Ange De Aang

Ch 2: Red Candy

By: Helena F. Lupin

“Alaire.” I call softly into his ear. “Wake up, my Ange De Aang.” I murmur it, nipping the lobe of his ear gently with one fang to rouse him. He gives a mild hum in the back of his throat and curls up tighter in the white silk sheets. How I love those sheets against his skin. I could never tell which was more pure and which felt more luxurious to the touch. But if pressed for an answer, I will always say my brother was more than those sheets could ever signify.

“Amadieu?” He breathed my name. I love hearing him wake once night comes. He is always so slow to rise. Not a care in the world. I have worked very hard to make it that way for him. I will not have it changed now. With a black leather clad fingertip I push a few locks from his face as his eyes flutter open. He rolls to his back so he can face me better.

My pretty little twin. He is still golden haired and sweet to look upon. I have changed considerably since that final day we shared as mortal. I draw away and usher him from our bed. “The club does not run itself, I need to know what to put on the stock order.” I coax him with my purring tone to move along. He gives me a smile, flashing wicked little fangs before he vanishes into the bathroom, wearing the white satin pajama pants I had bought for him just this Christmas past.

I admit, I bought them for selfish reasons. They are diaphanous, I could see everything I wished through a veil of perfect translucent satin. Now remember, I have never fucked him. Nor will I. But what is the harm in a little lust? Between us, I know if we were to die ever that I would be the one in Hell. I could handle that eternity very well knowing he was unsullied and in Heaven. Then again, my perceptions on Heaven and Hell might be skewed. I do not think anyone but he belongs above.

But, I’m sure your curiosities are not centered on my tiny obsession with my beloved Ange De Aang. You want to know about my club. Oh it fit me so well when they came into existence, places like what I own now. Free flowing alcohol, lapped in drops from the bodies of dance partners, mingled with perpetration from strobe lights. Hearts thrumming heavily against the walls of their chests as music pummels the air. The depression of a hypodermic needle makes an addict ’s night. This is my club.

While Alaire bathed I take the time to walk out through the livingroom and through the door that separated our sound proof living area from the rest of the club. There are three levels. The upper most with the platform I walk onto and look down at the lower two. The Platform is for the very few friends I deem worthy to be there. Those who bring me good deals, or good blood. At the head of the stairs are two large bouncers to ensure no one uninvited pops up.

The second level below is for drinkers and paying users. Not to mention the people who have voyeuristic tendencies. I do not care where they fuck, as long as they pay to use my space for it and as long as they aren’t fucking my brother. The second level is a wealth of plush couches and large chairs. The hardwood floors are covered with thick fur rugs that I have promptly washed thoroughly every morning. I even have a few circular beds there. Those are wash just as diligently as everything down there.

The lowest floor is one large dance floor. There is a stage for live music, and a bar which sweeps around two walls. I made it that long because the drunker they are, the better my night. They amuse me with their stupidity. I could care less about the loss of brain cells, but seeing them throw away their clothing because they get too hot, now that is fun. I enjoy the sight of flesh. I enjoy it more when red.

Alaire does not seem to notice naked bodies. In fact, he does not seem to notice clothed ones. My innocent twin. I turn to look at the mirrors that line the walls along the Platform. The Platform, and indeed it is spoken as if it should be capitalized by many people, wraps around the entire large building so that from anywhere, I may look down. There is a smaller bar up here as well, but the drinks are better for my guests. I move toward one mirror to check my appearance. Yes, we have reflections. I am glad for that, my vanity would not survive otherwise.

I’ve slid into my favorite pair of black leather pants, they lace up the sides with red silk ribbon, or so it appears. In all honesty they are whole, ribbon alone would not work on holding them together, it is merely illusion. The black fitted shirt I have on for all the world looks like a whole shirt from the front, the long sleeves falling half over my hands. But on the back, there is one thin strip across the top, just above my shoulder blades, and a few inches at the waist. Beyond that the perfect, pale expanse of my back is for all to see. The curve of my spine has made many a mortal beg. The boots I have on have a slight heal to them, but not much.

My once golden hair is now black. I dyed it perhaps twenty years ago. I do not remember exactly. I raise one fingertip to sweep it beneath my lower lip to make sure the blood red lipstick is perfect. My eyes are marked by black eyeliner and a touch of dark eyeshadow. I’m too pretty to dress masculine.

All my dark hair is pulled back and up, only a few curls falling at the nape of my neck and around my face. I must have been standing longer then I thought too, because my brother came out onto the Platform. He wore white dress pants, a white button up and a white jacket. I do so love when he wears white. And he knows it. He gave me that smile again.

I walk toward him, looping arms with him. “Come.” I purr softly. Even over the music I know he can hear me. With the boots I am now an inch taller then him. I walk him downstairs to the lowest level so that he may get his work done on the order forms. I have my own orders to deal with now. I need to gather the drug of choice tonight. I have to deliver them to the second level.

And I intend to be swift. We still have to feed. That is the only bad thing about white. The blood shows up so much more easily. I leave him at the bar with the only bar tender there I trust to watch over him. Robert Cunning. The only human who knows us. He is a tall, broad shouldered man, with dark short cut hair and matching eyes. And a tan that speaks of being in the sun most of the time. He has one tattoo, just one. A name, scrawled on his right bicep; Emily. I never ask about it.

With Alaire left in Robert’s charge, I wander toward one of the dozen dealers I speak to ever week. And I am not happy when he tries to fuck me in a deal. “Alex.” I purr. “Come with me.” Oh, that flash of want in his eyes. I know what he thinks he is getting. I take his hand, walking with him through the crowd and past the bar, into the back stock room. The fool follows like a lost puppy with those large, gray green eyes.

I hear the vibrant throb of his heart. It matches the throb that begins in my cock. The sound has always excited me. Suddenly, the leather I wear is too tight, but the effect is worth it when I turn around and his eyes slide straight to my groin. Oh yes, it is worth it for that smell of arousal. I reach up, a fingertip touching his chin and drawing his gaze back up. I lean in, the tip of my tongue sliding along his lower lip.

That desperate sound of yearning. I love it when they groan like that. But I love it more when they whimper. I bit his lower lip sharply. Just a quick nip to draw blood. He tastes good. He must not use the drugs he peddles. Good. Drug addicts taste horrible. So many impurities in their blood.

“Fuck.” He curses, reaching up to touch his lip. I catch his hands in mine and pull them around to my ass. He is taller then me at six foot one, but I am stronger. His fingers grip, digging in almost painfully. Lucky for me I like the pain. He drags me close, grinding against me. That alone is almost enough to make me lose my erection. He is a talentless lover, I can tell that instantly from that small touch. He would fumble with my body if I were actually to let him have sex.

Moron.

I work red kisses along his jaw to his throat. He’s making sounds that animals usually do when mating. Disgusting. But human. His voice is not musical, I am not surprised that he sounds horrible. How he has every had sex before I am not sure though.

I found the pounding pulse in his throat, that writhing, hot, living thing that I cannot resist anymore then a child can resist a piece of chocolate. It is as rich on my tongue as that sugary substance. I lick the skin just barely holding it in check as he walks me back against a wall. Pinned, I spread my legs to allow him between him thighs to rub against me in a version of clothed sex.

I do not care what he is doing though. I have my prize close. My fingers slid up his spine, one stopping to grip his shirt, the other slipping into his hair. I jerk his head a little to the side. He thinks it is all in foreplay. And in a way it is. Foreplay for my hungers, not his. I brush my lips back and forth across the thing I want so badly. I whimper for it, and he thinks I am doing it for him.

I’m hot. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist. He is trying to open the front of my pants without moving away from me. In that heated, passionate moment when he least suspects a problem, that is when I strike. I bite him hard. He curses, trying to draw back. My hand in his hair tightens and twists with a sudden crack. He makes one chocked sound, and it is the prettiest sound he has made yet. His body goes slack, falling. I put my feet on the ground once more and hold his body up, drinking in large gulps before I let go, breathing hard.

I feel the stick substance of his blood on my chin, my throat. I pick up a glass from one shelf and lift his head enough to fill it with the still gushing glory that is my red candy. I stop long enough to use a towel to wipe my face and then walk out of the back room. I lock it and pocket the key. I will clean my mess later. For now, my brother needs what I have just gotten.

I find him sitting at one far end of the bar, a binder with our papers neatly trapped in it open before him. I offer him the glass, a crystal goblet really. Alaire smiles at me. “Thank you, Amadieu.”

“Anything for you.” He murmur in his ear as he drinks. I nip the lobe gently. “Anything, my Ange De Aang.”