Flash fiction (number 9)

Float like a butterfly

She drifts into the party, the light gossamer of her dress catching the lanterns’ glow and making the jewels dotted across the hem twinkle. Without even trying she attracts most eyes, some gleam with jealousy, others with interest. She doesn’t look at them, making her way through the crowds, her attention focused on the solitary figure by the French doors.

He ignores her approach, his dark eyes fixed on the group of thirty somethings standing near to the fountain. The redhead at the centre of the group is the only one brave enough to meet his fiercely predatory gaze, even though her cheeks flush after only a few seconds of eye contact.

It takes her fingers brushing against the muscles of his forearm for him to actually look right at her. “So who’s your target tonight then?”

“I ain’t decided yet.” He sips at his champagne, surveying the rest of the guests. “I had Chinese last night, maybe it’s time I go back to American,”

“Maybe you just need a night of Italian.” She brushes a stray curl away from her neck, purposefully exposing the smooth expanse of skin. She has to fight to suppress her sense of triumph, when his eyes lock onto the pulsating vein. “I find that Italian is always satisfying and can keep a man sated for days,”

“I highly doubt that. I’ve tried Italian before, and it barely took the edge off my hunger,”

“Ah but you’ve never tried Italian with me,” her hand lingers on his arm “Trust me, it will be something that you never forget.”

She holds her breath, as his gaze sweeps her entire body, considering it. His fingers rise up to trace the vein, petal soft against her skin, and raise goose bumps. She’s not sure if it’s through fear or desire. It seems like a eternity but is only a few seconds, before he responds “Let’s go,”

 

Her fingers tremble as she tries putting the key in the lock, desperate to get inside before her neighbours see her. It takes three attempts before she gets it open, her heart pounding double time inside her chest, and then her phone rings shrilly. She recognises the number the instant she gets it out of the pocket of her blood stained jacket. “Is it done?” they ask without preamble.

“You beginning to doubt me?”

“Never,” the firm tone is reassuring, but then they say “The boss was just getting worried,”

“No need. It’s at 278 Willow Road.” She discarded her dress and jacket, cursing her luck “You need a clean up crew, this one was messy. He brought some friends. God I hate dealing with vampires.”

They ignore her comment, skipping right to the next case as she knew they would, “There’s a demon infestation in Greenwich village, I’ve texted the details to you,”

“I’m on it,” with one sweep of her hand, she wipes the blood from her face and body. Satisfied when she feels clean again, she curls her hair into a loose bun, and vanishes from the dingy room in a flash of gold light.

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