"You can't get a heart attack."

"It's a figure of speech," Iva pats her blonde wig coiffed in an elegant updo. "And I bet you'll still manage it. Like remember that one time in Cabo—"

"Alright, okay, I get your point!" The last thing I want is a walk down that memory lane.

"Promise me you won't give her the time of day?"

I sigh in frustration.

"I promise I'll try. Is that good enough?"

"No, but I'll take what I can get from you."

I distract myself with conversation for the rest of the ride. The truth is, I'm hoping she shows up. Refusing an invitation from the Elders is the ultimate insult, and seeing as this is a party in my honour and our millennia-long beef isn't exactly private, I can easily get roped into it. As much as I dread her being there, her absence might be worse.

Eventually, we get out of the time machine from hell and stand before Montreal's Notre Dame cathedral. Say what you will about the nineteenth century, but the Gothic revival movement—from an architectural standpoint, at least—is the best thing that's ever happened to humanity bar the original wave during the medieval times. And this cathedral is a prime example.

The gray limestone façade brings me right back to when I first saw it. When it was but a couple of decades old. Twin towers stand a graceful two hundred feet tall (that's sixty meters for those of us who use logical units of measurement) and frame its entrance. Large arched windows line the towers, divided by thin stone mullions. The entrance, with its richly detailed three grand doors, is framed by pointed arches and crowned with statues of Joseph, Mary, and John the Baptist.

Now, I'm going to piss some of you off, but I find this completely ridiculous. And not just because I was around when the whole "Christianity" trend first started. No, what I find ridiculous is this odd obsession with idolatry. Not like it started with the Abrahamic religions, though. People used to worship Apollo as this beautiful god of music, for fuck's sake. I met the guy; he's a douchebag with a spit fetish.

But humans are gonna human; it's best not to dwell on it, and so I don't. Instead, I straighten my back, lift my chin, and prepare to go into boss mode as a young man opens a pair of giant doors for us and we walk in.

I have to say, the interior never fails to impress me. The vaulted ceilings are a rich blue dotted with gold stars. On the left stands The Pulpit of Truth, an intricately detailed spiralling staircase decorated with saints and cherubs. Most stained-glass windows in such cathedrals depict biblical scenes, but not this one. Instead, it's a bunch of images from the religious history of the city. You know, like that one time they forcibly converted the indigenous folk. Fun.

But the star of the show is the altar. It's carved with intricate details and illuminated in golden hues. Jesus's crucifixion—with Mary and John on either side and Mary Magdalene at his feet—is its centrepiece. Around it are scenes from the Tanakh (no, not the Old Testament. That book was based on the Tanakh and that's where those scenes come from, kids). Above them all, Mary is crowned by Jesus, and at the very bottom is a high relief of the Last Supper carved on wood. They are surrounded by three sculptures of saints on either side. Idolatry is cringe, but it sure yields great art.

"Matriarch," a high male voice rings out, and everyone bows.

"And friend," Iva says under her breath.

"Thank you all for coming," I smile at them. "And you, Jasper, for announcing me, as always."

The man who spoke straightens. His short blond curls bounce slightly as he does, and his green eyes gleam as his lips widen in a grin. "Always my pleasure, ma'am. And Aeneas, Sir."

"Oh, stop it," I playfully shove his shoulder. "How many centuries have we known each other?"

"Not nearly enough."

I roll my eyes with a smile. You do one nice thing, and it follows you for all eternity. Not that I mind the flattery and loyalty, but Jasper can be a little much. And I'm saying this with Aeneas/Iva as my best friend.

We go around and make small talk with everyone. Most people are from my coven, but more of the outsiders steadily trickle in. The Elders invite everyone they can to these soirees, even if they never bother to show up themselves. For now, I mainly greet people I have turned and known for millennia. There's Marcus, my very first one, who used to soak the communal bathroom sponges in garum when we were children before he was drafted. (I still remember the look on that old hag's face when she realized the fish market stench was coming from her crotch.) Then there's Catherine who was dying of the bubonic plague when I met her. (Ironically, she runs a rat rescue now.) Oh, and who can forget old Rhonda? A hardened World War 2 veteran who, unfortunately, lost an eye and a leg before gaining immortality.

"Yeah, it sucks," she says when we strike up a conversation about it, "but, hey, at least I always have a Halloween costume on me."

"You don't go to Halloween parties," Louise, her girlfriend still living in the days of victory rolls, points out.

"Babe, are you trying to make me feel bad about my disability?"

"No, just pointing out the flaws in your reasoning."

"Oh yeah? You want me to shut that little whore mouth of yours?"

"I think you should. I've been a very bad girl."

And they start making out.

"O-kay," I slowly back away with Iva in tow, "glad to see nothing's changed there. Enjoy your evening!"

"Well, good to know Rhonda's sex drive is still that of a horse in heat," Iva says as we turn and walk off.

"Is it good to know, though? I'd rather not see her bare ass on display tonight."

Iva brings a hand to her open mouth. "How else would this be a party?"

We approach the snack station where a 40-inch blood fountain reigns as its centrepiece. A hand-woven tapestry hangs behind it, reading 'Joyeux 2200e Anniversaire' in elegant red calligraphy on a white background. Folk from other clans begin trickling in, and with them, we sample the aforementioned blood with different bloodcakes shaped like bats, coffins, and crosses. Vera Sokolova—the matriarch of an eastern European coven who eats pussy like it's going through that time of the month—isn't very pleased with the baked goods. Oh, she likes them but says they perpetuate vampire stereotypes. I, for one, think they're adorable.

A short while later, Jasper introduces me and Iva to his new partner, a tall and very handsome man by the name of George Carter.

"North America must be a little awkward for you right now," I say when he tells me he fought for the Union during the US Civil War.

He laughs, pearly whites on full display and baritone resonating above the murmurs of the crowd. If I weren't dead, my face would be the shade of that blood fountain.

"Sometimes," he says, "there's this guy I met—way before Jasper, you see—and, well, let's just say his timing for letting me know which side he fought for was rather unfortunate."

"Ooh," Iva perks up, "do tell."

"Well, that was how I found out our dicks can't grow back once bitten off."

We all burst out laughing, I laugh so hard that I feel my bat bloodcake coming up my nose.

"I like him, Jasper, he can stay," I wipe invisible tears.

He and George both smile and bow their heads. I wonder if George is an ancestor of Idris Elba's, the resemblance is uncanny.

"Thank you, Matriarch," Jasper says as he squeezes George's hand, "this means a lot coming from you."

As ass-kissy as this sounds, he means it. A word from me will go miles with The Elders in inaugurating George as an official member of our coven. Which is hard in and of itself, seeing as neither I nor anyone from my lineage—to my knowledge—turned him.

"Of course," I smile, "I'll be happy to put in a good word."

Iva checks her phone. "And on that happy note, it's almost time to turn this party up, queens. Wish me luck!"

"You never need it," I say at the same time as George and Jasper say, "Good luck."

"Hoe," Iva smiles, rolls her eyes at me, and saunters off to the altarpiece. Once there, she turns to face all of us and raises her hands for silence. One by one, the voices quiet down and everyone turns their attention to her.

I can't help but look among the crowd for a blonde mop of hair and a smug, self-absorbed face, but I don't see Aurora or any of her coven anywhere. I'm so relieved that I almost forget that this should worry me. This is not good, I don't want to be called before The Elders because of her. I can't believe I'm saying this, but her absence is actually souring my mood.

No. Fuck it. If she decides not to show, it's not my fault. I didn't force her to stay in whatever hole she crawls out of every time she shows her face. All I can do is explain as much to the Elders if and when they talk to me about this. I've done nothing wrong, there's nothing I can do now to fix this, and that's that. So, instead of sulking about a bitch whose name goes in cadence with the northern solar wind disturbance of the earth's magnetosphere, I turn my attention to Iva/Aeneas and watch.

"Hello, Montreal!" Iva's voice reverberates to cheers and applause throughout the cathedral. I don't even have to use my enhanced hearing.

"It's good to have you all here tonight," she continues, "and those who came from elsewhere, merci beaucoup. I see most of you have kept all your limbs, and I guess The Veil worked perfectly this time. Though it seemingly glitched out on Rhonda."

A wave of laughter goes through the crowd, and Rhonda herself laughs the loudest. The Veil is how most of us travel long-distance. Think of it as a series of wormholes with exits located in specific locations around the globe. You need a certain level of self-control, or be in contact with someone who does, to travel through it in one piece. So it's not recommended for newturns unless they're accompanied by an older vampire.

"I was a little distracted!" Rhonda yells as she squeezes Louise's ass and plants one on her mouth.

"Okay, Gene Simmons, girl, calm down," Iva spares them a glance as everyone laughs. "While those two eat through each others' faces, let's take a moment to thank The Elders From Beyond the Veil for organizing and hosting this wonderful soiree. Thank you, Elders!"

Everyone, including Iva, bows their heads. While they never bother to show up, word always reaches them, and they can be really petty. I admit, vampires have their problems with idolatry too. Or, well, a few old farts beyond The Veil do.

"We hope to do you proud with our debauchery, queens. And now, back to old rockstars and long tongues. I'm sure you know who we're all gathered here today for!"

A few laughs and smiles shoot my way out of the crowd, and Iva continues.

"For two thousand two hundred years, this woman has led us through the thick and thin. And I'm talking literally! Who here remembers the dark years before two-ply toilet paper, or the Boston molasses flood of 1919?"

Quite a few people nod and shudder at that. Those who don't were either in different parts of the world or not born yet.

"I remember that," Jasper murmurs, "I still can't open doors in Boston without wiping the handles first."

"And that's just the last couple hundred years, " Iva continues. "Who can forget all the wars, plagues, art movements, inventions—"

I can't help myself. "Okay, we get it, I'm an old woman!"

"You're our old woman, hunty! Now shut up and let me do my thing!"

More people laugh.

"She started our humble little coven with nothing but a rough guideline and spent millennia building it up to what it is today. And, look at her now! She slays, she werks, she's looking snatched mama boots the house down!"

Okay, so maybe Aeneas uses the drag glossary a little too sparingly. Still, I pose and smile at the confused applause and the effort my bestie puts in.

"Truly, it bears no mention that most of us here would be dusty piles of bones if it weren't for this brilliant woman. Every second I spend with her, I feel enriched, inspired, and empowered. Two thousand two hundred years, and she still radiates the same energy and enthusiasm as she always had. And this is why we're all here today, isn't it? To celebrate, not only this woman, but also the amazing community she's created and enriched. And for a lucky few of you queens to get in her bed!"

"Oh my gods," I hide my face under my palm as I feel eyes on me. Not that I'm embarrassed—if you haven't noticed already, we vampires are pretty open with our sexuality. But I don't want some of my exes taking this as an opportunity. I really need to talk to Iva about this after.

"Without further ado, make some noise for the one, the only, the hot and sexy mother of us all, Luc—"

Double doors behind us slam open. A furious gust of wind blasts through the space, extinguishing candles and blowing red strands of hair into my face. Steady clicks of high heels echo against the walls in the quiet that follows. If the over-dramatic entrance and Iva's darkening face weren't a dead giveaway of who just made an appearance, those infuriating clicks are. I feel like I'm being pulled to turn around against my will like I'm a puppet in someone's sick mummer's farce. And, when I do, I come face-to-face with her.