Augusta Fern's Blog - Posts Tagged "romance"
A Taste of Cian
Dew from the ground under my hands was nothing like it had ever felt before, slimy and cold seemed to almost seep in, the tingling burned my palms, through to the bone, I quickly put them as close to my face as I could but the excruciating sun penetrated my eyes yielding me from examining them.
My attentions were quickly diverted to the aroma of morning, a magnificent bouquet in my senses for I didn’t just smell, I could taste the moisture swirling about me, feel the tiny droplets of condensation gather in my hand. My ears so pristine I could hear the deer and hares racing through the forest and I could see more than a mile before me; but the lust for blood was the most powerful sense of all.
“Keane……..Finn………FALLON!!!!” I scream, my throat parched yet burned as my own voice a terrible drum rattling my head. But they are gone.
“Maggie” I whisper, before sulking to the damp forest floor.
I stagger to my feet feeling as if I had engaged in the game of drink the night before. Taking in the exquisiteness of my surroundings I noticed on the moss covered tree stump, beside a large bundle of herbs, a stone bowl with a shallow black liquid sitting on top of a piece of parchment. The note read:
Each drink from the bowl.
A pinch before sunset.
Your sister is safe.
Leave now.
The note signed with an elaborate “G”.
With nowhere to go, my sister opted to stay with the priestess. Since she had not invoked the evil as my brethren and I, she was safe. I was advised by the priestess to sever contact with my sister, knowing what I am could place Maggie in grave danger. I follow the parchment’s directions and left the area with the herbs from the priestess, still no sign of my brothers. The herb, if eaten before sunset would prevent me from burning come sunrise. It grew among the Liverwort, Primrose and Hard Ferns, vast in the forests and glens of Dalry and to continue my human routine I used the plant relentlessly; one of a many regrets I have of this immortal life.
With it I am a stealth creature during the day and night, a luxury I wish I had today, for without it I am subjected to day-stasis. Even now I don’t recall the name of our saving grace herb but I will never forget what it looked like. A muted aquamarine, in color, hints of orange and purple, a lush little bundle of saving grace. The genus became extinct in the late 1800’s plunging us into the life of night and almost a hundred years later; we lost touch with each other.
I make the trek back to the outskirts of my village home, stopping at the makeshift camp; I duck to enter the primitively erected shelter when I hear the distant snap of twigs and familiar scents, I turn, crouched for attack when the familiar smells reveal themselves, the faces of my brothers, Keane, Finn and Fallon greeted me. They look like my brothers, but don’t. Their skin is cold as well is my own, their eyes are more vibrant than I have ever seen and the small cracks and wrinkles in their skin had filled. I, like them, longed to gaze upon our enhanced appearance. Quietly we celebrated the unprecedented force we now possessed, before methodically exacting our revenge.
My name is Cian, pronounced (KANE).
Vampire (vam’pir) n. 1. In folk tales, a dead body that moves about at night, sucking the blood of sleeping persons. Rest assured, you don’t have to be asleep to sustain a vampire attack, it fact we prefer live prey, the hunt is a primal, exotic force within us. 2. A person who gets things from others in a wicked or evil way. I have to agree with this one, but we aren’t “people”. We haven’t been people in a VERY long time.
I myself have been so since the fall of the Roman Empire. I am of course fast, and strong beyond human comprehension, a firm handshake from me and forget about ever using that hand again.
As vampires we are, at first, extremely attractive to humans, their downfall considering what attracts them turns out to be a malicious, calculating bastard of a monster set out to torture, rape and kill. Although our initial beauty is not our only means of coercion, we also possess the ability to “control” humans though hypnotism with the inflection of the color of our eyes; seen to humans as dark at first slowly becoming lighter drawing the prey in, some vampires are able to use touch. We are also blessed with individual “gifts”, abilities all our own that are dynamically enhanced. For some it’s a skill possessed in life that crosses over to immortality for others it’s a newly acquired ability.
Immortality is a loaded word. We can survive gunshots, stab wounds, explosions and disease; however we cannot endure decapitation, fire or sun light. Ultra-violet light can injure and prolong us, but it will not kill us. Our blood quickly heals mortal wounds and if preformed correctly can make another of our kind, among many other abilities and details. However, because of the way I was created; I am unable to make another. What you learn from movies and books isn’t all Hollywood glitz and glamour, besides the ridiculous; no reflection, fear of crucifixes, holy water. I have often thought that one of our kind was influencing Tinsel town.
My human life at the time of my birth was a typical one. In a small hut on the vast rolling green hills of what would become Edinburgh, Scotland I am born to a proud, masculine Votadini warrior who was also chief of our small Brythonic tribe. My father a stalwart oak tree of a man who commanded attention where ever he roam, proved to be a firm but fair ruler. My mother was a soothsayer and what is considered today a doctor. She was kind, compassionate and warm, a quiet demonstrative woman. Well respected in our community, she had been the village mid-wife prior to my father taking her as his wife, upon the marriage her status among the people was a welcome one. I also had a younger sister by eleven years, Maggie. A sweet, innocent girl, just making her way in her life, at fifteen a girl of our village would soon marry and I would be kidding myself if I didn’t admit to wanting to slit the throat of every male youth that came courting. My kin were considered the most ancient civilization to settle the land or so I would later research and learn.
The expectation of my mortal life was to be a great warrior, succeeding my father as head elder. Rule, marry, make children, and then die. Trained from the time I was six years old, my father taught me to wield a sword protecting our land and the people of our village from Roman invasion. My father taught me to care for the pain of others, to never forget that being a warrior meant rising above yourself to protect those who are not able to protect themselves, what’s the line from “Spiderman”, “With great power comes great responsibility”? Basic principles for a future leader.
I lived my life as a proud son and soldier going to battle at a moment’s notice. My father was considered a king among our civilization, revered for his length of time in power, by some. No other chief or king had survived as long as my father and to others among the village it was a frustrating factor.
I was sixteen when I began to hear the rumblings from up and coming males, how my father had selfishly preserved the title for himself and his lineage. Seemed to me, even at that time it wasn’t a title he wished to preserve, but his own life. By the time I was twenty six my father was hideously mutinied upon, ownership of the title extinguished along with his and my mother’s lives. I, along with my younger sister and three of my brothers in arms, Keane, Fallon and Finn, escaped the fray; making camp just outside the lines of village territory.
Keane was not a man of great stature or status, in our village his father was a well known drunk. Once a great man; Keane’s father had fallen on hard times and he wasn’t the only one to suffer the effects. His mother eventually left our village, taking his younger brother and sister. Keane stood around 5 foot 11 and of stout build, he had had knotted sandy blonde hair, dreadlocks as they are called today and they hung past his shoulders baring certain trinkets he collected from his victims in battle. Keane’s eyes were steel gray blue and if you stood next to him by the sea, there wasn’t much difference between the two shades of blue.
The brothers; Finn and Fallon were identical twins, tall and lanky, 6 foot 7 at least, with long bone-straight brown hair, each man’s head displayed sporadic braids littering its mass. The twins had dark green eyes with yellow barbs around the pupils, which even in mortal life were fierce to behold, but they had baby faces, giving them a unique appearance. We all dressed very similarly and simplistically, lightweight clothes under hide armor and various straps fastening our weapons to our bodies. We may have looked the same, but we were far from it. While the twins were bloodthirsty, even in life, Keane and I shared a desire for peace. The twin’s father, prior to his own death, chief of defenses in our village taught his sons to revel in the kill, my father and theirs had many a conflict but mutual respect for one another. Fallon’s instrument of death was a Morning Star; a club with a spiked ball on the top. He notched the instrument after each kill. Fallon’s Morning Star was overly full by the time the turn of the century rolled around, instead of notches the man had X’s up and down the shaft, the numbers doubling and tripling over the years.
Finn specialized in hand to hand combat, never using a weapon. In battles, before we were cast out, Finn would be mocked for his lack of arsenal on the battlefield, soon proving his worth. Finn’s kill marks began at his shoulders. Saying his own body was his weapon, he privately notched his skin after battle, calling it a meditation of sorts.
The morning after the mutiny, we left our makeshift camp in heading on foot across the countryside to what is now called Dalry, North Ayrshire in the Garnock Valley of Scotland. The journey was hard and not having the luxury of at least one horse was difficult for my sister, not being trained as we were to trek long ranges. She slowed us and by the time we reached the tiny hut in the forest; Maggie was being carried by Keane. Keane always had a fondness for Maggie as his own sister who was around her age had been taken from this life too young. The hut belonged to a well known and feared priestess.
I along with my brothers and sister were accepted into the home of the priestess a little more than seventy miles from our home. She heard quite quickly of the upheaval and grave condition we came to her in. After taking in all she had heard, it was apparent that we were no longer welcome in our own village. The priestess gave us shelter and food but I could sense she had a strange air about her. She was a beautiful young woman, looking no older than twenty one. Her ice blue eyes peeked through ash-blonde hair that waved around her face as she moved. Her tattered clothes hung off her young body and this caught the attention of the twins. She was barefoot and remained so, even when out in the forest. With disapproving glances from me and Keane the brothers ceased their stares of the young woman.
Over a hot meal the woman listened to our plight and offered a solution. Her dialect was thicker than ours but we had little difficulty understanding her proposal. After we were fed my sister and I went for a walk to discuss our delicate situation. I explained to her the priestess’s solution and after hurtful words were exchanged we finally agreed. Once my sister fell asleep, the woman explained the process of what we were to undergo, including that our appearance would remain for eternity should we wish it. I cut my hair and shaved to resemble the Romans. Keane agreed and did his best to remove the dreadlocks, cutting his hair to shoulder length and being that he barely shaved, kept his scruff. The twins; arrogant as they were, remained as they were.
The young woman carried a stone bowl as she led us out of the hut and into the woods, bending ever so often to pick a flower or dig up a root. About a hundred and fifty feet from her hut we came upon a secluded area; in the shape of a perfect circle the ground and forest floor had been cleared and a large tree stump sat directly center. The woman positioned us in a five point star inside the circle, placed the bowl carefully on the tree stump and dumped her forest finds inside. She reached under her dress, presented a vial of dark liquid, whispering something indiscernible into it and poured it on top of the greenery. She waved one of her delicate hands over the bowl as four separate smoke trails began to rise from it. She reached under her dress a final time revealing an ornate dagger; the smoke hovered over each of our heads as the woman took each of our hands and drew blood.
As the dagger collected the blood the smoke lingering overhead violently entered our bodies. The woman placed herself as the top point of the star pattern, which was just off center, raised her hands to the sky and began chanting it again. Her eyes became cloudy at first then fierce as the ice blue encased a red center. A great wind blew through and her hair was shoved backward to reveal a demonic face with a mouth full of sharp glittering teeth. The volume of her chanting increased momentarily and the four of us dropped to our knees, suddenly her chanting stopped. What followed was more excruciating than any battle wound. My bones felt as if they were breaking, my insides seized and my head pounded; blackness consumed me. We woke in the morning; our senses more acute than ever before. It was time.
Revelations of Cian
My attentions were quickly diverted to the aroma of morning, a magnificent bouquet in my senses for I didn’t just smell, I could taste the moisture swirling about me, feel the tiny droplets of condensation gather in my hand. My ears so pristine I could hear the deer and hares racing through the forest and I could see more than a mile before me; but the lust for blood was the most powerful sense of all.
“Keane……..Finn………FALLON!!!!” I scream, my throat parched yet burned as my own voice a terrible drum rattling my head. But they are gone.
“Maggie” I whisper, before sulking to the damp forest floor.
I stagger to my feet feeling as if I had engaged in the game of drink the night before. Taking in the exquisiteness of my surroundings I noticed on the moss covered tree stump, beside a large bundle of herbs, a stone bowl with a shallow black liquid sitting on top of a piece of parchment. The note read:
Each drink from the bowl.
A pinch before sunset.
Your sister is safe.
Leave now.
The note signed with an elaborate “G”.
With nowhere to go, my sister opted to stay with the priestess. Since she had not invoked the evil as my brethren and I, she was safe. I was advised by the priestess to sever contact with my sister, knowing what I am could place Maggie in grave danger. I follow the parchment’s directions and left the area with the herbs from the priestess, still no sign of my brothers. The herb, if eaten before sunset would prevent me from burning come sunrise. It grew among the Liverwort, Primrose and Hard Ferns, vast in the forests and glens of Dalry and to continue my human routine I used the plant relentlessly; one of a many regrets I have of this immortal life.
With it I am a stealth creature during the day and night, a luxury I wish I had today, for without it I am subjected to day-stasis. Even now I don’t recall the name of our saving grace herb but I will never forget what it looked like. A muted aquamarine, in color, hints of orange and purple, a lush little bundle of saving grace. The genus became extinct in the late 1800’s plunging us into the life of night and almost a hundred years later; we lost touch with each other.
I make the trek back to the outskirts of my village home, stopping at the makeshift camp; I duck to enter the primitively erected shelter when I hear the distant snap of twigs and familiar scents, I turn, crouched for attack when the familiar smells reveal themselves, the faces of my brothers, Keane, Finn and Fallon greeted me. They look like my brothers, but don’t. Their skin is cold as well is my own, their eyes are more vibrant than I have ever seen and the small cracks and wrinkles in their skin had filled. I, like them, longed to gaze upon our enhanced appearance. Quietly we celebrated the unprecedented force we now possessed, before methodically exacting our revenge.
My name is Cian, pronounced (KANE).
Vampire (vam’pir) n. 1. In folk tales, a dead body that moves about at night, sucking the blood of sleeping persons. Rest assured, you don’t have to be asleep to sustain a vampire attack, it fact we prefer live prey, the hunt is a primal, exotic force within us. 2. A person who gets things from others in a wicked or evil way. I have to agree with this one, but we aren’t “people”. We haven’t been people in a VERY long time.
I myself have been so since the fall of the Roman Empire. I am of course fast, and strong beyond human comprehension, a firm handshake from me and forget about ever using that hand again.
As vampires we are, at first, extremely attractive to humans, their downfall considering what attracts them turns out to be a malicious, calculating bastard of a monster set out to torture, rape and kill. Although our initial beauty is not our only means of coercion, we also possess the ability to “control” humans though hypnotism with the inflection of the color of our eyes; seen to humans as dark at first slowly becoming lighter drawing the prey in, some vampires are able to use touch. We are also blessed with individual “gifts”, abilities all our own that are dynamically enhanced. For some it’s a skill possessed in life that crosses over to immortality for others it’s a newly acquired ability.
Immortality is a loaded word. We can survive gunshots, stab wounds, explosions and disease; however we cannot endure decapitation, fire or sun light. Ultra-violet light can injure and prolong us, but it will not kill us. Our blood quickly heals mortal wounds and if preformed correctly can make another of our kind, among many other abilities and details. However, because of the way I was created; I am unable to make another. What you learn from movies and books isn’t all Hollywood glitz and glamour, besides the ridiculous; no reflection, fear of crucifixes, holy water. I have often thought that one of our kind was influencing Tinsel town.
My human life at the time of my birth was a typical one. In a small hut on the vast rolling green hills of what would become Edinburgh, Scotland I am born to a proud, masculine Votadini warrior who was also chief of our small Brythonic tribe. My father a stalwart oak tree of a man who commanded attention where ever he roam, proved to be a firm but fair ruler. My mother was a soothsayer and what is considered today a doctor. She was kind, compassionate and warm, a quiet demonstrative woman. Well respected in our community, she had been the village mid-wife prior to my father taking her as his wife, upon the marriage her status among the people was a welcome one. I also had a younger sister by eleven years, Maggie. A sweet, innocent girl, just making her way in her life, at fifteen a girl of our village would soon marry and I would be kidding myself if I didn’t admit to wanting to slit the throat of every male youth that came courting. My kin were considered the most ancient civilization to settle the land or so I would later research and learn.
The expectation of my mortal life was to be a great warrior, succeeding my father as head elder. Rule, marry, make children, and then die. Trained from the time I was six years old, my father taught me to wield a sword protecting our land and the people of our village from Roman invasion. My father taught me to care for the pain of others, to never forget that being a warrior meant rising above yourself to protect those who are not able to protect themselves, what’s the line from “Spiderman”, “With great power comes great responsibility”? Basic principles for a future leader.
I lived my life as a proud son and soldier going to battle at a moment’s notice. My father was considered a king among our civilization, revered for his length of time in power, by some. No other chief or king had survived as long as my father and to others among the village it was a frustrating factor.
I was sixteen when I began to hear the rumblings from up and coming males, how my father had selfishly preserved the title for himself and his lineage. Seemed to me, even at that time it wasn’t a title he wished to preserve, but his own life. By the time I was twenty six my father was hideously mutinied upon, ownership of the title extinguished along with his and my mother’s lives. I, along with my younger sister and three of my brothers in arms, Keane, Fallon and Finn, escaped the fray; making camp just outside the lines of village territory.
Keane was not a man of great stature or status, in our village his father was a well known drunk. Once a great man; Keane’s father had fallen on hard times and he wasn’t the only one to suffer the effects. His mother eventually left our village, taking his younger brother and sister. Keane stood around 5 foot 11 and of stout build, he had had knotted sandy blonde hair, dreadlocks as they are called today and they hung past his shoulders baring certain trinkets he collected from his victims in battle. Keane’s eyes were steel gray blue and if you stood next to him by the sea, there wasn’t much difference between the two shades of blue.
The brothers; Finn and Fallon were identical twins, tall and lanky, 6 foot 7 at least, with long bone-straight brown hair, each man’s head displayed sporadic braids littering its mass. The twins had dark green eyes with yellow barbs around the pupils, which even in mortal life were fierce to behold, but they had baby faces, giving them a unique appearance. We all dressed very similarly and simplistically, lightweight clothes under hide armor and various straps fastening our weapons to our bodies. We may have looked the same, but we were far from it. While the twins were bloodthirsty, even in life, Keane and I shared a desire for peace. The twin’s father, prior to his own death, chief of defenses in our village taught his sons to revel in the kill, my father and theirs had many a conflict but mutual respect for one another. Fallon’s instrument of death was a Morning Star; a club with a spiked ball on the top. He notched the instrument after each kill. Fallon’s Morning Star was overly full by the time the turn of the century rolled around, instead of notches the man had X’s up and down the shaft, the numbers doubling and tripling over the years.
Finn specialized in hand to hand combat, never using a weapon. In battles, before we were cast out, Finn would be mocked for his lack of arsenal on the battlefield, soon proving his worth. Finn’s kill marks began at his shoulders. Saying his own body was his weapon, he privately notched his skin after battle, calling it a meditation of sorts.
The morning after the mutiny, we left our makeshift camp in heading on foot across the countryside to what is now called Dalry, North Ayrshire in the Garnock Valley of Scotland. The journey was hard and not having the luxury of at least one horse was difficult for my sister, not being trained as we were to trek long ranges. She slowed us and by the time we reached the tiny hut in the forest; Maggie was being carried by Keane. Keane always had a fondness for Maggie as his own sister who was around her age had been taken from this life too young. The hut belonged to a well known and feared priestess.
I along with my brothers and sister were accepted into the home of the priestess a little more than seventy miles from our home. She heard quite quickly of the upheaval and grave condition we came to her in. After taking in all she had heard, it was apparent that we were no longer welcome in our own village. The priestess gave us shelter and food but I could sense she had a strange air about her. She was a beautiful young woman, looking no older than twenty one. Her ice blue eyes peeked through ash-blonde hair that waved around her face as she moved. Her tattered clothes hung off her young body and this caught the attention of the twins. She was barefoot and remained so, even when out in the forest. With disapproving glances from me and Keane the brothers ceased their stares of the young woman.
Over a hot meal the woman listened to our plight and offered a solution. Her dialect was thicker than ours but we had little difficulty understanding her proposal. After we were fed my sister and I went for a walk to discuss our delicate situation. I explained to her the priestess’s solution and after hurtful words were exchanged we finally agreed. Once my sister fell asleep, the woman explained the process of what we were to undergo, including that our appearance would remain for eternity should we wish it. I cut my hair and shaved to resemble the Romans. Keane agreed and did his best to remove the dreadlocks, cutting his hair to shoulder length and being that he barely shaved, kept his scruff. The twins; arrogant as they were, remained as they were.
The young woman carried a stone bowl as she led us out of the hut and into the woods, bending ever so often to pick a flower or dig up a root. About a hundred and fifty feet from her hut we came upon a secluded area; in the shape of a perfect circle the ground and forest floor had been cleared and a large tree stump sat directly center. The woman positioned us in a five point star inside the circle, placed the bowl carefully on the tree stump and dumped her forest finds inside. She reached under her dress, presented a vial of dark liquid, whispering something indiscernible into it and poured it on top of the greenery. She waved one of her delicate hands over the bowl as four separate smoke trails began to rise from it. She reached under her dress a final time revealing an ornate dagger; the smoke hovered over each of our heads as the woman took each of our hands and drew blood.
As the dagger collected the blood the smoke lingering overhead violently entered our bodies. The woman placed herself as the top point of the star pattern, which was just off center, raised her hands to the sky and began chanting it again. Her eyes became cloudy at first then fierce as the ice blue encased a red center. A great wind blew through and her hair was shoved backward to reveal a demonic face with a mouth full of sharp glittering teeth. The volume of her chanting increased momentarily and the four of us dropped to our knees, suddenly her chanting stopped. What followed was more excruciating than any battle wound. My bones felt as if they were breaking, my insides seized and my head pounded; blackness consumed me. We woke in the morning; our senses more acute than ever before. It was time.
Revelations of Cian
...more?
There is something about going into combat with your band of brothers first thing in the early morning; when the blackness of night converts to a grayish blue and watch, as the gray slowly fades away with the arrival of the sun. The morning we slaughtered the men who had ostracized us was a crisp one, the fog hanging heavily on the hill as we exacted our revenge. I can still recall the look on the faces of our former brethren as we crept into their huts; our fierce eyes the last sight the bastards saw as we tore out their throats and drank their blood. Our first kill as vampires would ultimately be the men who, for their own selfish reasons, distorted our human existence.
Once our mission in the village complete we set off on what I thought to be our “path of righteousness”, many, many later years would come to reveal its self to be a path of perplexity.
For many years my brothers and I fought for and with those who were being subjugated and the land they relied on; using these causes to fuel our hunger, not just for battle, but for blood. Today I don’t have any causes that fuel morality and unfortunately I am confident my father would be disappointed in the life I now lead.
I haven’t seen the twins or Keane in decades, breaking from each other after the Second World War. I have to confess that were I to come in contact with them again, I hope it were only Keane. Fallon and Finn I would be content without.
However that is the beginning of my long never ending past, my immortal life has been a series of violent happenings and adventurous endeavors. I have been everywhere and seen almost everything since the Fall of Rome. Fortunate, I have been in this immortality to experience the histories of so many different cultures. I have had many employers over the years in countries so far from my home and on the order I have infiltrated and left my deadly mark, some for royalty and some for the common man. If I were being honest with myself, I would confess I did it all for; myself. As a vampire all you have is yourself and I strategically placed myself in the way of any and all battles, conflicts, wars assisting anyone with the right amount of cause, only collecting coin from those who could afford it and the majority of the time only the privileged forfeited a purse. In this day and age I have not a cause but a price for all, human and vampire alike.
The modern enemy has a more extensive arsenal and it is imperative that I reciprocate, to do so I require payment for each job executed and I am always paid timely and handsomely.
Today I still occasionally work for humans masking myself as what is now referred to as an assassin, never meeting the client, I conduct all business through modern technological devices, the cellular telephone is a marvelous contraption. Prior to these advances I relied on the proverbial “word of mouth” trickling down to a vampire third party, though it’s almost been a thirty years since I worked for humans. For vampires I have no disguise, they are aware of my skill, usually channeling all pertinent information through the Queen, employing me as she see fit. I admit I enjoy the hunt, the strike and the kill of those who are justifiably wrong but the summoning had grown tiresome.
So much so that I no longer researched the tasks, verifying that my Queen wasn’t sending me on fool errands as I had in the past. Now, I just, do as I am told, is the best way to describe the current impression of my life and the mundane lethargy of it. My foes, in this day and age, are no match for my ancient intelligence and honed skill, it’s almost effortless.
My current location is New Orleans, LA, a southeastern city in Louisiana. Founded in 1718 and named for Philippe d’Orleans, the Duke of Orleans, Regent of France. A travel agent would describe it as a unique city, inhabited by a plethora of cross-culture and multilingual heritage. A place famous for not only its cuisine and music; but festivals of all kinds; Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest are the most popular.
Then there is our world, here in this fair city lies the underworld, of blood and sex and death, silent to the majority of the human populace; a world where we, as beautiful creatures of the night, seduce and feed on or enjoy sexual gratification from humans. It is a direct explanation, but a truthful one.
New Orleans is also a hotspot for Vodou or Voodoo, though it is seen as more of a tourist attraction these days, it is in fact very real and still seriously practiced within the city. When Napoleon sold the territory to the United States it broke the immigration barrier allowing an influx of many different races to settle in the area. With them came their culture, religions and heritage making New Orleans a rapidly growing and richly diverse place, a Mecca for the strange and unusual.
The surge of vampire activity in the city has been rampant for some time now and as my current employer resides within the city, I have remained here. Although it’s been some time since I ventured out of New Orleans, but the job is what it is and I go or stay where I am needed.
Once our mission in the village complete we set off on what I thought to be our “path of righteousness”, many, many later years would come to reveal its self to be a path of perplexity.
For many years my brothers and I fought for and with those who were being subjugated and the land they relied on; using these causes to fuel our hunger, not just for battle, but for blood. Today I don’t have any causes that fuel morality and unfortunately I am confident my father would be disappointed in the life I now lead.
I haven’t seen the twins or Keane in decades, breaking from each other after the Second World War. I have to confess that were I to come in contact with them again, I hope it were only Keane. Fallon and Finn I would be content without.
However that is the beginning of my long never ending past, my immortal life has been a series of violent happenings and adventurous endeavors. I have been everywhere and seen almost everything since the Fall of Rome. Fortunate, I have been in this immortality to experience the histories of so many different cultures. I have had many employers over the years in countries so far from my home and on the order I have infiltrated and left my deadly mark, some for royalty and some for the common man. If I were being honest with myself, I would confess I did it all for; myself. As a vampire all you have is yourself and I strategically placed myself in the way of any and all battles, conflicts, wars assisting anyone with the right amount of cause, only collecting coin from those who could afford it and the majority of the time only the privileged forfeited a purse. In this day and age I have not a cause but a price for all, human and vampire alike.
The modern enemy has a more extensive arsenal and it is imperative that I reciprocate, to do so I require payment for each job executed and I am always paid timely and handsomely.
Today I still occasionally work for humans masking myself as what is now referred to as an assassin, never meeting the client, I conduct all business through modern technological devices, the cellular telephone is a marvelous contraption. Prior to these advances I relied on the proverbial “word of mouth” trickling down to a vampire third party, though it’s almost been a thirty years since I worked for humans. For vampires I have no disguise, they are aware of my skill, usually channeling all pertinent information through the Queen, employing me as she see fit. I admit I enjoy the hunt, the strike and the kill of those who are justifiably wrong but the summoning had grown tiresome.
So much so that I no longer researched the tasks, verifying that my Queen wasn’t sending me on fool errands as I had in the past. Now, I just, do as I am told, is the best way to describe the current impression of my life and the mundane lethargy of it. My foes, in this day and age, are no match for my ancient intelligence and honed skill, it’s almost effortless.
My current location is New Orleans, LA, a southeastern city in Louisiana. Founded in 1718 and named for Philippe d’Orleans, the Duke of Orleans, Regent of France. A travel agent would describe it as a unique city, inhabited by a plethora of cross-culture and multilingual heritage. A place famous for not only its cuisine and music; but festivals of all kinds; Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest are the most popular.
Then there is our world, here in this fair city lies the underworld, of blood and sex and death, silent to the majority of the human populace; a world where we, as beautiful creatures of the night, seduce and feed on or enjoy sexual gratification from humans. It is a direct explanation, but a truthful one.
New Orleans is also a hotspot for Vodou or Voodoo, though it is seen as more of a tourist attraction these days, it is in fact very real and still seriously practiced within the city. When Napoleon sold the territory to the United States it broke the immigration barrier allowing an influx of many different races to settle in the area. With them came their culture, religions and heritage making New Orleans a rapidly growing and richly diverse place, a Mecca for the strange and unusual.
The surge of vampire activity in the city has been rampant for some time now and as my current employer resides within the city, I have remained here. Although it’s been some time since I ventured out of New Orleans, but the job is what it is and I go or stay where I am needed.
...The Nightly Grind.
I had risen and gone about the task that afforded my components of battle in the modern age and found myself in the heart of the French Quarter. The day must have been balmy as the evening still sheltered a hint of warmth before the cool breeze of the spring night set in.
I began making my way downriver toward The French Market and Jackson Square, passing Café Du Monde which had died down momentarily. Only a few patrons sat at the green patio table sets blowing powdered sugar on each other, I couldn’t help but smile to myself; first timers. The rich smell of the powdered beignets and café’ au lait lingered in the air as I strolled taking it all in. The flea market stalls had of course been covered for the night, tarps and padlocks lined long tables under the awning that shielded vendors from the brutal humid New Orleans days. I walked the avenue remembering a time so very long ago. As a child I had often accompanied my mother to the village market, the short time I had as a child.
The tables lining the French Market resembled the primitive benches and tables that housed vegetables and loafs of bread for sale, potatoes and herbs, roots and berries. As we walked my mother holding my hand, bending to my level to see my face as she spoke to me, she would take a bit in her hand, hold it out to me to describe to me of the recipes she would create with each item, her smiling face as she recalled the days she could make such meals. I can still recall the smell of her honey blonde hair as it cascaded over me when she leaned down to kiss my cheek. Her smile still so vivid in my mind and the soft touch of her skin interlocked in my fingers.
In that moment the joy of the memory of my mother was interrupted by a speeding tension. The distance between me and the force grew short and before I could turn to strike, it struck. Regaining composure from not only the shock of being surprised by anything, but the knock from where I stood was powerful. I turned to make the gaze of my nemesis; I was overcome with terrible pity at the horribly grotesque creature that stands before me.
My attacker, a tall, rail thin skeleton of a being stared at me with one eye as the other was hideously disfigured and not of the thing’s use, it spoke no words but tilted it’s head as if to engage me, I began to take a step forward when the creature darted into the darkness, I followed it’s appalling scent further into the Quarter, being painstakingly cautious to keep our row out of public view. It stealthily bounded through alleyways and corridors and I had to gain a single step ahead of it to have any chance of reciprocating the pleasure of attack. I slipped up a fire escape and followed it from above, leaping from building to building over Dauphine down to St. Phillips. It turned down Chartres then up Dumaine before doubling back to Royal. It was imperative I make my move before it had the opportunity to take a victim and gain more strength. Time running thin and the pavement in the Quarter getting short as I follow the creature to the river, waiting for the precise moment I leapt from the height down on to its boney hunched back, flattening it and of course I assumed I was successful in yet another easy endeavor. I am wrong.
Unexpectedly I am thrown from the creature’s frame, it hunches into a crouch fleeing over the Moon Walk, and I follow; remaining behind it at a good distance. It would need to feed and only the available prey; back in the Quarter. My scent is stronger than other vampires because of my age. I smell different than the younger ones of my kind. I was sure the creature would know the smell, should it come within a mile of me. I had to conceal my aroma to my best ability if I was to gain ground on it once more; I do this by walking through a group of smokers.
I am undetected as I slowly walk down Wilkinson, making a left onto Decatur, and then up St. Ann I hear the distinct sounds of guttural feeding. Careless, aggressive growling draws me closer and I see the thing gorging on a young male, two spilt coffee cups roll beneath them. I feel a light vibration and back away to stay out of sight/ear shot/scent range… reach into my pocket for my cell; it’s a text from Estella, “coming out?”
I text back, “on ur own tonight.”
Another buzzing sound, no words; merely a frowning face. I click the device off, investigating once more the position of my assailant, he is gone and the young man’s body nowhere to be found.
“Thanks Estella.” I say silently to myself.
However the further I walk, my hunger began to slowly make its self known; I did need to feed for the night as I had not had the opportunity, prior to the attack.
After prowling the art district and then Jackson Square I walked, taking in the night’s sounds and smells. In the distance the distinct sounds of night-owl humans retreating from the bars on Bourbon St, glasses being collected from the patios of restaurants and bags of trash hitting dumpsters. It was closing time for New Orleans and the music of the activity filtered through me.
I continued down the old brick street, my boots slowly becoming the only symphony when my senses flush; the unfamiliar sensation of my blood singing in my veins diverted my attentions, beckoning me like a demonic siren song. I follow the unbridled urge against my better judgment as this hastiness is something I had long overcome in my immortality. I allowed the sorcery to envelop me, curious for it’s meaning. I wasn’t disappointed.
I am quietly engrossed in, engulfed by, mesmerized and absorbed in what my judgment led me to. Not open, but the human tooling around in the light of the distant shop was what attracted me. The few lights that were on inside illuminating her like a heavenly spotlight and as I got closer I deduced the shop to be an art gallery, as the bright colors and smell of fresh paint unmistakably intruded on me; the artist was in residence.
Concentrated emotions led me; through the glass surrounding the exterior sat a woman bent over a desk overflowing with papers. With her head in her left hand and a pen in her right she seemed to be frustrated with what was before her. She was a classic beauty of French Creole features, a hint of Scotch-Irish also lingered in the frame of her face. Her long dark hair had a hint of cherry and flowed down over her shoulder covering her breast. She picked up a mass of it in her hand, grasping it firmly atop her head and appeared to be in deep thought, her brow furrowed and her eyes squinted, I moved closer, as she twisted her pink rose shaped mouth. Her cheekbones accentuated by this conformity; her skin had a glowing smoothness about it, as if a golden aura lay around her. I was taken aback as her eyes burst open, the proverbial light bulb, as if she had finally realized what was eluding her.
I am in overbearing shock; her eyes! They are vibrant green, like soft grass on a rolling hill, moss on the forest floor, like….home.
She shakes her head, closing her eyes to adjust before returning her gaze to the papers in front of her. I attempt to contain myself, jerked out of reverie when she then moved to put the pen down and got up from the desk. She stands tall, stretches, elongating her delicious frame. She then adjusted her man’s white under shirt, that clearly was a favorite as it was nearly a shredded cotton hull that fit her endowments, her nude yet elaborate bra visible through it.
I stared enthralled with the gloriousness before me. I wanted this fantastically beautiful creature, a feeling and notion utterly lost to me at my age. I wanted to do unspeakable and unimaginable acts with her…to her. Finding it difficult not to burst through the glass French window and for the sake of her mortality I began to back away, but I halted my step as she looked in the direction of a flight of stairs. I watched intently as the worn out pair of jeans hugging her curves ascended the narrow flight, the denim littered with paint stains along the backside and hip, where they hung nicely. Just before she disappeared from sight, I felt a hush through my cold heart; bare feet.
The thirst approaches and as I feel my teeth completely run out, as difficult as it was; I forced myself to recoil from the statuesque creature before me. I hadn’t fed on a human since the 80’s following an experience at a local hospital I have difficulty recalling. How I felt after, I can’t forget. The vague details; I have flashes of standing outside the ER of a parish hospital, overcome with anger, guilt, hatred, self-loathing, my whole core ripe with discontent. From that point, even though I have repressed whatever forced this lifestyle change, I refrain from the hunt of a live meal. But her spectacular beauty made me momentarily think otherwise, which slightly sickened me.
I turned to disappear from this place to pick up an appropriate meal, not before telling myself I would return. Upon my departure, I think to myself, “how could someone so young have so much?”
I went to pay an old friend a visit, which I did from time to time when the thirst became too great. Deep in the bayou lived Penelope D’Anjou my connection to the voodoo world, said to be over a hundred years old, she would never admit to this. Her age being her only tool of mystery, for her reputation precedes her. She has copper colored hair and caramel skin which is decorated head to toe in protection tattoos, given to her by her master of the craft when she was a young priestess in Haiti. Her eyes are enormously round and the most beautiful hazel in color. If you met her on the street you would swear she was only 35 or 40 in age.
Upon her arrival to America she gave birth to a daughter and has kept her identity a secret to everyone in her spiritual circle. She visits her daughter occasionally, along with speaking on the telephone but her daughter is never to visit her mother in the bayou, a dangerous place with a plethora of spiritual activity. For years Penelope kept her daughter in the city with her civilized family, as she would describe it, so that her daughter could maintain a fulfilling; life of normality.
The humidity remains a staple in this dank damp area, I hover over the river closing in on the tiny hut nestled along the swamp among the loons and toads, Spanish moss seemed to sweat above me as I made my way. At this hour nature’s creatures of the night were deep in the orchestra of their chirping and cooing songs but as I placed my feet on the dock, creeping toward the hut I began to hear faint traces of conversation. Penelope had guests.
Once I was sure of the departure of her company, I slipped up the twisted staircase of her hut. I reached for the primitive handle of a door and like clockwork Penelope already knew I was here.
“You know where to find it.” She said as the door swung to reveal her sitting before her cards, gathering them together in her caramel hands. I strode past her to the large freezer in the kitchen of her modest abode, ten steps and I was there. It was a small place and why wouldn’t it be? Living alone with occasional visitors provided her privacy and seclusion in the swampy bayou. From where she sat to where I stood a small hallway that would be wider was it not lined with shallow shelves housing all sized jars containing the necessary ingredients for her various rituals, covered to the unknowing by drapos or vodou flags and banners. One sequined drapo depicting the veve or symbol of Loko Atison and a banner reading “Troup Pou Te” in Haitian Creole are easily seen from the front room.
On the wall a statue of a horned man with fangs sat above a shelf holding a ceremonial drum, the cylindrical body carved and painted to depict a primitive male body with a voodoo doll head, tight animal hide tied to the top for sound. On the opposite wall a large frame holding a tattered blue ceremonial pantsuit, the cloth looked so ragged that if touched the fibers would crumble and turn to dust. Underfoot rugs of all shapes and sizes hid the flooring which no doubt show markings of protection from evil spirits. The kitchen had a small counter space, old gas stove on the end, small steel sink in the middle with a window of the same size directly above. To the left and right of the windows dried herbs and flower suspended upside down. The kitchen counter and cabinets below were battered and few. Beside the freezer stood a hutch with clouded glass doors that seemed to house all her “cooking” items. I opened the deep freezer to fish out a bag of blood. I don’t feed from humans anymore. I do, however require their blood, though not as much as countless others of my kind.
Penelope’s daughter is a nurse at a local hospital (since meeting her by interesting circumstances years ago) she made arrangements to help me keep from having to rely on attacking humans for their blood as I have done for so many years by having blood delivered to her “dying” mother. The hospital is none the wiser, once Penelope’s daughter provided her mother’s medical records and the date of her birth on paper, the records nor Penelope’s daughter would never be questioned. I of course pay the cost of the blood and the shipping charges, even providing Penelope and her daughter some currency for housing it for me. Luckily Penelope already had the freezer; needing facilities for her animals.
I stared at the bag for a moment when I heard her speak again from the front of the dwelling, “You getting’ low.”
“So I noticed.” I said walking by her back to the door. I stopped short. “Do you mind?” I reached into my pocket to fish out the roll of money I had collected over the past week. Jobs are always coming my way. Always. I tossed the roll while peering over my shoulder. She caught it as if it was destine for her hand and smiled at me in return.
I began making my way downriver toward The French Market and Jackson Square, passing Café Du Monde which had died down momentarily. Only a few patrons sat at the green patio table sets blowing powdered sugar on each other, I couldn’t help but smile to myself; first timers. The rich smell of the powdered beignets and café’ au lait lingered in the air as I strolled taking it all in. The flea market stalls had of course been covered for the night, tarps and padlocks lined long tables under the awning that shielded vendors from the brutal humid New Orleans days. I walked the avenue remembering a time so very long ago. As a child I had often accompanied my mother to the village market, the short time I had as a child.
The tables lining the French Market resembled the primitive benches and tables that housed vegetables and loafs of bread for sale, potatoes and herbs, roots and berries. As we walked my mother holding my hand, bending to my level to see my face as she spoke to me, she would take a bit in her hand, hold it out to me to describe to me of the recipes she would create with each item, her smiling face as she recalled the days she could make such meals. I can still recall the smell of her honey blonde hair as it cascaded over me when she leaned down to kiss my cheek. Her smile still so vivid in my mind and the soft touch of her skin interlocked in my fingers.
In that moment the joy of the memory of my mother was interrupted by a speeding tension. The distance between me and the force grew short and before I could turn to strike, it struck. Regaining composure from not only the shock of being surprised by anything, but the knock from where I stood was powerful. I turned to make the gaze of my nemesis; I was overcome with terrible pity at the horribly grotesque creature that stands before me.
My attacker, a tall, rail thin skeleton of a being stared at me with one eye as the other was hideously disfigured and not of the thing’s use, it spoke no words but tilted it’s head as if to engage me, I began to take a step forward when the creature darted into the darkness, I followed it’s appalling scent further into the Quarter, being painstakingly cautious to keep our row out of public view. It stealthily bounded through alleyways and corridors and I had to gain a single step ahead of it to have any chance of reciprocating the pleasure of attack. I slipped up a fire escape and followed it from above, leaping from building to building over Dauphine down to St. Phillips. It turned down Chartres then up Dumaine before doubling back to Royal. It was imperative I make my move before it had the opportunity to take a victim and gain more strength. Time running thin and the pavement in the Quarter getting short as I follow the creature to the river, waiting for the precise moment I leapt from the height down on to its boney hunched back, flattening it and of course I assumed I was successful in yet another easy endeavor. I am wrong.
Unexpectedly I am thrown from the creature’s frame, it hunches into a crouch fleeing over the Moon Walk, and I follow; remaining behind it at a good distance. It would need to feed and only the available prey; back in the Quarter. My scent is stronger than other vampires because of my age. I smell different than the younger ones of my kind. I was sure the creature would know the smell, should it come within a mile of me. I had to conceal my aroma to my best ability if I was to gain ground on it once more; I do this by walking through a group of smokers.
I am undetected as I slowly walk down Wilkinson, making a left onto Decatur, and then up St. Ann I hear the distinct sounds of guttural feeding. Careless, aggressive growling draws me closer and I see the thing gorging on a young male, two spilt coffee cups roll beneath them. I feel a light vibration and back away to stay out of sight/ear shot/scent range… reach into my pocket for my cell; it’s a text from Estella, “coming out?”
I text back, “on ur own tonight.”
Another buzzing sound, no words; merely a frowning face. I click the device off, investigating once more the position of my assailant, he is gone and the young man’s body nowhere to be found.
“Thanks Estella.” I say silently to myself.
However the further I walk, my hunger began to slowly make its self known; I did need to feed for the night as I had not had the opportunity, prior to the attack.
After prowling the art district and then Jackson Square I walked, taking in the night’s sounds and smells. In the distance the distinct sounds of night-owl humans retreating from the bars on Bourbon St, glasses being collected from the patios of restaurants and bags of trash hitting dumpsters. It was closing time for New Orleans and the music of the activity filtered through me.
I continued down the old brick street, my boots slowly becoming the only symphony when my senses flush; the unfamiliar sensation of my blood singing in my veins diverted my attentions, beckoning me like a demonic siren song. I follow the unbridled urge against my better judgment as this hastiness is something I had long overcome in my immortality. I allowed the sorcery to envelop me, curious for it’s meaning. I wasn’t disappointed.
I am quietly engrossed in, engulfed by, mesmerized and absorbed in what my judgment led me to. Not open, but the human tooling around in the light of the distant shop was what attracted me. The few lights that were on inside illuminating her like a heavenly spotlight and as I got closer I deduced the shop to be an art gallery, as the bright colors and smell of fresh paint unmistakably intruded on me; the artist was in residence.
Concentrated emotions led me; through the glass surrounding the exterior sat a woman bent over a desk overflowing with papers. With her head in her left hand and a pen in her right she seemed to be frustrated with what was before her. She was a classic beauty of French Creole features, a hint of Scotch-Irish also lingered in the frame of her face. Her long dark hair had a hint of cherry and flowed down over her shoulder covering her breast. She picked up a mass of it in her hand, grasping it firmly atop her head and appeared to be in deep thought, her brow furrowed and her eyes squinted, I moved closer, as she twisted her pink rose shaped mouth. Her cheekbones accentuated by this conformity; her skin had a glowing smoothness about it, as if a golden aura lay around her. I was taken aback as her eyes burst open, the proverbial light bulb, as if she had finally realized what was eluding her.
I am in overbearing shock; her eyes! They are vibrant green, like soft grass on a rolling hill, moss on the forest floor, like….home.
She shakes her head, closing her eyes to adjust before returning her gaze to the papers in front of her. I attempt to contain myself, jerked out of reverie when she then moved to put the pen down and got up from the desk. She stands tall, stretches, elongating her delicious frame. She then adjusted her man’s white under shirt, that clearly was a favorite as it was nearly a shredded cotton hull that fit her endowments, her nude yet elaborate bra visible through it.
I stared enthralled with the gloriousness before me. I wanted this fantastically beautiful creature, a feeling and notion utterly lost to me at my age. I wanted to do unspeakable and unimaginable acts with her…to her. Finding it difficult not to burst through the glass French window and for the sake of her mortality I began to back away, but I halted my step as she looked in the direction of a flight of stairs. I watched intently as the worn out pair of jeans hugging her curves ascended the narrow flight, the denim littered with paint stains along the backside and hip, where they hung nicely. Just before she disappeared from sight, I felt a hush through my cold heart; bare feet.
The thirst approaches and as I feel my teeth completely run out, as difficult as it was; I forced myself to recoil from the statuesque creature before me. I hadn’t fed on a human since the 80’s following an experience at a local hospital I have difficulty recalling. How I felt after, I can’t forget. The vague details; I have flashes of standing outside the ER of a parish hospital, overcome with anger, guilt, hatred, self-loathing, my whole core ripe with discontent. From that point, even though I have repressed whatever forced this lifestyle change, I refrain from the hunt of a live meal. But her spectacular beauty made me momentarily think otherwise, which slightly sickened me.
I turned to disappear from this place to pick up an appropriate meal, not before telling myself I would return. Upon my departure, I think to myself, “how could someone so young have so much?”
I went to pay an old friend a visit, which I did from time to time when the thirst became too great. Deep in the bayou lived Penelope D’Anjou my connection to the voodoo world, said to be over a hundred years old, she would never admit to this. Her age being her only tool of mystery, for her reputation precedes her. She has copper colored hair and caramel skin which is decorated head to toe in protection tattoos, given to her by her master of the craft when she was a young priestess in Haiti. Her eyes are enormously round and the most beautiful hazel in color. If you met her on the street you would swear she was only 35 or 40 in age.
Upon her arrival to America she gave birth to a daughter and has kept her identity a secret to everyone in her spiritual circle. She visits her daughter occasionally, along with speaking on the telephone but her daughter is never to visit her mother in the bayou, a dangerous place with a plethora of spiritual activity. For years Penelope kept her daughter in the city with her civilized family, as she would describe it, so that her daughter could maintain a fulfilling; life of normality.
The humidity remains a staple in this dank damp area, I hover over the river closing in on the tiny hut nestled along the swamp among the loons and toads, Spanish moss seemed to sweat above me as I made my way. At this hour nature’s creatures of the night were deep in the orchestra of their chirping and cooing songs but as I placed my feet on the dock, creeping toward the hut I began to hear faint traces of conversation. Penelope had guests.
Once I was sure of the departure of her company, I slipped up the twisted staircase of her hut. I reached for the primitive handle of a door and like clockwork Penelope already knew I was here.
“You know where to find it.” She said as the door swung to reveal her sitting before her cards, gathering them together in her caramel hands. I strode past her to the large freezer in the kitchen of her modest abode, ten steps and I was there. It was a small place and why wouldn’t it be? Living alone with occasional visitors provided her privacy and seclusion in the swampy bayou. From where she sat to where I stood a small hallway that would be wider was it not lined with shallow shelves housing all sized jars containing the necessary ingredients for her various rituals, covered to the unknowing by drapos or vodou flags and banners. One sequined drapo depicting the veve or symbol of Loko Atison and a banner reading “Troup Pou Te” in Haitian Creole are easily seen from the front room.
On the wall a statue of a horned man with fangs sat above a shelf holding a ceremonial drum, the cylindrical body carved and painted to depict a primitive male body with a voodoo doll head, tight animal hide tied to the top for sound. On the opposite wall a large frame holding a tattered blue ceremonial pantsuit, the cloth looked so ragged that if touched the fibers would crumble and turn to dust. Underfoot rugs of all shapes and sizes hid the flooring which no doubt show markings of protection from evil spirits. The kitchen had a small counter space, old gas stove on the end, small steel sink in the middle with a window of the same size directly above. To the left and right of the windows dried herbs and flower suspended upside down. The kitchen counter and cabinets below were battered and few. Beside the freezer stood a hutch with clouded glass doors that seemed to house all her “cooking” items. I opened the deep freezer to fish out a bag of blood. I don’t feed from humans anymore. I do, however require their blood, though not as much as countless others of my kind.
Penelope’s daughter is a nurse at a local hospital (since meeting her by interesting circumstances years ago) she made arrangements to help me keep from having to rely on attacking humans for their blood as I have done for so many years by having blood delivered to her “dying” mother. The hospital is none the wiser, once Penelope’s daughter provided her mother’s medical records and the date of her birth on paper, the records nor Penelope’s daughter would never be questioned. I of course pay the cost of the blood and the shipping charges, even providing Penelope and her daughter some currency for housing it for me. Luckily Penelope already had the freezer; needing facilities for her animals.
I stared at the bag for a moment when I heard her speak again from the front of the dwelling, “You getting’ low.”
“So I noticed.” I said walking by her back to the door. I stopped short. “Do you mind?” I reached into my pocket to fish out the roll of money I had collected over the past week. Jobs are always coming my way. Always. I tossed the roll while peering over my shoulder. She caught it as if it was destine for her hand and smiled at me in return.
...Home Sweet Home.
Back at my haven, one of the last remaining warehouses along The Mississippi River in the old warehouse district of New Orleans. A dilapidated place which is deemed condemned to the populace and scheduled at some point to be remodeled by the city. I extensively cleaned and repaired everything including the elevator. The ride from the first floor to the fifth used to be a long loud one, getting the machine silently operational had been a great chore.
I reached my floor and slide the gate up.
The wide open space is especially beneficial for the upkeep of skill, I do have a small living area to the far, far left of the space. Basic comfort is my preference; I do enjoy television, when I can enjoy television. I suppose it’s my one vanity other than my weapons which I spare no expense. I purchased a 50 inch RCA, LCD 1080i flat screen TV, which is safely bolted to my ceiling, on occasion prior to day-stasis I enjoy watching it in my box.
My box; I do not own a coffin but a large pine box (synonymous with what I would have been buried in once my people started burying their dead, in the time I was turned we burned our dead) equipped with simple pad lock again to be mistaken for a storage compartment, when I am not in it I use it as a coffee table. Inside basic blankets until I utilize it then the blankets I discard outside the box, I have no use for blankets but they come in handy for my ruse. Behind the box, a Victorian couch of bright green crushed velvet, which happen to already be here, as well as a pair of matching chairs, when I claimed the place as my own. There is no kitchen; however I did have a modest bathroom erected at the site of the existing plumbing. A mud room shower with a large drain and an industrial sink. There is also a floor to ceiling mirror I placed in that area; another item found amongst the rubble, it comes in handy when making absolutely certain you’ve washed all the blood off.
I blacked out the large warehouse windows with paint and lined panels to insure I don’t get caught by the breaking dawn. I sectioned off space to where the windows remain open so that during the night I may view the Quarter. I do not keep blood here in case the local police decide to raid these old places for vagrants. If my haven were discovered it would be looked upon as a homeless person’s dwelling. I also keep various weapons needed in my profession, those also kept under lock and key in the depths of the warehouse, an area of the building so intimidating no one dare venture.
It began to get late for me, early for humans. Dawn was approaching and I began the ritual of retiring to my box. I clasped the lock in my hand and put the key in, turned and pop. I removed the blankets and climbed in, lock in hand. The same lock used outside, I used to lock from the inside. During the day hours when we are “sleeping” isn’t a sleeping like humans. Once inside our coffins, mausoleums or boxes we are suspended inside until the sun descends below the Earth, “day-stasis”. I have never been comfortable with the lack of control of myself, although I should be grateful for the time I did have in the sun. Most days I am glad to have experienced the time I‘ve spent roaming this vast Earth, some days I wished my body had been set upon a pyre in the old days, my spirit cast to the stars.
The day wore on and I lay suspended, visions surrounding me, the creature….it’s primitivism and the familiarity, my mind trails before settling on the vision of the woman in the Quarter invoked a world of emotion in me, emotion I spent centuries upon century’s suppressing. My primal instincts rear their ugly head on occasion, the need to destroy. The salacious evil in each of us; we are immortal beauty to destroy mortal beauty. The monster inside hunts her, watching her every movement, tracking her steps, careful to retain her scent before accosting her to belligerently ravage her naked body, restricting her movement, can’t move, and can’t scream. Touching her, smelling her, listlessly searching for the exact point of entry, enjoying every jerk of her delicate body beneath it; the struggle is exhilarating, humorous.
It finds admission, simultaneously raping and sinking it’s teeth into the deliciously opaque flesh, her breast releasing a most delectable flood of crimson into it’s……my mouth, cascading over my tongue, quenching an aggressive thirst….
If ever I had the notion to seek out human companionship I was reminded of the priestess words, echoing in my ears,
“What you are will be a danger, to all who are human.” Crisp and clear as first I heard them, reminding me now, to feign any desire for knowledge of her.
Have I not served? Do I not deserve?
These thoughts, are the thoughts; of a monster.
Entangled in this until the moment of release and I welcome the distraction of freedom; I quickly removed the lock, flinging the lid off it’s hinges. And if the fact that I had to now repair the fucking thing wasn’t exacerbating enough I climbed out breathless, as if the weight of the lid pushing the visions further and deeper, more and more. I emerged slowly, regaining my composure as I had a job for the evening.
Club Morte’. Owned and operated by the most infamous of vampires, Madliene. Said to be the “Mother” of all vampires and as far as research shows, she is older than me. She is my most consistent employer and when she is not in need of my skill in the field I am at her whim, her recent suspicion of unregistered immortals in the area were raised by her minions. Of course she calls me.
The arrival of an Icelandic clan, vampires from the old world, made our Queen especially uneasy. There was speculative talk that the clan met secretively in New Orleans. Her interest in why the group is concealing itself from her embrace is speculative. Knowledge of the clan’s admission into New Orleans was very public, “vampire” public and when in a ruled territory, you must make appearances. They had failed to do so after more than a week inside the city borders. I received files week’s prior, basic knowledge of various vampires in the area that had not registered or treated with the Queen, the Icelandic clan among them.
A dense portion of the contents given to me contained vampires who may or may not carry hostility toward The Queen. The majority of its contents were irrelevant and very few of these vampires still existed. I didn’t know what she was insinuating by providing me with a folder full of useless information. Regardless, I would be in her dwelling soon enough.
I gathered my components for the night’s activities while still in last night’s gear. Vampires don’t sweat; no need to launder clothes, unless you catch a bit of blood, in that scenario there are facilities at Morte’ or I dispose of them, what is the purpose in cleaning blood drenched clothes? I have a simplistic wardrobe, needing much less by way of clothing and at my age I have grown accustom to it. T-shirts and jeans, leather motorcycle jacket (infused with Kevlar), military issue steel toe boots. I’ve spent many a day in full battle gear or some pompous court attire, I truly enjoy this day and age. Men are less interested in frills and thrills of fashion. I pulled my boots on and proceeded to lace them up when I hear a sound in the far distance. I chose this area for its lack of population, so noises are troubling. I decided to quicken my pace getting myself out of my haven for the night, there was no need for bloodshed just yet, still too early. I leapt to the window sill, taking one last glance around the warehouse before jumping five stories below, landing with persistence one moment and then nonchalantly appear among the human populace the next.
The air was sweet and cool, indicating the day was less humid. I enjoyed New Orleans like most vampires. You are never at a loss for familiar company. The culture is rich and human activity is great. Tourism has improved since Katrina and the city was once again ripe with saviors and sinners, angels and demons; us. During the hurricane and the months after, the city was left a depressing wasteland. Even vampires retreated to other areas to avoid the storm and the chaos that followed. Most of the aged, meaning myself and others who have walked this Earth too long, stayed and weathered the storm in hopes of restoring our community. Madliene had also stayed; being a business owner she had more of an obligation to do so.
It didn’t take long for the vampires to return to business and once accomplished some vampire business owners anonymously helped humans return to their day to day. During the night repairs would take place and in the morning hours when the proprietor arrived to his or her business an unexpected surprise await them. That is the spirit of this city, a city we as vampires hope to cherish for the millennia of years ahead of us.
Co-habitation with humans; who are not just food for us, they are an integral part of our society, especially for vampire business. Money, well let’s face it; it makes the world go round. If they do not exist, we do not. We could drink animal blood if we want to take on said animals attributes. Besides, we were human; we must drink human blood to sustain our human façade.
I’m sure animal blood could sustain us, but the eternal satisfaction of thirst cannot be quenched that way. Human blood holds more for us, the experience is unmistakable. Human emotion and fear run at its peak when we feed direct, we feel everything. A vampire can see human memories and feel the emotion inside each memory while feeding. Most are of great fear, some are intensely sexual and on the rare occasion you encounter a human who just wants to die. At one time or another I have had the discomfort, pleasure, and regret of each. I don’t need to feed to feel emotions, I feel them regardless. Vampire and Human alike and they are easy to disregard unless I am inundated.
I reached my floor and slide the gate up.
The wide open space is especially beneficial for the upkeep of skill, I do have a small living area to the far, far left of the space. Basic comfort is my preference; I do enjoy television, when I can enjoy television. I suppose it’s my one vanity other than my weapons which I spare no expense. I purchased a 50 inch RCA, LCD 1080i flat screen TV, which is safely bolted to my ceiling, on occasion prior to day-stasis I enjoy watching it in my box.
My box; I do not own a coffin but a large pine box (synonymous with what I would have been buried in once my people started burying their dead, in the time I was turned we burned our dead) equipped with simple pad lock again to be mistaken for a storage compartment, when I am not in it I use it as a coffee table. Inside basic blankets until I utilize it then the blankets I discard outside the box, I have no use for blankets but they come in handy for my ruse. Behind the box, a Victorian couch of bright green crushed velvet, which happen to already be here, as well as a pair of matching chairs, when I claimed the place as my own. There is no kitchen; however I did have a modest bathroom erected at the site of the existing plumbing. A mud room shower with a large drain and an industrial sink. There is also a floor to ceiling mirror I placed in that area; another item found amongst the rubble, it comes in handy when making absolutely certain you’ve washed all the blood off.
I blacked out the large warehouse windows with paint and lined panels to insure I don’t get caught by the breaking dawn. I sectioned off space to where the windows remain open so that during the night I may view the Quarter. I do not keep blood here in case the local police decide to raid these old places for vagrants. If my haven were discovered it would be looked upon as a homeless person’s dwelling. I also keep various weapons needed in my profession, those also kept under lock and key in the depths of the warehouse, an area of the building so intimidating no one dare venture.
It began to get late for me, early for humans. Dawn was approaching and I began the ritual of retiring to my box. I clasped the lock in my hand and put the key in, turned and pop. I removed the blankets and climbed in, lock in hand. The same lock used outside, I used to lock from the inside. During the day hours when we are “sleeping” isn’t a sleeping like humans. Once inside our coffins, mausoleums or boxes we are suspended inside until the sun descends below the Earth, “day-stasis”. I have never been comfortable with the lack of control of myself, although I should be grateful for the time I did have in the sun. Most days I am glad to have experienced the time I‘ve spent roaming this vast Earth, some days I wished my body had been set upon a pyre in the old days, my spirit cast to the stars.
The day wore on and I lay suspended, visions surrounding me, the creature….it’s primitivism and the familiarity, my mind trails before settling on the vision of the woman in the Quarter invoked a world of emotion in me, emotion I spent centuries upon century’s suppressing. My primal instincts rear their ugly head on occasion, the need to destroy. The salacious evil in each of us; we are immortal beauty to destroy mortal beauty. The monster inside hunts her, watching her every movement, tracking her steps, careful to retain her scent before accosting her to belligerently ravage her naked body, restricting her movement, can’t move, and can’t scream. Touching her, smelling her, listlessly searching for the exact point of entry, enjoying every jerk of her delicate body beneath it; the struggle is exhilarating, humorous.
It finds admission, simultaneously raping and sinking it’s teeth into the deliciously opaque flesh, her breast releasing a most delectable flood of crimson into it’s……my mouth, cascading over my tongue, quenching an aggressive thirst….
If ever I had the notion to seek out human companionship I was reminded of the priestess words, echoing in my ears,
“What you are will be a danger, to all who are human.” Crisp and clear as first I heard them, reminding me now, to feign any desire for knowledge of her.
Have I not served? Do I not deserve?
These thoughts, are the thoughts; of a monster.
Entangled in this until the moment of release and I welcome the distraction of freedom; I quickly removed the lock, flinging the lid off it’s hinges. And if the fact that I had to now repair the fucking thing wasn’t exacerbating enough I climbed out breathless, as if the weight of the lid pushing the visions further and deeper, more and more. I emerged slowly, regaining my composure as I had a job for the evening.
Club Morte’. Owned and operated by the most infamous of vampires, Madliene. Said to be the “Mother” of all vampires and as far as research shows, she is older than me. She is my most consistent employer and when she is not in need of my skill in the field I am at her whim, her recent suspicion of unregistered immortals in the area were raised by her minions. Of course she calls me.
The arrival of an Icelandic clan, vampires from the old world, made our Queen especially uneasy. There was speculative talk that the clan met secretively in New Orleans. Her interest in why the group is concealing itself from her embrace is speculative. Knowledge of the clan’s admission into New Orleans was very public, “vampire” public and when in a ruled territory, you must make appearances. They had failed to do so after more than a week inside the city borders. I received files week’s prior, basic knowledge of various vampires in the area that had not registered or treated with the Queen, the Icelandic clan among them.
A dense portion of the contents given to me contained vampires who may or may not carry hostility toward The Queen. The majority of its contents were irrelevant and very few of these vampires still existed. I didn’t know what she was insinuating by providing me with a folder full of useless information. Regardless, I would be in her dwelling soon enough.
I gathered my components for the night’s activities while still in last night’s gear. Vampires don’t sweat; no need to launder clothes, unless you catch a bit of blood, in that scenario there are facilities at Morte’ or I dispose of them, what is the purpose in cleaning blood drenched clothes? I have a simplistic wardrobe, needing much less by way of clothing and at my age I have grown accustom to it. T-shirts and jeans, leather motorcycle jacket (infused with Kevlar), military issue steel toe boots. I’ve spent many a day in full battle gear or some pompous court attire, I truly enjoy this day and age. Men are less interested in frills and thrills of fashion. I pulled my boots on and proceeded to lace them up when I hear a sound in the far distance. I chose this area for its lack of population, so noises are troubling. I decided to quicken my pace getting myself out of my haven for the night, there was no need for bloodshed just yet, still too early. I leapt to the window sill, taking one last glance around the warehouse before jumping five stories below, landing with persistence one moment and then nonchalantly appear among the human populace the next.
The air was sweet and cool, indicating the day was less humid. I enjoyed New Orleans like most vampires. You are never at a loss for familiar company. The culture is rich and human activity is great. Tourism has improved since Katrina and the city was once again ripe with saviors and sinners, angels and demons; us. During the hurricane and the months after, the city was left a depressing wasteland. Even vampires retreated to other areas to avoid the storm and the chaos that followed. Most of the aged, meaning myself and others who have walked this Earth too long, stayed and weathered the storm in hopes of restoring our community. Madliene had also stayed; being a business owner she had more of an obligation to do so.
It didn’t take long for the vampires to return to business and once accomplished some vampire business owners anonymously helped humans return to their day to day. During the night repairs would take place and in the morning hours when the proprietor arrived to his or her business an unexpected surprise await them. That is the spirit of this city, a city we as vampires hope to cherish for the millennia of years ahead of us.
Co-habitation with humans; who are not just food for us, they are an integral part of our society, especially for vampire business. Money, well let’s face it; it makes the world go round. If they do not exist, we do not. We could drink animal blood if we want to take on said animals attributes. Besides, we were human; we must drink human blood to sustain our human façade.
I’m sure animal blood could sustain us, but the eternal satisfaction of thirst cannot be quenched that way. Human blood holds more for us, the experience is unmistakable. Human emotion and fear run at its peak when we feed direct, we feel everything. A vampire can see human memories and feel the emotion inside each memory while feeding. Most are of great fear, some are intensely sexual and on the rare occasion you encounter a human who just wants to die. At one time or another I have had the discomfort, pleasure, and regret of each. I don’t need to feed to feel emotions, I feel them regardless. Vampire and Human alike and they are easy to disregard unless I am inundated.
Welcome to Morte'...
My arrival to Morte’ as an observer was as it always is, pulsating rhythms synchronized to elaborate light shows, for the time being, Porno for Pyro’s “Tahitian Moon” blasted it’s eloquence through the club, however the later the hour here, the darker and more dangerous the music becomes.
I silently slip into the hidden corridor leading to the balcony which overlooks the club and its patrons. The elusive balcony is usually where Madliene holds court, and at this moment in time she had not yet made her grand entrance as I emerged. I strode to the railed edge of the balcony overlooking the human patrons already inhabiting the club, some catching a glimpse of me, excitement overcoming them, I back away slowly. If invited to treat with the Queen atop the balcony, beware. There is a reason no human returns from the balcony. I do my absolute damnedest to avoid the patrons at Morte’.
One of the last remaining old warehouses off highway 90 by the Mississippi River. Morte’, itself, on the outside looks of nothing special. A large warehouse with a single door, the only working street lamp on the block flickers in the distance for the slightest hint of light. The sidewalk underfoot lay cracked with weeds growing between, no sign. If you weren’t hinted to the fact that it was there you would never know. Before actual entry to the club there is a sound proof membrane surrounding the interior, Once past the membrane you are met with the picture of blasphemous decadence.
Onyx floors stretch throughout encased by black and red damask plastered the walls above baroque wood paneled wainscoting, plush couches and chairs scattered around giant day beds covered in luxurious silk pillows outline a dance floor. Long and heavy black-out curtains from ceiling to floor, creating a beautiful pattern among the damask.
Gargantuan antique chandeliers rained over head and small stand only tables lined the exterior wall up to a birth on either side of the bar; a sight in its self to behold. Six, 6 foot multi-lit, multi-colored glass shelves housing any being’s preferred poison flank a granite slab on top of paneled wood. From the balcony is unseen as it lies directly under, at the bottom of a grand wrought iron staircase. The music has changed to Massive Attack’s “Angel” but there is no DJ or band visible, a laptop with a continual playlist as DJ, everything, including the lights fully controllable behind the bar.
The vampire community is well aware of Morte’ since Madliene is the authority in this area, but for humans it’s an invitation only establishment. A human must arrive with a vampire or have the name of a well known amongst the community to gain entry to the club. Hosts may share with other vampires at the human’s consent. If the consenting human so inclines, he or she may add themselves to the list of regular meals served at the club. Each night the same monotonous behavior, humans serving themselves up for vampire consumption; in hope, some sort of sick sadistic hope of being brought into our world, morbid hope to be sexually intimate with one of us. Or, sadly, a hope to die. Curious hope? Curiosity is a dangerous thing and human curiosity is that of a cat’s.
From high on my perch I could see Estella and Sophia, children of The Queen, running the bar at Morte’ and serving drinks; both women created by Madliene at the most desperate and detrimental part of their lives.
Madliene made Estella after finding her bleeding to death from a vampire attack. From New Orleans, Estella Lancaster Benoit had been the fiancée of a landowner, aged 21 years before her life was snatched from and returned to her. The daughter of a prominent plantation owner named Benoit, Estella was the picture of southern elegance, always dressed in the finest gowns and attending any and all social events. Not long after the Mexican-American war ended and her beloved returned home wounded, unlike so many others who didn’t return at all, she was dressing for his homecoming dinner. An event in the making since the boy departed. Times were still hard and in the south, very few families had the means to throw a party but the Beauregard’s adored their son and spared no saved expense when he came home from battle. Estella and the Captain (at the time, he would become a General) were to be wed as soon as his shoulder and thigh wounds healed. Unfortunately Estella didn’t make an appearance at dinner or anywhere else for that matter. Attacked inside her room and dragged out to the grounds she was fed upon by a vampire named Creighton and left for dead under a conglomerate of Magnolia trees. Madliene being omni-present felt Estella’s pain and saved the young beauty adorned with magnificent strawberry blonde hair and eyes radiantly green like moss in the forest.
Since that day she has been in debt to our Queen, forever to serve for the gracious gift bestowed upon her by her Majesty. Tonight she was dressed in her Morte’ best; pouring herself into a pair of skin tight black leather pants, my eyes flowed down her thighs to a pair of black shiny platform spiked heels before making it back up to the matching pink corset, which crushed her breasts to her chest, adorned with black lace up the torso and across her shoulders where the straps painstakingly held her in place. Estella is a bountiful creature and tonight her strawberry blonde hair curled perfectly around her uplifted breasts. She turned from the current table monopolizing her attention to peer up the balcony at me and smiled. Her beautiful gleaming K-9 teeth present as she did so.
Her Captain, who died a General, married of course. A prominent woman from a Sugar Cane family, they had 3 children. He lost her during the childbirth of the third. He re-married some years later to another daughter of a sugar cane planter, they had no children. She died four years later.
Estella speaks of her time with great fervor, truly a southern belle turned bitter by her circumstances. She is accepting of the facts these days however when you hear her speak of it, you can’t help but feel sorry for her. Her whole life planned out, gone in an instant. I don’t know if she keeps tabs on the remaining descendants of her Captain or that of her own family; but it wouldn’t surprise me.
Although I stood in deep thought I felt her presence as she graced the corridor, not to mention her heel clipping the step as she bent down to enter.
“See anything you like Cian? Can I offer you someone?” she said in jest. Estella knew of my feeding habits. I decided to make her think none the less.
“Eh, you’re working.” I said without changing my gaze at the crowd. I could feel her green eyes bore into what lack of a soul I had.
Estella and I have always had a pretty good relationship. She can talk to me and I can listen. When she and I do talk we don’t discuss me or my past. There have only been a few times she was the listener and from the way her face twisted while I spoke, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to listen to my past ever again; I am content listening to hers. She hasn’t the sexual desire for me that I have for her and in all honesty I don’t quite understand my fascination, but I have it and its present when I am in her company.
Unfortunately for me, she currently beds another female vampire, Angelique, sister to Sophia; Biological sisters to be precise. Angelique, the first to be taken by Madliene, then more recently Sophia; the sisters are not my biggest fans. Angelique resents the relationship I have with Estella and Sophia is just doing what her big sister thinks she should, I respect her loyalty.
Angelique is rarely at work due to her dissatisfaction with her position in Madliene’s court. The Queen, however is not concerned with Angelique as long as Sophia is present and accounted for. In turn Sophia holds a little of her own resentment toward her sister as Sophia has not long resided in the Queen’s court and Angelique has been in service for much longer. The sisters had very similar facial features; both have dark curly brown almost black hair and dark brown eyes. Angelique is paler than her sister and is always dressed in black; which only regards her as paler. Sophia likes to dress in the latest fashions and has an olive complexion. They are both bountifully proportioned with Sophia being slightly healthier than her gaunt sister. I can’t comprehend, nor attempt to understand the attraction Estella has to Angelique but it must be sincere.
Angelique as of late is missing, gone rogue. No one knows, Estella is visibly worried on a regular basis, yet she is counter controlled by Madliene to be the vision of eroticism, but many male patrons of Morte’ make the mistake of grabbing her and they learn very quickly to not do it again. The humans she is always cautious with, giving them a “slap on the wrist”. The vampires, who are old enough to know better, against them, she was allowed to defend her honor as she saw fit. Madliene sees everything as a sort of entertainment; everything has humor or an ironic fervor about it. Even if it involves her own children.
Madliene, The Queen of all Vampires made her grand entrance. The intense lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, “Heresy” ceases to play as the most dangerously beautiful woman in existence and the claimed, oldest of our kind; graces the club with her omnipotence. She is as shrewd in her business as she is about her children and she has millions of both, spending the vast amount of her time in New Orleans. It is said that the only vampire myth that is true from the old country is the “Death to the original vampire means death to all made vampires.” And she is speculated to be the One. If this is true I don’t know and we probably never know as she is indestructible, impenetrable, and harboring more than mere vampire powers, her ties to the Voudo underworld are also of infamy.
The Queen is a tall slender woman, almost gaunt but she is always dressed very well, for her money is no object. She has the complexion of a china doll, her hair is a wavy jet black, her eyes are black, almond shaped unless provoked or hungry; they begin to burn bright hazel with prominent green barbs, becoming wider and larger. No one knows her decent or country of origin, but it is speculated that she is of French ancestry. She has been virtually everywhere and known literally everyone.
Madliene glides across the floor, the train of her ornately beaded sheath gown following behind, everyone including the humans bow in her presence. Flanked by her minions Romeo and Damien, why she surrounded herself with humans who couldn’t protect her wasn’t beyond me.
She was making a statement, implying that she is so powerful she needs not immortals to protect her, but if need be they are not far. Sophia and Estella on alert nearby to spring into action should the situation call for it. After gracing the dance floor with her presence she and her minions made their way to the grand staircase, she floated effortlessly to the top while Romeo and Damien climbed each step behind her. Once at the top and in view of the patrons below she waved her hand and the atmosphere regained its previous debauchery.
Tonight the atmosphere was calm and neither Estella nor Sophia seemed to exude any sort of tension. I remained at my perch, observing and stalking, watching and spying…listening until the kiss of just before dawn, I made my exit through the corridor, while on the short walk to my haven, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of urge to wander into the Quarter, but time was limited and the following night I was at the whim of no one.
I only take one night a week to rest myself, not that I need to, being a vampire. The downtime is appreciated when I can get it. I had newspapers from weeks and weeks piled up around my haven and as I gathered them to take out I saw a familiarly striking face. Even in black and gray print she was beautiful.
The heavenly creature I had stumbled upon in the French Quarter was staring back at me from my newspaper, the headline reading, “Husband of Beauregard Heiress Missing.” Further down the article a picture of Griffin Benoit a healthy thirty-something father, with what looked to be sandy-blonde hair, light eyes and a kind smile.
I silently slip into the hidden corridor leading to the balcony which overlooks the club and its patrons. The elusive balcony is usually where Madliene holds court, and at this moment in time she had not yet made her grand entrance as I emerged. I strode to the railed edge of the balcony overlooking the human patrons already inhabiting the club, some catching a glimpse of me, excitement overcoming them, I back away slowly. If invited to treat with the Queen atop the balcony, beware. There is a reason no human returns from the balcony. I do my absolute damnedest to avoid the patrons at Morte’.
One of the last remaining old warehouses off highway 90 by the Mississippi River. Morte’, itself, on the outside looks of nothing special. A large warehouse with a single door, the only working street lamp on the block flickers in the distance for the slightest hint of light. The sidewalk underfoot lay cracked with weeds growing between, no sign. If you weren’t hinted to the fact that it was there you would never know. Before actual entry to the club there is a sound proof membrane surrounding the interior, Once past the membrane you are met with the picture of blasphemous decadence.
Onyx floors stretch throughout encased by black and red damask plastered the walls above baroque wood paneled wainscoting, plush couches and chairs scattered around giant day beds covered in luxurious silk pillows outline a dance floor. Long and heavy black-out curtains from ceiling to floor, creating a beautiful pattern among the damask.
Gargantuan antique chandeliers rained over head and small stand only tables lined the exterior wall up to a birth on either side of the bar; a sight in its self to behold. Six, 6 foot multi-lit, multi-colored glass shelves housing any being’s preferred poison flank a granite slab on top of paneled wood. From the balcony is unseen as it lies directly under, at the bottom of a grand wrought iron staircase. The music has changed to Massive Attack’s “Angel” but there is no DJ or band visible, a laptop with a continual playlist as DJ, everything, including the lights fully controllable behind the bar.
The vampire community is well aware of Morte’ since Madliene is the authority in this area, but for humans it’s an invitation only establishment. A human must arrive with a vampire or have the name of a well known amongst the community to gain entry to the club. Hosts may share with other vampires at the human’s consent. If the consenting human so inclines, he or she may add themselves to the list of regular meals served at the club. Each night the same monotonous behavior, humans serving themselves up for vampire consumption; in hope, some sort of sick sadistic hope of being brought into our world, morbid hope to be sexually intimate with one of us. Or, sadly, a hope to die. Curious hope? Curiosity is a dangerous thing and human curiosity is that of a cat’s.
From high on my perch I could see Estella and Sophia, children of The Queen, running the bar at Morte’ and serving drinks; both women created by Madliene at the most desperate and detrimental part of their lives.
Madliene made Estella after finding her bleeding to death from a vampire attack. From New Orleans, Estella Lancaster Benoit had been the fiancée of a landowner, aged 21 years before her life was snatched from and returned to her. The daughter of a prominent plantation owner named Benoit, Estella was the picture of southern elegance, always dressed in the finest gowns and attending any and all social events. Not long after the Mexican-American war ended and her beloved returned home wounded, unlike so many others who didn’t return at all, she was dressing for his homecoming dinner. An event in the making since the boy departed. Times were still hard and in the south, very few families had the means to throw a party but the Beauregard’s adored their son and spared no saved expense when he came home from battle. Estella and the Captain (at the time, he would become a General) were to be wed as soon as his shoulder and thigh wounds healed. Unfortunately Estella didn’t make an appearance at dinner or anywhere else for that matter. Attacked inside her room and dragged out to the grounds she was fed upon by a vampire named Creighton and left for dead under a conglomerate of Magnolia trees. Madliene being omni-present felt Estella’s pain and saved the young beauty adorned with magnificent strawberry blonde hair and eyes radiantly green like moss in the forest.
Since that day she has been in debt to our Queen, forever to serve for the gracious gift bestowed upon her by her Majesty. Tonight she was dressed in her Morte’ best; pouring herself into a pair of skin tight black leather pants, my eyes flowed down her thighs to a pair of black shiny platform spiked heels before making it back up to the matching pink corset, which crushed her breasts to her chest, adorned with black lace up the torso and across her shoulders where the straps painstakingly held her in place. Estella is a bountiful creature and tonight her strawberry blonde hair curled perfectly around her uplifted breasts. She turned from the current table monopolizing her attention to peer up the balcony at me and smiled. Her beautiful gleaming K-9 teeth present as she did so.
Her Captain, who died a General, married of course. A prominent woman from a Sugar Cane family, they had 3 children. He lost her during the childbirth of the third. He re-married some years later to another daughter of a sugar cane planter, they had no children. She died four years later.
Estella speaks of her time with great fervor, truly a southern belle turned bitter by her circumstances. She is accepting of the facts these days however when you hear her speak of it, you can’t help but feel sorry for her. Her whole life planned out, gone in an instant. I don’t know if she keeps tabs on the remaining descendants of her Captain or that of her own family; but it wouldn’t surprise me.
Although I stood in deep thought I felt her presence as she graced the corridor, not to mention her heel clipping the step as she bent down to enter.
“See anything you like Cian? Can I offer you someone?” she said in jest. Estella knew of my feeding habits. I decided to make her think none the less.
“Eh, you’re working.” I said without changing my gaze at the crowd. I could feel her green eyes bore into what lack of a soul I had.
Estella and I have always had a pretty good relationship. She can talk to me and I can listen. When she and I do talk we don’t discuss me or my past. There have only been a few times she was the listener and from the way her face twisted while I spoke, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to listen to my past ever again; I am content listening to hers. She hasn’t the sexual desire for me that I have for her and in all honesty I don’t quite understand my fascination, but I have it and its present when I am in her company.
Unfortunately for me, she currently beds another female vampire, Angelique, sister to Sophia; Biological sisters to be precise. Angelique, the first to be taken by Madliene, then more recently Sophia; the sisters are not my biggest fans. Angelique resents the relationship I have with Estella and Sophia is just doing what her big sister thinks she should, I respect her loyalty.
Angelique is rarely at work due to her dissatisfaction with her position in Madliene’s court. The Queen, however is not concerned with Angelique as long as Sophia is present and accounted for. In turn Sophia holds a little of her own resentment toward her sister as Sophia has not long resided in the Queen’s court and Angelique has been in service for much longer. The sisters had very similar facial features; both have dark curly brown almost black hair and dark brown eyes. Angelique is paler than her sister and is always dressed in black; which only regards her as paler. Sophia likes to dress in the latest fashions and has an olive complexion. They are both bountifully proportioned with Sophia being slightly healthier than her gaunt sister. I can’t comprehend, nor attempt to understand the attraction Estella has to Angelique but it must be sincere.
Angelique as of late is missing, gone rogue. No one knows, Estella is visibly worried on a regular basis, yet she is counter controlled by Madliene to be the vision of eroticism, but many male patrons of Morte’ make the mistake of grabbing her and they learn very quickly to not do it again. The humans she is always cautious with, giving them a “slap on the wrist”. The vampires, who are old enough to know better, against them, she was allowed to defend her honor as she saw fit. Madliene sees everything as a sort of entertainment; everything has humor or an ironic fervor about it. Even if it involves her own children.
Madliene, The Queen of all Vampires made her grand entrance. The intense lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, “Heresy” ceases to play as the most dangerously beautiful woman in existence and the claimed, oldest of our kind; graces the club with her omnipotence. She is as shrewd in her business as she is about her children and she has millions of both, spending the vast amount of her time in New Orleans. It is said that the only vampire myth that is true from the old country is the “Death to the original vampire means death to all made vampires.” And she is speculated to be the One. If this is true I don’t know and we probably never know as she is indestructible, impenetrable, and harboring more than mere vampire powers, her ties to the Voudo underworld are also of infamy.
The Queen is a tall slender woman, almost gaunt but she is always dressed very well, for her money is no object. She has the complexion of a china doll, her hair is a wavy jet black, her eyes are black, almond shaped unless provoked or hungry; they begin to burn bright hazel with prominent green barbs, becoming wider and larger. No one knows her decent or country of origin, but it is speculated that she is of French ancestry. She has been virtually everywhere and known literally everyone.
Madliene glides across the floor, the train of her ornately beaded sheath gown following behind, everyone including the humans bow in her presence. Flanked by her minions Romeo and Damien, why she surrounded herself with humans who couldn’t protect her wasn’t beyond me.
She was making a statement, implying that she is so powerful she needs not immortals to protect her, but if need be they are not far. Sophia and Estella on alert nearby to spring into action should the situation call for it. After gracing the dance floor with her presence she and her minions made their way to the grand staircase, she floated effortlessly to the top while Romeo and Damien climbed each step behind her. Once at the top and in view of the patrons below she waved her hand and the atmosphere regained its previous debauchery.
Tonight the atmosphere was calm and neither Estella nor Sophia seemed to exude any sort of tension. I remained at my perch, observing and stalking, watching and spying…listening until the kiss of just before dawn, I made my exit through the corridor, while on the short walk to my haven, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of urge to wander into the Quarter, but time was limited and the following night I was at the whim of no one.
I only take one night a week to rest myself, not that I need to, being a vampire. The downtime is appreciated when I can get it. I had newspapers from weeks and weeks piled up around my haven and as I gathered them to take out I saw a familiarly striking face. Even in black and gray print she was beautiful.
The heavenly creature I had stumbled upon in the French Quarter was staring back at me from my newspaper, the headline reading, “Husband of Beauregard Heiress Missing.” Further down the article a picture of Griffin Benoit a healthy thirty-something father, with what looked to be sandy-blonde hair, light eyes and a kind smile.
Babet...Up close and Personal
I was in shock, not only did she have children but she was married and her husband was missing. I followed the story, basically stated that they were both working late at the studio/gallery they co-owned named “Scarlet Henri” when she asked him to go out to get them some coffee. He left on foot and never returned. Her name is Babet Beauregard Benoit, heiress to the Beauregard fortune which included a vast antebellum style home and land, known as the Chalmette Battlefield. The property at the moment is a museum, overseen by her mother, Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard.
The story shifts from her missing husband to museum coming events, including one taking place this evening! It all made sense, why I hadn’t thought of it before, maybe I was too wound up in the Queen’s chores, whatever the reason I now realized how this exquisite young woman came to afford to own her own art gallery and studio in the French Quarter.
Benoit, more importantly Beauregard; names I have only heard spoken by one other, Estella. I tossed the paper back with the others and began to dress, in accordance with an evening out; I did own one set of evening wear, gray slacks and a black button up dress shirt. I slipped a black belt through the loop holes, fastening the buckle and stood in front of the floor mirror, deciding whether or not to also wear a tie. I opt for the bachelor look and leave the top button of my shirt open, slipping my feet into the one pair of Frank Sinatra; rat pack style dress shoes I own.
The quarter was busy with people as the evening was still early. I hastily strolled through them undetected and rounded the corner to the cobble stone street reaching the turquoise two-story building where Babet Benoit worked and lived. As I stood staring at the front of the gallery through large French windows, I was in awe. From ceiling to floor massive paintings occupied the cream walls. Larger at the top, smaller and smaller as they worked down to some 5 X 5 prints at the bottom, stopping at a chair rail circling the room. Landscapes and portraits, still life and nudes, all very beautifully painted. Dynamic brush strokes captivated the canvases with vivid color.
The floor was a tiled mosaic with colors that mimic the exterior of the building and surroundings of the Quarter. Glass shelves placed strategically as patron paths for browsing. Atop the shelves were ceramic pieces of all sizes and colors. Like colored pieces featured together as individual displays. My attentions were diverted when I saw Babet enter the gallery from the back carrying a painting under each arm.
She is thankfully dressed in something other than the worn out jeans and t-shirt and her hair was a waterfall of cherry curls pulled halfway up her head. Her flawless skin glowed against the bright white of her sundress that billowed like a ribbon as she walked; I watched as she gently she set the paintings down beside two ornate frames, I noticed when she turned; she had a small fleur de leis tattoo on her inner right ankle.
She slightly bent over and one of the dress’ straps fell from her shoulder to her arm. She quickly grabbed it to pull it back to place and hurriedly retreated to the back once more. I stood waiting to see her emerge again and when she adorned a light blue sweater, and carried a small bag and a pair of sandals in her left hand, car keys in her right. She walked barefoot to the narrow staircase and yelled up to someone named Caroline, she was leaving. Once back inside the Gallery she slipped on her sandals, threw the bag over her shoulder and grabbed one painting and one frame. She was to repeat this once more before she left the building. I crept down the alley to where I could just see her car, the trunk was still open. She had yet to finish loading the last painting and frame; suddenly I heard her angelic voice.
“Something I can help you with sir?” I hear her say from inside the Gallery. I darted back down the alley to the front of the building, peering through a corner of the window I saw her engaging in business with a local man.
“Oh, Babe, you startled me!” A mousey man in a linen pantsuit stood in the middle of the Gallery. He wasn’t even five and half feet tall with silver hair and blue eyes. He seemed nervous as he gripped a fedora tightly in his tiny hands.
“I’m sorry Mr. Bordeaux, I didn’t mean to,” her is voice a charming symphony. She stood smiling, patiently waiting for his reply to her first question.
He straightened himself, in a matter-of-fact kind of way and proudly said, “Yes, I wanted to commission you to paint my Millicent.”
I feel her swell with pride, “I’d love to Mr. Bordeaux and I usually would stay and go over the details with you, but my mother is expecting me at the museum with these two original paintings of the house, so I must go. Would it be alright if I call you in the morning to work out the specifics? You know, background, color, all that.” She said as she motioned him toward the front door and when his back was turned her face showed disappointment at herself for not locking it before she had intended to leave.
Once the jittery little man was out the door she flipped a sign stating the hours of operation and turned the lock. Leaping toward the back door she yelled again to Caroline that she was now leaving. I darted back up the alley where her car remained idling. She loaded the last two items and slammed the trunk. She turned and her dress floated up enough to see her upper thigh meet her buttocks. She jumped in her car, slammed the door and reversed down the driveway, nearly hitting a trashcan at the end. Once she was out of sight I ran down the drive to follow her.
It wasn’t a long journey, The Beauregard House and Chalmette Battlefield is only seven miles downriver from the New Orleans French Quarter. Babet pulled her car around to the backside of the house where her mother was standing waiting impatiently for her daughter to arrive with the paintings. Her car came to a stop and the trunk flew open before the brake lights dimmed out. She put the car in park and sprang out of the driver’s side door, slamming it as just as quickly. She awkwardly adjusts her dress as she walks around to greet her mother who releases her crossed arms at the sight of her daughter.
A smile grew across the woman’s face and she opened her arms to hug her daughter. Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard was an attractive older woman; her daughter may have inherited some of her mother’s facial features, but her complexion and shape are all from her father’s side, Creole.
Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard is a petit woman with silvery blonde hair and green eyes like her daughter. I am caught off guard slightly by the vision of Babet’s mother covered in blood, which quickly subsides. Where did that come from?!?
She is dripping in fine jewelry overtop a pink and gray tweed suit and sensible heels for a woman of her age and sociological rank. Babet isn’t as flashy as her mother who fixes and fidgetes with Babet’s hair as they enter the house. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard turns around at the last minute to have one of the attendants bring in the paintings and frames, mentioning harshly that they were original and old and to be careful. With a wave of her hand, “Just put those in the library for now, no one will be going in there this evening.”
Babet and her mother disappeared inside the massive Antebellum home. I observed while the attendants carefully removed the two paintings and frames from Babet’s car. I decided to take a personal tour of the grounds said to be the site of The Battle of New Orleans in 1814-1815. This battle is a significant one being the end to any attempt by England to gain control of the American Colonies, lost during the American Revolution. Being a soldier I am of course interested in battlefields and this one with the home residing on it is becoming more and more interesting to me as the moments tick by.
The grounds were extensive; I made it back to the house in time to see the 2 original paintings of the great antebellum home set in their respective frames. The grand ballroom, a room entirely encased in wood paneling, floors and ceiling, was full of local and not so local people interested in the history of the house and its owner. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard stood at an ornate podium flanked by two spectacular tapestries, one depicting the battle of New Orleans, the other the Beauregard family crest, and addressed the audience. She introduces her daughter as the expert historian on the house. Babet slowly with her head held high, yet her emotions told another story, took to the podium thanking her mother for the gracious introduction. She fumbled with some papers and once in order she takes a deep breath, smiling at the gathering before beginning her presentation.
“Good evening. I would like to thank you all for coming this evening and your interest in our family home and history. As some of you know I began this historical project when I was in middle-school like my own daughter, Scarlet.”
“Her daughter’s name is Scarlet.” I say quietly to myself.
“Now my middle school history project has evolved to an annual event which I am very proud of. The history of our grand family home began before it was even an idea put to plans and built.” She stopped to take a sip of water nervously smiling again before addressing the crowd once more.
“My great grandfather four times over was the son of Pierre Gustave Touant Beauregard, a native son of Louisiana, military officer, politician, inventor, writer, civil servant and the first prominent General of the Confederate States Army during the American Civil War.” She stopped to laugh just a little and her laugh is one of the most symphonic sounds I have ever heard. I am quickly pulled back to here and now, “But don’t worry ya’ll, I won’t touch on each of these subjects.” And the crowd laughs in acceptance. “He served as an engineer under General Winfield Scott during the Mexican American War, he was appointed brevet captain for the battles of Contreras and Churubusco and Major for Chapultepec, where he was wounded in the shoulder and thigh….” She continued as my head began to circle the facts. This man, Babet’s great grandfather five times over, was Estella’s betrothed! I shook myself and got out of my own head to listen again.
“P.G. T. Beauregard had many nicknames given to him by his army friends such as “Little Creole”, “Felix”, and “Little Frenchman”. Beauregard married in 1841, Marie Laure Villere’, the daughter of Jules Villere’ a sugar cane planter in Plaquemines parish and a member of one of the most prominent French Creole families in southern Louisiana. The couple had three children: Rene’ in 1843, Henri in 1845 and Laure in 1850. Unfortunately Marie died while giving birth to Laure….” Babet was still addressing the crowd as I surveyed the attendants; I noticed a head of strawberry-blonde hair sitting on the left side of the room. I stared intently at the back of her head until she turned to see me in her peripheral, her teeth gleaming as she did so. I made motion for her to meet me outside.
I watch as Estella gracefully rose from her chair, clutching her little bag, courteously excusing herself as she made her way from the seated crowd. She slowly sashayed toward the exit and knew she was being watched by more than just me. She slipped through the heavy ballroom doors, putting on a decent ruse to the door’s weight. Once outside the ballroom Estella walked the hall out the front door where I stood waiting. She was dressed in her southern society best, almost an exact replica of Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard except Estella’s skirt was shorter and her heels were taller.
“Cian!” she said in her southern twang. “I didn’t know you were in town sugar.” Her voice trailed loud enough to have the evenings attendants disregard us as old friends the mini-hug and kiss she bestowed upon me helped. We walked the drive away from the house until we were literally out of sight.
I snatched her arm and just as fast she yanked it from my grasp. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I could ask you the same. I had no idea you had such an interest in Louisiana history or architecture, or historical architecture for that matter.” Her smile on her reply dripping with sarcasm.
“I was a soldier and it was a battlefield, there lies my interest.” Mirroring her sarcasm.
“Well darling the battlefield is that way and this is an antebellum home….you seemed pretty interested in that speaker.”
“After seeing the grounds I was interested in the history.” I said looking deep into her eyes “I guess this answers any questions I had abuot you keeping up with his family.” She turned away from me.
“Yes, I check in on them from time to time.” Her voice cracked and I could hear tears welling in her eyes. “This is the only time I like hearing about...him, all his wonderful accomplishments.”
I felt it was in bad taste to make the joke that finally a Beauregard married a Benoit, referring to Babet, so I kept it to myself and watched her dip her hand into the cleavage of her jacket, something else that varied between Estella’s clothing and Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard’s. She brought out a handkerchief with the initials G. T. B. in beautiful brocade stitch. She wrapped the material around her finger and dabbed the tears from her eyes careful not to ruin her makeup or stain her skin.
“I’m sorry to have pulled you away.” I said sincerely.
She made a “don’t worry about it” gesture and said, “I’ve heard it many times before.” winking at me concealing her sadness.
Estella was a beautiful creature, even clad in tears. She drew in her breath and straightened her face. Placing the handkerchief back in her clutch she turned to go back inside. She waved her hand over her shoulder to motion for me to follow and as she did her attentions diverted toward a mass of magnolia in the distance. She quickly straightened her back and took a deep breath, smiling at me once again.
“Come on Cian, let’s finish this thing.” Her head held high as she closed in on the front lawn. I wanted to comfort Estella but our relationship being what it is I have to keep a safe distance.
The attendants bowed their heads as she passed and nodded as I past them up into the house. Babet had reached the portion of her presentation that included the paintings.
“Here you can see the original artists brushstrokes are synonymous with the time; and show a great deal of the house’s detail and beauty.” The house in the original painting sat at a distance from the artist perch, flanked by two large trees. “The painter obviously wanted to capture the size of the house in retrospect to the land…a great historical work.” She smiled, clasping her hands together as she spoke of the technique and shading of the original painting. She seemed to tense as she took a corner of the tarp covering the second painting, apparently done more recently. Babet pulled the tarp off the frame to reveal a much more colorful rendition of the same painting, exact distance and size achieved. She beamed as the crowd erupted in applause. Once the roar died down she approached the podium again to explain that she had painted this six years ago, prior to that year’s ceremony and this was the first year she felt comfortable enough to unveil it.
It was magnificent. Babet used brighter more modern colors to enhance the already beautiful masterpiece, looking at the painting felt like God himself was shining down on the property and surrounding land. The flanking trees burst with five different shades of green and the columns on the front of the house were so bright white it was almost blinding, the eaves and windows shaded perfectly. The grounds surrounding it in Babet’s rendition were so inviting, like you could jump into the canvas and roll around on the fluffy green grass.
Babet continued to beam as her mother came from behind clasping her daughter’s arms and squeezing as if to say, “See, I knew they’d love it.” She whispered to Babet and then addressed the crowd.
“Thank you all so very much for coming tonight, I, as well as my daughter, greatly appreciate your interest in our family history. Please stay and enjoy, we have hors d’oeuvre and drinks in the parlor where the paintings will be displayed.” She smiled and hurried her daughter toward the parlor. I was snapped out of my gaze when Estella mentioned we should go, as food and drinks are of no interest to us. I wanted to get a closer look at the paintings as well as the artist who was already drowning in questions from admirers.
“Suit yourself.” Estella said turning to leave, she turned back to face me, “You look nice by the way.”
I smiled and nodded to thank her.
The story shifts from her missing husband to museum coming events, including one taking place this evening! It all made sense, why I hadn’t thought of it before, maybe I was too wound up in the Queen’s chores, whatever the reason I now realized how this exquisite young woman came to afford to own her own art gallery and studio in the French Quarter.
Benoit, more importantly Beauregard; names I have only heard spoken by one other, Estella. I tossed the paper back with the others and began to dress, in accordance with an evening out; I did own one set of evening wear, gray slacks and a black button up dress shirt. I slipped a black belt through the loop holes, fastening the buckle and stood in front of the floor mirror, deciding whether or not to also wear a tie. I opt for the bachelor look and leave the top button of my shirt open, slipping my feet into the one pair of Frank Sinatra; rat pack style dress shoes I own.
The quarter was busy with people as the evening was still early. I hastily strolled through them undetected and rounded the corner to the cobble stone street reaching the turquoise two-story building where Babet Benoit worked and lived. As I stood staring at the front of the gallery through large French windows, I was in awe. From ceiling to floor massive paintings occupied the cream walls. Larger at the top, smaller and smaller as they worked down to some 5 X 5 prints at the bottom, stopping at a chair rail circling the room. Landscapes and portraits, still life and nudes, all very beautifully painted. Dynamic brush strokes captivated the canvases with vivid color.
The floor was a tiled mosaic with colors that mimic the exterior of the building and surroundings of the Quarter. Glass shelves placed strategically as patron paths for browsing. Atop the shelves were ceramic pieces of all sizes and colors. Like colored pieces featured together as individual displays. My attentions were diverted when I saw Babet enter the gallery from the back carrying a painting under each arm.
She is thankfully dressed in something other than the worn out jeans and t-shirt and her hair was a waterfall of cherry curls pulled halfway up her head. Her flawless skin glowed against the bright white of her sundress that billowed like a ribbon as she walked; I watched as she gently she set the paintings down beside two ornate frames, I noticed when she turned; she had a small fleur de leis tattoo on her inner right ankle.
She slightly bent over and one of the dress’ straps fell from her shoulder to her arm. She quickly grabbed it to pull it back to place and hurriedly retreated to the back once more. I stood waiting to see her emerge again and when she adorned a light blue sweater, and carried a small bag and a pair of sandals in her left hand, car keys in her right. She walked barefoot to the narrow staircase and yelled up to someone named Caroline, she was leaving. Once back inside the Gallery she slipped on her sandals, threw the bag over her shoulder and grabbed one painting and one frame. She was to repeat this once more before she left the building. I crept down the alley to where I could just see her car, the trunk was still open. She had yet to finish loading the last painting and frame; suddenly I heard her angelic voice.
“Something I can help you with sir?” I hear her say from inside the Gallery. I darted back down the alley to the front of the building, peering through a corner of the window I saw her engaging in business with a local man.
“Oh, Babe, you startled me!” A mousey man in a linen pantsuit stood in the middle of the Gallery. He wasn’t even five and half feet tall with silver hair and blue eyes. He seemed nervous as he gripped a fedora tightly in his tiny hands.
“I’m sorry Mr. Bordeaux, I didn’t mean to,” her is voice a charming symphony. She stood smiling, patiently waiting for his reply to her first question.
He straightened himself, in a matter-of-fact kind of way and proudly said, “Yes, I wanted to commission you to paint my Millicent.”
I feel her swell with pride, “I’d love to Mr. Bordeaux and I usually would stay and go over the details with you, but my mother is expecting me at the museum with these two original paintings of the house, so I must go. Would it be alright if I call you in the morning to work out the specifics? You know, background, color, all that.” She said as she motioned him toward the front door and when his back was turned her face showed disappointment at herself for not locking it before she had intended to leave.
Once the jittery little man was out the door she flipped a sign stating the hours of operation and turned the lock. Leaping toward the back door she yelled again to Caroline that she was now leaving. I darted back up the alley where her car remained idling. She loaded the last two items and slammed the trunk. She turned and her dress floated up enough to see her upper thigh meet her buttocks. She jumped in her car, slammed the door and reversed down the driveway, nearly hitting a trashcan at the end. Once she was out of sight I ran down the drive to follow her.
It wasn’t a long journey, The Beauregard House and Chalmette Battlefield is only seven miles downriver from the New Orleans French Quarter. Babet pulled her car around to the backside of the house where her mother was standing waiting impatiently for her daughter to arrive with the paintings. Her car came to a stop and the trunk flew open before the brake lights dimmed out. She put the car in park and sprang out of the driver’s side door, slamming it as just as quickly. She awkwardly adjusts her dress as she walks around to greet her mother who releases her crossed arms at the sight of her daughter.
A smile grew across the woman’s face and she opened her arms to hug her daughter. Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard was an attractive older woman; her daughter may have inherited some of her mother’s facial features, but her complexion and shape are all from her father’s side, Creole.
Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard is a petit woman with silvery blonde hair and green eyes like her daughter. I am caught off guard slightly by the vision of Babet’s mother covered in blood, which quickly subsides. Where did that come from?!?
She is dripping in fine jewelry overtop a pink and gray tweed suit and sensible heels for a woman of her age and sociological rank. Babet isn’t as flashy as her mother who fixes and fidgetes with Babet’s hair as they enter the house. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard turns around at the last minute to have one of the attendants bring in the paintings and frames, mentioning harshly that they were original and old and to be careful. With a wave of her hand, “Just put those in the library for now, no one will be going in there this evening.”
Babet and her mother disappeared inside the massive Antebellum home. I observed while the attendants carefully removed the two paintings and frames from Babet’s car. I decided to take a personal tour of the grounds said to be the site of The Battle of New Orleans in 1814-1815. This battle is a significant one being the end to any attempt by England to gain control of the American Colonies, lost during the American Revolution. Being a soldier I am of course interested in battlefields and this one with the home residing on it is becoming more and more interesting to me as the moments tick by.
The grounds were extensive; I made it back to the house in time to see the 2 original paintings of the great antebellum home set in their respective frames. The grand ballroom, a room entirely encased in wood paneling, floors and ceiling, was full of local and not so local people interested in the history of the house and its owner. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard stood at an ornate podium flanked by two spectacular tapestries, one depicting the battle of New Orleans, the other the Beauregard family crest, and addressed the audience. She introduces her daughter as the expert historian on the house. Babet slowly with her head held high, yet her emotions told another story, took to the podium thanking her mother for the gracious introduction. She fumbled with some papers and once in order she takes a deep breath, smiling at the gathering before beginning her presentation.
“Good evening. I would like to thank you all for coming this evening and your interest in our family home and history. As some of you know I began this historical project when I was in middle-school like my own daughter, Scarlet.”
“Her daughter’s name is Scarlet.” I say quietly to myself.
“Now my middle school history project has evolved to an annual event which I am very proud of. The history of our grand family home began before it was even an idea put to plans and built.” She stopped to take a sip of water nervously smiling again before addressing the crowd once more.
“My great grandfather four times over was the son of Pierre Gustave Touant Beauregard, a native son of Louisiana, military officer, politician, inventor, writer, civil servant and the first prominent General of the Confederate States Army during the American Civil War.” She stopped to laugh just a little and her laugh is one of the most symphonic sounds I have ever heard. I am quickly pulled back to here and now, “But don’t worry ya’ll, I won’t touch on each of these subjects.” And the crowd laughs in acceptance. “He served as an engineer under General Winfield Scott during the Mexican American War, he was appointed brevet captain for the battles of Contreras and Churubusco and Major for Chapultepec, where he was wounded in the shoulder and thigh….” She continued as my head began to circle the facts. This man, Babet’s great grandfather five times over, was Estella’s betrothed! I shook myself and got out of my own head to listen again.
“P.G. T. Beauregard had many nicknames given to him by his army friends such as “Little Creole”, “Felix”, and “Little Frenchman”. Beauregard married in 1841, Marie Laure Villere’, the daughter of Jules Villere’ a sugar cane planter in Plaquemines parish and a member of one of the most prominent French Creole families in southern Louisiana. The couple had three children: Rene’ in 1843, Henri in 1845 and Laure in 1850. Unfortunately Marie died while giving birth to Laure….” Babet was still addressing the crowd as I surveyed the attendants; I noticed a head of strawberry-blonde hair sitting on the left side of the room. I stared intently at the back of her head until she turned to see me in her peripheral, her teeth gleaming as she did so. I made motion for her to meet me outside.
I watch as Estella gracefully rose from her chair, clutching her little bag, courteously excusing herself as she made her way from the seated crowd. She slowly sashayed toward the exit and knew she was being watched by more than just me. She slipped through the heavy ballroom doors, putting on a decent ruse to the door’s weight. Once outside the ballroom Estella walked the hall out the front door where I stood waiting. She was dressed in her southern society best, almost an exact replica of Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard except Estella’s skirt was shorter and her heels were taller.
“Cian!” she said in her southern twang. “I didn’t know you were in town sugar.” Her voice trailed loud enough to have the evenings attendants disregard us as old friends the mini-hug and kiss she bestowed upon me helped. We walked the drive away from the house until we were literally out of sight.
I snatched her arm and just as fast she yanked it from my grasp. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I could ask you the same. I had no idea you had such an interest in Louisiana history or architecture, or historical architecture for that matter.” Her smile on her reply dripping with sarcasm.
“I was a soldier and it was a battlefield, there lies my interest.” Mirroring her sarcasm.
“Well darling the battlefield is that way and this is an antebellum home….you seemed pretty interested in that speaker.”
“After seeing the grounds I was interested in the history.” I said looking deep into her eyes “I guess this answers any questions I had abuot you keeping up with his family.” She turned away from me.
“Yes, I check in on them from time to time.” Her voice cracked and I could hear tears welling in her eyes. “This is the only time I like hearing about...him, all his wonderful accomplishments.”
I felt it was in bad taste to make the joke that finally a Beauregard married a Benoit, referring to Babet, so I kept it to myself and watched her dip her hand into the cleavage of her jacket, something else that varied between Estella’s clothing and Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard’s. She brought out a handkerchief with the initials G. T. B. in beautiful brocade stitch. She wrapped the material around her finger and dabbed the tears from her eyes careful not to ruin her makeup or stain her skin.
“I’m sorry to have pulled you away.” I said sincerely.
She made a “don’t worry about it” gesture and said, “I’ve heard it many times before.” winking at me concealing her sadness.
Estella was a beautiful creature, even clad in tears. She drew in her breath and straightened her face. Placing the handkerchief back in her clutch she turned to go back inside. She waved her hand over her shoulder to motion for me to follow and as she did her attentions diverted toward a mass of magnolia in the distance. She quickly straightened her back and took a deep breath, smiling at me once again.
“Come on Cian, let’s finish this thing.” Her head held high as she closed in on the front lawn. I wanted to comfort Estella but our relationship being what it is I have to keep a safe distance.
The attendants bowed their heads as she passed and nodded as I past them up into the house. Babet had reached the portion of her presentation that included the paintings.
“Here you can see the original artists brushstrokes are synonymous with the time; and show a great deal of the house’s detail and beauty.” The house in the original painting sat at a distance from the artist perch, flanked by two large trees. “The painter obviously wanted to capture the size of the house in retrospect to the land…a great historical work.” She smiled, clasping her hands together as she spoke of the technique and shading of the original painting. She seemed to tense as she took a corner of the tarp covering the second painting, apparently done more recently. Babet pulled the tarp off the frame to reveal a much more colorful rendition of the same painting, exact distance and size achieved. She beamed as the crowd erupted in applause. Once the roar died down she approached the podium again to explain that she had painted this six years ago, prior to that year’s ceremony and this was the first year she felt comfortable enough to unveil it.
It was magnificent. Babet used brighter more modern colors to enhance the already beautiful masterpiece, looking at the painting felt like God himself was shining down on the property and surrounding land. The flanking trees burst with five different shades of green and the columns on the front of the house were so bright white it was almost blinding, the eaves and windows shaded perfectly. The grounds surrounding it in Babet’s rendition were so inviting, like you could jump into the canvas and roll around on the fluffy green grass.
Babet continued to beam as her mother came from behind clasping her daughter’s arms and squeezing as if to say, “See, I knew they’d love it.” She whispered to Babet and then addressed the crowd.
“Thank you all so very much for coming tonight, I, as well as my daughter, greatly appreciate your interest in our family history. Please stay and enjoy, we have hors d’oeuvre and drinks in the parlor where the paintings will be displayed.” She smiled and hurried her daughter toward the parlor. I was snapped out of my gaze when Estella mentioned we should go, as food and drinks are of no interest to us. I wanted to get a closer look at the paintings as well as the artist who was already drowning in questions from admirers.
“Suit yourself.” Estella said turning to leave, she turned back to face me, “You look nice by the way.”
I smiled and nodded to thank her.
Babet's Entourage...
Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard has positioned her daughter beside her rendition of the painting and hovers over her daughter as she takes questions sometimes interrupting Babet, even though she had no idea what she was talking about. Babet took it all very gracefully, smiling as she corrected her mother and her mother gesturing that of course her daughter knew more than she did.
I remained entranced and fixated if not on her than it’s the people greeting her. Her response to each of them, some with boredom others with animosity, but her face lights up when she gets a glance through the crowd of two couples.
A tall gentleman with brown hair, dressed in an Izod button-up collared shirt and khaki shorts and an extremely petite woman with light blonde hair wearing a brightly colored hi-lo dress and nude wedges were joined by a tall slender woman with dark blonde hair, she has on blue patterned shorts and a white button up shirt, the sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her wedges match her light blue eyes; she holds the hand of a hipster beatnik looking man. His black fedora is placed perfectly over his Buddy Holly glasses and his tan vest covers a white v-neck under shirt, his arms are heavily tattooed.
Babet breaks from the embrace of an older woman to greet the group. She immediately reaches out to hug the two women who happen to be walking perfectly side by side. The two women smile as she descends upon them, the tall slender blonde breaking hold of her hipster companion to clasp her arms around Babet.
“Babe! It is wonderful.” The petite blonde says, straining to reach Babet’s ear.
“I couldn't have done it without you, Molly, thank you so much for taking the photos.” Babet’s tone is heartfelt and appreciative.
“Well, you know. It’s what I do.” Molly is the slender dark blonde and I suddenly know this woman. She is Molly DuBois, one of the most prominent photographers in New Orleans. Her work is well known in the area my warehouse hides among the newly converted loft apartments known as the Arts district. I have to break from my inner thoughts to return to the conversation in front of me. The petite blonde is currently in control of the conversation.
“….and your mother has agreed to let me display your work in my Pardido location…” she is interrupted my Babet’s gasp, but she quickly recovers, “but only for a week.” They all respond similarly, they of course know Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard. The gentlemen are just that, they converse among themselves until they are pulled into the main conversation, but it is clear that even they are aware of Babet’s mother’s idiosyncrasies.
“It’s a start, she’s trying.” Babet says with a bright smile. I see Babet’s mother heading over to the small crowd.
“Hey, girls!!!” Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard squeals with her arms wide open to take in the three girls, but she is too petite to get her arms around them all.
“Hey Mama B!” Molly and little blonde say in unison.
“Proud of my girl? I know ya’ll are, because I certainly am, hey let me get a picture of you three together. It’s been a long time since I had one of ya’ll, all grown up…can’t believe it.” She turns to grab a camera off the podium, “Alright, get together now.” She holds the camera up zooming to capture the girls and as I watch all of this I can’t help but picture Babet and her friends as the Mythical Three Graces; the light blonde, the dark blonde, the red head. The picture is taken and the flash extinguished, the girls turn to one another again after saying farewell to Babet’s mother who waves before returning to her previous task.
“Well I have a wedding to coif in the morning, so Marcus and I need to head home.” The petite blonde takes the hand of the tall gentleman she arrived with who turns to Babet, offering a farewell smile. Marcus is the silent type. Petite blonde reaches up to kiss Babet’s cheek, “Luvies.” She says before lowering her heels to the floor. She then kisses Molly and hugs Hipster, “Good to see you again Wade.”
“You guys too. Marcus, I’ll be in touch.” Wade says and gets a nod from Marcus.
Molly and Wade, Marcus and….
“Oh, Frankie?! If you need a copy of the photograph to accompany the painting, I’d be glad to bring it this week.” Molly calls after the couple turned to leave.
…Frankie.
“Well I have nothing in the morning and there is a little over an hour left to imbibe the city,” Molly says while gazing into Wade’s eyes, “You in, Babe?” She turns her attention back to Babet.
“I can’t,” She says regretfully. “I have to get back to relieve Caroline. She has Henri tonight.”
“Where’s Scar?”
“She wanted to stay at Monica’s. After all she’s seen the presentation and she basically watched me paint the house. I was fine with it.”
“Well, give her a big hug for me.”
“I will, thanks again Mol. I really couldn't have done it without you.” Babet is once again extremely appreciative.
“Babe, I highly doubt that. We’ll be in touch.” Molly leans in to kiss Babet’s cheek. “Luvies.”
“Luvies.” Babet responds quietly. “Bye Wade, thanks for coming!” She calls happily after the departing couple. Wade simply raises his hand, his back to Babet as he takes Molly’s arm leading her toward the door.
I remained entranced and fixated if not on her than it’s the people greeting her. Her response to each of them, some with boredom others with animosity, but her face lights up when she gets a glance through the crowd of two couples.
A tall gentleman with brown hair, dressed in an Izod button-up collared shirt and khaki shorts and an extremely petite woman with light blonde hair wearing a brightly colored hi-lo dress and nude wedges were joined by a tall slender woman with dark blonde hair, she has on blue patterned shorts and a white button up shirt, the sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her wedges match her light blue eyes; she holds the hand of a hipster beatnik looking man. His black fedora is placed perfectly over his Buddy Holly glasses and his tan vest covers a white v-neck under shirt, his arms are heavily tattooed.
Babet breaks from the embrace of an older woman to greet the group. She immediately reaches out to hug the two women who happen to be walking perfectly side by side. The two women smile as she descends upon them, the tall slender blonde breaking hold of her hipster companion to clasp her arms around Babet.
“Babe! It is wonderful.” The petite blonde says, straining to reach Babet’s ear.
“I couldn't have done it without you, Molly, thank you so much for taking the photos.” Babet’s tone is heartfelt and appreciative.
“Well, you know. It’s what I do.” Molly is the slender dark blonde and I suddenly know this woman. She is Molly DuBois, one of the most prominent photographers in New Orleans. Her work is well known in the area my warehouse hides among the newly converted loft apartments known as the Arts district. I have to break from my inner thoughts to return to the conversation in front of me. The petite blonde is currently in control of the conversation.
“….and your mother has agreed to let me display your work in my Pardido location…” she is interrupted my Babet’s gasp, but she quickly recovers, “but only for a week.” They all respond similarly, they of course know Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard. The gentlemen are just that, they converse among themselves until they are pulled into the main conversation, but it is clear that even they are aware of Babet’s mother’s idiosyncrasies.
“It’s a start, she’s trying.” Babet says with a bright smile. I see Babet’s mother heading over to the small crowd.
“Hey, girls!!!” Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard squeals with her arms wide open to take in the three girls, but she is too petite to get her arms around them all.
“Hey Mama B!” Molly and little blonde say in unison.
“Proud of my girl? I know ya’ll are, because I certainly am, hey let me get a picture of you three together. It’s been a long time since I had one of ya’ll, all grown up…can’t believe it.” She turns to grab a camera off the podium, “Alright, get together now.” She holds the camera up zooming to capture the girls and as I watch all of this I can’t help but picture Babet and her friends as the Mythical Three Graces; the light blonde, the dark blonde, the red head. The picture is taken and the flash extinguished, the girls turn to one another again after saying farewell to Babet’s mother who waves before returning to her previous task.
“Well I have a wedding to coif in the morning, so Marcus and I need to head home.” The petite blonde takes the hand of the tall gentleman she arrived with who turns to Babet, offering a farewell smile. Marcus is the silent type. Petite blonde reaches up to kiss Babet’s cheek, “Luvies.” She says before lowering her heels to the floor. She then kisses Molly and hugs Hipster, “Good to see you again Wade.”
“You guys too. Marcus, I’ll be in touch.” Wade says and gets a nod from Marcus.
Molly and Wade, Marcus and….
“Oh, Frankie?! If you need a copy of the photograph to accompany the painting, I’d be glad to bring it this week.” Molly calls after the couple turned to leave.
…Frankie.
“Well I have nothing in the morning and there is a little over an hour left to imbibe the city,” Molly says while gazing into Wade’s eyes, “You in, Babe?” She turns her attention back to Babet.
“I can’t,” She says regretfully. “I have to get back to relieve Caroline. She has Henri tonight.”
“Where’s Scar?”
“She wanted to stay at Monica’s. After all she’s seen the presentation and she basically watched me paint the house. I was fine with it.”
“Well, give her a big hug for me.”
“I will, thanks again Mol. I really couldn't have done it without you.” Babet is once again extremely appreciative.
“Babe, I highly doubt that. We’ll be in touch.” Molly leans in to kiss Babet’s cheek. “Luvies.”
“Luvies.” Babet responds quietly. “Bye Wade, thanks for coming!” She calls happily after the departing couple. Wade simply raises his hand, his back to Babet as he takes Molly’s arm leading her toward the door.
Stalking Babet...
As Estella finished I realized many things:
1. I had forgotten that during the same time as Sophia’s making The Queen decided to grant Xavier’s wish. He was a slimy little spit-fuck but since his transformation he had become loyal to not just The Queen but to Estella as well. He didn’t care much for the sisters but got along fine with Romeo and Damien.
2. Estella felt more for me than she or I knew. This revelation explained a great deal of things. Her reaction when I arrived at Morte’ after our grante’ delicto. Her over-emotion when we are in close proximity, which I have always attributed to her/our nature.
3. That had been the last known cleansing. The Queen is again at play.
Xavier, what can I say? He and I don’t have many dealings other than my deliveries from The Queen; I recall one delivery in particular when I had him shitting his pants. Madliene paid me a personal visit in regards to a rogue vampire new to the area. She entered my haven, scrutinizing every inch.
After I watched her sashay around my haven, I finally spoke, “Majesty, this is not why you’re here, being that your time is the most valuable of all time….”
She interrupted, “You’re right.” she said swirling back to face me, one hand on her hip the other in the air. She and I were face to face, “I have a task that….only you can complete”, and her words drew a hint of wanting.
I wasn’t oblivious to the Queen’s infatuation with me. She makes no secret in her body language when she speaks to me and summoning of me at all hours of the night. Upon my arrival at these hours she is occasionally dressed scandalously and intoxicated.
As I thought, she brushed the back of her hand against my face. I lift my head to her gaze, she was dangerously beautifully devious and at our ages I could understand her wanting.
“Well, do you accept?”
I said nothing, but bowed my head out of her grasp.
“Excellent, I’ll have Xavier get you specifics” she said while turning to leave.
“Majesty” I said, and I stand as she leaves.
Her guard kept watch on me until she was safely in the cage of my elevator, then he too turned to join her. All that remained was her worm of a companion. I sat down as he made his way toward me, slithering closer in his $1,000.00 suit, slicked back blonde hair and reeking of $80.00 cologne. I couldn’t stand him, everything about him was disenchanting. He tossed an envelope at me, not smart.
“His name is Sebastian and he’s become quite an issue for our Queen.” He said shoving both hands in his pockets, “You know what to do.” That arrogant little prick.
He turned on his heels to leave and just as he reached the elevator door I was in front of him instead of the door, my fangs present. “Have a nice evening, Xavier.” I said smiling. He looked visibly shaken at first but quickly gained his composer as if I hadn’t just scared the shit out of him. He smirked and I stepped aside.
I, of course handled Sebastian. He is held prisoner below Morte’.
“Ha!” Estella cried with laughter, “I remember hearing about that when they returned, the Queen didn’t believe you would lash out at him like that, she totally disregarded Xavier. He was livid.” I stared at Estella; she was so incredibly beautiful when she laughed. My gaze lingered and she turned to stare back at me, both knowing that the other was thinking of our little tryst the night before.
The night had grown on and Estella returned to her post as I returned to my duty of peacekeeper. I couldn’t help thinking to myself while the hoards of humans submitted to the mass of vampires this evening, what Sophia is now capable of. More so, I needed to keep a close eye on our Queen.
My skills came naturally to Sophia with some guidance and training. Madliene now had two fierce killers among her ranks; even though Sophia wasn’t pleased at her teacher being me. Among The Queen’s ranks were also the humans. Romeo and Damien I know very little about, it’s said they were orphans. The Queen picked them up along her travels, Romeo in Venice, Italy and Damien in South America somewhere. Both boys were children of the street and had no one who cared for them including the business owners of both countries. Both boys were thieves and good ones.
While in Italy tending to vampire business Madliene came across Romeo, he had been beaten badly for stealing a bottle of wine from the market. He was barely conscious but able to verbally accept The Queen’s proposal and offer her a drink. Damien, with the same affinity for stealing, she picked up in South America right off the street because she thought he was “cute”. The boys who are now men do not possess any power as humans but should the Queen decide to turn them their skills will be most valuable.
After my obligation to the Queen for the night was fulfilled, I made my way to retire to my haven but the draw of the Quarter proved to be too tempting.
Once I reached the area I noticed the Gallery lights were dim in Scarlet Henri and I was slightly perturbed bordering on frustration. I circled the perimeter of the building to find any trace of Babet until above me I heard the faint sound of classical music. Water sloshes and more than a couple of very distinct smells. Not only lavender and rose hips but a scent lost to me over time, but as science has proved, the memories came rushing in.
Tearing the buds from the stem. Discarding the seeds, and rolling the remainder in thin parchment. Or packing the leaves into a pipe of sorts. Ah, the smell of cannabis and the memories of my brothers. The heady tonic fills my senses, compelling me to concentrate enough to levitate.
Hovering just outside the open second story window of the brick building, turquoise blue paint chipping to reveal the previous colors the building had been painted. The small, well lit bathroom, was painted in seafarer blue with a white tile floor; an old style powder room with a single pedestal sink and medicine cabinet mirror hanging directly above. The most surprising feature was the pull-chain toilet and massive overhead tank, standing directly to its left a storage rack littered with all kinds of things; bottles of shampoo, diaper packs, hair care tools and a man’s shaving set.
On the other side of the small room is a claw foot tub, inside is Babet . I had to turn my gaze elsewhere as the monster inside is itching to be released. I take a deep breath regaining my composure and peer once again inside the window directing all my attention on the tub. Babet lay heavily incased in a bubbled mass, only her head arms and shoulders visible among the slowly popping conglomeration, in her right hand the source of my herbal memories.
Smoke from the joint twisting and twirling upward billowing out the window directly into my face and the sweetness is heavenly. She puts the wrapped mechanism to her supple lips, pulls and inhales holding her mouth in an O shape her breasts peek from the bubbles as she does this and tiny circles gather around her nipples.
I am utterly petrified by the savory sight, the creature peeking from his rock as I can’t take my eyes off her voluptuous form. She slowly blows the smoke from her lungs and expels a tiny cough before relaxing against the back of the tub. I am lost, in solitary thought unaware of anything around but her and this smell and…..her.
She takes another hit this time remaining against the back of the tub, no cough this time. I begin to feel the claws and teeth; it’s trying to surface when Babet sits up in the bath to stamp the joint out in a tiny ashtray she placed on the floor. Once the ember at the end extinguished she shifted placing both her hands on the sides of the tub. And here it comes, hauling ass down the forest to spring through my eyes.
Babet pushes herself up, standing in the deep bubbled water, naked, exposed, and vulnerably delicious. The waterfall of bubbles cascaded slowly down her form. I am a multitude of emotions and urges, the beast almost here. The nail in the proverbial coffin and the reason I have to depart as the monster begins to peek through. It thinks of quietly slinking in the window, accosting her from her tiny bathroom, hold her down….. STOP!!!
I force myself to think of literal lavender and rose hips to haul me away from the horrific, but exhilarating thoughts; memories begin flowing back from a different time, I had to shake this. I am brought back to her…and it, she leans to grab a large plastic cup bearing the letters LSU in purple and gold. She dips it into bubble-free water, rinsing the soapiness from her flawless skin. Once her body is free of soapy bubbles, she steps out of the tub.
One soapy foot and then the next, she grabs a towel. Resembling a Native American princess as her dark cherry hair looked black soaked in water and plastered to her breast slightly grazing her puckered nipples. Babet then steps back to the edge of the cast iron basin; arching her back over the tub she gathered her hair in her hands, one over the other to ring the excess moisture.
The water slides from her hair and slaps the bottom of the tub. She moved the towel about her body gathering the tiny droplets that ran from the nape of her neck down and around the plumpness of her breast; descending further to her hips then to her inner thigh as she propped one foot and then the other on the ledge of the tub to dry her legs.
Drop after drop attempted to make the same path as they were wiped dry by her towel. Once her body was dry she took the towel to her hair and began to squeeze the remaining water from it, bending over to wrap it all in a turban on top of her head. Suddenly I snapped from my trance as her cell phone rang a catchy little tune along the lines of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”.
Naked, aside from the towel on top of her head, she left the modest bathroom; padding into what I assume was her bedroom, taking a call that she didn’t seem to want to answer and as she turned away from me the flur de lis on her ankle is not the only tattoo Babet has etched on her delicate flesh, a line of three runic letters and a zodiac symbol trail down her lower back, B, B, B and the scales indicating she is a Libra.
Her telephone conversation is quick as she pushed the END button on the phone and hurriedly threw the towel off her hair. For a flash I witnessed the most pulchritudinous sight, Babet in all her blessed splendor. Venus incarnate stands naked in front of me and I know my eyes are the darkest blue they have ever been.
Babet then slides on the same pair of paint stained jeans and men’s white undershirt I had seen her in previously.
I could hear her round the corner of the hallway and go down the stairs. I made my way down and to the front of the building as she bent down to grab a pair of flip flops and her keys; she darted toward the back room beyond the gallery and out the back door, jumping into her black Audi A6, reversed down the narrow drive almost hitting her trashcans and sped away.
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
1. I had forgotten that during the same time as Sophia’s making The Queen decided to grant Xavier’s wish. He was a slimy little spit-fuck but since his transformation he had become loyal to not just The Queen but to Estella as well. He didn’t care much for the sisters but got along fine with Romeo and Damien.
2. Estella felt more for me than she or I knew. This revelation explained a great deal of things. Her reaction when I arrived at Morte’ after our grante’ delicto. Her over-emotion when we are in close proximity, which I have always attributed to her/our nature.
3. That had been the last known cleansing. The Queen is again at play.
Xavier, what can I say? He and I don’t have many dealings other than my deliveries from The Queen; I recall one delivery in particular when I had him shitting his pants. Madliene paid me a personal visit in regards to a rogue vampire new to the area. She entered my haven, scrutinizing every inch.
After I watched her sashay around my haven, I finally spoke, “Majesty, this is not why you’re here, being that your time is the most valuable of all time….”
She interrupted, “You’re right.” she said swirling back to face me, one hand on her hip the other in the air. She and I were face to face, “I have a task that….only you can complete”, and her words drew a hint of wanting.
I wasn’t oblivious to the Queen’s infatuation with me. She makes no secret in her body language when she speaks to me and summoning of me at all hours of the night. Upon my arrival at these hours she is occasionally dressed scandalously and intoxicated.
As I thought, she brushed the back of her hand against my face. I lift my head to her gaze, she was dangerously beautifully devious and at our ages I could understand her wanting.
“Well, do you accept?”
I said nothing, but bowed my head out of her grasp.
“Excellent, I’ll have Xavier get you specifics” she said while turning to leave.
“Majesty” I said, and I stand as she leaves.
Her guard kept watch on me until she was safely in the cage of my elevator, then he too turned to join her. All that remained was her worm of a companion. I sat down as he made his way toward me, slithering closer in his $1,000.00 suit, slicked back blonde hair and reeking of $80.00 cologne. I couldn’t stand him, everything about him was disenchanting. He tossed an envelope at me, not smart.
“His name is Sebastian and he’s become quite an issue for our Queen.” He said shoving both hands in his pockets, “You know what to do.” That arrogant little prick.
He turned on his heels to leave and just as he reached the elevator door I was in front of him instead of the door, my fangs present. “Have a nice evening, Xavier.” I said smiling. He looked visibly shaken at first but quickly gained his composer as if I hadn’t just scared the shit out of him. He smirked and I stepped aside.
I, of course handled Sebastian. He is held prisoner below Morte’.
“Ha!” Estella cried with laughter, “I remember hearing about that when they returned, the Queen didn’t believe you would lash out at him like that, she totally disregarded Xavier. He was livid.” I stared at Estella; she was so incredibly beautiful when she laughed. My gaze lingered and she turned to stare back at me, both knowing that the other was thinking of our little tryst the night before.
The night had grown on and Estella returned to her post as I returned to my duty of peacekeeper. I couldn’t help thinking to myself while the hoards of humans submitted to the mass of vampires this evening, what Sophia is now capable of. More so, I needed to keep a close eye on our Queen.
My skills came naturally to Sophia with some guidance and training. Madliene now had two fierce killers among her ranks; even though Sophia wasn’t pleased at her teacher being me. Among The Queen’s ranks were also the humans. Romeo and Damien I know very little about, it’s said they were orphans. The Queen picked them up along her travels, Romeo in Venice, Italy and Damien in South America somewhere. Both boys were children of the street and had no one who cared for them including the business owners of both countries. Both boys were thieves and good ones.
While in Italy tending to vampire business Madliene came across Romeo, he had been beaten badly for stealing a bottle of wine from the market. He was barely conscious but able to verbally accept The Queen’s proposal and offer her a drink. Damien, with the same affinity for stealing, she picked up in South America right off the street because she thought he was “cute”. The boys who are now men do not possess any power as humans but should the Queen decide to turn them their skills will be most valuable.
After my obligation to the Queen for the night was fulfilled, I made my way to retire to my haven but the draw of the Quarter proved to be too tempting.
Once I reached the area I noticed the Gallery lights were dim in Scarlet Henri and I was slightly perturbed bordering on frustration. I circled the perimeter of the building to find any trace of Babet until above me I heard the faint sound of classical music. Water sloshes and more than a couple of very distinct smells. Not only lavender and rose hips but a scent lost to me over time, but as science has proved, the memories came rushing in.
Tearing the buds from the stem. Discarding the seeds, and rolling the remainder in thin parchment. Or packing the leaves into a pipe of sorts. Ah, the smell of cannabis and the memories of my brothers. The heady tonic fills my senses, compelling me to concentrate enough to levitate.
Hovering just outside the open second story window of the brick building, turquoise blue paint chipping to reveal the previous colors the building had been painted. The small, well lit bathroom, was painted in seafarer blue with a white tile floor; an old style powder room with a single pedestal sink and medicine cabinet mirror hanging directly above. The most surprising feature was the pull-chain toilet and massive overhead tank, standing directly to its left a storage rack littered with all kinds of things; bottles of shampoo, diaper packs, hair care tools and a man’s shaving set.
On the other side of the small room is a claw foot tub, inside is Babet . I had to turn my gaze elsewhere as the monster inside is itching to be released. I take a deep breath regaining my composure and peer once again inside the window directing all my attention on the tub. Babet lay heavily incased in a bubbled mass, only her head arms and shoulders visible among the slowly popping conglomeration, in her right hand the source of my herbal memories.
Smoke from the joint twisting and twirling upward billowing out the window directly into my face and the sweetness is heavenly. She puts the wrapped mechanism to her supple lips, pulls and inhales holding her mouth in an O shape her breasts peek from the bubbles as she does this and tiny circles gather around her nipples.
I am utterly petrified by the savory sight, the creature peeking from his rock as I can’t take my eyes off her voluptuous form. She slowly blows the smoke from her lungs and expels a tiny cough before relaxing against the back of the tub. I am lost, in solitary thought unaware of anything around but her and this smell and…..her.
She takes another hit this time remaining against the back of the tub, no cough this time. I begin to feel the claws and teeth; it’s trying to surface when Babet sits up in the bath to stamp the joint out in a tiny ashtray she placed on the floor. Once the ember at the end extinguished she shifted placing both her hands on the sides of the tub. And here it comes, hauling ass down the forest to spring through my eyes.
Babet pushes herself up, standing in the deep bubbled water, naked, exposed, and vulnerably delicious. The waterfall of bubbles cascaded slowly down her form. I am a multitude of emotions and urges, the beast almost here. The nail in the proverbial coffin and the reason I have to depart as the monster begins to peek through. It thinks of quietly slinking in the window, accosting her from her tiny bathroom, hold her down….. STOP!!!
I force myself to think of literal lavender and rose hips to haul me away from the horrific, but exhilarating thoughts; memories begin flowing back from a different time, I had to shake this. I am brought back to her…and it, she leans to grab a large plastic cup bearing the letters LSU in purple and gold. She dips it into bubble-free water, rinsing the soapiness from her flawless skin. Once her body is free of soapy bubbles, she steps out of the tub.
One soapy foot and then the next, she grabs a towel. Resembling a Native American princess as her dark cherry hair looked black soaked in water and plastered to her breast slightly grazing her puckered nipples. Babet then steps back to the edge of the cast iron basin; arching her back over the tub she gathered her hair in her hands, one over the other to ring the excess moisture.
The water slides from her hair and slaps the bottom of the tub. She moved the towel about her body gathering the tiny droplets that ran from the nape of her neck down and around the plumpness of her breast; descending further to her hips then to her inner thigh as she propped one foot and then the other on the ledge of the tub to dry her legs.
Drop after drop attempted to make the same path as they were wiped dry by her towel. Once her body was dry she took the towel to her hair and began to squeeze the remaining water from it, bending over to wrap it all in a turban on top of her head. Suddenly I snapped from my trance as her cell phone rang a catchy little tune along the lines of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”.
Naked, aside from the towel on top of her head, she left the modest bathroom; padding into what I assume was her bedroom, taking a call that she didn’t seem to want to answer and as she turned away from me the flur de lis on her ankle is not the only tattoo Babet has etched on her delicate flesh, a line of three runic letters and a zodiac symbol trail down her lower back, B, B, B and the scales indicating she is a Libra.
Her telephone conversation is quick as she pushed the END button on the phone and hurriedly threw the towel off her hair. For a flash I witnessed the most pulchritudinous sight, Babet in all her blessed splendor. Venus incarnate stands naked in front of me and I know my eyes are the darkest blue they have ever been.
Babet then slides on the same pair of paint stained jeans and men’s white undershirt I had seen her in previously.
I could hear her round the corner of the hallway and go down the stairs. I made my way down and to the front of the building as she bent down to grab a pair of flip flops and her keys; she darted toward the back room beyond the gallery and out the back door, jumping into her black Audi A6, reversed down the narrow drive almost hitting her trashcans and sped away.
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
See Cian...dreams really do come TRUE
I thought about Estella’s comments thoroughly and with Babet’s husband missing for so long how would she have found the time to check on something like her fuse box or wiring? A single mother of two hardly has the time to brush her hair or teeth in the morning, and that stands the test of time. I recalled as a boy my sister and me being a handful for our mother. Estella kept her focus as her beautiful green eyes go cloudy, she attempts to read energy around the building again. I watched her enviously, wishing I had the ability to read time, when I turned from her to the alley between the two buildings, “How far back can you go?”
The green returned to her eyes and she stared into me, “Depends,” her words hard. “If I go back too far, I might not come back, my mind that is; I could get “stuck” in a read.” She makes finger quotes, before sighing. “At least that is what our Queen tells me.”
She turns her gaze downward at her hands that had gathered into loose fists. Her demeanor lightened and she smiled sarcastically at me as her hands released. I couldn’t help wanting to encourage Estella to try to extend her range and lately she had been tip toeing on the less obedient side of our Queen.
“Try.” One word from my lips and a sly smile from Estella, we were in business.
Estella gathered as much pertinent information as she felt relevant to report back to the Queen while she conversed with Madliene it was apparent that she was asked how she was able to obtain so much and trepidation begins to rise as I thought about how far back Estella may have gone. Estella explained that we were able to get very close due to the emergency services activity.
Though I don’t trust the Queen believed her but was grateful none the less for the knowledge. I asked to speak to the Queen; Estella hands me her cell phone.
“Majesty,I hope you are well?” I ask. “I am glad to hear it; I have a request if I may?” She was also receptive to this. “I wonder if we should reveal ourselves to Bab…the wife.” There was silence from the Queen’s side. “I realize it’s a very dangerous situation, but I feel if we don’t intervene she will succumb to unknown intentions. Her children will die.” My tone is harsh, I realize this. Still; stifling silence from her end.
“Majesty, I can understand your haste, but it is a creature of our blood that stalks her and from what Estella has gathered her mother-in-law, hasn’t been seen…” I stop, wait. “Other than her own mother, who is on a cruise for an extended period of time, Benoit’s mother was her only other family.” I said more cautiously as I looked intently at Estella. “Majesty?”
The silence is agonizing and time altering…….Finally.
Her tone extremely serious, “Cian, I can appreciate your hasty solution….” she trailed off into silence once more. And when she spoke again, third time was a charm for me being taken by surprise, two in one day no less.
Madliene instructs us to introduce ourselves to Babet, including telling her of Estella’s connection. Convince her to accompany us to a townhouse furnished by The Queen. It would be a challenge to approach Babet and her children. What do you say to a human you, as vampire, want to help?
It was imperative we interfere, for all sakes involved. I let Estella take the lead, stashing her blades out of mortal sight and followed at a safe unseen distance, for many reasons. Number one, I am unstable in direct presence with Babet, I know this. Her scent is toweringly intoxicating. Getting to close could be too consuming, for all parties involved, even the monster inside.
Number two, I am intimidating. It’s not a conceited statement, it’s who I am. Of no fault of my own I exude certain dominance. Most vampires can, at least against humans; other vampires are bit more difficult. In this situation I don’t want to be the cause of additional fear.
Number three, I am a man. Women are more susceptible to accept assistance from other women. If I were to tell Babet that I want to take her away from all this and help her get back on her feet, not to mention, I am her long lost relative, a vampire and believe that my kind are the reason for all her downtrodden circumstances how do you think she would perceive it.
I am pulled from my inner turmoil and listen to the report between the two women. Babet is visibly and emotionally hesitant, apprehensive and lastly, frightened to accept any kind of assistance from a perfect stranger, but Estella is very persuasive and the sound of her full name in Babet’s ears was an apparent alleviation. Her brilliant green eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped before twisting up into a beautiful smile. She then threw her free arm around Estella’s neck and pulled her great (by how many?) aunt into a tight embrace. Once Babet released Estella I slowly made my way over to them. Inside, I am eager. A malicious disgustingly eager teenager, but it doesn’t show. Outside I am calm and the picture of endurance. Nothing could bring me down. It’s a gift.
I lock eyes with Estella and offer a sideways smile then turn my gaze to Babet, who, unlike most humans, is polite but not easily impressed. Though, I sensed something strange upon shaking her hand, the tension resonating from her body, while talking to Estella, had now disappeared. Even stranger, in me, the careless urge to rip her and fuck her, subsided momentarily in anticipation of her touch. I wanted to wrap her in a cocoon of safety, free from all danger or the threat of harm.
Yes, she must be unharmed…..unhurt, uninjured, unscathed; completely safe and sound, with me. I could afford her the proper protection. She would want for nothing, her children would benefit from a lifetime of security and preservation… I am pulled from my inner self by Estella’s introductions.
“Babet, this is Cian. He too is an employee of the Queen, but he is also a dear friend.” Estella, the ever gracious host, her southern belle showing.
“Hello.” Babet’s voice sullen from tears is sultry and prurient, I am transfixed once again.
I bow my head to her and say her name out loud, “Babet.” I grasp her hand delicately, taking in her silky flesh, concealed below the alabaster sheath a map of deep blue livelihood. I release her hand but the monster is conniving, staying at bay until internally I want to grasp it back and pull her to me.
Spin her around so that she is back to my front restraining her with one arm while with the other savor the warmth of her entire body and its supple softness before tilting her head giving me passage to her throat, trailing my tongue down her neck, over her clavicle, before I sink my teeth into her delicious bosom allowing her life force to fill my gullet, tantalizing crimson flow exciting each and every taste bud and salivary gland….STOP!!!
“…we are going to take you somewhere safe and get you all things you need. You are in our care now.” Estella explains to Babet while I am far gone.
Babet nods her head sullenly wary, then looks behind and around her; stopping only to adjust her hold on her son who by now had fallen back to sleep in his mother’s warm soft arms. Her face and demeanor are of slight fret, before finally laying her eyes on her daughter who had wandered off during Babet and Estella’s dialog.
She tilts her head for the girl to come. The sulky teenager is disheveled and dressed in a pair of matching owl print pajamas. Her hair is short, red and messy from the late hour. She jumps down from a parked ambulance, removing the flame retardant blanket from around her and tossing it behind her into the vehicle. She walks slowly, glancing back at her former home for a moment and upon turning back toward her mother she catches my stare.
The green returned to her eyes and she stared into me, “Depends,” her words hard. “If I go back too far, I might not come back, my mind that is; I could get “stuck” in a read.” She makes finger quotes, before sighing. “At least that is what our Queen tells me.”
She turns her gaze downward at her hands that had gathered into loose fists. Her demeanor lightened and she smiled sarcastically at me as her hands released. I couldn’t help wanting to encourage Estella to try to extend her range and lately she had been tip toeing on the less obedient side of our Queen.
“Try.” One word from my lips and a sly smile from Estella, we were in business.
Estella gathered as much pertinent information as she felt relevant to report back to the Queen while she conversed with Madliene it was apparent that she was asked how she was able to obtain so much and trepidation begins to rise as I thought about how far back Estella may have gone. Estella explained that we were able to get very close due to the emergency services activity.
Though I don’t trust the Queen believed her but was grateful none the less for the knowledge. I asked to speak to the Queen; Estella hands me her cell phone.
“Majesty,I hope you are well?” I ask. “I am glad to hear it; I have a request if I may?” She was also receptive to this. “I wonder if we should reveal ourselves to Bab…the wife.” There was silence from the Queen’s side. “I realize it’s a very dangerous situation, but I feel if we don’t intervene she will succumb to unknown intentions. Her children will die.” My tone is harsh, I realize this. Still; stifling silence from her end.
“Majesty, I can understand your haste, but it is a creature of our blood that stalks her and from what Estella has gathered her mother-in-law, hasn’t been seen…” I stop, wait. “Other than her own mother, who is on a cruise for an extended period of time, Benoit’s mother was her only other family.” I said more cautiously as I looked intently at Estella. “Majesty?”
The silence is agonizing and time altering…….Finally.
Her tone extremely serious, “Cian, I can appreciate your hasty solution….” she trailed off into silence once more. And when she spoke again, third time was a charm for me being taken by surprise, two in one day no less.
Madliene instructs us to introduce ourselves to Babet, including telling her of Estella’s connection. Convince her to accompany us to a townhouse furnished by The Queen. It would be a challenge to approach Babet and her children. What do you say to a human you, as vampire, want to help?
It was imperative we interfere, for all sakes involved. I let Estella take the lead, stashing her blades out of mortal sight and followed at a safe unseen distance, for many reasons. Number one, I am unstable in direct presence with Babet, I know this. Her scent is toweringly intoxicating. Getting to close could be too consuming, for all parties involved, even the monster inside.
Number two, I am intimidating. It’s not a conceited statement, it’s who I am. Of no fault of my own I exude certain dominance. Most vampires can, at least against humans; other vampires are bit more difficult. In this situation I don’t want to be the cause of additional fear.
Number three, I am a man. Women are more susceptible to accept assistance from other women. If I were to tell Babet that I want to take her away from all this and help her get back on her feet, not to mention, I am her long lost relative, a vampire and believe that my kind are the reason for all her downtrodden circumstances how do you think she would perceive it.
I am pulled from my inner turmoil and listen to the report between the two women. Babet is visibly and emotionally hesitant, apprehensive and lastly, frightened to accept any kind of assistance from a perfect stranger, but Estella is very persuasive and the sound of her full name in Babet’s ears was an apparent alleviation. Her brilliant green eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped before twisting up into a beautiful smile. She then threw her free arm around Estella’s neck and pulled her great (by how many?) aunt into a tight embrace. Once Babet released Estella I slowly made my way over to them. Inside, I am eager. A malicious disgustingly eager teenager, but it doesn’t show. Outside I am calm and the picture of endurance. Nothing could bring me down. It’s a gift.
I lock eyes with Estella and offer a sideways smile then turn my gaze to Babet, who, unlike most humans, is polite but not easily impressed. Though, I sensed something strange upon shaking her hand, the tension resonating from her body, while talking to Estella, had now disappeared. Even stranger, in me, the careless urge to rip her and fuck her, subsided momentarily in anticipation of her touch. I wanted to wrap her in a cocoon of safety, free from all danger or the threat of harm.
Yes, she must be unharmed…..unhurt, uninjured, unscathed; completely safe and sound, with me. I could afford her the proper protection. She would want for nothing, her children would benefit from a lifetime of security and preservation… I am pulled from my inner self by Estella’s introductions.
“Babet, this is Cian. He too is an employee of the Queen, but he is also a dear friend.” Estella, the ever gracious host, her southern belle showing.
“Hello.” Babet’s voice sullen from tears is sultry and prurient, I am transfixed once again.
I bow my head to her and say her name out loud, “Babet.” I grasp her hand delicately, taking in her silky flesh, concealed below the alabaster sheath a map of deep blue livelihood. I release her hand but the monster is conniving, staying at bay until internally I want to grasp it back and pull her to me.
Spin her around so that she is back to my front restraining her with one arm while with the other savor the warmth of her entire body and its supple softness before tilting her head giving me passage to her throat, trailing my tongue down her neck, over her clavicle, before I sink my teeth into her delicious bosom allowing her life force to fill my gullet, tantalizing crimson flow exciting each and every taste bud and salivary gland….STOP!!!
“…we are going to take you somewhere safe and get you all things you need. You are in our care now.” Estella explains to Babet while I am far gone.
Babet nods her head sullenly wary, then looks behind and around her; stopping only to adjust her hold on her son who by now had fallen back to sleep in his mother’s warm soft arms. Her face and demeanor are of slight fret, before finally laying her eyes on her daughter who had wandered off during Babet and Estella’s dialog.
She tilts her head for the girl to come. The sulky teenager is disheveled and dressed in a pair of matching owl print pajamas. Her hair is short, red and messy from the late hour. She jumps down from a parked ambulance, removing the flame retardant blanket from around her and tossing it behind her into the vehicle. She walks slowly, glancing back at her former home for a moment and upon turning back toward her mother she catches my stare.
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