Mist rose from the ground in tattered ribbons.  The wind plucked and tugged at your cloak, making you shiver, as you purposefully strode through the old graveyard.  You hadn’t eaten in days, and your body was having a difficult time regulating your temperature. Despite the cloak, despite the relatively warm autumnal weather, you were chilled to the bone, and you pulled the garment closer around yourself in a vain attempt to preserve what little body heat you had left. 

You were on your way downtown to find something to eat, hoping that tonight would find you something more suitable than yet another night of catching rats, as you didn’t know how much longer you could hold out before it was too late. 

The moon shone pale and perfect; an elegant pearl in the sky gracing the scene with her soft light, making the tilted, and tumbled grey headstones look almost ethereal.  If you could just make it through the graveyard, the other side would find you at the outskirts of the city, and surely, there would be food found tonight. You refused to think of the alternative.  Something would turn up, you were confident. Even if you had to make it happen.

A spooked passerby started as you emerged from the open wrought-iron gate, eyes momentarily widened in fear.  You smiled, easing his agitation with your warm expression, and continued on your way.

Walking the wending cobblestone streets, you looked for someone who might be able to feed you.  Scrabbling claws of hunger scraped at your belly, and your throat burned. A wave of dizziness overtook you and, stretching out a hand, you leaned against the rough, fog-slicked brick of a nearby building.  After allowing a moment to let the feeling crest and ebb, you shook your head to clear it, setting your jaw and forcing yourself to keep walking. You couldn’t afford to lose consciousness. It was all over, if you did. 

Suddenly, providence shone upon you.  A tall, stolidly-built man sauntered in your direction. 

“Bonne nuit, chere,” he said, his voice warm as silk.  “You lost, p’tit?”

Shaking your head, you looked down at the ground.  “Non, monsieur. I’m just looking for something to eat.”

“Ah, you hungry, cherie?  I can help you with that, me.”  He wrapped his hand around your arm, his palm burning your through your cloak and sleeve, as he guided you away from the sidewalk.  “You jus’ come on down here with ol’ Henri Baptiste, he show you where you can find something nice and hot to fill your belly, eh?”

A tentative feeling of relief washed over you as you allowed him to lead you away.  Henri would take care of you. Henri would feed you. You followed him down street after street, as he led you further into the heart of the old city. 

Suddenly, he wheeled you into an adjacent alley, slamming your back against the cold brick of an abandoned building.  “Before this Henri give you somethin’ to eat, you gon’ give me something in return, oui?”

You kept your head down, staring at his feet in their fine leather shoes.  Shoes at odds with his build, and accent. Idly, you wondered, and without thinking, you said it out loud.  “Where did you get those shoes? They’re so fine.”

“Never you mind how Henri find what he wants, you just concentrate on working for your dinner.”  He lifted his hands to unclasp your cloak, letting it fall to the ground. “Oh...chere…” he groaned, greedy eyes roving over the fine skin above the bodice of your maroon silk gown.  He lifted the back of his hand to your chest, gently tracing your collarbones with his fingertips, as his eyes burned holes through the layers of gown, chemise, and corset.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, pleading.  “Please, monsieur. Don’t.”

His hands moved down to clasp your shoulders in a punishing grip. “Well, what do we have here?  Cette p’tite mudlark is a bona fide mam’selle! What’s wrong, chere? Run away from your parents, ‘cause you don’t wanna marry some spent old man?  Lucky for you Henri come along. I can take care of you in ways you ain’t never imagined, eh?”

“Monsieur,” you started again, as he lifted his hands to start removing the pins from the chignon on top of your head, curls falling around your shoulders as more and more pins clattered to the ground.  “I’m asking you to stop.”

He chuckled to himself, his voice as rough as his hands.  “When Henri’s done with you, you won’t ever want him to stop.  You gon’ be beggin’ sweet as sugarcane, ma p’tit.” His hands reached toward the hem of your gown, and he clasped the silk in his hands,  slowly gathering it upward.

Your voice was desperate, now.  “Monsieur Baptiste, as a gentleman--”

“Gentleman?  Now whatever gave you that idea, amoureuse?”  Henri leaned forward to bring his mouth to your neck.  “Just one taste, eh? One taste, and you’ll sing…”

You shuddered, and then your body relaxed.  A soft sigh breezed past your lips as you brought your hands to his shoulders. 

“That’s it, chere!  I knew you wanted what this Henri’s got, ici!”

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, as you closed your eyes, and nuzzled just under his jaw.  He groaned as you opened your mouth.

You were so hungry. 

“Well, well well, what have we here?” a new voice said, from just beside you.  Your stomach clenched in dread.

Henri swiftly lifted his head toward the intruder, aggression colouring his coarse features. 

A handsome gentleman leaned against the wall beside you both, arms crossed, facing you with an amused expression.  His jet black hair, parted on the side, flopped over his forehead, though it was close-cropped above his ears. His dark, hooded eyes looked almost black in the light from the gas lamps, and his full, pouting mouth was drawn up on one side, in a cutting smirk.

He was wearing evening dress, his snowy shirtfront, and waistcoat gleaming in contrast to the black of his cutaway jacket, and slim-fitting trousers.

Henri’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step back.  “She mean somethin’ to you, m’sieur?”

“Not at all!” the man said, reaching up to run a loosening finger under his high, starched collar.  “But I think you’ll find, that you’re about to be very, very grateful to me.”

Henri turned to you, and stumbled back, as all the blood drained from his face. 

You knew what he saw.  Sharp, too-white teeth gleaming in the gaslight, pupils narrowed to slits, but glowing, as if lit with an inner fire.  A bass growl rumbled in your chest, as you swiftly reached toward him, but his scream was faster than your clawed hands, and as it rang through the alley, you flinched at the volume. 

Eyes narrowed, you let him escape, watched him fall over his own feet as he desperately tried to run away, sobbing, and snotting like a sniveling child, a trail of liquid following him.  Closing your eyes in frustration, you muttered, “Not again!”

***

You walked away swiftly, while swirling your cape back over your shoulders, and reclasping it at your throat. 

The handsome man pushed off of the wall, his long legs making it easy to catch up, and fall into step with you.  “Oh, dear. Did I ruin another meal?”

“Monsieur Kim. Leave me,” you said listlessly.

“I can’t do that,” he said comfortably.  “Thanks to you.”

Stopping abruptly, you turned to face him.  “I told you that I was sorry! You have no idea how much!”

He loomed above you, a smile on his mouth, but not in his eyes.  “You’re sorry? Sorry…” he mused. “I’m sorry, too. Sorry that your sorry is not adequate.  Sorry that I’m apparently stuck with you until the world ends. Sorry over the loss of all the things that I’ll never be able to do!”  His voice was bitter.

“Imbecile!” you exploded.  “You’re so short-sighted, that you can’t even see what you’re doing!”  Your voice lowered, and you hissed, “Do you think that you can starve me to death?  I assure you, that is not the case; I wish it were! Ma foi! How I wish that were so!  This beast--”

A boyish scream rent the cool night air.  Your head snapped toward the sound and, abandoning him, you ran toward where you had heard it.  As you approached, you heard the sound of scuffling and, upon turning the corner, you saw a sight that froze the already chilled blood in your veins. 

Three coarsely-dressed men stood over the prone figure of a Creole youth, blood staining the white silk of his waistcoat.  Upon hearing the patter of your steps, the men turned, but relaxed when they spotted you. One of them started for you, and the boy reached out to grab him by the ankle, saying simply, “Non!” 

Your vision was sharp, especially in the dark, and you saw that his face was beaten and bloody, lips swollen and cracked, blood matting his glossy black curls, and seeping into his large grey eyes.  Livid bruises were already forming on his fine brown skin, but still, despite being almost broken, he held tight to the man’s ankle, trying with his last strength to keep the man from reaching you. “Mademoiselle!  Run!” he called. He couldn’t have been older than 15.

Shaking off the boy’s hand, the man turned, and delivered a rough kick to the boy’s temple.  The boy fell back against the cobblestones, dazed.

Jongin swore behind you.

“Let him go!” you demanded, voice crackling with authority. 

The men slowly started to you, spreading out in an effort to cut of any routes of escape.  The tallest, his hair a true dirty blond said, “Well, lookee what we got here, boys! One of them fine Cre-ole ladies we heard tell so much about.  Ain’t she purty?”

“Purtiest thing I’ve seen all day, Bill,” a slightly shorter redhead said.  

“Look at how she’s dressed,” the shortest man said, his hair so fair as to practically be white.  “Betcha we could get a lot of money for that there dress. Cape looks mighty fine, too.”

A cough caught everyone’s attention.  The boy had turned over, and was trying to crawl toward you.  “Run!” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Run!”

A pang shook your heart, as you witnessed the ruin of his face, contorted in fear for you. 

“Restez-vous, cher,” you called to him. 

Tears pooled in his eyes as he continued to drag his body toward you. 

“You’re not from here, are you?” you inquired of the men.

“Naw, we ain’t no Ca-juns, if that’s what you mean,” the redhead said, eyeing the few pearl pins still securing the top of your chignon.  “Hey, Dickie, how much you think those hair-pins will go for?”

“Don’ know,” the tall blonde said.  “But those, ‘long with what we get off the boy will go far toward gettin’ us out West.”

“Messieurs, by your own admission, you are not from this city, so perhaps, the remission of your manners can be forgiven, but please note...here Creole do not cower!  You are under the impression that you have cornered two people with whom you can do what you like, but I assure you that is not the case.”

Drawing yourself up to