This story is put behind paywall after the preview! In the future if I manage to write an extra story, I’ll put it behind a paywall, but most of my content is and will be free to read.
He was good. None of them could deny it. Miron was respectful to them. Gentle. He always gave them a choice. If they said “no” he stopped. The problem was, they nearly never said it. They wanted him to go on because he promised even more pleasure. He never lied, it was more, it was pleasure to die for…
The hour of moonrise was his. He put on a black silk shirt, left the top buttons undone, they liked that. His slick, torn jeans wrapped his tight bottom and displayed his masculine qualities nicely. Stylish, modern, and edgy. A bad boy vibe. They loved it. He looked casual, yet festive. It was a celebration. A feast.
He didn’t need all that much blood. One or two ladies a month was enough. He couldn’t say the same about pleasure. That he needed more. Blood and pleasure was what fed him. Not food or water, not even sunlight, cursed it be! Blood and pleasure, and moonlight.
Miron looked into the mirror. Immortality had preserved him in his prime. A twenty-one-year-old, just like 400 years ago. An Alchemist’s apprentice obsessed with finding immortality. He found it. But not the way he expected.
They didn’t make the mirrors like they used to! No silver meant he could see his reflection. Masculine, always clean-shaved, wavy coal-black hair, pale. And the teeth? Oh, his vampire fangs only appeared when he was about to bite. Didn’t it frighten the ladies? No, not really. The ones who were driven to madness with pleasure urged him to proceed desperately. They enjoyed every minute of their blood being drained. What a grand way to die! He made it the climax of his performance. They said, the pleasure he gave could transform women for life. Only he knew sometimes it transformed them to death…
Miron was known as the best of his trade, though he never labelled himself under the shameful name of a “gigolo”. He was a creature of the night, an artist, he painted their bodies in the bold hues of pleasure.
He was getting ready to head out. He assessed his looks. Flawless, as always. He had a talent for deceit and a certain reputation… Miron didn’t need to promote himself, mouth to mouth recommendations did the trick. Well, at least from the ones who survived.
He didn’t ask for a certain sum. Somehow these women found out the cost of gigolo’s services, and they would leave the money, although he never ever asked for it. Money provided him with better clothes and entrance fees to elite nightclubs.
Miron checked out the bathroom - everything was set for the ‘clean up’. This modern age made his life ridiculously easy! Nobody asked questions, nobody wondered why he came out only at nights. Why he travelled around the world week after week. Why did he choose such an occupation. It was acceptable. Miron loved and loathed the twenty first century, for no moral standards meant he could do whatever he pleased and nobody would dare to call it a perversion. Now he wasn’t a monster, he was an artist.
When some of the women went missing time after time, they made up explanations on their own. In the age of lonely men and women, Miron had his hands free. No police knocked on his hotel door.
Miron usually chose the lonely, the love-hungry, the craving, the abandoned, the middle-aged. Not necessarily beautiful. He saw the hidden beauty in every woman. He was the one who chose.
Sometimes young ones found him. Students wanting to experiment. Brides mates invited him for the hen parties. He usually refused them. No young, inexperienced ones, although he’d have them easily. They’d be begging for him to sink his teeth into their necks without a question. Miron was merciful. He knew the value of life. He never killed the ones who had their whole lives ahead of them.
But what about the bodies? He was a schooled vampire. As an Alchemist’s apprentice he knew his herbs. No, no magic potions, please! Only a very rare acid from a plant growing deep in the Amazon’s jungle. Miron went to Brazil once a year. The locals called him “the child of the moonrise” and that he truly was. Kind people. They never judged him. They said - every man has a monster inside. They provided him with his herbs. Once the body of the dead woman was put in the bath with these herbs, it disintegrated within minutes. A clean death. Even if the authorities found a trace leading to him, nobody could prove anything. No body…
He tipped the security guy at the entrance to the “Saturn” club, his favourite club in this town.
“Good evening, Mr. Dimitrie,” the man knew him well. Maybe he went to this club far too often. His black, rented Corvette was his signature. Maybe he should change it once in a while? Miron was a man of habit.
“Yo, Miron! Back in town again, huh? You hear that, ladies?!” Pauley the bartender was his buddy. Not a real friend. A creature of the night has no friends, they said when he agreed to obtain immortality and joined the men from the Luna Ortus society. Miron wouldn’t stop until he found them. Four hundred years ago he was a reckless, stubborn boy. Now when he knew the bitter taste of his immortal lifestyle, Miron had turned into a cold-blooded manipulator.
“‘Evening, Paul!” Miron bumped fists with the fun-loving bartender, “the usual.”
“Sure thing,” Pauley already got to his order. No, not Bloody Mary, Miron wasn’t that trivial. He enjoyed his Tequila sunrise with extra Grenadine syrup, for the colour. Yeah, Miron missed the sunrise a bit… The sun burned his skin like an open flame. But he didn’t need it. Just like food. He could eat or drink whatever he wanted, but it never satisfied him or quenched his thirst. Like eating air. Only a woman’s body could feed him - both the pleasure and the blood it gave him.
Miron sipped his drink, observing the bodies dancing in the blue lights. Pauley didn’t have to announce his arrival, news travelled fast. Several women eyed him with a hungry stare. Miron’s reputation did all the work for him.
He wasn’t surprised at all when a stunning woman in her mid-forties sat next to him and ordered the same drink. She looked like Miron’s usual clientele. A fit, beautiful, businesswoman, probably came to the club straight from her office.
“Good evening, Mr. Dimitrie,” she said and gave him a business card, “my name is Estelle Blackwood and I’m interested in your services.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Blackwood,” Miron