“I’m going insane,” he thought and turned away, lowering his eyes as he walked out of the hotel into the streets.
The cars and trams on the road had mulched the white snow into a disgusting gray slush which soaked the clothes of anyone walking along, the wet snow splashing and dirtying the Parisians’ fine clothes and fashions.
Emile found himself on the Boulevard de Clichy, and he could not resist stopping outside the Cabaret d’Hiver. In the daylight, the stone doorway looked flat and dead; when he’d seen it for the first time, it had almost seemed alive.
Not expecting an answer, he knocked on the door with his cane. To his surprise, it opened, and he stepped inside—and into another world. He glanced behind him as the door closed and a thin layer of ice sealed the doorway immediately. He had been right, this was no ordinary place. He walked slowly through the ice corridors until he reached the small theater. Nymphs moved gracefully around the room, preparing it for the evening’s entertainment. None of them gave him a second glance. He stepped up onto the stage and walked to the rear of the place, down more corridors, until he reached the room where he and Seraphine had made such sweet love. He pushed the door open.
She stood in the middle of the room as if she had been waiting for him. Emile gazed at her, his heart soaring. The newspaper had told him that she had been stabbed to death, almost gutted, but he looked at her and there was not a mark on her beautiful body. He fell at her feet.
“Oh, my love! My beautiful Seraphine, I am so glad to find you here, alive, in good health.”
Seraphine placed her fingers gently under his chin and lifted his head. “I am in good health, as you see, my love. And I have been waiting for you to return.”
Emile sighed happily, getting to his feet and placing his palms on her face. “Why did the newspaper say you were dead?”
Her smile was enigmatic. “Sometimes people see what they want to see. My ‘death’ was nothing more than performance.”
Emile felt uncomfortable. “Who would want to see such a thing?”
“Le Cabaret d’Hiver caters for every fetish, my love.”
Emile ran his hand down her blue/black skin. “That is one fetish I will never understand. Who would want to ruin something so beautiful?”
She smiled. “Let us not talk any further about that, my Emile. Let us make love; that is, after all, why you are here, no?”
Emile felt hot blood rush through his veins, his stomach tighten, and his cock thicken and lengthen. “My sweet Seraphine …”
She lay down onto her bed, and he disrobed quickly, fisting the root of his cock as he came to her. He trailed his lips down her body until she spread her legs wide for him and his tongue found her sex. He tasted her honey—cinnamon and spice—and his tongue lashed around the hard bud of her clit as she moaned and writhed beneath him. His cock trembled with anticipation, straining to be inside her, and yet he prolonged his agony, his mouth greedy on her sex, her belly, and her breasts. The diamond nipple ring sliced into his tongue and as he kissed her breasts, he smeared a trail of dark red blood across her skin. Seraphine curled her legs around his body, her arms snaking around his neck and her mouth on his jugular vein, sucking and biting. Emile felt pleasure mixed with exquisite pain, and as he drove his cock into her wet, warm cunt, deeper and deeper, he felt that if he died at that moment, he would not care, that he would gladly give his life for one more taste of her lips.
“La petite mort,” she whispered as he came, his semen rushing out of him, his cries filling the room, “that is what the French call it, that moment when you give yourself over to whatever may happen. When the physical sensation takes you to another astral plane, to paradise. La petite mort, the little death ... Emile, what would you do for me at this moment?”
Her voice, so low and sensual, like the purr of a kitten or the menacing growl of a bigger cat, made his eyes close, and his body cleave to hers. “Anything, my love … anything …”
“Would you bring me the still-warm heart of someone you loved?”
Emile found himself nodding. “Yes, yes, yes, anything …”
Seraphine smiled at him. “To lie with me again, I must ask you to do that, my love. A heart, still warm with life, with your love. Bring it with you tonight, and we will celebrate, and our lovemaking will climb new heights you have never dreamed of.”
“Yes, yes, my love …”
But when Emile left the heady confines of the Cabaret, he began to come to his senses. A still-warm heart? What was she asking him to do? He sat in his apartment with the French windows to the balcony open, frigid air rushing in to cool his hot skin.
You know what she wants. What you must do.
He squeezed his eyes shut. I cannot, I cannot kill an innocent person …
Slowly his eyes opened as the idea came to him and the rightness of it almost made him laugh aloud. What was the old cliché? Two birds with one stone.
Emile began to smile.
The night was even colder than the previous. Gaston Fournier tucked his coat around him as he kissed Iseult farewell. “Until tomorrow, my love.”
He stepped out into the street and walked briskly to where he knew he could hail a cab. These evenings were a delight—or rather—had been until he realized that Iseult would never fully give herself to him until they were officially betrothed. Oh, they had kissed, and once, he had even placed a gloved hand on her bare breast, but she had made it clear that was a special treat and there would be no more until he proposed.
And the trouble was … once he’d been victorious in claiming her heart and stealing her away from that pathetic dullard Emile, some of the luster had been diminished. Iseult was a beautiful woman, indeed, but with that came the personality of a spoiled little girl, whiny and petulant.
Gaston had no intention of marrying her. His situation was so decidedly above Iseult’s own that Gaston’s father would never consent to the match in any case.
Gaston had his own ideas about whom he should marry; a German duchess, for instance, with her own castle; a Spanish princess, perhaps, with status in public, and no inhibitions in private. He smirked to himself now as he strode along the quiet streets. Poor Iseult. Tomorrow morning, Christmas morning, he would call on her and her family, ever the gracious suitor, then in the evening he would go to the Moulin Rouge and watch the dancing girls, five of whom he’d already fucked.
He turned the corner, and a figure in black stepped out in front of him. He rocked back. “St Jacques?” His voice was low, barely a whisper, such was his surprise. They were the last words he spoke. A flash of steel and his throat was sliced open, arteries and veins severed, his voice box destroyed. Gaston felt the hot sticky blood gush down his shirt. His knees gave way and then he was lying on the snowy ground as Emile, his eyes crazed but determined, cut open his shirt, and slit him open from his throat to his belly, reaching inside the cavity. His life slipping away, Gaston watched in shock and terror as Emile yanked his heart from inside him and held it up so that Gaston could watch his own heart beat twice more and fall silent. Darkness came then, and for Gaston Fournier, it was absolute.
The nymphs paid more attention to him this time. As he carried the still-warm heart of his former friend, Emile showed it off proudly to low murmurs of approval. To him, and to them, there was nothing evil or macabre about the scene. It was a celebration of love, of commitment. He took it to Seraphine’s room.
Seraphine was even more beautiful tonight—her midnight blue eyes shone when she saw the dripping blood and the scarlet musculature of the heart. Emile presented it to her, bowing low. “My love.”
She took it gently from him and studied it before raising it to her mouth and biting down deeply into it. Emile was mesmerized by the sight, the blood dripping down her skin as she ate it slowly, consuming the whole thing with sensual pleasure.
Afterward, she kissed him, and he could taste the blood, rich and sweet. “It was good, my love. It will sustain me, but still ... I could taste bitterness,
jealousy. Perhaps this was of someone you were friends with but then grew distant from? Did he wrong you in some way?”
Emile bowed his head. “Yes, my love.” He didn’t question how she knew the heart had been male or that it had come from someone he now loathed.
Seraphine took him to bed, straddling him and lowering herself onto his tumescent cock. The blood from the heart ran down her body in rivulets, and Emile was at once both aroused and disgusted.
“Next time,” she said as the muscles of her vagina swelled and closed around him, “you must bring me the heart of someone you truly loved, whom you gave your heart to.”
Iseult stood at her balcony on Christmas night. Gaston had not called as promised this morning and her gift to him lay unopened under the tree in the drawing room. Her heart ached with the betrayal of his absence. She was hurt, angry—and more than that, she wanted to return the insult to him. She knew he would creep around with other women, women who would give him the sexual release he continually begged her for. Iseult wasn’t stupid; she knew if she made love with him, she would never see him—or his fortune—again.
She shivered; the lace of her nightgown was not adequate protection against the winter cold.
“Iseult.”
Starting, she turned and clutched her chest. Her former fiancé stood in the middle of her room, his face in shadow. Iseult let out a deep breath. “Emile, for goodness’ sake, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry, my love. I had to see you.”
Iseult considered him. If she wanted revenge on Gaston, who better? She had thought Emile boring and fastidious. Now, as she looked at him, he seemed older, his face one of character and of passion. Deliberately, she slipped the nightgown from her shoulders and let it fall to the carpet. She knew her body was her biggest asset; full breasts, flat stomach, curvaceous hips. She slid her hand in between her legs and began to rub herself.
“My darling, Emile, it’s been too long.”
Emile gave a half smile and opened his arms to her. She went into them, feeling his arms tighten around her. She looked up into his face and gasped. Emile’s once handsome face had grown terrible in its beauty, his eyes burning with hatred and lust.
Iseult recoiled from this, trying to escape the cage of his arms, but instead his hand came to clamp down over her mouth, and a blade was thrust deep into her belly. Iseult moaned in terror and agony as Emile jerked the knife upwards, cutting her open.
She was only a hair from death when Emile showed her the traitorous heart he had pulled from her chest.
Seraphine was happier with Iseult’s heart—but still, she said, it was tainted with betrayal and anger. She stroked Emile’s face with bloodstained fingers. “My love, if we are truly to be together, you must give me what I asked. For tonight, I must perform. Will you sit and watch me?”
He readily agreed and was surprised, as he entered the theater, that he saw his friends Django and Hippolyte sitting at the same table as their first night. They greeted him somberly.
“Friend, we sought you out, for we have terrible news.”
Emile knew immediately what they were about to say and hoped that none of Iseult’s blood was visible on his face. He arranged his features into one of concern and sat down with them.
“What is it, dear ones? Why do you look so vexed?”
Django and Hippolyte exchanged a look. “Emile, we came to tell you that Iseult is dead, murdered in her chamber.”
Emile made his eyes wide, made them fill with tears. “No … goodness, no, how terrible!’
“Indeed. And inside a locked room, too.” Hippolyte’s usual stoic demeanor was missing. He shook his head, his eyes bearing the expression of a man tormented. “I just do not understand.”
Emile could have laughed, but he kept his countenance. “Regardless of the circumstances between us, I will admit I will miss her pretty smile and charming manner.” He crossed himself and sighed. “What will we tell poor Gaston?”
Hippolyte started slightly, but Django put his hand on Emile’s arm. “What a generous spirit you have, friend, to think of your rival in such a thoughtful way. Alas, we are unable to find Gaston—indeed, when I spoke to the police in this matter, they seemed to consider him a suspect.”
“Oh, I hope that he is not responsible for this,” Emile played the part perfectly, “I would blame myself for not protecting Iseult from him.”
The lights in the theater dimmed in readiness for Seraphine’s performance. When she came on, Emile heard the startled gasp from his friend. Django leaned over. “So she is alive then.”
Emile nodded. “A case of mistaken identity, thankfully. I think we’ve all had our fill of blood this night.”
He hid a smile behind his cocktail glass but then noticed Hippolyte staring at him. He met his friend’s gaze coolly until Hippolyte looked away.
Seraphine coiled her way across the stage, followed by her dancing troupe, a slow sensual beat playing. She did not sing tonight, just swayed in time to the music, her supple body undulating to the rhythm. She was hypnotizing, the audience holding its breath as she plucked ice cubes from one of the glass bowls and slid the ice around her bare nipples then stroking them into her sex. She moved into the audience, teasing both men and woman with her sexuality.
When she moved to Emile’s table, she stroked the faces of his friends then straddled Emile’s lap. Emile smiled up at her and picked one of the ice dildos, sliding into his mouth before plunging it deep into her cunt, fucking her right there in front of the audience. They burst into noisy applause as she writhed and moaned her way to orgasm then kissed Emile tenderly.
She made her way back to the stage where a nymph was waiting with a red cushion. On the cushion lay a knife carved from ice and Seraphine lifted it into the air, letting the audience see how deadly the shard of ice was before, with a cry of utter pleasure, plunging it into herself as the curtain fell. The audience gave a gasp of horror then burst into loud applause as the curtain opened and Seraphine bowed, perfectly healthy.
“That’s a good trick,” Django said, his eyes wide. He studied Emile’s face. “Friend, while you may get all the pleasure in the world from that woman, I think you may also need to get some sleep. You look exhausted.”
Later, at home, after he and Seraphine had sated themselves in each other and she had sent him away, Emile took a long soak in his tub and thought about what Django said. He did feel utterly extraordinary at the moment, so alive, so vital. He looked down at his naked body and saw only glowing skin, firm muscles, healthy weight. When he shaved, the face in the mirror seemed firm and bright. Emile shook his head and gave a little laugh. Django must be seeing things, he thought fondly, as he rinsing his face of soap.
Then he stopped. Django. His oldest friend, his companion through his school days and during service in the Great War, his confidante. Django, the purest heart he knew …
No. No, he could not take Django’s life, he would not do that. Even for his love Seraphine, he would not willingly spill Django’s blood.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Emile glanced at the clock and frowned. A little after midnight. A sudden thought crossed his mind— was it the police? Had they found Gaston’s body and traced the spilled blood to the Cabaret?
No. He had been more than careful than that. Emile strode to the door, slipping into his smoking jacket on the way, and pulled it open.
“Emile.”
Hippolyte stood outside, filling the doorframe with his immense size. Emile considered with a start of surprise that he no longer felt nervous with this man, that his love of Seraphine made him feel invulnerable, invincible. “Hippolyte, my good fellow, do come in.”
“I hope it is not too late in the evening.”
“Never for you, dear friend. May I offer you a drink?”
Emile gestured for Hippolyte to sit down and then turned to pour them both a scotch. Hippolyte, his hands twisting his hat in his hands, thanked him for the drink. He took a sip then l
ooked at Emile steadily. “Emile, I have something to ask you, and I want you to know that whatever you say, it will go no further than this room, between you and me. It’s driving me crazy.”
Emile knew exactly what Hippolyte was about to ask, but he felt no fear. “Please, go ahead.”
Hippolyte looked away from him, down at the floor. “Emile … did you kill Iseult? Did you murder her, slice her open, and rip out her heart? Because, Emile, I can’t help but notice that you seem different and—”
Emile laughed softly. “I am different. You see before you a man in love, Hippolyte, and to answer your question, no, I did not kill Iseult. Perhaps you ought to look to the missing Gaston for your killer.”
Hippolyte didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Perhaps. You don’t mind me being direct?”
Emile smiled. “Not at all. I would be the second most obvious suspect, no?”
Hippolyte looked at him unhappily. “My friend, in this world, we are all suspects.”
After Hippolyte left, Emile considered that his world was no longer of Paris but of that small portion of it that included the Cabaret—a world of hedonistic pleasure and otherworldly creatures.
Emile had grown up a sensible man, but now he could see that his meticulous and well-ordered life had been a lie. More and more, he craved adventure, risk, the danger that his love affair with Seraphine brought to him. She was like a drug coursing through his system, and the only relief he could feel was when he pleased her.
Which was why, the following night, he stalked his next victim and convinced himself he was saving poor Django from a life of boredom and disappointment. He followed his friend down to the gentleman’s club and lay in wait for him. Sometimes, after an evening of cigars and port, Django would clear his head by walking down to the banks of the Seine and strolling for a time. Django had often tried to persuade Emile and Hippolyte to join him, but they always demurred.
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