I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    **There is no love greater than this: to die for a friend


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    Join date : 2012-05-13

    **There is no love greater than this: to die for a friend

    Post  Tariq on Mon Aug 21, 2017 6:45 pm

    It was, as it often was for the dead, a beautiful night.

    The vampire could not see the stars like pinpricks of light through a dark cloth draped over the city, but the cool air that wisped delightfully over his skin sharpened his senses to a fine edge. It was enough to make him ache, in this place where the scent of blood was impossible to escape. Warm bodies swayed from open windows, writhing together in pairs or trios on the street, shoulders bare even with the chill, delicate throats flashing invitingly.

    Women called raucously from doorways. He could taste the salt of their sweat on his lips.

    Some nights, the vampire hunted, picking his way with sinuous animal grace through alleys and along the edges of whitewashed houses until he discovered who was calling to him. Sometimes it was an auspiciously unlocked door, a drunk and lonely sob by the black river’s edge that drew him like a falcon to a lure. Other times it was something harder to detail - a whiff of something almost heartbreakingly poignant that he could not place until he followed it like a line of unspooled thread back to its source, or the skip of a heart from across town that he should not have been able to hear even with his keen senses.

    He could not have articulated these impulses to anyone else, nor would he have wanted to try. It was sacred and it was intimate. There was a significance in finding the proper kill, an eloquent importance to this wordless song that made his victims seem to glow when he clasped them in his hands and took their lives with his mouth.

    Other nights, such as this one, he was less direct. He wandered without purpose, mingling with the aimless crowd. The familiar weight of the wood in his hand was a talisman. He went unseen unless he chose not to be. He was not accosted unless he wished to be.

    La Fête des morts had concluded but the city was still abuzz with excitement. The stubs of candles and remnants of sweet cakes littered the streets, the fingers of those who could afford them still stained with the scent of chrysanthemums. The graves of the familiar dead, the beloved departed, would be wreathed in light and flowers that would soon soak the air with their sweet rot. The vampire had little doubt he had swelled the numbers of lit candles, added to the gravestones carefully tended in tender memory. The thought plucked a faint pleasure from him.

    The lively lilt of a plucked pochette snagged his attention and he followed the sound with idle interest. His eyes were unfocused, lazy, his path determined by his feet’s tread on the stone and the careful tapping of his cane. He found the performers at the intersection of two streets still bustling with activity, the growing crowd they attracted proving a nuisance to anyone trying to pass.

    The vampire paused well beyond the swell of the crowd, sheltered beneath crooked eaves like a brooding blackbird. The tune the man plucked on the kit violin was high-spirited but the lyrics the woman at his side sang in a clear voice were mournful and glittering with grief:

    Il n'y a pas d'amour plus grand que ça:
    Mourir pour un ami.

    He closed his cobwebbed eyes and allowed her sweet voice to wash over him. He listened with cocked head and attentive ear until the song ended and the buskers, flushed with exertion even without the sun, passed through the crowd seeking food or coin for the performance. The vampire roused himself, the ache of the sharp teeth in his mouth urging him onward, and slipped into a winding side street.

    The air was danker here, voices and footfall echoing as within a cathedral. The vampire stepped delicately past a pair who, if their moans were any indication, were shamelessly enjoying their coupling against a wall and toward the entrance to what could generously be called a bar.

    This was not a respectable part of town; the door was little more than a torn cloth, the slanted roof full of holes through which light and laughter and the stink of beer and unwashed bodies spilled. The vampire considered it for only a moment before making to turn away, off to pursue some quieter quarry, when the makeshift door was tugged to the side and a body tumbled out of the den of warmth to the sound of shouting. He was drunk, staggering, and nearly fell headlong into the vampire. His exit was pursued by an exasperated female voice.

    “--knows it better than I do, but pour l'amour de Dieu you don’t have to act so-” She cut off abruptly at the sight of the stranger and her voice when she addressed him switched abruptly to one sugared with a feigned respect.

    “Je vous demande pardon, Monsieur, for my idiot friend. He is upset.”

    The boy - and the vampire could see now that he was a boy, and something in the way he moved, shivering with cold or anger or some impious combination of the two reminded him abruptly and clearly of the boy tucked safely in his house and his mouth filled suddenly with water - took a step closer to the stranger, away from the girl. The defiance in his voice was a youthful jutting of chin, a tight clenching of fists.

    “Tu me gonfles. I don’t need you to tell me what to do.” He turned toward the vampire, swaying softly with the drink. “Hé, Monsieur, do you look for company tonight?” The girl in the doorway made a sound of disgust.

    There was little of breathy seduction in his tone despite his fumbling attempt to inject it there, but the vampire heard something else in the attractive slur of his words, glinting like golden motes of dust.

    He was courting death. And the vampire graciously accepted the invitation.

    “I think I just found what I was seeking,” he confirmed in a voice like warm resin, his hunger shifting like a living creature in his belly. He raised his arm and the boy eagerly stumbled to the warmth of his side. His arm encircled the vampire’s waist and a faint shiver went up his spine at the touch.

    The anger radiating from the girl in the doorway was hot enough to sear and she nearly spat out the words, “Fine, Jehan! I wash my hands of it.” She disappeared into the lively bowels of the bar, the fabric swinging like an irate cat’s tail behind her.

    The boy shrank at her words and the vampire reached with the hand holding the cane between two fingers to tip his chin up. “Pay it no mind,” he said softly, teeth aching in his jaw. “She will forgive you, oui?” De mortuis nihil nisi bonum, a wicked voice whispered in his head. He had to refrain from showing his teeth. “I will show you where I live, we will drink good wine, and you will show me how delightful your company can be.”

    This perked his companion up and he murmured an enthusiastic assent. The pair stepped out into the gloom of the night, Tariq throbbing in sweet anticipation of tearing the boy apart.

      Current date/time is Fri Nov 17, 2017 3:51 pm