The ornate clock on the wall, its gilded analog face glistening under the candlelight, reveals it is quarter of midnight. Dawson and I passed the last hour or so discussing places around Chicago and Savannah and England. I do my best to keep track of which places do -and more importantly don't -exist yet.

Exist for Dawson at least.

More and more people fill the room by the minute, everyone eagerly lining up for drinks or tables near the stage, getting ready for the big show. The atmosphere pulses with anticipation. I am no exception.

The lights dim even more until the whole room seems bathed in a scarlet glow. Dawson watches me intensely, never removing his eyes from mine. I wonder how many other girls he's brought here and even more, how many leave here...

As the clock chimes midnight, the golden curtains part and the stage is revealed once again. Stella Ma, front and center in a gloriously beaded dress, is something out of a Gatsby dream. She reminds me a lot of an older Billie Holiday.

"You have a resemblance," Dawson says, eyes flickering between me in my seat and Stella Ma on stage.

"Do you think so?" I ask, almost hopeful.

Stella Ma is certainly beautiful and classy and almost all the things I fear I am lacking.

"Of course, you are much younger," he smiles assuredly.

"I doubt I can sing like she does," I admit aloud.

Almost on cue, the drums start with an upbeat tempo and the room comes alive along with it.

My eyes rest on Stella Ma, still center stage and standing over a vintage microphone, and I am overcome with a sense of giddiness. Perhaps it is the drink Dawson gave me. I understand almost immediately the draw this place -Nevermore -and Stella Ma has.

The instrumental is profound and from her very first note, she's easily the most accomplished singer I've ever heard.

"Beautiful voice, yes? What do you think?" Dawson asks.

"I cannot believe it. It is hard to imagine I've never heard of her," I say aloud.

"Is it?" Dawson asks, head cocked slightly. "She only plays here."

"In Chicago?" I ask, quickly trying to cover my lapse in time-travel informational etiquette again.

"At Nevermore," Dawson elaborates.

"Stella Ma only plays in this basement club?" I ask, dumfounded. My incredulity seeps through my words.

"A tragedy, I know. But it is her heart's desire to play for a chosen few," he tells me.

I suppose it does make this all rather special. Well, even more special and exclusive than it already is. In fact, surveying this mystical parlor, I'm noticing just how selective the guest list is. Dawson seems to know everyone and everyone seems eager to share a word with him.

Alcott, the handsome bartender, joins us at our table for a few songs. He and Dawson seem to know each other fairly well, and I wonder for how long their friendship has been. I listen to them speak and reminisce and laugh together. Alcott asks about my visits to Chicago.

All the while, I'm debating internally whether Alcott is a vampire as well. Although, I'm still not thoroughly convinced Dawson is one!

Sure, he checks a lot of the boxes I've grown to associate with vampirism lore: charismatic, enigmatic, breathtakingly handsome, and cryptically elusive. Seems to just know things. Probably compelling me to be at Nevermore right now. Not to mention the whole speaks-from-another-era vibe.

But that's just my twenty-first-century knowledge speaking. Aunt Vi would blame the books.

I push the worry from my mind, allowing myself to recline further into my chair. Stella Ma's velvety smooth voice envelops my ears and the cherry-smoke aroma of Nevermore's underground parlor engulfs me. I want to experience and enjoy every second of this moment before I am ripped away, torn back to 100 years from now.

The curtains slide shut as Stella Ma finishes her first set, exits the stage, and starts to make her way through the crowd. I can tell by the way she moves and laughs with the patrons that this is very typical. She weaves in and around the tables, stopping to say hello and sometimes chat longer.

As she draws nearer to our cozy, dimly-lit table, I am able to discern more about her. The dress is even more fantastic up close. Stella Ma's raven-haired updo is glamorous as well, in a very 1920s way. I notice she is younger than I originally believed. The way her face glows beneath the red hues is mystifying. She is stunningly beautiful.

"Another night, another flawless show," Dawson croons, eyes centered on Stella Ma as she stops beside our table.

"Another night, same flattery," Stella laughs. She nods to each of us. "Dawson, Alcott, and Miss..."

"Bette," I offer my name.

"Ah, Miss Bette," Stella Ma repeats, her words every bit as silky as her singing voice. "First time to Nevermore?"

"Yes," I answer. Although, I'm not so sure it was a question.

"And Mr. Russo is taking extra care of you, I presume?" She asks, eyeing Dawson, who I notice is sporting a lazy smile as if he just heard some coy inside joke.

Is extra care a Dead Ring thing?

"He is," I answer feebly.

I'm alarmingly aware of how stifling hot it's now become in this gothic speakeasy.

"Bette is visiting from down south," Dawson announces.

"How lovely," Stella Ma sings.

Stella Ma moves along to the next table and then the next, before circling the entire room and returning to the stage for a second set. It must be close to 2 AM, not that I subscribe to the constructs of time lately. For all I know, it is any time of day in any year on any continent.

And here I am with Dawson.