Noir

Part Two

The question sounded like a challenge, though it was most likely nothing more than a simple inquiry. Julian's voice had taken on a deeper cadence, a daunting tone, though his playful smirk was still playing on his lips, making him look jovial, encouraging. But even then, the dim flicker of the candle on the table passed shadows across his face, creating an all too demented facade.

Suddenly he grew hot, perspiring, causing him the desire to take off his coat, but he wouldn't dare expose himself to this place, despite feeling as though he'd been dipped into the depths of Hell. He took a drag from his cigarette before resting his forehead on his hand, feeling the warmth. In all his past excursions he'd never felt like he'd lose consciousness, "There was something in that drink," he muttered.

Lucas couldn't bring himself to look up at Julian, but he could hear the smile in his voice, "Nothing but the finest wormwood, my dear friend." He stood with an airy swiftness, coming to to a stop beside the unwell man. He held out his hand, "Come. You will sate your wicked desires tonight."

Lucas took a weary drag of his cigarette before putting it out. He glanced briefly at the out held hand, refusing to take it as he stood. The gentleman simply withdrew, that lighthearted smile remaining. Turning, he led Lucas toward the curtain, his steps sure and purposeful.

Reaching the crisp red curtain, Julian addressed the two men standing guard, each with a golden mask hiding their faces. Anonymous for their own good. Then Julian spoke what Lucas could only assume was the key word, "Mon Dieu."

My god.

Lucas assumed it was fitting, the phrase sure to be said in multiple ways within the privacy of the area. Should he exclaim it tonight, it would be the first. But he could only imagine what he'd find behind this curtain.

They stepped through, and as they ventured down the revealed corridor, the sound of what he couldn't distinguish between pleasure or pain filled his ears. Perhaps both. But he was used to the low, needy moans of women, of torturing them with agonizing attention. He was used to debauchery in its purest form.

It took a few more strides before they were at a door, the groans of enticement and exclamations of discomfort having grown louder. They stepped through and what met his sight was one to behold. It was a well tailored room, lounge chaises with limp patrons, syringes at their feet. A man in the corner scratching fervently and calling out "Get them out of me!" as he passed by into another, smaller, corridor. He swore he saw a serpent slither by, unsure if it was the absinthe at play.

Julian silently led him through another curtain, and the room beyond was just as lavish, beds filled with men and women fornicating. Kinks were shared, love was shared, albeit with the aid of vices. It was what he was used to, reminding him much of the brothel he frequented. He stopped to watch, ever the voyeur, but Julien turned to beckon him onward. He followed through yet another curtain. And that's where the screams resonated.

The temperature dropped, concrete walls cool, just what he needed to relieve him of the feverish heat that had decided to overwhelm him. His fingers curled to glide along his clammy palms as he took in the new area. The corridor was lined with open doorways, and within each he saw brutality, men torturing and humiliating another, all of whom were tied up or chained. It was savage, but he held no judgement.

Julian stopped at one, turning to beam at him with what could only be seen as excitement and premature enjoyment.

He stepped inside the small room and saw a man bound with rope to a wooden chair, various tools on a table beside him. Julian stepped in behind him, "Beggars, lured in with the promise of money. Pathetic, is it not?"

Lucas opted to stay quiet, though, if he had the desire to speak, he would have admitted his tendency to rob even the poor. He held no qualms with deception. It was also true, however, that he'd never had the opportunity to harm another, not against their will. The thought was enticing, yet he felt a strange apprehension. Despite his wretched nature, it was different to apply torture when torture was not desired.

Julian smiled brightly, clearly eager as his fingers danced along the devices spread across the table, "What shall we do with him? Hm?"

Itching for a cigarette, Lucas removed one from his case, bringing to his lips and lighting it. He took a long drag as he looked over the tools. Pliers, chain whips, pikes. It was a fiend's silver platter.

The polished man gave him a prodding expression, humming, "Break his fingers, pull off his nails. It's your decision, my friend."

Lucas wished he would stop saying that; they weren't friends, they just met. And when he didn't respond, Julian grew impatient, but he hid his restlessness fairly well. Lucas simply couldn't think, the alcohol clouding his judgement. Too many options, not enough courage. He looked to the bound man, the already putrid sight making his stomach churn with disgust. Dirty filth. But he faltered.

As if sensing his internal conflict, Julian grew annoyed, disappointed, and in a flash, before Lucas could acknowledge what was happening, he showed it by grabbing a knife and swiftly moving behind the man, cleanly slitting his throat. It happened too fast, his eyes widening slightly in surprise as he watched the thick, dark blood waterfall from the slit. He felt dizzy and, once again, his stomach lurched. He'd never had a problem with gore, but something about this night had put him in a sickeningly lurid trance. The horror all too vivid.

Julian held back laughter at the reaction, "Don't tell me you've never seen a dead man."

He doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the deceased's thighs. Julian's amusement grew, "Vomiting on the dead. How disgraceful. I condone it."

The brightly clad man set the knife aside, moving back around the chair, kneeling down before the perished. He lifted a finger to the tarry substance, dipping it in and procuring a substantial amount onto his fingertip. He then brought the soiled finger to his lips, sucking on it as he glanced up at Lucas seductively. The look sent a chill up Lucas's spine and he forced himself not to be aroused by the sight.

"Have you ever tasted blood that wasn't your own?"

No he hadn't, the thought never crossed his mind. His silence spoke volumes.

"Try it," Julian insisted, a hunger to see a man succumb to his morbid wish clear in his eyes. The desire to see another partake in tasting the coppery essence.

Without much thought, Lucas swiped his fingertip along the dead man's chest, accumulating a descent amount onto it. He lifted it to his face and, in the light, it looked cherry and sweet. Alluring. Shimmering in his vivid hallucination.

He licked it off with one firm swipe.

It tasted metallic, just as he knew it would. No one was a stranger to blood, but to taste another's was indeed dubious.

Julian grinned and stood, "Delightful, yes?" He stared for a moment, seemingly admiring the dark clad man, before he breathed in deeply, a way to show he'd either grown bored, or had something regretful to say, "I must leave. Time has eluded me. Join me for tea tomorrow evening. 174 Hines. It's been a pleasure."

And with that, he left the cell.