O, amice. I cannot get the thought and feel of your blood upon the marble of your gallery out of my mind. I have wandered now these past weeks. I have attended meetings in your stead. I have tried to tend to your business for The Clan. I have expressed regret, sometimes diplomatically, sometimes passionately. But your death, amice, has left a hole in me. And who shall fill it for Antonio?
     I sit in meetings and my throat closes. If I were prone to sing as I may, I do not think I could croak out a tune, my friend. And I cannot find comfort anywhere.
     Thus, I have come to Paris...
     It has snowed, and the city is dusted with frost. It makes it look heavy, with skies so grey. And its beauty is thus far no salve to my soul. But maybe I can forget for a few hours. In the city where we last saw one another. Remember the absinthe? Do you remember the dancing, the singing. You would make such a refined companion, I thought. You should have someone to be with you. And now you are with God. Perhaps Antonio should not think so loudly in the future.
     Paris is cold, I crave warmth. And so I go to her. The woman among women. The one with a talent at making men forget. Slender, bejeweled fingers are covered in ermine gloves, fur curling into fur as I pull my ermine coat closer. As if I could be swallowed by it. And there is no leather, no silk, no velvet that successfully warms me, though I wear layers of all of these....
      ...Your playhouse in playful, bohemian Montemarte has a guest, Madame...
     Il Dignatario. The Dignitary. The Diplomat of The Clan, seeking shelter from the bitter cold and sorrow of Saarbrucken in the arms of your bordello...

     His passing has left a hole in the entire Clan, it seems. Those who knew him still mourn as you do, but perhaps not as deeply. Even in this place of pleasures, there are a few signs of mourning. Many of the girls are in black lace instead of red. Curtains are drawn closed and music is not so loudly piped through the place. Candles are burned non-stop in heated vigil. All for the memory of Johann.
     But, business must go on, non? More than ever, her services and those of her girls and boys are needed. The Madame does not claim to have any abilities of healing, but she always says that escape, rest and warmth certainly can't do anything but help...and to lose oneself in the fleshly pleasures of this brothel is certainly to escape for a time.
     And so, Il Dignatario, you are welcomed with open arms. You know the place, even if its red light looks like any other -- you know the markings that others not of our Kind may not.
     Perhaps she has even expected you, for when you enter, you are immediately greeted and taken to a private room away from everyone else by a 'boy' of incredible androgenous beauty. High cheekbones support eyes of the deepest blue... his straight blonde hair is cropped to his jawline, cradling it even as a stray lock falls before his face. His skin is perfect and even slightly tanned. He murmurs, "The Madame will be with you in a moment, monsieur. May I get you anything?" He absently shoves his hands into the pockets of his silk trousers, ignoring the fact that he is not wearing a shirt, even on this cool day. Who needs to when fireplaces are found in nearly every room?

     I looked. Of course, I looked, I have eyes, my darling. And though I have been struck with sorrow, I have not simultaneously been struck blind. But still, the appetite is slow to rise. I smile, such a beautiful boy. And gentle fingers cloaked in ermine land upon the boy's face. "No, dear boy," he murmurs. "Not yet. But...wait," he stops himself and you and he looks to you with that face that should be in a painting somewhere (and likely is), the peerless and inhuman beauty, and there is a ring of warmth in his eyes, and... just a touch... of human-like age. Tonight, he looks all of his 33 years. His hand lowers from your cheek, a brush of your hair out of your eyes. "A brandy would be nice. Something for me to hold. For a while. Something to stave off the chill of winter in Paris." And Girault smiles, it is Beauty. "And come back," he murmurs. "I would like you to keep me company..."
     You remind me of someone...
     Someone blonde and beautiful. Young like yourself. Someone for whom I lust but should never touch. Oh, but what a pair we would make. Yes, come back to me. Tonight, you will play the part of a Northerner.
     Girault leans in, a kiss left upon the young man's forehead. And Girault steps back, turns away, and begins to come out of his long ermine coat.

     "Of course. I will bring you the best, monsieur," comes the clear response about the brandy. But then he holds absolutely still as you come close. The eyes close, lowering long blonde lashes -- and he accepts the kiss on the forehead. He blushes appropriately so and smiles. "Certainly, monsieur," he replies softly as the lashes raise again.
     Without another word, he turns and leaves the room through the same ornate door you were lead through. You are given a moment's glimpse of his back, if you take it, then he is gone.
     It is not long before another figure appears at that doorway -- feminine this time. The soft scent of rose petals permeates the room as purrs, "You like him, old friend?" Annabelle leans against the door, pulling a foot up against it, so that her weight remains on one leg only. The effect would likely make a mortal man swoon as a long length of her raised leg gets seen as the slit in her skirt parts at the movement, and her spike heels bend her feet into that exaggerated 's' curve. She's had years upon years mastering how to walk in these blasted things that she moves more gracefully in them than most women do in bare feet.
     "He is one of my favourites...although he is newer around here," she comments lightly, crossing her arms over her leather-clad chest. He likely still needs to be 'broken in a bit', too.

     "I will be gentle," Girault would normally have 'tsked' and teased with that, but now it comes out sounding horribly genuine. "He reminds me of someone for whom I ...occasionally crave," his voice is a murmur as he turns, setting his fur to the side. He is in layers of soft and supple leather, a very loose and purposely crumpled silk shirt, over this is another layer, of purposely crumpled plum velvet. The leather fits to him where it should, and does not where it is not meant to. The shoes are round-toed boots, brown, to match the chocolate brown of his leather, which in turn matches some quality in his eyes. His hair is a deeper brown, nearer to black, and left long tonight, the curls left to go their own way.
     Girault opens his arms to you, and there is moisture at his eyes that does not fall. "Cara mia," he says, "...I knew I could trust my care in your hands. It is a pitiful Antonio who comes to you now, needing your expertise like a spa. I have been through a desert of despair, and have crawled to this oasis."
     It is not often that he wears his own emotions, true emotions, on his sleeves, but the man is clearly distraught, clearly as affected by the death of Johann as anyone who knew and loved him. "You favorite... I think he will be my favorite too," Girault murmurs. Though, he is no replacement for the Golden Northerner, true. Still, he will be sweet, and I will love him tonight. "You look ravishing as ever, would that I could transform myself into lace, there should be no better home than around your own thigh."

     A smile comes to her deeply painted lips, but there is nothing wicked or devilish about it. "I'm glad you are pleased, dear one," she says gently, pushing herself away from the door as you beckon to her. The boots make her seem tall, even if you know she is not much more than five foot five without them. To the clients, she seems impressive and exotic...and when the shoes come off, if they do, does it truly matter how tall one is in bed?
     Her body presses against you even as her smile fades, seeing your deep sorrow. One slender arm wraps gently about your waist, while the other reaches up to stroke your cheek so gently.
     "Ah, plus cher, m'a laisse vous tenir... m'a laisse emporter vos douleurs... Vous etes trop cher a moi pour que je voie que vous blessez comme ceci. Shh... je puis vous inciter a oublier pendant un certain temps, si vous le souhaitez. Vous devez seulement demander." The French trips off her lips so softly, just reaching your ear as she leans close. "Such pain I sense... we are all pained, but it can go away for periods of time. You need relief, cher.."

     How shocked would you all be to know that the Council sheds tears when even one of you is lost? How shocking, that beings of such power and age should care. But who feels it most when children die? Those who consider themselves parents. Si?
     His hands are yet gloved, and ermine rests upon your skin, as his hand folds over yours and holds it to his cheek. "Mes blessures externes ont gueri," comes the hoarse whisper, "...le verre a ete plumees dehors. Mes de sang passages plus. Et c'est parce que j'ai ete rendu vide. Que peut me remplir maintenant?" Girault closes his eyes. "Que peut me remplir maintenant?" Girault-Antonio di Medici, even he needs a moment to just melt, and so he does in pulling you to him. The finery belies the strength that is beneath it. The form of a knight such as Italy knew in the 13th Century. Cavalier, but lean formidability.
     He closes his eyes and he presses a kiss upon the top of your head, he several inches taller than you. And he smells of almond oil and oranges. Like a confection. "So prone to forgetting, to shedding the leaves of care like a tree whenever the season hit me. But his death, it makes me remember, cher. I do not know now how to forget..."

     Annabelle is not as old as you, it is true. She is not even what most would call an elder. But she has seen and experienced much, and so she has seemed at some moments to be older than her years. She has wept for the great loss, and will likely weep more. Who but the Toreador are closer to human emotions? It has taken much effort to regain her own sense of calm, even if it threatens to overflow once more.
     She draws in a deep breath, taking in the scent of you, and then releases it so very slowly. As you hold her to you and place that gentle kiss upon her head, the one known as The Madame gives you a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "So it is true about the glass. I had heard a rumour. I am glad your physical wounds have healed," comes the whisper. Her fingers gently stroke your cheek, even as your hand holds it there.
     Another moment passes and then she murmurs, "Je sais qu'il est dur, mon cher. Je suis ici pour vous. Tandis que vous ne pouvez pas oublier, peut-etre pouvons-nous vous distraire un moment?" She tilts her head a bit toward your face now, her gaze seeking out yours.

     Only a handful know his age, his generation, a kernel of the truth. For most, there is the Girault-Antonio di Medici of the Renaissance, patron of poets and painters, a dignitary now, someone of standing in the Clan, but none but a handful know he is the Pater Familias. So to speak. But shocking it must have been to some when news of the glass atrium's destruction by...whatever cause...followed upon the death of Saarbrucken. Some vampires may yet be in hiding from Gehenna.
     I healed that night. The glass was nothing much. It sliced, the glass rained on me in dust so powerful was my rage and so focused my voice. The outer wounds heal so easily.
     Girault holds you closely, though not as tightly as when first you came to him. His hold begins to unwind, and his hands go to your face. A bend, and he places three kisses upon it. One for each cheek, and finally upon the mouth. That scent of almonds and oranges come with him again. "Si... si," he drops into his Italian. "I come with that hope," he continues, and then he smiles, a hand gently laying upon your cheek. "I come to the den of delight in that I may find some. At least for a night. O, I am tired of working," he looks tired when he says this. "Tired of the dirge of Saarbrucken. I must return there in a few nights... but until then... I am placing myself in your hands. Keep me covered in beauty, in decadence. I want to feel everything... and nothing." And then he sets you free. Girault sits heavily in the large chair. His fingers immediately going to his clothing, velvet and silk unbuttoned to show the smooth-skined physique beneath, not brawny but a perfect balance of tender beauty and virile strength. He even unbuttons the cuffs, to let them hang open, baring his wrists, and finally he removes the ermine gloves to show the slender fingers, the several rings.
     "Cher," Girault breathes, head resting back against the back cushion of the chair, "... I may cry," he warns you, and he lifts a hand, gesturing with a wet-eyed smile, "...but do not let that stop the hands and mouths upon me. Hmm?"

     She heard the rumours and gasped at the thought. To use the voice thusly... she could not even imagine. The thought of such power behind your voice had shocked her, and now in its confirmation, it awes and even humbles her. She takes the kisses as though taking communion, basking in the sacredness of the touches, and even trembling slightly with them.
     When you finally unravel from her, moving to the chair, her hands slowly lower into the void where you stood just moments before ... as her body then lowers. The Madame kneels before you in your chair, even as you part some of the fabric which hides you beneath, her own eyes slightly moist as she looks to you, to your face.
     Softly, she whispers, "Puis cri, mon cher. Et l'univers soit damn." No sooner does the French roll off her tongue as the door opens once more. The blonde boy is back, carrying a tray with glasses and a bottle of the finest brandy in the city. He pauses, hovering near the entrance, however, taking in the sight before him...hesitating.

     "Come here, sweet," he purrs to the young man and to you both, his arm and hand extending toward the young man with his brandy. And his angelic face beams radiant, his hair radiant against the cushion at his back. "You will all have a drink with me," it is only half asked. The hand that extended to the young man, now reaches down and sweeps against your own hair. His other now reaches out, patting the side of the chair.
     The chair is large, the young man can join you both...
     We will teach him together, yes? The 'voice' of Girault insinuates itself against your blood, moving along your skin like the trailing of his hand, but beneath your skin. He is so beautiful. We may have to work out something. Ah, that seems more like the old Girault. Teasing you about stealing away your beautiful children. He always says that. It usually amounts to nothing.
     Half-lidded, cinnamon eyes rest upon you, then to the young man. How much have you shown him, cher. Ah... so delightful. I am in good hands... si. Yours. His.
     "I am having a craving..."
     Oh, you've known so many evil nights that began with that statement of his. "Do you know the confections called the nipples of Venus?" he asks the young man -- he knows you know. "I will see if we can make these tonight..." Sugar and brandy and a young man's lips. That is all I need.

     Encouraged by the invitation, the young man moves forward, his bare feet moving him across the plush carpet. The door closes with a soft 'click' behind him.
     "His name is Robert," Annabelle purrs gently, leaning against your one knee a bit as she watches him come closer. The name is said with the French accent so that the 't' is missing on the end. Something more like 'Robear'. There is something more romantic about the name said in the French tongue instead of the English.
     Mmmm... that we shall, dearest one. He is young, energetic and eager to learn. He might be a little shy, and does not speak much, but he has potential. Her own 'voice' echoes back through your thoughts, coursing much like a heartbeat along your veins. I'm pleased you like him.
     The brandy is set upon a nearby side-table and poured into three glasses. Slender hands offer a glass to you, then one to the Madame as Robert smiles shyly, watching the two of you. Annabelle takes hers between delicate fingers as her gaze flickers back up to you.
     He is a bit nervous, but he will behave. Of course he would...he is well trained and trained by the best. Non? Her lips curve upward in the corners as you speak to Robert, watching him shake his head 'no' to your question. He is still fairly new, Antonio. He is, as it is said, a clean slate.
     Shall you enjoy finding things to write upon that slate, then? Still kneeling, the Madame places her hands upon your legs, one on a thigh and the other on a knee, merely lounging against you as she watches you watching Robert watching the two of you...it is a circle of non-motion. Who will move first?

     "I will show you, Robert," Girault-Antonio smiles, and he takes the glass. "Later, first... we shall all enjoy a glass of brandy, and I shall cover myself in you both, both... better even than my ermine," and he smiles softly. He is so tender, Girault, even in the height of decadence, even when watching the blood of a night's affection roll against he skin of a 'favorite', he is tender. "Come here," he murmurs, and a leathered thigh rests outward, he motions for the young man to come to him. "The chair is big enough for both of us." He takes a sip of brandy and he closes his eyes for the burn of it. By the end of the night, the boy will know what fire and sugar are for.
     I will comfort him, cher, of course. He will be safe with me. I will show him how sweet it may be. Hmmm... rest your head on my knee. Or higher. Girault tilts his head, tipping it to watch the young man come to him. "You are quite beautiful, but... I am sure this is not your only talent. My Belle only associates with the most beautiful and talented in the world. I wish to know what your talent is..."
     I can take a good guess. Ah, me, look at that face. How easy it will be for me to pretend with him. Can you take over countries, my darling? Oh yes, tell me of your adventures as a pirate. And when you were prince of a northern city, si. I want to hear you speak my name with sweet and quick breaths.
     Girault sips the brandy and closes his eyes. And he begins to hum, some sweet song, a French song, but not opera, some 17th century ballad. His tenor is ...flawless but it is not without feeling. Such emotion in it.

     Annabelle rests her head against your knee, letting you and Robert get to know each other a bit more as she merely basks in the moment. She is comfortable for now, the night is young, and she is in no rush. Lifting her glass to her lips, she swallows some of the liquid fire and sighs, relaxing a bit more against you.
     I will rest my head here, for now. But, I do trust you with him...he could learn from no better than you, cher. Her voice is hushed even though Robert has no hope of hearing it.
     The blonde haired beauty moves forward, bringing his own glass with him, and quickly finds a spot next to you on the chair. He delicately sips some of his own brandy, then looks up into your face, examining you. He is nervous. You can both sense that. But he trusts the Madame, and so he will trust you. Another blush leaps to his cheeks as you compliment him, then he murmurs in a low tone, "I paint a bit. The Madame has been encouraging me to explore that side of me."
     And then some.

     Eyebrows open outward and his face shows true interest, this is not feigned for mock seduction's sake, in warmth and in brightness. "Painting, ah... I knew it. I knew it would be thus. I could tell by your hands, how you held the glass when you poured it. A painter, that is wonderful. And you should continue to ... express yourself thus. How long, Robert, have you been painting? You must tell, Antonio," he murmurs, and as the boy takes a seat he turns a little to him, one arm going out, and around the young man, who must -- by design -- sit partially on Girault and flush against him.
     Girault beams and then looks to Annabelle. "You know I am a great admirer of painters, si? Myself," he includes Robert in his looks and in the conversation, "I can paint nothing, ah... but those who can... inspire me," and with a smile he leans into the young Robert, those last words said very close to the young man. His hand rests lightly upon Annabelle's head, fingers curling and uncurling there, and then, his free hand lifts, lying lightly upon the young man's thigh. Girault leans back, the arm around Robert moving, as he brings the glass of brandy to his lips. His hand upon the thigh moving lightly, slowly, soothing.

     I knew you would be impressed. Her pleased words echo within your mind gently as she smiles against her glass as the rest of her brandy is knocked back. The glass is then set aside on the thick carpet, forgotten for now.
     Robert sprawls a bit, finally drawing in a deep breath as he hooks one leg over one of yours. It's easier to sit on the chair this way, certainly. His voice trembles a bit, but is otherwise clear as he replies, "Ever since I was a boy, really. My parents never really encouraged it as a career, but made sure I had canvasses and paints to play with. The Madame has been a true inspiration for my work...and has made me see it as it is, my work, not my play. It is more of a serious thing than my parents ever realized." His gaze lowers a bit to the hand upon his thigh and another small blossom of colour appears on his cheeks.
     He can't help it...the entire glass of brandy -- and he poured himself a larger glass than the two of you out of nervousness -- is knocked back quickly. The liquid fire will give him strength, surely.
     Annabelle reaches out lazily and touches Robert's knee that is hooked over yours, drawing little spirals there. This seems to calm him. Her other hand makes a similar movement upon your thigh. Her pale gaze flickers up to Robert's face as she murmurs, "Be a dear.. show the good monsieur..." Show you what? What does she have up her sleeve?
     Robert nods and reaches up with his free hand to pull some of his locks away from the supple flesh of his neck. It is a bit paler than the rest of him, usually hidden away by the golden curtain of hair. Annabelle's voice murmurs inside your mind, Care for a quick taste to whet the appetite, mon cher?

     He was mid-swallow of brandy when the young man bared his throat, and though he exhales in the snifter, there is no condensation of breath against the glass. For he is not alive, n'est-ce pas. The brandy is drained, held upon the tongue and then it burns its way down his throat and slams into his gut, dissolving immediately. Dissipating like mist, without intoxication. And the glass is moved to his other hand, and then drips from his fingertips to yours.
     Cara mia, you must watch me... watch me... make me stop if I cannot. He touches Robert's chin, and then leads the young man's mouth to his. The kiss is sweet, long, pulling and suckling. And then, bloodied. He gasps, no doubt the young man also gasps, and the tongue spirals, not only for pleasure's sake but to capture the tempting drops of the young man's blood. The kiss heals itself, wounds itself, and heals itself again. He would wonder if there was anything more beautiful than two beautiful men in the tangle of a kiss. Girault is not sure there is. You may differ, of course, being a woman.
     The kiss parts, Robert's mouth blushed, ravished, and then he is enfolded in strong and beautiful arms, his neck suckled, pierced. You alone can see the tremble of Girault's body. You alone can see the pleasure ripple through him in the Kiss, controlled as it is. But passionate. How the fingers grasp. How his body shivers. The leather does not lie.
     And he keeps his thoughts to himself for the moment. Or perhaps he cannot think just now. Or maybe there are no thoughts.

Posted by rowan at May 23, 2003 09:55 PM