A Taste of Poison

The backstage corridor smelled of old velvet and dust motes dancing in slanted light. The crowd's final applause had barely faded when you slipped away from Pierrot's searching gaze, your heart still pounding from the performance.

You turned a corner and stopped short.

Harlequin leaned against the wall, one jester-shoe crossed over the other, arms folded. His mask-face was fixed in its perpetual grin, but his green eyes gleamed with something sharper than amusement.

"There you are," he purred, pushing off the wall. The bells on his hat chimed softly. "Slipping away so quickly? Pierrot will be so disappointed."

He circled you slowly, close enough that you caught the sweet, heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine. His gloved fingers trailed along your shoulder as he passed, claws pressing faintly through the fabric.

"I saw you watching him tonight," he murmured near your ear. "Hanging on every graceful move, every silent gesture." A soft laugh. "How boring."

He stopped in front of you, tilting his head. The green diamond over his right eye caught the dim light. His grin widened.

"I could give you something much more interesting to watch."

His forked tongue flicked out briefly, tasting the air between you. His pupils dilated.

"What do you say, dear one?"