Kiss Me, Kill Me (450 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: Fiction
Rating: 2 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack11058 (View user info) at 2004-10-29 18:54:58 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
I choose the black Saks dress, of course. It's the one that leaves no doubt as to what I'm looking for. Before I leave, I take a moment to study myself in the full-length. The dress clings in all the right places, emphasizing my curves and leaving my graceful neck and shoulders exposed. Diamonds glitter at my ears and on the teardrop pendant nestled between my breasts. Jet hair frames my perfect face, falling in delicate waves to caress my lower back. My lips are painted poison apples, and my eyes are emeralds shimmering in the soft light of my smile.
Kingdoms have risen and fallen for that smile. I'm more than satisfied; I'm irresistible and ready to go. I feel like celebrating, and I have every right.
Tonight is my 600th birthday.
The buzzer sounds—the car service is waiting. I let myself out, and as I approach the car, the hulking goon of a driver fumbles for the door, his eyes locked on my chest. I say nothing to him as we traverse the rain-slicked streets. He knows the destination. Weeks ago I decided on the Millennium Hotel. The clientele there is more than upscale—the rich, the notorious, the outright mighty of the city have circulated there for generations—I will have many choices for suitable Providers.
As we near the Millennium, I feel my pulse quicken, fluttering against my throat, a caged bird waiting to soar. I haven't Partaken in nearly three months, and the need is strong. I tip the driver without a word as he lets me out. This time he manages to drag his eyes from my breasts long enough to look me in the eyes as he mumbles a clumsy thanks.
As I enter the Millwood Lounge in the lobby of the Millennium, I can feel the shift in the air. The room takes immediate notice. Single men stare outright, and those who are not alone receive swift elbows from disgruntled wives or consorts who had wasted hours getting ready for their night out. I pretend not to notice them as I slide into a plush leather stool at the marble-topped mahogany bar. Coltrane echoes softly. I order a Manhattan (only fitting, I suppose) and survey the room in the mirror that runs over the length of the bar.
I rebuff the first three men to approach. All were rich and handsome, and surely thought themselves worthy of my attention, but none met my exacting standards. On any other night, they might have done. But I wanted to commemorate this day with someone special, someone whose power would Provide in a most enjoyable way.
Men are like wine.
Then I see him. Through the smoke and lamplight, his eyes catch mine. He is sitting at the other end of the bar, watching me with a slight smile quirking his lips. I study him brazenly, smiling back ever so slightly. He is handsome in an unconventional way. His shoulders swell under a tightly knit black sweater, speaking of restrained strength. His blonde hair is cut almost militarily short and a scar runs along his right cheek, adding a touch of rakish character to his craggily handsome face. Blue eyes twinkle as his smile broadens, exposing delicious dimples as he meets my stare. This one certainly had potential.
I watch him a bit longer, taking breaks to scan the room for other possibilities. I decide none of the other men come close. I catch his eyes again and again receive the crooked smile. I realize he's waiting for me to approach him. His confidence seals the deal and his fate.
I finish my second Manhattan and slink out of the bar stool, weaving my way through the crowd to stand beside him. He looks up from his drink as I arrive, still smiling. His eyes are incredibly bright and his Teutonic features are even stronger up close. Power emanates from him, and I feel the Desire quicken.
"I'm Victoria," I say, holding out my hand, palm down. He knows what to do of course, taking it and raising it almost to his lips for an imaginary kiss.
"Marcus," he replies. There's a hint of a European accent behind the words. Bavarian, I think, but it's been nearly two centuries since I've been.
"What brings you to New York, Marcus?" I ask demurely.
"Business," he says, his smile fading.
I'm a little surprised by the terse response, but he seems to collect himself almost immediately. I'm sure he's just intimidated. We make small talk for half an hour, and I realize I've made the right choice. Little hints he drops about his job (an antique dealer); his interests (fencing, painting, and the violin) and his stories about his travels around the world are intriguing even to me. He's nicely rounded, self assured and incredibly handsome. I find myself more attracted to him than to any Provider I've had in years.
It doesn't take much to make him mine. An extra degree added to the smile, my hand on his bicep, tucking a wayward strand of hair back behind my ear. Before long, I'm delicately whispering in his ear and he's telling me he has a suite on the top floor with an incredible view and wouldn't I like to look out over the city and have a glass of wine? I accept with mock reservation, making him laugh. I enjoy how much his eyes light up and briefly wonder what they will look like after.
We hold hands in the elevator on the way up and I let him get close so he can breathe me in. He looks into my eyes with intensity, with what must be wonderment at his good fortune.
His suite is indeed spectacular, with a breathtaking view of the brightly-lit city spreading out before us. He stands behind me, his arms around my waist and I study him in our reflection as I feel his hot breath on my neck. My anticipation has been growing ever since we first locked eyes in the lounge. My Need is great and I am tired of waiting. I turn to face him and his hands work soft little strokes in the small of my back, sending a pleasant tingle up my spine. I slide my hands behind his neck and pull his head down to my lips.
At last, I will Partake.
Our lips meet softly and I await the inevitable shock that will course through him as I begin to feed on his strength, pulling his soul into my body. He will stiffen and try to pull away from the kiss as he feels his life draining away, wondering why this is happening to him.
It's not his fault. It is my way.
Something is wrong. There is no shock, no stiffening. I feel nothing other than our lips pressing together. His fingers interlock behind me, pulling me tightly against him. What is happening?
He pulls his face away and smiles down at me.
"Not what you were expecting, my dear?" he asks. He isn't smiling anymore. There is something gleaming behind those blue eyes.
He knows.
I'm sailing through the air, landing on the bed. He's on top of me in an instant, holding me down with his weight. I try to fight him, scratching at his chest with my nails. I feel the fabric rip under my fingers, drawing blood from his flesh but no reaction from the man. He sits up on my chest and stuns me with a short punch to the chin. It is a calculated blow, shocking more than hurting. As I reach for my face, he seizes both of my hands in one of his, pinning them to the bed above my head. He is incredibly strong.
In the ambient light coming from the city through the bay windows I see a medallion gleaming through the rent I've made in his sweater. A curious design, but I've seen it before. Fear, which had been rising since our aborted kiss, now surges freely through my veins. It is a Templar cross. That is why my kiss was ineffective—he is protected. He follows my gaze to the glinting gold icon.
"You know me, then," he says matter-of-factly in my native Italian. There will be no more smiles from Marcus tonight. I answer him in the same language.
"Aye, I know you, bastard son of Clairveaux," I manage to say.
"Then you know why I am here, Maria de Medici. Or 'Victoria' if you prefer," he sneers.
I spit in his face. He calmly wipes it away with his free hand.
"The Council of the Temple has pronounced sentence upon thee, Maria de Medici of Venice. Thou art proclaimed a Succubus, an abomination before the eyes of God and man, and are sentenced to death for your crimes."
I have never seen eyes as hard as his. I fight to get free as he reaches down to his calf, sliding a gold-hilted dagger from a hidden sheath. His weight is too much.
"I, Marcus Krieger, Templar Knight of the Third Order, do carry out the sentence upon thee."
My squirming struggles cease as he brings the knife to my throat. It presses into my soft flesh. The blade is terrifyingly cold.
I have never been so afraid.
User Reviews
Submitted by doctorj24 (user info) at 2005-06-15 17:09:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Knights rock.
Submitted by omnifica (user info) at 2005-01-17 07:09:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
The fact that this lost to that stupid little praying mantis piece pisses me off. You won by total vote count at least. You were my favorite to go all the way.
Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-01-16 11:38:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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