Fic: Losing the Scent
Paris at night. Its usual stench temporarily shrouded over by a summer mist. Not that a little fog could make Eric Northman oblivious to the reek of humanity, with all its excrement, sweat, and the lingering yet persistent penchant for fish entrails. Why was it you could smell fish entrails everywhere in this city? And the Parisians themselves, like hungry cats, slipping along the dark alleyways gracefully into the night. Eric found them especially delicious, those night cat humans, always up to no good, practically screaming for death.
But on this particular night, it was not human blood that Eric was after. He had been following a scent of one of the werewolves from the same pack with the jagged rune branded into their flesh. The pack that tore his human family apart when he was still Eric the Viking, not Eric the Vampire.
He had to finally admit defeat, at least for the time being, as the stench of dog quickly got lost among all the other scents of Paris, especially in this densely populated neighborhood that Eric had followed the scent into. Now he could no longer distinguish the werewolf’s trail from all the other trails his nose and his hunger were insisting that he should follow instead. “At least in the Roman times, people actually bathed,” Eric thought to himself bitterly. “Now they just cover up their human stench with the stench of flowers,” he sniffed at the air as if to prove his point. Hm… lavender. Eric decided to go in the opposite direction.
As he strolled along the quay, almost aimlessly, his finely tuned hearing had detected what sounded like a heated conversation, although both of the participants were speaking in rather hushed tones. His curiosity peaked, Eric slinked into the alley from which the conversation was coming. He could make out the forms of two men, although he could not be quite sure because the problem with this century was that the males wore as much lace and ribbons as the females, not to mention the high heels on top of everything! Not that Eric could really blame them for the latter: most of these Frenchmen were quite amusingly short. It warmed his heart a bit and reminded him of his Maker, Godric, which, in some circumstances, made the Frenchmen particularly irresistible. Mechanically, Eric adjusted his own lace and ribbons, and pressed himself closer to the wall.
“What you suggest is lying!” one of the men was saying. This one had a baritone voice that, despite the hushed tone, sounded husky and raspy, and caressed Eric’s ear the way that mead once caressed his throat.
“No, I merely suggest pretending,” the other man answered. This one’s voice was actually quite melodious, more of a tenor, but also with quite sharp, almost metallic, notes to the timbre, that Eric found simultaneously intriguing and disconcerting. “What you suggest, on the other hand, is insanity.”
“I am not suggesting that we tell the Cardinal about this,” the baritone continued, “But I do feel a great amount of shame and remorse because we cannot tell our closest friend.”
“How is this particular case of dissembling any different than me not knowing your real name?” the tenor inquired, the metallic edge to his timbre really coming through, for emphasis. Eric held his fangs retracted for the time being; oh, this was getting interesting! “Your whole life is a lie. No one knows anything about you. Why draw the line at this?” Apparently, the baritone did not have a satisfying reply to these questions, because all Eric heard was silence.
“I … do not have an answer for you,” the baritone finally spoke. “Only, if what you say is true, then how can you love me if you do not know me?”
A lover’s spat! Eric was titillated. He contemplated that perhaps he could find other uses for one or both of them, besides being his midnight snack. Another thing about these contemporary Frenchmen, Eric could never tell which way they leaned. Not that it mattered to him all that much, since no one ever said “No” to Eric Northman, or le Comte du Villenord, as he called himself here. His ears were now picking up the sound of two mouths hungrily devouring each other. His instincts told him that the argument must be over and he should probably launch his attack.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” one of the men whispered, probably the baritone.
“Same as always,” the other replied and, much like one of those Parisian cat people, quickly disappeared behind a corner.
It was then that Eric smelled the blood on the man who had remained in the alley. Something from the scent of the other man must have been masking it before, but now, blood was the only thing that Eric could smell. The locale was perfect, the timing couldn’t be better, and Eric had detached himself from the wall, silently, to strike at his prey.
But something went terribly wrong. Eric was bewildered to discover that a blade of a sword had penetrated his entire torso and was now cooling off, dripping his blood onto the cobblestones, on the other side of his back. The Frenchman had yanked the weapon back towards him with one sure motion, dislodging Eric’s body as if pheasant from a spit. Without sheathing his sword, he seemed to be waiting for the Viking to fall down dead. Surprise!
“Now you just had to go and make me angry,” Eric hissed and bared his fangs, his wound quickly closing up. The Frenchman took a step back, but did not drop his guard. “Haven’t you ever heard,” Eric continued, advancing upon the man, “if you mess with the bull, you get the horn? Oh, wait, no, I mistook my locale. You’re not Spanish.”
“It appeared to me as if you were the one who just got the horn, Monsieur,” the Frenchman responded.
It amused Eric, this little man, whoever he was, not only was he not afraid to die, but he was actually trying to provoke him. In a flash, Eric had liberated the sword from the man’s grip, and pressed his body into his own towering Viking frame. The human’s eyes showed only wonder and consternation, but no fear.
“Your wound is bleeding,” Eric whispered. The human looked up to meet Eric’s steely blue gaze, his expression unflinching. No fear. Eric pressed the man’s right shoulder with his hand, gently by vampire standards, a death-grip by human standards. The human swayed in his grasp and it looked like he was on the verge of losing consciousness. He smelled incredible, utterly intoxicating. Eric lifted him off the ground, like a weightless doll, to bring the man’s neck closer to his lips, to his fangs.
Yet, just when Eric was about to sink his teeth into the Frenchman’s neck, he felt something else annoying in his chest. He calmly looked downwards, only to find the handle of a poignard protruding, rudely, out from under his rib cage.
“You!” Eric dropped the man to the ground, where the latter landed with a heavy thud. “Truly, I am in slight awe of your stubbornness!” Perhaps I should turn him, Eric thought to himself. Perhaps…
Eric removed the dagger from his chest and threw it up and over the roof of one of the houses.
“I was going to make this fairly painless, but you just keep stabbing me! Where is your sense of hospitality?”
“You’re not in my home,” the human snapped, from the ground.
“You’re not at all afraid of me,” Eric squatted down, in wonder, next to the man.
“It is illogical to fear that which one does not understand.”
“Like death?”
“Are you Death?” the human asked.
Eric found himself running his hand absentmindedly up the man’s leg.
“Do you want me to be?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Eric du Villenord.”
“That doesn’t really tell me anything,” the human pointed out, not drawing his leg or any other deliciously smelling body parts away from Eric’s touch.
“Who are you?” Eric thought to himself that this route of questioning was rather pointless, but he did always so enjoy playing with his food.
“My name is Athos.”
“That is not your name!”
“It is what they call me.”
“Fine, you’re not being very cooperative… Monsieur… Athos. I shall have to remove you some place where you and I can prolong this night’s discourse without the fear of being discovered or interrupted. Will you accompany me?”
“Why do I have this feeling that you’re just going to pick me up and fly off with me regardless of whether I consent?”
Eric let out a soft chuckle.
“Fly off, my oh my… how dramatic.” With these words, he pressed the bleeding human to his chest and took to the air with him. He only had a couple of hours before sun rose and he would need to go to ground, so that made expeditious movement necessary rather than merely convenient. Eric wanted to enjoy his toy before enjoying his kill.
Inside his own temporary dwelling, Eric gingerly placed the Frenchman on the floor at the foot of the bed. The bed, of course, was not where Eric himself ever slept, but it did come in quite handy at certain times. Eric lit some candles around the room, more so for his “guest” than for himself, and turned around to face the man. The candlelight illuminated the blues of the man’s tabard.
“You’re a musketeer!”
“You’re… blond!”
“Damnation! I have rules about such things… Personal standards, if you will… I do not kill members of the armed corps… Unless they have done harm to one of us … or…” Eric interrupted his disjointed soliloquy. “You haven’t killed one of us before, have you? It would really help me out if you had!”
“I don’t even know what you are or how I can kill you!”
“I’m a Vampire.”
“A what?”
“I drink human blood and it gives me immortality.”
“And how do I kill you?”
“Oh, hah bloody hah…”
In a flash, Eric was sitting astride the musketeer’s body. He wanted this kill. He knew this man would taste just as delicious as he smelled. The scent of his seeping wound drove Eric completely wild. Perhaps, personal standards, just like societal rules, were made to be broken? Enough was enough: Eric tore open the man’s doublet and blouse and pressed his mouth to the bandage over the man’s right shoulder. Oh… yes. He tore the bandage away with his teeth and drank deeply from the reopening wound. He could see in the candlelight that the man was already quite pale to begin with. It would be over soon. Eric buried his face in the man’s shoulder, feeding greedily, while his hand rested on the man’s chest. He could feel the heart slowing down, the pulse becoming weaker. Soon he’d be dead, and Eric’s adventure over.
No! Eric found that he couldn’t let that happen. He was hoping for a bit of good old fashioned gamesmanship, and this man gave as good as he got. Plus, he was a soldier. Plus, Eric really wanted to fuck him.
Forcing his mouth away from the blood, Eric looked up at his victim. The human was in a swoon, impossibly close to death, yet still breathing. Eric did always enjoy coupling with humans. They were so warm and moist and truly pulsated against you in every way when you rode them, and Eric loved to ride them, all of them, for hours, for nights, if possible. He swore in the tongue of his fathers.
Ripping a gash with his fangs in his own wrist, Eric drew the unconscious Frenchman’s face up and pressed it to the spurting blood.
“Drink,” he commanded. It took a few moments for the blood to take effect and cause the man’s eyes to fly open. “Drink,” Eric said, more softly. Now I will always be with you, he thought, as he closed his eyes and felt the bliss of the growing connection with his new human. “That’s enough, don’t be greedy,” Eric tore the wrist away from the man’s hungrily sucking mouth. “Now, what do we say?” Eric petulantly tapped the other man on the nose with his long, white finger. The musketeer gave him a nonplussed look. “We say ‘Thank you, Eric!’”
“Thank you?”
“For healing your wound,” Eric poked his finger into the place where the bleeding wound was a few minutes ago. “See?”
The man followed Eric’s finger down to his chest and raised both of his eyebrows in the only silent exclamation of amazement that Eric was to receive. I will require more, Eric thought, and drew the Frenchman’s mouth towards him.
“You’re going to thank me, one way or another,” he whispered into the human’s mouth, and slipping his tongue in between the man’s lips.
“Don’t…” the man started to pull away at first, “lead with your tongue! Where did you learn how to kiss? The Snake Academy?”
“I hate the French,” Eric exhaled and pulled the man’s face closer. As much as he was peeved by this human, Eric was much more overcome with desire than he would have wanted to admit. This… man, this soldier, he was all musk, and leather, and the stable… and yet, Eric wanted to lick him from head to toe. The human was kissing him back now, the taste of Eric’s blood completely vanished, replaced by his own natural taste. Eric pressed the man so close to his chest that he was afraid he might accidentally crush him.
“A… vampire, is it?” the man called Athos pulled away and looked into Eric’s eyes again.
“Stop studying me,” Eric coaxed, “I have plans for you and they don’t involve idle banter or witty repartee.” The man shrugged and ran his hands up and down Eric’s expansive and well-defined chest muscles. “Nevermind,” Eric moaned a bit and threw his head back, “you may study me with your hands… oh…” Apparently the human had advanced to studying Eric’s body with his mouth because Eric found one of his nipples was trapped between the man’s teeth. Athos gave it a playful pull and released it from his toothy grasp.
“Why not kill me?” the musketeer asked.
“You know why,” Eric smirked. “I want to have my way with you.” It occurred to Eric that he could have just as easily, or rather more easily, glamoured this man. What was the point of having the power to make humans do whatever you want, if you do not use it? But, then again, Eric did always so enjoy a challenge, especially when that challenge led to coupling with a willing partner. Eric loved the taste of victory as much as he loved the taste of blood.
“You can do whatever you want to me,” the man stated this as the obvious fact that it was to both of them, but not as a plea to be ravaged that Eric wanted to hear.
“I know that,” Eric hissed through his fangs. His eyes simmered.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“A formal invitation.”
“Dear Monsieur du Villenord,” the musketeer commenced, mockingly, his own eyes giving off a dark, beckoning glow, “Please, won’t you come inside.”
That was more than the invitation Eric had been hoping for. Careful to not cut the man with his fangs, Eric began hungrily running his mouth along his neck and his lips. The human’s heart beat strongly, his health obviously restored to him through Eric’s powerfully ancient blood. Feeling relieved and inflamed, Eric had stripped off his own attire and the man’s remaining clothes. With the human’s blood inside him, Eric knew that his own body would feel sufficiently warm to the touch and he blanketed the other man with it, pressing him into the unused sheets of the bed. He had decided there would be no more talking.
The human arched into his touch, and Eric ran the palms of his hands along his sinewy back, while pressing surprisingly gentle kisses into the skin of his abdomen. A part of Eric knew this was only the blood talking, but another part wanted to believe that the Frenchman was giving himself to him with such abandon because… well, because Eric was, and always would be, a walking erection. It was important to have a strong sense of self-worth, after all. He cupped the human’s ass with both of his hands, enjoying the warm feel of the perfectly formed globes he was taking possession of. He looked up into his would-be prey’s eyes, and found them fixed on him, reflecting the flicker of the candlelight, dark pools of desire, but also of pain and longing.
“Do you still want to die, my French lover?” Eric asked, spreading the other man’s legs with his powerful thighs.
“No, I need to live,” the man replied in the same husky and hoarse voice that Eric had first heard in the alley.
Eric smoothly entered the man underneath him, feeling a shudder run through the human’s body, and began to rhythmically ride him, just the way he most enjoyed riding his humans, while looking into their eyes. The human lunged forward a bit and nipped at Eric’s lower lip with his teeth, playfully. Eric felt his hands on the small of his back, nails digging into the flesh there, his warm, pulsating body lifting up to meet the onslaught of Eric’s thrusts.
“You French,” Eric mumbled, closing his eyes in ecstasy, kissing the other man fiercely. “You are all just a bunch of wanton harlots, all of you, regardless of gender!” The man beneath him let out something akin to a snicker and wrapped his thighs tighter around Eric’s long torso. “I don’t hear you arguing,” Eric pointed out, biting the man’s shoulder gently enough to only barely break the skin there. He wanted another taste before it was all over. The sun was about to rise. He had to go to ground. With a few more powerful thrusts of his hips, he sent the human into the state of explosive oblivion into which he was accustomed to sending his humans.
The man lay underneath him, eyes shut tightly, taking quick short breaths, soaked in his own sweat, barely aware of his surroundings. Good, Eric thought, my job here is almost done. He licked his human toy’s chest to taste the small pool of sweat that had gathered there. Eric wished he had more time to play with him.
“Athos,” he called, gently shaking the man out of his stupor. Their eyes met, and Eric, reluctantly, turned on his glamouring powers. “Athos, you will not remember anything that happened tonight. After you and your lover argued in the alley, you went home and you went to sleep. You never saw me.”
The musketeer nodded, quietly, although his eyes gave off much more confusion than Eric was used to seeing in humans being glamoured.
“Is there something you don’t understand?”
“How will I explain that my wound is healed?” the Frenchman asked.
“Good point. Well, you’ll think of something. Old gypsy remedy? You seem capable… of pretending.” The man nodded again. “Oh and Athos…” A glimmer of playfulness appeared in Eric’s blue eyes. “Where does your lover live?”
There seemed to be another moment of confusion. Eric felt the desire to make sure that the man was actually glamoured.
“Put your left finger in your right ear,” he commanded. The man obeyed him immediately, placing the designated digit into the appointed ear. “Good. Now, where does your lover live?” Silence again. “Answer me, damn it!”
“Which one, my lord?”
Eric let out a jovial giggle.
“The one I heard you arguing with tonight in the alley, you dog!”
“The corner house on rue Casette and rue Servandoni.”
“Thank you, Athos. You really are a special treat.” He placed a soft, almost chaste kiss upon the human’s lips. “Now go home and be good.” The man had made a move towards the door, but Eric grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to himself again. “Um,” he started, taking one more whiff of the human’s hair, “You should probably put your clothes on first.”
At least, Eric thought to himself, that was a pretty convincing sign that the glamouring must have worked. With the musketeer finally dressed and out of his dwelling, Eric lifted up the giant rug from the floor, which turned out to have been concealing a trap door, and disappeared underneath the floorboards. Tomorrow night, he could have another Parisian adventure.