In layman terms, I don't own this. I'm begging you, whomever you are, not to sue me.
Yesterday
He yawned wide mouthed, not because he was rude, or should I say, not just because he was rude, but because he liked the feel of the cooled summer night air on his teeth. His eye- teeth were just slightly longer than a normal humans and just a little sharper, but that's just the casual observation. It's what he wants you to see.
His long, iron red hair is swept out of his face as he inhales another lungful of his clove cigarette with sensual flair that would have sent any on looking women, and maybe a few men, swooning. His worn and almost pitifully tattered brown leather trench coat floats and billows on the night air behind him almost effortlessly.
He's hungry tonight and is looking for a meal, but rather than step into one of the dimly lit cafes littering Bourbon street for a bite, he follows a meal walking the street. His red on black eyes watching her every darting move as she bounces between people trying to find someone to buy her aging wares. At last, she turns back to head to her post and comes to him.
"Do tell me, kind sir, do you require a belle to take to the ball?" She whispers in a desperate, drunken slur. Her very body language screams that she hates herself for having to do these kind of things, perhaps just to drink, but her eyes try to relay a different story. Remy, however can see right through it. Any other man would have felt pity, but Remy has long ago done away with that weakness.
He has seen eyes as hers before and has known the pain they hide. He saw it in the girl he saved to become the monster he is now, and he saw it revealed briefly when he struck down Storm. She pleaded with those pain filled eyes before she died.
"Oui." He replies simply as they walk to the stairs to her apartment. The room is dim, only lit by the neon signs outside the window. She offers to light some candles, but he has other plans. He charges one of his playing cards, casting an eerie pink pallor glow on his sharp handsome features.
"How did you do that?" She asks breathless as she effortlessly rolls off her torn fishnet stockings and presses her tired body to his. As his hands touch her, they seem to drain her energy, her very essence as she gasps harshly when his teeth meet her neck.
He's done in minutes; the woman never felt much pain as her pale body slinks to the floor. He wipes the small trickle of blood seeping from the corners of his thin mouth with a stale piece of baguette the woman had left on her dinner plate and consumes it.
It wasn't much, and all too tainted with alcohol, but it will have to do until he can get the energy he knows will sustain him, thousands of miles away in New York. He also knows that to achieve this, he has to kill a man who's cheated death more times than Remy had lived.
