Elena stood on the balcony, enjoying the late evening breeze off the Seine. As usual she wore nothing, leaning on the wrought iron rail of her seventh floor apartment in the 7th arrondissement. Anyone passing on the street below could look up and see her gorgeous black body in all its voluptuous splendor, which happened to be more or less the point.
Garou smiled. “You’ll have the neighbors calling the gendarmes. Then we’ll have to move.”
“But we must go anyway. I see it in your eyes. Must we run again? I am tired of running. I thought I had found a place where I could remain for -- a time, anyway.” She turned her back on the million euro view of the Eiffel Tower and offered him the far more enticing sight of her body.
Garou approached, clad only in the silk robe he had worn the last time he had been here. “Marcus will return to Paris. We should ask Marie to help us again.”
Elena made a hrumph sound. “Your ex-girlfriend. We -- I -- owe her much,” she reluctantly admitted. She wasn’t overly fond of the woman, but she had helped Garou track down Marcus Trent.
“Indeed.” He pulled her close and stroked her rump. “If she is alive.”
Elena became more serious. “Yes. If the blood you sent her has not killed her, assuming she used it.” She moved a little under his hand, smiling dreamily.
“She will have done so. Marie is nothing if not adventurous. Yes, she is my ex-girlfriend. Is that a concern?”
Her eyes became slits. “Only if I ever see her.” Her razor claws extended a little and lightly scratched his shoulder. “Will you fuck me now? Here, on the balcony? Like the first time?”
“Some guy in a car is watching us. Probably one of Marcus’ people. We’ll give him something to tell the boss.”
He let his robe fall away. The feel of his hard, muscular body overwhelmed her. The touch of his scarred skin and sinewy hands made her head swim.
“You make me forget how close we are to death,” he rumbled.
She relaxed in his embrace. “Life is nothing more than a dance with death. Eventually, for most of us, the dance ends.” She relegated further philosophical discourse to a far corner of her brain as Garou cupped her ass and picked her up like a child. She spread her legs and he let her down slowly onto his erect cock.
She dug her nails into his shoulders as he penetrated her with agonizing patience, only a little, then a pause, then a little more, showing incredible strength and self-control.
“Your body is mine,” he murmured in her ear. “I am in control.” He let her down a little more.
She whimpered, unable to vocalize the intense, frustrating, yet electrifying pleasure she felt. “Give it to me,” she hissed as she moved her hips, trying to capture more of his cock. “Fuck me! I cannot stand it!”
He let her down some more, at the same time watching the man on the street below who thought he was invisible behind the windshield of his sedan. Garou saw rhythmic movement as the man stroked himself. “Our watcher is getting off seeing me treat you like a helpless little sex toy.”
That set her off, and Garou winced as Elena clutched him in a man-killing grip, grinding her hips and grasping his head as she pulled his face to her tits. “Stephan!” she shrieked. “Oh, Stephan, take me! Take me hard!” He felt her cunt clench his cock as she came, gasping.
He rammed his cock all the way into her and growled deep in his throat. “Who knows how many people can see me fucking you! You’re exposed to them all!” He slammed her up against the frame of the balcony door and thrust savagely again and again, hissing her name each time. Any normal woman would have been injured, bones shattered, but Elena only cried out shamelessly, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” He came with a deep groan, thrusting deep.
After they had calmed, he let her down and said, “Dress. We must leave soon.”
Elena stretched and rubbed the base of her neck, glancing at the door frame, which showed some damage. She raised one elegant brow but said nothing. Garou slapped her ass and she squealed and ran into the bedroom to get her clothes.
* * *
Marie gloried in her vitality. She looked and felt decades younger than her seventy-two years. The terrible hacking cough and shortness of breath had disappeared entirely. She had always been beautiful, but now men a third of her age looked at her with unguarded lust, which gave her considerable pleasure.
She wanted to experience again what had been slipping away from her over the years -- the attraction of a new lover, the sense of mystery and intrigue about the dance of love. And the passionate sex. Oh, how she had missed that!
A fuck a week from Bertrand, a nice trim man of about sixty, did not constitute passionate sex, not by a long way in her book. Especially as he already had a wife of more than thirty years. Silly woman, to let him stray. Clearly she deserved no less. But now Marie wanted far more than Bertrand could ever offer.
Less than a week had passed since Marie had received the mysterious package from one Mr. Wolfe. After first setting it aside, she suddenly muttered an epithet under her breath and opened it, finally understanding who the sender had to be.
Within the careful packaging lay a small vial of dark liquid, and a short, cryptic note: “A votre santé, ma Cherie.”
She chose a robe of sheer silk that she had not worn in ages. A simple rose tint with sky blue streaks, that only just covered her compact hips and even when belted displayed her tits to generous advantage. That and nothing more.
From habit she tapped out a cigarette and then tossed the pack in the trash, remembering the gagging reaction she had experienced before. Stephan would approve. At least she could still enjoy her other vices -- wine, clothing and sex.
She thought of Stephan now, not as a fine memory from her youth. More like a future experience, to be anticipated. I do not care that he has another woman. I want him. I will have him.
When he had come to her before, searching for Vlad Drakulya, she had helped him and sent him away, feeling the sadness and -- she admitted it now -- the self-pity of one condemned to death. She smiled in mild disbelief. That I could have been so melodramatic.
Then had come the little package, and the innocuous vial of…
Stephan’s blood.
She stood before her mirror and lifted her firmer, fuller tits. Everything looked better, to be sure. More vital. Lines she still had, but they were less than before, and seemed to be disappearing as she watched. Thirty-five, perhaps forty, and very well preserved at that. And getting younger by the minute. The process fascinated her. Rejuvenation. Amazing.
She had known the risks. Stephan had made that clear, years ago. She had one chance in five, perhaps less. Less a matter of blood type than simply the nature of the virus itself, a virulent and implacable entity. Merciless. If it did not merge with her body in whatever way it needed to do, she would die.
Injecting herself with the blood had not been as easy as she had expected, even though she knew she would be dead in months, if not weeks, from lung cancer. But we never really believe it until it is upon us. She had hesitated…
She fluffed her thick, dark hair before the mirror and did not wonder if Stephan would want her, only how she would handle him. His incredible strength, and that overpowering musk, had always made her feel weak and very submissive. She expected she would still feel that way, but with a twist. I think you will be impressed, Monsieur werewolf.
The doorbell rang. She glided across the living room, checked the peephole to affirm her expectation, sighed, and slowly opened the door.
Bertrand, of middle height, thinning hair and trim build, did a perfectly wonderful double take. For five seconds he simply stared. Marie tilted her head to one side and smiled as he looked her up and down. His hands unconsciously clenched and unclenched. “Mon Dieu, Marie! What has happened?”
She stepped back and gestured with her head. “Enter, mon cher.” Her voice, too, had changed, becoming deeper and stronger, with what she fancied to be a sultry edge.
Bertrand entered slowly, instinctively on edge and completely confused. “Is it you?” He reached for her as he would have done immediately before, but now he hesitated and drew back. “I -- I -- do not understand --”
Marie shut the door. “You do not need to understand, Bertrand. You only need to watch, and act.”
He now seemed to her to be weak and indecisive, a pathetic excuse for a man, not the kind of strong, confident man she desired. Her love for him had dissolved into pity. But she still had desires to fulfill, and he was capable of that. “As you can see, mon cher,” she said, “I am interested in being fucked tonight. Please do so and then I shall explain everything that you need to know.”
She wondered if perhaps she now had an -- ability. A power, even? To make a man want her to distraction. Oh, and what woman would not want that?
She wondered this because Bertrand had become profoundly erect, and had begun to stumble out of his clothes. He had barely discarded his last sock when he grabbed her, ripping the robe from her body. “I must have you! Now!”
“Ah,” she purred, “that is what I want to hear.” Consumed with lust herself, she fell to the floor, pulling him down on top of her. To her delight the hard floor did not cause her to wince and curse in discomfort. Nor did his weight bother her. In his feverish hunger for her he grabbed her wrists and she let him pin them to the floor beside her head. Too bad I have to assist him. She arched her back and thrust her tits up at him. “Take them, cher Bertrand, suck them and bite them the way I like.”
He grunted and sucked them into his mouth. He used his knee to spread her legs, and his leg hair abraded her inner thighs.
A touch, just a touch, of what I desire. What I need! She spread her legs greedily and thrust her hips up to capture his cock, and he plunged into her with a loud groan.
“Cherie! Cherie!” he gasped. “You are fantastic! I want you forever!” He pounded her with great enthusiasm and she let her fantasy of Garou taking her bring her to a modest orgasm. Fortunately this happened quickly as Bertrand had managed to excite himself to the point where she wondered if he would even survive.
She thrust against him, easily lifting them both off the floor, hoping for another orgasm. Imagining Stephan taking her --
Bertrand screamed, coming uncontrollably, gasping, until his face turned white. “Marie!” he wheezed. “Marie!” Impossibly, he came again, pumping like a fire hydrant. His movements became weaker, but continued.
Marie felt herself infused with warmth and life, even as she felt him grow cold and lethargic. Unaccountably, her excitement increased, and she came hard, catching her breath. “Ah! Ah! Yes!” That is much more like it!
Something happened that she did not understand. She felt full. Sated. Without realizing what she did, she pushed Bertrand off her. She felt nothing for him, not love or lust or even contempt; simply nothing.
She lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling for a minute. Not resting, only thinking for a moment, understanding that she really did not want Bertrand anymore. She turned her head to tell him to go. His blank, unwavering stare did not immediately register. Then she saw how emaciated he seemed, as though he had been sucked dry…
“Bertrand, I think it is time for you to --” She sat up, staring for a moment. She touched his face. Cold. His eyes were dead.
For a moment, fear shot through her. What have I done? Then she felt unutterable sadness. Then she felt very little at all. So this is what it is like, to be… different.
* * *
A tall, almost human figure crashed through the forest like an immutable force, uncaring of the obstacles in its path. If it came to an immovable object, a boulder or a tree, it detoured. Otherwise it simply pushed aside or crushed underfoot the obstruction, uncaring and unfeeling of the many cuts and bruises inflicted by sharp branches and rocks. Blood streamed from its legs and torso, but all of the wounds closed almost immediately.
Once fine clothing hung in tatters from its huge frame. It forged onward, in the morning dampness, snorting misty breaths like a bear, occasionally deigning to brush aside a flailing branch in its passage. Tall, muscular, fiercely eyed and sharp featured, the human-like creature stared almost blankly ahead, seeming compelled by an inner geas toward a mysterious end. Only its eyes betrayed the deep, inhuman rage that burned within its breast.
Revenge…
The creature came upon two young men sitting by a trail, admiring the view across a small valley. They died in agony and terror, and the terrible humanoid creature rejoiced in the spilling of their blood, even as he drank greedily.
For a time the creature’s mind remained trapped in directionless, animal rage. But as his body absorbed the rich, still hot human blood, a spark of something else struggled to the surface. It became He, and then He became Vlad.
Vlad Tepes, Vlad the Impaler, ruler of 15th century Wallachia until he had been banished to a life of… exile. He had waited so long. He had been so patient. He had never forgotten his legacy. Eventually, he had gathered those about him who could help him restore order and discipline to this land.
And then he had found the one he thought lost to him forever. Ilona, now called Elena. That she had a lover did not matter; he had taken her back, as was his right, but both she and the lover, Garou the werewolf, had thwarted him, and destroyed his small cadre, the core of his Army of the Righteous.
Wandering in the forested mountains, he had been unable to feed, and his mind had slipped into an animal state, a basic survival mode, since the brain uses so much blood. Vlad tossed the bodies of the hikers into the gorge the two men had stopped to admire, then went through their packs where he found money and clothing for their cross-country hike. One of the two had been big and broad shouldered, almost Vlad’s size. His clothing barely fit.
Vlad descended from the trail to the parking lot that snaked between tall pines, where hikers left their vehicles. After a short time he located a small sedan, dumped his pack into the trunk and drove off.
After ditching the vehicle on the outskirts of Paris, he rode the underground into the city then picked up a cab and went to his villa in the 3rd arrondissement, the old district where seventeenth century mansions and old nobility could still be found. He changed and from one of several well hidden safes took an unregistered cell phone and forty thousand euros in cash. He drove one of his 500 SL Mercedes to a church where he dropped the stolen hikers’ clothing in a charity bin, then called a number.
“Oui.”
“Alert the conclave. Emergency meeting in two hours.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
* * *
Marie notified the police, who came, along with a doctor. The doctor declared Bertrand dead of a heart attack and the corpse was removed forthwith. The gendarmes questioned Marie for a few minutes, and she answered them truthfully. Bertrand had been her illicit lover for over a year. He had come to see her and they had sex on the floor. Bertrand then died, though not, she noted with a coy yet rueful smile, until he had thoroughly satisfied her.
Her somewhat salacious and perhaps overzealous description, along with an assortment of coy glances, winks and little smiles, served their purpose. The younger gendarme, no more than twenty-five, tried not to look at Marie, but his eyes kept straying to the generous cleavage displayed by her unbuttoned blouse, obviously thrown on in haste and distraction after her lover’s death. His cock stood clearly rigid in his uniform pants.
The senior of the two gendarmes, a grizzled fellow of about forty-five with salt and pepper in his moustache, nodded stoically, but seemed nonthreatening. His wise eyes said he had been around long enough to understand the ways of men and women.
He had also walked this beat for some years and thought he knew all the local residents, at least by sight, but did not offhand recall her and, smiling, assured her that he could never have forgotten so beautiful a woman so easily, and so perhaps for the sake of administrative requirements…
Marie offered her ID, without any real expectation that she would be believed, her own assessment being that she currently appeared young enough to be her own daughter, and wondered what would happen now. She wondered if they might assume, somehow, that she must be who she claimed, a somewhat older woman, say fifty or so, getting worn around the edges, but still very attractive, very sensual, fully emblematic of the kind of woman who could snare a well off executive like Bertrand from a well aged and perhaps wilting marriage.
Monsieur le gendarme looked at the ID, did a mild double take between Marie and the little plastic card then looked again. His mouth turned down in a short humph and then he shrugged and handed it back, offering dryly, “Merci. And I would support you in a defamation suit against the cretin who took this photo, Madame.” His use of the mature honorific implied respect for a woman of enough years to actually pass for whoever was pictured on the ID.
She breathed a little sigh of relief, thinking that he might not have read the birth date closely enough. Neither mentioned the wife, now a widow. The gendarmes would notify her, but at that point it would become a civil matter. Of course, the widow might sue. Such silliness seemed to be all the rage anymore. As if Marie had anything worth taking, except her now gloriously renewed body.
Though she actually did have something, a certain sense within herself, or perhaps simply a crude ability, to express her -- musk, perhaps. Pheromones? She considered the younger gendarme with his appealing erection. She knew enough about men to know that such an overt physical reaction rarely occurred without some greater intimacy. Clearly she had affected him in some way that an ordinary woman could not have done. And she had seen it work on Bertrand, who had literally gone mad with lust to have her. I simply must try this out again, as soon as possible, she thought as she ushered the helpful gendarmes to the door.
Later, she left and walked two blocks to a sidewalk café and ordered a chocolate croissant and an espresso with two brown sugar lumps, per her usual.
When her order arrived she instantly knew she did not want the croissant, and pushed it aside. The sugar as well did not appeal, and she sipped the espresso straight, reveling in the hot, sharp, bitter taste, so unlike her normal preference. This, she thought, spoke volumes for what had happened to her.
She wanted sex, a lot of it, hours of it, with her as the passionate, submissive toy to a powerful older man who would use her mercilessly and sate her savage hunger. That, at least, had not changed, but the intensity of her hunger surprised her somewhat. Did this come with the change, or had she simply forgotten what it was like to be thirty?
But once again, Stephan Garou loomed large in her mind. She became aroused just imagining how he would dominate her. The espresso cup jiggled dangerously in her shaking hand.
She tempered her fantasy to that of a virile, enthusiastic and faceless young man of twenty or so, lithe and strong, who might at least have the stamina to act as a human dildo for an hour or two.
Bertrand had come to her at lunch, his usual time. Her Philippe Patek watch -- which he had given to her, the thing cost as much as a small car -- read a little before three, too early for the after work crowd, so the people she saw around her were students (too young), housewives (wrong gender), or workers on their afternoon break (too little time). The males among them did not stand out, although she saw several she would normally have found wistfully attractive from her prior viewpoint as a former sexual volcano now sliding into the gray obscurity of old age.
At this, she mentally slapped herself. Fool, you are not seventy-two any longer. You do not have to “settle” as the Americans say. You can find a man who fits your fantasy and make him want you, regardless of what he thinks. You can.
She rose and hailed a cab, surprised that one immediately appeared, in spite of the relatively slow hour, then remembered how she must look. Cabbies are no different than other men, she thought with a smile as she gave an address in the office district of the 2nd arrondissement, where modern high rises spoiled the old skyline but housed thousands of wealthy businessmen.
