Ma Mourant Cherie

A gust of wind nearly pushed her lacy bonnet off her ringlet-curly hair, but it died before it could do any lasting damage. With a heavy sigh, she glanced up into the sky. It was a deep, inky black, with pale silver stars speckling the velvet darkness, the large moon hanging low in the sky, casting a white light on the cobbled streets of Paris.

Jacqueline Lucille Saint-Pierre was a sparkling gem of Parisian society, a diamond amongst coal. Belonging to a family of the high nobility, she had been introduced early on to the life of what her parents said was a ‘real lady of France’; which, in general, was a girl who had men many times her age courting her, offering to bathe her in riches of the Orient, house her in a manor rivalling the Château de Versailles, and set a jewel in a band on her finger the size of Notre Dame. She had been told over and over again by her mère et père that when the right man came, they would help her choose him. Back when she was just a girl, she had not known that meant l’homme who offered the most money for her hand in marriage would be the one to receive her.

Another burst of the chilly breeze ruffled her dress and threatened to overpower her bonnet. Sighing in frustration, Jacqueline ripped the silly thing from her hair, clenching it tightly in her small, delicately gloved fist. Her curled hair, despite the bejewelled pins securing it in place, swayed in front of her face in the wind, which, thankfully, was beginning to quiet down. Jacqueline lifted her free hand to her hair, a soft light brown with highlights of many natural hues, and made sure the pins were all safely in her hair before brushing the curls from in front of her wide, childlike blue eyes.

This night, no matter how beautiful, had been like every other. Jacqueline had been dolled up in layers and layers of the richest fabrics her parents’ seemingly endless deposit of money could buy, lined in creamy lace, encrusted with gemstones. A corset was nipping her already narrow waist in further, pushing her round breasts up to her chin, where a small false beauty mark had been placed by a cosmetic artist her mother had hired.

She was just their porcelain doll to parade around Paris for prospective husbands.

Jacqueline had survived through this beautiful torture for all of her eighteen years, but tonight was the exception. Upon seeing the corpulent, greasy-haired man with a considerable amount of land in the French colonies of America, her parents, Louis and Michele Saint-Pierre, had grinned with delight, forgetting basic etiquette for a fleeting moment as they whispered to each other that he was the man for their daughter. By the looks of him, his bank was overflowing and he couldn’t spend it fast enough.

At the sight of this creature, Jacqueline had been instantly reminded of the puffer-fish she had to pretend to admire the evening before. A thin moustache was combed to perfection on his upper lip, which was large and pouty, and his dark hair was receding prematurely from his forehead, slicked back with odorous grease. The shiny silver buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst from his expansive gut, and he breathed with that loud, guttural sigh that many overweight men possessed. In a word, the man had been foul.

Repulsed, Jacqueline had demurely excused herself on the pretence of needing the chamber pot, but as soon as she escaped the watchful eyes of the maidservants and butlers, she disappeared from the manor and hurried off in the shadowed streets of Paris.

The howl of a stray dog made an icy shiver crawl up Jacqueline’s spine, but she tried to ignore it as she stepped cautiously down the cobbled street. She didn’t recognize this part of the city, but of course night made things much more different than they were when les soleil was out, accompanied by his favourite friends, the birds and the clouds. Flattening a bow on her skirts just to busy her hand, Jacqueline slipped into a narrower street, having a vague, uncertain feeling that this led to her friend’s house, which was her ultimate goal, as she would be safe from her parents and that fetid man. Her high-heeled slippers clicked on the dirty cobbles, echoing loudly in her jewelled ears. The rustle of her silk skirts matched her light, rapid breaths, cut short by the restraining corset embracing her waist.

Her breath caught in her throat as she heard the reverberation of a stealthy footstep behind her. Casting a wide-eyed glance around her lace-covered shoulder, Jacqueline saw no one.

Oh, calm yourself, Jacquie, she told herself with a reproachful grunt. You are being absolutely absurd.

“Are you sure, ma chérie?”

She released a terrified gasp before she could pause and think. Spinning with incongruous grace on her slippers, Jacqueline spotted the dark shape of a man silhouetted in the mouth of the alley, the moonlight behind him, shadowing his face.

“Who are you?” she managed to sputter out, her voice high and squeaky with fright and suppressed breathing. He didn’t answer. Taking a few steps forward, Jacqueline said, stacking up her dwindling courage, “I demand to know your name, monsieur. I am Jacqueline Saint-Pierre, and—”

“I know who you are, ma chérie,” he murmured, cutting her off. His voice sounded foreign, though he spoke French with a flawless intonation. There was a raspy growl to it that she never heard in the chirps of any Frenchman.

“Well, I am afraid I do not know who you are, monsieur.” Jacqueline trotted slightly further, and the man was quickly exposed in the pallid light of les lune.

His flesh was the delicate pale colour of the peach fruits a friend of her father’s had presented to her the week prior. The eyes set into his chiselled face were a deep, bold brown, with a bizarre crimson highlight in their depths, fringed in charcoal lashes. His hair, the colour of silken ebony, flowed in smooth waves to the nape of his neck, where it was tied back with a sapphire ribbon. A devious smirk alighted on his lips, and Jacqueline couldn’t breathe—and not because of her corset.

“I am Andrei Ştefănescu, mademoiselle,” he said softly in that strange accent of his. “Is it not dangerous for a lady such as yourself to be wandering the streets at a time like this?”

Jacqueline bit on her rosebud lip, quickly concocting a lie. She had enough sense to know this man could be trouble. “I was… walking to my friend’s house, Monsieur Ştefănescu,” she decided, hoping sticking to the truth as closely as allowed would satisfy this dark stranger. “She recently had a new Charles Dickens novel delivered from England, and she was going to lend it to me.”

Andrei took a slow step into the alley, his fine shoes making a soft sound on the stones of the ground. “Oh? May I ask which novel, ma chérie?”

“You may… it was…” Jacqueline hesitated, her fists clenched into the gentle fabric of her thick skirts. “The Adventures of Oliver Twist, Monsieur Ştefănescu, a fairly new release.”

“Ah, oui, it came out in thirty-eight,” he murmured. “Only a few months old. Are you a lover of adventure, ma chérie?”

Jacqueline took a step back as he stole another one toward her. “Uh, oui, monsieur, novels of adventure are quite enjoyable…” Her words trailed off into the rapid fluttering of her young heart.

Andrei’s black frock coat flowed out around his knees, making soft swishing sounds as if attempting to imitate rushing water. Reaching one long-fingered hand up, he adjusted the frilly cravat resting underneath his chin and sent her a smile that nearly made her terror-frozen heart melt. “But what of real-life adventure, ma chérie? What of the adventure that does not reside in books bound by man and written by a literary genius? Do you fear adventure? Is that why you thought being followed was absurd, ma chérie?”

Jacqueline gasped softly. How could he have known? Had she spoken aloud without realizing it? Unable to find words to form a confused question, she stammered, “Please stop calling me ta chérie, monsieur.”

“Is it too bold of me to call such a delicate young rose a term defining her beauty, Mademoiselle Saint-Pierre?” he wondered, flicking a rogue lock of wavy black hair from those crimson-laced eyes.

Jacqueline looked away and, wishing somebody would come to find her trapped in such a dark alley with this foreigner. Glancing behind her, she only saw emptiness, no sign of the end of the street. “Oui, monsieur, it is improper of you to call a lady you do not know by such a name,” she replied, feeling a small bit of courage flow back into her trembling legs. “If you do not mind, I must be on my way.”

She turned on her heel, still slightly afraid of having her back to the man, but a hand on her arm prevented her from going anywhere. “I do mind, though, ma chérie,” he whispered in her ear. His breath was icy, causing the smaller curls of her hair to brush against her neck, gooseflesh rippling all down her body. A cold finger of apprehension swiped slowly down her spine and she shivered. The grip on her arm was relentless.

“Let me go, monsieur,” she whimpered, trying to pull her arm from his grasp. His fingers dug like daggers into the thinner fabric covering her upper arm, and she gasped in pain. “S’il vous plaît… you’re hurting me…”

Andrei swooped around her so she was in front of him now. He was still holding her arm tightly, but his other hand was resting in the small of her back, pulling her closer and closer to his cold body. Finally, he moved his hand from her arm and ran the tips of his long fingers along her jaw and down her neck, lingering for a moment in the hollow of her throat before brushing lightly over her collarbone and the tops of her breasts. “You will be perfect, ma chérie,” he murmured huskily. She pried open her eyes to find he was staring at her. The crimson in the brown depths was suddenly more pronounced, as if he were about to shed tears of blood. Gazing into her paralyzed soul through her wide, pale blue eyes, the corners of Andrei’s mouth turned up and his lips split in the grin belonging to a sadist. Jacqueline gasped squeakily at the sight of the two, inch-long teeth where the normal canine teeth should be. “Do not be afraid, ma chérie…” Andrei breathed, nuzzling his face close to hers. Jacqueline couldn’t move as he brushed those doglike fangs against her neck, where her pulse was beating hastily. Nipping playfully at the tender flesh covering her carotid until the skin broke and hot blood dribbled down her porcelain neck, staining her rich costume, he whispered, “Don’t worry, Jacqueline Saint-Pierre… it will all be over soon enough, ma mourant chérie…”