Catacombs are usually a dreary place to visit. The taste of
death and despair would permeate the air like a rich perfume, and most normal
people would regard the walls as too macabre and frightening to ever visit one
more than once. To those who were twisted, however, catacombs were like home.
Adra didn’t know how the club even began; the throng of
gyrating bodies wriggled around her to the beat of the music as if the room was
built for them, instead of for the dead. It was a circular room with a low
ceiling, but the walls were created out of stacked skulls and ends of femurs,
looking like small hearts on the walls. These skulls were periodically lit up
by flashes of green, blue, and red lights that spun around the room with
dizzying speed. Alcohol and sweat created a rather thick stench in the air, but
most of the partygoers didn’t seem to mind. No, to them, the catacombs were
simply a hot attraction for them to use for their own pleasure.
Stepping out from behind a corner, Adra’s eyes immediately
gravitated to the tall, dark shadow that stood in the hallway with her. She had
dressed herself in a skimpy dress, hoping to steal some of his attention for
herself. He was stationary for a brief moment, before splaying his hand toward
the entrance to the room, trapping the kids inside with a wall of air. He had a
predatory stance about him, slinking around in the dark, like a lion about to
devour its prey.
She caught a glimmer of a smile in the muted light, as his
voice, soft and smooth, spoke over the music, “They’re all yours.” The room.
The club. It was the first gift he had ever given her.
Suddenly shy, she blushed, “you’re not going to go for it?”
Surely, since he was the one trapping them, he would have wanted to partake in
the killing?
“I’ve taken the one I wanted. Normally I’d take the rest myself,
but I’ve already killed a few dozen tonight, and you don’t know how gorgeous
you are when you’re at it.” He was looming over her, his desire thick in his
voice. “I’d be content just watching, to be perfectly honest. So while I do intent
to join your, I’m offering you the first move. My treat. Assuming that you want
it.”
Adra had never been one to turn down such a gracious offer,
so she curtsied playfully, before stepping closer, her lips close to his ear,
brushing his cheek, “Merci, Monsieur.”
Turning into the room, Adra easily slides among the dancers,
picking her first target. She leaps onto a young woman with dark hair, grabbing
a fistful of her mane, and slamming it against a sharp rock on the floor. The
blood sloshed up the wall as Adra hit her again in the throat, which opened up
a vein. She could hear a scream pierce the air as the people around her noticed
the murdered woman, and felt her blood.
Alastair moved into the room and with a flair of his
fingers, turned a blonde woman into a small toy doll. Stepping forward, he ran his
hand through the splatter of blood, then lifted it to his lips, sucking the tip
of his finger. His eyes were dark, trained on her. Perhaps trained on the blood
sliding down her throat. “Not quite thick enough. You should add more.”
Without further prompting, Adra quickly made another kill.
And another. And another. She used two large slabs of stone to crush a male
pair together, popping them like a cherry, their pit exploding across the room
in a mixture of muscle and sinew. Adra was now covered in blood, as was her
male date.
“Well, I hope that’s better,” she murmurs, before moving to
pick of another girl. Alastair must have been satisfied because, moments later,
small bits of wet goo hit her shoulder. Startled, brushing off the mystery
substance, she turned to find that Alastair had cracked open someone’s skull,
and had playfully tossed a bit of his brain at her. He had a wicked glint in
his eye, and she couldn’t help but giggle as he threw more brain at the other
survivors.
It reminded her of the snowball flight she had had with Niccolo the previous winter.
Niccolo.
Niccolo.
And then, like a rubber band that had been stretched, and
stretched, and stretched, Adra snapped back into her normal self, no longer
bloodthirsty. No longer murderous. No longer a cunning monster. Horrified that it had happened again, she scrambled to leave the room, past the screaming partiers, and past the disappointed figure in the corner. There was a bright flash of light, and then silence.
Nothing was left, except the faint taste of
blood on her lips, and a ghostly echo in her head, “Until next time,
mademoiselle.”
