A/N: I put a poll on my profile page a while ago. Basically, I wanted to start a new 'project' – pick an album, and write a series of one-shots based on that album. I decided to leave it up to others to pick the album, and the result was Queen's A Night at the Opera. So, here's the first one, Death on Two Legs. As always, decent length reviews are returned.
He couldn't remember who had said it to him, but he remembered, a long time ago, someone remarking to him that the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.
Now, with his eyes fixed on the love of his life as she lounged across the expensive sofa he had forked out for, he thought the phrase apt. Evil came in many forms, but unless it was lodged in the heart of a human, the human race could not bring themselves to believe in it.
She pulled herself up, turning her head to him with a glazed, drugged look in her sharp green eyes. He had fallen, hard and heavy, for those eyes. They had drawn him in, as much as her long legs and ebony hair had. If he had been living in a world where he could believe they were real, he would have known.
She was a cliché as they came.
"Darling," she drawled, one arm thrown over the back of the sofa. "Will you please get rid of him for me?"
He pulled himself up, eyes scanning over the room. Everything in there had cost him an arm and a leg; she wanted the best of the best, and he had provided it for her. Every inch of her extravagant lifestyle was paid for by him. How many suckers had there been before he had come along?
He had wanted to ask, so many times, but never had.
The body was slumped beside the glass cabinet that had cost him over two grand. Inside were ornaments; she had dragged him around the basement at House of Frasier, cooing over each china doll that took her eye.
Every penny he earned went to her. At the start, it was because he was in love. It was because he would have done anything to see her smile. Now, she dangled his life over him like a carrot, and the constant threat of taking it all away was enough to keep him paying and keep her happy.
Crouching beside the boy, he picked up the limp wrist and pressed his fingers against the pulse. Nothing beat beneath the pale flesh. His eyes rose, locking on the neck. The marks were there, as they usually were. She varied it, sometimes, but the walking cliché liked the neck the best.
Of course she did.
When he stood, he lifted the body with him and walked towards the door. In the basement of the expensive, lavish house was an incinerator. The temperature inside was enough to burn the body to a crisp, though he still, usually, had to check and clean it once a month. Bits of bone and flesh would stick to the sides of the ghastly thing and, when not cleaned probably, it did not work as well.
It was as much in his interest as hers to get rid of the bodies. He was, more often than not, the one who lured the victims for her, the one who looked for them and got them to the house. If they could be traced there, he would be locked up, not her.
She didn't like getting her hands dirty.
When he returned upstairs, it was to find her still across the sofa, although the dress she had donned earlier that night was gone. Instead, she was wearing nothing but a pair of thin, black lacy knickers, gazing up at him with those sharp eyes rimmed in black liner.
Her body was beautiful. There were no marks or blemishes on it; like the dolls she admired so much, the static dancers and girls that stared out at them from the glass cabinet, she was porcelain. Not pale, but white. Pure white.
He felt a throb, and before he could stop himself, before he could remind himself that she was nothing but a leech, he was moving forward, towards her.
She sat upright, holding her arms out towards him.
"My darling," she whispered, her voice wrapping around him as he fell to his knees in front of her. "My wonderful darling." Her fingers found his hair as she pulled him in, his cheek against her stomach.
She was perfection.
The two came hand in hand.
Slowly, she was draining him dry of everything except his blood and he knew, eventually, she would get that, too.
She tilted his head back, forcing him to look her in her eyes.
"Darling, why are you crying?"
"I'm weak," he rasped. "I'm so weak."
Her smile was as enchanting as it had been the first time he had seen her. There had been something off about it then, something beautifully cruel, but love at first sight had blinded him to what was hidden deep beneath.
"Of course you are," she replied, bending forward as she kissed the top of his head. "You all are."
A/N: So, thoughts, feedback, critique? Let me know what you think. Not every story is going to be horror – it basically depends what sort of thing comes to me for each song. Oh, and if you haven't already, check out the album; it's a great one. Thanks.