Mark of The Tourist

Vibrant jazz chords tumbled out into the streets to the welcoming joy of the Quarter's nightly tourists. The Dancer had been there for years, a steady fixture of the artiste crowd around Jackson Square. She was a loner by design, her nights filled with watching and waiting. It had become a rather bland existence.

Few would say, she was past her prime, but yet the blond had an odd aura to her, of someone ancient. It stood in stark contrast to the sultry appearing blond femme fatale, who seemed no more than twenty-three or four. Mira moved gracefully and unassumingly in a flowing black silk dress, which hung just below those well-shaped calves, indications of commitment to perfecting her trade. This night, she stayed to the shadows, her pale green hues casting about furtively as she moved through the light crowd and storefronts with ease, almost as if prowling.

Around 11 p.m., one caught her eye. He carried a cup from The Drive-through Daiquiri Bar. How perfect! Slowly she followed behind him, keeping to the patches of darkness, stopping to look at reflections in the windows, down Canal street, nearing the Quarter. Mira began to limp in her ridiculously high heeled, narrowed toed expensive tools of torture - her stilettos. Despite the pain, she did enjoy inventorying his particular assets - impressive thick black hair, large expressive brown eyes framed by lovely dark lashes and a smooth caramel skin tone; however, the best, was in how he moved. He had both the grace of predator and prey, most unusual. She enjoyed the way he confidently swaggered down the street, almost as if he owned it. The dark haired one was clad in a pair of nicely filled out "Wranglers" that topped a pair of handmade lizard skin boots of gray and white. A thick gold chain with a large cross lay close to his neck under the ivory button-up western shirt. The attire, gait, actions and how he interacted on the street coupled with the fact she had not seen him before, cried out - "Wealthy Tourist!" Somehow in her overanalyzing the fit of those wranglers, he had managed to disappear! Glancing down at her feet, the dancer slipped off the functional unfriendly shoes and began her way back to the quarter, having no interest in pursuing anything else this eve.

The next eve, the wisp of a blond was sitting posing for one of the local artists. He had been painting her for years, and had several upon display. The gray lizard boots were caught out of the corner of her eye, as she saw the man pick up one of her pictures, study it, and set it down, before walking away. Her pictures always sold well! He had been within a couple meters of reach, but yet had fallen unobtrusively into the background. Once again, the game of cat and mouse was on. Mira was ready for him, her porcelain skin emitted an opaque gleam under the pale moonlight and the oddly unlit streetlights. Only when she was ready, did she make her move. She passed by him, allowing him to glimpse her well shaped legs, which peaked through the high slit of a black silk dance skirt, highlighted by strapy black snakeskin shoes, which clicked against the stark wooden walkway.

Turning to face him, her lashes fluttered over her bright green eyes, enticing him into a subtle dance of seduction, her tongue lightly flickering over her top left incisor. A great hunger filled her, as it always did, when she did not take care of herself. The Dancer's eyes met his and with a quick upturn of her chin, her hand glided gently through the luxurious blond mane as she pursed her lips, in a practiced move of salaciousness. She wanted him, and with an overwhelming sense of must have, she turned and gave him the beckoning glance over her shoulder, the fiery red lipstick accenting the full pout. Where was the amusement of being direct? This particular technique short of actually speaking or crooking a finger and motioning, rarely let her down. But, tonight it did.

Frustrated and infuriated, the one-time Prima Ballerina glided into the darkness of the alley, the uneven cobblestones seemingly crying out their secrets of past indiscretions that had taken place in this particular spot for the past hundred years. She could envision how it would all play out. Hours later he would come to, slumped against the brick wall, with a massive headache. The tell tale "To-Go" cup would be lying in his lap, and he would be pondering if he should have selected the "Hurricane" instead, as something had obviously been slipped into his Daiquiri. He would blame someone from a seedy little establishment, as he would envision being followed. He would sigh in utter indignation, muttering about how Gringos preyed upon tourists. It had all been done before. She particularly relished the fantasy as he kept evading her.

Mira grinned impishly as she imagined what a passerby would think. A trick rolled him and left him as his jeans would be loosened and partially pulled down? The creamy shirt would be dirty, with the buttons torn off and scattered between the uneven bricks. Oh yes, his visage would scream "Wild Night" for the tourist. If he was lucky, at the sight of the crucifix, the local Priest, making his rounds for chicory coffee and baguettes would stop and offer him a hand up.

Lastly, when the handsome tourist found himself in front of his hotel mirror, he would discover a dark red kiss to his neck, the only tell tale mark of the night, and the mysterious blond. The expensive handmade leather wallet would be missing, as well as several pints of his precious AB negative blood. He would notice the first, thinking he had been a mark, needing to believe alcohol, drugs or sex induced pleasures were surely the reasons for his feeling of lightheadedness. What a night, it must have been. Oh the stories he would tell, when he got home, and it was not even Mardi Gras. Ah, the plans she had for this one. But not this night. She could wait, and she simply disappeared into the night, leaving him to stand alone in the narrow street.

Feeling renewed in her zest to finally trap the tourist, she retired to sleep in her cool, dark and secluded chamber. As she closed her eyes, she envisioned dancing the lead in Swan Lake, as she had forty-five years ago. She let the sweet sleep take her, knowing she would awake another night to another tourist, if this one was gone.

Mira rarely remembered them. Most were easy enough Marks, not at all like this one. This one seemed to be playing with her in the game of cat and mouse. She suspected she would remember him, for he was becoming annoying, the more he evaded her, the more she wanted this particular morsel. Something was odd about him. Something drew her closer. He was handsome enough. It was more than that, inexplicable. The blond vampire had been alone for so long, she really couldn't identify what it was, and that was a dangerous predicament.

She awoke, after what seemed like spending her sleeping hours wrestling a demon. She was exhausted. The night was warm. Moving to her expansive closet, a simple white linen sleeveless dress was selected, along with a pair of white leather ballerina flats. She moved out to her balcony and sat listening to the local jazz musicians. There he was. Looking at yet another picture of her, and this time there was an exchange of money. He had bought a portrait of her! She stood, her arms akimbo upon the balcony three too many floors above to allow her to go question him. She made her way out, of her flat and outside, moving steadily in the direction of her artiste friend, getting ready to demand any information about his last customer. One hand cupped her left elbow, firmly, and he was beside her in an instant.

"Pardon, Senorita. I could not help but notice your enchanting Beauty."

"You managed just fine the past few nights, Senor."

"Si, like a good wine, one must never age the process too prematurely. What's the rush, when the dance may go on forever?"

He had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. They were a cross between a Hershey's bar and a brazil nut. Her own green hues were seemingly unable to pull away. If she breathed, he would have taken her breath away. If she breathed at all. Do you use those lines on all the girls, Senor?

He laughed softly, his sound almost mesmerizing. "Perhaps we are not so different," after all, winking to her. He tilted his head conspiratorially, his lips brushing just over her temple. Although, you should know, I do have the gift to read thoughts, and if you really want to have your way with me or take anything from me, it wont be in that alley."

The blond dancer's eyes flashed, and if she were able her cheeks would have blushed. She was speechless. Had she really went on about the cut of those Wranglers?

"Yes...you did..." He smirked and looked down to her. "Thank you." With that he gave her a playful wink and smirked. "Now, I am not that kind of boy to be had in an alley...but perhaps if you buy me a drink, discuss New Orleans society, submit to a nice samba with me, and finally..." He placed a gentle kiss to the corner of her lips. "Discuss if the city is big enough for the both of us, we might just see, who shall nibble upon whom."

A thrill of excitement ran through the dancer, as she contemplated his offer. His touch caused her to crave more. It had been such a long time since she had shared her secret with anyone. Let alone.. She glanced once more into those eyes, and slowly lifted up to press her lips to his. His arms wrapped firmly around her, one hand caressing her lower spine, as his mouth gently explored hers, his tongue lightly prying to taste of her. She arched slowly into him, her arms sliding up his biceps to wrap around his neck, as the arch of her foot slowly slid up the side of his calf. He smiled at her response, and lightly let one hand trail under her thigh, pulling her close, as he leaned her into the brick building, his chest pinning her. I have searched for a dance partner, he said breathlessly as he pulled back, cupping one hand to the back of her head and drawing her lips close to his neck tenderly, guiding her head until she was buried into the hollow if his shoulder. Take what you need...he danced slowly with her, murmuring softly about having her fill. And when you can drink no more..I shall carry you to a place and shower you with all the delights a woman could yearn for. His voice turned husky, as he allowed his mind to share his exact thoughts with her, as her knees nearly buckled.

Oh yes... my eternal dance partner

I am yours and you are mine

Never again to thirst through time

The ancient words of binding were whispered

His hand worked furiously at his pants, as he lifted her slightly to wrap the dancer's legs around his waist and moved around the corner to a private courtyard. With rapid impaling thrusts, he deepened the kiss, drinking from her, as she drank from him, taking her as his against the cold stone wall. When the sweet screams of orgasmic bliss erupted from her throat, he grinned darkly.They had eternity to explore all the ways, to satisfy a lover. But the first time, it would be he, who seduced her, the predator having become the prey.