It seemed as if it were an eternity since he had met her that night upon the streets. His small troupe of acrobats had been performing in the park across from the Louvre when he saw her standing in the gaslight, almost translucent, her long hair blowing in the wind, her white gown billowing out. If he had believed in ghosts, he might have thought her one. After he finished performing, he was almost involuntarily drawn to her and fell to his knees in front of her, spontaneously kissing her feet.

“Rise pet, and come with me,” were the only words she spoke to him that night. Marc didn’t remember speaking to her at all, yet it seemed as if she could read his very thoughts and acted in just the manner that he expected her to. They rode through the streets in a horse-drawn carriage, winding their way back and forth across the city, through the Arc de Triumph, past the Eiffel Tower, back to a stone cottage not far from the Bastille.

She led him inside, bathed and fed him, tucking him gently into a huge feather bed before leaving the room, locking the door quietly behind her. For months he spent his days locked in the bedroom, surrounded by the world’s greatest works of literature, elaborate tapestries hanging upon the walls. A silent man named Anton delivered his breakfast and lunch, and his Mistress came to him in the evenings to dine. Speaking rarely except to direct him which book to read next and quizzing him upon his current assignments, she never ate, merely keeping him company during his meals.

After dinner, she would command him to perform for her. She seemed to take great delight in his acrobatic feats, and he enjoyed pleasing her. When he declared his undying love for her one night, her entire demeanor changed in almost an instant. Her face became solemn, and she whispered to him, “Are you certain pet? Do you know what you ask of me?”

Marc replied that if it were possible, he would spend eternity with her. Looking deeply into his eyes, she told him that she would consider the possibility, if he should prove himself worthy. That night, instead of the lovely bedchamber that had become his home, he was blindfolded and taken downstairs through the house, to what he believed to be the sewers that ran underneath Paris to the cold stone chamber where he found himself now.

In the following weeks, he was strenuously tested by his Mistress. She took care never to mark his flesh, but he was flogged, stretched, teased and tormented to his various limits. Yet, no matter what she did to him, she always allowed him his final release in her arms, holding him gently and kissing him before returning him to his shackles. And with each session, his love for her grew deeper and deeper. Lately, she had deprived him of all sensation when she was not with him, making him wear the black leather hood that imprisoned him now as he hung from the shackles against the cool stone wall.

Marc jumped, his thoughts interrupted by the touch of her hand upon his arm. Unlocking his manacles, she leaned hard against him and whispered, “You have passed all my tests pet. Do you still wish to be mine forever?” Marc trembled, the full impact of her words penetrating him to the very core. Could he indeed be happy hanging in a dungeon, existing only to please the whims of this one woman? In his heart he knew the answer was a resounding yes, but he could not bring himself to say the word, and merely nodded his assent instead.

He felt his neck being pierced by some kind of instrument, so he thought, his eyes still covered by the hood. Then, as if his lifeblood poured from him, he began to panic, yet she held him in place with almost inhuman force, and he quieted upon her touch, realizing that if it were her intention to grant him his wish by taking him to his grave, he would allow it, if that were to please her.

Then, the burning sensation started as he felt himself being infused with something quiet foreign to him. He screamed in agony, but there was no one to hear his screams, no one but her. And then, there was only darkness as he succumbed and lost consciousness.

When Marc awoke, he was once again in the lovely bedchamber from which he began this strange voyage. He sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily, finding his love sitting in the chair net to the fireplace, reading the daily newspaper from London.

Smiling cheerfully, she spoke to him quite differently now, almost as if he had become her equal. “Good morning, and welcome to eternity Marc, my childe,” she said. “You have much to learn, but first we must feed.”

Marc felt a strange gnawing, not in his stomach, but from his very soul. He didn’t really feel hungry, just a strange burning in his veins. Looking at her quizzically, he said, “But I don’t feel hungry Mistress... I feel rather ill actually.”

Looking at him and smiling softly, she replied, “You may call me Bianca, my love, and what you hunger for is not food. But do not despair, I shall teach you. Come, we must hunt.”

FIN