Claret: A Whiter Shade of Pale

The plumpest part of my lips slip down the powder-soft skin below her ear. They hover there as she lets out the tiniest noise of anguish. It's some kind of foolery, she thinks, a ploy of sorts to take things further. At least, that's what I imagine she's thinking as I dip my mouth lower, opening my jaw to scrape back up the tender skin. Her throat is trembling at the slight touch of my teeth. The tremble makes me ache, so I slide the tip of my tongue out to feel it better—deep, deep in that throbbing vein. She groans against my tongue and I'm almost too undone by the noise to go on, but I suck in a breath as I feel that wondrous, gripping urge I know all too well. It's met by the thunder of her pulse just as I open my lips wider, tip my head… and hook my teeth deep inside her throat.

Dinner for one, as always. And it's delicious.

1. The Taste of Fear

There's something about the fear that always makes them taste better. Maybe it's the churning rush of heat in their bloodstream. A hot meal instead of a warm one. But no... it's almost something I've convinced myself of, that it's all the sweeter when they're fighting the urge to scream. And even more, the scream that does rip through their vocal chords as I plunge my teeth in with just a bit of flesh holding me off from truly plucking those strings—well that is something too delicious to explain.

I start to salivate as I stare at my ceiling. It's been a week since my last meal, and while it was thrilling, the novelty of my same-old moves is wearing thin. I've been doing this for fifteen years now and every year is less exciting than the last.

Not to say I’ve been this way for only fifteen years. No, it’s been far longer than that.

Still, the hunt. The way I draw them in and tuck them close to me, only to feast upon their rivers of life—but not kill them—that has been my little thrilling bit of entertainment. Something to keep the stale, unchangeable version of me a little less dead inside… and out, if we’re being truthful here. And that is my life, or so I’m meant to call it.

And so I edge myself to satisfaction. And the temptation of being so close to letting loose is my ultimate high. I could do it. I could cut my teeth across his throbbing throat and gorge myself on his insides. Suck the heartbeat right out of that sacrificial vein like a fucking straw leading to the vat of delectable life within his body.

I could. It would take almost nothing for me to do it.

But I won’t.

And it’s that thrill of being so close that leaves me groaning every time, which brings me back to why it tastes so bloody good. Everything is better seasoned with fear and a side of I-could-kill-you-but-I-won’t… today.

I pull at the front of my trousers and flip over with a lasting sigh. It’s getting harder to stay in Old Québec like this. It’s too small for my games, and now those games are growing dull, even if they excite my body beyond comprehension. They told me I’d be next to dead for all of eternity, and yet, the raging piece of me between my legs begs to differ.

A week is quite enough, I decide. I clear my throat and toss my overcoat across one arm—the perfect look of a nineteenth century gentleman, if I do say so myself. Though today, in the twenty-first century, I may appear more or less like the charming spokesmodel of an Armani campaign. And charming is exactly what I go for in this day and age.

“You are ever the charmer, November.” An unfortunate memory bursts into my thoughts as I cut down the limestone steps of my carriage house. They were the last words my sister ever spoke, just a breath before the life was crushed out of her lungs. Nobody really calls me November anymore, though. It’s just Claret now. November Claret is dead, as far as I’m concerned. Buried beside her in a pauper’s grave.

Movement catches my eye on a sudden turn down a puddled alleyway and I stop to pat the head of my favorite little scamp of a cat. Duchess, the most elegant vagrant animal I’ve encountered in my many decades. Her grey coat is like the silk an actual duchess would wear to an evening at the Palais Garnier.

“Good evening, Duch.” I smooth my palm over her back and she mews at the touch of her tail before scurrying off in the opposite direction whilst I carry on.

Québec is like a strange little fortress to me, or it has been for some time. The old city feels a bit more like home, though. More like the Paris I knew in my youth, long before we made way to London, then back to settle in Monaco.

I slip through a covered stairwell as I head to the water and let my eyes trail along the horizon for one dangerous little moment. It won’t really end me, peeking at the sinking sun. But it may just bring a bit of unwelcome moisture to my eyes and a burn to remind me that the seemingly faultless image of my body is not infallible. And so I follow that peach glow as it dips down below the buildings and the tiny edge of river line that it touches. Gone to rest for now while I begin my night of prowling, just the same as Duchess.

I toe my boots out along the riverbank, strolling with my hands tucked neatly into both pockets. An echo of ferry motors sounds from down the way and I consider briefly that I could skip over to a different district. But no, I’ve been doing this long enough to know that my hunt is only made duller by a safety net of distance. I’d rather skip a meal altogether than take whatever little thrill is left out of my game.

Time to pick someone up.