The Nightlife: Paris (The Nightlife Series) by Travis Luedke Page B

memory.  I loved that boy.
    I began feeding from him intermittently, but never enough to
satisfy his need for me.  The boy harassed me constantly.  “One more bite,
Michelle.  Just for a few seconds.  A small bite, Michelle.  I need one more.”
    It was a never-ending demand.  I feared hurting him.  He
weighed nothing, malnourished, thin and pale.  But he kept begging.  I began
biting him without feeding, just holding him with my teeth in his skin.  I fought
every instinct I had to avoid taking too much of his precious blood.
    The boy became a permanent fixture at my side, holding my
hand, sitting in my lap, hugging me, brushing my hair, rubbing my feet and
shoulders.  He started sleeping in my embrace through most of the day to stay
awake with me through the night.  The only time Lucas left my side was those
moments when Julian demanded I attend him.  And then Lucas returned
immediately, always washing my wounds with a wet cloth.  He understood I healed
without a scar in a matter of hours, but he always cried when Julian hurt me.
    “Why do you let him?  Do you like it?”
    I didn’t like this question.  I didn’t like the answer that
came to mind.  In some ways I enjoyed Julian’s attentions.  I found Julian’s
raw power and domination exhilarating, and the wondrous joy of synchronous
bites could not be denied.
    “Do not concern yourself.  Julian is the Maître , always.”
    After two months, Lucas noticed the women who came and went
from the house.  Few of them survived more than a few weeks.  I could see the
fear in his eyes.  He didn’t want to die.  But he refused to leave.  I truly
owned him, heart and soul.  He would do anything I asked, but he would not
leave.
    His need for me became progressively worse.  It hurt him
terribly to wait for me to wake up.  I awoke to his pleas, shaking me, begging
to be bitten.  I accommodated him immediately, but I didn’t know what to do for
him while I slept.  Then one night I woke to his bloody wrist in my mouth.  He
had cut himself and shoved his hand in my mouth.
    I could barely stop the bleeding to stitch him up.  I
scolded him, but I couldn’t stay angry.  This life was too much for him.
    Julian found me wrapping Lucas’s wrist in a bandage.  “You
did quite well with this one.  I have never seen them live this long. 
Remarkable.”  His face held a mirthless grin, a hyena smiling at death.
    I knew what had to be done.
    I bathed Lucas with fragrant soap and held him tight all
night long, whispering my love in his ears, pouring affection on him for
hours.  He was in heaven.  I bit him over and over and over.  He loved me till
the moment his heart stopped, as did I love him.  It was a far better end than
he would have faced on the streets of Paris as a beggar.  That’s what I told
myself, repeatedly.
     
    * * * *
     

 
     
    Chapter 13
     
    Amidst these wretched times, another evil shadowed my
beloved Paris.  It would prove to be the most sinister act of oppression in the
history of mankind – the German persecution of the Jews.  The Boche had already
consumed all the wheat, flour, potatoes, baked goods, petrol, cars, livestock,
and young fit Frenchmen, but then they targeted the Jews and foreign nationals. 
It began early in the occupation, a few months after the invasion.  The streets
buzzed with news of new law.  Jews were now excluded from politics, civil
service, judiciary, military, schools, and all forms of media – journalism,
film, and radio.
    “What do they expect them to do?  Clean toilets?  Wipe
German asses for a living?”  I asked Julian, but he didn’t care.  He rarely
concerned himself with anything that did not directly affect him.
    Days later came more news about Jews.  They were restricted
to live only in their village or neighborhood of residence and forced to
register their presence.  They had to wear a clearly visible patch identifying
them for all to see, the yellow Star of David.