John Abbott (john_abbott) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-08-20 14:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | john abbott, marguerite larousse |
La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Part 1 of 2)
Impressionists in England. It was far too strange. Marguerite, French through and through, could not help but attend such an exhibition. She wondered what the English thought of a movement which was already developing into something else in France. They must indeed have been lucky to receive the graces of Manet and Degas in their stolid, musty halls. Such things were always a treat to see, even in France.
Being a courtesan, Marguerite could go to such things escorted or unescorted, as she wished. She preferred attending alone. Nonetheless she was resplendent in soft green satin, the train of her bustle a bit shorter than it might have been. She often worried about careless gentlemen stepping on and tearing her gown. An elaborate necklace of emeralds and jade adorned her neck, the neckline of her bodice dipping to almost scandalous proportions. Her hair boasted an elaborate gold and jade flower, the fiery curls creating a wild frame for her face. Long, satin gloves completed the ensemble, climbing up to her elbows. She liked to be looked at. Indeed, if she were not viewed as much as the art, it would be a pity.
She stood before Degas's L'Absinthe. This was the first showing of the painting in England, if she recalled correctly. Others were crowded near it as well, murmuring in outrage and disgust. But she ignored them. She looked at the woman, the expression of her face. She was a plain thing, but she looked blank. Before her stood a cup of that illicit spirit, absinthe. It moved her. She imagined the cup flowing with blood and placed herself in the painting. Yes, sometimes things were too much to bear, sometimes life seemed to trundle on aimlessly, with no rhyme or reason. She wondered why people could not see past the act of drinking the absinthe and into the woman's soul.
A man approached the courtesan's shoulder. It wasn't his intent to hover, but in the press of bodies before the piece, space was at a scarcity. A small pick of wood clenched in his teeth, John observed the muddied colors of the painting. His tolerance for impressionism was higher than other artistic movements, such as neo-classisism, whose works could be so patently obvious, so empty of the need for interpretation that it made him wonder why one bothered calling it art at all.
Save for the lady's drink, the scene depicted might've been called mundane on first glance, until the brush strokes were examined, the blending of color and the subtlety of emotion in its subjects. There was a rounded set to the woman's shoulders, her knees apart, her arms slack, an air of utter disengagement from the man at her side. "Now that is a look of defeat," he said, taking a hand from his pocket to remove the toothpick.
He shouldn't have spoken. Around art of any form, he usually chose to remain silent and let other patrons make their own internal observations before subjecting them to his opinions, which might sully the experience. But it was out and now he looked at the courtesan's face, searching it for signs of annoyance. "My apologies, madam."
Marguerite raised a brow, finding herself irritable yet intrigued. She eyed the gentleman beside her, a bit disgusted with his personal habits. She looked him up and down. Middle class at the least. A pity. He wasn't so bad to look at if one disregarded how uncouth he was. She found herself smiling, replying, "Defeat? No, monsieur." As ever, her accent was thick. She created it that way, to make herself seem more foreign, more alluring. She could speak with a standard English accent as well as any British matron. She was an actress, after all.
"No, you see, she feels lifeless. Though she drinks such horrible things--I am sure you agree that they are positively horrible--they do nothing for her. I find it is easy to sink into Ennui even when one finds more and more exciting activities." She turned back toward the painting. It would be difficult to move to other works. Until then, she was stuck here.
"I've imbibed worse things. Lifeless," John mused, oblivious to the lady's attitude towards him. He turned the toothpick between his fingers. He was sometimes perceived as slovenly, though he was clean and well-dressed. When his attention wasn't captivated by anything or anyone in particular, there was a ruffled look about him, as if he'd just awoken from a nap and been startled, mid-stretch, into conversation.
"A feeling to which I could relate." He tipped his head and looked at the painted woman's white shoes. While her body looked as if it could be numb to the world around her, there was something very much alive and feeling in her face, an expression of quiet dismay. "Lifeless or uninspired?" he countered suddenly, turning back to the courtesan. The visual arts, much like the literature and music he loved, were open to interpretation, which was often colored by one's personal experiences. He was genuinely interested in her take on the subject. "I think there is a marked difference between the two."
"Worse things?" she said, a peal of laughter like the tinkling of bells arising from her lips. "But you see, monsieur, absinthe is so very dreadful. It drives people mad." Her voice was low and her eyes sparkled with mischief. She found herself looking again at the painting. The poor woman, so plain. The model, she knew, was also an actress. She had seen her before, from afar. "To be uninspired, that is a terrible thing. But I think she is far beyond that. Her soul is dead." Perhaps she was putting a little too much of her own story into the painting. "There are certain things, monsieur. I am sure you do not think of them, but there are certain things a person can do to reach such a state. Lifeless, soulless." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. It was strange to be having such a conversation. She heard more sounds of outrage behind her as gentlemen put up their eyeglasses to examine the painting and ladies put gloved hands to their mouths.
"Mm." John's left hand curled in his trouser pocket around the tiny stake, his thumb poking at the sharpened end until it splintered and broke off. The other hand lifted to his mouth, which still had the taste of wine on it. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Morally reprehensible things," he added and returned the cutting of eyes. The foreign woman had an arrogance about her. But unlike most ladies of the upper class who played at experience, he believed she was worldly enough to know firsthand of what she spoke. He couldn't say why. It was an intuition. He took a deep breath so that he could talk. "I wouldn't be so quick to assume you know my disposition," he said. "It's quite true that I'm in pursuit of things to resurrect my spirit, though not my life or soul. Those, I can do without."
She laughed again. She found the fellow to be infinitely amusing. Luckily, there was a break in the group and she boldly offered him her arm, ushering the two of them away from the painting and into more open space. The pressing of warm flesh was too intoxicating for her and sometimes drove her to the brink of insanity. As her hand brushed against his own, she found it oddly cold. But she thought nothing of it. Some people, she assumed, were that way. She was made that way unnaturally.
"Without your immortal soul, monsieur?" She faced him, thoroughly examining them. "Why, such things ought not to be mentioned. Though I assure you I lost my own quite some time ago. Longer than you could imagine." Her smile was slow, almost seductive. "A pity how such things happen."
"Did you misplace it, then?" John asked, his eyebrows going up in vague concern, as if she spoke of losing a favorite trinket. Away from the throng of art enthusiasts, the air smelled cleaner and he was able to isolate the sophisticate's scent, a rich blend of ladies' toiletries and body chemistry. Her hair was a nice shade of red, like fall leaves. "Lost it in your other bag?"
He met her look squarely. Women often reminded him of exotic birds and she was no different. He thought her a decidedly condescending one, a bit like a peacock, but he was not the sort to nurse feelings of inferiority and so it abraded him little. "I hope you put up a sufficient search for it. As easy as souls are to lose, I hear they are infinitely difficult to recover."
"No truer words were spoken," she admitted. She found herself sizing him up as well. She found that her initial thoughts were perhaps incorrect. He was quite tidy and seemed to be an intelligent gentleman. Perhaps a professor of some sort, by the looks of him. She thought for a moment. "Misplace it, no. One finds that such things are more difficult to get rid of than that. And, well, when I lost my own...well, let me just tell you that it wasn't my choice. Sometimes one is not always in control as much as one would like to be." She found it strange that she was speaking about such things in euphemisms. It had been decades since she was taken, devoured, changed. Surely even a man of experience could not understand such things, would laugh at her if he knew of them. Surely she must be mad.
"Well, then, allow me to hope that the loss, no matter who or what precipitated it, was in your best interests." He was intrigued now and found his feet bringing him to full stop, lest he get so wrapped up in figuring her out that he walked them into a wall. He felt her fingers on his arm, the temperature close to his but not an identical match. John had properly fed before the exhibition and, though he grew cooler by the hour, he had not reached an equilibrium with their surroundings. "Would you call yourself a victim of circumstances? You do not strike me as one, but what do I know?"
Marguerite paused before another, lesser painting, her smile sly as she glanced at him. She let loose his arm, taking a moment to view the painting in silence. "It worked quite nicely, I have to say. You see, most women would kill to remain beautiful and young forever." She stopped before she said too much. She liked the danger of almost revealing her nature. It excited her when few things did. And perhaps she would reveal it to him completely, once they had exited the gallery. She thought of draining him after taking tea, perhaps. She nearly laughed at the thought.
"A victim of circumstances, me?" She allowed herself to laugh quietly now. "Oh, I am afraid even the best of us get caught up in such things. When I was young and naive, just beginning my career, I met with a gentleman, much like yourself in some ways. I am sure you know the story. It is as old as the ages." She yawned to illustrate the tedium of it all. "And so I became quite ruined, but I find myself no worse at the prospect. I make my own circumstances now. I am mistress of my fate and such things will not occur again." She had steeled her face at this, remembering in a flash those nights of being helpless as that stranger drained her of blood, all those years ago. She blinked a moment, gathering herself together.
John folded his arms and studied the redhead while she looked elsewhere. The piece of art held her attention, perhaps. But if it did, the hardening of her features implied that she didn't approve of it. "Mistress of your fate? Oh, I doubt there is such a thing," he mused, rocking on his shoes. "Whether we are at the mercy of gods or science, I can't say, but I have rarely felt a measure of control beyond the here and now, and those moments often revealed themselves to be false." He tipped his head. At such close proximity, the whole of the painting went away, and it was a series of smaller epiphanies. A face open like a flower. The smudge of colors inside a dancer's skirt.
At length, John looked at the pulse in the Frenchwoman's neck. He wondered about her 'career'. Was she a singer? An actress? She had the bearing of a performer. He had begun to speculate about her, but it didn't suit him to blurt out accusations that, if wrong, might cause a scene. It was best to walk soft. He smiled. "Your gentleman friend was a ruiner of young ladies, and you think us similar?" He put his palm to his chest. "Well... I ought to take offense. Except, of course, you are right," he said, shrugging a shoulder. "Though I tend to leave their... mortality intact. I am selfish when I see what I want, but not so cruel as to inflict this absence of spirit on others. It's a cup that never fills."
"You may be right, but I love control. Perhaps you have not heard of me." Marguerite turned her head, smiling in a kindly, more genuine fashion at the gentleman. "I am Marguerite Larousse. An actress of some repute. And I am long past such things." She shrugged, flipping open her fan to air herself in a casual, nonchalant way. "I have been dead in many senses for a long time. Do you understand? I daresay you do not." She laughed, this time in a less pretentious manner, from the throat. She always liked looking at such paintings up close. They became something so different, chaotic yet controlled. "I have nothing left me but these little pleasures." She gestured casually around her, shrugging off the arts, finery, and luxury in a sense. "And I do so enjoy them. Who doesn't? Emeralds about the neck, beautiful works of art surrounding one, the delights of the company of the select. I could not want for more." She snapped her fan shut as though emphasizing the end of her little speech.
His eyebrow jerked up as Marguerite declared her love of control. Be still, his beating heart. It hardly mattered that his mind had flown the conversation and was at gleeful play in the rubbish pile out back. Or that he was likely alone on that imaginary journey. Such was the nature of being a man, and John was not often a gentleman. "You know... I believe I have heard of you. I'm John Abbott, and I predict that you have not heard of me," he said, crossing his arms. His thumb and forefinger pulled at his sandpapery chin while he regarded the performer. "I say, who better than a dead woman to portray characters for an audience? If you are an empty vessel, you are no doubt better at channeling your muses."
He shifted his weight and looked at the artwork again. "I think what you describe is the folly of all who are privileged with wealth and time. But surely you haven't consumed all that life offers. What an unlucky creature man would be, to spend more days on Earth than there are pleasures to fill them." In that statement was tucked a summary of John's fears of his immortality... That he would burn through every creature comfort and artistic discovery and be left with a void so deep, and a boredom so complete, that he threw himself into a fireplace and hoped the ashes were lost in a stiff breeze.
Marguerite was already moving toward the next painting. Experienced in such things, she had no doubt that he would follow. As she paused in front of the next painting, she turned toward him, her expression sly, one hand fondling the jewels at her neck. "Monsieur Baudelaire says that Ennui is the greatest evil, you know. I like to think myself something of a, ah, psychologist, if you will. I like to study human nature. I find that this study can prove much more amusing than any simple finery human hands might offer. In fact, I should like to make a short study of you, if you will." She circled him slowly, in predatory fashion. She cared little that others were about. She doubted that they would pay much heed to her eccentric actions. She was, after all, foreign.
"You are from a middle class background. As a handsome man of a certain age, you enjoy many women. You consider yourself--secretly, perhaps--something of a libertine, but you like to parade as the gentleman at times." She stopped before him, her own brow arched. She flipped open her fan again. "Am I correct in these little assumptions?"
John opened his mouth to protest, but was at a loss. It showed. "I... hmm." He scratched the back of his head, fingers getting lost in the black curls. He folded his arms again and watched her, not as unnerved by her predation as a regular man should've been. "I suppose I am all those things. Please. Go on, if you have more to say," he said, rolling his hand. "But once you are finished, I hope you'll allow me the opportunity to return in kind... Are you finished?"
Almost childishly, she tapped her fan to her nose, snapping it closed again. Her smile was wide, her eyes glistening. "Oh, I am quite done, I assure you. I am no palmist or medium. I have not such powers." She found that the madness was beginning to overtake her again. Her tongue ran over her fangs, her mouth still closed. Oh, they were growing quite sharp. She felt like giggling. "I would be interested to see, Monsieur Abbott, what you have to say about me. One is always looking to know what other people think of one. Like peacocks, we like to preen, no?"
Keeping his arms tightly wound, John surveyed the space around them and used it to judge how low to pitch his voice. After a couple strolled by on their way to the next painting, he leaned his torso closer to the courtesan and spoke quite near to her. "I may be a libertine, Madame Larousse," he said, "But I have never known a celibate vampire. Since you are one, you may be in no position to cast stones."
Her brow shot up. She had not expected him to take her hints seriously. She opened her fan again and covered her face with it for a second, in the manner of eighteenth century aristocrats. She then came even closer to him, her lips but inches from his. She used her fan to block from view their faces, and she smiled broadly, this time baring her painfully sharp fangs. "Oh, however did you guess?" she said lightly. She closed her mouth and flicked the fan closed, letting her hand fall to the side. She scanned the crowd. They seemed to be dispersing, but she would not take her chances.
"But such matters, as I am sure you understand, are left to...ah, the boudoir, if you will. Hardly appropriate for public exhibition." With her free hand she was gripping the side of her gown tightly. Had her hands not been gloved she would have easily ripped the satin. He was one of two things, either a hunter or a fellow vampire. It was difficult for her to judge. She came across her own kind so rarely and she remembered her last encounter with a hunter. Her lips curved upwards but her eyes were flashing with wrath.
Her anger was a sight to behold, in clipped gestures and cheek muscles that quivered on an urge to bite. "The lady likes her secrets kept." John gave her a small smile. He watched her mouth. At the sight of her fangs, his, too, crept past the line of his teeth. It was unlikely he could've stopped them, if he tried. They pressed against his bottom lip when next he spoke. "Perhaps you'll think twice about baring mine."
By personality, John was not a fighter. If he counted on a hand the times he hit first, there would be fingers left to spare. But he was capable of it, should the razor edge of Marguerite's temper flare up. He did not enjoy the idea of striking a woman, but he enjoyed the idea of having his face clawed off even less. "It is a rare person who enjoys having the tables turned," he said. "Nevertheless, you may rest easy on the knowledge that the man who ruins the virtue of girls knows what belongs in the boudoir. I won't mention it again."
She found herself somewhat abashed, her posture relaxing a little. Her hand released its grip on her gown. She had seen. She felt stupid, a complete idiot. She ought to have known before, but she wasn't expecting it. Who would expect such things? And at an art gallery of all places! It was a moment before she spoke next. "It seems you bare them yourself," she said slowly, the fury in her eyes quickly subsiding. She was still suspicious nonetheless. "I confess I did not think I would meet another with such...proclivities. It is strange how such things turn out."
She found her eyes roving over his frame again, though looking for different tell tale signs. Ah, yes, it was perfectly clear now. She schooled her face into a picture of nonchalance. She always found it uncomfortable at the least to meet with others of her kind, never knew quite what to do. "I would invite you to my home for tea, but it seems such things are unnecessary."
"Since neither of us likes tea?" John's smile was at the ready again. As quickly as the tension built, it passed them by, at least so far as he was concerned. Grudges, and small tiffs, were a drain on his mental energy and he liked to preserve that for more enjoyable things. "You needn't bother yourself with pleasantries. I expect none." He scratched his nose and waved off the idea of it all. "If it isn't an intrusion into your private affairs, might I ask why you've come to London? Are you performing?"
She offered him a seat on a small settee which had been set up for the more tired of the gallery's guests. She found herself sinking a bit heavier on the velvet than she had at first expected. She felt slightly more at ease, but she was still a little wary. Though she knew she could handle herself if any conflict should ensue, she would rather not. "I am performing, yes. Though, I am sure I can be somewhat frank with you. I am in something of an exile."
She blinked, in a flash remembering being weak and tied to that heavy Medici bed, the light streaming in through the window. "I was, you see, careless, and very bad indeed." The thought was not pleasant. Especially when the priest had been called in. Oh, she was lucky to have escaped with her own life. "And you, you like the art, perhaps? That you are here?"
"I was born in London and haven't got the wanderlust to leave," he said. John sat at a proper distance on the settee and adjusted his jacket. "As for this," he flicked his fingers at the exhibition, "It is a way of biding time. I find that little holds my interest for long, but that has always been the case, since I was a child. My new-found condition has merely increased the severity of my unrest. One day, I should like to go abroad. See what the rest of the world has to offer." His brow furrowed. "But not until I've finished with London. After all, there's only so much world. I'm a bit like a child savoring a sweet treat."
He thought of his profession, how much he loved that, and then of hers. "Your audience... They must notice you do not age, as they do."
"You do have more than one lifetime," Marguerite murmured, toying with the gloves on her hands. She pulled at them, then pulled them back up. "I have managed to work my way past such things. Unfortunately, it means that I will not receive the recognition and accolades I deserve because I will always be forced to slip into obscurity. But I assure you that a bit of makeup and a wig as well as a change of name and location often do much. I have lived this life for nearly eighty years. As I said, some women would kill for eternal beauty. Ironically enough, I was killed and received it as a gift. I had something of a run in before I left France, so perhaps it was best that I changed to England."
She paused for a second, then toyed with her curls. "And no, this is not a wig."
John splayed his hands. "I... wasn't going to ask!" He chuckled and linked his fingers on his lap. The thumbs circled each other. "I suppose I could reinvent myself," he said. "Instead of a literature professor, I could take more schooling and try my hand at another discipline." John turned toward her and slapped his thigh. "But then, why limit myself to scholarly work? I might consider becoming a sea pirate, if it wasn't so noticeable whenever a crew member went missing." He was jesting, of course, but the sentiment behind it was honest. "Also, those ships are often nothing but wood. God forbid I impale myself."
She laughed at his jest. It was almost comforting to have shared experiences with someone. It made her feel less foreign. "Tell me," she said softly, leaning toward him, inhaling the scent of him. "When did you change? How long ago was it, Monsieur Abbott? You were a literature professor, then? Did you teach Keats, perhaps? I always preferred Byron, myself. Or perhaps Shakespeare? His plays are so interesting to act in French. Was she a woman? Did she seduce you? Or did you think you had seduced her, only to find yourself...had." Her eyes shifted to make sure no-one was looking as she said these last words into his ear. She resumed her initial position as if nothing had happened, turning her face forward. The painting looked much more descriptive, much clearer from here.
In the space of a few questions, John's face took on the masks of Greek tragedy. In one instant, he was reacting quite pleasurably to her voice and proximity -- it could be that he was imagining those fangs snapping at his neck, god, wouldn't that be a delicious turn of events -- and in the next?
Dismay.
"It was my sister." He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, trying to dispel that image. "Oh, you have ruined me for conquests tonight, I fear." Another joke, of course. Probably. "It was five years ago. Let me assure you, there was nothing seductive in the act. Would that I had simply run into a comely girl at in Inn, with teeth for miles."
She put her hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle and even--horror of horrors!--a snort. "Good God! I had not thought of such things. I apologize most wholeheartedly, monsieur. I do hope such images will not ruin an evening open for pleasure and...conquests." She eyed him slowly, her smile widening. "And you have already had one, have you not? I see your face is a little flushed, no?"
She herself was perfectly pallid. She liked to hold off until the perfect moment. Sometimes it drove her mad, but the madness was sweet, especially when she was able to sate it, sinking her pointed fangs into male-scented flesh, the flesh of the elite. She had never tasted of another vampire. Indeed, she had heard of such things, but it had never occurred to her to do so. She found herself growing hungry at the conversation.
He found her laughter charming and watched it with rapt interest, a palm bracing on his knee as he turned to the courtesan. John decided it was one of few unscripted moments of her evening, and therefore worth savoring. "There was a small bite," he admitted, pinching his fingers. "Something of a regular donation. We are not without our patrons, Madame Larousse. But I'm sure you've encountered that before? Men just as eager to offer their necks as you were to drink from them." He presumed an actress with a following ought to have plenty of opportunities for liaisons, both romantic and physical.
"Oh, you make me quite hungry!" she exclaimed, her voice nonetheless low. "I have had many a patron...though I must tell you, monsieur..." She lowered her voice as she leaned toward him. "Some did not come out of the experience to tell the tale." She faked a yawn, though they both knew it was unnecessary except to illustrate boredom. "You see, such men are fascinating only for a time. And then they become tedious as night after night they talk about themselves and their own ventures. They want the courtesan--yes, I am that too, though what actress isn't, really?--to flatter them, to tell them how utterly, ridiculously wonderful they are. Oh, the finale is only fitting, don't you think?" Her hand was clutching her chest. It was really too much for her. She felt faint from her ravenous appetite.
"They have designs on your heart. I imagine your attention makes them feel larger than life. But why should a huntress have lasting interest in what is so readily caught?" As he spoke, his speeched slowed, frankly because he was distracted. John followed the agitated flutter of her fingers. He knew that hunger, how it gnawed and twisted and blinded a body to all else, but it came over the redhead so quickly, a wild impulse, that he was surprised. They made quite a picture, the lady in green silk fumbling at her neckline, and the gentleman in black watching those fingers wherever they led. John rarely saw how this looked from an outsider's perspective. He suspected he looked less attractive and more like an addle-brained addict.
"Madame... do you require fresh air?" Since they didn't breathe, he hoped she'd catch his drift. It wouldn't do to make a dive for a throat in the midst of an art exhibition.
She let her hand fall to her lap, trying to control herself. It wouldn't do to make an unseemly exhibition. She could not help but note the way his eyes followed the movements of her hand. She took his arm and was silent as they exited the gallery. She had to still herself.
"Income," she said finally, as they moved away from the building. "I do such things for the sake of income. You would not find me in such finery were it not so. And, well, I like..." Oh, it was such a sordid little secret! "I like very much to wait, to bide my time. Sometimes I go months without partaking of my patrons. I find little morsels here and there in the meantime, but I like to wait for a final consummation. It drives me mad, but when I am sated--oh, it is that much sweeter!" She ran her teeth over her fangs out of habit.
"You purposefully abstain to increase your gratification?" John studied her profile. "How sordid!" He patted her arm and turned his eyes to the cobblestone underfoot, putting distance between them and the danger of onlookers. "Aren't you one to put men to shame. We congratulate ourselves if we make it a fortnight before lifting a woman's skirts, and then, once the act is complete, we act as if we've run a race if it lasts beyond an hour. And there you are, making a mockery of our efforts with your iron will."
He was exaggerating, but only a little. John was a glutton. He became so damnably obsessed with the idea of how a certain person would taste that nothing else would do until he had them. "I suppose you've identified a new patron?" he asked.
"Alas," Marguerite intoned quite dramatically, walking beside him. "I have been in England for but three weeks, monsieur. I may indeed have lost my touch after my last...encounter." She frowned at this for a moment. "But I am ever seeking a willing fellow with a wealth of all the sort of things a girl could want." She batted her eyelashes coquettishly, for comical effect. "But oh, even with the morsels, I find that my belly is often weak--I am always so very hungry. Aren't you?"
"Unfortunately hungry," he agreed. "The one from earlier, Eliza... oh, she is a beauty." John looked at the partial moon. "A rather round girl who works as a seamstress and lives in a public house I once frequented. She mended my trousers," he explained with sidelong look. "She has freckles on her shoulders and smells exactly like lavender. One wouldn't think her open to such experiences," he went on, "but lust for adventure can take a person down all sorts of unsavory paths. Not--" he hurried to correct himself, touching his lapel with pretended importance, "That there is anything unsavory about my company."
He smiled and then thought to add, "Do you know, I think she wants to try it? Thrall, I mean. Drinking my blood. But I haven't decided if I want a seamstress following me around London for a month."
"She sounds positively charming, I'm sure." Marguerite restrained a laugh. He was surely rhapsodizing over this girl. "And I am sure you are quite the upright fellow, following every more. A perfect slave to society's whim." They were in a quieter location at the time, and she saw but a few people pass. She found herself pulling him into a little hidden niche. She was too fascinated with this herself. "I have never made anyone slave to me in that way. I could not do it. But tell me, how do you feel when you press your teeth to her neck?" she asked. She was staring at his own neck and one of her gloved fingers came up to toy with it. "Were you excited? Did you feel her blood pulsing through her veins, did you feel her own arousal?"
John tipped his chin up, giving her finger room to wander. His only complaint was how much of an obstruction his collar had become. "There's certainly blood pulsing through something," he mused. A rather ribald comment it was, but she no longer struck him as the type to behave herself, or grow faint at such a description. Maybe she would surprise him, change her mind and rap his knuckles or kick his shin. An indignant woman was as amusing as a willing one.
Hell. Who was he, if not a man to throw caution to the wind? If disaster loomed, he would lick his wounds, and always think fondly of the time he got familiar with Marguerite Larousse and she pecked out his eyeballs.
He captured her wrist and peeled the silk glove down, which put him in mind of stockings rolling down a thigh. John put his nose to her pulse. "A vampire consumes more than blood, does he not?" He nuzzled the skin with his unshaven cheek. "He takes in the way a woman smells, how she breathes, listening for the moments when the air catches. He puts a hand just here," his fingertips grazed her abdomen, but he did not palm it, as he usually would, "And waits to feel her stomach quiver. And his leg, here." He shifted and one of his came into scandalous proximity with the courtesan's skirts. "So he'll know when she grows warm. All that before the taste. He is a lover first, a monster second. Even a woman sick with fright will give these things away. Perhaps it's wrong to make her feel shame before she dies, but I would not give up those victories for the world."
Marguerite felt her pulse quickening. She had not been this excited--well, in this way--in quite some time. It was rare that a man caught hold of her like this, that he allowed her to lose control. Indeed, she was the one who liked to do the humiliating, who liked to be the predator. And here she was, so easily ensnared by a young man, a very young man by her true measurement of time. And yet she found it positively delicious.
"You speak so poignantly, monsieur," she breathed, her fingers pulling at his collar. She had an exquisite view of his neck in the dark, and her eyes flashed with hunger, but it was more than that. She felt dreadfully warm. "Oh, I find shame is the best part. As I've said before, I like control. I like to know that they would do ridiculous things for me, that they would beg on their knees for the vaguest glance from me, like a dog on the street hoping for scraps. And when I finally humiliate them--when they willingly humiliate themselves for my sake--oh, such delights!" She was laughing again, low and even seductively. She liked to laugh. She pressed her lips just below his ear, murmuring, "Do you care to have a courtesan tonight?"
John closed his eyes. To feel a mouth at his throat, to know Marguerite could tear it out, if she so chose, was a heady thing. Suddenly his legs felt a little loose. There was a wall beyond the other vampire's back and he stretched out his arms to touch it, making a loose cage for her. He craned his neck, simply to feel her mouth travelling on it. "I wouldn't say no."
The only one to sink fangs into him had been his sister, Celia, and that was not out of hunger, or wanting to keep her dear brother around forever, as she claimed, but sibling rivalry. Celia was a legendary show off, and he too flummoxed and grateful over her reappearance to argue.
Now, with another pair of fangs at hand -- belonging to a woman he found immensely attractive -- he had a hot, tight feeling in his gut. He had always wondered what it would be like to have the tables turned. He pressed that knee tighter, until he could map out in his mind the perfect shape of her thighs. The soft rustle of Marguerite's dress drove him up the wall. "You are tempting beyond the telling of it," he said. He used his cheek to nudge her red hair off her ear and put his mouth around the shell.
She let out the softest, lowest of moans, her legs parting with the insistence of his knee. She found that, to her surprise, she liked the feeling of being trapped here, even if it was only illusory. She knew she could get out if she wanted to. She feared no-one. But the novelty was far too great to pass over. She let her tongue out to lap softly, teasingly on his neck, then pulled back altogether. Had she not been so hungry, she would have been flushed.
"But surely not here," she intoned softly. "Surely, Monsieur Abbott, you are not looking for a--what is it called in Angleterre?--a poke in an alleyway. I have a bit more to offer than a common prostitute, if I may flatter myself." She ducked beneath his arms, extracting herself. "You say I tempt you? Will you soon find yourself asleep like the knight in Keats's poem, taken by the lamia? Caution, monsieur, caution!" she teased, turning back toward him. "It you care to throw it to the winds, here is my card."
She pulled a nice ivory card from her bodice in a scandalous gesture. It contained her address, name, and some pretty typography. She handed it to him, then walked toward the open, hailing a cab. "It is a one night only opportunity, Monsieur Abbott. You will find me at that address within the hour if you should so desire." She flashed a smile, then stepped into the cab, closing shut the door.
The cab carried the courtesan away, and the noise of its wheels and horse shoes rang in his ears much longer than he could see it. Away from her eyes, John found himself free to do as he pleased, so he dropped his arms and slumped against the wall. "My god." He rubbed his face and broke into a laugh behind his palm.
Of course, he had no sense of caution, or very little, and she was a delectable woman. Wild-eyed and red-haired and, he wagered, not a shrinking violet between the sheets. In truth, he thought her possibly mad, but that might be a sight to behold. After he had done scrubbing his eyes, John read the type on the card, which was as white as the lady's decolletage. Her scent hung in the night air, the taste of her ear in his mouth. She would be phenomenal to have.
Let her be as the lamia, a beautiful lady without mercy. He did not care. John was not without tricks up his own coat sleeve. Even the finest actress could be stripped of composure, character, and costume, given a skillful set of hands, not to mention all the rest. He flicked the card with his thumb and left the alley.
He looked forward to peeking behind Marguerite's mask.
[To be continued...]