The Pantheon was quiet this time of year. The sun stayed high in the sky, the moon hung low in the east, and the wind brought rain down from the mountains. The harvest times and cold weather brought feast days and funerals, which meant more offerings and gifts for her and her undead patrons.

Named for the darkest time of night, Madrugada was vampire who fancied herself an entrepreneuse. In a frenzy of creative energy, driven by the lights and flowers of autumn, she had converted this crypt into a quaint watering hole for other residents of the graveyard and called it False Light.

This is how vampires, zombies, ghouls, and other undead refer to any type of illumination that isn’t sunlight. The northern lights in the sky are a type of false light.

Madrugada knew a place where it was always night. Or so she told her patrons, who often asked, and then didn’t believe what she told them. She had lived there for centuries, which was only a fraction of her existence.

Safe as candles, Madrugada always said. Wouldn’t even hurt a bat.

The crypt became known as an undead refuge as much as a successful business, and compelled her to stay on the mountainside. As the air cooled and the darkness rose, she sat up in her coffin and peeked carefully out of the western window.

There was still an orange light touching parts the mountainside. She guessed the sun was still hovering like a dark orange circle over the ocean but sinking fast. 

Madrugada leaned back into her coffin and bided her time by examining the most recent version of the drink menu. She was proud of her latest revisions. The total was now a perfect nine, and read as follows;

Holy Water. It burns, but in that good way and not like the real stuff. A bit of ground habanero, a shot of human vitals, and sharp apple soda. 

Hot Vampire. Not usually thought of as the warmest of bodies, the Host maintains they are the most appealing of the undead races. She is willing to die again on that hill with this drink, which combines a shot of Birmingham whiskey with whole Pequín peppers, lemonade, and jellied tonsils. 

Tiramigiu. Why pick them up when you really want to lay them down? Coffee, brain pudding, fresh cartilage, and the blood type of your choice.

The Bloody Nun. Based on a true story. Clamato juice, beer, a shot of type A, and a stick of red licorice.

The Torchbearer. Cream, maple syrup, type O negative, and tequila, layered and lit on fire. Mind your nose, if you still have one.

Winter Harvest. In memory of our fallen hero Grendel. A shot of Akvavit with sheep or goat’s blood, garnished with human bone marrow, drained and freshly smashed every day.  

Queen’s Poison. In honor of one of our most famous visitors. Sparkling water, lime, absinthe, plasma, and of course a blood-curdling scream. Not likely to turn you into an old hag, unfortunately. 

Screaming Eyes. How can the eyes scream? Every vampire who likes the eyes knows the answer to this riddle. Mull it over with tomato juice, a splash of lemon, vodka, a pinch of salt, oversized tapioca pearls, hemoglobin, and a generous garnish of pickled eyeballs.

The Unconsecrated. A drink from the Host’s own ancient homeland, inspired by the Vrykolakas of Greek folklore. Honey syrup, lemonade, ouzo, and fresh cerebrospinal fluid.

            The pub food usually consisted of the usual fare anyone would expect in a haven intended for the undead. Roasted beetles, crunchy dried ears, fried fiddleheads. Tonight, however, was special, so she was serving illuminated cakes using the same ancient recipe her mother had taught her.

The lamps were lit, the glasses were gleaming, and the sun fell into the ocean. It opened a dark red path from the horizon into the shadowy hills that sheltered the Pantheon. Her first customers would be here soon, fat and happy after eating some drunk tourists caught in an errant wave.

Another night in paradise.