Augusta Fern's Blog - Posts Tagged "vampire"
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.
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.
Morte' NEWS!!!
***Launched Morte' website this morning!!!
http://morteseries.augustafern.com/
***Revelations of Cian received another 5 STAR review on AMAZON!!
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
***So far I am # 1 in the competition, retweet or share on facebook for ME!!!
http://marsocial.com/groups/m-a-r-s-a...
***Tuesday OCT 1 Revelations of Cian follow up, Babet's Epiphany went live on AMAZON!!!
http://www.amazon.com/Babets-Epiphany...
http://morteseries.augustafern.com/
***Revelations of Cian received another 5 STAR review on AMAZON!!
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
***So far I am # 1 in the competition, retweet or share on facebook for ME!!!
http://marsocial.com/groups/m-a-r-s-a...
***Tuesday OCT 1 Revelations of Cian follow up, Babet's Epiphany went live on AMAZON!!!
http://www.amazon.com/Babets-Epiphany...
Permission from the Queen...Proper Introductions with Babet.
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.
What a difference a night makes...
I released Babet’s hand and got to my feet anticipating Estella’s entry. I had successfully comforted Babet without baring the monster. But her scent; so captivating to me, it takes quite the restraint to keep him at bay. It radiates off of her like lamplight in the dark. I am the careless moth to her flame.
Estella stood impatiently in the doorway, she had changed from her Morte’ cat-suit to a lime green cotton sundress and tan sandals.
“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” She says her hand on her hip.
“When did you call?” I asked.
“Uh, just now?!”
“Sorry, Henri is asleep.” I reply with bad attitude.
Estella crouched and grabbed her mouth, “I’m sorry honey that will take some getting used to.” She says to Babet who forgives her aunt instantly.
“It’s okay, he sleeps like a rock. He plays hard and he sleeps hard.” Babet is still in quiet mode.
“Are you okay?” Estella says rushing to Babet’s side nearly knocking me down to get to her. Estella sits down like a stone and brushed the stray hairs off of Babet’s face. “I ask, because Cian can be a little stiff.” Estella said in jest. I smiled at the two beautiful women, taking the joke.
“No…He’s…Cian has been great.” She looked over to me and then back to Estella. I take in the chimes of her voice as she says my name, it is ecstasy. “We were just talking.”
“Oh? Do tell.” Estella, ever the gossip queen.
Estella observed our exchange of glances and instructed the young woman that it was late and asked if she had eaten and if she wanted anything. Babet is gracious and smart; she takes the hint and makes her way upstairs to check on sleeping Henri. Once Babet is out of sight, Estella swats me with the back of her hand. I look down at my arm and then to Estella. She is smiling her bright gleaming smile. For a moment I thought Estella was angry but her smile indicates that she is impressed with Babet and her demeanor.
“Pleased, I take it?”
“Of course. You can go now.” She says folding her arms under her breasts.
“I will as soon as I say good bye to Babet.” The ‘T’ I absentmindedly accentuate.
Estella turns to me at the sound, “Do I need to check her for marks Cian?” she jests but I am not amused.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My tone is instantly angry.
“Lighten up, it was a joke.” She rolls her eyes at me.
I hear Babet descending the staircase; she is smiling when she rounds the corner to the long drawing room. Estella and I are carefully watching her until she notices and explains her happiness.
“Henri is dreaming; it must be a good one because he was giggling in his sleep.”
“Aw, so cute!” Estella should have been a mother; she clasps her hands together and looks so thoughtful at the notion of a giggling sleeping baby. If only she were always this sweet and agreeable.
“I’m off then.” I say to Estella and then glance over to Babet, “So I will see you at Audubon tomorrow night?”
Babet is silent but nods her head to agree to her whereabouts.
“Until then,” I bow my head to Babet and then turn back to Estella, “Call me if you need.”
“You, going home?”
“Aye, I’m looking forward to my own familiarity. Goodnight ladies.”
I make my way through the house and out the front door, taking one last look at the palatial Garden District home once I am through the wrought iron gate. Wish I had gotten the tour. I smirk to myself.
I reach my haven and mindlessly make it to the fifth floor. I am too engrossed in the night’s events, conversation and revelations about Babet Benoit to pay close attention to my surroundings. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth and raised as a proper southern lady until the mysterious disappearance/death of her father. Her mother painstakingly maintained their position in society, regardless of her daughter’s reluctance and suffering at the hands of her peers.
She escapes out of state after high school to avoid further social misery in her life only to return with child and boyfriend in tow. She’s an extraordinarily strong independent woman who is philanthropic and reflective, a loving mother. There is more, I know, so much more to her and I divulged more than I should. I know it is the first baby steps to a trusting relationship with Babet and hopefully in time and over time, her children; their children and their children’s children.
I vow after tonight to devote my life the remainder of my existence to this cause, to her. Finally, a worthy cause has reached me once more. Father I hope you can again be proud of me. Although as I lay in day-stasis I can’t help but think of her dreams and my visions and if the two are the same, the monster is all assuming and pretty fucking pleased with himself and a certain, almost human side of me is also pleased.
The following evening I arrive at Audubon and instantly I see Babet’s car and bright lights from the front of the townhouse. I hear music, a much harder genre of music than the previous night. I stand outside placing the song. I recognize the lead singer and deduce it to be Korn, who often use bagpipes in their songs. An aspect of their band I truly enjoy but this song particularly is unfamiliar to my ears. I approach the door, which had of course been replaced, and knock hard enough to penetrate the music. I see Babet approach the door, unlock it and pull it open to allow me entry.
“Hi.” She says as I pass her, she closes the door behind me. She’s wearing a baby blue sundress; her hair is wavy and flowing down her back, she smells exquisite. I look down and see her signature bare feet.
“You look nice; did Estella finally show you the clothes?” I ask.
“Thanks, yeah she went a little overboard and I told her so but she wouldn’t hear it. Scarlet really liked the pieces for her and Henri’s little wardrobe is uber cute.” She directs my attention to the little boy playing with cars on the living room floor who squeals in delight as the cars crash into each other.
“Wow, he’s…” I walk toward the living room as it’s the first time I have been in Henri’s presence while he is awake; truly awake. I lean against the door frame and watch him coo and cackle.
“He’s a handsome one, for sure and a spry wee bearn.” I look over at Babet who is having difficulty with my terminology.
“Spry wee bearn? Translate please.”
“Happy Little Baby.” I retort.
“Ah, that he is. A very happy boy. I’m glad he is oblivious to all of this, it’s a shame Scarlet’s not.”
“How is she?” I ask.
“Fine, she’s upstairs. She really likes her room here.”
“I’m glad; I hope to spend more time with her also. I would like to get her take on all of this. Is that wise?” Since I haven’t had much time with a teenager, not since Maggie was young; my sister the handful.
“You may ask, but, don’t expect her replies to hold any merit, she’s a teenager. At most you will get major sarcasm or nothing at all. You may have better result with Henri here.”
“He must favor his father; I don’t see much of you in there. Maybe the chin?”
“Yes, he is Grif’s boy for sure. Looks just like his daddy, especially his big blue eyes.” I look over and feel her internally cherishing the tiny boy, she then looks up at me, “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.” I say my tone is sarcastically appreciative.
“Of, course, I apologize, it’s something that will take some getting used to.” I recall Estella’s exact words last night regarding sleeping baby Henri.
“Do you mind?” I turn to Babet.
“Hmm?”
“Sit with Henri?”
“Sure, be careful though, sometimes he is less than receptive to new people.” She says over the granite bar into the living room.
I slowly approach Henri, kneeling down to the floor. He immediately looks up at me then to his mother who is busy in the kitchen. He is watching me closely. I feel tension rise in the baby and must squelch it before Babet notices.
“Do you have a car?” I say sweetly to the boy.
“Ca-h!” He responds holding a blue car up for me to take. I oblige; he picks up the red car in his chubby little digits. “Red!” He says.
I look up to the bar and Babet is watching our exchange, clearly surprised by his acceptance of me. “He likes you.” She says smiling.
“I like him right back.” I roll the blue car across the floor parking it next to Henri’s red car.
“So, I went to the grocery store today, since there is obviously no food in the house, which is understandable. I’m going to cook dinner for the kids, that won’t bother you will it?”
“Not at all, in fact the smell of human food is quite pleasurable. What’s for dinner?”
She laughs, Christ I love her laugh, “Breakfast sausage, pancakes and eggs.”
“Sounds delicious.” I reply as Henri is crashing his red car into my blue car, he is quite proud of himself as he looks up at me. I smile and he smiles back. Babet goes to the bottom of the stairs and calls up to Scarlet, “How many eggs do you want!”
A muffled reply wafts down the stairs, “Two!”
I watch as Babet nods and roll her eyes at teenage insolence. She catches me and smiles, quickly returning to the kitchen. While there is a break in conversation I inquire about the music when I arrived as it ceased after I knocked on the door.
“You were listening to something when I arrived, what was it?”
“In Scarlet’s opinion they are considered old, but I believe what was on when you knocked was Korn’s “My Gift to You”, I love the bagpipes and his anger is relatable. Molly introduced me to them way back in the day. You like?” She says while moving about the kitchen preparing, mixing, and stirring.
“I did, I do. I know Korn, they play it regularly at Morte’. “Life Is Peachy” is a good album, I can relate to that one.”
She smiles, “Yeah, I love that one. What else do they play at Morte’? Sounds like my kind of place.” She feigns embarrassment, “Sounds like it used to be my kind of place.”
“I would hope to never see you there, but they play a wide range of heavy music. Do you gravitate more toward that genre?”
“No, I like all kinds of music, but in my younger days, I could relate more to the angry heavy stuff. Now I listen to it, because I truly enjoy the music instead of dwelling on what I have in common with the lyrics.”
“Lyrics can be powerful and the lyrics in heavier music are definitely more relatable to a vampire…”
Suddenly I hear the distinct sound of the same genre with an entirely younger feel coming from upstairs, I turn to look at Babet, she pauses to listen to the path for feet from the bedroom to the bathroom back to the bedroom, the door closes and the music is more difficult to hear.
“Well, I thought she might come down, but I guess not.”
“Give her time; she’s lost a lot too.”
“I know and her dad being so far away doesn’t help her, I don’t mind it but I can understand missing your father, especially at such a young age.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s in North Carolina, or last I heard that was where he was. Scarlet said his mother moved back up north, Ohio I think. It’s where they are originally from.”
“Does she talk to him often?”
“I wouldn’t know, she has her own cell and he and I don’t talk unless it’s something dire with her. Which is rare, she’s a great kid. She’s just…a teenage girl.”
“I understand.” I say but I can tell she isn’t convinced.
“Really?”
“Yes, I have…had a sister, Maggie. She was fifteen when were separated and a handful to say the least.”
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Revelations of Cian
Estella stood impatiently in the doorway, she had changed from her Morte’ cat-suit to a lime green cotton sundress and tan sandals.
“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” She says her hand on her hip.
“When did you call?” I asked.
“Uh, just now?!”
“Sorry, Henri is asleep.” I reply with bad attitude.
Estella crouched and grabbed her mouth, “I’m sorry honey that will take some getting used to.” She says to Babet who forgives her aunt instantly.
“It’s okay, he sleeps like a rock. He plays hard and he sleeps hard.” Babet is still in quiet mode.
“Are you okay?” Estella says rushing to Babet’s side nearly knocking me down to get to her. Estella sits down like a stone and brushed the stray hairs off of Babet’s face. “I ask, because Cian can be a little stiff.” Estella said in jest. I smiled at the two beautiful women, taking the joke.
“No…He’s…Cian has been great.” She looked over to me and then back to Estella. I take in the chimes of her voice as she says my name, it is ecstasy. “We were just talking.”
“Oh? Do tell.” Estella, ever the gossip queen.
Estella observed our exchange of glances and instructed the young woman that it was late and asked if she had eaten and if she wanted anything. Babet is gracious and smart; she takes the hint and makes her way upstairs to check on sleeping Henri. Once Babet is out of sight, Estella swats me with the back of her hand. I look down at my arm and then to Estella. She is smiling her bright gleaming smile. For a moment I thought Estella was angry but her smile indicates that she is impressed with Babet and her demeanor.
“Pleased, I take it?”
“Of course. You can go now.” She says folding her arms under her breasts.
“I will as soon as I say good bye to Babet.” The ‘T’ I absentmindedly accentuate.
Estella turns to me at the sound, “Do I need to check her for marks Cian?” she jests but I am not amused.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My tone is instantly angry.
“Lighten up, it was a joke.” She rolls her eyes at me.
I hear Babet descending the staircase; she is smiling when she rounds the corner to the long drawing room. Estella and I are carefully watching her until she notices and explains her happiness.
“Henri is dreaming; it must be a good one because he was giggling in his sleep.”
“Aw, so cute!” Estella should have been a mother; she clasps her hands together and looks so thoughtful at the notion of a giggling sleeping baby. If only she were always this sweet and agreeable.
“I’m off then.” I say to Estella and then glance over to Babet, “So I will see you at Audubon tomorrow night?”
Babet is silent but nods her head to agree to her whereabouts.
“Until then,” I bow my head to Babet and then turn back to Estella, “Call me if you need.”
“You, going home?”
“Aye, I’m looking forward to my own familiarity. Goodnight ladies.”
I make my way through the house and out the front door, taking one last look at the palatial Garden District home once I am through the wrought iron gate. Wish I had gotten the tour. I smirk to myself.
I reach my haven and mindlessly make it to the fifth floor. I am too engrossed in the night’s events, conversation and revelations about Babet Benoit to pay close attention to my surroundings. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth and raised as a proper southern lady until the mysterious disappearance/death of her father. Her mother painstakingly maintained their position in society, regardless of her daughter’s reluctance and suffering at the hands of her peers.
She escapes out of state after high school to avoid further social misery in her life only to return with child and boyfriend in tow. She’s an extraordinarily strong independent woman who is philanthropic and reflective, a loving mother. There is more, I know, so much more to her and I divulged more than I should. I know it is the first baby steps to a trusting relationship with Babet and hopefully in time and over time, her children; their children and their children’s children.
I vow after tonight to devote my life the remainder of my existence to this cause, to her. Finally, a worthy cause has reached me once more. Father I hope you can again be proud of me. Although as I lay in day-stasis I can’t help but think of her dreams and my visions and if the two are the same, the monster is all assuming and pretty fucking pleased with himself and a certain, almost human side of me is also pleased.
The following evening I arrive at Audubon and instantly I see Babet’s car and bright lights from the front of the townhouse. I hear music, a much harder genre of music than the previous night. I stand outside placing the song. I recognize the lead singer and deduce it to be Korn, who often use bagpipes in their songs. An aspect of their band I truly enjoy but this song particularly is unfamiliar to my ears. I approach the door, which had of course been replaced, and knock hard enough to penetrate the music. I see Babet approach the door, unlock it and pull it open to allow me entry.
“Hi.” She says as I pass her, she closes the door behind me. She’s wearing a baby blue sundress; her hair is wavy and flowing down her back, she smells exquisite. I look down and see her signature bare feet.
“You look nice; did Estella finally show you the clothes?” I ask.
“Thanks, yeah she went a little overboard and I told her so but she wouldn’t hear it. Scarlet really liked the pieces for her and Henri’s little wardrobe is uber cute.” She directs my attention to the little boy playing with cars on the living room floor who squeals in delight as the cars crash into each other.
“Wow, he’s…” I walk toward the living room as it’s the first time I have been in Henri’s presence while he is awake; truly awake. I lean against the door frame and watch him coo and cackle.
“He’s a handsome one, for sure and a spry wee bearn.” I look over at Babet who is having difficulty with my terminology.
“Spry wee bearn? Translate please.”
“Happy Little Baby.” I retort.
“Ah, that he is. A very happy boy. I’m glad he is oblivious to all of this, it’s a shame Scarlet’s not.”
“How is she?” I ask.
“Fine, she’s upstairs. She really likes her room here.”
“I’m glad; I hope to spend more time with her also. I would like to get her take on all of this. Is that wise?” Since I haven’t had much time with a teenager, not since Maggie was young; my sister the handful.
“You may ask, but, don’t expect her replies to hold any merit, she’s a teenager. At most you will get major sarcasm or nothing at all. You may have better result with Henri here.”
“He must favor his father; I don’t see much of you in there. Maybe the chin?”
“Yes, he is Grif’s boy for sure. Looks just like his daddy, especially his big blue eyes.” I look over and feel her internally cherishing the tiny boy, she then looks up at me, “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.” I say my tone is sarcastically appreciative.
“Of, course, I apologize, it’s something that will take some getting used to.” I recall Estella’s exact words last night regarding sleeping baby Henri.
“Do you mind?” I turn to Babet.
“Hmm?”
“Sit with Henri?”
“Sure, be careful though, sometimes he is less than receptive to new people.” She says over the granite bar into the living room.
I slowly approach Henri, kneeling down to the floor. He immediately looks up at me then to his mother who is busy in the kitchen. He is watching me closely. I feel tension rise in the baby and must squelch it before Babet notices.
“Do you have a car?” I say sweetly to the boy.
“Ca-h!” He responds holding a blue car up for me to take. I oblige; he picks up the red car in his chubby little digits. “Red!” He says.
I look up to the bar and Babet is watching our exchange, clearly surprised by his acceptance of me. “He likes you.” She says smiling.
“I like him right back.” I roll the blue car across the floor parking it next to Henri’s red car.
“So, I went to the grocery store today, since there is obviously no food in the house, which is understandable. I’m going to cook dinner for the kids, that won’t bother you will it?”
“Not at all, in fact the smell of human food is quite pleasurable. What’s for dinner?”
She laughs, Christ I love her laugh, “Breakfast sausage, pancakes and eggs.”
“Sounds delicious.” I reply as Henri is crashing his red car into my blue car, he is quite proud of himself as he looks up at me. I smile and he smiles back. Babet goes to the bottom of the stairs and calls up to Scarlet, “How many eggs do you want!”
A muffled reply wafts down the stairs, “Two!”
I watch as Babet nods and roll her eyes at teenage insolence. She catches me and smiles, quickly returning to the kitchen. While there is a break in conversation I inquire about the music when I arrived as it ceased after I knocked on the door.
“You were listening to something when I arrived, what was it?”
“In Scarlet’s opinion they are considered old, but I believe what was on when you knocked was Korn’s “My Gift to You”, I love the bagpipes and his anger is relatable. Molly introduced me to them way back in the day. You like?” She says while moving about the kitchen preparing, mixing, and stirring.
“I did, I do. I know Korn, they play it regularly at Morte’. “Life Is Peachy” is a good album, I can relate to that one.”
She smiles, “Yeah, I love that one. What else do they play at Morte’? Sounds like my kind of place.” She feigns embarrassment, “Sounds like it used to be my kind of place.”
“I would hope to never see you there, but they play a wide range of heavy music. Do you gravitate more toward that genre?”
“No, I like all kinds of music, but in my younger days, I could relate more to the angry heavy stuff. Now I listen to it, because I truly enjoy the music instead of dwelling on what I have in common with the lyrics.”
“Lyrics can be powerful and the lyrics in heavier music are definitely more relatable to a vampire…”
Suddenly I hear the distinct sound of the same genre with an entirely younger feel coming from upstairs, I turn to look at Babet, she pauses to listen to the path for feet from the bedroom to the bathroom back to the bedroom, the door closes and the music is more difficult to hear.
“Well, I thought she might come down, but I guess not.”
“Give her time; she’s lost a lot too.”
“I know and her dad being so far away doesn’t help her, I don’t mind it but I can understand missing your father, especially at such a young age.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s in North Carolina, or last I heard that was where he was. Scarlet said his mother moved back up north, Ohio I think. It’s where they are originally from.”
“Does she talk to him often?”
“I wouldn’t know, she has her own cell and he and I don’t talk unless it’s something dire with her. Which is rare, she’s a great kid. She’s just…a teenage girl.”
“I understand.” I say but I can tell she isn’t convinced.
“Really?”
“Yes, I have…had a sister, Maggie. She was fifteen when were separated and a handful to say the least.”
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Revelations of Cian
An invitation...and the Arrival...
“Show?” I ask, but I am aware of Molly DuBois’ annual photography show. I have never been as it is invite only, but I know of the importance of it. All proceeds collected from the sale of her photos are donated to the continued Katrina relief fund. She has a wonderful eye for not only the beauty and captivating mystery of New Orleans but she refuses to neglect the raw and forgotten elements. Forcing people to realize what this ravaged city has endured.
“Yeah, her annual art show. It’s on the rooftop of her building, she has the photos suspended, it’s very cool. She creates the perfect outdoor space up there, it’s stunning.” I can see her enchantment and I am salivating for the invitation to accompany her.
I have to keep contained, but I am serious and businesslike, “I can keep myself incognito. I will stay out of sight; we can enter separately if you like?”
She begins to turn sympathetic, “Oh, no…I was hoping you would accompany me, you know like a date.”
But she says date, like it’s not one. I can’t help but feel crushed yet anticipatory. I haven’t been on a date in centuries and I have to say I have never been on a modernized date. In my day it was less complicated. I realize I am leaving her expectant, “Of course, it would be beneficial to meet and speak with your friends.” My tone is still all business. “What of the children?”
“Yes, they are curious about you as well. Since the show is on the roof, Molly doesn’t mind if Scarlet and Henri hang out in her loft. Scarlet is a great babysitter.”
“Ah, do you talk with them about me?” Elation consumes me.
“Yes. And no, they are just concerned for me, you know the fire…I told them about Estella, being my distant relative. They were surprised I would stay with a complete stranger, family or not, but they trust my judgment. I said you were her artist friend visiting from out of town.” We both laugh at this but I can see she has more to say, “I told them about my dreams.” She says, her face squished up like I am going to maliciously come across the couch at her.
I can’t blame her; it has to be awkward to tell me and not Estella, “What are their thoughts on them?”
“They suggested that because of everything happening all at once, my brain is creating something for me to reflect it off of, but I honestly think it’s something else.”
I want to ask what her theory is, but I am apprehensive of it as well. I wait for her to gather her thoughts, which she is clearly doing. Her face is indifferent, “I haven’t had them when Estella has been here.”
“No?” I ask, knowing what is about to transpire.
“No.” She simply says and there is an unspoken understanding between us, or so I feel there is.
She changes the subject back to Molly’s show, “So it’s not black tie or anything, but whatever you wore to the presentation should be fine.”
“Understood, what time shall I pick you all up?”
“You can come at your normal time, dusk. The show starts at eight, but I need to be there a little early to settle Henri at Molly’s. Is that okay?” She asks and I simply nod. “Will you explain things to Estella? Tomorrow night she is supposed to come over…” I cut her off.
“Estella has been retained at the club this week; she sends her regards and please know, that she is very disappointed about this.”
“Oh…okay. So I guess it’s just you and me this week then?” She smiles and rises from the couch before padding into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee. She is in mid pour when she stops, “How did you get to the States? Swim? Do you swim?”
It’s an out of the blue inquiry and theory but I don’t mind, “Well you know I came to New Orleans after World War two,” She nods. “I placed myself with the 141st Field Artillery Battalion upon their return to the U.S.” I can see other inquiries swarming within her, “Let’s just say deceased Private LeBeau and I became well acquainted. Once they unloaded the coffins, I waited, patiently, until we were unattended at nightfall.” She is engrossed, “And we do swim, but Europe to the States is long time to be underwater. Those days I was still feeding off humans.” I don’t know why I threw that last bit in, but I feel it’s relevant.
The remainder of the evening is relatively solemn, Babet excuses herself to bed not long after our conversation and I sit stationary, senses open for anything to transpire. I leave the quiet townhouse for my haven just before dawn.
When I arrive at Audubon the next evening, I am dressed rather well if I may say so myself but I hear muffled arguing inside. Two almost shrill voices are battling back and forth. I close in on the door and I hear Scarlet defending herself to her mother, “I’m sorry, she insisted!” I carefully enter.
The mother and daughter instantly stop when they see the door opening; I crane my head through the crack, “Hello?” I say and slowly push the door.
“Hey Cian.” Babet seems exhausted and when I look over at Scarlet she rolls her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask wishing I had an emotional shield.
Babet is taking deep breaths and her emotions are so off kilter I am having trouble not shaking her right, “I let Scarlet go to school today, because Monica misses her there,” Babet herself mimics her daughter’s eye roll. “So the reunion must have been a happy one. They were wound up all day which, I guess they thought was a good idea, and proceeded to scream the word ‘penis’ down the hallway at the top of their lungs. That is, until the assistant principle caught up to them and sent them to the office.”
I can’t help but smile to myself, teenagers. But Babet isn’t finished, “This is not what I am pissed about though, Monica’s mother insisted..?” She looks over at Scarlet who isn’t happy about this exchange being in front of me. “…insisted on coming over to apologize for Monica being a bad influence on Scarlet. Please! You two influence each other.” This last statement directed at Scarlet. “Here’s the kicker, Scarlet gave her the address! She’s on her way over, I can’t talk her out of it….hell, I could hear the GPS in the background!” Babet is officially livid.
“Calm down now, we can work this out. How far away is she?”
“Less than six miles.” She says to me and then turns back to Scarlet, “You’ve really put me in a bad spot Scar. You know tonight is Molly’s show.”
That it is, and the two girls are dressed beautifully. Estella really is lucky to have Thessaly at her disposal. Thessaly I don’t worry about, she is originally from Rome, when Rome was Rome. She has resided here since before that little man who wore a funny hat and liked to stick his hand in the front of his jacket arrived.
Scarlet stands with her arms crossed over a white a-line dress with black flower print and matching cardigan sweater. In true teenage fashion she is rebelling with her feet, they are encased in a pair of short boots with spikes on the back.
Babet is a vision in a black fitted draped sleeve dress that hits her six inches above the knee; she has paired it with a pair of red strapped heels that are adorned with nude colored buckles and studs. Her hair is down and flowing in big curls and the black liner is accentuating the green hue of her eyes.
I am pulled from her lustrous aura by the sound of Henri playing in the other room, “And what is the little man wearing this evening?” I say passing through the standoff to see him. He’s sitting on the floor in a white linen bubble romper; he is even enduring a little white sailor hat.
His red and blue cars have become planes since he is waving them around the air. He stops and sees me, “Cian!” He squeals.
“Henri.” And I hear the ‘R’ roll perfectly; he laughs at this. I repeat, he laughs again.
We all become silent when there is a rapping on the door and the silhouette of two people.
“It’s Monica,” Scarlet darts for the door, “Hey, come in!” The two girls hug and I can recall that feeling long ago, best friends.
Babet crests the door frame to invite Monica’s mother in, “Hey Monique, you really didn’t…”
But Monica’s mother cuts Babet off.“Yes Babe, because this girl…” she says pointing at Monica, “…needs to stop influencing Scarlet to be wild like her.”
Monique is a no-nonsense African American mother. She has smooth caramel skin and dark hazel eyes. Her hair is shoulder length and looks like black ribbons that have been curled into ringlets. Her daughter has the same caramel skin but her hair is more relaxed hanging down her back, and is a sandy honey blonde color.
During the exchange I am unseen by the new arrivals, but it doesn’t take long until I am found out. Monique walks through to the room where Henri and I are, I nearly scare her to death, “Oh, My God! You scared me half to death,” She says clutching her chest and laughing after the initial shock, “Bon Jour Henri!” She sees the little boy playing, but he pays her no mind. I smile when she realizes this and then looks to Babet for introductions.
Babet quickly comes to my rescue standing beside Monique, “Monique, this is Cian. He’s a friend of mine from Scotland, he is an artist also.”
I offer my respects and bow instead of my cold hand, “Pleasure to meet you,” I say to Monique, I then look over to Monica who is observing with Scarlet, “And your daughter.” I return my attention to Henri who is smiling up at me. I minimally return the gesture, but in my peripheral I can see Monique nudge Babet and being as I am what I am, I hear distinctively what Monique thinks Babet should do with me.
I am shocked by Babet’s whispered response to Monique’s suggestion, “He’s gay.” Ouch.
“Shame.” Monique can’t stop eyeing me.
There is a pregnant pause and I can feel an awkward wave blow through each female in the room, I simply keep my attentions on Henri. After all its him and me in this estrogen fest.
“Well, I appreciate you coming by, but I have nothing but love for Monica, and Scarlet is just as responsible for her own actions.” The mothers are staring intently at their daughters, “But we are heading out the door, Molly’s show is tonight and it’s almost seven o’clock.” Babet is gracious but direct.
“Oh, of course. Cian, it was extremely nice to meet you.” I bow again, “Come on Monica, let’s go.”
Scarlet and Monica hug again and say their good-byes. The door closes behind and Babet mouths the words, “I’m sorry.” I shrug it off and we leave Audubon for Molly’s loft.
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Revelations of Cian
“Yeah, her annual art show. It’s on the rooftop of her building, she has the photos suspended, it’s very cool. She creates the perfect outdoor space up there, it’s stunning.” I can see her enchantment and I am salivating for the invitation to accompany her.
I have to keep contained, but I am serious and businesslike, “I can keep myself incognito. I will stay out of sight; we can enter separately if you like?”
She begins to turn sympathetic, “Oh, no…I was hoping you would accompany me, you know like a date.”
But she says date, like it’s not one. I can’t help but feel crushed yet anticipatory. I haven’t been on a date in centuries and I have to say I have never been on a modernized date. In my day it was less complicated. I realize I am leaving her expectant, “Of course, it would be beneficial to meet and speak with your friends.” My tone is still all business. “What of the children?”
“Yes, they are curious about you as well. Since the show is on the roof, Molly doesn’t mind if Scarlet and Henri hang out in her loft. Scarlet is a great babysitter.”
“Ah, do you talk with them about me?” Elation consumes me.
“Yes. And no, they are just concerned for me, you know the fire…I told them about Estella, being my distant relative. They were surprised I would stay with a complete stranger, family or not, but they trust my judgment. I said you were her artist friend visiting from out of town.” We both laugh at this but I can see she has more to say, “I told them about my dreams.” She says, her face squished up like I am going to maliciously come across the couch at her.
I can’t blame her; it has to be awkward to tell me and not Estella, “What are their thoughts on them?”
“They suggested that because of everything happening all at once, my brain is creating something for me to reflect it off of, but I honestly think it’s something else.”
I want to ask what her theory is, but I am apprehensive of it as well. I wait for her to gather her thoughts, which she is clearly doing. Her face is indifferent, “I haven’t had them when Estella has been here.”
“No?” I ask, knowing what is about to transpire.
“No.” She simply says and there is an unspoken understanding between us, or so I feel there is.
She changes the subject back to Molly’s show, “So it’s not black tie or anything, but whatever you wore to the presentation should be fine.”
“Understood, what time shall I pick you all up?”
“You can come at your normal time, dusk. The show starts at eight, but I need to be there a little early to settle Henri at Molly’s. Is that okay?” She asks and I simply nod. “Will you explain things to Estella? Tomorrow night she is supposed to come over…” I cut her off.
“Estella has been retained at the club this week; she sends her regards and please know, that she is very disappointed about this.”
“Oh…okay. So I guess it’s just you and me this week then?” She smiles and rises from the couch before padding into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee. She is in mid pour when she stops, “How did you get to the States? Swim? Do you swim?”
It’s an out of the blue inquiry and theory but I don’t mind, “Well you know I came to New Orleans after World War two,” She nods. “I placed myself with the 141st Field Artillery Battalion upon their return to the U.S.” I can see other inquiries swarming within her, “Let’s just say deceased Private LeBeau and I became well acquainted. Once they unloaded the coffins, I waited, patiently, until we were unattended at nightfall.” She is engrossed, “And we do swim, but Europe to the States is long time to be underwater. Those days I was still feeding off humans.” I don’t know why I threw that last bit in, but I feel it’s relevant.
The remainder of the evening is relatively solemn, Babet excuses herself to bed not long after our conversation and I sit stationary, senses open for anything to transpire. I leave the quiet townhouse for my haven just before dawn.
When I arrive at Audubon the next evening, I am dressed rather well if I may say so myself but I hear muffled arguing inside. Two almost shrill voices are battling back and forth. I close in on the door and I hear Scarlet defending herself to her mother, “I’m sorry, she insisted!” I carefully enter.
The mother and daughter instantly stop when they see the door opening; I crane my head through the crack, “Hello?” I say and slowly push the door.
“Hey Cian.” Babet seems exhausted and when I look over at Scarlet she rolls her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask wishing I had an emotional shield.
Babet is taking deep breaths and her emotions are so off kilter I am having trouble not shaking her right, “I let Scarlet go to school today, because Monica misses her there,” Babet herself mimics her daughter’s eye roll. “So the reunion must have been a happy one. They were wound up all day which, I guess they thought was a good idea, and proceeded to scream the word ‘penis’ down the hallway at the top of their lungs. That is, until the assistant principle caught up to them and sent them to the office.”
I can’t help but smile to myself, teenagers. But Babet isn’t finished, “This is not what I am pissed about though, Monica’s mother insisted..?” She looks over at Scarlet who isn’t happy about this exchange being in front of me. “…insisted on coming over to apologize for Monica being a bad influence on Scarlet. Please! You two influence each other.” This last statement directed at Scarlet. “Here’s the kicker, Scarlet gave her the address! She’s on her way over, I can’t talk her out of it….hell, I could hear the GPS in the background!” Babet is officially livid.
“Calm down now, we can work this out. How far away is she?”
“Less than six miles.” She says to me and then turns back to Scarlet, “You’ve really put me in a bad spot Scar. You know tonight is Molly’s show.”
That it is, and the two girls are dressed beautifully. Estella really is lucky to have Thessaly at her disposal. Thessaly I don’t worry about, she is originally from Rome, when Rome was Rome. She has resided here since before that little man who wore a funny hat and liked to stick his hand in the front of his jacket arrived.
Scarlet stands with her arms crossed over a white a-line dress with black flower print and matching cardigan sweater. In true teenage fashion she is rebelling with her feet, they are encased in a pair of short boots with spikes on the back.
Babet is a vision in a black fitted draped sleeve dress that hits her six inches above the knee; she has paired it with a pair of red strapped heels that are adorned with nude colored buckles and studs. Her hair is down and flowing in big curls and the black liner is accentuating the green hue of her eyes.
I am pulled from her lustrous aura by the sound of Henri playing in the other room, “And what is the little man wearing this evening?” I say passing through the standoff to see him. He’s sitting on the floor in a white linen bubble romper; he is even enduring a little white sailor hat.
His red and blue cars have become planes since he is waving them around the air. He stops and sees me, “Cian!” He squeals.
“Henri.” And I hear the ‘R’ roll perfectly; he laughs at this. I repeat, he laughs again.
We all become silent when there is a rapping on the door and the silhouette of two people.
“It’s Monica,” Scarlet darts for the door, “Hey, come in!” The two girls hug and I can recall that feeling long ago, best friends.
Babet crests the door frame to invite Monica’s mother in, “Hey Monique, you really didn’t…”
But Monica’s mother cuts Babet off.“Yes Babe, because this girl…” she says pointing at Monica, “…needs to stop influencing Scarlet to be wild like her.”
Monique is a no-nonsense African American mother. She has smooth caramel skin and dark hazel eyes. Her hair is shoulder length and looks like black ribbons that have been curled into ringlets. Her daughter has the same caramel skin but her hair is more relaxed hanging down her back, and is a sandy honey blonde color.
During the exchange I am unseen by the new arrivals, but it doesn’t take long until I am found out. Monique walks through to the room where Henri and I are, I nearly scare her to death, “Oh, My God! You scared me half to death,” She says clutching her chest and laughing after the initial shock, “Bon Jour Henri!” She sees the little boy playing, but he pays her no mind. I smile when she realizes this and then looks to Babet for introductions.
Babet quickly comes to my rescue standing beside Monique, “Monique, this is Cian. He’s a friend of mine from Scotland, he is an artist also.”
I offer my respects and bow instead of my cold hand, “Pleasure to meet you,” I say to Monique, I then look over to Monica who is observing with Scarlet, “And your daughter.” I return my attention to Henri who is smiling up at me. I minimally return the gesture, but in my peripheral I can see Monique nudge Babet and being as I am what I am, I hear distinctively what Monique thinks Babet should do with me.
I am shocked by Babet’s whispered response to Monique’s suggestion, “He’s gay.” Ouch.
“Shame.” Monique can’t stop eyeing me.
There is a pregnant pause and I can feel an awkward wave blow through each female in the room, I simply keep my attentions on Henri. After all its him and me in this estrogen fest.
“Well, I appreciate you coming by, but I have nothing but love for Monica, and Scarlet is just as responsible for her own actions.” The mothers are staring intently at their daughters, “But we are heading out the door, Molly’s show is tonight and it’s almost seven o’clock.” Babet is gracious but direct.
“Oh, of course. Cian, it was extremely nice to meet you.” I bow again, “Come on Monica, let’s go.”
Scarlet and Monica hug again and say their good-byes. The door closes behind and Babet mouths the words, “I’m sorry.” I shrug it off and we leave Audubon for Molly’s loft.
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Revelations of Cian
Meet and Greet; Babet's Friends and Cian...
The ride is quiet; Molly’s loft is in a building two away from my haven warehouse. I am so close I could walk home and drink a blood bag before anyone noticed my absence. We take the modernized elevator up to the third floor where Molly calls home. The hallway is white and sterile, original brick columns are spaced between unit doors. There is carpet underfoot and restoration lamps for lighting. We reach the door to the home of Molly DuBois and I had to admit meeting her provoked a slight thrill in me. I honestly respected her as an artist.
Babet doesn’t knock, she enters and I put my hand on the door above her head to assist, she smiles at me while putting Henri on the floor inside the door. It automatically closes once we are beyond it, modernization.
It is apparent there are no people in the apartment the further we walk down the bamboo hall. Molly has a “clean-line” decorating style. The hall opens up to a sleek modern kitchen, so much so that there is no discerning where the refrigerator, dishwasher or any other major appliance is, the counter is a long thin white granite block. Beyond the kitchen is a modest living space and industrial staircase leading down. Two red block couches face each other, in between a butcher block coffee table sits with various photography magazines and a single silver bowl littering it.
I am distracted from the tour when Babet ascends the staircase, “Okay, Henri is laying in Molly’s bed watching television. He played so hard at the park today, he won’t last long.” She giggles and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard that glorious sound tonight.
“And Scarlet?” I ask.
“Already engrossed in her cell phone, texting Monica no doubt.” She shrugs and now that the children are settled I have an idea I hope she will agree to.
“Everyone is already upstairs I’m sure, are you ready for this?” She says and I gingerly take her hand before she can get far.
“Look,” I stare deep into her, but not so deep I am controlling her, “We aren’t far from my haven. You have been gracious enough to allow us into your world. Would you like to see a little into mine?”
Her eyes are soft and alluring, she smiles, “Yeah. Yes.”
We are in my warehouse and up the elevator before I realize it, considering my captivation of Babet. I lift the gate and she passed through into the vast space.
“Wow”, her voice echoes. “How long have you lived here?”
I flip the light that illuminates the small space over my box. I watch her carefully as she glides around my haven; her heels slowly click through, “The answer to your question; since they deemed these old warehouses uninhabitable. But I suppose they will eventually take it from me, the city that is.”
“What will you do then?” She is genuinely concerned.
I smile, “I will move on.”
“To where?”
“Honestly I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I can’t contain my bliss at the distressful emotions radiating from her. She seems to feel as though I am going to evaporate before her eyes. “Hey,” I saunter over to her; she is standing between the windows and the old couch. I put my hands on either side of her shoulders, “I’ll be okay; I’ve been okay for a long time.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, “How long is that again?” She smiles at me big and bright.
“Nice try.” I mirror her expression. We stand face to face, eye to eye, my smile fades and I lean into her, taking her face between my hands. They’re so large they almost cover both sides of her magnificent face. She is receptive and I feel a rush go through her, the flesh beneath my hands burns. She wants this, she wants me. I smile inwardly as I place my lips upon hers.
Her lips…Christ, these lips are soft, supple hot rose petals forming around mine like puzzle pieces. She parts them and I feel her pyretic tongue graze the inside of my upper lip, my teeth immediately run out. I pull and turn away from her, I begin to feel a wave of embarrassment befall her and I hastily diminish this in her, “I’m sorry,” I say taking full responsibility, “that was…” but she cuts me off.
“Lovely.” She says using her thumb to wipe the moisture from her bottom lip, almost savoring it as that bonny lip gets caught between her teeth, raking what remains into her mouth. This gesture is almost enough to send me back over the edge and of course, the monster is right there waiting. She doesn’t take her eyes off mine, “We should probably get back over to Molly’s.”
I simply nod.
The rooftop of Molly’s building is adorned with twinkling lights and suspended blown up renderings of Molly’s photos. On the right side of the rooftop courtyard she is displaying the positivity of our fair city; I am drawn to the New Orleans cityscape at twilight, sunrise and midnight; when the lights of the metropolis are most prominent. These are followed by shots of break-dancers in Jackson Square and the artists surrounding it. But we don’t get the opportunity to take it all in before Babet’s friends Frankie and Molly spot her, and eventually, me.
“Babe! You’re finally here!” Molly is clearly already in the spirit of the night, “Is this Cian?” Her speech is slightly slurred but it’s clear she has her bearings. She hugs Babet who laughs as she embraces her friend.
“Yes. Molly DuBois this is Cian.” I glance at the photographer before bowing.
Molly is obviously confused, “Just, Cian?”
“Aye.”
“Good enough for me,” She turns away from us, “Frankie come meet Cian!” She shouts over the alternative rock music. Before she turns back to us I have the split second to examine Molly DuBois. She is wearing a simple black sheath dress, that hits her minimal curves appropriately, and she has matched it with a cropped shrug jacket. Her long legs are extended by her crimson red stilettos. She is holding a flute of champagne out away from her body using it to coax Frankie over. She turns back to us and I see she has changed her hair color from the last time I saw her at Babet’s presentation. It’s no longer a light blonde color; it is platinum and has a hue of pink, making her look like a fairy when the overhead lights hit it.
She has the tresses pulled back into a chignon knot and Babet takes notice, “Molly, I love your hair! When did you have Frank do that?”
“Last week, it’s was really pink at first, she calmed it down.” She pats the back of it with her champagne hand, “you like?”
“I really do!” Babet’s emotions are all over the place. She is happy to be here, but nervous and apprehensive. She’s hiding it like a champ.
Frankie finally makes her way over; she is eyeing me speculatively as she hugs Babet, “Hey Babe.”
“Hey Frank.” The two friends embrace and Molly’s friend Wade approaches with a camera.
“Get together girls.” The three women do as they are told and all three smile brightly and beautifully at the hipster gentleman who seems not to change his attire for anything. He kisses Molly before jaunting off to another group of people.
I turn my attentions back to the three graces, I felt it before I see it but Frankie is still eyeing me and I am beginning to feel humorously uncomfortable. Babet notices and comes to my rescue, “Frankie Weller, this, is Cian.” She puts her hand out for me to take, but I keep my hands neatly behind my back and bow to her.
She lowers her hand, “Nice to finally meet you.”
“I concur.” I say while examining Frankie, who is wearing an orange pencil skirt and white cap sleeved shirt, white ruffles flow down the front creating a v-neck. Her baby blue peep toe platforms also increase her height. Her dark blonde hair has been lightened and is pulled into a low side pony tail draping over her shoulder.
Molly engages Babet and Frankie in conversation and I take a moment to scan the outdoor room, various groups of people; artist types, business types, alternative lifestyle types are all in attendance. They lazily make their way around the space, from one dynamic photo to the next. I finished taking in the right side that shows the beauty of New Orleans.
My gaze shifts over to the left side, where the raw and squalor of New Orleans is present. There are two photos side by side, both post Katrina. A little African American girl is kneeling on the side of the road by the dead body of her grandmother who had succumbed to the death in the aftermath. The other; is an aerial shot of the lower ninth district two days after the storm. I read Molly was one of the first locals to lend a hand. So much so, she hired a helicopter to fly stranded residents out; all the while photographically documenting the chaos. I am pulled from my inner thoughts by three words I have already heard today.
“He’s gay.”
“Shame.” Molly disappointingly says.
Now Frankie and Molly are eyeing me, I cut my eyes at Babet, there is no humor in them. She sees this and mouths, “I’m sorry.” Again.
Molly seemed unaffected but Frankie isn’t letting me get away that easy, “He’s not gay. Honey, I’m a hairdresser, I know gay. He ain’t gay.” I am floored but I don’t let it upset the evening. Tonight is for Babet. A rare gift for her to enjoy a night free of the worry or frustration of being locked inside every night and she seems more alive tonight than I have ever seen her. It’s a glorious sight, more intoxicating than our little yet monumental kiss in my warehouse. I want to see her this way, always.
The evening draws on and by midnight there are more people on the rooftop than there is space. Babet is not far from me all night, but I respectively give her the personal space she needs to mingle through the crowd without the dark giant demon flanking her. I feel it is apparent Babet is ready to leave, her emotions taking a down turn and I make my way over to her but I am stopped by Frankie. Her little hand barely grabs my arm to stop my stride, but quickly releases it when there is something off about the temperature of my skin.
She looks down at my arm and then up at me, her tone is coarse, “Look, she’s been through enough. I don’t know what you are trying to pull, but she is very important to us.” Frankie’s blue eyes are locked on mine and her tiny mouth is pressed into a hard line.
http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Babet doesn’t knock, she enters and I put my hand on the door above her head to assist, she smiles at me while putting Henri on the floor inside the door. It automatically closes once we are beyond it, modernization.
It is apparent there are no people in the apartment the further we walk down the bamboo hall. Molly has a “clean-line” decorating style. The hall opens up to a sleek modern kitchen, so much so that there is no discerning where the refrigerator, dishwasher or any other major appliance is, the counter is a long thin white granite block. Beyond the kitchen is a modest living space and industrial staircase leading down. Two red block couches face each other, in between a butcher block coffee table sits with various photography magazines and a single silver bowl littering it.
I am distracted from the tour when Babet ascends the staircase, “Okay, Henri is laying in Molly’s bed watching television. He played so hard at the park today, he won’t last long.” She giggles and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard that glorious sound tonight.
“And Scarlet?” I ask.
“Already engrossed in her cell phone, texting Monica no doubt.” She shrugs and now that the children are settled I have an idea I hope she will agree to.
“Everyone is already upstairs I’m sure, are you ready for this?” She says and I gingerly take her hand before she can get far.
“Look,” I stare deep into her, but not so deep I am controlling her, “We aren’t far from my haven. You have been gracious enough to allow us into your world. Would you like to see a little into mine?”
Her eyes are soft and alluring, she smiles, “Yeah. Yes.”
We are in my warehouse and up the elevator before I realize it, considering my captivation of Babet. I lift the gate and she passed through into the vast space.
“Wow”, her voice echoes. “How long have you lived here?”
I flip the light that illuminates the small space over my box. I watch her carefully as she glides around my haven; her heels slowly click through, “The answer to your question; since they deemed these old warehouses uninhabitable. But I suppose they will eventually take it from me, the city that is.”
“What will you do then?” She is genuinely concerned.
I smile, “I will move on.”
“To where?”
“Honestly I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I can’t contain my bliss at the distressful emotions radiating from her. She seems to feel as though I am going to evaporate before her eyes. “Hey,” I saunter over to her; she is standing between the windows and the old couch. I put my hands on either side of her shoulders, “I’ll be okay; I’ve been okay for a long time.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, “How long is that again?” She smiles at me big and bright.
“Nice try.” I mirror her expression. We stand face to face, eye to eye, my smile fades and I lean into her, taking her face between my hands. They’re so large they almost cover both sides of her magnificent face. She is receptive and I feel a rush go through her, the flesh beneath my hands burns. She wants this, she wants me. I smile inwardly as I place my lips upon hers.
Her lips…Christ, these lips are soft, supple hot rose petals forming around mine like puzzle pieces. She parts them and I feel her pyretic tongue graze the inside of my upper lip, my teeth immediately run out. I pull and turn away from her, I begin to feel a wave of embarrassment befall her and I hastily diminish this in her, “I’m sorry,” I say taking full responsibility, “that was…” but she cuts me off.
“Lovely.” She says using her thumb to wipe the moisture from her bottom lip, almost savoring it as that bonny lip gets caught between her teeth, raking what remains into her mouth. This gesture is almost enough to send me back over the edge and of course, the monster is right there waiting. She doesn’t take her eyes off mine, “We should probably get back over to Molly’s.”
I simply nod.
The rooftop of Molly’s building is adorned with twinkling lights and suspended blown up renderings of Molly’s photos. On the right side of the rooftop courtyard she is displaying the positivity of our fair city; I am drawn to the New Orleans cityscape at twilight, sunrise and midnight; when the lights of the metropolis are most prominent. These are followed by shots of break-dancers in Jackson Square and the artists surrounding it. But we don’t get the opportunity to take it all in before Babet’s friends Frankie and Molly spot her, and eventually, me.
“Babe! You’re finally here!” Molly is clearly already in the spirit of the night, “Is this Cian?” Her speech is slightly slurred but it’s clear she has her bearings. She hugs Babet who laughs as she embraces her friend.
“Yes. Molly DuBois this is Cian.” I glance at the photographer before bowing.
Molly is obviously confused, “Just, Cian?”
“Aye.”
“Good enough for me,” She turns away from us, “Frankie come meet Cian!” She shouts over the alternative rock music. Before she turns back to us I have the split second to examine Molly DuBois. She is wearing a simple black sheath dress, that hits her minimal curves appropriately, and she has matched it with a cropped shrug jacket. Her long legs are extended by her crimson red stilettos. She is holding a flute of champagne out away from her body using it to coax Frankie over. She turns back to us and I see she has changed her hair color from the last time I saw her at Babet’s presentation. It’s no longer a light blonde color; it is platinum and has a hue of pink, making her look like a fairy when the overhead lights hit it.
She has the tresses pulled back into a chignon knot and Babet takes notice, “Molly, I love your hair! When did you have Frank do that?”
“Last week, it’s was really pink at first, she calmed it down.” She pats the back of it with her champagne hand, “you like?”
“I really do!” Babet’s emotions are all over the place. She is happy to be here, but nervous and apprehensive. She’s hiding it like a champ.
Frankie finally makes her way over; she is eyeing me speculatively as she hugs Babet, “Hey Babe.”
“Hey Frank.” The two friends embrace and Molly’s friend Wade approaches with a camera.
“Get together girls.” The three women do as they are told and all three smile brightly and beautifully at the hipster gentleman who seems not to change his attire for anything. He kisses Molly before jaunting off to another group of people.
I turn my attentions back to the three graces, I felt it before I see it but Frankie is still eyeing me and I am beginning to feel humorously uncomfortable. Babet notices and comes to my rescue, “Frankie Weller, this, is Cian.” She puts her hand out for me to take, but I keep my hands neatly behind my back and bow to her.
She lowers her hand, “Nice to finally meet you.”
“I concur.” I say while examining Frankie, who is wearing an orange pencil skirt and white cap sleeved shirt, white ruffles flow down the front creating a v-neck. Her baby blue peep toe platforms also increase her height. Her dark blonde hair has been lightened and is pulled into a low side pony tail draping over her shoulder.
Molly engages Babet and Frankie in conversation and I take a moment to scan the outdoor room, various groups of people; artist types, business types, alternative lifestyle types are all in attendance. They lazily make their way around the space, from one dynamic photo to the next. I finished taking in the right side that shows the beauty of New Orleans.
My gaze shifts over to the left side, where the raw and squalor of New Orleans is present. There are two photos side by side, both post Katrina. A little African American girl is kneeling on the side of the road by the dead body of her grandmother who had succumbed to the death in the aftermath. The other; is an aerial shot of the lower ninth district two days after the storm. I read Molly was one of the first locals to lend a hand. So much so, she hired a helicopter to fly stranded residents out; all the while photographically documenting the chaos. I am pulled from my inner thoughts by three words I have already heard today.
“He’s gay.”
“Shame.” Molly disappointingly says.
Now Frankie and Molly are eyeing me, I cut my eyes at Babet, there is no humor in them. She sees this and mouths, “I’m sorry.” Again.
Molly seemed unaffected but Frankie isn’t letting me get away that easy, “He’s not gay. Honey, I’m a hairdresser, I know gay. He ain’t gay.” I am floored but I don’t let it upset the evening. Tonight is for Babet. A rare gift for her to enjoy a night free of the worry or frustration of being locked inside every night and she seems more alive tonight than I have ever seen her. It’s a glorious sight, more intoxicating than our little yet monumental kiss in my warehouse. I want to see her this way, always.
The evening draws on and by midnight there are more people on the rooftop than there is space. Babet is not far from me all night, but I respectively give her the personal space she needs to mingle through the crowd without the dark giant demon flanking her. I feel it is apparent Babet is ready to leave, her emotions taking a down turn and I make my way over to her but I am stopped by Frankie. Her little hand barely grabs my arm to stop my stride, but quickly releases it when there is something off about the temperature of my skin.
She looks down at my arm and then up at me, her tone is coarse, “Look, she’s been through enough. I don’t know what you are trying to pull, but she is very important to us.” Frankie’s blue eyes are locked on mine and her tiny mouth is pressed into a hard line.
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