Author's Note: My chapters will be long, villains cruel, and their women irresistible. This story is rated M for a reason as violence and all other vices will be mentioned. So if it's not your cup of tea, kindly venture into another cafe. But if it is... Enjoy.

Sweet Libation

There was a silly superstition that carried on throughout the centuries about his kind, something along the lines of ghosts can't roam the earth; that when they die if it's violent, they are destined to remain where they fell. This is true for all but a special breed of men. You see, when one is truly volatile, possessing a devil on one shoulder and a thirst for blood on the other, there are no rules that can govern him, and most certainly no four walls that can hold him back.

Twirling his cane in one hand, James Patrick March buried the other deep into his trouser pocket, whistling as he swaggered along the sidewalk. A few pedestrians stopped and stared. But how could they not? There was something in the way he moved, that nonchalant air mingled with his highborn affinity that willed them all to take notice.

As with his extended life, if you could call it that, there were some things that remained and others that changed. Beginning with the latter, the changed consisted of the people around him, the fashion, the vernacular, and the lack of propriety. What remained was his civility, the vernacular of his era, the fashion of his time, and above all his ways. Furthermore, the innate charisma that madmen like himself were famed for still lingered, increasing with every year that passed. It made for quite an effect; women simply couldn't look away.

As he paused under a street lamp a woman in a simple red dressed eyed him appreciatively. Her jade green eyes took in his black wingtips that were polished to a shine, rose high along his black trousers and jacket, and went further still. A grin came to her lips at the sight of his black silk ascot tied around his neck and folded neatly into his shirt. Biting her lower lip, she pressed the traffic button, willing the lights to change so she could introduce herself.

He could feel her eyes on him; snaking across his person felt, tasted, her hankering. Whistling to himself once more he reached into his pocket. Making note of the time, he snapped his gold pocket watch shut and as he did so, made sure his eyes clashed with hers.

The unknown woman stood up straighter, a shiver racing down her spine as she stared into his fathomless gaze. As the light flickered from green to yellow and then red, he took a step off the busy sidewalk and walked out into the street.

Holding her gaze, he crossed the intersection, feeling her attraction grow with every step he took. That's how he got them all. In that second glance, he showed them that raw carnal desire that they sought after.

"Hello," she said when he stepped onto the sidewalk. "I like your suit. It's very nice."

The corners of his lips tilted up in a smile. "Thank you," he purred in his deep baritone, dark eyes gleaming in the light. "You look ravishing yourself."

A blush formed on her cheeks and her green eyes shined like jewels. "Maybe we could..."

"Sorry, but I have a previous engagement. Perhaps another time." Turning his head, he continued on down the street dismissing her. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, she was beautiful, but the kill... The kill would have been easy. And he wasn't in the mood for easy. No, he wanted a challenge.

It was the pursuit of something unique: a kill worthwhile, which had him venturing out so late in his finery. Through the years he had done it all: hunted, maimed, bedded, controlled, asphyxiated, tortured, and poisoned. But now he wanted to try something new. And no, it was not to corrupt a soul, he had Devil's Night to prove how many times he had succeeded in that. No, this would be a challenge for himself and a true test of patience.

How long could he go without killing a prized specimen? It was on a slow evening at the Hotel Cortez that he muddled over this very question. Sitting by the window with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, he stared out at the falling rain, trying to decide which killing was the best. After a spell, it became apparent that the chase was exciting, the murder itself thrilling, but the true exhilarating pleasure came when he waited. And so few times he had the patience to wait.

Now mind you, all the killings were pleasant, but on those few occasions when he wined them, dined them, courted his victims expertly, he saw that beautiful hope rise in their eyes and could taste it on their skin. And when the moment came, when he twisted the blade, pulled the trigger, or sealed that last brick he saw it: that horrified look of betrayal and despair in their gaze when they knew that all was lost. That there could be no reasoning.

How it brought him to ecstasy! The screams that came from these few women, their cries of love and devotion, mingled with pleas for mercy, that delectable, "Please, James don't!" "I love you, James. Please don't do this." "Stop! Please! I beg you!" Those words were the sweetness; that last little bit of flavor that came from the gluttonous banquet of death. And he wanted to feast on that sweetness one more time.

Waltzing in and out of crowds, he scanned the people around him. Jaw clenched in anticipation, he waited for the unknown victim to reveal herself. What will it be tonight James? He asked himself. A believer, non-believer, someone loose and immoral or a good heart to slay? What trait would he fancy for this first encounter? Thinking about it, he came to the conclusion that if he not only wanted that sweet taste but was going to pace himself, then his latest victim would need to do the impossible: gain his attention and keep it. But where would he find such a woman?

A couple rushed past him suddenly, issuing an apology when they almost bumped into him. "Come on, we're going to be late." The man said to his companion.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" She replied, running in her heels. "Do you think we'll miss her?"

"At this pace, I wouldn't be surprised if we already did." When the girl stopped dead in her tracks the man apologized. "I'm just teasing," he drawled, taking her hand. "They save the best for last and we'll arrive just in time. Now let's go. I hear the club will be playing a few of the classics like Glenn Miller."

While James was a man of specific taste he did have a penchant for music. Some, not all, and jazz was right up there with his beloved big-band swing. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he mused aloud. Picking up his pace, he followed the couple, the clicking of his heels drowned out by the rushing LA crowd.

In no time at all the music reached him. It was all heart and bones—drums and trombones—but when the spirit reached him, the piano, he smiled. Caravan. A classic, even if it was after his time.

Rounding the corner, he saw the building. It was large and modern yet somehow old. Tilting his head back, he eyed the sign: The Black Orchid. Interesting.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Lowering his gaze, he spied a young black woman exiting the club. She was dressed down in jeans and a blouse, braided hair pulled back from her oval face.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked, brow furrowed.

Leaning against the brick wall, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. "Shit," she drawled with a grin. "Not only is the suit a blast from the past, but you've got the accent down too." Lighting her cigarette she took a drag, and blowing out smoke said, "You sure this club is for you? You look a little out of your element."

"Well, now that depends," he spoke, still in his famed 20's brogue and making her smile. "Is there a kick," he inquired, hitting the K hard and making her laugh, "a thrill to be had?" Taking another long drag of her cigarette she nodded her head.

"Then I am in my element."

The moment he stepped into the gloomy jazz club he felt the malevolent hearts of the patrons around him. Of course, there were good-natured people mixed in, but the soul of the club was a dark as the Cortez herself. And it made him feel right at home.

Eyeing the red carpet and lavish furnishings he spied a piece of prime real-estate, a table dead center of the stage and he wanted it. Gliding across the floor James became the murmur of many a table. True to his upbringing, he gave how do you do's for the women and curt nods to the men, but no more than that.

"Yeah, so when this is over baby lets go back to my place and..."

"Excuse me," James interrupted, breaking the conversation between a vivacious redhead and a young man with blue eyes and fair hair. "It appears that you and I are in a bit of a predicament. You see, you are in the best seat in the house and quite frankly I want it."

The young man arched a brow, slinking back further into his seat. "Yeah, sure," he replied sarcastically. "You can have it as soon as I'm finished!" Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the woman. "Now, like I was saying..."

"I'm afraid you don't understand how this works."

"Look asshole, I don't..." he broke off when James, placing his hand on his shoulder, squeezed painfully.

Face still the perfect mask of calm James leaned forward, coming in close to the man. To the outside world, it looked like a polite conversation, it was anything but. "Mind your manners, child," he began, dark eyes gleaming viciously. "I am far too old to be disrespected or trifled with." As the man opened his mouth to argue he paused, something flashed in James dark gaze that silenced him, nearly stopping his heart.

Knowing the man was scared into obedience James continued. "Now I want this seat," he told him, "and know now that I will have it. If you choose so you may save face by simply rising, offering the lady your arm, and leaving. If you dare to disobey..." His cane came up and with a flick of his wrist, a hint of the blade showed making the man inhale sharply. "...I will gut you where you sit and still I will take this seat. Now boy," he said, sliding the blade back into place and rising to his full height, "what choice will you make?"

Swallowing hard the man wanted to defy him, but it was that look in his eye along with that dark promise that made him choose correctly. Pushing back from the table, he stood up. "It was nice meeting you," he lied smoothly in an attempt to save face. Smoothing down his maroon shirt, he turned to the woman beside him. "Let's go." Grabbing her purse, she rose from her seat and took his arm.

"Such a shame you can't stay for the show," James called in mock disappointment as they made their exit. "Nevertheless, have a most pleasant evening!"

Unbuttoning his jacket James opened it to reveal a starched white shirt and gold and red trellis suspenders. As soon as he took his seat a waitress in a simple black dress appeared. "Hello handsome," she sang, picking up the two discarded drinks and putting them on her tray. "Might I just say you are working that suit?"

"Right," he replied, not really sure how it was a compliment. "Thank you."

Chuckling at his accent, she gave a small shake of her head and placing her hand on her hip said, "Well, I'm Kate and seeing as I've never laid eyes on you before, why don't give me your order?"

"Kate, my dear," he began, reaching into his coat pocket and removing a cigar, "if I said that I wanted to be driven Southside, would you know my meaning?" When she gave a slight shake of her head he went on. "A Southside is a prohibition gem and it consists of four things: gin, lime, mint, and a simple syrup. But do be so kind as to hold that syrup," he instructed cutting his cigar, "and give me an extra shot of gin." Bringing the cigar to his lips, he concluded, "I need a strong drink to prepare my palate for an upcoming treat and going Southside is just the thing to do it."

Standing there with the music playing in the background, she watched as white smoke billowed out around him and was stunned speechless. Just who on earth was he?

"Kate," he said firmly, "my drink."

"Oh, y-yes," she fumbled, snapping back to attention. "Right on it."

As she rushed off to take his order to the bar an older gentleman at the table beside his gave a raspy laugh. The man was portly, with salt and pepper hair, and sky blue eyes. "I haven't seen someone with that much cool since I was a young man," he told him. James couldn't help but smile.

"Well, that must have been a recent time," James told him with a grin. "After all, you don't look a day past your prime!"

"Oh no, my prime has come and gone," he said in such a way that it was James who laughed heartily next. "But it's nice to see another man living in his. I'm Donovan," he said, extending his hand.

"James," he returned, giving the man a firm handshake. The two men made idle chit-chat about the club and its patrons as well as the music before they were interrupted.

"Here you go," Kate said, placing his drink on the table.

It was a bit of a nuisance how some things went out of fashion such as proper service. One must always serve on the left and take from the right. Knowing it would be a wasted lesson, James bit back his agitated response and took a sip of his drink.

The liquor went down smooth. "Perfection," he sang. Reaching into his coat, the cigar still in hand, he removed his billfold. "This is for you," he told her, producing a crisp hundred dollar bill, "and another to keep them coming. Keep an eye on me and I'll give you a signal when I desire another." Pocketing the money she gave him a curt nod and set off toward the back, vowing mentally to keep all eyes on him for the duration of his stay.

Seeing Donovan in deep conversation with the woman next to him, James reclined back in his seat, rested his right ankle on his left knee, and focused his eyes on the stage. Drowning the first drink in record time, he lifted his cane into the air, giving it a little shake. It wasn't a wasted action. In seconds, the waitress appeared and taking his glass, set a new drink on the table. This one somehow better than the last.

It never failed. Music was always a transportation back in time. Staring off into the distance he swore he could see it, all of it, the railway cars, boys in caps trying to hustle and pass off old newspapers for a nickel, the parties, and the endless shouts about prohibition. So vivid were the memories of his past that when he inhaled he scented dirt and stale perfume. It didn't matter how many years passed, that first kill was always at the forefront of his mind.

The song ended and applause sounded bringing an end to his stupor. "Thank you! Thank you!" the male host exclaimed, dressed in all black. "As most of you may know we pay homage to the greats around here, but every so often we find a tune that needs to be jazzed up and played with a twist. It is with this formula in mind that I introduce a club favorite and one of our own, Miss Rosaline!"

A dark brow went up at the applause the name produced. Turning his head, he motioned to Donovan. "Is all this fanfare," he said, motioning around to the still clapping patrons, "worthy of the songstress?"

"Yes," Donovan answered. "Girls got pipes for days."

Without warning the lights went out and a hush settled over the crowd. All that could be seen where the tiny red ends of cigarettes and James cigar. The darkness stretched, appropriately so, making everyone who knew what was coming wait on baited breath.

A single spotlight came on and if breathing were necessary James would have been robbed of oxygen. Lowering his cigar, James dark eyes fell to Rosaline. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen. She was Spanish, with sun-kissed skin and a heart shaped face, possessing midnight eyes, and wavy shoulder length hair. Standing before the crowd, she looked about her, her pouty red lips curving into a smile. It was the kind of rare smile that when given made others smile in return. James couldn't help the cheeky grin that appeared on his lips, no more than the next man or woman could.

Planting his cigar firmly in between his teeth, his heated gaze wandered over the beauty. Her gown was strapless and lace, form-fitting to reveal her ample breasts, trim waist, and the flair of her hips; at about mid-thigh the material became translucent, showcasing her long shapely legs. A dazzling light filtered into his eyes when he saw the gold design along the hem of her dress. Art Deco, just like his hotel. Licking his lips, he brought his gaze back up her body deeply interested but not pulled. Not yet.

"To be frank," Rosaline spoke, at last, her voice naturally husky, "when I was told of the era we were to cover I knew it wasn't for me. It wasn't because the songs have been heard one too many times, but due to the fact that I was feeling a little... shot down," she said, earning herself one more smile from James. "Rather than sing an old favorite I decided to tell you why I was taking such a heavy blow that morning. Oh, and don't worry," she quickly added, "the dress may fit like a glove, but there's plenty enough room for me to sway."

Cheeky. James mused to himself. "I like that," he spoke, nodding his head for emphasis.

Rosaline began to hum. It was simple, just: hmm, hmmm, hmmm. Hmm, hmmm, hmmm. As her humming grew louder her hips began to sway. Hmm, hmmm, hmmm. On the third rotation of her hips the drumming started, the guitarist struck his chord, and her song began.

I was five, and he was six
We rode on horses made of sticks
He wore black, and I wore white
He would always win the fight

Her voice was pure intoxication; like the sound of a throaty, guttural, scream. Exhaling the smoke from his cigar, James sat up straighter, eyes rooted to her frame.

Seasons came and changed the time
When I grew up I called him mine
He would always laugh and say:
Remember when we used to play

The feeling was swift and encompassing, coming upon him without the slightest bit of warning. It was that light headed feeling which came when he took life; it blanketed his mind in a thick fog, making his chest buff out as he inhaled, only to exhale slowly, spine tingling with pleasure. How had she done it? How had her voice given him that good, full feeling?

Music played, and people sang
Just for me, the church bells rang
Now he's gone, I don't know why
Until this day sometimes I cry

He didn't even say Goodbye
He didn't take the time to lie...

The music came to a dramatic halt. "Bang," she spoke, her word echoed on by two other singers who appeared from opposite ends of the stage. Bang. Bang. Bang. BANG! The three women stepped off the stage and onto the floor. "He shot me down!" Bang bang. "I hit the ground!" Bang bang. "That awful sound." Bang bang. "My baby shot me down!" She sang, the beat of the song speeding up and taking off, giving her the cue to dance.

She danced in the same way in which he committed murder; wild and with full abandon. As the band played on adding to the splendid morbidity of her song, she shook her shoulders and swayed her hips, causing her dress to rise up and twirl about. Doing a little shimmy, she flipped her hair back and their eyes clashed.

For a moment, she went deaf and became blind to everything except for him. It was something in his gaze lurking just below the darkness that called to her, marked her. Pulling her eyes away from him, Rosaline regained control.

The three women came together hips swaying slowly as the original beat of the song returned. Finishing her song she sang:

Bang bang. He shot me down
Bang bang. I hit the ground
Bang bang. That awful sound
Bang bang. My baby shot me down

Thunderous applause sounded as the song came to an end. Rising to his feet James clapped madly. "Bravo!" He shouted with the others. "Bravo!" He cheered once more. "Bra-fucking-vo," he breathed.

"Now you tell me, son, was she worth the applause?" Donovan asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Most definitely," James answered without hesitation. "It was good. Damn good!"

Laughing heartily Donovan shook his head. He knew that look; that look had him marrying young and settling down. "Now if you'll excuse me," James said, watching as Rosaline made her way to the back with the other two singers. "There is an introduction that begs to be made."

"What a good a show," Elizabeth squealed in Rosaline's ear. "I didn't know you could move like that Rosa! Are you sure you don't have a man in your life?" She asked with a wiggle of her brows. Rosaline rolled her eyes heavenward, the action causing Elizabeth to giggle.

"Hey, hurry up you two," Katherine instructed coming up from behind. "We have another song and we need to change. Come on, let's go!" Katherine grabbed Elizabeth's hand and pulled her along with the knowing that the woman could talk for days if left to her own device. Already the next group was onstage playing a slow version of I'm in the Mood for Love and the two backup singers quickly darted through the side curtain.

No sooner had Rosaline lifted the curtain when a voice rang out from behind.

"Pardon me, but dare I say that your performance tonight was phenomenal and that you yourself were riveting!"

The curtain fell from her grasp and flowed back into place. Turning around Rosaline stared into eyes far darker than her own. "Thank you," she returned, finally finding her voice. "Thank you very much." Midnight eyes roamed over the handsome, enigmatic stranger. He was tall and in possession of a slim, though, muscular build. Briefly, her eyes wandered over his dark brown hair that was slicked back and his trim mustache that was groomed to perfection before settling once more on his eyes. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

Smiling, he nodded his head. "Oh, where are my manners," he said suddenly extending his hand. "I am James March and you are?"

"Rosaline Cortez."

Out of all the surnames in the world, she possessed his favorite, second only to his own. Clasping her hand in his own, he leaned forward with an expert bow and kissed the back of her hand.

The kiss lingered, his lips placing an intangible seal on her that sent a shiver down both their spines. "It is a pleasure to meet you Miss Rosaline Cortez." Releasing her hand and straightening to his full height, he said, "Would it be presumptuous of me to ask if you would like to join me for a drink?"

This wasn't the first man to offer her a drink after a show, however, he was the first to do so properly. Even though it was good and proper she knew better. "I would love to, but I can't. I have another song coming up. Perhaps another time," she told him in an attempt to soften the blow.

"Perhaps another time," he repeated, gripping his cane tightly. "By saying that you are giving me the go ahead to call on you in the near future," he informed her. "So may I?" he inquired, voice deepening. "May I call on you?" It felt like she was playing with fire, that by saying yes, she would be making a deal with the devil. Every fiber of her being was telling her to say no, to run away, and he sensed it.

It was his primal instinct. Just as he knew who in the club was a murderer and philanderer, he knew who was hurt and suffering, pure and... guarded. Staring into her eyes, he saw her hesitation and knew her mind was quickly formulating a rejection.

"Rosa," Katherine called, poking her head through the curtain, "what are you doing? We go on in five, you have to change!"

Taking full advantage of the interruption James spoke up. "Don't allow me to keep you." Reaching out, he took her hand and once more placed a kiss on the back of it. "Until we meet again, Miss Cortez," he spoke huskily, eyes gleaming with dark promise. Releasing her hand, he inclined his head to Katherine and turning on his heel strolled away.

"Who on earth was that?" Katherine asked, nearly blown away by his impeccable manners.

Eyes glued to James' broad back, Rosaline watched as he made his way toward the exit with long, purposeful strides. Licking her lips, she clasped her hands together, eyes flying down to the back of her hand. She was surprised to see that it bore no mark, heaven knew his touch burned.

"March," Rosaline answered, at last, raising her gaze just in time to see him turn back to look at her. "His name is James March."

This is not the end but the beginning. I have very big plans for this story.