The Sick Rose
by Pandarus

1. Honeymoon Suite

The Honeymoon Suite at The Hotel Europa came complete with champagne on ice, a spray of blood-bright roses in a crystal vase and a pair of dinky little chocolates wrapped in green foil and nestled in the clean white pillows. Jiri, laden with boxes and bags, followed The Crazy Americans down the corridor towards their suite with a tolerant smile and high hopes of imminent enrichment. Their clothes were expensive and they carried themselves with the unthinking confidence that came from absolute security. Rich as Midas, or Jiri would eat his hat. The girl was singing to herself, swinging a porcelain doll in one hand and her sweetheart's hand in the other; foreigners were peculiar creatures and no mistake.

When they reached the entrance to the suite Mr Van Helsing produced his newly acquired keys with a flourish, unlocked the door and then scooped the giggling girl up in his arms and carried her over the threshold. ("Van Helsing" indeed! But it made a change from "Smith" and the staff were happy enough to cater to tourists' whims when they had such huge wads of hard currency.) Jiri had noticed no sign of wedding rings, but that was not unusual in this day and age; and by the time he had carried all their gear into the room they were wrapped around one another on the bed and kissing like they had just invented it. Jiri waited patiently by the bags. When it became perfectly clear that no crisp handful of dollars or crowns was going to be forthcoming Jiri's smile leaked away. He stalked out into the corridor muttering Czech imprecations under his breath and left them to their rapt contemplation of one another.

"Naughty," said Drusilla after several minutes of quiet tussling. "He wanted a tip, Spike." She was sitting astride his waist, the folds of her black satin skirts bunched up around them like the topsy turvy petals of a discarded, full-blown rose.

"He's alive, isn't he?" replied Spike. "No pleasing some people."

He buried one hand in the sea of dark fabric, seeking out the sharp curve of her hip and then cupping it firmly once it was found.

"Do you like it, pet?"

He meant the Honeymoon Suite, the Art Nouveau Hotel, the tourist-glutted city, this century, this life; but the wicked little glance she shot him and the irresistible circling of her slender hips over his groin put a slightly different slant on his words. Dru dipped her head towards him until the soft lustre of her hair hid the rest of the room, and the pressure of her lips on his answered all Spike's questions without recourse to speech.

And after all, it was early afternoon; what better way to while away the sunlight?