Two Short Stories and Three Very Short Stories Read Free Page B

clear, even to a half-drunken mortal? “Come,” I repeated, keeping hold of his arm. “I offer a sweeter oblivion than cheap, Algerian wine.”
    He laughed at that: a deep peal of mirth rooted in pain and awareness of the farce of mortal life. “Not a patch on the wines of Galliac, I agree but it serves its purpose.”
    “I offer better.”
    We were in the street now. He tightened his coat against a gust of wind and looked at me. “Don’t you feel the cold?”
    Maybe a satin dress and a light stole were a little brief for January but I shook my head. “My kind do not feel heat or cold. Come.”
    He came. Few mortals can resist a vampire’s call. We turned corners and crossed narrow streets. The scurrying rats and the stench of refuse belonged to the city of a hundred years ago. This was a Paris far removed from the wide, clean boulevards of Haussmann’s new city. Not that the mortal noticed, too intent on the imagined pleasures ahead no doubt. But he did hesitate climbing the stairs to the rooms I’d acquired. Was it difficulty mounting the stairs on his attenuated legs? Or some inner sense that I was not the usual woman of the night?
    He didn’t hesitate long. Men: rich, poor, strong or crippled all want the same from a woman. I give them that and take much more than they could ever imagine.
    He looked around my room, surprised perhaps that a woman he perceived to be of easy and available charms lived in such comfort. I did not choose to explain.
    To forestall any conversation, I tossed my stole on a chair and removed my dress.
    “Madame,” he said, “you have a name as well as fine breasts?”
    I walked over to him, to underscore my words and distract him from conversation. “I prefer sharing my breasts to sharing my name.”
    Curious and briefly alarmed, he asked, “I’ve never seen you before. Are you known in this quartier ?”
    “Not at all. I have been out of Paris for many years.” Before he or his father was born.
    “Many?” he echoed, a wry smile on his wide mouth. “Not so many, I think, madame . Unless you left in your nurse’s arms.”
    Gallant in its way, I suppose, but I hadn’t picked him for his charm. Why had I chosen him, the cripple, from a club peopled with healthy, upright men, anyone of whom would gladly remove his trousers for me? What caught my eye? Apart from the briefly glimpsed passion behind his eyes, did I suspect a wild desire reined in behind his wall of pain and arrogance? Was I drawn to the quiet need traced on every line of his face? Perhaps it was simply a whim to stroke the rough darkness of his beard?
    That was easily indulged in. I ran two fingers over the line of his jaw, tracing under his full lower lip and taking care not to pierce his skin with my nail. I wanted his blood. Just not yet.
    Knowing how much chill air diminished ardor and deflated erections, I turned to add more wood to the stove. “The bed awaits you,” I said.
    He ignored my suggestion and crossed the room, taking the bundle of wood from my hands and adding to the stove. “You need a servant to do this.”
    “I have a servant.” A girl I found in the streets and hired for more than a pimp would give her to prostitute herself. “She is abed. Should we not be?” I turned my back to him. “I would rather not wake her to undo my stays.”
    He did the honors, loosening the laces until I could ease my corset over my head. Even with that he assisted. Had I found a romantic? Or was he hesitant to disrobe and reveal his deformed legs?
    All he had removed was his hat and gloves, placing then on a side table when he entered. Time to see to the rest. I took his coat and hung that over the back of an upright chair.
    “Sir,” I said, “I think we both know why you accompanied me here.”
    He inclined his head with, “But of course,” as he removed his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
    I chose to assist, running my hands over the woolen fabric and the fine linen of his shirt. Inhaling the