French Champagne

To: Armand. And Rachel.

Lying on crumpled, broken wings... a drunken mess in the midst of a city that never sleeps. The stagnant air smelled of spilt champagne and cigarettes. What sort of god would have allowed the devil himself to creep into the room of his faithful follower as he slept? I don’t know how long I watched from the shadows... not daring to make a sound lest I disturb his peaceful slumber. The minutes ticked by... painfully slow as I approached the bedside, gazing down upon his face for the very first time. 

He was just as beautiful as I had imagined... this fallen angel.

His eyelids fluttered and a low, incoherent mummer escaped his full lips. I reached down to remove the half empty bottle that leaned against his chest, setting it quietly on the floor beside the bed as I moved to sit beside him. Dark hair spilled over the sweat soaked pillows and his head turned ever so slightly to one side granting me a perfect view of the vein that pulsed just beneath the taut skin of his throat. I leaned closer... drawn in by the heat of this mortal body so near to me. It would have been so easy.

My face was so very near to his that I had to fight back the urge to wake him... to jolt him out of his sleep for the sheer satisfaction of seeing the fear in his eyes when he realised that his personal demon had sought him out and that this perfect predator had been victorious in the first round of this dangerous game we played. 


Instead, I lowered my lips until it touched his smooth, white neck; the blood throbbing in his vein almost palpable and let my fangs pierce a little hole into the perfect skin. Champagne and more champagne, the lovely bubbles and sweet, sweet delight. But I didn't plan on sucking him dry - not tonight.

Bold with my own devious little victory, I brushed my lips lightly over his. He tasted of defeat and expensive French champagne. His lips parted and he moaned softly as my fingers moved through his thick hair. I wondered if my gentle touch had stirred dreams of some lover from the past. Those very same pale, musician's fingers could have crushed his skull if I so desired. 

I wished to whisper into his ear, voice so low it could've been his imagination, that the Devil isn’t real. That horned demon that tormented him as he slept is nothing more than a figment of a demented imagination. The hell he feared existed only within the boundaries of his own mind. I am the Prince of Darkness. There is no greater evil than that which I have shown him.

"Enjoy your bed of cold, damp stone, my love. And take comfort in the knowledge that the only creature out to steal your soul has already had a taste of it."