Marinated Fairy Queen

I’ve never seen the streets of Paris so quiet, but then again, I’ve never been walking them at 4am on Christmas morning before.

I can tell from the quills of water vapour steaming from my mouth, it must be very cold, well below zero. Cold for a human that is. In my present form such things are not a concern.

A ragged shape lies still as a statue, resting on the flagstones of a recessed doorway. I sniff the blankets and get a bonk on my snout for my trouble. Hmm still alive then. I could fix that in one swift bite, but the stench coming from the ragged blankets puts me off. Werewolves have standards, you know.

Fog winds its way up the Seine sending misty tendrils spreading across the Left Bank. Good for me. It gives me cover but doesn’t impact my sight at all. I stalk, taking my time, sniffing the air, patiently waiting for my perfect Christmas breakfast to appear.

All the books with crazed, rabid looking wolves, thundering around insanely snarling and haphazardly taking bites from everything in their sight, is just not factual.

I like to choose wisely, and savour my dish. And nose to tail is my philosophy. No waste, and nothing left to see. Anyway, time marches on and there’s barely anyone outside on this morning. The usual early risers; bakers, fishmongers, flower sellers, have the day off. Even the exercise freaks are asleep. They’ve got all day to do their thing. Pity, I rather enjoy the chase sometimes.

Everyone all snuggled up in their beds waiting for Father Christmas to give them gifts, for doing nothing at all.

I turn towards to my favourite path by the Seine and then slip down the stairs to the quay walk at the very edge of the river.

The lamps on Pont Alexandre III glow through the mist and I can make out some of the details of nymphs and winged horses on the most beautiful bridge in Paris. Yes, this is the right place to come to find my special Christmas indulgence.

Ah, now. What is that aroma? A potpourri of marshmallows, vanilla, pine and … what’s that? …. oh yes, blood. Mmmm

And there she is, emerging beneath the bridge like a vision in a storybook. A fairy queen, walking hand in hand with a little elf. The bouquet of wine and whiskey joins the air. Mmm. I close my eyes and inhale, separating the smells like a chef discerning what herbs are in the cassoulet. The whiskey is easy. Woody, pungent and fruity with a cloud of caramel butter hanging over it. The wine. I inhale again. Mmm, the wine is complex, a special vintage I can tell. An orchestra of fruit, heavy with plum, steeped in oak, with chocolate, caramel and leather tones. Ooh, if my muzzle could dance it would be doing a jig right now. It’s almost as good as drinking it myself. The only thing better than drinking it though is … can you guess? I’ll give you a hint. I rather like my meat marinated.

The two young fools are gazing at each other, not watching where they are going. The fairy queen snags a pretty heel on the cobblestones. The elf man lurches forward too, and catches her. Then, turning her in his arms they kiss below a streetlamp. How romantic.

My nose twitches again as pheromones dance in the air. Ooh the smell of love. Or is it lust? Any other day of the month I’d seduce this fairy queen and take her to my pied-à-terre, where every night we’d make love, in this city of lights.

Fairy Queen, Fairy Queen, so tender and sweet. Shimmering in the moonlight with no idea what is to come. Pressing up closer to your little elf dressed man. Mmm, this is almost too good to stop watching. Two desires fighting within me, but the wolf always wins.

Silently crawling, pressed against the stone wall of the walk. Waiting, waiting until just the moment of their utmost pleasure. The full moon, my light, my muse, reveals herself from behind the clouds like a sign. Goodnight sweet girl.

A scream pierces the night, echoing in the empty streets. Little Elfy screams too, and runs for his life, back under the most beautiful bridge in Paris. So much for gallantry. But my attention is all on my delicious fairy queen.

“Appreciate every morsel,” my mother used to say. “Eating should be a meditation, not a blood bath.”

Yes mama, and like every time before, not a soupçon will be left to tell the tale.