Laughter mixed in the air with the sounds of the orchestra hidden some where along the far wall. A blond figure was draped ever so casually across a velvet couch, a girl in a blue satin sprawled across his lap, and a wine bottle held in his grasp.
"Come on ma cherie," he urged taking a swig form the bottle and offering it to her.
"No, Paul," she complained,"let's dance."
"Alright, if you insist."
Three large gulps saw the bottle empty, and Paul tossed it to the couch, as another laughing couple occupied their vacated seats. With a sort of dancing swagger Paul maneuvered them onto the dace floor full of swirling skirts and the clack of fine heels.
A figure stared as a happily drunk Paul pulled the girl inappropriately close to himself, and joyfully cut a path through the ranks of noble men and women. Energetic and blissfully intoxicated, Paul careened around the floor, exciting encouragement from the young aristocrats who adored him, and disapproving glances from down the long, pinched noses of the older generations. He loved attention. Loved the thrill of adoration and admiration. And yet he could be quiet.
"Come on," he whispered, warm breath against the shell of her ear, as he lead her by the hand through the crowd, out the paneled doors thrown wide open, into the garden. They walked farther and further into the maze of hedges, past ornate arrangements of exotic flowers, gently splashing fountains, the sighs of couples. The lanterns seemed few and far between, Paul was content. He spun her around and backed her up into a hedge. His mouth attacked hers with a voraciousness and his hunger rose. His arms drew her body closer, till he could feel the wild rise and fall of her tightly corseted bosom against his chest. Hands groped. His hands slid into the folds of her skirt, and lifted her with a strength he didn't remember them having. His mouth moved from her lips and buried itself in her neck. The feel of teeth against skin. She was unconscious before Paul could feel the warmth running down his chin. But he didn't stop. And she became a dead weight in his arms.
A figure perched atop a nearby hedge applauded. Paul looked up, blood dripping from his lips. The figure soared to the ground and moved into the light.
He was pale. White blond hair long enough to be pulled into a small ponytail. Body wrapped in a thick black old naval coat. Old, ancient, not French, something, some place to the far north, lost in time. A single medallion disrupted the void of that ancient coat. Piercing eyes stared into Paul's soul.
"Nice job," the figure nudged the body with a booted toe.
Paul saw the body and tasted her blood. And he didn't regret it.
"Your one of us now, Paul."
He felt like flying, in fact he was levitating. "Haha ha, Wait whose us?"
"The immortal, the eternally young, you just became the second Lost Boy. And I'm your brother."
"Funny sort, aren't you? Immortality sounds superb but that still doesn't explain the warm tingly flying thing. But being drunk does. I'm drunk."
"You're drunk but on alcohol, on bloodlust."
"That explains ... bugger can't remember her name. The one on the ground, pretty girl. Hold on if you're my brother I should know your name."
"Right I'm David."