Chapter Text
Eglee pauses in the middle of savoring my cock to inform me that Mercury is now in retrograde.
“Okay,” I say, as if I should have any bloody idea what that’s supposed to mean.
When she continues to blather on, neglecting my hardening need, I pet her sweetly on the head, using the contact to guide her head back down and urge her lips to resume their greater purpose.
“…aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Am I?” My leading lady’s arms slide around my waist as I stick the key in the ignition.
Planche stands to the left of my bike, arms crossed, a frown on his usually placid face.
“A certain anniversary…?” he prompts, but the only anniversary I’m aware of is the one Celeste and I are already planning to celebrate, that of the first night we shared the stage and birthed thespian magic.
I tell him this, but his frown only deepens.
“No, the anniversary of you and—“
A bottle smashes against the nearest wall, shards of colored glass and sickly sweet liqueur raining down on the heads of startled passersby.
Oh, right.
“Bâtard ingrat! La pute!” Eglee launches herself at us but is caught at the very last second by Planche, who fetters her with a bear hug.
I leave her in his good hands and speed off before a growling Celeste can exacerbate the fun.
Eglee is sulking in her coffin by the time we return, so I leave the small velvet gift box on her vanity.
“Ride with me tonight.”
Eglee turns her back on my earnest request and sidles up to Gustave, bestowing a teasing lick upon her maker’s bashful cheek.
“How nice for Gustave,” Estelle coos, arm in arm with Celeste. “He’s been desperate to reclaim her pretty eye ever since—” She glances sideways at me.
I smile at the happy couple, and bury my fists in my pockets.
My petite prize squeaks as I sweep her off her feet. Her middle-aged meal, bleeding like a stuck pig, slips from her grasp and stumbles off into the fray, immediately being leapt on and devoured by Merde'em. Gustave is too busy sinking his fangs into a nubile ingenue to notice me flying away with his wriggling fledgling.
“Pose-moi!”
“Not until we talk.”
I land on the roof and set her down, keeping hold of her upper arms for good measure.
Unable to bypass my superior strength, Eglee settles for a withering pout that is more darling than disarming, given the blood smeared across her mouth like a child who purloined her mother’s lipstick. If I didn’t fear a severed ear, I would lick her clean.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You’ve been cheating on me,” she snaps with trembling indignation.
“Technically, I cheated on Celeste with you,” I point out, to which she rolls her eyes.
“On ne guérit pas le mal par le mal,” she scoffs and turns her head—the perfect angle to catch the moonlight in her diamond and ruby earrings.
“You’re wearing your anniversary present.”
“Hmph!”
“And what about you and Gustave, hm?”
“He’s my maker, he doesn’t count.“
“How fortunate you have the option.”
Eglee bites her lip. “Oh mon cœur,” she murmurs. Warm remorse melts away the icy pettiness in her eyes.
Luring this lovely fish back onto my hook is worth pricking open the scab of my maker’s demise.
I school my features into an expression of wry sorrow and release her arms, letting mine fall limply to my sides. As I knew she would, she immediately closes the distance between us and leans up on her tiptoes, so her gentle hands can caress my heavy shoulders, while her tender lips press soothing kisses to my downturned chin.
She’s rather predictable, my Eglee—and she is certainly still mine, no matter this minor disagreement over the exclusivity of our arrangement.
After a prolonged beat I surrender myself to her consolations, wrapping my arms tight around her tiny waist and crushing her purring body against mine. Our lips meet with the fervor of lovers long separated, though it’s only been three days.
We remain locked in this rapturous embrace until a stray lamb, having somehow escaped the slaughterhouse below, stumbles onto the rooftop, and a different sort of primal hunger overtakes our senses.
On the ride back to our lair, the brisk night breeze rippling through my golden locks, with a full belly and a beautiful woman nestled against my back, I feel at complete and utter peace with the world.
This peace lasts for a little over a decade, until the negligent Americans come and disrupt our harmonious existence.
Due to their constant spitting in the face of our kind’s traditions, and our Mâitre’s insistence on coddling such insubordination, I have no choice but to abruptly break ties with my frivolous sweetheart, so as to intimately align myself with the more powerful and wisest among us in order to preserve our way of life.
I do not intend our separation to be permanent.
Fortunately, our pretentious friends from across the pond realize they are out of their shallow depths, and henceforth depart Paris for good.
Unfortunately, Eglee no longer seems eager to rekindle our romance.
“Why are the whores outside wearing Dior?”
“Because I gave it to them,” Eglee answers with zero shame.
“But I bought those clothes for you,” I say, keeping my tone even, my volume leveled.
“They deserved it, they work so very hard—I would know.” She bats her lashes demurely, red lips curving upwards at the corners.
Whatever game she’s playing, I’ve had enough.
“Eglee.” She doesn’t flinch when I slam my palms down on either side of her dressing table, trapping her between my arms and her chair. “If you want to be difficult, I will take my considerable and generous affections elsewhere.”
She reaches up and cups my cheek. I close my eyes and lean into the silk and perfume of her touch.
“Never been a struggle for you in the past, has it?”
The coolness of her reply catches me off guard, as does the sudden absence of her skin against mine—she has slipped beneath my elbows and now stands beside Gustave’s open coffin, where her maker lies with open arms.
The lid closes on their cosy union.
What does Gustave have that I don’t?
The answer, of course, is very little, besides a smidge few centimeters over me in bare feet; otherwise, it is I who has the life to be coveted.
But I am the one who no longer has Eglee.
“Romaine said you wanted to see me…Mâitre?” asks Eglee, lingering in the doorway of the wet room.
The endearment falls stiffly from her tongue, but I cannot blame her; for many years she had only one master, and now she, alongside her brethren, have two. It was a condition reluctantly agreed to by Armand, lest he have to deal with a mutiny on top of reeling from his companion’s sudden, but just, departure.
“Yes, come, come.” I beckon her to join me beside the rat box.
Her nose twitches at the damp stench of death.
This would not have been my first choice as the setting for our romantic reunion, but it is the farthest point in the lair away from Gustave, who is busy rehearsing and is therefore unglued from his fledgling for the opportune moment.
Eglee steps daintily over the grimy concrete, keeping her elbows tucked to her sides. When she is within arm’s reach, I notice the new adornment around her slender neck, a teal satin ribbon bearing a heavy silver pendant in the shape of the North Star.
“From Gustave, I presume?”
“Oui.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, tactilely admiring its antique charm.
She brushes my fingers away from her neck. “Why did you summon me?”
I lean back against the rat box, crossing my arms casually across my chest. “Does one need a reason to look upon such a pretty face?”
Her pretty face goes flat.
“Is that all?” she asks in a low, clipped tone, expression inscrutable, thoughts concealed behind a wall of onyx.
“Not in the least.” I step forward and pull her into my arms, sliding one hand around the back of her neck and the other under her chin. “We have so much more to share with one another.”
She does not resist, but nor does she rejoice in my embrace. Her golden gaze searches mine.
“Do we?”
“Of course,” I purr, running my thumb over her bottom lip. My knee nudges between her legs.
“I don’t believe you.” Eglee grabs my harness and shoves me away.
She’s stronger than last I knew, and sends me stumbling against the body box; in the few seconds it takes to regather my bearings, she is gone.
I sigh.
The sweet sheath of victory may still have eluded me—but I have not been left empty-handed.
I tuck Gustave’s gift in my back pocket, and stroll out of the wet room.