The Dragon's Bane

XXVI

Évrard D'Aboville-The Creature 

I am not eating women anymore. Izmir in particular has ruined my appetite for the opposite sex. I find my stomach churning as my eyes follow two young women in Les Noës-près-Troyes.

I leaned against the heavy cathedral doors, a blonde slyly glances in my direction. She pulls her jacket closer and lifts her collar to shield her neck from the cold.

Her cheeks dusted with the most becoming blush and her thin lips ticked up in a smile. Her companion, a stalky box-dye redhead was much less impressed with me, yet she too made eye contact.

This being a feeding day would typically result in my consumption of one or both of these women. Just now I could not get past the guilt gnawing at my insides. So much so I felt as I would wretch at the very thought of it.

So, from here on I am restricting my diet. Rules be damned. I swear now and henceforth only those with the beef bayonet and two berries will be found worthy of a bite.

I Évrard D'Aboville, heretofore swear off the female species. At least through the summer. Some simple stray advice on this very subject from a not-so-close friend saved me.

A good Godly reminder from a very angry Maelys "Sir, you are what you eat." And I realized that would make me...13 La petite femmes in a row (minus the one chap in Louisiana). Including the near feast, I made of Izmir and my fortunes have gotten nothing but worse. I mean I very nearly met the true death!

Women are bad luck for me. Beauty spoils the inside. I am not trying to make this an attack on genders. Death should be an indiscriminate gentleman and not a selective chauvinist. And though it's hard (impossible actually) to describe the difference in taste between sexes. Women don't chew down softer.

Nor flavor any sweeter on the palate. They aren't any better in belly. Just different. Then again so is everyone. You're all a kind of butter and jam when properly spread. I don't know why me, and the little Bonnies keep fumbling into eye contact.

Maybe I folded this form into being too peacock, too baroque. Maybe it's the granite jawline this time and the Luxembourgian nose. Maybe it's the way I've changed my gait. The way I've opened my presence. The way I float into rooms filled with the hot air of frustration and fever of forward anticipation.

The blonde was still eyeing me despite her friend's obvious protestations. My stomach growled. I shouldn't be this hungry. Maybe all of this was my fault. Maybe I keep looking over my shoulder in hopes of finding Izmir.

Having left Maelys' cave the evening before, I could not bear another moment there. Not with Maelys' supercilious and contemptuous gaze following my every move with open disdain. I was used to her brand of vitriol but just now I did not possess the mental faculties to block it out.

The most heart-wrenching part was the fear with which Izmir now regarded me. Her thoughts though still disjointed and static-filled came now more frequently. Every move I made sent her into near panic. Which to my eternal shame I answered with impatience and anger. Her deer-in-headlights look used to excite me just now it soured the very taste in my mouth.

I left the cave with every intention of returning to my home at Château les Roulles, my one refuge, but found myself roaming the streets of Troyes. Frustrated by my impotence I made my way home choosing to use the cover of darkness to flash-step which was considerably faster than waiting on a taxi at 2am.

Softly glowing light shone through shuttered windows. I let my eyes wander of the grandeur of the Chateau. It had been at least fifty years since I'd been here, but it looked just as I'd left it.

Built sometime in the 1400s, Château les Roulles featured complex rooflines and facades with recessing and protruding planes. Its blue roof was steeply pitched and hipped with cast-iron crests. Every architectural detail elaborate. The exterior was a marvel of yellow stone. I still grew nostalgic over little features like the dormers with parapets. This was truly a home away from home.

I took my time stalking up the gravel driveway. A figure peeped through the sheer curtains and the ancient wooden front door promptly opened.

"Monsieur Remy, Bienvenue."

"Jacque, is that you?" He'd been a charismatic high-strung youth following is father by the tail the last time I saw him. I no longer recognized the rail thin greying aged man standing before me.

"Oui, Monsieur. It has been many years. I received your things from Angelique. Had I known you were coming things could have been prepared sooner. Nevertheless, the masters' quarters are ready for you and Madame Cartier."

A sudden sense of dread overwhelms me. "Madame Cartier is...not here at the moment." 

"Oh," He replied. His face lit up at the titillating possibilities of new gossip. I didn't need to read his mind to know this news would be making the rounds with the servants by days end.

"When can we expect her?" He pressed. I take it back; he was exactly the same precocious busybody and hadn't changed a bit. 

"That may be a bit... complicated." I admitted. There would be a whole lot to explain once Izmir did arrive.

"Then may I suggest you uncomplicate it, Monsieur. As the saying goes, 'happy wife, happy life'."

"Do you know, I just may shorten your life, Jacque." I growl.

"Very good, Monsieur, I'm old enough to know it will happen any day now. No sense in avoiding the inevitable." He said taking my coat and walking away giving absolutely no fucks.