Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 3. Visions and Sacrifices

Jacques couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive. The night had started like any other Halloween — music filling the air, the French Quarter awash with lights and color. He’d come here expecting to have some fun, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. Now, though, as he clutched his drink and let the pulse of the crowd carry him, he realized this night was different. It was better than good — it was electric.

The music pulsed through the air like a heartbeat, syncing with his own, and as he looked around at the glittering costumes, sequined dresses, and masked faces, a grin crept across his face. Strings of lights dangled from the balconies, lighting up the partying people in shimmering hues. The street was a sea of laughter, shouts, and noise. Jacques experienced it all, vibrating through him in waves.

He raised his strong drink to his lips, and the liquid burned all the way down, warming his chest and making his head spin pleasantly. “Happy Halloween, Jacques!” someone shouted near his ear. He turned to see his friends, their faces blurring into masks of joy and glitter, their laughter loud and wild. Jacques laughed with them, his body loosening as the alcohol mixed with the raw excitement of the night.

At first, it was only fun, the usual thrill of being caught up in a party, of losing yourself in the moment. The French Quarter on Halloween had a magic of its own — the living and the dead blending together. With no boundaries between them, the living seemed to be even more alive. Everywhere he looked, he discovered new, amazing costumes: a pirate with glowing eyes here, a bloodied angel there, and above them, the brassy blare of jazz bands reverberating from every corner. He was in his element. It was fun.

But then something changed. Ever since he’d kissed that sexy zombie guy, something had shifted. After that kiss, he was more than just happy, more than just tipsy from the drinks. The energy of the night was building inside him, starting as a warm hum under his skin, then rising, intensifying with every breath he took. His senses, previously only heightened by the party’s buzz, now sharpened, like someone had turned the dial up on everything around him.

The party crowd was no longer just a blur of movement and sound. He experienced them. Their joy, their excitement, their laughter — it all seemed to press in on him, alive and swirling like a physical force. It wasn’t merely that they were happy; he thrummed with their happiness, and it sank into his skin, soaking him in their energy. He heard every whoop of laughter, every shout, every cackle, as though it were happening right next to his ear. And he liked it — loved it, even.

Someone brushed past him, their laughter spilling over him like a wave, touching him — their joy mixing with his own, a live wire giving off sparks inside him. He experienced the emotions of the people near him as if they were his own: the bubbling excitement of the woman next to him, the drunk happiness of the guy with the pirate hat, but also the faint undercurrent of melancholy from someone deeper in the crowd, stabs of jealousy, whirlpools of lust.

The warmth in his chest spread, turning into a bright, almost overwhelming sensation that bubbled under his skin. He lived the music, every note a heart beat, ever melody a tale of love, loss and lust that screamed from the balconies above. Every color seemed sharper now — the blue of some ice princess’s dress, the green glint of a witch’s face catching the light, the red of the bloodied angel’s wings streaking past again. The strings of lights above seemed to pulse in rhythm with the music, beating ever faster. The fiery taste of the alcohol setting his insides alight.

He was… alive. More alive than he’d ever been. That kiss had opened a door inside him, awoken something that had been dormant, waiting. He sucked up the energy that kept building, stronger with every minute, until it was almost too much to contain.

Jacques wasn’t watching the world around him anymore — it was part of him, and he was part of it. All of it connected to him, and it sent a jolt of raw pleasure through him. His breath came quicker now, his chest rising and falling in time with the surge of energy that made his skin prickle. His grin widened, so wide it almost hurt, but he didn’t care. The sensation was intoxicating, like being on the best kind of drugs but with none of the fuzziness — sharp, pure exhilaration.

He couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop moving, every step fueled by the energy that kept building and building. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible. Jacques felt like he could run for miles, dance for hours, stay here in this sea of life and light forever. The world had taken on a brighter edge, sharper than anything he’d ever experienced.

The longer he stayed in the crowd, the more it built up, rising inside him until he thought he might burst. Every glance, every touch, every flash of color seemed to set off sparks in his mind. He was no longer just at the party — he was the party. The pulse of the crowd, the wild laughter, the gleeful madness of it all — it surged through him like a current he couldn’t resist, and he didn’t want to.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew something about this was strange, that this kind of intensity wasn’t normal. But he didn’t care. Not now. Not when he was alive, more alive than ever before, almost bursting with it.

He wanted more.

***

As Jacques swayed to the music, his gaze drifted aimlessly over the crowd, savoring the chaos. That’s when he saw him — a young man, maybe 20. He stood completely still amid the dancing throng. A deep pain and sadness lay in his eyes, and yet he looked around with deep astonishment and curiosity. He wore a historic dress: a deep blue tailcoat, perfectly tailored to his slim frame, with gleaming brass buttons catching the lamplight. Beneath the coat, a silk waistcoat in a rich burgundy shimmered, its intricate embroidery visible even from a distance. A crisp white shirt peeked out from beneath, its high collar framing his face, with a neatly tied cravat at his throat. His trousers, fitted and tapering down to polished black leather shoes with elegant silver buckles, gave him an air of timeless sophistication. For a moment, Jacques wondered how out of place the man seemed in this sea of modern monsters and neon lights. But it wasn’t merely the costume that caught his attention. The man was now looking — staring — at Jacques with an intensity that made his skin prickle. Jacques blinked, half-expecting the figure to move on or look away. Instead, the man’s head tilted, a frown creasing his brow as if he were trying to puzzle something out. Then, slowly, unexpectedly, the man’s lips curved into a wide smile, one that spread with a kind of wild glee. It was a smile of revelation, like someone who had uncovered a long-lost secret.

Jacques’s own grin faltered. His heart, which had been racing with exhilaration moments before, now hammered with a different beat — something darker, more uncertain. He tried to look away, but the man’s gaze seemed to hold him captive. He couldn’t shake the unsettling sensation that he’d just become part of some game he didn’t understand.

The man’s smile also faltered, and his gaze dropped abruptly to his own left hand. With a suddenness that made Jacques flinch, the man gripped his hand tightly, his knuckles whitening with the force. His expression twisted in pain — but it was more than pain. It was confusion, fear… and recognition. A chill ran down Jacques’ spine as he instinctively glanced at his own left hand, only to be confronted with the same sight he’d seen a hundred times before — the empty sleeve pinned neatly at the elbow, the stump where his hand had once been. But he felt it, felt the pain in his own hand.

The sensation was so vivid, so real, that he gasped. He pressed his right hand to the stump, expecting nothing, and yet it almost seemed to hum under his touch.

The man in the costume was staring at him again, his eyes wide with something like shock. Jacques opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. A tremor of fear snaked its way up his spine.

“What…?” he started, but the rest of the question was lost as the man’s face twisted in agony. He looked like he wanted to scream, but no sound came. Instead, he rocked his head, clutching his wrist as if he tried to tear it off himself. Jacques took a step back, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Something was terribly wrong.

The man’s expression shifted again, this time to something more frantic, more desperate. He looked around, his head swiveling sharply from side to side as if searching for something — or someone. Turning back to Jacques, he raised his hands and gestured wildly in a series of jerky, almost incoherent motions. He pointed at Jacques, then towards the crowd, shouting soundless words.

But one thing was clear: the man wanted to know something. Needed to know something. The realization hit Jacques like a punch — the man was trying to ask him where someone was. Jacques sensed the man’s emotional turmoil, could almost hear the words in his head, and slowly a picture coalesced in Jacques’s mind. He saw himself kissing that zombie guy earlier.

“Are you looking for… him?” Jacques whispered, his voice lost in the crowd’s noise. The man perked up, nodding furiously, his expression pleading. His eyes were wide, shining with a kind of desperate urgency that made Jacques’ heart lurch.

He turned, scanning the crowd as if expecting to see zombie guy appear out of nowhere. But there was no sign of him — only a mass of moving bodies and grinning masks. When he glanced back, the man’s face had gone pale. He took a few steps towards Jacques, his hand outstretched, his fingers trembling. Jacques’s own fingers tingled in response, a ghostly echo of a movement he wasn’t able to make any longer.

“What do you want?” Jacques whispered. But before he could say anything more, someone stumbled between them, laughing, a glass bottle clutched in their hand. And then… the reveler lurched forward, passing right through the man in the historic costume as if he were nothing more than a wisp of smoke. Jacques blinked, his brain scrambling to process what his eyes had just seen. In the space of a heartbeat, he was gone. He had simply vanished.

Jacques stumbled backward, his pulse roaring in his ears. He stared at the empty space where the man had stood, his mouth dry. Had he just seen—?

“Holy shit,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His gaze darted around, searching for some sign that the man had reappeared. But there was nothing. No trace of him in the crowd, no hint of the costume’s vivid colors. Just the revelers, oblivious to the strange event that had unfolded in their midst.

Jacques’ breath came fast and shallow. His heart was pounding, the earlier thrill of the night replaced by a sick, twisting fear. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around frantically. Someone bumped into him, muttering an apology, but he barely registered it. Had he really just seen a ghost?

“I need to get out of here,” Jacques muttered under his breath. The crowd was suddenly suffocating, the laughter too loud, the lights too bright. He turned and pushed his way through the throng, ignoring the shouts and protests as he shoved past. He had to find him — the zombie guy. Had to make sure he was okay, that he hadn’t vanished too.

He broke free of the press of bodies, his chest heaving as he sucked in deep gulps of air. The French Quarter sprawled before him in all its chaotic glory, but the festive atmosphere seemed tainted now. He scanned the streets, the alleyways, his eyes darting over every costumed figure.

“Zombie!” he called, his voice ragged. How embarrassing. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, but it was all he had to go on. “Zombie, where are you?”

A chilly breeze rustled through the narrow streets, making him shiver despite the heat of the night. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the man in the old costume reappear, smiling that strange, knowing smile. But there was only darkness.

Jacques swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep moving. He needed answers. He needed to know what the hell had just happened — and why the ghost seemed so intent on finding the guy he’d kissed.

“Alex,” he whispered again, his voice barely a breath. He plunged deeper into the maze of streets, his mind racing with questions that had no answers. And somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, a sense of dread coiled tighter and tighter.

The night had taken a sinister turn, and Jacques knew it wasn’t over yet.

Jacques frantically searched the darkened streets of the French Quarter for any sign of Alex, a sense of dread coiling in the pit of his stomach. His heart hammered in his chest as he rounded a corner and caught sight of a group of strangers dragging a limp figure through the shadows.

His breath caught in his throat as he recognized the distinctive zombie costume.

Without a second thought, Jacques followed.

***

The strangers passed the edge of the old quarter, where the ancient cemetery lay. On nights like this, no one was really sure if the wall around the cemetery was meant to keep visitors out or the dead in, but it wasn’t stopping the strangers. Jacques hesitated at the cemetery’s entrance, a sudden coldness making him shiver as he surveyed the eerie scene before him. Something within him had changed today; he seemed more aware of things. The air seemed to pulse with energy. It was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, and the wind whispered of ancient, buried secrets. A thick, otherworldly fog hung low to the ground, out of place on a warm night like this, swirling eerily around the gravestones like ghostly tendrils. Shadows flickered in the moonlight, throwing strange and twisted shapes on the uneven ground.

The group made their way deeper into the graveyard, their laughter growing softer the further they went. Ancient tombstones and mausoleums lined the path, their inscriptions worn by time and weather. With a steadying breath, Jacques plunged himself into the darkness, his senses on high alert as he followed the trail of the strangers and an unconscious Alex deeper into the cemetery.

The group reached an old crypt, its entrance partially hidden by overgrown ivy and twisted vines. The leader of the group laid Alex face down in front of the cold stone steps, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. The others gathered around, their silhouettes hard to see in the dim light. “A sacrifice,” the leader intoned theatrically, spreading his arms. “Off with his pants, boys.”

Unceremoniously, two of the goons tore away Alex’s pants and spread his legs wide. They shoved the tattered remains of the pants under Alex’s hips so that his butt was more easily accessible.

Shrouded in shadows, Jacques followed the commotion from afar. His instincts urged him to intervene, to protect the vulnerable Alex from harm. But before he could move, he was stopped dead in his tracks.

“Jacques, wait,” an older gentleman’s voice cut through the night like a blade, halting Jacques in his tracks. “Do not interfere.”

Jacques turned to face the man, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?” he demanded, his voice laced with urgency. “Who are you?”

Solomon’s gaze bore into Jacques with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. “I am Solomon Soigneur,” he replied cryptically, his voice tinged with ancient wisdom. “You must trust me.”

Jacques did not agree. “Are you mad? Those guys are going to hurt that kid.”

Solomon stared at him. “You know the rumors about your mysterious family history that no-one speaks off? Noir foundation, the trust fund that finances your life style? I’m with them. Now hush, Alex won’t be harmed.”

The mention of Noir Foundation let Jacques pause. Clearly, the stranger knew more. Zombie guy’s name was Alex? Full of rising dread, he noticed the attackers dropped their own pants to their ankles. They played with their quickly expanding dicks, casting sideway glances and making rude jokes about their allegedly under-equipped friends. All were getting hard and horny. Jacques was ready to fight.

Solomon frowned. “You shouldn’t watch this.”

Never before was a Soigneur in a situation where they had to give a member of Jacques’ extended family a direct command to protect them. But the knowledge was passed down through the generations. Would it really work?

Concentrating on the gravity of the situation and his intent of protection, Solomon gave the order. “Don’t watch!”

Immediately, Jacques’ eyes glazed over and he fell into a deep slumber.

Solomon was dumbfounded. He had triggered it. The old curse really exists. 200 years… and the magic tying their families together still works, he thought. He would have to explain so much. But finally, all came around full circle. He couldn’t wait. But first, he needed to concentrate on Alex.

Something changed with the attackers. A few of them appeared to stumble and sway, but remained upright. Their movements became lethargic, and they all stood there, silent, as if waiting for something. Almost imperceptibly at first, invisible symbols began to glow on Alex’s skin.

All of attackers, including the leader, appeared to be in a trance. Like a zombie himself, the leader seemed drawn forward as if attached to strings. He knelt between Alex’s legs, spreading the pale cheeks of the unconscious youth in front of him wide, and aligned his member with Alex’s hole. Without hesitation, in one smooth move, he went in and froze. Blinking, he fell out of his trance, instantly alert.

Out of nowhere, a tendril of thick fog shot forward and swung down with cruel precision, delivering a brutal thwack! The muscle man’s taut skin bruised with a sickening thud, his hard flesh yielding to the relentless force. He yelled in a panic and tried to pull out. Desperately, he tried to push away from the unconscious body and protect himself, but something gripped his hard dick, keeping him inside of Alex. The foggy tendril struck again and again. The trapped man jerked and bucked, like fucking in reverse, trying to get away. Cries of pain echoed through the graveyard, but something had grabbed him, held the man inside Alex’s body in a vice like grip. Soon the cries of pain ebbed down, were replaced by silent sobs, as the man, against all reason, started humping the unconscious body beneath him. He couldn’t escape the grip that held him inside. Something had forced its way into his own behind and a relentless pulsating movement stimulated him. Somehow, the man knew there was only one way to finish his ordeal.

The foggy appendix retracted, only to lash out again and again, hitting ever harder, like a hammer tenderizing meat. Other appendices slithered out of the dark, coiling around the hapless man like boa constrictors. The man convulsed as his once firm and succulent muscles were mercilessly squeezed, each compression accompanied by a nauseating squish. With each squeeze, his once pristine form collapsed in on itself, spilling out some of its dark red essence where the skin was broken. Desperately, he kept fucking Alex.

As the assault continued, the man’s flesh was mangled almost beyond recognition, its once imposing virility reduced to a pulpy mess. The magical onslaught showed no mercy, each squeeze breaking down more muscle tissue. Slowly, coordinated constrictions of the foggy tendrils pushed and squeezed the mass beneath the bruised and broken skin. Lumps of blood and broken down muscles were forced towards the man’s midsection and his dick, still buried in Alex. Ferociously, the beaten man plowed on, faster and faster, until finally he came and shot his load into Alex. He roared out his pain and anguish into the night and collapsed.

In a grotesque symphony of sickening squelches and greedy slurps, the dark, viscous muscle mess of his broken body was sucked into the Alex’s bowels, being absorbed with a wet, gurgling finality. After draining the man for a few minutes, he was released and immediately crawled away, only to make room for a new victim. One by one, each of the attackers met the same fate, each one subjected to the same brutal treatment. In the end, each one crawled away into the darkness between the graves, barely alive, their once proud forms reduced to mere shadows of their former self’s.

For a short while, you could still hear their groans and whimpers until all fell silent.

Apologies for the kind of "deus ex machina" moment when Solomon triggered the magic and knocked Jacques out. (He can't really do magic himself). In the context of this short story it barely makes sense. But Solomon just telling Jacques to keep still and maybe threatening him to withdraw the financial support for Jacques's family otherwise wouldn't be too great either. My hero Jacques would never have let that stop him. Honor! Justice!... (oh well, all the usual Hero stuff) At least now you have something to complain about  
Please comment! I have the sneaky suspicion that you don't really care about the brutal or magical stuff but just like the boy meets boy bits ...  
One more chapter (or so) to go. I feel an exposition dump coming on ... and awwww, romance?