Hot Blood: Tales of Erotic Horror

'Have you had dinner?' she asked.

He did not answer immediately. Ah, you have a wife and children waiting for you, waiting to start dinner, perhaps in Neuilly, she thought. Why, you dirty middle-aged man.

Then he said, 'Ah, non. But I must make the phone call to break engagement of a business nature. You would care to have dinner with me, perhaps?'

'I think that would be lovely,' she said, showing him, by a turn of her head, the precise angle that highlighted her excellent cheekbones. Before she had finished the sentence he was out of the chair and heading for the cabines telephoniques.

She sat and sipped her Perrier, waiting for dinner to return.

That was quick, she thought, as he hustled back to her. Let me guess what you said, darling: something important has come up… a buyer from Doubleday shops in America… he is interested in the Kawalerowicz and the Meynard prints… you know I hate staying in the city so late… but I must… ah, non, Francoise, don't be like zat… tell the children I bring them a tarte… stop! stop! I must stay longer… I will come as soon as I can… eat without me… I will not argue with you… goodbye … au revoir… salut… a bientot… gimme a break, will you, I want to get laid… I can hear you saying it now, my dear Marshal Foch.

And she thought one thing more: I hope they don't try to keep your dinner hot for you.

He smiled at her but there was strain in his face. It wasn't all that good a face to contain strain. But he tried valiantly not to show the effect of the phone call. 'Now we go, yes?'

She stood up slowly, letting the parts assemble in the most esthetic manner, and the smile on his face grew more placid. Oh yes: hooked.

They began walking. She had already done some walking in the area. Be prepared, that's the Girl Scouts' marching song.

She steered him into the Rue St. Benoit, thinking she could have dinner there without attracting a crowd. But it was still too early in the evening. The night life of Paris flows through the streets till well after two a.m. and dining alfresco is next to impossible. Claire never liked to hurry through a meal.

There were two restaurants at the end of Rue St. Benoit, and he suggested both of them. She made a charming move and said, 'Why don't we walk a little farther. I want someplace more… romantic.' He did not argue. Down Rue St. Benoit.

Left into Rue Jacob. Too busy.

Right onto Rue des Saints Peres. Still too busy. But up ahead… the river. The dark Seine, in the evening.

'Can we walk down to the river?'

He looked confused. 'You want dinner, yes?'

'Oh, sure. Of course. But first let's walk down to the river. It's so beautiful, so lovely at night; this is my first time in Paris; it's so romantic.' He did not argue.

On their right the bulk of a large building lay in darkness. She looked up at it, and past it, to the sky, in which the full moon shone like a waiting message.

Dining under the full moon was always nice.

He said, 'This building is l'Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Very famous.' He pronounced it fay- moose. She laughed.

Dark. Always light. Sweet full moon riding through the heavens. Dinner warm and waiting. And then there was a bridge sweeping across the dark river. And steps leading down to the bank. Ah.

'Le Pont Royal,' Marshal Foch said, indicating the bridge. 'Very fay-moose.' They walked across the quay and she led him down the steps. On the bank, two meters above the languid Seine, she turned and looked to left and right. Now she leaned against him and stood on her toes and kissed him. He sucked in his stomach, but it was not to hide the rotundity. She took him by the hand and led him toward the Pont Royal.

'Under the bridge,' she said.

The sound of his breathing.

The sound of her high heels on the ancient stones.

The sound of the city above them.

The sound of the full moon glowing golden and getting larger in the sky.

And there, under the bridge, swathed in darkness, she leaned against him again and took his thick head between her slim, pale hands and put her mouth against his and let the sweet smell of her wash over him. She kissed him for a long moment, nipping at his lips with her teeth, and he made a small sound, like a tiny animal being stroked. But she was ahead of him. Her passion was already aroused.

And now Claire went away, to be replaced by something else.

A child of the night.

Child of loneliness.

With the last flickering awareness of her departing humanity she perceived the instant he knew he was in the love embrace of something else, the child of the night.

It was the instant she changed.

But that instant was too short for him to free himself. Now her spine had curved, and now her mouth had filled with fangs, and now the claws had grown, and now the body beneath the blue sky silk was matted with fur, and now she was dragging him down, and now she was on top of him, and now the claws were ripping the sincere gray suit from his flesh, and now one blackened claw sliced a line through his throat so he could not scream; and now it was dinnertime.

It had to be done carefully and quickly.

He was erect, his penis swollen with arrested lust. Now she had him naked and on his back, and she was on him, and settling down over him; and he entered her, even as he gurgled his life away. She rode him, bucking and sweating, while his mouth worked futilely and his eyes grew large and surrounded by white.

Her orgasm was accompanied by a howl that rose up over the Seine and was lost in the night sky above Paris where the golden sovereign of the full moon swallowed it, glowing just a bit brighter with passion.

And down in the dark, surfeited with passion, she dined elegantly.

The food in Berlin had been too starchy; in Bucharest the blood had run too thin and the taste had not risen; in Stockholm the dining was too bland; in London too stringy; in Zurich too rich, she had been ill. Nothing to compare with the hearty fare in Los Angeles.

Nothing to compare with home cooking… until Paris.

The French were justly famous for their cuisine.

And she ate out every night.

It was a very good week, her first week in Paris. An elegant older man with bristling white moustaches who spoke of the military, right up to the end. A shampoo girl from a chic shop, who wore a kind of fluorescent purple jumpsuit and red candy-apple cowboy boots. An American student from Westfield, New York, studying at the Sorbonne, who told her he was in love with her, until the end when he said nothing. And others. Quite a few others. She was afraid her figure was going to hell.

And now it was Saturday again. Samedi.

She had felt like dancing. She was a good dancer. All the right rhythms at just the right times. One of her meals had said the most interesting boite, at the moment, was a bar and restaurant combined with a discotheque called Les Bains-Douches, which translated as 'the bath and shower' because it had formerly been a bath and shower house since the nineteenth century.

She had come to the Rue du Bourg l'Abbe and had stood before the large glass in the heavy door. A man and a woman were behind the glass, selecting who could come in and who could not. In Paris, the more one is kept out of the club, the more one wishes to enter.

The man and the woman looked at her. Both reached to unlock the door. Claire knew what she looked like; the appeal was evident to male and female alike. She had never worried for a moment about gaining access. Inside.