There is a beautiful woman because there's always a beautiful woman and the man in the alley with her is wearing a long dark coat because men like him meeting women like her in alleys always wear them like a second skin. In the same way, there is an alley because there is always an alley, the ill-begotten child of every town and city that somehow remembers country lanes and crossroads, where highwaymen and worse would prowl and it creeps along, appearing with a wide maw so the streetlights can glitter off sharp teeth and broken fangs, all equally cruel but how many care when those lights beckon, entrancing and dazzling, luring the unwitting and unwary or even those so desperately broken that they no longer care deeper into the dark; the man and the woman know that no one makes it out of the alleys in this city if they go too far. The man exhales, thick as a cloud of smoke and twice as bitter and the woman shivers, wrapping her coat tighter about herself and when she swallows his eyes follow the long pale column of her throat. It's almost obscene, that bare expanse, it should be wrapped in fur, in his mind at least, or feathers, feathers that shine greens and blues, bright as the aftermath of an oil slick. His coat doesn't flatter like hers, no; his is ill-fitting, stretched tight over shoulders not so much broad as they are wide, lumpy and hulking. It lends him something of the ill-favoured she told him once, back before when she was younger, brighter around the eyes, lips red from worrying them, her skirts never so short, her heels less towering. He's hunchbacked in the coat, it makes him look untrustworthy – the litmus test when someone drops by the office, something he'd like to say if it were more than just him but the secretaries never stay and the owner of the building never meets his eye when he extends a shaking sweaty hand for the rent each month. He coughs, blasting her with hot stale breath that makes her wrinkle her delicate little nose, the sound a landslide, the grinding of ancient gears.
"You should see someone about that," she suggests, something not wholly kind in her voice but it's still soft, rich and rolling like green hills and fields that go on forever. She shouldn't be here but then none of them should. "I know someone who can recommend a good vet," she continues, watching him with liquid black eyes, awaiting any hint of a flinch.
He bristles, coughing like he's bringing up old bones and rusty metal fragments, half-burned and scorched with acid, spitting neatly by her shoe so dirty water splashes up over shiny leather. He thinks it might hiss but there's a car rumbling closer, a fan belt screaming in protest cutting through the night not like a night but a sword. "You're the one who came to me for help girl."
"And you're in no position to turn me down old man." She bristles and the sweetness is gone, the sweet bow of her lips pursing into a scowl, eyes narrowed to slits.
He'd like to gloat seeing as this is the least careful he's ever been, pushing her there with only a few words to remind her that the world won't always bend the knee to her but he doesn't have the pride for that, barely even remembers what that would feel like. "When should I expect you?"
"I'll send a courier," she murmurs with a smile, "someone I can trust, you'll know when you see." She begins to turn, then stops, remembering herself. "Need I remind you that you've agreed to my terms and I laid them out exactly, precisely. You made the offer, if you have doubts, I won't be the one in debt and no amount of words will balance the scales."
He heaves a great sigh and his back spasms, his ribs groaning beneath the weight before he clears his throat. "I won't insult you by pretending there isn't some catch," and all the while he mutters, he doesn't miss her sly little smile either, nor how bright those beady black eyes suddenly are. "I accepted the terms, I do not renege on a bargain, I keep my promises, like you."
"Honest men are so hard to come by, rarer than the gold they're worth their weight in - do you still keep an eye on the market?"
He does. She knows it when he looks away, clicking her way back to him, arms folded. "The payment for this part, is it gold?" Her hands dip into pockets and there it is, all bearing a stern profile with a crown upon the brow and something in him trembles, wants to roar but he looks away, forcing trembling hands into fists.
"A kiss. I'd settle for a kiss."
The car comes to a grumbling halt, the engine backfiring with a snort, both headlights out. She looks over her shoulder, nods at the driver and takes a quiet shuddering breath, wetting her lips. He takes a chance to look her over, the pale skin like marble, that tumble of black curls that must be smooth as silk to the touch, the red of the coat and the skirt peeking out, the lips and the shoes, all the same shade of fresh blood.
"Fine," is what she says after a moment of deliberation where he wants to take the words back, knowing that they're dancing around boundaries lined with explosives neither of them planted. It's a huff but that hard line of a mouth softens under his when he bends to meet her and she's cold and sweet until her lips bleed under his advance. Her fingers scrabble at his shoulders, stirring the kind of ache that reminds him of being young and it would only be someone like her to remind him of that rather than how old he is by now. "I never said you could have my blood too," she spits when they part, flushed and furious yet her eyes are only on his mouth as he licks his lips. "Haven't you supped enough on my kind?" She has her hands on his lapels and it won't be until later he'll see the golden pin, the way it's shaped like a grand knight's helm.
"I've never even come close," he replies, surprised at his own candour, perhaps more than her. "You never said I couldn't have your blood either."
The tentative smile falls and the life in him freezes, still and cold, her face so carefully empty that he knows she'd spit venom and hot fire if she could. "You sound like…"
"Like him?" He suggests, reproachful, more than faintly ashamed.
She smiles then, shaking her head before she rises on her toes to kiss his cheek and the silver in her eyes are tears she's held there for too long. "You sound like me," she tells him as she turns and walks away beneath the sickly orange guttering light that dims with each echoing click of her heels as she walks out of the mouth of the alley until only the moon shines alone, caught between two high rises, reminding him of spires of a bygone era and some savage pain courses through him, makes his hands curl tight enough to cut open his palms and the blunt nails, the square fingertips, the bunching of muscle over his shoulders are wrong, it isn't meant to be like this.
The car drives forward, turns in a space too tight for it with no protest. He can't see the driver's face.
It's probably for the best.
