Chapter 117 - Vesuvius, December 29 part 5

"Mon frère!" I cried, as the door banged off the wall.

"Merde!" the old Frenchman exclaimed, leaping halfway from his seat.

His two young guests ogled me guiltily as they crouched over a glass table, their nostrils powdered, their eyes shining. They had the look of grade school tarts: thigh-high stockings and very short skirts. Their faces belied the lasciviousness of their garb, however. They were young, innocent, ashamed of being caught in the midst of such repast.

"Who are you?" Fournier demanded. "What are you doing, barging in here like this?"

"Je suis desole!" I apologized, putting on an expression of surprise. "I am looking for my friend Louis. Louis Chevalier? Have you seen him?" I moved as if to lean against the doorway and stumbled further into the room.

"There is no Louis here, you fool!" the old man snapped. The nightclub manager raced across the booth to intercept me.

The girls began to giggle at my antics, charmed, I'm sure, by my looks and drunken clumsiness.

"This is a private room, monsieur," the manager intoned. He put his hands on me, trying to hurry me away from his client. He did not seem to notice the chill that emanated from my flesh.

"I apologize for my rudeness," I said, trying to appear embarrassed and confused. "I thought I saw Louis come in here. I think, perhaps, I've become disoriented. This is such a large nightclub."

"Well, he's not here!" Maurice said scornfully, then to the nightclub manager, "I don't even know who he's talking about! Get him the fuck out of here, Jules!"

"Yes, yes," Jules hastened. "Monsieur! Come with me… No, this way, s'il vous plait!"

I allowed myself to be diverted, tottering against the manager as he led me down the corridor. I spewed incoherent apologies in French, patting the man on his shoulder. All an act, of course. In my mind, I was an errant young aristocrat who had indulged a bit too much tonight before becoming separated from his friends. I had no intention of attacking Fournier in the club, but my playacting had gotten me what I needed: a whiff of the old man's scent.

Someone should tell him that even the most expensive cologne can only go so far covering the stink of old man's flesh. But I had his scent now. There'd be no escape for him tonight.

"Again, I feel I must apologize," I said to the manager as he escorted me down the stairs. "If you see my friend Louis, could you tell him that I'm looking for him? Louis Chevalier? Short, skinny man. Large ears." I held my hands to the sides of my head, making Dumbo ears, enjoying myself a little too much.

"Yes, yes," Jules humored me. "I will have someone look for him immediately."

"Merci!" I slurred. "You are a true gentleman!"

"Yes, sir. Here, let me get you another drink. On the house. Gunther?"

"Ah, good man!" I trumpeted as a beverage was placed in my hand. I took a hearty swig.

The manager hurried away. I watched him disappear upstairs, and then I spit my drink back into my glass, my expression of feigned drunkenness fading from my features.

The bartender saw me spit out my drink, and I placed the glass down on the bar.

"Too much vermouth," I said dryly, and cast myself once more into the sea of human flesh.

Now that I had the old pervert's scent, I contented myself with haunting the nightclub's more dimly lit corners. A shadow among shadows, I stilled my thoughts and waited, untouched by the revelry surrounding me. I watched the stairs and tried to ignore the flashing lights and crashing music, the writhing bodies and shouts of merriment. At last the old man appeared, a young tart clutching each of his elbows. Escorted by the young women, he bid his friend Jules good night and pressed through the crowd toward the exit.

He didn't see me follow him out, or notice my dark form scaling the alley behind him.

It's one of the few details your popular media gets right when it comes to vampires. The ability to crawl up vertical surfaces is something almost all vampires can do. Our bodies, unlike the bodies of mortal men, are very light. When we are made into a blood drinker, the Strix crystalizes our cells, purging them of all bodily fluids. We are hollow shells, all the way down to the cellular level. Unless we've just gorged ourselves on mortal blood, that lightness, coupled with the rasp-like texture of our fingertips and palms, allows us to shimmy up just about any porous surface.

Also, it's very fun.

A sparse snow was falling when Maurice exited the Vesuvius. Tiny spicules of ice, more like grains of sand than snow, swirled through the streets between the tower blocks and high rise buildings. It made a sensual sound as it descended, a sibilant susurration. The girls, now in furs, ducked their heads as they accompanied Maurice, complaining loudly about the weather and trying not to slip on the icy sidewalks, wobbling drunkenly on their high heel shoes.

I leapt nimbly across the alley to the next building and scurried to about a twelfth floor height. The frigid winter wind tried to peel me from the wall as I ascended, hooting as it whipped through the icy canyons of the street. I pressed my belly closer to the cold bricks, my long hair whipping to and fro, and followed Maurice as he walked with his underage escort to a nearby parking garage.

One of the girls slipped and fell, landing hard on her rump.

The other one laughed, calling her friend a clumsy bitch. Her voice was cruel and taunting.

The fallen one cursed back.

"Ladies, please!" my Frenchman pled. "This icy wind is making my bones ache!"

I slithered around the corner of the building like a gecko, climbing higher so that I might pass unnoticed by any passersby. There, just ahead of my quarry, a street light was out. An entire block was mired in night. I shifted on the wall until my head was pointed earthwards. I had to crane my neck all the way back to keep an eye on my prey, my hair dangling below me, but at least the wind, on this side of the building, was not blowing so hard.

My victim was only meters from our rendezvous in the dark! I waited, my body tensing, as the Frenchman helped his tart to her feet, and then they continued on, their voices echoing down the street.

"We'll warm those old bones for you, grand-pere!" one of the girls declared.

"Old bone!" the other snorted. "Singular!"

Laughter.

"So long as he has more blow!"

"Yes, we want more blow, grand-pere."

"Give us some blow and we'll give you a blow."

"At the same time, if you wish."

Chuckling at their ribaldry, Maurice stepped into the darkness.

Finally--!

I pushed from the wall with all of my might, spreading my arms to guide my short flight to the street. The wind screamed in my ears. Icy snow struck my cheeks so hard it felt like little chips of broken glass were slashing across my face. I landed only inches behind him, unseen, unheard, and, encircling him in my arms, I took back to the air with such speed that the Frenchman was instantly knocked unconscious by the sudden, brutal acceleration. 

The young women yelped as a powerful gust of wind blew up their skirts. It took them several seconds to realize that their naughty grand-pere was no longer walking between them.

I heard them call out to him, wondering aloud where he had gone, completely befuddled, but their voices were already growing faint.

I raced across the rooftops with my supper in my arms.

Maurice groaned and tucked his brow to my chest, blood seeping from one of his ears, instinctively shielding his face from the blistering wind.

I leapt from the ledge of a twenty story apartment complex and landed several seconds later at the southern perimeter of the Parc d'Avroy, which was always deserted at this hour, especially in the winter months.

"Wake up, grand-pere," I murmured with a grin. "We have reservations for dinner."

I carried him into the park.