"Moniqua."
I glanced around nervously, searching desperately for the person calling out my name. This wasn't the first time I had heard this voice calling out to me and no matterthe tone, I could recognize it in a heart beat. The voice definitely masculine, at least an octave lower than my own, and was saturated with a thick accent which I identified as pure, rich Parisien, the exact same as my own.
"Moniqua." The voice was in a playful mood this time, repeating my christened name in a sing-songy way.
I turned in what I had thought was the direction from which the voice had come. Snow, beautiful and white, floated gently and aimlessly onto the streets of Chicago and covered any tracks recently made. There was no sign anyone was near, yet I could feel a presence, just like every other time I had heard the voice. "Who is out there? Why do you call my name?"
"Moniqua."
"Who are you?" I shouted out, frusrated and about ready to give up. "Show yourself!"
"Moniqua." My skin crawled and my hair stood on end as I felt my name breathed onto the nape of my neck. "Moniqua."
I turned around to face a man I did not recognize. He appeared to be over six feet tall, a little more than four inches taller than myself. His hair, cut close to his head, was dark brown - almost black - and matched his mysterious eyes. He was visible from the slight tug of his clothing. His shirt was blood red and appeared to be made of velvet. Every other piece of clothing, including his gothic-style jacket, was fashioned out of fake black leather. I glanced back up at his face and noticed his dark moustache, which ran parallel above his lips before each end dipped down and touched his jawline.
I swallowed hard, surprised to discover the owner of the mystery voice now caused a pang of desire to ripple through me. "Wha-what do you w-want? What do you s-seek?"
"Moniqua." He raised his hands and reached for my throat.