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July 2008

The Beautiful Collection
by Alex Dally MacFarlane

Mist curls along the high street like forgotten wisps of Rapunzel's hair. Despite the chill, fake beauties sully my morning with their stick-thin, shapeless bodies, parading around in their belts and string tops as if they're all queens.

I pull my jacket tighter and sip my hot chocolate.

And then I see her walking — how does the song go? — on imported air, only in the sense that she seems to exist in a different place to these pieces of painted plastic. She ambles along the cobbled stones, pausing occasionally to look at something in a shop window. I drink up the sight of her; I take deep gulps. I follow her.

At first with my eyes.

Then, as she moves further away, I abandon my half-finished drink and walk behind her. Mouthing a word, tossing a tiny pinch of my dried blood towards her, I leave my mark. Now I will always know where to find my latest beauty.

###

Human chatter hangs in the air like smoke used to before the ban. Layered within the noise is the smell of alcohol and, almost hidden beneath that, a hint of sweat and perfume. I crinkle my nose in disgust. My own people smell far more pleasurable.

Beauty leans against the counter, surrounded by a group of friends. They are natural and healthy-looking, but that is all I can say in their favour. A pastel pink seashell among slate, Beauty outdoes them all.

I meander closer and listen to their words.

"…wonder what it's like to be kissed by one of the fey."

Ever since the Sun ran a story about a man's seduction by a fey woman, the delights of our kind have been central to many human conversations.

"Do you reckon someone we know is fey and…"

Bored, I drift away. The women are wearing floaty black skirts and feathery tops in the latest fashion; they will be dancing later and I will follow them.

###

Music paws the air. The carpet of dancers ripples, as if stirred by an invisible wind. I see no other man or woman equal to Beauty as she moves slowly, rhythmically, long auburn hair fanning out with every twist of her body. Many men try to join her, moving close and placing a hand on her hip or arm, but she weaves away, the motion as fluid as every dancing step she makes. She only dances with women.

I smile. This will be easier than I expected.

My skirt and feather top sashay as I move through the gyrating mass of bodies, and a whisper of glamour makes my dark hair sparkle and my pale skin almost shine. Beauty sees me and smiles, and offers an arm for an energetic dance as the music's tempo increases. Grinning, we swing in a wide circle; other clubbers clap in time to the tattoo of our feet. Everything is a blur but for her — her willowy form, rich auburn hair, the flutter of her dress and the soft features of her face...

…more intoxicating than a drug…

Afterwards, panting, we stagger to the bar and order daiquiris. We are still grinning, even as we gulp down the drinks and ask for more.

She gives me her number. I give her mine. As we part ways under the orange city sky, we agree to dance again.

###

And dance we do, in clubs and bars and private parties and finally in bed. Her body is every bit as soft and supple as it looks, a sweet elixir to touch, and I make her moan and scream more than any human can — at the same time I am lost in ecstasy; she is the most skilled I have had among her kind; her hands and tongue drive me crazy.

###

"I'm moving to Russia."

I thought I cared too much about her to carry out my original intention. Listening to her words of imminent departure, I find my mind wavering, returning to that desire. As she explains the necessity of her decision, mentioning only in passing that she will miss me, my resolve firms.

I cannot bear the thought of her beauty disappearing from my life.

"One final night," I suggest. "One perfect night. Something to remember forever."

With a trace of reluctance she acquiesces.

"Tomorrow night," I say. "Mine."

###

Everything is ready: the petals scattered across the floor, the herbal essences and crushed butterfly wings sprinkled across my cushions and sheets, the spell wound through the previous night into twined locks of my hair and hers, now tied around the bed post; and, of course, the canvass. All that I require now is Beauty.

She arrives late, flustered, muttering questions and qualms. "Is this right? I don't know if this is how we should end it."

Whispering a word, I draw her to me. "After tonight, you will never worry," I murmur as I slide her shirt from her slim shoulders and tug her onto the bed. The sharp scent of herbs musses her hair and kisses her skin. Still she is unsure, but when I remind her of the pleasures she experiences with me her resolve weakens — if I have to use more of my particular means than usual, well, on this night I need her to be utterly lost.

Her cries are swallowed by the thickening air. Spread beneath me, arms and legs and hair splayed across the green sheets, she is mine. I murmur words, draw upon the woven spell, picture the blank canvass and her form upon it.

She screams. Loud, like a klaxon, but it penetrates only a few metres of air before dissipating.

My eyes flutter closed. I am ruled by the shifting of energy within me, my essence thrown into the completion of this act.

Again she screams, and again, each time quieter and quieter until all I hear is my panting breath.

Darkness overwhelms me.

###

The spell took more energy than I had expected, requiring several days' recovery. Beauty was feisty. But in the end she could not withstand my power.

I smile up at the new portrait adorning my wall.

A beautiful woman, long auburn hair flung out behind her as she dances against a background of twisting flowers — it is one of many beautiful objects in my house, but by far it is the best.

"Forever mine," I whisper, my lips brushing the canvas.