It is May; the month of flowers, warm sunlight and bottles of wine shared during long walks by the Siene. Or so my memories tell me. I have none of that now. Somehow it no longer interests me.

Work on the new opera, the Nightingale, consumes my daytime hours. I am either in the music pit well below the ground or practicing my violin in my tiny apartment with its single window. So much for sunlight. I hardly miss it, though.

By May my world is one thing only. A mistress like no other, not that I'd known too many mistresses. My nights were all that mattered and I spent them as often as I could afford at a different sort of pit far underground. The opium den was a few cobblestone streets away from the opera house. A world that is all that exists for me in May.

And no matter where I set out for in the evenings, I am drawn inexorably to its doors.

***

The opium pipe calls to me, beckoning with wanton fingers. It needs me as much as I need it. Scents intoxicate me, a mixture of sweat, Oriental spices, and tobacco.

Clouds of smoke hover overhead. I watch in mild interest as some ghost-like creature nestles up close and whispers a thousand little lies.

Tendrils waft away, creating a stairway to the sky. Yet who are those worthy enough to make that trip?

We are certainly going the other way.

The girl curling up at my side reaches for the pipe. She wraps her lips around the end and brings the glow to life with a soft inhale.

The pipe needs us for its own life. It cannot live if we do not breathe for it.

She speaks to me again, smokes pouring dragonlike from her mouth.

"Tu es beau," she whispers.

One of the sweeter lies she tells me. I have seen her before, but never so close. There are several girls who wander through the crowds of reclining opium smokers, bending over them to light the pipes or refill them, or to help bring the dreams that steal into their minds.

How long she stays with me as we exchange the pipe, I cannot say.

The girl, or is she a woman, such a tiny frail thing, and white as the powder the dancers rum on their pointes leans into me.

A candle glows nearby and by its light I see the woman is from as far away as the opium. She has traveled far to be by my side. She smiles, but does not show her teeth. All she reveals is a tear rolling from her tell-tale Asian eye. Eyes as black as the hole I've crawled into.

The rest of her is white – a strange, unnatural white. I rub a few loose strands of her hair and find powder on my fingers. I rub her cheek and neck expecting to find powder on her skin, so shocking is her pallor.

But pale as snow is her natural color.

Black eyes, white skin and ruby, blood red lips painted to be as glistening as dew on the rose.

She gives life to the pipe and begs me to play my violin. The violin needs me as I need it. For life.

"One song? I ache to hear you play," she lies softly. "S'il te plaît."

I cannot resist. After the pipe, my music is my strength and love.

It is May and we are rehearsing for the opening of The Nightingale. An unusual music that is becoming the score to my soul. Bitter sweet dissonances, the elusive promise of happiness that flutters always just out of reach. A spectacle of actors on a stage while the true performers – the truth itself – hide in a pit and out of sight. Here I am in hell, playing for the angels as my dreams slip through my fingers.

I play for the ghostly woman, such lies as only a fine instrument and player can call forth. The violin warms under my hands, but only where I touch it. Otherwise it is cold and hard. The curves are perfect and I caress them. Wide at the base, narrowing in the middle. The notes lift me one after the next up the smoke stairs and I float above myself.

It brings a hotter desire from me than ever before and I give myself into it, torments and pleasure at the same time. My hands fly over the strings, plucking and stroking, grasping the hard, cold body upon me.

Her body is my violin and I play as never before. Strings sing in ecstasy of movement. I know I must be careful, the strings can break and then must be cast aside. But her hands on my strings are not soft or gentle and I cannot refuse their call. I am wound tighter and tighter until I must break, but still I cannot resist her hands upon me.

I snap in half.

I break and she unwinds me. Though I may be soon cast aside, I cling to her.

Her mouth is on mine, tempting and teasing my lips with her own. She draws my tongue into her mouth, a slight pricking rouses me. But I am broken in her arms. I taste copper, salt and a tenderness I've never known. It is May. I am in love.

***

I could not imagine then the macabre scenes of death that would sweep the land when war would come. Armies burying themselves in deep trenches, youths throwing themselves on fields soaked in blood, the bullets spraying from beastly metal mouths. I could not imagine such horrors.

Certainly, I could not imagine that soon I would walk among these young men and boys, playing the piper's tune upon my violin.

Follow me.

Follow me through the night and over the fields of poppies and death.

***

"Je t'aime. Tu es beau, mon musicien. On restera ensemble à tout jamais. Tu veux, aussi, non ? Tu veux rester avec moi ? »

My lady, Shu, loves me. She wants for us to be always together.

"Je te donnerai toutes sortes de cadeaux."

She promises to give me all sorts of gifts, but what, I wonder. And what gifts can I bring her?

I begin to need her. She presses her lips and then sharp teeth against the thin skin of my neck. I meld into her. Shu brings me to life – I give her life.

***

A chorus girl has grown infatuated with me at the opera house. I smile kindly and indulge her childish infatuation. She asks, hiding her smattering of freckles and turned up nose, if I would enjoy having coffee with her after the rehearsal.

"When I see you playing, I think you must know the smartest things. You must so much wiser than me. You could tell me all about Paris outside of the opera house."

Such adoration. She wants to feel like a grown woman and I must wait for darkness before I can go to the den.

I escort her to a round table in front of a café and make whatever fashionable conversation as I can. I do not tell, and she doesn't know, what adults say to each other over coffee is as empty as the streets at midnight and just as terrifying for what you don't see.

I recount scandalous stories of the last season's diva, some which are even true.

It's passing the time, of course. This is me pretending I don't spend every waking moment yearning for the pipe to bring me my dreams and my love on smoky wings.

The girl, Jeanne, smiles and blushes and tells me nearly as many lies as my Oriental ghost. Time is pressing. My need is growing.

"Would you like to see another sort of establishment?" I ask when I can't wait any longer. "One with more exotic...fare?"

She hesitates and makes excuses. I am on the verge of wishing her a pleasant evening. But no, she wants to go and see what Paris has to offer.

***

"Si tu reste avec moi..." she says, not finishing her phrase. We are standing in the vestibule.

If I will stay with her. I nod and agree as a gentleman. These little courtesies, these little lies are the trademark of the well-bred. She will not notice if I come and go once she has encountered the pipe.

My lily-white lady, greets us with a wide smile. I am surprised to see her teeth. They are more jagged than I thought.

Shu shows us to comfortable places in the salon, away from the other guests. The three other women from China join us to light our pipes and sit. They whisper to us and then to themselves.

Smoke surrounds us. It shrouds us in a hazy embrace and isolate us from intruders. Shu comes to me.

"Play for me, please," she begs, caressing my cheeks. Warmth creeps through my chest and I am light as a dandelion seed set in the wind.

"I did not bring my violin," I say. My arms are heavy as the Earth itself. I could not play.

She pouts, disappointed. "Then my sisters and I will play, instead."

Jeanne has laid her head on the back of the sofa, arms and legs limp. Visions fill her eyes and she sighs in wonder through moist lips.

The other women surround Jeanne, stroking a hand, a cheek, a pink thigh. Jeanne moans.

"C'est tellement bien," she whispers.

"Oui, c'est bien," replies one.

My lady nuzzles me under an ear. "Je t'aime," she tells me. "Merci pour le cadeau. »

Gift ? Did I bring Shu a gift ? She picks up Jeanne's hand to kiss the inside of her wrist.

A surge of jealousy runs through me. I am the man here, it should be me kissing Jeanne's hands and thighs or my lady should be content with me. Then I notice the others have moved closer to embrace her as well. Faces hidden against the girl's neck, her inner thigh, or near her breast.

Jeanne's eyes widen in surprise, her chest rising and falling as waves that crash on the shore. Ecstasy and confusion flit alternately on her features. She bucks weakly, though whether to rid herself of them or encourage them isn't clear.

"Monsieur?" she asks, glancing about for me through the smoke.

I take Shu's hands. This is too much for an innocent chorus girl.

Red smears mar Shu's chin and red drops ooze from holes in Jeanne's arm. I shout in horror and a hissing fills the room. The Asian women have turned midnight eyes on me and blood covered mouths snarl in vicious hatred.

"No!" I fall to the floor, but my lady catches my hands.

"Thank you for the gift. She is perfect. She is lovely and sweet. As sweet as my love for you."

I try to fight her off, but her frail seeming arms cling to me. Her breasts press on my chest and I am kneeling in adoration.

She is kissing me with Jeanne's blood on her lips and tongue, and it is sweet. But not as sweet as my lady's love.

Jeanne sighs and begs them to stop. I can hear her crying a moment, but when I look, she is moaning in pleasure. Bright red lines trace thin paths over her soft skin into her frilly dress.

But I don't see much more through the three phantom-white women feasting on her body.

As Shu lowers herself onto me – a gift of her body for me to delight in – I am amazed that unbridled pleasure can be found in such cold flesh.

Jeanne lolls lifeless on the floor beside us as I thrust and Shu sways.

I am damned. I shudder with bliss into my lady.

***

It is May and I am damned.

I return to the pipe and the den again and again, but alone. My lady seems disappointed. Perhaps, I am not enough to keep her happy.

The smoke from the pipe curls upward, ever upward. There is light up there somewhere, but here I have none.

I curse and cry. What I have done?

***

I have made a decision. I pretend to pass the pipe and to slumber in the smoke's embrace, but I am a deceiver. My soul is damned, but I will hold onto this life for as long as I can. I made a deal.

I must wait until nearly sunrise and then set a candle in the window when all are sleeping, but the den's brutish guards have not yet arrived.

I curse and cry in silence. My lady, my love. What am I doing? I cannot kill.

The detective was quite clear when he cornered me at the opera house after opening night. I was on my way out. He knew the last person seen with little Jeanne was me and he knew where I spent my evenings.

But he was not interested in sending me alone to Madame la Guillotine. He wanted the women who ran the den in secrecy. He had never seen them himself, but had heard stories. Stories, he told me, to make a grown man weep.

He can't imagine the stories I could tell.

The choice was simple. Help him rid Paris of this infection or feel the kiss of the guillotine on my neck. He handed me a wooden stake and warned me to keep it hidden until he arrived.

I cannot kill. Not my lady. I will let him do it, for surely she deserves it for what she has done to Jeanne and many others. Now that I know what happens in the salon, I have witnessed many others. It could have been me. It should have been and perhaps will be soon.

Unless I strike first.

The night wanders on and on through endless hours. The detective will wait for my signal.

I must place the candle in the window. He will come with men and wooden stakes to kill my love.

I shouldn't care. She is but a liar, after all. Singing sweetly of everlasting happiness while the truth rings dissonant and my dreams scatter in the winds.

I should kill her myself for what she done. Perhaps I will. The night grows very deep. I doze off and on. Shu comes and places her head on shoulder to stroke my hair and cheek.

"Je t'aime."

I can't believe she loves me anymore. She is a monster in the fairest mask. Powder and lilies, rubies and the midnight sky. May the saints preserve me, I love her. It must be me who drives the stake into her heart.

"Je t'adore, tu sais? On restera ensemble. Ensemble." She is whispering lies again.

"Yes," I whisper. I must remain vigilant until the moment before dawn. She curls up at my side, my mistress like no other.

She is sleeping. Everyone is sleeping, guests and ghost women alike. We are deep underground, the light never comes here, but I know by my pocket watch that dawn is not far off.

I will set the candle. I take the stairs slowly. Odors call to me, changing as I rise from the depths. Moist stones, unwashed bodies, spices, cloying smoke, fresh air, and jasmine. Blood at the salon's door. I step inside to the window, candle in my trembling hand.

She will die after I set the candle. It is May, not the month for dying. Black stains streaking across the rugs in the room contradict my thoughts.

I lift the curtain and set the candle on the sill.

Uniformed men enter, and the detective nods at me. I loathe to kill, but to save my life and possibly my soul, I must.

Screams begin the moment my feet touch the lowest level. I hurry to the bench in the shadows.

Shu is in my arms and her death is in my hand. I kiss her cold forehead, she doesn't wake though until I hammer home the wooden stake. It hits the stones under her with a hollow ring. She doesn't scream like her sisters.

Tears come to her black eyes and trace thin paths over her soft cheeks. In confusion, she touches the hole in her breast and reaches for me.

"I love you," she whispers. "I love you. We will be together always."

God help me, I believe she's telling the truth. I choke on a sob. She cups my cheek in her hand and I kiss it. Her blood is on my lips. Copper, salt and desire. I take her fingers in my mouth to clean them of the stain. They taste of copper and salt and bitter regrets. But they are also the taste of desire and wanting.

I suck the red away and bend to her chest to kiss her breast. Blood flows from the hideous wound I've made. I kiss it away as well.

Her voice rasps. "Je t'aime. On sera ensemble à tout jamais."

We will always be together.

She changes me. I don't know how or at what moment, but I change. Maybe it's been happening the last few weeks already. As the midnight in her eyes fades, I know I am what I was before. She is limp beneath me.

The men are cheering and trying to herd the den's guests to the stairs.

Rage and bloodlust slam into me with the force of the building collapsing. I fly at these maggots who have come to make me kill. I tear into them. I bite and drink from torn limbs and heads. I make them beg for mercy. I silence their voices.

The screams of the opium smokers rip into my ears until I finish them as well.

I understand now the infinite tenderness Shu had shown me. Armed with unnatural strength to destroy a hundred men, she held me with the gentleness necessary to hold a nightingale.

The detective wakes in a pool of his own excrement and blood. I do not drink from him.

"Who told you how to kill them? How did you know?" I ask him. I will hunt them down.

He gurgles and waves the stumps of his arms.

"Are there others like Shu and her sisters?"

"Burn in hell."

I leave him to die in agony. I am already burning and already in hell. It is May and I am awash in blood.

***

I hide during the days. I haunt the streets and opera house at night. When war comes to the land, I am glad to leave Paris, but the sight of the fields and trenches sickens me.

I see bodies riddled with bullets. Boys with shredded flesh, shattered bone and tears left on faces. Men rotting in the mud still alive.

I play my violin for them. My instrument that needs me and I need it for life. I see that my kind must use what lures he or she has to draw souls closer.

Shu had the pipes and her drug. I have my violin.

I play. Follow me. Follow me and I will make your death a sweet, gentle thing. I hold them in my arms and show them tenderness. And I carry the ghost of Shu, my nightingale, always in my heart.

*** The end! Thank you for reading! ***