You came to the first bubble of sound. She slept in a circle, her skin red patched and purple, a wall of bodies pressing away from her to afford her space.

She slept, and you watched her - peering between the limbs of the inner wall. You watched her rouse - not once opening her eyes - lift her head up to the finger outstretching from the ceiling and drink the blood that dripped to her mouth. When that one slowed, another hand reached down and offered the slight flow from its own gnawed digit. Sated, she began to sing - her eyes remaining closed - and every soul watching became frozen rigid with awe.

While the sweetness and soft gurgling in her voice struck every body still, it urged the shallow blood in their veins to beat louder, to beat bolder, to beat not for their own bodies but for hers, to beat and pour their love and blood into her heart, to give all they could.

By the time she had stopped singing and settled down to sleep once more, you were ready to tear open your own wrists and slake her tiniest thirst.