Demon Stories

Saya: Enamorment of the Violinist, 1797, France

Saya

Enamorment of the Violinist

1797, France

A sweet, delicate sound fills the narrow dark hallway. A tempting, all swallowing sound. A sound which takes you by the tips of the fingers and gently pulls you closer to the source. A sound which is so thin, yet so full and sensuous. 

It is his spell. My rose haired soul taker. Just by the sound, I can tell he is lost again. Lost in a small world of just two elements: his soul and his sound. Not one would guess, but the man is skilled in the art of sound and he uses it like no other. How many nights had I been with him and seen the young ladies arrive, floating into the room on the alluring passage of which his majestic violin creates? 

I let myself float, too. My ears lead me like a fish smoothly through its familiar water. For it is his intent. He calls to me this night, as many other nights. This song of ours' he knows I can not resist. Our song which brought us together so many countless years ago in a time which is barely recognizable in this modern country now. 

Finding myself at the red door of my familiar, gently I bow to it in reverance first. I must not enter before first acknowledging the respect of these chambers. Quietly, I stay here for a while. The sound reminds me of two butterflies spiraling upwards together, performing a lovers' dance. Blissful, entrancing movements. 

Softly I open the door. The creaks are nothing compared to his powerful playing. The volume hits me like a powerful wind. 

There he is, finally. His hip-length, wavy, luciously thick rosy hair is a darker red tonight. His body is naked from the waist up, the rest covered by a loosely wrapped gathered apple red satin which cascades beyond the floor. His ivory skin is illuminated by the moonlight, as if the very moonlight itself has been drunken inside of it and luminesces from within. 

He stares upwards, as if he can see the night sky through the ceiling. His irises are the same shining bloody color of his lips. His slender body moves and sways back and forth with the fluid movements of his playing. 

Glittering, almost glowing crimson blood decorates his skin tonight. He has been hunting. No doubt the blood belonged to a beautiful young woman, or several. It is alive on his skin still, it will not die until it has been cleansed off. 

The blood is why I have been called. 

Gently, carefully, I lean forward and my tongue touches the skin of his chest. His eyes flutter just a fraction, but this I catch. My tongue searches his beautiful warm skin knowingly, as I stare into those large adoring eyes. Salty, metallic life kisses my mouth and I have found it. The jeweled ruby stream of his prey. Slipping downward, my lips pucker to take his generous gesture of love. Finding the twin stream of blood just where his ribcage ends, I lick the bone and my tongue flies upwards again to his chest. 

He makes a tiny gasp and I feel him weaken and shudder. Then as my tongue reaches up to his neck and I grip his hips to take a better hold, he loses himself entirely. The violin makes a loud sound of protest as it hits the wooden floor and the bow clatters violently in the quiet. With an escaping moan which makes my yearning heart quiver and burn so much my eyes water, he falls to his knees and suddenly he is hugging my waist tightly, his cheek pressed to me. His long dark red eyelashes brush his downy pink blushed cheeks, and his full red lips curl into a gentle, enamored bliss-filled smile. 

"Mon amour," his elegant, royal voice whispers with gentle love, itself music.

He needs me. My heart fills with overflowing, rapidly racing, dancing joy. This powerful, god-like man needs me. 

In this familiar room, this scene unfolds every night. Covered in blood, he needs his loyal Saya to adore him. No one knows the beautiful soul of my soul taker but I. This man, which they call Victor the Bloody, the Blood Vicar. This man, my darling.