Chapter Text
Ah… the air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne, overcooked ambition, and the faint, effervescent sigh of champagne. Beneath the lazy flicker of golden lights and murmuring voices, my gaze followed a line more intoxicating than any drink in this room… her.
She moved so nonchalantly, like silk falling from a biteable shoulder. My, my. That glass… her fingers, long and pale like moonlight filtered through lace curtains, danced with it. Caressante, the French would say. A loving touch, innocent perhaps, but so achingly intimate when she did it. Her thumb brushed the stem and I bit down softly on the inside of my cheek. How delicate she looked… how dangerous.
My eyes tried to behave, they managed. But my mind… oh, mon dieu, the mind is a wicked conductor. I imagined her fingers again, pas sur le verre, but curled around a throat, or was it mine? No, last night’s little guest, poor Mr. Landry. He gasped beautifully. Didn’t flail too much either. I do appreciate a man with dignity, even if I have to strip it from him rib by rib.
But she? No, not fleeting. Not like them. She wouldn’t be another name scratched into the walls of my memory. At least, not for tonight.
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, curling like smoke. My routine wrote itself. The looks, the whispers, the coy little approaches as if they were the ones doing the hunting. Sweet delusion. I watched it play out over and over again, a stage I built with bare hands and brighter lies. I let them think they had choice. A magician always does.
I chuckled into my fist, the sound soft and conspiratorial. My lashes fluttered non, pas maintenant. I didn’t want to blink, not when she still hovered in my vision like a promise half-whispered.
She whispered too. To her friend, lips barely parting. Probably mouthing the shape of my name without knowing it. It thrilled me. Une timide, perhaps? A bashful one always bloomed the most beautifully beneath my hand. Those breathless stutters, the red creeping up their cheeks, oh it painted such a divine picture every damn time. Like sin in oil and velvet.
She outshone the rest. Like a candle in a graveyard. My colleagues, what a pitiful assembly. Especially the boss… ugh, the way he pandered for her attention, as if begging might disguise the scent of desperation wafting from his polyester suit. He reminded me of a jack-o-lantern left out too long, smiling but rotted through. Halloween was over, mon ami. She wouldn’t fall for a man with the sex appeal of a tax return.
Still, she stayed with the others. Let them dirty her ears with their words, let them joke and fail and grasp. They never had a chance. No, she’d come eventually. They all did. Like water to a drain. Like a body to the river.
I settled back, lit from within by the thought of her approach. Her silhouette framed against the backlight of the bar, lips perhaps still moist from the rim of the glass. I could wait. Je suis patient, quand il faut. The more they bored her, the more radiant I’d seem.
And oh, the joy of watching their faces crack as she slipped from their grasp into mine. Jealousy? It was the finest wine on the table. I’d sip it slow.
They say time stands still in moments of great clarity. But I found it stops far more often in moments like these—where desire and cruelty dance cheek to cheek beneath the sound of clinking glass and foolish laughter.
Ah, but I’m getting sentimental.
Let her play her part. I'll wait in the wings, already knowing the ending. It’s a delicious one. After all, the leading man always gets the girl. And the body count spoke for itself.
A little dove fluttered forth, light-footed, coaxed forward by softer voices behind her. A trio of hesitant gazes cowered just out of reach, pushing their chosen tribute ahead with the silent desperation of schoolgirls before the gallows. Adorable. I nearly laughed aloud, but allowed the grin to melt into something silkier, kinder.
A sip first, to set the mood. The glass met my lips with a sigh, and the taste of it was dry, forgettable… nothing next to the flavor of anticipation now standing three feet away in nervous heels. She fiddled with the hem of her dress. One of those bashful types, heart skipping like stones over a summer lake.
I offered her half an eye, let it smolder in the low light. The rest of me stayed with the rim of my glass. Let them work for the full gaze, I always said. A man mustn’t give away the whole symphony for the price of a whistle.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle," I purred, voice low and smooth, like warm bourbon crawling through velvet. “You’re braver than your friends.”
Rouge magnifique. It crept down her neck, dipped beneath lace. My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. Ah, to bite would be too easy.
“I—uh—I…” she stammered.
“Mmh. No need for words yet. They often get in the way.” I dipped into a slow bow, hand offered, palm up. Always palm up. Never demand, softly invite. A gasp flitted from her lips, so airy it tickled the air between us. I could already taste the tremble in her fingers.
The dance floor waited like a stage yet untouched. I led her in, one step at a time, slow as molasses dripping off a silver spoon. She followed beautifully, unaware she’d long surrendered the reins.
One-two, step-close, breath-catch—encore. She fluttered through the motions, guided not by rhythm, but by me. Her eyes lit up as I twirled her once, twice, letting her dip low and rise again on a string no one else could see. Oh, she glowed. As if she thought herself reborn under my hands.
But my eyes weren’t on her.
No—ma chérie, the one I aimed for, lounged by the bar like a secret no one deserved to keep. I caught her gaze only briefly, framed in candlelight and mockery. Her hand hovered near her lips. Laughter. But not for me.
No. For him!
That pitiful, salt-rubbed wreck of a man. Gray sleeves wrinkled with failure, beard half-shaven like a field half-plowed. Life hadn’t been kind to him, gnawed him then swallowed only to spit him back into the corner with nothing but a discount cologne and a joke barely good enough to make her smirk.
She turned from me, her laugh didn’t belong to me.
I missed a beat.
The little dove blinked up at me, puzzled. I twirled her once more, only a bit forceful now. A clean pivot, calculated. She gasped again, not with delight this time, but with breathlessness. Good. She should remember this spin, would be her final one tonight.
“Darling,” I murmured, leaning close, lips nearly grazing the shell of her ear, “you move like a dream dipped in honey. But my drink’s gone lukewarm, and I fear my coworkers may be mourning my absence.”
A flush, stronger now. No woman knew how to digest both praise and dismissal at once. It always left a taste. She’d crave sweetness later and wonder where it had gone.
I bowed low once more. Kissed her hand. She had cool skin, soft knuckles and a trembling pulse. And I just left her there, breathless.
Back to the bar. One stride. Two. Three. Glass. Gulp. Burn.
My eyes locked on her once more. Still smiling. Still next to him… ah... ma chère. Why him?
A storm gathered behind my teeth. Who was he, anyway?
Some back-alley relic perhaps, reborn through whiskey fumes and cigar ash. Wore his scruff like a badge, uneven but deliberate. Not dirt, no. Intent. Sculpted in that brutish, caveman fashion, like a man who sharpened rocks with his teeth and still managed to care where they landed. The beard—it had shape. And that annoyed me.
My face, with its lines drawn by the devil's own quill, belonged closer to hers. Against hers. Between her legs.
But approach had to wait. Another oaf, one of mine, regrettably, ambled into the scene. Laughed with her. Clapped that gorilla's shoulder like they'd survived war together. Ha! As if joy belonged anywhere near him. My smile barely cracked. Enough to notice. Enough to loathe.
The brute slipped behind the bar with the ease of a man who’d done it often. Not clumsy. His hands moved with purpose, mixed with rhythm. Confidence, but not pride. Those fingers were capable. Knuckles thick from use. Not flab, no… beneath those loose sleeves lived strength. Leaner than expected. Solid. A hunter in his own right, perhaps? And that thought stung like whiskey down the wrong pipe.
Did she like bellies? The thought tiptoed through my skull with wicked little shoes. Absurd.
My thoughts scattered like startled crows when her gaze found mine.
Finally!
A softness danced across her lips, but it wore a mask. Smiled like a painting does. It was pretty, yet lifeless. Was that for me? Before I could interpret, she moved behind the bar. Her silhouette flirted with shadows. She leaned in to whisper a secret I wanted to know.
The brute followed her gaze. His eyes met mine. Measured. Nodded, sharp. Not casual but aware. They both seemed to know something I did not.
He finished the drink at hand, no fuss, no fanfare, and began mixing another. Fluid and deliberate as two fingers summoned me forward. No hesitation in my bones as curiosity outweighed wounded pride.
My steps whispered across the floor, hips poised, smile reheated. Before my frame even settled into the barstool, she was gone. Slipped through some velvet-curtained backdoor like a puff of perfume in the wind.
Cowardly? No. Clever.
He slid the drink across with silent precision. A familiar amber hue. Exact proportions. No garnish, no frills. My lips curled. Could’ve kissed that glass in gratitude. Almost did.
The liquid kissed first. Smooth. Spiced. My kind of tongue. I chuckled into it, low and dark. A quiet thunder.
She knew who I was, knew what I liked to put on my tongue. A woman like her didn’t float through the world without catching whispers. And in this room? I was the most wanted, the most watched, the most feared. A predator among swine, a smile too wide to ignore, teeth too sharp. I didn’t ask for names when the lights dimmed, I took gasps, left marks, collected the softest pieces of them between my lips like prayers no god dared answer.
Their panties? Always caught, always tasted like sweet surrender.
And her? She properly knew that too.
She stepped into the ring, smiled through the smoke, and left before the first bell. Very smart girl, but this wasn’t over. And joy... joy trickled down my spine like a drop of blood off of my blade.
Ah… l’alcool. Liquid lullaby for the restless mind. Velvet for the veins. It draped over me like a worn opera curtain, thou one pulled far too many times, stained with stories and too many endings.
Yet despite the golden haze settling behind my eyes, despite the way my blood hummed like an old phonograph tune, the night tasted sour. Flat. Like wine left open near a window, warm and lifeless. la femme fatale du soir was gone. And with her, that broad-shouldered drink-pouring ape.
No trace or note. No lipstick smudge on a napkin, not even a lingering laugh in the air.
I am sitting alone now. A forgotten king on a tarnished throne, nursing an empty glass and the bloated ache of boredom. All that glimmer, all that promise, and yet nothing. No spark, dance or climax. Hah, how tragically dull.
And to top it all off? My dear employer, le roi sans couronne… had the audacity to look me in the eye and speak as if I were merely... staff. One among many. As though it weren’t my voice that tickled the airwaves, my grin that made lonely housewives grip their radios tighter. He provided wires. I made music.
Ungrateful swine.
My fingers drummed on the glass, thoughts sticky and slow, dragging through the recollection of her lips, her posture, the way she whispered into his ear. Her closeness to that brute! Ah, it bit into me. Scratched down my spine with something sharp and humiliating.
Why him? What did he possess?
The heat in my gut begged for violence. I imagined his face submerged in the bayou’s black belly, his last breath tangled with algae and rot. He looked like he’d put up a fight, but all things rot eventually. With the right plan, the right angle… they all sink.
But not yet. No, not while her eyes still wandered his way. Kill him now, and she might mourn him. Or worse… a shame really. My patience would need to outlast my hunger. Again.
The night peeled open before me as I stepped outside. A dull farewell from the boss, an even duller nod to colleagues. I returned the gesture, teeth perfect and gleaming, though my thoughts had long since left this corpse of a gathering.
Moonlight greeted me like an old mistress. Pale and cold, but never boring. It washed over my suit and kissed the edges of my thoughts with clarity.
She played the long game. She chose the mystery. She knew exactly who I was, and still she refused the fall… delightful.
Most women took one look at the wolf and either ran screaming or flung themselves straight into the maw. But her? She tiptoed on the edge of the woods, smiled, and left breadcrumbs.
I shivered with anticipation. Oh yes… she knew. She wanted to be hunted. And I? I was made to chase.
Ah, what a night to be alive. That breed of aliveness that curled beneath the skin, slithered along the spine, eyes dilated wide, soaking in every pulse of the city’s underbelly. I walked with no destination, only the weightless delight of hunger yet to be sated.
The streets flickered in lamplight and smog, perfume mixing with decay. A scream of jazz from a far-off club tumbled out into the gutter, ignored. Until I caught her.
Not her, no, not the elusive flame from earlier. This one was different. Wrong perfume. Taller, perhaps. Eyes too light. But the mouth? Hmm, I tilted my head. Had I had that mouth? Tasted it on a lonesome night, between ad breaks and blood? Possibly. I couldn’t recall. They started to blend after a while, didn’t they?
She stood cornered by some oaf. His voice too loud, intentions too plain. His hand braced against the wall near her face, mouth moving faster than his brain ever could. I didn’t like the way she shrunk, eyes darting around for someone—anyone—to intervene.
Ah, fate. Always so generous, opened her legs for me once again.
I floated forward, devil-may-care and jazz in my step. Draped an arm around the man’s shoulder with the grace of a well-practiced ghost and leaned in, warm breath, sharp smile. “Bonsoir, monsieur,” I purred, “do we know each other?” He twitched. Delightful. “Ah, no? What a Pity.”
I turned my head, just slightly, toward the lady. She froze, recognition blooming like daisies on corpses. Of course she knew who I was... Alastor. The radio voice that hummed lullabies to monsters and murderers. She’d heard me. They all had. Maybe while brushing her hair. Maybe with her thighs pressed tight and the lights off?
And if she had any measure of wit behind those lashes, she’d connect the dots fast. Recognize the man whose voice would echo again tomorrow through the static, detailing the brutal end of this very pest who pressed too close to her tonight.
That wouldn’t be smart. No, not at all. So, I let the urge go as I watched her lips part, offering a breathless thank-you, her gaze trembling with more than fear. She walked away, hips swaying on instinct. Not running, not quite. Just enough to say merci, and please forget I exist.
I turned my full attention to the man beneath my arm. Poor creature. He muttered half-excuses, dipped with panic, and I nodded along as though listening. No sincerity in his voice. No fear worth savoring. No music in it.
I considered ending him right there, gifting the moon a red smile across the bricks. But no. Too risky.
She’d talk. Maybe not to the police, but to herself, while tuning in tomorrow night. Ears perked, wine glass in hand, pulse rising with each familiar detail I whispered into the airwaves. No, no… let’s not stain that pleasure with premature mess.
With a dramatic sigh, I straightened his lapels. “She wasn’t worth the trouble anyway,” I said with a grin, tipping my hat. “Take care out there, mon ami.”
And off I went. Alone. Untouched. Unsatisfied.
The street welcomed me back with a chilled breeze and scattered paper. No soft skin nor the sweet song of death.
But her face… ah, that almost-forgotten one. It stuck somewhere between memory and mist. I couldn’t name her. Couldn’t place the moans or the cries she must’ve made. But I’d had her. Probably. Maybe. And tomorrow, she’d hear my voice again. That made my smile feel a bit more true.
A stone bounced once, twice, skittered off into a puddle. My toe gave it purpose, but my mind wandered elsewhere. Hands buried, shoulders dipped, coat collar high. A walk like this could turn a man philosophical, or dangerous. I always picked the second.
The streets near my place wore silence like old perfume. Faint scent of whiskey, oil, something almost metallic. That’s when the voice hit me… rough as gravel, smooth as threat. “Well, well. The Great Alastor walks alone tonight.”
I didn’t stop smiling. Wouldn’t give him that. “Marlowe,” I breathed out like a lover’s name. “Still lurking in shadows hoping someone mistakes you for a ghost?”
He stepped out of the dark with the kind of smirk that made priests curse under their breath. “You didn’t take her home,” he said. “Saw it. Watched the whole damn thing from a table near the wall. You left your poor dance partner spinning in circles, still waiting for you to come back.”
“She was lovely,” I said, voice syrupy. “Graceful ankles. Frightened fingers. But the one I wanted... well. She flew.” He whistled low. “That one? With the dark eyes and the mouth like trouble dipped in honey?” I tilted my head at that.
“She yours already?” he pressed. I made a thoughtful sound, laced with laughter. “Wouldn't you love to know.” He clicked his tongue. “You don’t even know her name, do you?”
“Oh, names are so dull at the start,” I said. “Better to learn the melody of their voice first. How it cracks when pressed... how it sighs when held.” His jaw tightened. Perfect.
“She knew who you were,” he muttered, watching me like a snake watches a rival. “Didn’t come over. Didn’t give you the time. Slipped out the back while you were busy pretending the warm-up girl mattered.” I let the silence stretch, long enough for him to feel it. “Must be getting old,” he added, eyes glinting. “Or maybe the legend’s fading. You usually collect them like moths to your flame. This one? She danced right past the fire.”
“I let her,” I said, gently. “You think I chase every skirt that sways near my flame? No, no. I let her fly. It’s more fun when they circle back on their own.” He scoffed, folding his arms. “That why you looked like hell walking out? You never leave a party early, Alastor. Not unless the game’s lost.”
I leaned in, close enough to share air. “The game’s never lost, detective. Not for me. It’s only ever delayed.” A flicker passed across his face—doubt, maybe. Or something darker.
“She knows what you are?” he asked. I smiled wider, teeth glinting. “Don’t all women?” He didn’t like that. Good. I wasn’t trying to be liked. Not by him anyway.
“She’ll end up like the others,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” I hummed. “But wouldn’t you like to know how many nights she’ll stay warm before the frost sets in?” He stepped back. Just one pace. Enough thou.
“Careful, Alastor,” he warned. “This one’s not like your usual. Something about her… off. Not soft, not easy.”
I let my voice drop, velvet-drenched. “That’s why I liked her.” Marlowe huffed and flicked the brim of his hat. “Next time you lose one, I’ll be sure to bring flowers.”
“Make sure they’re white lilies,” I said, cheerful. “For purity, you know.”
He disappeared around the corner, boots echoing with stubborn pride. I stood alone for a beat, grinning into the wind.
She flew, yes. But swans don’t disappear. They circle. They return. And when she does… I’ll be waiting. But more importantly now… why did he warn me?
What did that fox-faced bastard know? Did he really speak of her, or was it all a ploy… a pebble tossed to see which way the water rippled? Every word of his oozed smug delight, yet his eyes searching me like a map drawn in blood. He didn’t know. Couldn’t. No one did.
Still, something prickled at the base of my spine.
Me, the one whose name curled around whispers like cigarette smoke, who danced barefoot on corpses and laughed at the way flesh cooled. I’d earned the title. The killer. The one who never missed.
Yet now there were too many shoes in this dance. A man behind a bar, hands calloused but clean enough to be dangerous. A detective who scratched at my footprints with dirty fingernails and jealous eyes. And hers.
Her, with the swan-neck and the dancer’s steps. She, who looked my way and did not smile with her eyes. Who fed me to the bartender like I was a starving dog meant to bite someone else's hand. Smart and calculated and oh so delicious.
The walk burned behind my teeth. My feet paced with purpose, but it wasn’t to get home, no, it was to hold back the edges of something unhinged. It buzzed in my limbs, coiled behind my ribs, gnawed at my wrists with tiny glass teeth.
The detective once tried to end my Radio show. Hah! Can you believe that? Said it gave too many clues. Said the wrong ears might piece together the puzzle. Oh, darling, they should piece it together. That’s the game.
The chief pulled his leash tight, of course. I’d done him favors, played the smiling friend. So, the detective’s threats turned to toothless yapping, always at my ankles, never daring to bite. Still, I admired his tenacity. How he sniffed and circled. I knew his type. Some woman wanted him, and many men feared him, but both wished they could match his obsession.
He thought I was a playboy. Ha! A celebrity. A harmless charmer, lips too quick and fingers too clean to be anything but decadent.
Fools. All of them.
That aching smile curled again, twitching against my cheekbones like it wanted to leap from my face and find someone to kiss—or kill. The need to laugh nearly boiled out of me, but no, not yet. Not out here, not where eyes still lived behind curtains and keyholes.
My key turned with a gentle click. And oh, home… home knew the truth. I stepped in. Waited. Five seconds. Ten. It came out of me like music struck on piano wire.
“Hah! HA! HAHAHA!”
I spun across the floor, flinging off my shoes with a kick. My coat flared, caught in a dramatic twirl as I sang to the shadows clinging to the corners of the room.
“She FLEW! Did you see her? No, of course not, because I did. Ohhhh, and she knew, yes she did—she tasted me on the air and still didn’t bite. Fascinating!”
My fingers danced over the buttons of my shirt, slow as a lover’s tease. Fabric peeled open, inch by inch, revealing pale skin like a theater curtain drawn for the final act. I hummed a tune no choir would dare, something warped, something raw.
“You beautiful, wicked swan… clever little thing,” I breathed, leaning back, arms open, shirt hanging loose like some sultry madman's wings. “You think I’ll forget you? Hah! Oh no, no, no… I will remember every shadow your feet touched tonight.”
A pause. The ceiling watched me. The floor held its breath. I grinned into the room. “I’ll make a show out of you,” I whispered, voice dipped in honey and poison. “Soon!”
And the walls, my only audience, stayed respectfully silent as I laughed again ,louder, higher, like a string pulled too tight.
The night outside dared not interrupt… it knew better.