Speak Again

fanfiction by Wild Iris

Le Vampyr

Away from her, who makes each night unique, he finds the kill predictable. One cannot always be hungry. And the city offers other distractions, other ways to spin out one's time.

He sits on the terrace at the Brasserie des Martyrs, where late hours and white skin excite no comment. The poet is often there, writing with a glass beside him, and even through the absinthe his eyes penetrate the void of Angelus' soul.

"Figure en lame de couteau," the poet whispers when they meet. Then he leans forward, as though to give instruction: "Monsieur, cette sensation, elle s'appelle l'ennui."