Lust Never Sleeps

Sawyer Thomas cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the three men who stood grouped about him—Mr. Schrodinger and Mr. Salisbury, and of course Darryl, aka Jean-Phillippe. "Gentlemen, since your minion is more than capable of taking care of that minor annoyance, shall we... ahem... conclude our business?"

The two dark men exchanged looks, the gaze of one going up, the other down, in order to account for their contrasting heights.

"A diamond in the hand is worth money in your pocket. We shall be in touch with you, Mr. Thomas." So saying, they touched their hands to the brims of their matching bowlers, murmured, "Mischief managed," and faded into nothingness before Sawyer's and Darryl's very eyes.

Darryl turned toward the bar. "Can I get a shot please?"

"What kind do you want?"

"Whatever you have." He downed the first shot within seconds, asked for another, before turning his attention back to Sawyer, who was frowning. Not at him, but at where the two gentlemen had been standing, wrinkles marring the perfect symmetry of his brow.

"Well, fuck," he said, rather inelegantly.

"Did they stiff you?" Darryl asked, although he was fairly sure of the answer. But it was all he could think of to say that wasn't will you please fuck me.

"Do you see any money in my hand?" The blond licked his lips, and Darryl thought he would orgasm right then and there.

"Well, if they think I'm going to take that lying down, they have another think coming," Sawyer muttered to himself. He tugged on Darryl's sleeve. At the question in the dark-haired man's eyes, he simply said, "I'll think of something. Let's get out of here. They won't be coming back here any time soon."

"What about the gypsy?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, we'll find the evidence of his handiwork close at hand. But never mind that now." He tugged again, and Darryl would have followed him anywhere, his second brain having taken over for the moment.

Darryl managed to toss the money for his drinks onto the bar, plus enough to cover a tip, before he found himself exiting Hannagan's just behind Sawyer. They stood on the street for a moment, as if considering their next move. Well, Sawyer was. Darryl had no idea what was going on or what was meant to be done about it. The antique gaslights that lined the street, redolent of another era, had winked on. Evening was nigh.

"That way." Sawyer pointed a short distance from them, where a growing crowd of people was gathering. "If I'm not mistaken, we'll find the thief there."

"That's good, isn't it?" Darryl asked. "You can get your diamonds back and conclude your business transaction."

Sawyer lightly trailed his fingers along Darryl's jaw, setting him to quivering. "You are such an innocent," he said, dropping his voice so that only Darryl could hear his words. Then he kissed him, with infinite tenderness, before leading him toward the group. "Let me show you, Jean-Phillipe."

"It's Darryl," Darryl muttered, but Sawyer seemed not to hear.

Before they'd reached the edge of the crowd, they could hear bits and pieces of what was being said in fascinated horror by the onlookers. "What could have done that?" "Is there a serial killer on the loose?" "Who's this guy?" "What's up?"

Sawyer muscled their way through. Rather he employed fortunately placed touches which seemed to turn people away from their path of their own accord. Darryl marveled at the skill inherent in his fingertips. And wondered how they'd feel if applied to himself. That thought alone caused his body to flame.

Sawyer pointed. "Look," he said, and Darryl did so.

It was indeed the thief. Head neatly sliced from his body, tenuously perched atop his neck. A good stiff breeze would probably send it rolling away. A slender filament lay upon his chest.

"Violin string," Sawyer explained. "He was garroted with it. It's the gypsy's trademark."

"How can something so thin do so much damage?" Darryl asked, incredulous.

"Special strings. Made to order. Come." He turned to go.

"Aren't you going to look for the diamonds?"

"Milosh has them. Which means they'll have them. Which means we must get them back." He grabbed Darryl's hand, twining their fingers, drawing him away from the excited throng. Just in time, as a vehicle flashing bright lights appeared, honking and edging its way through the madness.

"Where to?" Darryl asked. Purely for appearance's sake. He really didn't care.

"Where else? To the church!"

They threaded their way through the crowd of wannabe gawkers and down a side street. Oddly enough, it was one that Darryl didn't recognize. And he thought he knew all the streets in these parts. But if the price of holding on to Sawyer Thomas included being taken to strange places on strange errands, then so be it.

They twisted and turned along such a convoluted path that Darryl gave up any idea of getting his bearings, content to cling to Sawyer's warm hand. May the contact never end. It was darker here, fewer street lights, buildings with no designation, or indication of their purpose or their intent. Locks and chains and iron bars, and the few people they saw scuttled away without ever drawing near.

"There." Sawyer pointed to a building that sat where the street dead-ended. Looking into the sky, a single star played guardian above it.

They reached the gothic doors of the edifice; it looked more imposing the closer they got. Darryl couldn't help but think of Notre Dame when he saw the flying buttresses and the forbidding gargoyles. He half expected to see Quasimodo leap from the battlements.

Sawyer pounded upon the door; Darryl could hear the reverberations echo through the building. For long moments, nothing happened. "Perhaps no one's here?" he suggested.

Just then the door opened a crack, revealing a long tall nun with beautiful dark chocolate eyes.

"Good evening, Sister Sue, might we use your phone?"