The Nightlife: Paris (The Nightlife Series)

by Travis Luedke

  I hurriedly put the collar on, cringing under his blows. “S’il vous plait, Maître! It was a mistake! The sun came too fast.” I begged at his feet, sensing his deep desire to hurt me, his need to remind me he was the master.

  His vulnerability of the night before had shamed him and he raged over the messy attack on the soldiers. “There was a witness. They will be looking for us.” He yanked me up by the hair. “You must be punished.”

  “But how will we feed?” Terrified he would starve me, my fear decided my punishment.

  “You will not feed.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 12

  Collared and chained in the basement, naked and alone, he starved me for three nights. I was ready to start chewing on my own arm by the time he brought someone to feed me. I tore the poor man apart, literally shredded his body to pieces. Blood deprivation succeeded in making me even more monstrous than my master. Julian watched me closely. I sensed his anxiety. He feared he had created something he couldn’t control. He feared his beautiful slave girl would not return once I sated my thirst.

  I did return to sanity. And I continued to serve him in all ways, never once balking his authority. He gradually relaxed his vigilant watch over me. But this marked a change in our hunting frequency. Julian feared the large patrols.

  The sight of my beloved Paris under the Boche conquerors angered me no end. I ached to rend and tear their flesh. I wanted to kill them all, the stinking, filthy Boche ruining my country. I could barely contain the violent urges that constantly assailed me. The only peace I found was on the collar and chain where I could work off this frustration. I poured my aggression into service to Julian, enthusiastically submitting to his violent perverse demands. What he didn’t grasp was the simple truth of suffering observed by Friedrich Nietzsche, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” Forged in the secret fires of hatred in my heart, Julian’s abuse tempered the steel in my character.

  I learned to close my mind to him. I knew what his thoughts and emotions were at most times, but I developed a privacy wall to keep him out of my inner sanctum.

  He worried over this. “What are you thinking in that devious little head of yours?” He would knock on my skull and pull me close to look in my eyes. “Open your mind.” I could never deny him, so I imagined serving him with my mouth and filled my thoughts with deviant acts of fellatio. After performing to his satisfaction, he ceased worrying about me. I was well trained.

  Shortly after the shooting incident with the German patrol, Julian decided on a safer, more conservative approach to feeding. Bloodslaves.

  I thought him a coward, and perhaps he was. I knew we could take down small groups of four to five men if we were careful, more organized. But Julian wouldn’t have it. His shallow patriotism couldn’t survive the increased severity of German-Vichy rule.

  He reverted to the tried and tested feeding method he’d learned from his former master – ensnare women and then feed just enough to hook them physically and psychologically on the addictive effects of his bite. I found this abhorrent and disgusting. These starving, malnourished women who could barely survive under the occupation became victims of Julian’s cowardice.

  The first time he brought a woman home, Adele, he took off my collar and chain for propriety. I tried so very hard to drink only a sip, un petit apéritif, just enough to stave off the thirst. I ended up starving myself to keep her alive.

  Julian laughed at me. “They are cattle, Michelle. Feed. Do not be concerned with their fate.”

  I simply nodded. There was little to say beyond acquiescence to his demands.

  Adele came to me repeatedly, begging me to bite her. She couldn’t go more than a couple hours without coming to me, offering herself. How can you refuse food that wishes to be consumed?

  Julian was too rough with her. He took her for his pleasure, using her body, drinking her blood till she was sick from the anemia. It soon became apparent I would have to relieve her misery. She could no longer move. He’d broken her pelvis when he lost control in the heat of passion. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to kill her.

  “Michelle, take my pain. Help me.” She begged me repeatedly for two nights, until I finally gave in. She died in my arms.

  Julian despised my foolish sentimentality for the cattle.

  “Kill them if you must. You have only forced me to find another girl tomorrow night. And make sure to dispose of her away from the house. We cannot afford suspicion. Take her to the river.” It seemed every other week someone washed up dead on the shores of the Seine. One more emaciated woman made little difference. His callous disregard for Adele elevated my contempt for him to a new level.

  As he promised, Adele proved the first of many. Sometimes Julian acquired several bloodslaves at once, allowing each to live a little longer. I learned to feed the tiniest amount from two or three women a night. The petite apéritif did not satisfy, but it kept me from feral madness.

  Julian abused them worse to spite me. One girl, only seventeen, he broke her neck. She lived on for hours, crying and begging for my help. “Aidez-moi, je vous prie!” I gave her a merciful end, but I hated it, and I hated Julian more each time I donned the mantle of death.

  Then Julian brought me Lucas. He was a street urchin begging on the boulevard, barely thirteen or fourteen. He didn’t know his own birthdate. He’d been born in the backroom of a brothel, raised by whores who would not claim him. Lucas made the mistake of grabbing Julian’s attention the wrong way. It’s not wise to pickpocket a vampire.

  I became physically sick to my stomach when he presented me with this teenage boy. I recognized the hungry, predatory gleam in Julian’s eyes. “I’ve brought you a friend to play with. Lucas, meet your new mistress, Madam Michelle. She will take good care of you.”

  The bright colors of love and devotion swirled into Lucas’s aura the moment he set eyes on me. The boy was infatuated with me, and I knew instant terror.

  I begged Julian, “S’il vous plait Maître! Take him back.” As if he was livestock sold at auction.

  I didn’t wait for Julian’s permission. I grabbed the boy by the arm and hauled him to the door. “You must go now. You must leave this place and never return!”

  To my dismay, Lucas opened his fool mouth and sealed his fate. “I would love to serve Madam Michelle. I will do anything you ask of me. I am your humble servant.” He bowed low, a filthy, charming boy pretending to play servant. “If you ever need anything, say the word and I will find a way to get it for you.”

  Horror froze me in place. Julian smiled, pleased. “See, Michelle, he is yours. Make sure to take good care of him.”

  I wanted to kill him. Julian. I thought of it many times before, but it never seemed possible. I wondered if there was a way to kill him.

  The boy distracted me from my thoughts of murderous rebellion. “I am very good. I will help ease your pain.” He offered to rub my back and feet. He did this for the girls at the brothel. I had to admit, he gave a decent back rub.

  I couldn’t help but fall in love with the boy over time. His cheeks were ever smudged with dirt. His mangy pile of reddish-brown curls needed a cut badly. And his hazel eyes worshipped me. Everywhere I went in the house, he was there.

  He quickly adapted to my schedule, running out into the streets to beg during daylight hours, returning to the townhouse at night. He stole flowers and perfumed soaps from the brothel to bring to me and the bloodslave women.

  “Why thank you, Lucas. That’s so sweet.” He hugged me close. The boy was enraptured, obsessed. He preferred to sit next to me, almost in my lap. Offering anything he could think I might want or need. I was deathly afraid of what might happen to him.

  Julian soon revealed his game. A week after he brought me Lucas, he made his demand. “You’ll not feed from a single person until you feed from Lucas first.”

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe to speak. I contemplated suicide to save the boy’s life. If I couldn’t kill Julian, su
rely I could find a way to kill myself?

  I begged shamelessly. “I will do anything you ask, anything. Please do not ask me to hurt the boy. I beg you, s’il vous plait, Maître!” I was down on my knees at his feet. I stripped my clothes and bent down face to the floor, offering myself.

  He took my offering, repeatedly. He refused to bite me or allow me to bite him. He made sure it hurt, slamming me hard and fast, hitting me. This was a new lesson. He didn’t like the way I catered to the bloodslaves. He determined to strip my soul of every last vestige of humanity.

  In the midst of it, I saw him. Lucas watched my humiliation from a crack in the doorway. Nothing to do but endure, as I had always endured.

  When he finished with me, my nose broken and bloodied, Julian repeated his edict. “You’ll not feed from a single person until you feed from Lucas first.” I wished I could kill him.

  Lucas rushed in the moment Julian left. He cleaned the blood from my face with a washrag, apologizing profusely. The poor boy thought he’d done something wrong. He had no embarrassment around my nudity. I imagined he’d seen it all at the brothel.

  He spoke candidly. “I know what you are, Madam. I am not afraid. You can bite me if you like. I trust you. I’d rather you bite me than watch him hurt you.” The fool didn’t know what he was saying.

  I dressed quickly, uncomfortable with this boy staring at my body like a man. “You do not understand, Lucas. I cannot hurt you. I love you.” I held his wonderful warm face in my hands. All his adoration shone from eyes brimming with tears.

  He held me tight. It felt so wonderful to just hold someone who loved me unconditionally. I could cuddle with that boy for hours on end, and he let me.

  “I do not deserve your love. The things I have done. I am a killer.” I whispered confessions to him, as if he was a priest giving my last rites.

  “I trust you, Michelle. I have seen when you bite the ladies. It’s not so bad. I think they like it.” The little sneak had been watching everything at the house. He was excited at the prospect of being bitten.

  “You have not seen what happens to the women. They die, Lucas. I could not stand to lose you.” I enfolded the boy in my arms, praying to God I could be strong enough to save him from myself.

  I fell asleep with his warm body huddled close. I knew he worshipped me, his own personal goddess. It was wrong, insane. Too late. I needed his love so badly. Julian gave him to me. He was mine.

  I held out almost three whole nights without feeding. Lucas came to me each night, trying to comfort me, offering himself. I ordered him away repeatedly, but he wouldn’t listen. The little bastard came to me in the early morning, hand hidden behind his back, but I could smell the enticing aroma of life in the air. He had cut the tip of his finger.

  “Here, Michelle, you can have it. It’s okay. I want you to have it.”

  Something flipped in my mind, a switch I didn’t know existed. All rational thought wiped away in a second. I lived for the blood, solely for the blood. Nothing else mattered. I took his offer and latched tightly onto his thin, little neck.

  He squirmed and cried out in my squeezing embrace, and then stilled as my venom worked its magic. I had just enough presence of mind to let go before I killed him. But it was one of the hardest things I had ever done. I wanted to suck his body dry and shred his flesh to clean the last drops. I wanted to, but I didn’t.

  “Je t’aime, Michelle.” He proclaimed his love for me over and over and over. I had drugged the boy to the point he couldn’t even stand. I carried him to bed.

  I lamented the life I had stolen from him. I had hooked him in one prolonged bite. My very own bloodslave. I cradled his body close as he slept with a happy little boy smile. I brushed his grimy hair off his forehead, committing his face to memory. I loved that boy.

  I began feeding from him intermittently, but never enough to satisfy his need for me. The boy harassed me constantly. “One more bite, Michelle. Just for a few seconds. A small bite, Michelle. I need one more.”

  It was a never-ending demand. I feared hurting him. He weighed nothing, malnourished, thin and pale. But he kept begging. I began biting him without feeding, just holding him with my teeth in his skin. I fought every instinct I had to avoid taking too much of his precious blood.

  The boy became a permanent fixture at my side, holding my hand, sitting in my lap, hugging me, brushing my hair, rubbing my feet and shoulders. He started sleeping in my embrace through most of the day to stay awake with me through the night. The only time Lucas left my side was those moments when Julian demanded I attend him. And then Lucas returned immediately, always washing my wounds with a wet cloth. He understood I healed without a scar in a matter of hours, but he always cried when Julian hurt me.

  “Why do you let him? Do you like it?”

  I didn’t like this question. I didn’t like the answer that came to mind. In some ways I enjoyed Julian’s attentions. I found Julian’s raw power and domination exhilarating, and the wondrous joy of synchronous bites could not be denied.

  “Do not concern yourself. Julian is the Maître, always.”

  After two months, Lucas noticed the women who came and went from the house. Few of them survived more than a few weeks. I could see the fear in his eyes. He didn’t want to die. But he refused to leave. I truly owned him, heart and soul. He would do anything I asked, but he would not leave.

  His need for me became progressively worse. It hurt him terribly to wait for me to wake up. I awoke to his pleas, shaking me, begging to be bitten. I accommodated him immediately, but I didn’t know what to do for him while I slept. Then one night I woke to his bloody wrist in my mouth. He had cut himself and shoved his hand in my mouth.

  I could barely stop the bleeding to stitch him up. I scolded him, but I couldn’t stay angry. This life was too much for him.

  Julian found me wrapping Lucas’s wrist in a bandage. “You did quite well with this one. I have never seen them live this long. Remarkable.” His face held a mirthless grin, a hyena smiling at death.

  I knew what had to be done.

  I bathed Lucas with fragrant soap and held him tight all night long, whispering my love in his ears, pouring affection on him for hours. He was in heaven. I bit him over and over and over. He loved me till the moment his heart stopped, as did I love him. It was a far better end than he would have faced on the streets of Paris as a beggar. That’s what I told myself, repeatedly.

  * * * *

  Chapter 13

  Amidst these wretched times, another evil shadowed my beloved Paris. It would prove to be the most sinister act of oppression in the history of mankind – the German persecution of the Jews. The Boche had already consumed all the wheat, flour, potatoes, baked goods, petrol, cars, livestock, and young fit Frenchmen, but then they targeted the Jews and foreign nationals. It began early in the occupation, a few months after the invasion. The streets buzzed with news of new law. Jews were now excluded from politics, civil service, judiciary, military, schools, and all forms of media – journalism, film, and radio.

  “What do they expect them to do? Clean toilets? Wipe German asses for a living?” I asked Julian, but he didn’t care. He rarely concerned himself with anything that did not directly affect him.

  Days later came more news about Jews. They were restricted to live only in their village or neighborhood of residence and forced to register their presence. They had to wear a clearly visible patch identifying them for all to see, the yellow Star of David. Landlords across the city began to evict them. It suddenly became very unpopular to be Jewish.

  I never cared about the Jews before. They were God-fearing people like everyone else. What was the big deal? So what if they were bankers. I didn’t understand.

  June, 1941. Word spread like wildfire – Hitler had turned on Russia, breaking the Hitler-Stalin pact. Massive troop movements poured out of the city. In a matter of weeks the German soldiers were gone, patrols reduced to the bare minimum. The French communists who once praised Hitl
er and preached tolerance of the German occupation were now grumbling on the street corners and blowing up the Nazi cars with home-made bombs. It suddenly became very unpopular to be a communist, more so than ever before.

  August 1941, the news came over the radio that all foreign nationals – especially Soviets, Lithuanians, Estonians, and Latvians – had to register like Jews. Curfews were enacted city-wide. It suddenly became very unpopular to be of Eastern European descent.

  I began to suspect that the rumors were true, Hitler was insane. How do you predict the actions of a madman?

  When I could no longer stand the repression of the Boche, had reached the limits of my ability to restrain my hate and aggression, I begged Julian to give me an outlet. “S’il vous plait Maître I must go out and hunt. Will you give me permission? I am ever your faithful servant, Maître, do you trust me?”

  He looked at me, trying to gauge whether or not I lied.

  I pressed my case. “There are less soldiers now. The patrols are mostly flics.” French cops. I advanced on him, flexing my lethal claws anxiously. “I need to kill. I long to feel their death in my hands. They must pay with their lives.”

  He stepped back out of reach. “We wait and see. We will go out together.” I smiled in anticipation. “But no hunting. We will watch, nothing more!”

  It was a start.

  We spent a month roaming the city, slinking through the shadows and back alleys, evading the flics. There were few Germans to be found. They had battalions of French traitors to do their work. I learned to track the Boche by their scent – sausages, sauerkraut, and tobacco. They did not smell like Frenchmen.

  July 1942, we heard news. The Nazis were deporting Jews and foreigners to some secret place, never to be seen again. This time, Julian could not deny my arguments. “Le plus on leur bais le cul, le plus ils nous chient sur la tête.” The more you kiss their ass, the more they shit on your head.