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The Flesh and the Bone

By Anthony Beal

Nights without flesh wounds were not worth living.

The corseted twins went down and didn't come up again. Emmet ejaculated inside the one calling herself "Echo" and stood over her, happily bleeding where her fingernails had opened his back and shoulders, jubilant for having witnessed their myth's confirmation if only for the one time. Two pairs of candied apple lips lay parted, no further falsehoods and pleas to pass them in this life. Two heads draped in mops of glossy black hair lolled. Two faces carved from pearl flushed chin to hairline with an opal's fire. Emmet withdrew his spent cock from Echo's lubricated cunt. Goddamn if their ad hadn't delivered what it had promised.

When things had started to heat up, he'd carried her from the suite's queen-sized bed to place her atop a bureau that had one short leg that had caused the thing's edges to grind against the wall between Emmet's room and the next with his every thrust. The transition had neither disturbed her legs, which had never disengaged from around his waist, nor Emmet's erection, which had never left her, had never even disturbed its rhythm as he had stabbed deep. Echo was too much the pro to have her stride broken by such a trifle. A damn shame what he'd had to do to her and her sister. But if any two people should understand that business was business, then he was currently with them, sharing a room down at a faded riverside roach motel whose name mattered less to its patrons than its by-the-hour-rental rates.

Pay for one and rent the pair. Every sensation these two will share, had read the handwritten advertisement he'd read upon the interior wall of a men's room stall at his favorite dive. The sisters were well known. Word among the denizens of the gutters and brothels that had reared Emmet had it that these two were the real deal.

He should have fucked them both first. The thought took him the instant the last vestige of light fled Echo's eye. It was the same instant that her sister, who called herself "Cheval," sitting blindfolded across the suite with her wrists tethered behind her, had ceased thrashing against a sympathetic death by strangulation. Emmet held the braided leather belt cinched around Echo's neck for an additional four minutes, knowing brain death would commence as early as that.

Finding the twins hadn't been difficult. Emmet had merely followed the trailing pools of saliva left in the wake of every slack-jawed wharf rat with two nickels to rub together. The ladies were somewhat less selective than the girls on Emmet's leash, and unlike the addicts and runaways comprising the lion's share of his stable, the twins were twice the enticement for numbering among the growing paranormal community emigrating to the darkest corners of the city he called home.

Between the cathouse three blocks over where succubi spread legs and ass twenty-four seven, and the red light district where immortal shapeshifters fulfilled the most depraved fantasies while masquerading as everyone from Angelina Jolie to Zoë Kravitz, it was all a prostitute of human flesh and human bone, or the man representing her, could do to afford a pack of smokes every other week. The last thing Emmet or any of his young charges needed was more competition in the form of sexy supernatural siblings that shared minds as well as erogenous zones. At the rate the damned paranormals were streaming in to snatch away from human females all the best prospects, Emmet feared circumstance could one day soon force him to the direct necessity of gainful, lawful employment.

Today, however, was not that day. And, even though it was getting hard out there for a man of his vision, Emmet knew that his chosen enterprise beat hell out of a nine-to-five.

Emmet released the belt looped around Echo's neck. He made no move to catch her body as it sagged and then slid off the bureau, introducing her head to the carpeted floor with a woeful thud. He tucked his penis back into his jeans and took back from the bosom of Echo's corset the advance payment he'd rendered for what time he'd spent with the twins. Emmet opened his mouth to tell the dead women something he'd wanted them to know, but his cell phone vibrated in his hip pocket, intervening on his thought.

"r u dun yet?" read the text message he retrieved, "1027 3rd @ grand nxt. Ww in 2a."

Emmet left the twins behind. Although he'd forgotten what he wanted to tell them, he felt confident that by the time he reached his next destination, he would remember to tell it to his host.

Stepping out of the roach motel and into a muggy August evening with rusting skies, Emmet patted the Derringer, filled with silver slugs, in his back pocket and turned toward Third Avenue, heading for that place where it intersected Grand Street. There he would find an apartment building bearing number 1027, and in apartment 2A at that address, a werewolf that apparently sold her ass like it was going out of fashion.

Anmi, his prize attraction, was a twenty-year-old, doe-eyed naïf with blood-red hair, who was tireless in her efforts to help Emmet manage the competition. As she had with the twins earlier this evening, she'd arranged an appointment for Emmet with the she-wolf, and after that, with a kappa working Parkside Heights. Posing as a client was often the only way to get within striking distance of certain paranormals, and Emmet would do whatever it took to stay competitive in the changing sex market.

Business, after all, was business.

*****


Anmi dragged on her smoke as Inna, Emmet's number two attraction, approached her in the Fourth street tavern's rear corner booth.

"Is he still biting?" Inna inquired, taking a seat opposite Anmi.

"Fool has no idea," Anmi assured her, "he took out the twins, and is on his way to dispatch the 'thrope cunt at Third and Grand."

Inna grinned, exposing molars pointed like needles. "How much longer shall we keep him?"

Anmi's razor-sharp molars gleamed. "Until he and the others under our glamour have done a bit more of our work for us. If we did it ourselves, there'd be no winner to the ensuing turf war with the lycanthropes, the faeries, the mutants…it's not worth the gamble. "

"Would it not be easier to simply take them where we find them?" Inna inquired, "This prostitution pretense is beneath us, and feigning to cater to humans' sexual depravities grows tiresome."

Anmi's response was familiar. "We are only two, and this isn't the movies, where we can bite our way to stronger numbers. It's safer having human expendables murder our rivals for us, especially with so many competing paranormals feeding from the same trough that we depend upon."

"For now," Inna agreed reluctantly, raising her glass, "But our time will come."

"Most assuredly," Anmi replied.
































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