**Interlude 18 - I have been bruised by the beauty of the moon

Even Fabien, accustomed to constant companionship, might find the nearness of his vampire companions in the following day stifling. Like wolves after the scent of blood, once they had gotten a taste of him they were hard-pressed to leave him be. He was persuaded to stay near, obliged to join in washing mingled blood from their lips and throats in the hot water of the bath, coaxed to join them, lazy and sated, in the silky sheets of Tariq’s bed once more.

Black teeth-marks dotted the curve of his neck, vampiric love-bites speckling his wrists and the soft skin on the inside of his thighs. Their hands rarely strayed too far from the warmth of his body, their hungry mouths pressing adoring kisses into skin that raised beneath them. He became intimately familiar with the animal press of their wolfish bodies against his.

Eventually, perhaps as a mercy to his fragile mortal body, their affection grew less urgent. Like birds sensing an approaching storm, their mood seemed always to mirror one another, and though they continued to stroke his hair and speak sweetly and strangely to him, their conversations were more often interspersed with quiet talk he could not understand.

Finally, he was properly dismissed, sent away with coppery kisses. They spoke idly of their plans to leave for the night, some mention made of a ship, and soon after they were gone and the boy was left to his own devices.

If Fabien did not seek them out, he would not find Émile - whether intentionally or otherwise, they stayed out of his way.

However, no matter where he ended up, he would not get much of the rest he craved before Colombe found him. She was flighty, her hair coming out of its tie in wisps, hands restless and her dark, tired eyes vaguely penitent for rousing him.

Her gaze graciously refrained from lingering on the dark smudges along his neck.

She was pleased to find him and took his hand in her warm hand, gesturing for him to join her outside, in the courtyard. She did not offer any explanations. There was something pleading in her request, as though she desperately needed him beside her in the last golden rays of the late afternoon sun.

Fabien's morning passed before him like a heady dream after a night of excess wine and revelry.

The youth responded to his beautiful companions prompting with exhausted whispers. He was mesmerised by their presence, and so overstimulated he was almost completely mute. His fingers trembled where they met skin, his breath caught in his throat at the press of their mouths.

Their time together in the bath was almost torturous. His memories of the night before had returned to him indistinct and hallucinatory. But the sight of their bare skin, hair wet and serpentine and eyes glowing had him short of breath.

The boy's expression shifted from frenzied desire to crestfallen frustration. He reached for them with limbs as heavy and cumbersome as stone. Often it became too much, and his head bowed against a gleaming shoulder, or came to rest upon the curve of a damp neck. His breath came in short, unhappy pants as his inability to keep up.

Their return to his master's bed was met with miserable relief. He was content to lay entwined between them, glowing with self-importance and as lordly as a pampered courtesan.

And then suddenly he was alone.

The boy stood dazed in the dark hall, supporting his weight against the wall with a quivering arm. He did not know how he managed to reach his room unaided. Nor how he walked upright instead of crawling hand and knee.

He slumped upon his bed victoriously and released a soft, weary sigh of contentment. This was how his dear friend would find him, barely dressed and sprawled with a leg and arm dangling like a drunkard.

The boy was not easy to rouse. He greeted Colombe with an unhappy groan, reluctant to be dragged away from sleep. He examined her pale face from behind the tangled sweep of hair that was still damp from the bath.

"D'accord, d'accord, I am coming." He rasped groggily, under the assumption she had come to collect him for some mundane task.

The urchin groaned with effort as he forced his trembling muscles into action. Once upright Colombe's face came into sharper focus. He studied her large, troubled eyes with growing concern.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Colombe?" He asked gently.

He squeezed the girl's hand affectionately as she guided him through the darkening house. His other hand fumbled to button his shirt more modestly.

The cold evening air stirred through the boy's clothes and hair. He shivered and gripped the material at his collar to preserve his warmth as he squinted into the sun.

The sun was a starburst of yellow as it perched precariously along the distant roofs. The tendrils of ivy curled serpentine up the old, crumbling stone facade in the growing shadows between cloth-covered windows that stared blankly out at them. The moon, round and pale in the waning light, was already creeping upward in the azure sky.

It was cold, an icy chill in the smoke-scented air, and Columbe kept his hand clasped tightly in hers as they walked. He could smell her, the earthy spice of the oil she wore like a talisman and her warm, clean skin. It was a stark contrast to the cool, chthonic scent of the vampires he had so recently left.

They passed beneath the shadow of the spreading hawthorn tree, dark branches rustling conspiratorially, and to the padlocked gate that once, a very long time ago, his host had designated as the end of the boy’s freedom.

He had thought then of flashing birds in gilded cages. As Colombe’s dark gaze lifted to the vampire’s empty room overlooking the balcony and back towards Fabien, did he still feel a prisoner?

She released his hand to unlock the gate with a motion so practiced he could not hear the click of the mechanical innards, and gestured for him to follow into the land beyond. The gate swung shut behind them with a rusted creak.

The garden beyond had not been maintained in some seasons, and the remains of ornamental flowers, now wild and unkempt and sparring with weeds for space, thrust from the ground in clumps. The silhouette of large trees bordered the path. This may have been a joyful space, once. Now it was cold and grey and dotted with small outbuildings that sagged between gaptooth fences with missing boards.

His friend guided him past a rusted shed, long-handled garden tools visible past the open door, where he was immediately met with a rush of fluttering movement and soft cooing. Beneath an overhang was a stone pigeon loft, twice the size of his host’s opulent bath. Inside was a flurry of downy brown and grey feathers as half a dozen birds were roused by their arrival. They were round and soft, their wings banded in glossy black as they emerged from the insulated wooden houses stuffed with straw and paper lining the loft. They were clearly well cared for. The birds did not shrink back as the pair approached but bobbed their iridescent heads in dumb animal excitement, bright eyes turning to inspect their hands for seed.

The heavy stone structure, overlaid with metal grating to let in light and air, had not yet succumbed to disrepair. Words were carved in a curling script above the screened door.

Colombe made a calming clucking sound between her teeth and the pigeons responded with a low purr. They inspected Fabien inquisitively, prancing in their ostentatious feather suits. The small, black talons on their scaled toes were shiny where they dug into the perches.

Columbe pulled him close beside her, her warmth welcome in the bitter cold. She carefully unlatched the door, startling a few birds who leapt to new perches in a whir of discarded feathers and dust, and gestured to a dark corner at the bottom of the loft.

He would have to crane his neck to see the stiff bundle of soft feathers on the dusty floor. One rigid foot, pink toes curled in a loose fist, extended from the mound of grey feathers. It couldn’t have been dead long.

His friend watched him carefully to be sure he’d seen the small body. She indicated with a nod a patch of overturned ground where the dry stems of wildflowers poked out from the rough hole she’d dug, then looked back at him with pleading sincerity.

He had watched her prepare the bodies of the vampire’s human prey for their modest burial in stoic silence, seen her scrub caked blood and black dirt from her hands without so much as a sigh. Now it seemed she was requesting his help to transfer a much smaller body to its grave.

Fabien's weight brushed against Colombe's shoulder as they walked together. His feet moved with staggering clumsiness, his breath heavy in his throat as he kept close to her side. The boy was patient and warm, he did not interrupt with further prying unease or tense questions.

The urchin's dark brows lifted when they paused at the gate. He mirrored her, turning his eyes up to the empty balcony. His lips parted as though he meant to speak, but he only swallowed heavily when their eyes met. Around them, the sound of muffled life beyond the high walls of the garden continued.

Once beyond the gate, the boy's eyes roved around the tangled wilds of the overgrown garden with interest. But despite this new discovery, he was not distracted from his purpose and his attention remained fixed on Colombe.

The boy's expression grew warm at the sight of the pigeon loft, and his eyes returned to Colombe.

"Ben regarde ça." He murmured softly as they approached. "Bonsoir, Mesdames, how fine you are."

Fabien bent at the waist as Colombe pulled him close and he drew near to look more closely into the dim interior.
Exhaustion had made him slow and sluggish, and he was not quick to spot what so troubled his friend. Then, just as she neared the point of desperation, he caught sight of the feathered shape motionless in the gloom.

The boy paused, and then nodded, his eyes dark with sympathy.

"Oh, I see." He said softly, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "D'accord, chérie, do not fret. We will sort it."

The boy bent low and with a grunt of effort reached for the little feathered body. It was retrieved with such care, and brought into the waning light as though it still lived and breathed.

Once secure in his long fingered hand, it was overturned and laid to rest with it's chest flat upon his palm. He gently tucked the delicate wings against its silken body.

"And now here?" He asked, and waited for her assent.

He knelt beside the little grave she had prepared, the bird held firm against his chest. With his other hand he clawed away more handfuls of damp soil to deepen the tiny pit. Then, and only if she approved, would he begin to carefully lower the bird down to rest.

All the while, his eyes often returned to Colombe to ensure he followed her wishes correctly. Unless she bid him otherwise, he would continue with this task and begin to conceal the bird with handfuls of dark earth. Every gesture, every movement of his hands perfectly betrayed his love and consideration for her. The earth like potters clay in his hands, patted and smoothed over as he worked.

Colombe watched attentively as he retrieved the bundle of limp feathers from the bottom of the loft. She made space for him to turn aside and reached to carefully latch the door behind him. The pigeons trilled a collective note of displeasure, pecking moodily at the ground for a meal that had not manifested, and her eyes lightened. She scolded the birds for their petulance with a wagging finger, smiling as they responded with chirps and the bustle of busy wings, before turning back to Fabien.

There was no real despair in the corner of her lips or downturned eyes - only fatigue and a trace of relief as he carried the body to the overturned earth. She nodded thankfully at his gentle prompting. She crossed her arms across her chest as though to protect against the cold, keeping silent sentinel as he covered the delicate feathers with clods of cold dirt.

When it was done and buried she squeezed his shoulder in wordless thanks. She offered her hand to help him to his feet, and if he did not pull away, invited him to sit next to her on the short wall across from the pigeon loft, idly brushing gritty dirt from her palm.

The last traces of the sun’s light had evaporated without ceremony and the girl’s hair was dark. The heavy, round moon that had risen in its place illuminated the garden with uncanny silver light. It conjured grey shadows of twisted plants and stretched fenceposts into gnarled fingers.

Colombe rested her head on his shoulder. The pigeons across from them had returned to their roosts, their feathers rustling as they settled. He could feel his companion’s warm breath. All was calm and still.

All at once the peace was shattered by the sharp crack of the house door to the courtyard being flung open with such force it struck the wall. There was a distant crunch of broken glass.

Colombe’s brows furrowed in uneasy confusion and she lifted her head to glance questioningly at Fabien. Her breath had quickened like a hare’s.

She rose instinctively, her shoulders tense, and gestured with her palm for him to remain concealed as she quietly stepped around the corner of the shed to scout ahead. Her expression was carefully devoid of emotion, though she could not quite disguise the nervous set of her mouth.

She had not made it beyond a few steps before coming to an abrupt halt. She inhaled a sharp gasp.

There was something beyond the gate. It was not the master of the house.

It was surely not a person at all - its lanky limbs were all the wrong shape, the proportions all the wrong size. Its dark silhouette, slit into pieces by the slats of the fence, was deep-chested and long-legged as a courtier’s sleek hunting hound.

But this was no dog, either - it was far too large, standing nearly as tall as the fence. It was fiercely still.

Though they could not see its eyes, Colombe’s skin crawled as though she could feel them on her. She was frozen in place, immobilized by shock, her own wide eyes fixed on the trespasser. She was shivering.

The dark shape beyond the gate stirred. They could hear it snuffling, beast-like, at their tracks in the cold earth beneath the fence. Its jaws came together with a snap. After a pause, the figure loped easily out of view behind the stone fence.

There was only one exit to the courtyard, and they were currently occupying it. Whatever fell beast they had seen, it either lingered there, out of sight, or had retreated into the lightless corners of the dark and empty house.

Once satisfied with his work, Fabien accepted Colombe's hand gladly. He rose as unsteadily as a spring lamb, and grinned at her as he brushed his hand down his thigh.

The urchin groaned as he slumped heavily upon the wall. He swept his arm around her shoulder, and sighed heavily.

"This winter drags long, non? I miss the warm evenings on the roof." He said softly.

He lifted his chin to regard the moon, more familiar to him now than bright sun filled skies. He appeared wary of examining the garden now that night had fully crept in around them. His sharp cheek came to rest on Colombe's crown, and he closed his eyes and half drifted to sleep.

For the second time Fabien was torn abruptly from rest. This time, violently enough to rattle the teeth in skull and steal his breath. His entire body stiffened in shock, and he reached to grasp his friend's arm.

The boy was loathe to let her go, but he nodded and shrank back behind the wall. He lifted his chin just a fraction to allow his eyes to follow her path towards the gate. When Colombe paused, he ceased to draw breath. His eyes moved beyond her silhouette, and fell upon the dark shape that moved nearby.

Stunned, the boy slowly eased up from behind the wall. His eyes, so dark and wide, were glistening like river stones. His mouth hung dumbly open, and the hands which gripped the crumbling brick were white knuckled bones in the moonlight.

The creature had moved out of sight before Fabien had truly tried to grasp what it was. The moment it was gone, he vaulted over the wall on stumbling feet to reach her. The boy seized his friend by her shoulders. His hands were trembling, his grip upon her so hard it was bruising.

"Colombe? Mon Dieu, wh-what? Ca c'était quoi?" He managed to whisper, his breath quivering.

"Un chien? It is back inside?" His hands were still frozen in place.

The urchin turned his head to the gate, and fell quiet as he strained to hear movement beyond the walls. His hands loosened, and then slipped away.

"I am going to look." He announced softly, and moved to turn away from her.

The boy struck a path towards the wall where the shadows hung heaviest. He moved with slow, measured caution. His palm met stone, and he paused to steady his feet as he drew near to the gate. His eyes returned to Colombe, and he drew a breath.

The urchin angled his head to peer beyond the edge of the wall. His body was flush against cold stone, his heart in his throat as he sought to get a closer look.

Colombe’s skin was cold where his fingers seized her. Her body was slack, her eyes not quite finding him when he leaned in to meet her gaze.

It was that word, chien, that snapped her out of her daze, and she shook her head vehemently. No, that was not a dog. It couldn’t have been a dog. She clenched her hands into fists, trying and failing to avoid looking over his shoulder at the now empty courtyard.

His announcement was met with a disapproving frown and for a moment it seemed she would not let him go. She held his arm tightly and then, with a breath, nodded and released him. When he turned to meet her gaze it was unwavering.

Only the rustling of the hawthorn, the crimson berries on its branches like spatters of fresh blood, would meet his curious inspection through the gate. The courtyard was quiet and dusted in shadow.

Without warning, the sound of sharp claws scrabbling on stone echoed from further along the fence. The creature landed on the other side, their side, of the wall with a soft thud, and shook itself with a bristle of fur. Colombe shrank back and crouched quickly behind the rough stones they had been sitting on, disappearing from his view.

The trespasser’s tread was light. It crossed a patch of silver moonlight and paused to scratch irritably at its forearm and the boy got his first proper look at the beast in his garden.

It boggled the senses, that something could so clearly resemble a wolf while stubbornly refusing to be one. Its long body was covered in fur so black as to be almost blue, like the feathers of a raven, the fine line of its slim jaw etching all the way to meet the attentive points of its clever ears. Shaggy fur draped along its legs and the feathery tail that curled delicately near its flank.

It turned its maned head and its eyes glinted green in the dark. The paws of its front feet were long-fingered hands, each digit tipped with a wicked claw, and when it stood on its hind legs as it did now, wolfish snout raised to scent the cold air, there was an almost human cunning to its countenance. A pale scar scored the dark fur along one side of its skull, gleaming silver in the light of the moon.

It was monstrous, undeniably - but there was a fine-boned elegance etched in its slender muzzle and silky proportions. It was a sullen grace that was in some way very familiar.

It paused, scratching idly at its wrist as a dog scratches fleas. He could see the ripple of sleek muscle over its long limbs, accounting for the ease with which it had scaled the wall that stood a head taller than Fabien.

For a moment, all was quiet. He could hear the beast’s breath rumbling in its deep chest.

Fabien could not see Colombe where she had fallen behind the wall - he could not say if it was some unseen movement on her part, or simply the nearness of the creature that startled the birds in their cage. At the chaos of rustling feathers and the shrill alarm of startled pigeons the beast swung its shaggy head and its breath became a low growl that raised the hairs on the back of ones neck.

It fell to all fours and moved with a terrifying, stalking grace to investigate the disturbance. In moments it would stumble across his friend’s hideaway behind the wall.

Fabien shuffled more closely to widen his view into the walled space. He had stopped breathing at some point, and it returned to him sharp and shallow.  His eyes scanned the courtyard, and upon finding it empty, he sagged in relief.

The urchin was about to take a bold step forward when he heard the sound of sharp claw scrape against stone. He slammed his spine back against the wall, and released a shuddering breath.

He felt the impact of its landing in his bones. Suddenly the creature was there before him in perfect view. Terror stiffened through his veins like lead.

Colombe had been right, this was no dog. This was unlike anything he had seen before. Its size, its movements, everything about it looked and felt wrong. And yet, there was something else, something which made his stomach twist strange. Some sense of recollection, like déjà vu or a half remembered dream.

He could do nothing but look at it. The power in its limbs, the way its inky fur caught the moonlight and gleamed like satin. He caught a brief glimpse of its eyes, the sea glass green of them, and the feeling in his chest was electric.

The boy remained perfectly frozen in place. He could feel sweat beading on his upper lip, feel it drip between the skin of his quivering shoulder blades. His hands were gripping the wall so hard he had broken his nails and worried the skin from his fingertips.

His attention had been so far completely captivated by the beast. But when it moved he turned his head to check that his friend remained hidden.

The boy might have been relieved, had not the nervous flutter of wings and agitated cooing broken the quiet. His legs grew weak, and something primal urged him to run to her, to shield her. But he stalled, trembling.

"Non. Not that way." The youth whispered in horror

Fabien did not wait a second more to see what it might do. He drew his fingers to his lips and whistled, loud, sharp and shrill as he could. The noise pierced through the silence of the garden like an arrow striking iron.

The urchin remained within the shadows, almost completely concealed from view. All aside from one foot which he had dipped into the moonlight. His palms were flat against the stone, muscles primed to propel him forward should the beast not be so easily distracted.

The rough pads of the beast’s front paws were braced on the short wall in preparation to vault it when the whistle cut sharp as a scream through the evening quiet. The sharp points of its ears twisted on clever joints and it huffed sulkily, long tongue lolling hungry from between its jaws as it spared the frightened birds a greedy glance before turning toward the sound.

He could see the well-muscled back moving as it began a quick trot that broke into a loping sprint. It was alarmingly fast on those long limbs. In moments, it was opposite him, only a scraggly hedge separating him from the creature.

He could hear its breath, the padding of those paws over the cold earth as it hunted with its head low to the ground for the source of the disturbance. There was a pause as it considered. Somewhere, distantly, a cricket chirped.

Then with an incredible leap it bounded over the hedge, slamming its shoulder hard into the stone wall as claws raked against stone, clumsy and overeager.

It stood on its hind legs, the clawed fingers of its hand on the wall to steady itself. It was tall enough to loom over him. There was a flicker of green in the dark and its bright eyes were fixed on him. There was no doubt it could see him, the shadows no impediment to the predatory gaze. It was close enough he could smell it, the wet earth clinging damply to its feet and black fur sweet like freshly baled hay.

Lips pulled away from the clean ivory of its sharp teeth and he could see the deadly, cutting fangs, the pink of its tongue. There was a simmering black anger in its gaze as it snarled at him, ears pressed flat against its narrow skull. The thick scar slashed across its head glinted pale. Its hot breath smelled, absurdly, of sweet wine.

It fell to all fours and began a wary approach, its long tail low enough the silky hair on the underside brushed along the ground with each step. There was an easy strength in its powerful limbs and a terrible animal hunger in the gleam of its eyes.

It had not gone beyond a few steps before it stopped, scratching irritably at its forearm. A shaft of moonlight caught it and for just a moment he could see the annoyance.

A thin cord, red as a slashed wound, displaced the dark fur around its wrist. The beast raised its wrist to its mouth to gnaw impatiently at the thread, but it was too close to the skin for claw or fang to cut it free.

The distraction was just enough of an opening for him to hear the sharp hiss. When he turned, he would see Colombe, wide-eyed in the moonlight, standing at the open door to the rusted shed beside the pigeon loft. She frantically gestured for him to join her. Her gaze flicked to the distracted creature and then desperately back to him.

Fabien released a small sound of relief when the creature backed away from where Colombe crouched. His eyes followed its movements like one bewitched. The boy could not place it, the sense of familiarity that pulled at his chest. There was something of luxurious sleek hunting hounds he had seen for sale at the market, their plumed tails shivering like wisps of smoke. A part of him longed to reach out to it, to drop on bended knee and offer his fingers for it to scent. Perhaps it was lost somehow, and needed soothing.  

His desire to approach was immediately broken by the sight of its teeth. The boy pressed his spine back into the cold, wet stone. One hand felt with increasing desperation for a ridge, an outcoming that might aid a last ditch desperate attempt to clamber up the unforgiving surface. Even if the beast had not been able to make him out in the gloom, it would have certainly heard him. The boy’s breath was ragged in his chest, and only grew more rapid when he was confronted with the green of its eyes.

“Facile,” he breathed.

The urchin’s entire body shuddered when the creature paused, and his knees buckled. Foolish though it was to linger gawking at the creature, the boy still could not quite turn his eyes away.

And then he saw it. The flash of red material at its wrist. An unremarkable colour and easily shrugged aside, were it not the cord woven in such a recognisable way it was impossible to mistake. The loose ends of it draped, frayed, tied in a manner he knew so intimately. A vision flashed before the youth’s eyes of his fingers looping and securing it around Émile's graceful wrist

“What I would like from you is time…
Time for me to see if I can make you want this.
To belong to me."

"But… but that's not- that's not possible." he croaked. “Ç'est une illusion? Someone plays a trick on us?”

Maddeningly, he took a step forward, not away, but toward the distracted creature. He ignored his friends frantic gesturing, as though compelled by some other force to draw in closer. His spine  was arrow straight, his movements slow as he stepped out into the moonlight.

He may have proceeded in this way, had not Colombe’s eyes dragged him back. The boy turned to meet her gaze, and nodded shakily.

The distance wasn't far, only a few breaths, a couple of heartbeats and he'd be there. His feet were heavy as concrete as he ran stumbling spring through barbed nettles that caught at his ankles and threatened to trip him. He staggered on, adrenaline pulsing through his limbs to aid his approach towards the shed.

He reached out for the door, for his friend’s hand, to haul him inside to safety.

The beast was occupied with its fruitless attempt to gnaw itself free of the cord tied tight around its forearm and took no notice of Fabien’s hesitation. But as the boy stepped forward into the moonlight like one transfixed, a terrified scream sliced through the gloom.

“Fabien!” Panic lifted the girl’s voice to a shriek, the edges rough with despair and the syllables flattened strangely in her mouth.

The beast lifted its shaggy head. For a single moment their eyes met. As he turned to run it bounded after him. He could feel the shudder of the ground as its paws struck the earth, its supple spine arching like a hound eager to rip open a fleeing rabbit.

Colombe’s hand reached for him and the ground ceased its shaking as the beast leapt, lethal fangs flashing. Its claws raked along his hip. Fabric and skin tore open in streaks that instantly brimmed red. But it was too late as, with one mighty heave, Colombe pulled him inside and slammed the door shut after him. The creature yelped as it collided with the door with enough force to shake dust from the beams above them. Blood dripped, hot and red, to the floor.

The beast barked its frustration, slamming into the door with its shoulder. The metal door bowed, but it was not meant to open into the inside and the frame held. Its growl was guttural and angry as it began scratching furiously at the barrier. Metal shrieked sharp enough to turn the stomach.

Colombe’s dark eyes were not on Fabien. Her hair had come loose in a tangle around her shoulders as she rifled frantically through the dusty contents of the dark shed. She landed finally on a heavy chest and pushed it, straining as it screeched on the floor, to barricade the door. She took a wary step back to scrutinize her handiwork. The windowless building was blanketed in black and he could just make out her silhouette in the dust and cobwebs.

It grew quiet as the creature evidently lost hope in forcing its way inside. It lapped hungrily at the splatter of blood outside the door, its heavy chest vibrating with a snarl. They could hear the padding of its paws as it circled the building. Colombe held a sharp-edged trowel against her chest like a sword, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she listened to the beast pacing just beyond the walls.

Fabien felt a rush of air against his waist, but he did not feel the pain. He felt a growing warmth over his thigh, but did not conclude then that the beast had torn open his skin. He knew only that it had come close, close enough that he felt its breath upon him. He did not look back.

Once she had pulled him inside to safety, the boy moved mechanically to assist his friend in ensuring the chest was firm against the door. When it was done he stood beside her in silence, listening to the movements of the creature outside. Their quiet was broken only by their panting breath, and the steady drip of the youth's blood on the dusty floor.

As if awakening from sleep, he suddenly turned and grasped Colombe’s face in his hands before he pulled her close against his trembling chest.

“Je suis désolé, Colombe. Merci, merci.” The urchin breathed into her hair, as his thumb firmly stroked the side of her jaw. Unseeing, he brushed red in a smear across cheek.

The boy continued to listen intently to the sound of the beast’s heavy feet thudding on the earth. He flinched at the slightest snarl of annoyance, at any time he could hear the irritable snap of its jaws.

“I had to look, I had to be sure what I was seeing.” He continued, as his grip on her finally weakened.

Giving voice to this seemed to return the boy to his senses, and the pain crept in until it was burning poker hot. He pressed trembling fingers to his hip, and dared to feel over the edges of his ripped skin with a flinch of pain. The graze was deep, perhaps enough to leave a scar if it was not well tended.

“Mais ce n'est pas possible. On m'aurait sûrement dit…” He continued to murmer faintly to himself, as though he were struggling to solve the riddle of it in his mind.

He found the wet gleam of his friend’s eyes in the dark.

“I think …I think that creature is… is Émile. In a different shape, somehow, I-” he said, and then laughed shakily, though there was no humour in it.

“One of Madame’s potions maybe, could they have?-” The boy shook his head, and the thought was dismissed irritably.

“But non, Lacrima would not leave her room unattended. I-”

“Maybe I am wrong. But then how could it hav-” his voice grew weak, and the youth wavered on the spot.

Fabien was lily white with blood loss. Even before his encounter with the green eyed creature in the garden, his body had been hungry for rest and nourishment. Shock hit him with sledgehammer aggression, and he dropped first to a knee, before he slumped weakly to the floor.

“Il fait si froid.” He sighed dreamily.

Colombe’s body was tight when he pulled her close, her shoulders tense as her gaze followed the unseen path of the creature circling them. It seemed she might pull away from her friend but as he whispered his apologies into her hair she relaxed into his embrace, closing her eyes with a sigh. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers.

The coppery scent of his blood mingling with the dust and rotting wood of the shed’s interior snagged her attention for the first time and she drew away as he cautiously probed the wound. Blood, made black in the gloom, darkened his clothes. The fabric glistened wet and she turned aside, shuddering.

She sifted carefully through the debris that littered the tables, aided by her hands when she could not see the tools and pots she set aside. When her search proved futile she did not hesitate before lifting her sleeve to her mouth and tearing long, spiraling strips of fabric with her teeth.

Her work was interrupted by a horrific clanging as the beast scrabbled to the roof of the shed. Colombe shrank low, eyes lifted warily to the ceiling. Dust fell shivering into her hair as she cautiously unwound her other sleeve with her teeth. The ripping fabric seemed terribly loud in the quiet between the clatter of claws above them.

She was bare-armed, his blood darkening her cheek like battle paint when she knelt beside him. Best not to dwell on the practiced motions of her hands as she carefully wrapped the dark, ragged wounds cleaved into his skin. She listened quietly to his faint murmurs, leaning close to his chest to secure the fabric around his waist.

The name of their unwanted houseguest brought her pause. Her hands stilled and her spine straightened. Her dark eyes narrowed in aversion and she continued without comment. If she had any thoughts on his theory, she kept them to herself.

Spots of blood seeped black through the makeshift bandages when she was finished but, at the very least, they prevented the grime of the floor from matting the wounds with blood-moistened mud. The creature outside returned to the earth with a thud and a huff and continued its restless inspection of the walls that concealed the pair.

Colombe’s gaze had returned to anxiously following the beast’s growling path, but it flicked with alarm back to Fabien at his gentle observation. She fell to the ground beside him. Her own bare arms were cool, goosebumps raising the fine hairs on her forearm, but she offered what body heat she could as she pressed him close beside her, her arm looped around his waist. Her soft breath was warm and her eyes were darkened with anxious concern as she leaned her head wearily against his.

It was a long night. The creature relentlessly pursued its quarry long after sense dictated their fortress was unassailable. Occasionally it would seem to lose its temper and bash itself, snarling and snapping, at the door in a cacophony of noise that set the pigeons to crying out.

On one such occasion it turned its ravenous attention to the pigeon loft, struggling with vicious breaths to smash the grate and reach the soft morsels of bird-flesh trapped within. It seemed, as the exertion brought its breath to sharp whines, that the iron and stone would hold against the onslaught. But the beast was persistent and at long last a section crumbled beneath its claws.

A bird screamed and Colombe flinched, her heart beating fast in her throat. They could hear the frantic flutter of its wings. With a sickening crunch, its cries abruptly ceased.

The girl put her hands over her ears so as to not hear the wet snap of teeth as it devoured its prize. She kept them there long after the creature had returned to its restive pacing outside the walls.

It was quieter, then. The bitter cold of evening gradually melted away into the warmth of the morning. They had not heard the beast depart but as golden light trailed beneath the barricaded door, it was hard to conclude anything else from the blessed silence.

Fabien flinched at the sound of the creature' weight landing on the roof. He reached briefly for Colombe’s wrist, his palm clammy and ice cold against her skin. The boy's eyes rose, and he tracked the beast's movements above their heads. He released a shuddery breath as the metal bowed slightly under its feet, and he swallowed firmly and closed his eyes.

The urchin was not usually one to seek solace in the protection of God's, he had seen too much suffering and sorrow to trust their guidance. But all the same, he felt his lips form a series of silent prayers. He spoke soft and steady to any who might be listening. He beseeched them to show pity, if not for him, then at least for his beloved companion in the darkness.

He felt Colombe’s hands work over him, felt her pull taut the fabric at his waist.

“Mon bon, bon ami.” He rasped weakly. "Je suis tellement, tellement désolé."

The urchin could not prevent himself from making use of his friend's strength. He reclined wearily against her, his breath ragged against her shoulder but steady and strong.

He found her hand in the dark, and squeezed it with all the strength he had left.

"Do you remember, Colombe-” He murmured softly into her ear. “-all those times I tried to entice that cat of yours. Fickle thing that she is."

His voice remained steady as the sound of tearing flesh and terrified cries surrounded them. It was difficult to tell whether he spoke out loud for her, or because it bestowed him with a courage which silence did not.

"And when I slipped once?… that roof tile which almost made me lame." He continued after a pause, a frail note of amusement drifting to the surface before it was pulled back. “I thought then... you might never let me out again.”

"And I thought too that she would never come to me. Until one morning, there she was, asleep by my head. Le nerf."

He startled at a low growl near the wall, and turned his eyes skyward once more imploringly.

"I wish we were there right now. I wish we could always be there, sleeping in that sunlight."

The boy spoke little after. Somehow he drifted to sleep at points, his head a dead weight upon her shoulder. His breathing grew deep and pulse strong, the beat of his heart unwavering in its determination.

He awoke to the cheery, spirited cries of birds welcoming in the dawn. His eyes were drawn to a shard of sunlight which beamed through a crack in the door. Motes of dust danced like specks of gold, and he reached out his fingers into it and flexed them before his eyes.

After testing to make sure he was still substantial, still of life and flesh and beating heart, he turned to Colombe.

"Is it… do you think it is gone?"

Colombe did not rest. She kept so close to her friend he could feel the wild clatter of her heart when the beast drew near, its terrible growls so guttural and deep they vibrated their bones even through the wall, but every time he startled awake and blearily opened his eyes he found hers, dark and liquid and staring at nothing in the shadows.

When he awoke, her hollow gaze was fixed listlessly to the sliver of light growing beneath the door. She stirred at his words, fatigue and the ghostly recollection of fear collecting like ash at the corners of her features.

She stood on shaky limbs, joints cracking stiffly. Her movements were wary as a deer as she cocked her head to listen. The only sounds that met her ears were the faint stirrings of a city beginning its day. With a shrug, she glanced at Fabien and slammed the side of her fist hard against the wall.

There was no snarling response from beyond the door at the ringing impact. The joyous morning-songs of the birds ebbed only briefly before enthusiastically resuming. The echoes of her fist on rattling sheet-metal faded away and she listened intently for the scrape of claws, the rasp of hungry breath. When it did not manifest, she gestured for his help in moving the chest barricading the door. The dark smear of his blood along her cheek had chipped away to a pinprick, a macabre beauty mark beneath her eye.

Without the frantic strength of adrenaline the chest was fiendishly heavy even for the two of them and after it was clear of the door she stood panting, one pale hand on her chest. When her breath had calmed she warily leaned to put an ear to the door.

Silence. Somewhere in the distance, a dog bayed.

Columbe looked to Fabien, her loose hair tangled with grime and her eyes rimmed with dark circles, and carefully cracked the door open.

Buttery morning sunlight spilled warm and rich through the crack, illuminating whorling motes of golden dust. Her pupils, accustomed to the dank interior of the shed, contracted painfully and she pulled away, rubbing her thin eyelid with the pad of her thumb.

Nothing moved outside save the dry whisper of withered stems. Cautiously, she eased the door further open, illuminating their footprints in the thick layer of dust that coated the shed.

A moment passed, then two. Then, with a shiver, she stepped fully into the warmth of the sun.

With the radiant light of dawn warming the pair’s skin, their hellish night seemed a horrid dream. Whatever the beast that had stalked them so voraciously was, it was not here now.

But it had been no nightmare - the ground outside was scattered with the impression of heavy paws. Colombe’s gaze followed them, round and round the shed that had sheltered them. The paint on the door had been scored away in streaks, the glint of iron showing through rust like the gleaming white of fat in a deep wound.

She crouched and placed her palm on the earth next to the imprint of a paw. With fingers splayed they were about the same size, the sharp points of claws clearly visible on each toe of the print. She shuddered and stood, wiping her hands on her thighs.

Her eyes followed the meandering path of the beast’s monstrous tread until they landed upon a clump of downy feathers matted in blood tumbling forlornly in the breeze. Her shoulders tensed and she exhaled a pained breath through her teeth.

It was with only the greatest reluctance she stepped closer to the pigeon loft. Blood the color of rust caked the jagged opening the beast had torn into the enclosure. A sliver of solace lightened her wan countenance as four iridescent heads turned toward her, cooing timorously at her approach. The darkened tips of her grubby fingers caressed the grating and she sagged against the stone, outstretched arms half-hugging the loft as tremors of sharp relief took her body.

Fabien slowly found his feet and stretched out his spine with a grunt of pain. His wound had already started to knit beneath Colombe’s make-shift bandages, but straining skin and muscle cried out in protest. It was ignored. He rolled his stiffened shoulders before he moved to assist his friend.

The boy followed her unsteadily into the light, and he filled his lungs deeply. The air was fresh and sweet, and it felt good after a night cramped in such a dusty space. His feline-sharp eyes moved around the garden anxiously, and he kept as close to Colombe as her shadow.

He looked down at his feet where dark blood had stained the ground red, and lingered there while she moved to the pigeon loft. The boy lifted his head, and his lips parted as though he meant to say something. His fingers were outstretched at his sides, desperate to offer comfort. But this time he allowed her to be with her birds in peace. Instead, he returned to the imprint of the creature’s paw. His eyes had darkened, stormcloud black, and a curl of displeasure had twisted his upper lip away from his teeth.

The boy began to follow the prints, barefoot on the grass, and then he paused to turn back to Colombe.

“They lead inside, I think, the marks here.” He murmured softly. “I am going to see.”

He began to move away with slow, limping steps. He paused and tensed every so often, startled by the snapping of a twig or the continued braying of the dog. The urchin’s path was not dissimilar to the previous night, first close to the wall, then hesitation before he peered into the courtyard. He took a breath and stepped inside, beyond the gate, away from the cooing of birds and the crumbling pigeon loft.

The youth paused again by the door to the courtyard to study the wreckage the creature had made. He lifted his head and peered nervously into the gloom of the house, eyes narrowed and fingers clenched as he attempted to seek out further evidence of where the beast had gone. Once the way looked clear, he began to make his way back into the house, back into the relative comfort of the shadowy walls and easily lockable doors.

Colombe paid no mind to the boy’s examination of the ground. She had eyes only for her surviving brood, and she stroked their round, soft bodies through the mesh, murmuring comforting nothings. There was a faint tremble in her shoulders that suggested she had not dared hope any had survived the miserable night.

When he called out she turned to him, wiping her dark-circled eyes with the corner of her palm. She seemed half-feral in the light of day with her uncovered limbs stained with the filth of the floor and her hair a tangled mess down her back. She hesitated before nodding, unease pulling the skin of her temples tight, but let him pursue his prey while she turned back to see about a makeshift repair to the jagged hole in the loft.

The beast had not concerned itself with hiding its tracks. They were easy to follow where the ground was soft, its tread so heavy in the overturned earth he could count each individual claw.

It had meandered with a wild animal’s winding amble, looping on detours to investigate sights and scents that piqued its wolfish interest, but where the tracks returned to the house they were straight as an arrow, each foot falling neatly behind the last. These were so recent he could catch the faintest scent of its sweet fur on the fresh air.

The door to the courtyard was ominously ajar. It creaked on its hinges in the gentle breeze. It told a simple enough story to follow - the battering down of the door from the inside, the latch that broke in a splinter of wood, the slamming against the outside wall that shattered the decorative window to dangerous shards. He had witnessed firsthand the strength the creature could summon to bash open a door.

A more sinister thought overlapped the practical details - had the beast been following them? Had they passed it lurking in a shadowy corridor and never even known?

The tracks were more difficult to follow inside, the lack of interior light and opulent carpet obscuring the particulars. But they could still be observed by a keen eye - the dusting of black soil from the garden, the dark streak of blood where fur brushed briefly against the wall.

The door to Fakhir’s temporary lodging was closed, the room beyond dark and silent. Here the trail grew faint and difficult to follow and he was apt to lose it altogether. However, as he looked down the darkened hall at the blank doors shut tight, there was a clear oddity. The door to the library had been left open and a dazzling stream of light that threatened to banish the inky black of the unlit house poured from within.

There was no snarling beast sheltering amid the tidy rows of books. In fact, at first glance it appeared there was nothing out of the ordinary. Empty bottles of pilfered wine littered the table, the vacant glass casting bizarre olive and amber hues across the surface. Faint scratches revealed the light wood beneath the varnish of the floor. The high-backed chair near the window had been jarred out of place and faced the wall. Its tall shadow stretched all the way to the edge of the door in the yellow light of the rising sun.

They were curled so tightly in the seat of the chair he might have overlooked them, had not their bare leg hung limply over the side. The elegant swell of Émile’s calf was carved with thin scratches that bled. The pads of their feet were stained black with earth. They were, as far as he could gather from the relaxed stretch of their leg, both undressed and drowsing in the warm sunlight.

Fabien continued to track the beast with the soft tread of a hunter. He moved slowly, careful to avoid the crunch of broken glass as he retraced the creature's path.

When the trail grew cold, the boy sighed unhappily. He considered abandoning his hunt and retreating miserably to his bed. But the library door caught his eye, and so he limped onwards.

The hinges of the door creaked cheerily as the boy entered. He let the door swing open first, and he held his breath.

It was almost painful to be greeted with such comforting normality, the room so serene, warm and quiet. The boy felt his tiredness heavy in his chest, and he turned to leave. But the chair snagged his attention, and his stomach caved.

The urchin limped slowly towards where Émile was draped. He stalked around the chair until he could see them, achingly beautiful in the morning light. So beautiful that Fabien could barely rest his eyes on them.

His gaze landed briefly on their wrist, and then he spoke.

"I should slit your throat." He said, laughing softly as he leant over the chair. A favorite spot, he'd caught them here before.

The boy placed one hand on the top of the chair's high back, effectively blocking any attempts they might make to brush past him.

"I want to. I would enjoy it, after what you put me through."

His finely shaped eyes were still black with rage. It was a look Émile has seen before, just once.

If the sound of his voice had not already stirred them, he reached out to gently stroke his fingers across their cheek. His touch was ice cold.

"Non," he said, and his voice splintered into a snarl. "- after what you put her through."

The youth's hand slipped down to the soft skin of their throat. There was dirt and blood beneath his fingertips, and they were trembling.

"But I will give you first a chance." His voice was strange. There was anger in it, undeniably, but also something close to hurt.

Fabien looked as though he'd crawled his way up from hell. Black blood stained the torn fabric wrapped around his leg. Detritus from the garden clung to his dirt blackened clothes. Even the brilliant autumn gold of his hair had been made ashen with dust and grime.

"Explain to me," he continued slowly, and the hand at their throat twitched. His restraint could be felt in every line of his body, every hard muscle.

"What the fuck happened last night- what you-."

His hand flexed, and the desire to hurt them surged through him like an electrical current. He turned his eyes aside before he continued.

"What happened to you, how it was done. S'il vous plait, Émile."

This was a plea. Give me a reason, oh God, give me a reason not to kill you.

Émile’s bare skin was radiant in the light that warmed it to a lustrous gleam, the grooved curve of their spine alluring as it curled with feline contentment across the stiff back of the chair. The delicate satin fringe of their eyelashes quivered against their cheek at the sound of his voice, though it was not until his cold fingers grazed their skin that they fluttered dimly open. Their eyes were hazy and unfocused.

They stretched with a delicious tremble of muscle, warm in the sun, and for no more than a moment as they recognized his silhouette there was unguarded pleasure in the corners of their beautiful mouth, their body uncoiling in an intimate flex of ribs beneath taut skin as though to greet him.

There was a great deal more of Émile in the beast than there was of the beast in Émile. Maybe, when their hot, black anger was simmering beneath the surface they shared the same baleful glare but here, sun-warmed and sleep-soft, there was only the haughty beauty to the delicate bones of their body, the dark hair that fell drowsily over the pretty moss green of their eyes.

The skin of their graceful wrist was scratched raw, though the cord ensnaring it was intact. The tips of their fine fingers were darkened as black as the soles of their feet.

"You can't be angry," they murmured hoarsely. Their voice was small in their throat, almost entirely shrouded by a rough rasp. This defense had the distinct air of a misbehaving student trying to catch their tutor on a technicality. They cleared their throat and continued hazily.

"You said to stay out of trouble and I have, I've stayed out of your way but you didn't say anything about le vin, if you didn't want me to have the wine then it shouldn't have been-"

They winced as a sharp spike of pain lodged in their temple. They instinctively raised a hand to clutch their aching head but were stopped by the palm at their throat and instead they nuzzled blearily against the cool skin of his hand, agreeable as a dog.

They were distractingly beautiful, sun-warmed and naked, all long limbs and soft skin and pleasing proportions. Hurt trembled liquid across their fine features. They wore it, as they always did, becomingly.

When his hand tightened on their throat a shudder flexed their ribs and their spine arched. It threatened to become a retch but, fortunately for Fabien who doubtless had little desire to see the contents of their stomach, they stifled it with a groan and a shiver.

"Qu'est-ce que tu dis…?"

They blinked hazily, the scene swimming into focus. They did not have the vantage to see the wound at his hip, but the soft green of their gaze wandered over the dust and grime of his countenance, his wild hair, before finding and fixing on the vast, cold anger in his eyes.

They tensed their soiled fingers and licked their lips with the tip of their pink tongue, their slender throat flexing beneath his palm. His unrelenting grip appeared to have them considering carefully before they spoke.

"I do not know what he has said to you, but I haven’t troubled anyone. Him, you, anyone." Their voice had regained some of its cool disdain, though the edges were still ragged and rough.They had apparently come to the wrong conclusion regarding his disheveled appearance, but there was nothing of deceit in their aggrieved tone.

Fabien's lip curled away from his teeth. He pulled them towards him by the throat, and examined their eyes for signs of deception as they spoke. He did not interrupt, though his silence was so much worse than the cold anger in his voice. His fingers relaxed on their skin, and he reluctantly withdrew his hand.

"D'accord, fine, be quiet I need to think." He snapped, and he pinched the flesh between his eyes.

He limped away from them and towards the table, and reached for the empty wine bottle. He lifted it to his nose, and inhaled the sweet acidic scent of fruit. There was nothing remarkable about it, no strange undercurrent that he could detect. But a memory of the creature's wine-sweet breath returned to him with sharp clarity.

The bottle slipped clumsily from the boy's trembling hand and struck the floor.

"Where did you get this?" He croaked. "You did not go in any rooms you should not? It was not with poisons, not locked away?'

The bottle was kicked aggressively aside and struck the far wall with a loud clatter.

"It is your good fortune that you did not kill Colombe and I last night.' The boy murmured, his fingers full of electric agitation. "I do not want to think about what he would do to you."

He returned to Émile, and met the beautiful green of their eyes. It still pained him to look at them.

"Yes, you, and I know it was you." He hissed, and a spark of anger returned to his voice.

"I know these eyes. And this-" He reached out to affectionately smooth the back of his fingers over their scar. His touch was gentle, and not unlike the way he stroked them when moaning under their tongue. The boy was briefly distracted as he caressed the elegant curve of their jaw. A hunger in his eyes had almost replaced the black rage.

He took their wrist in his hand, and tugged at the thread that bound them to him.

"-And this, more than anything else, this."

"Are you playing dumb? You will not admit it to me? That you were fur, and teeth and claw? That you nearly sliced me in two? Here, Émile, your handiwork. I am sure it pleases you, non?"

The urchin irritably tore the bandages aside to reveal the angry claw marks that followed the line of his hip. The blood encrusted wound was distinct, a row of gashes, as though he had been mauled by a lion.

He spoke quick and sharp, unnervingly so. There were flashes of anger like lightning in his grey eyes, as he sought to trip them somehow, to interrogate in such a way that they might loosen their tongue. He continued to search their expression for some recognition.

"I do not even have a name for what I saw. What you were. But we both saw you, not just I."

Fabien's shoulders sagged, and his arm found the top of the chair. It looked for a moment like he might crumble to his knees.

"And god help me, I do not know what to do with you now." There was true distress in his voice.

He buried his head in the crook of his elbow, while his other hand came to rest on the graceful curve of their shoulder. His mud blackened fingertips gently stroked over their soft skin with immeasurable grief.

Émile was content enough to lapse into silence when bid, chest appreciatively expanding for air as he released their throat. When Fabien stepped away they curled their palms over their eyes and kneaded their aching head. They winced at the sharp ring of glass falling to the floor.

They examined him through splayed fingers when the interrogation did not cease. Their eyes were shadowed in black.

“The girl left it when she was moving things in the cellar,” they answered flatly, their voice hoarse. “It is not a very effective pois-” The clatter of the bottle striking the wall interrupted and they returned with a shiver to massaging their brow. They pressed the soft roll of their thighs together as though suddenly conscious of their undressed state, though there was certainly nothing of shame written in the loose lines of their body.

They muttered something blackly under their breath at mention of killing him and his friend. Their hands fell away from their face and their chin lifted defiantly at his approach.

They did not shrink away from the hand that reached for them, though the creeping rise of their shoulders suggested they anticipated violence. They met his gaze without wavering. There was a flicker of surprise in the cool green of their eyes when the pain did not come, and they pressed gently against his fingers. Their wrist was warm and pliant in his hands.

He could feel how they bristled against the words “fur” and “claw”. There was a tense to the smooth plane of their back, a clench of muscle as they grit their teeth in their jaw, but the lack of mockery in his tone failed to provide tinder to the spark of their ire.

The unveiling of his wound was met with rapt interest, and their anger fizzled as they tucked their legs beneath them to lean forward and study the gashes carved into his skin. They examined the black mat of dried blood and torn skin attentively. There was something of cold pleasure in the curious sweep of their eyes over the raw, animal scores.

“Que s'est-il…- ” they began breathily but, recalling his words, swallowed the question. They lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

“I think, mon ami.” The epithet rang with its usual causticity, though it was devoid of scorn. Instead, their tone was dark with bitter irony. Their voice rasped in their throat. “That if I could do that to you, you would know it by now.”

“This is very elaborate,” they continued throatily, straining across the arm of the chair to reach an empty bottle. The line of their spine curved all the way down their bare back. They swished the bottle hopefully before tipping their head back, glass gleaming in the sun. A thin blood-red trickle splattered on their tongue.

“But je ne sais pas ce que tu veux de moi,” they admitted, wiping their mouth with the pad of their thumb. “Should I confess to some sin so you can punish me?”

Fabien lifted his head and watched Émile from over the curve of his shoulder. His grey eyes were hard, the set of his youthful mouth sharp with sleep-hungry irritation.

"Get up. This is not a hotel.' He snapped, and gestured for them to stand with a snap of the fingers.

Should they not comply, or take too long in their response, the boy would gladly haul them to their feet.

"I am not your client, and I am certainly not your friend."

He slithered wearily into the spot warmed by the heat of their body with a sigh of relief.

Émile would have barely found their feet before he reached for them. The youth wrapped his arms around the curve of their bare waist, and pulled them back against his chest. The chair had ample space to accommodate them, and he allowed his pet to settle comfortably against him.

"That's better." He murmured, as he held them firm against him.

"It's almost funny, given the circumstances, that you think I need a confession to punish you, Émile." He did not sound amused. "I am not blind, and I am not stupid - despite what you may think."

The urchin breathed in the scent at their neck. He was searching for it, the scent of the wolf under their skin. His lips were open, his breath hot as he traced over the sensitive, velvet soft skin at the nape of their neck.

"You are not lying to me." He stared simply. It was difficult to say whether there was relief in it.

His hands slipped up their chest. One came to rest over the steady beat of their heart, the other slid down to their thigh. His palms were still cold enough to raise goosebumps where they brushed over warm skin.

There was no aggression in the way he touched them. Only weary appreciation as he stroked the sun-warmed gleam of their thigh.

"I want you to sit with me. I am cold to my bones."

The boy was clearly desperate for a distraction as he brushed against the sensitive skin of their chest with his coarse fingertips.

His mouth returned to the side of their neck, and he hungrily kissed them with a growing fervour. He took their jaw in his hand, and angled their head so his mouth could claim as much of their skin as he desired.

"Help me get warm, and forget a while." He rasped heatedly, as his hand crept down between their thighs.

Émile did not move when commanded. They regarded him instead with a regal tilt of their head, settling deeper into their lazy sprawl.

This courtly air was quickly dislodged as they were hauled unceremoniously from their throne and on to bare feet. Standing, they were all ungainly limb and shade-dappled skin that immediately took to a faint tremble when deprived of the golden sun, and it was a relief when he pulled them back to the warm patch of light that bathed the chair.

Their uncovered skin was warm as a mahogany banister soaked in the sun and their lower back arched sharply at the press of his cold body. They stirred, putting painful pressure briefly on his wounded hip, before settling begrudgingly against him. He could feel the flutter of their heart against their ribs as his hands pulled them close.

Their body was astonishingly soft, the gentle roll of their waist flexible and yielding under his touch. Where he had sharp edges and pointed joints they had the silken sway of round thighs, the pliant velvet of curving hips and rounded ass thrust against him.

They made a skeptical sound in their chest at his assertion he was not stupid, though they had the sense not to voice it. A shiver rose the delicate hairs on their arm as his breath traced hot over the delicate skin at the nape of their neck.

There it was, beneath the fresh cream scent of their skin - the animal sweetness of black fur, the cool, crisp night air drizzled in silver moonlight. It was a familiar fragrance and he doubtless recognized the smell of it tangled up in his bedclothes, though now he had the proper context to place it.

Émile sank low against him as his hand slipped down to stroke the satin skin on the inside of their thighs. They did not pull away, though there was a gentle feline stretch beneath his hands, like a cat's back curving away from grasping fingers. Their skin rose in shivers at his cool touch.

One of their hands rose across their chest to hold him by the wrist, their touch delicate as a dusty moth. The other found the joint of his knee as though for leverage as they bared their neck to the hungry press of his mouth. He could feel the rhythm of their pulse increase as he took the elegant line of their jaw in his hand.

"Are we not? Pardonne-moi," they sighed with theatrical contrition. Their voice was still husky with sleep. "If I mistake you for a friend it is only because anyone else would be paying me for the privilege."

The resentful emphasis on these words was buried prettily beneath the distracting roll of their bare hips as they ground against him.

The urchin released Émile's jaw and grasped a handful of inky hair. He looped it around his fingers, and pulled. It was designed to hurt, the backward flex of their neck uncomfortable, though certainly pleasing to his eyes.

Fabien sucked on the curve of their shoulder. His tongue lapped wantonly across their skin as he relished the taste of them. Without further provocation, or indeed warning, he bit into their muscle, hard. He sucked on the indents left by his teeth, feeling over them with the firm point of his tongue. Was it revenge perhaps, that inspired the animal cruelty? Or too much time in the company of monsters with luminous eyes and glass shards in their mouths?

His lips moved close to their ear.

"Émile, this situation is not overly complicated." He said with weary gentleness. "Yet still you struggle to grasp it." He bit them again, harder.

The roll of their hips against him was met with a staggered breath. He moved his hand from between their thighs to grasp their hip with hand, firm enough to bruise.

"That is no trouble. Let me remind you." He pulled them tight against his chest.

"You are mine." He said slowly, as he pressed his lips to their throat in a painfully indulgent kiss. The hand in their hair tightened.

"This mouth-" The thumb of his other hand rose to brush beneath the plush curve of their lower lip. "-every part of your tight body."

His hand stroked down from their mouth, over the sculptured curve of their chin. He stroked his way lower, feeling the jut of their collarbone under his palm. The beautiful ridges of their ribs, moving with the push and pull of their lungs.

He felt over them like a master craftsman admiring the smooth finish on their work, rediscovering every soft curve under his coarse hands.

This was not the touch of a nervous young man being offered charity. There was no uncertainty. No question of whether he should be allowed to have something so very fine. There was an unflinching confidence in it. They were his, completely, there to be taken at his leisure.

"Whether willingly given, or not-" He said, as his fingers slipped down past their navel.

He ground against the curve of their ass with crumbling restraint. His hand sank low again, down between their thighs, dangerously close to the intimate heat of them. The swell of his cock had grown uncomfortable, and he released their hair to heft their hip slightly up. His breath had quickened, his skin grown warm beneath their bare body.

"-That I leave to you." He said thickly, his hands trembling slightly against their body. He could not resist grinding himself up and against the soft curve of their ass.

But the slightest pressure on his torn hip made the boy hiss in pain, and he slumped back into the chair with exhausted irritation.

"Merde." He groaned, as he stirred uncomfortably beneath them

"We are going to my room. Up."

Émile stiffened under his touch, the tension of their graceful neck pulled taut as a dog on a leash. The soft curves of their body grew rigid and attentive.

For all the cautious tilt of their jaw, they did not anticipate the bite. He could feel the electric jolt pulse through every muscle as his teeth sank into the delicate bend of their shoulder and their breath came in a hiss as they juddered against him, bare spine arching in a sharp line. When he lifted their head to whisper in their ear, they were panting. The soft cream of their skin had flushed a pleasing pink and their eyes were hard as a shard of polished jade. When he bit them again they swore a hoarse rasp of inventive expletives, though there was no disguising the groan of their breath through their teeth. They shuddered, writhing fruitlessly against his chest.

There was a wet glint to their sullen gaze, a spark of anger in the heat of their skin and the rising pulse of their breath as he spoke. Their skin darkened and purpled with what would become a becoming bruise where his teeth had come together.

Though a sneer haunted their lips, the thrust of his stiffening cock on the curve of their bare ass had the roll of their hips grinding against him in short, impatient thrusts. When his thumb stroked against their lip their teeth snapped together as though straining against the urge to bite him.

The exquisite machinery of tendon and muscle flexed against the press of his palm, the delicate bones of their ribs moving like the fragile wings of a bird. Hot, black irritation vibrated like a taut thread beneath their skin. Their teeth were clenched in a hard set of their jaw and there was a pause before they responded to his command.

“D'accord, d'accord,” they muttered thinly.

They stood as though to comply, weariness softening the lines of their body as they pulled themself up. There was a wary flicker to their downturned gaze. The instant Fabien’s attention was diverted their eyes flashed feral and, with a sharp twist like a silver-scaled fish thrashing on a hook, they wrenched free of his grasp with surprising agility.

They did not waste a breath - they leapt free of the chair and bolted for the door with the single-minded grace of a wild stag, the padding of their earth-stained feet on the floor unsettlingly familiar. In a flash they bounded through the passage and into the dark hall. He could hear their swift footfall fading as his unbridled pet became lost to the shadows of the quiet house.