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.