She raises an eyebrow, “Yeah….So?”

“So?”

“Are you going to give me a number?” Her tone became something different; almost seductive.

“No, probably not.”

“I can do probably; it’s ‘no’ that always gets me.” She smiles one of the most genuine smiles I have ever seen and apparently I am gawking.

“What?” She says as she strokes the back of her ponytail.

“Sorry, you have a very fine smile.” I hear my diluted brogue deepen.

“Thank you.” And we are silent; occasionally she glances my way as I seem to be in deep thought. Realistically I am volleying the monster inside who is intently interested in Babet and my dialog. I must break this dead silence.
“You asked how I maintain myself without acting on the deviously obvious, well the answer to that is I have an arrangement with a good friend who provides an alternative source of sustenance. I made the “change of life” so to speak after an, I suppose repressed, atrocity three decades ago.” She begins to laugh.

“Three decades? You don’t look old enough to talk about thirty years.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Surprise me.” Her tone is teasing and tantalizing but I say nothing. I can feel her working up something else to ask. “Okay, how long have you been in New Orleans, after all, your accent…”

I begin to wish Estella had divulged more about my age to Babet, “I settled here after the second World War and as far as my age goes…put it this way, I am old enough to realize the ramifications of feeding off the protected. Furthermore I am jaded enough to relinquish all humans from my dietary repertoire. I partake in the voluntary donated,” she seems confused, “Blood bags.” I finally say.

“It’s just…I know some people who are donors, live donors.” She says her green eyes peeking up at me through lacquered lashes.

I am once again taken aback by her bluntness, but she quickly eases my mind. “The art community is very receptive to the unusual; in fact we thrive off it. Griffin and I went to a few parties where vampires had been in attendance.”

This revelation has my mind racing and it proves my theory about the pasts of individuals returning to haunt them. Could one of the parties the Benoit couple attended be the source of our current mayhem? Babet notices my arresting stance and I return to the here and now.

“Revelations.” I say quietly to myself but Babet picks it up.

“Revelations?”

“Apologies, I was just piecing things together.” I say nonchalantly shaking off the reverie.

“You talked about an atrocity, what was that?”

“It’s repressed whatever it is, but yes it forced me to completely retract from the hunt. All I recall is standing in a parish hospital, practically drenched in blood and a staggering sorrow, guilt and utter dishonor in myself. Whatever I did, I didn’t want to do it again or feel the way it felt ever again.”

I look up at Babet, she is visibly sympathetic to the plight I had endured and in her face I see so much of Estella. Babet is looking at me the exact same way Estella looked at me when we secured Babet and her children at Audubon. The similarity is credible enough that these two women are connected by more than what meets the eye. Could Babet be a sort of reincarnated spirit of Estella, do we as vampires lose our “spirit” when we are made?

Our souls are considered damned; could our human spirit, when we are made, dilute to evanescence only to be reborn in distant relatives. It was such a farfetched theory but it was something I wanted to discuss with Penelope at her earliest convenience, given I could trust her with the knowledge of my involvement with a human, besides my usual involvement.

I return to Babet sitting, staring at me patiently, “So, you’ve divulged some about you, I’ve divulged a bit about me, let’s go back to you.” I say coolly, reengaging the conversation.

“Okay. Where do you want to return to?”

“Your time in North Carolina, was brief, correct?”

“Yes, I came back to New Orleans pregnant with Scarlet after six months up there.”

“Where in North Carolina?”

“First we moved to the Atlantic Beach area, the three of us eventually settled on renting a house on the sound in Emerald Isle. It was more cost effective than actual Atlantic Beach. Frankie started her esthetic education there before transferring to a school in Raleigh. Molly had a lucrative apprenticeship with a well known photographer in Emerald Isle; she attended community college while working with him. She never made it to Raleigh as a resident, she returned to NOLA from EI after she and the photographer diluted their relationship. It’s a beautifully quiet beach haven, incredible sunsets and simple easy going people. God I loved it there. I worked for a potter out of Seagrove before I came home.”

“Why North Carolina?”

“It’s as far north as I could get but still be in the south; with southern Ideals, morals, and hospitality. Emerald Isle is intoxicating. True the summer months are touristy but the season ends, and around late September, early October the masses have gone. The air changes and the water from up above looks like its smuggling emeralds, which is how it got its name. North Carolina has some of the most exquisite beaches on the East coast. The Atlantic Beach area has a lot of great historical areas, as well as Beaufort and Morehead City.”

“You could be their spokesperson.”

She laughs, “I would too.”

“Did you form many relationships while there?”

“Not really, I met John and secluded myself with him. I worked with a girl named Chloe Warren; she is about the only other person I saw. She and I traded shifts at the potter’s store in Atlantic Beach.”

“Who was the potter you worked for; you said they were out of Seagrove?”

“Yeah, her studio was in Seagrove, NC. She had a retail store in Atlantic Beach called, A Little Pot, the sign on the store like a question, A Little Pot?” She chuckles at the play on words.

“Didn’t she get in trouble or at least raided?”

“No, her cousin is a sheriff down there. He kept it all straight for her.”

“Interesting.”

“Hmm, not really.” She turns to her hands placed neatly in her lap, no doubt a subconscious result of years of etiquette training but I can see she is pondering something.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I say a slight smile gracing my lips.

“So, not to change the subject but have something plaguing me besides the obvious and I feel like I can’t or shouldn’t tell Estella this because of who she is and her connection to both Griffin and me, but….” She wavers as she tries to wrap her head around her thoughts. I allow her as much time as she needs, but it isn’t long before she begins again.
“The night Griffin disappeared I had the overwhelming feeling of contentment; relief almost and I feel…no I know, I shouldn’t have felt this. That night as I waited for him to return I fell asleep and dreamt….” She stops, wincing at the words forming in her head and the emotion radiating from her is one of embarrassment.

“Yes,” I say impatiently and her eyes fly up to meet mine. “I’m sorry; take your time, of course.”

“….of someone like you.” She is clearly mortified but I am intrigued by the notion. Could the fact that I was there watching her that night, my aura resonates in her or the fact that the creature was so close, his aura resonating in her. I don’t know how to address this so I stay silent waiting for her to continue, if she will.

“Right before you retreated outside, while you um…stopped my frenzy. Your face reminded me of the dream.” She looks to me for some kind of resolution, explanation. I have none. All I have are questions, questions she isn’t going to want to answer.

“What is the creature doing in your dream?” I feel a change in her emotional stance. Her embarrassment morphs to extreme discomfort.

“Um….it’s a male and….I um, I’m looking up at him, his almost black eyes and blindingly white teeth are very apparent and he’s…..” She cannot or won’t finish.

She doesn’t need to; I know what she is dreaming; Vampire rape. It’s the visions I get when the monster takes claim, I can only hope with all I am that who she is dreaming of is me and not it.

“No need to continue, I have a good idea of what you speak. All I can offer is my most heartfelt apology, it must have been terrifying.”

“Yes, but after a moment,” she stops, refuses to look at me, “I began to enjoy it. God! That sound so awful doesn’t it? ” She meets my gaze.

I am speechless and have no words. She enjoys it? Hmm, I am intrigued.
“Not the contentment, you had yet to gain knowledge of Griffin’s disappearance. How often do you have this dream?” I attempt to remain impassive but my trepidation comes from the possibility of reoccurrences.

“Not that often, if I recall the first was the night Grif disappeared, the second was the night of the presentation. The next was a night his mom was supposed to keep the kids; she called me at the last minute to pick them up. The last one was last night; so…four times.”

Revelations of Cian