Dismissing him with a rude wave, she then headed for the nearest exit, her steps slow and measured, she didn't want him to think he had affected her.  Dru wandered through the colorful crush of warm bodies, searching for her mate, Thorne; silently cursing him for his intemperate appetites and abandoning her to this obscene idiot.  She would much rather be at home catching up on her correspondence; or sitting in her tiny garden, enjoying the sweet smell of fresh rosemary and the soft night air.  She was not hungry, nor desired sex, Thorne wanted both and insisted they go out.  Mardi Gras crowds were easy marks for food and games.

It didn't take long.  They stopped in a bar on the main drag, and within 10 minutes--before Dru could finish her drink--were invited to a private party.  And from there they were invited to another one; then another, and then another.  Thorne was always extremely choosy on who they would take home, this seemingly incessant rambling from bacchanal to bacchanal must mean he was looking for something in particular.  Dru had lost count and was not sure where they were now; who's house, who's party.

Weary of the drunken revelry--too much heat, too much noise--Dru worked her way through hot flesh and groping hands emboldened by music, dance, and alcohol, and out; through a pair of enormous leaded doors done in a brightly colored optical glass, and outside, on to a patio.  Exotic flora and graceful palms in cement urns littered the blue tiled expanse in carefully planned chaos around lacy wrought iron furniture.  A wide stairway led down to a vast lawn illuminated by strategic flood lamps; rolling green perfection disappearing into a dense wooded copse, marred only by the occasional party goer, and an abandoned croquet set.  Whoever owned this house had money.

She perched on the stone balustrade, half hidden in a riotous tangle of fragrant vines.  Somewhere along her retreat she had misplaced her glass and mourned the loss, she truly needed a drink, but inwardly cringed at the thought of going back inside.  Instead, she plucked a jasmine bud and pressed it between her lips, rolling the sweet bloom around her tongue; Thorne's favorite taste when he kissed her, blood and flowers.  Down below, a couple was playing nymph and faun, darting in and about the trees, shedding clothes as they ran.  Dru paid little heed to the copulating couple, their ecstasy was more an annoyance than a turn on.  She hoped Thorne had found a suitable partner so they could leave.  She was uncomfortable here; being approached by a strange man who, in the first few moments of conversation, claimed to be a Werewolf and her a Vampire, had rattled her usually cool, dismissive demeanor.

So what if she was?  What did his acknowledgment prove?  Like anyone would believe him.  Did she believe him?  She knew no Werewolves, at least she didn't think she did, and was ignorant of their looks and nature; only their stereotypes, and--what was his name?  Luke?--Luke didn't seem to fit any of them.  No sloping forehead or pointed ears; no small close set eyes with pupils like pinpoints or swarthy, mottled skin.  His teeth were small, white and even, and his manicure short.  No superfluous hair that she could see, he was neat and clean shaven; in fact, his hair line was rather far back and thinning at the temples.  Other than a disquieting intensity, he showed no visible lupine characteristics; that unwavering stare, not only his eyes moving to recapture hers every time she attempted to end their brief association, but his whole head clocked and countered every evasive move.  She could easily picture him hunkering down in the bushes, patient as stone, eyes glowing like twin flames, waiting to mesmerize an unsuspecting fawn.  (Or gullible female?)  This could all be an act to alternately impress and scare.  He could be thinking her one of those Gothic role players and only wished to join the game; maybe so he could get into her pants.  In that case, he was a standard human male; more dog than wolf.  The other possibility, that he was what he claimed to be, left her no less irritated.  During their brief conversation, his prejudices spoke volumes in few words; it was the way he generalized and made broad, sweeping statements regarding her kind.  If he was any example of Werewolves, she could easily adopt a few prejudices of her own.

Oh, why should she even care!  Just because some insignificant little man recognized her and would not let it go until she admitted it.  And admitting to what?  Other than her own nature; no different than simply stating 'I am woman' ; it was redundant.  The more Dru puzzled over his pointless attack the more it seemed exactly like that--an attack.  Like he was trying to humiliate and degrade her.  This must be akin to what a human female feels when accosted on the street, only Dru's epitaph was 'Vampire' as opposed to 'tease', 'bitch', or 'slut', but spat with no less venom.  His light tone could not belie the intent of his words, to put her in her place; moreover, what he thought her place to be.  (On the species hierarchy?)

Dru fingered the long strand of black pearls falling down the length of her black leather bodice; real pearls, she consoled herself, mixed with a clutter of chains, charms, and gemstones; even a carved rosewood rosary she had obtained in Italy last year.  She didn't care about its significance--religion was as mythology and superstition to her--only its smooth feel and soothing fragrance.  Perhaps she was too obvious.  Perhaps she should have worn a costume.  Something different; like a gypsy, or a nun, to match Thorne's priest.  Ecclesiastical garb was pretty standard during Mardi Gras, the ultimate paradox.  Even more so when Thorne donned the immaculate white collar and somber black robes, a large crucifix dangling from his waist cord--not merely of Christ in his final agony, but Christ in blood soaked ecstasy; a lascivious smile and grossly engorged genitalia, a crown of thorns wreathing both heads.  Thorne loved this guise; his ice blue eyes and this obscene parody of what humans hold most sacred garnered much attention, and, in the past, lured many, male and female, into their bed.

Or maybe an angel.  She always wondered what it would be like to have wings.

A laugh, a rustle of clothing, and a familiar voice.  At the bottom of the stairs was Thorne and a pretty blonde angel; not a real angel, of course, merely a costumed one.  She giggled, swaying in Thorne's embrace.  She looked as if she was ready to submit right there on the steps; her mouth wetly chewing on his, her hand, cupped into an almost desperate claw, busy between his legs.  Dru told herself that she should go down and join them, the night was half gone and they had much to accomplish.  She waited a few moments longer, pulling the vines closer about her like a living fragrant stole, and watched the wrestling couple; a beautiful angel, halo askew,  half out of her trailing gossamer, twined around her Father Confessor.  Dru hoped she wasn't too drunk, it would lessen the bite when they tortured her.  She wanted to cut the angel's breasts, to see if they were real.

As if Dru's thoughts were his own, Thorne brushed aside the shimmering veil between her bare flesh and the night air's kiss; deeply tanned perfection spanning wide and deep, a surprisingly small nipple puckering under Thorne's hot breath.  He circled his tongue around the tiny nub, his sharp incisor gently scratching the tip.  The angel shivered, pulling aside the other half of the flimsy gown, offering her other equally flawless breast to tongue and tooth.  They weren't real.

Dru slid her hand beneath her dress, inside the stiff lace of her bra, her smaller, less perfect breast filling her hand; a tremor of pleasure as her fingers found and squeezed her own nipple.  Her interest, previously indifferent, was rising.  Thorne knew precisely what would stir her juices; all this deliberate symmetry for her to redesign.  Thorne's inviting gaze burned through darkness and distance.

Shedding the sweet greenery, leaves and flowers both living and dead clinging to her hair and garments, Dru slid off the balustrade.  She lightly brushed her skirts, then turned to join her mate and found herself face to face, nose to nose, with the very person she thought she had lost, smile broad, toothy. gleaming, in each hand a drink.  Startled, she stepped back, hoping her face did not betray her surprise; and displeasure.  He offered Dru one of the drinks, which she reluctantly accepted, the sweaty glass cool in her hand.

"As I was saying," he continued, casually picking up the threads of their conversation as if it had never been lost, "you Vampires are obsessed with--what do they call it now?  Body modification?  Corsets, piercing, tattoos, scarring, branding--and everyone thinks it's sooo cooool..........That's why so many humans are mutilating themselves."

Dru wasn't listening.  She looked attentive, but her concentration was focused on escape; how to gracefully exit without him thinking her disturbed by his unwanted presence.  His words were only sounds in the distance, like the low rumble of the milieu inside; laughing voices competing with the stereo, relentlessly pounding out the bass line of a familiar, yet indistinct song.  She raised her glass.  Resisting the urge to first sniff the contents, she allowed a little of the amber liquid past her lips.  Ginger ale and whiskey.  Her non response, instead of dampening his enthusiasm, seemed to encourage, allowing his sarcastic monologue to continue unchecked.  Only when she finally realized the subtle shift in his use of pronouns from 'you Vampires', to 'you all', to finally  just 'you', did Dru start listening.  This had definitely become personal.

"Excuse me?"

The Werewolf took a long slow sip of his drink, grinning a private grin into his glass.  He knew he now had a captive audience and wished to prolong the moment.  The Vampire needed to know who was in control.  "I said," he began, mocking Dru's bored inattention, directing his gaze heavenward, not wanting her to think she was any more consequential than a stray scrap of cloud passing over the face of the slivered moon.  "I asked, actually, if, under your widow's weeds, you have more of the same.  A few more spikes?  Jewelry of a more intimate nature?"  A beat.  "You do, don't you?  I'll bet you have a dungeon, too."

"You're quite sure of yourself, aren't you!" Dru snapped rising to the bait, unable to control the heat in her voice and face.  "If you know so much why don't you take it on tour!  Offer a lecture series, talk to a few tabloids, sell a few books, be the next darling of the occult set, like....like....Sean What's His Name!  The one who defiled all those crypts in Highgate Cemetery!  Only you're one up on him, you're a Werewolf!"

He smirked at her anger, tossing it aside as if never spoken.  "Oh, come on, you all have some sort of dungeon, torture chamber, play room, whatever you want to call it.  You need something to get those tired old juices flowing, eh?  Not too difficult, nowadays, to find willing, ah, playmates, with the current whips and chains craze.  Tell me, how long before they realize they are the actual meal, not just the dessert?"

"And it was my understanding that you all are flesh eaters, and your table manners are none too delicate," Dru retorted.  "Don't you tear apart your meals?  While their still alive?  Not a very pretty picture."

"At least it's quick.  You tease and torture, sometimes for days, or longer."

"Oh, but their pain and terror makes it all the more sweet.  And, to answer your rather crude question, our playmates, as you call them, realize nothing until the very end.  They come to us willingly.  When they finally die they know they have been loved--fucked--beyond their wildest imaginings; they leave their mundane little world with a smile on their lips.  A far cry from being torn apart limb from limb.  Your technique leaves something to be desired, although, obviously, they don't live long enough to complain.  Dead lovers tell no tales, right?"

"Not necessarily," he sniffed.  "You don't always kill either."

Sudden silence between them, uncomfortable and absolute; no more words, only icy glares conveying mutual malice.  He swirled the ice in his glass, frowning, unhappy with the turn of the conversation, concentrating on how to twist it back to his advantage.  Dru felt some satisfaction in getting a few digs in; but at what cost?  She could be home now, nestled between a warm body and Thorne's cold one.  Instead, she was lured into this inane 'my foreplay is better than yours' debate; explaining and defending herself to someone who truly didn't matter.  Thorne mattered.  And he was waiting.

"Cats and dogs," she sighed, tossing the dregs of her drink into the nearest planter, then carefully setting the glass on the cement urn's rim.

"What?"

"I said, 'cats and dogs'.  We play with our food, like a cat toys with a mouse.  You devour and tear with little thought for taste or enjoyment; like a dog foraging through a trash can."

"Wolf," he corrected.

"Dog," she reiterated.

"I am a WOLF!" he insisted, knuckles white around his glass; voice, although kept low and even, betraying a slight strain.

Dru's casual observation--only meant to bring the discussion to a close--clearly struck a nerve.  (Or trod on a tail?)  Something in his eyes, the quick spark flaring up, then kindling to a searing, hateful glare, gave Dru reason to pause; if he was a Werewolf, full moon or no, he was dangerous.  Dru was undeniably quick and strong, no human could match, but if his species ran true to form, he could be on her in a heartbeat.  And her flesh was as tearable as a human's, only, if he did decide to end her existence, as his eyes screamed to do, she would last much longer; perhaps even survive, irretrievably damaged.  The argument was not worth winning,  her body was much more precious than pride.  Dru needed to get home, where she could lick her wounds in private, and count her regrets in leisure, intact.

"Luke--your name is Luke, right?"

"Luckey.  All the ladies call me Luckey."

"Luckey..............."

"And I have lots of ladies.  Women love me."

"I'm sure they do........."

"Your little crack about my 'technique' was out of line.  Food is food, sex is sex, I know how to separate the two.  No one leaves me unsatisfied.  No one leaves me, period.  In fact," he drew himself up, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest like an indignant banty rooster, "I have so many lovers there is not one state in America--not one--" he waved his finger under Dru's nose, "that does not have at least 3 women who belong to me!  And that includes Canada and several countries in Europe!"

"I thought Wolves mate for life," she interjected when he paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat collecting on his flushed face.

"They are mine for life," he smirked.  "I take as many as I please."

"No, Wolves are monogamous, and they mate for life," insisted Dru.  "This much I do know.  "DOGS," and she took evil pleasure in the visible flinch that word gave, "drink out of gutters and hump any accommodating bitch in their path."

"And you are dead meat.  Literally.  You are sterile.  Your box is shriveled and useless, and your husband, lover, significant other--whatever you call him--shoots blanks."

"My mate, Thorne...." she began, outrage welling in her chest.  Thorne was an excellent lover and his fluids ambrosia to her tongue, and this pompous, testosterone laden fool was keeping her from him.

"I am the best!  They all say I am the first, best, and the last they will ever have!  And my kids are beautiful, every one, no matter how ugly the mother!  Because they are mine!  They have my blood!  And there are lots of them, too; because so many have had twins.  And some even had triplets!  Three!  Three at once!  And they all love me!  Me!  Me!  Only ME!  And the ugliest is twice--no, three times prettier than you could ever hope to be!  Real women, not walking corpses!"

His voice was rising in pitch and his numbers of lovers and progeny increasing as he continued what could only be described as a raving, repetitious soliloquy to his desirability, polygamy and fertility.  The visible danger seemed to have dissipated into defensive male posturing.  Dru felt like he was waving his crotch in her face.  It was becoming near rant, (Dru didn't like using the word hysterical with a man, but it was getting close.) and any casual observer might think an oversized child was having a temper tantrum.  He strutted and stomped, sneered and sputtered, gestures broad and violent; emphasizing, reaffirming.  And what was he reaffirming other than his own sense of identity; masculinity.  Only one word had turned the worm; he, now, on the defensive and much more unhappy about it.

Where was all this coming from?  And why was she the lucky recipient?  The answer presented itself not so much as an intuitive flash forcibly rending the veil to reveal the most hidden, but just appeared, as a single thought, unencumbered by fanfare or epiphany.  Unfortunately, as before, she was unable to keep her tongue still; the words, fuel to his fire, slipped out too easily.  Blame it on her Vampire nature; the predator's urge to taunt the cornered was too strong.  Another regret to add to her list of many for the evening.

"You were made," she murmured, more to herself.  "You were made."  And to his face:  "You weren't born, you were made.  A Vampire turned you down, but a Wolf did not!"  A slow malicious grin spread across her face.  "You......you were jilted by a Vampire.  Which proves my point that Wolves have no taste."  She surpressed a giggle.  "Werewolves are like the Army--they'll take anyone!"

The half empty tumbler he was holding exploded, a spray of glass shards and liquid erupting between them.  Before Dru could react he grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her toward him with little effort; her head snapped back with the momentum, and she felt a slight pop in her shoulder, sending a hot flare of pain down her arm.  He slowly twisted, forcing her down to her knees.  He had her now, and he was strong, her delicate flesh bruising in his crushing grasp; slender bones groaning in protest as he continued to bend her tortured limb into a more and more unnatural angle.  Dru watched helplessly as he forced her down, the distance between her and the broken glass littering the serene blue tiles closing fast; what he meant to do was all too clear.  The chance to fight had already passed, submission might be the only out.

Raising her head--which was not easy in the position she was in--she coveted his gaze, held it a moment, then lowered her eyes.  Gathering the remnants of her strength, Dru redirected her descent; following the downward motion but away from the glittering danger, to his feet.  She kissed one leather shod foot.  She felt his grip loosen.  She kissed the other one.  He roughly pulled her back upright.  He wanted fear, he wanted to hear her beg not submit in that perverted way Vampires were wont to do during their sick little games.  He snarled, skimming his lips back over bared teeth.  He considered biting off her perfectly manicured fingers, one by one.  Dru was scared, but would rather have to pick glass shards out of her face than admit it to one of his kind.  Instead of pulling away, she advanced.  Smiling sweetly, demurely, she lightly caressed the arm that held so tightly; the muscles tense, twitching under her fingertips.

"You know, you were right.  About everything.  And I do have some interesting jewelry, in a more intimate place.  Would you like to see?"  Keeping her head low and her eyes downcast, Dru slowly rose to her feet.  She claimed no intimate knowledge of Werewolves, but the mechanics of submission, among others, she had honed to a fine art.  "Over there," she motioned toward the far corner of the patio, from where she had been watching Thorne and the angel; her movements slow, controlled, non threatening.  "Where we can be alone."

A bit startled by her suggestion, but no less cautious, the Werewolf allowed himself to be coaxed into the shadows, his vise-like grip still firm, unyielding.  Back against the balustrade she leaned, her free hand sweeping aside the many layers of velvet, tulle, and lace.  Between her slightly spread thighs metal gleamed; catching, reflecting what little light filtered through the canopy of vines surrounding them.  Dru could not adequately read his face, to gauge the effect of her seduction, he was too far in the shadows.  Only his eyes, floating before her like twin moons on fire, glowing red then orange then yellow, told her she had his complete attention.

"See what you have done to me.  For me," she purred, indicating the sweet moisture between her legs.  Slipping her finger inside one of the larger rings penetrating her labia, she rolled her hand to the side, opening herself up, allowing him full view of her flushed flesh; pink/purple folds, wet and swollen, parting to reveal a surprising piece of female anatomy:  Her clitoris, oversized and elongated due to repeated piercings, glistening, quivering in its nest of metal.  (Dead meat, indeed!)  She heard snuffling sounds.  He was savoring her scent; which she knew to be as compelling as sweet amaryllis.  Or so Thorne proclaimed.  And the countless others fortunate enough to partake; the taste of sweet and sour female and male Vampire the last on their paling lips before the sun rose, and their lives set.  (Little did he know that it was play, not passion, that dampened her thighs; fantasy and subtle manipulation could simulate the effects of the most ardent lover when the partner proved to be less than desirable.  He was not the first idiot Dru had had to seduce for food, shelter, money, or the simple matter of her survival.)  She circled her finger around the slippery hollow of her vulva.  His hand had gone sweaty around her wrist.  "See, it took a real man--Wolf--to get my juices flowing."  Dru slid her wet finger across his cheek and into his mouth.

With a growl he threw her to the ground, his body on top of hers, knees forcing her legs apart.  He did not try to kiss her--which was somewhat of a relief as he was drooling.  Nor did he relax his caution, he kept himself well away from the danger of her mouth; the sharpened arrow-like barbs in her throat preventing him from holding her by the neck,  using his own weight to keep her still even though she put up no resistance.  One hand, heavy on her prone body, probed and prodded, fingers hard and biting through her clothing, while the other struggled with his own.

She lay back on the cool tiles, silently enduring his rough caresses.  He blindly fumbled about her body as expertly as he fumbled with his trousers; which were still on, the simple button and zipper as elusive to his clumsy fingers as the location of her clit.  He must have spent all of 20 seconds in the general area, not even realizing he was too far to the left, frantically rubbing a small metal bead, not a considerably larger piece of flesh.  She felt a growing ache of frustration as he slobbered and writhed, grinding his crotch into her hip, her knee, anywhere and everywhere except where it mattered.  He couldn't--or wouldn't--hear her breathless pleas to slow down, and was prevented from guiding his hand or mouth to her more sensitive areas as her arms were too thoroughly pinned beneath his demanding weight.  She could do little but squirm helplessly when he broke the clasp on her bra, tearing the fragile lace and squeezing her bare nipple, hard; manipulating and twisting the rapidly bruised nub like he was trying to bring in better reception.  Dru growled in her throat, her pale skin flushing in anger.  Mistaking her response and the rising color in her normally deathly pall for rising passion, he twisted all the more, adding a nip or two for good measure.

She had been right.  His technique did leave much to be desired.

Dru glared down at the top of his head.  If she was unable to eke even the barest minimum of pleasure from this inept fool, she would reap much in watching Thorne use him as brutally, as thoughtlessly, as he was using Dru.  If he truly was a Werewolf, his capacity for suffering would be legion and Dru wanted to enjoy every delicious moment.  The thought of Thorne's equally barbed cock splitting open this so called Wolf's backside sent a thrill down from her womb to vibrate her poor neglected clit.

A triumphant cry, he had finally mastered his pants.  Dru caught a quick glimpse of his erection  ('Not too bad', she thought.  'A bit thick with not much length, but, so long as it works.....) before he, again, threw himself down on top of her; not bothering to balance on his elbows or knees,  allowing her body to bear his full weight.  Her ribs ached and breathing was difficult, she was becoming dizzy and nauseous; his rank breath, an unlovely mix of garlic, cayenne, and bourbon blowing hot in her face.  She felt the head of his cock, slick with precum, sliding up her inner thigh.  (Perhaps he was going to get it right this time, he was heading in the right direction.)  A low moan vibrated in his throat; he bit her shoulder, his belly spasmed against hers followed by a hot liquid splash that could mean only one thing.  His body went limp, breath slowing to a harsh wheeze in his throat.

"Is that it?"

Suddenly she was freed.  She quickly sat up to confirm:  Yes, running off her left thigh, pooling between her still spread legs, a viscous puddle of semen.  Huddled as far away from her as possible without leaving the relative safety of the shadows, 'Luckey' straightened his clothing.  Averting his eyes he mumbled vague apologias; ones that sounded all too familiar.

"I don't know what happened, I usually go all night.  I don't know why.......this has...."

"....this has never happened to me before!" she finished, laughter bubbling in her throat.  "And am I supposed to say--'That's all right, darling, you were probably tired, or had too much to drink.  We can try again in 20 minutes.''"

"Bitch!" he spat, rising to his feet.  "Bitch!  Bitch!  Typical ball breaking BITCH!!!"  He towered over Dru, clenched fist pounding against his thigh, trying to look menacing.  "It's not my fault!  You're not even a real woman!  A real woman would have...."

"Would have what," she returned, unimpressed.  "If I had had a chance to do anything but lie there and try to breathe, it would have only ended that much sooner!  You bruise me up, tear my bra, slobber all over me, and for what?  What!  It took you all of 2 minutes?  You didn't even last long enough to consider this a rape!  Assault with a disappointing organ is more like it.  The only way you could have fathered any children is if you had a wet dream and she rolled over in it!"

She could no longer contain herself, Dru's contemptuous laughter washed over him like a cold, wet blanket.  He opened his mouth, then closed it, jaw muscles tense, fluttering; nothing he could say or do could explain away the last few humiliating moments, nor erase the Vampire's knowing smirk.  Looking as deflated as his genitals, he turned and left; charging across the patio and inside the house, pushing and shoving through the crowd, music, laughter, and Dru's mocking voice close behind.

"I am a Wolf!  All the women love me!  Yeah, right."

She noticed, with a touch of annoyance, that both her stockings were torn.  She used them to mop up the last bit of semen from her thigh, then tossed the soiled nylons and her ruined bra over the balustrade and into the bushes below.  It looked as if Thorne had tired of waiting and left, another couple was now utilizing the steps for their tryst.  It was probably for the best, Dru was no longer in the mood.  The only thing left was to go home.  She would have to call a cab.  She sighed.

She still wasn't sure if he actually was a Werewolf, but she certainly proved he was a dog.