Augusta Fern's Blog, page 8
October 16, 2013
October 14, 2013
Author Links...
LINKS:
WEBSITE: http://morteseries.augustafern.com/
ROC:
BLOG: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Instagram: http://instagram.com/a_m_fern
Twitter: https://twitter.com/augustafern
PINTEREST: http://pinterest.com/augustafern/mort...
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Book: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1...
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
MARSocial: http://marsocial.com/augustafern/
FaceBook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AugustaFERNA...
LINKS-BABET
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1...
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Babets-Epiphany...
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/augustafern/...
WEBSITE: http://morteseries.augustafern.com/
ROC:
BLOG: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Instagram: http://instagram.com/a_m_fern
Twitter: https://twitter.com/augustafern
PINTEREST: http://pinterest.com/augustafern/mort...
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Book: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1...
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
MARSocial: http://marsocial.com/augustafern/
FaceBook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AugustaFERNA...
LINKS-BABET
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1...
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Babets-Epiphany...
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/augustafern/...
...The Surprise waiting at home.
I take one last look at her and her painting and I realize the entire night had been quite the illuminating and intriguing experience. I continued to observe until the last few people were leaving. I joined a group of four who were on their way out; I could smell their intoxication so I knew my presence would go unnoticed. As I got just outside the door I heard Babet turn to her mother and say, “You know; I got the strangest feeling tonight….” She trailed off, “like I was being watched.” She looked at her mother worriedly.
“Oh honey, of course you were being watched! You were public speaking.” Her mother said laughing as she was busy gathering glasses and plates off of the mantle and staircase.
“No, I mean like…stalked…watched.” She said while her mother scurried around the room disregarding her daughter’s comments.
“Babe, help me clean up, it’s late and I have to be back here in,” she stopped to look at her watch, the time had reached one a.m. “Oh, my Lord, five hours!” Her mother’s pace quickened and Babet gets right to work.
I made my way back to the city and perched inconspicuously in the Quarter observing the night life of this great place. I was immersed in the sounds of the accordion, banjo, fiddle and drums’ weaving a zydeco soundtrack to couple’s conversations.
Hand in hand amongst rowdy frat bothers and giggly sorority sisters roaming the cobblestone streets occupied by horse-drawn carriages and the raucousness trailing out into the night from the surrounding bars and restaurants; their French doors open. I left the area and wandered toward that place, hoping to get one last glimpse of her.
The light radiating from her gallery like an invitation in the night. I slowly walked down the alley toward the back side of the building to make sure she arrived home safe, she had. Her black Audi A6 sat parked at the back door. I placed my hand on the hood of her car, her arrival was recent as the hood of the car was warm and the engine clicked in cool down mode. The front of the building became dark aside from the Quarter lamps, she had gone to bed and my desire for confirmation of her physical presence was not satisfied by her car.
Peering in the window my curiosity began to plan a course for entering her dwelling without an invitation; I had officially lost my mind over this woman.
I had to leave this place and exceed my best ability to stay at a safe distance since I couldn’t stay away. I wanted more than just to envelop her, I wanted to help her, find her husband, anything to possibly warrant a meeting with her. I couldn’t understand my fascination with her until I reached my haven.
I threw up the elevator gate to find Estella sitting demurely on my box, like an ironic painting. It was two hours until dawn and Morte’s doors would be locked by then. I threw the newspaper I picked up on the way home on the pile I had intended to discard earlier.
“Estella? What are you doing in here?” I asked walking toward her, a hint of humor in my voice. The closer I got I could see she had been crying and I quickly changed my demeanor. Her cheeks were stained pink and her makeup was no longer existent. The paleness of her nature makes her look as though she were a porcelain doll. “This is no place for someone like you. You stand out like a sore thumb.” I said again jokingly, stroking her face then angling it to meet my eyes.
She smiled and I leaned in to kiss her forehead. Her eyes closed and she let out a long deep sigh. Vampires are very passionate creatures and I could feel the desire radiate off of Estella now. She was brokenhearted, vulnerable and hurt after the reminiscence of her intended. She wanted attention, and she knew that at home the attention she drew was unwarranted. But I knew it was the painful emotions of the evening fueling her desires. She was here because she knew I would eventually come back, she came here because she knows I’ve always wanted her and tonight she needed me to want her.
As I held her head in my hands, I leaned down, caressing my face against hers taking in her scent. Magnolia and lime filled me and my primitive nature took hold as did hers. She was on me before I could react wrapping her arms around me, one hand worked through my thick raven hair as the nails of her other hand dug into the flesh of my shoulder. We kiss passionately and she pulls at the handful of my hair. I let out a low growl, she sighs pleasantly and wraps her legs around my waist. I followed her lead and grabbed her to hold her there, my hands gripping the underside of her thighs and I could feel my nails digging into her flesh, she took a deep breath and pulled her face away from mine to look into my eyes, her fangs completely run out.
Her skirt worked itself up her thighs to reveal she didn’t bother with panties. I could feel myself rising, her tongue rolling against mine, I propped her on one arm while I broke the clasp on my belt and unbuttoned my slacks with my free hand. I also don’t bother with underwear. I slid myself inside her hard and deep, she gasped quickly letting the air out in a pleasing moan. I moved with her as she continued to hold herself using my hair as leverage and I didn’t disapprove. With my free hand I began to gently open her jacket when she protested.
“Rip it.” She begs lustfully.
I obliged, slamming her down on top of my box our bodies still connected, with one hand I tore the jacket open to reveal her perfectly pale breasts. Her bare neck and chest littered with the necklaces she wore for the ceremony, I grabbed the chains and pearls in my hand to pull her face to mine, I felt my teeth running out; she noticed this and tipped her head back to give me passage, I yanked her back to meet my gaze. I then released the necklaces from my hand to replace them with her hair, the strawberry locks curling around my hand; I tug her head back further and sink my teeth in. While I drank she continued to move her hips against mine until I felt her heel dig into my side. My head rose and I growled fiercely looking down at her, her blood dripping from my mouth.
She smiles before kissing me hard, licking the moisture from around my lips “My turn.”
She pushes me off of her, tripped me and in one swift motion, removed every button from my shirt.
I land hard on the floor and she stands over me, one leg on each side of me. She stared intently at me while she removed the tattered jacket, dropping it to the floor; she then reached back behind her to unzip the skirt. Ripping it the rest of the way down, the ensemble a tattered pink and gray mess gathered beside me as the skirt joined it. Estella stands over me and I observe every inch of her stunning flesh, her mound completely shorn of hair.
I turn my head leaving the vision of her perfection and begin kissing her delicately around her ankles, removing one of her shoes and her stance gave me the added leverage to work my way north moving up her calf and around her knee. I licked and she moaned; continuing my ascension between her legs until my lips found her sex and her moan deepened as my hands reached around to grip her buttocks and push my face deeper. She enjoys it and grabs my hair again to grind me against her middle. I stay there, working my tongue against her clitoris, bringing my hand up to cup her; I slide my fingers inside, moving them in and out her breathing matching the rhythmic current, and I remained buried in her until I knew she was satisfied.
Estella’s body began to convulse as she pulled my face away, her hands firmly planted in my hair. She then stuck the remaining heel in my chest to flatten me again; I lay staring up at her when she lowers herself down to have me inside her, all of me. She drops to her knees holding my arms down by my sides and bent to me. Her necklaces gather between us, her teeth completely run out; she digs into the flesh of my neck and drinks as I feet her fingernails enter my shoulders, I attempt to reach up and caress her while she feeds but she does her damndest to prevent this.
I can’t determine if she wants my struggle as it is primal for your prey to fight but I felt she is enjoying the domination so I gladly submit. She pulls away from me her breathing increases and she begins to growl softly while rocking back and forth. She falls forward again onto my chest, her curls covering my face. Suddenly the mass of strawberry blonde flies from my neck to reveal her fierce green eyes and bloody smile.
She released my arms from below her knees and I swiftly sit up enough to reach the conglomeration of necklaces, ripping them from her pale neck. She continues to smile devilishly as I reposition her on my lap and we were face to face. I stare into her, until I get the impression she is remorseful about the entire accord, she finally begins to kiss me. Estella is easy at first; increasing her fervor with each passing second.
We stay locked together for what seems like eternity; the massive room echoing with low growls, soft moans and groans along with the occasional whimper. I didn’t know how long we are entangled in each other but I begin to feel my body stiffen; besides the obvious region. I glance at the glowing from Estella’s cell phone. The vampire cell phone application, “Nearly Dawn” was giving it’s warning. With Estella still feasting on me I reached to grab the key from my busted belt, she felt my movement and looked down, her mouth stained, still dripping with blood, “What’s wrong?”
“Dawn.” I said nodding toward her cell phone.
Estella leapt off of me as if I were daylight itself and began to gather her belongings. I already had the box unlocked.
“Don’t bother,” I said holding open the lid to my box, nodding to it. “You’ll never make it.”
She smiles, drops her torn clothing, removes her remaining shoe and climbs in. I can’t help but marvel at the way she moves, smiling to myself. She keeps her eyes on me as she lies down and I, after discarding my tattered clothes, climbed in and lay beside her. I close the lid and locked us in for the day. She hugged her body against mine and taking the hint I slid my arm underneath her neck, our wounds almost all healed.
It felt so natural and familiar, I hadn’t held a woman in my arms in centuries and while Estella lay next to me I was pleasantly engulfed in her Magnolia scented hair. Here she was, right here in my arms. I kissed her forehead where the hair met her skin, telling her “goodnight”.
“Oh honey, of course you were being watched! You were public speaking.” Her mother said laughing as she was busy gathering glasses and plates off of the mantle and staircase.
“No, I mean like…stalked…watched.” She said while her mother scurried around the room disregarding her daughter’s comments.
“Babe, help me clean up, it’s late and I have to be back here in,” she stopped to look at her watch, the time had reached one a.m. “Oh, my Lord, five hours!” Her mother’s pace quickened and Babet gets right to work.
I made my way back to the city and perched inconspicuously in the Quarter observing the night life of this great place. I was immersed in the sounds of the accordion, banjo, fiddle and drums’ weaving a zydeco soundtrack to couple’s conversations.
Hand in hand amongst rowdy frat bothers and giggly sorority sisters roaming the cobblestone streets occupied by horse-drawn carriages and the raucousness trailing out into the night from the surrounding bars and restaurants; their French doors open. I left the area and wandered toward that place, hoping to get one last glimpse of her.
The light radiating from her gallery like an invitation in the night. I slowly walked down the alley toward the back side of the building to make sure she arrived home safe, she had. Her black Audi A6 sat parked at the back door. I placed my hand on the hood of her car, her arrival was recent as the hood of the car was warm and the engine clicked in cool down mode. The front of the building became dark aside from the Quarter lamps, she had gone to bed and my desire for confirmation of her physical presence was not satisfied by her car.
Peering in the window my curiosity began to plan a course for entering her dwelling without an invitation; I had officially lost my mind over this woman.
I had to leave this place and exceed my best ability to stay at a safe distance since I couldn’t stay away. I wanted more than just to envelop her, I wanted to help her, find her husband, anything to possibly warrant a meeting with her. I couldn’t understand my fascination with her until I reached my haven.
I threw up the elevator gate to find Estella sitting demurely on my box, like an ironic painting. It was two hours until dawn and Morte’s doors would be locked by then. I threw the newspaper I picked up on the way home on the pile I had intended to discard earlier.
“Estella? What are you doing in here?” I asked walking toward her, a hint of humor in my voice. The closer I got I could see she had been crying and I quickly changed my demeanor. Her cheeks were stained pink and her makeup was no longer existent. The paleness of her nature makes her look as though she were a porcelain doll. “This is no place for someone like you. You stand out like a sore thumb.” I said again jokingly, stroking her face then angling it to meet my eyes.
She smiled and I leaned in to kiss her forehead. Her eyes closed and she let out a long deep sigh. Vampires are very passionate creatures and I could feel the desire radiate off of Estella now. She was brokenhearted, vulnerable and hurt after the reminiscence of her intended. She wanted attention, and she knew that at home the attention she drew was unwarranted. But I knew it was the painful emotions of the evening fueling her desires. She was here because she knew I would eventually come back, she came here because she knows I’ve always wanted her and tonight she needed me to want her.
As I held her head in my hands, I leaned down, caressing my face against hers taking in her scent. Magnolia and lime filled me and my primitive nature took hold as did hers. She was on me before I could react wrapping her arms around me, one hand worked through my thick raven hair as the nails of her other hand dug into the flesh of my shoulder. We kiss passionately and she pulls at the handful of my hair. I let out a low growl, she sighs pleasantly and wraps her legs around my waist. I followed her lead and grabbed her to hold her there, my hands gripping the underside of her thighs and I could feel my nails digging into her flesh, she took a deep breath and pulled her face away from mine to look into my eyes, her fangs completely run out.
Her skirt worked itself up her thighs to reveal she didn’t bother with panties. I could feel myself rising, her tongue rolling against mine, I propped her on one arm while I broke the clasp on my belt and unbuttoned my slacks with my free hand. I also don’t bother with underwear. I slid myself inside her hard and deep, she gasped quickly letting the air out in a pleasing moan. I moved with her as she continued to hold herself using my hair as leverage and I didn’t disapprove. With my free hand I began to gently open her jacket when she protested.
“Rip it.” She begs lustfully.
I obliged, slamming her down on top of my box our bodies still connected, with one hand I tore the jacket open to reveal her perfectly pale breasts. Her bare neck and chest littered with the necklaces she wore for the ceremony, I grabbed the chains and pearls in my hand to pull her face to mine, I felt my teeth running out; she noticed this and tipped her head back to give me passage, I yanked her back to meet my gaze. I then released the necklaces from my hand to replace them with her hair, the strawberry locks curling around my hand; I tug her head back further and sink my teeth in. While I drank she continued to move her hips against mine until I felt her heel dig into my side. My head rose and I growled fiercely looking down at her, her blood dripping from my mouth.
She smiles before kissing me hard, licking the moisture from around my lips “My turn.”
She pushes me off of her, tripped me and in one swift motion, removed every button from my shirt.
I land hard on the floor and she stands over me, one leg on each side of me. She stared intently at me while she removed the tattered jacket, dropping it to the floor; she then reached back behind her to unzip the skirt. Ripping it the rest of the way down, the ensemble a tattered pink and gray mess gathered beside me as the skirt joined it. Estella stands over me and I observe every inch of her stunning flesh, her mound completely shorn of hair.
I turn my head leaving the vision of her perfection and begin kissing her delicately around her ankles, removing one of her shoes and her stance gave me the added leverage to work my way north moving up her calf and around her knee. I licked and she moaned; continuing my ascension between her legs until my lips found her sex and her moan deepened as my hands reached around to grip her buttocks and push my face deeper. She enjoys it and grabs my hair again to grind me against her middle. I stay there, working my tongue against her clitoris, bringing my hand up to cup her; I slide my fingers inside, moving them in and out her breathing matching the rhythmic current, and I remained buried in her until I knew she was satisfied.
Estella’s body began to convulse as she pulled my face away, her hands firmly planted in my hair. She then stuck the remaining heel in my chest to flatten me again; I lay staring up at her when she lowers herself down to have me inside her, all of me. She drops to her knees holding my arms down by my sides and bent to me. Her necklaces gather between us, her teeth completely run out; she digs into the flesh of my neck and drinks as I feet her fingernails enter my shoulders, I attempt to reach up and caress her while she feeds but she does her damndest to prevent this.
I can’t determine if she wants my struggle as it is primal for your prey to fight but I felt she is enjoying the domination so I gladly submit. She pulls away from me her breathing increases and she begins to growl softly while rocking back and forth. She falls forward again onto my chest, her curls covering my face. Suddenly the mass of strawberry blonde flies from my neck to reveal her fierce green eyes and bloody smile.
She released my arms from below her knees and I swiftly sit up enough to reach the conglomeration of necklaces, ripping them from her pale neck. She continues to smile devilishly as I reposition her on my lap and we were face to face. I stare into her, until I get the impression she is remorseful about the entire accord, she finally begins to kiss me. Estella is easy at first; increasing her fervor with each passing second.
We stay locked together for what seems like eternity; the massive room echoing with low growls, soft moans and groans along with the occasional whimper. I didn’t know how long we are entangled in each other but I begin to feel my body stiffen; besides the obvious region. I glance at the glowing from Estella’s cell phone. The vampire cell phone application, “Nearly Dawn” was giving it’s warning. With Estella still feasting on me I reached to grab the key from my busted belt, she felt my movement and looked down, her mouth stained, still dripping with blood, “What’s wrong?”
“Dawn.” I said nodding toward her cell phone.
Estella leapt off of me as if I were daylight itself and began to gather her belongings. I already had the box unlocked.
“Don’t bother,” I said holding open the lid to my box, nodding to it. “You’ll never make it.”
She smiles, drops her torn clothing, removes her remaining shoe and climbs in. I can’t help but marvel at the way she moves, smiling to myself. She keeps her eyes on me as she lies down and I, after discarding my tattered clothes, climbed in and lay beside her. I close the lid and locked us in for the day. She hugged her body against mine and taking the hint I slid my arm underneath her neck, our wounds almost all healed.
It felt so natural and familiar, I hadn’t held a woman in my arms in centuries and while Estella lay next to me I was pleasantly engulfed in her Magnolia scented hair. Here she was, right here in my arms. I kissed her forehead where the hair met her skin, telling her “goodnight”.
Kaloo!! Kalay!! BLOGS for the HOLIDAY!!!
Paul Anthony Associates Book Blog Tour.
Welcome to the Christmas Blog Tour: A group of authors entertaining their readers with some thrilling tales of fiction. Lets’ find out what they are up to at the moment. Santa Claus wants to ask some questions. Indeed, they’ve all been asked the same questions as they introduce themselves and their work. So, let’s hear what they have to say. First up is AUGUSTA FERN.
Q. Whereabouts do you live, AUGUSTA FERN.
A. I live in Raleigh, North Carolina
Q. Would you describe yourself as a full time writer or do you have another job?
A. Technically I am a full time writer, but I freelance at lots of things. For the moment I am an organizational representative.
Q. How do you spend your leisure time?
A. I visit the beach regularly, Emerald Isle, NC. Playing with my son or watching chick flicks with my daughter. My husband and I enjoy live music.
Q. Name three people you would like to entertain for Christmas dinner and why?
A. Alive: David Sedaris – Because we could banter about Raleigh and Emerald Isle. Dead: Lewis Carroll so I could have the perfect Alice in Wonderland Christmas. Fictional character: Sookie Stackhouse in hopes of meeting one of her paranormal boyfriends.
Q. If you could live anywhere in the world this Christmas, where would it be?
A. Paris.
Q. If you had one Christmas wish, what would it be?
A. To have the entire world read my words.
Q. Describe yourself using only three ‘Christmas’ words.
A. Festive. Merry. Bright.
Q. What makes Christmas special for you?
A. Time spent with family, the laughter echoing the halls when my grandpa tells a story about his annual summer trip to Colorado. The smiling faces children, grandchildren and great grandchildren on Christmas morning. My grandma’s Methodist (cinnamon) rolls.
Q. What is your favorite childhood memory of Christmas?
A. I have a large family and we all used to be able to get together, but life and growing up (for us kids) gets in the way but those Christmases when we are ALL together are epic.
Q. What is the worst Christmas you have ever experienced?
A. The year my parents divorced.
Q. Are you currently published for Christmas or do you have a ‘work in action’ you can tell us about?
A. I have two novels currently published, Revelations of Cian and Babet’s Epiphany – both available on Amazon.
Q. Tell us about your work and what influenced you to write in this exciting genre?
A. I’ve had a love for the pale immortal since I was 10 years old. My mother took me with her to see Bram Stoker’s Dracula in the theatre.
Q Do you have a particular character that figures consistently or are you in the stage of developing a lead character?
A. In my first novel Cian is the main character and even though he is not constant in the follow up he is consistently mentioned. The final instalment he is present and half of the story is from his perspective.
Q. Where can we find out more about your work?
A. Revelations of Cian - http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Babet’s Epiphany - http://www.amazon.com/Babets-Epiphany...
Q. And where can we follow and support you on social media sites?
A. Author Website: http://morteseries.augustafern.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/augustafern
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/augustafern/mort... http://www.pinterest.com/augustafern/...
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
MARSocial: http://marsocial.com/augustafern/
FaceBook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AugustaFERNA...
Instagram: http://instagram.com/a_m_fern
Q. Santa Claus thanks you for taking part in this interview, AUGUSTA FERN and wishes you good luck with your writing in the years ahead.
A. Thank you. Can I invite you to meet my friends in this wonderful world of writing? Just click on the names below and you’ll find yourself reading a different set of answers to the same questions. Please support my friends and fellow authors by visiting their sites and checking out their contribution. Thank you for joining me on my blog tour.
PS You do believe….. Don’t you?
1. Maria Swan http://mariagraziaswan.com/christmas-...
2. Jean Reinhardt http://jeanreinhardt.wordpress.com/pa...
3. Jennifer Gegl http://micropreemie.net/uncategorized...
5. Joan Fallon http://www.joanfallon.co.uk/blog.html
6. Meg Johnston http://paulanthonys.blogspot.co.uk/20...
Welcome to the Christmas Blog Tour: A group of authors entertaining their readers with some thrilling tales of fiction. Lets’ find out what they are up to at the moment. Santa Claus wants to ask some questions. Indeed, they’ve all been asked the same questions as they introduce themselves and their work. So, let’s hear what they have to say. First up is AUGUSTA FERN.
Q. Whereabouts do you live, AUGUSTA FERN.
A. I live in Raleigh, North Carolina
Q. Would you describe yourself as a full time writer or do you have another job?
A. Technically I am a full time writer, but I freelance at lots of things. For the moment I am an organizational representative.
Q. How do you spend your leisure time?
A. I visit the beach regularly, Emerald Isle, NC. Playing with my son or watching chick flicks with my daughter. My husband and I enjoy live music.
Q. Name three people you would like to entertain for Christmas dinner and why?
A. Alive: David Sedaris – Because we could banter about Raleigh and Emerald Isle. Dead: Lewis Carroll so I could have the perfect Alice in Wonderland Christmas. Fictional character: Sookie Stackhouse in hopes of meeting one of her paranormal boyfriends.
Q. If you could live anywhere in the world this Christmas, where would it be?
A. Paris.
Q. If you had one Christmas wish, what would it be?
A. To have the entire world read my words.
Q. Describe yourself using only three ‘Christmas’ words.
A. Festive. Merry. Bright.
Q. What makes Christmas special for you?
A. Time spent with family, the laughter echoing the halls when my grandpa tells a story about his annual summer trip to Colorado. The smiling faces children, grandchildren and great grandchildren on Christmas morning. My grandma’s Methodist (cinnamon) rolls.
Q. What is your favorite childhood memory of Christmas?
A. I have a large family and we all used to be able to get together, but life and growing up (for us kids) gets in the way but those Christmases when we are ALL together are epic.
Q. What is the worst Christmas you have ever experienced?
A. The year my parents divorced.
Q. Are you currently published for Christmas or do you have a ‘work in action’ you can tell us about?
A. I have two novels currently published, Revelations of Cian and Babet’s Epiphany – both available on Amazon.
Q. Tell us about your work and what influenced you to write in this exciting genre?
A. I’ve had a love for the pale immortal since I was 10 years old. My mother took me with her to see Bram Stoker’s Dracula in the theatre.
Q Do you have a particular character that figures consistently or are you in the stage of developing a lead character?
A. In my first novel Cian is the main character and even though he is not constant in the follow up he is consistently mentioned. The final instalment he is present and half of the story is from his perspective.
Q. Where can we find out more about your work?
A. Revelations of Cian - http://www.amazon.com/Revelations-Cia...
Babet’s Epiphany - http://www.amazon.com/Babets-Epiphany...
Q. And where can we follow and support you on social media sites?
A. Author Website: http://morteseries.augustafern.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/augustafern
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/augustafern/mort... http://www.pinterest.com/augustafern/...
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
MARSocial: http://marsocial.com/augustafern/
FaceBook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AugustaFERNA...
Instagram: http://instagram.com/a_m_fern
Q. Santa Claus thanks you for taking part in this interview, AUGUSTA FERN and wishes you good luck with your writing in the years ahead.
A. Thank you. Can I invite you to meet my friends in this wonderful world of writing? Just click on the names below and you’ll find yourself reading a different set of answers to the same questions. Please support my friends and fellow authors by visiting their sites and checking out their contribution. Thank you for joining me on my blog tour.
PS You do believe….. Don’t you?
1. Maria Swan http://mariagraziaswan.com/christmas-...
2. Jean Reinhardt http://jeanreinhardt.wordpress.com/pa...
3. Jennifer Gegl http://micropreemie.net/uncategorized...
5. Joan Fallon http://www.joanfallon.co.uk/blog.html
6. Meg Johnston http://paulanthonys.blogspot.co.uk/20...
October 10, 2013
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...
October 7, 2013
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.
September 30, 2013
Babet...Up close and Personal
I was in shock, not only did she have children but she was married and her husband was missing. I followed the story, basically stated that they were both working late at the studio/gallery they co-owned named “Scarlet Henri” when she asked him to go out to get them some coffee. He left on foot and never returned. Her name is Babet Beauregard Benoit, heiress to the Beauregard fortune which included a vast antebellum style home and land, known as the Chalmette Battlefield. The property at the moment is a museum, overseen by her mother, Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard.
The story shifts from her missing husband to museum coming events, including one taking place this evening! It all made sense, why I hadn’t thought of it before, maybe I was too wound up in the Queen’s chores, whatever the reason I now realized how this exquisite young woman came to afford to own her own art gallery and studio in the French Quarter.
Benoit, more importantly Beauregard; names I have only heard spoken by one other, Estella. I tossed the paper back with the others and began to dress, in accordance with an evening out; I did own one set of evening wear, gray slacks and a black button up dress shirt. I slipped a black belt through the loop holes, fastening the buckle and stood in front of the floor mirror, deciding whether or not to also wear a tie. I opt for the bachelor look and leave the top button of my shirt open, slipping my feet into the one pair of Frank Sinatra; rat pack style dress shoes I own.
The quarter was busy with people as the evening was still early. I hastily strolled through them undetected and rounded the corner to the cobble stone street reaching the turquoise two-story building where Babet Benoit worked and lived. As I stood staring at the front of the gallery through large French windows, I was in awe. From ceiling to floor massive paintings occupied the cream walls. Larger at the top, smaller and smaller as they worked down to some 5 X 5 prints at the bottom, stopping at a chair rail circling the room. Landscapes and portraits, still life and nudes, all very beautifully painted. Dynamic brush strokes captivated the canvases with vivid color.
The floor was a tiled mosaic with colors that mimic the exterior of the building and surroundings of the Quarter. Glass shelves placed strategically as patron paths for browsing. Atop the shelves were ceramic pieces of all sizes and colors. Like colored pieces featured together as individual displays. My attentions were diverted when I saw Babet enter the gallery from the back carrying a painting under each arm.
She is thankfully dressed in something other than the worn out jeans and t-shirt and her hair was a waterfall of cherry curls pulled halfway up her head. Her flawless skin glowed against the bright white of her sundress that billowed like a ribbon as she walked; I watched as she gently she set the paintings down beside two ornate frames, I noticed when she turned; she had a small fleur de leis tattoo on her inner right ankle.
She slightly bent over and one of the dress’ straps fell from her shoulder to her arm. She quickly grabbed it to pull it back to place and hurriedly retreated to the back once more. I stood waiting to see her emerge again and when she adorned a light blue sweater, and carried a small bag and a pair of sandals in her left hand, car keys in her right. She walked barefoot to the narrow staircase and yelled up to someone named Caroline, she was leaving. Once back inside the Gallery she slipped on her sandals, threw the bag over her shoulder and grabbed one painting and one frame. She was to repeat this once more before she left the building. I crept down the alley to where I could just see her car, the trunk was still open. She had yet to finish loading the last painting and frame; suddenly I heard her angelic voice.
“Something I can help you with sir?” I hear her say from inside the Gallery. I darted back down the alley to the front of the building, peering through a corner of the window I saw her engaging in business with a local man.
“Oh, Babe, you startled me!” A mousey man in a linen pantsuit stood in the middle of the Gallery. He wasn’t even five and half feet tall with silver hair and blue eyes. He seemed nervous as he gripped a fedora tightly in his tiny hands.
“I’m sorry Mr. Bordeaux, I didn’t mean to,” her is voice a charming symphony. She stood smiling, patiently waiting for his reply to her first question.
He straightened himself, in a matter-of-fact kind of way and proudly said, “Yes, I wanted to commission you to paint my Millicent.”
I feel her swell with pride, “I’d love to Mr. Bordeaux and I usually would stay and go over the details with you, but my mother is expecting me at the museum with these two original paintings of the house, so I must go. Would it be alright if I call you in the morning to work out the specifics? You know, background, color, all that.” She said as she motioned him toward the front door and when his back was turned her face showed disappointment at herself for not locking it before she had intended to leave.
Once the jittery little man was out the door she flipped a sign stating the hours of operation and turned the lock. Leaping toward the back door she yelled again to Caroline that she was now leaving. I darted back up the alley where her car remained idling. She loaded the last two items and slammed the trunk. She turned and her dress floated up enough to see her upper thigh meet her buttocks. She jumped in her car, slammed the door and reversed down the driveway, nearly hitting a trashcan at the end. Once she was out of sight I ran down the drive to follow her.
It wasn’t a long journey, The Beauregard House and Chalmette Battlefield is only seven miles downriver from the New Orleans French Quarter. Babet pulled her car around to the backside of the house where her mother was standing waiting impatiently for her daughter to arrive with the paintings. Her car came to a stop and the trunk flew open before the brake lights dimmed out. She put the car in park and sprang out of the driver’s side door, slamming it as just as quickly. She awkwardly adjusts her dress as she walks around to greet her mother who releases her crossed arms at the sight of her daughter.
A smile grew across the woman’s face and she opened her arms to hug her daughter. Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard was an attractive older woman; her daughter may have inherited some of her mother’s facial features, but her complexion and shape are all from her father’s side, Creole.
Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard is a petit woman with silvery blonde hair and green eyes like her daughter. I am caught off guard slightly by the vision of Babet’s mother covered in blood, which quickly subsides. Where did that come from?!?
She is dripping in fine jewelry overtop a pink and gray tweed suit and sensible heels for a woman of her age and sociological rank. Babet isn’t as flashy as her mother who fixes and fidgetes with Babet’s hair as they enter the house. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard turns around at the last minute to have one of the attendants bring in the paintings and frames, mentioning harshly that they were original and old and to be careful. With a wave of her hand, “Just put those in the library for now, no one will be going in there this evening.”
Babet and her mother disappeared inside the massive Antebellum home. I observed while the attendants carefully removed the two paintings and frames from Babet’s car. I decided to take a personal tour of the grounds said to be the site of The Battle of New Orleans in 1814-1815. This battle is a significant one being the end to any attempt by England to gain control of the American Colonies, lost during the American Revolution. Being a soldier I am of course interested in battlefields and this one with the home residing on it is becoming more and more interesting to me as the moments tick by.
The grounds were extensive; I made it back to the house in time to see the 2 original paintings of the great antebellum home set in their respective frames. The grand ballroom, a room entirely encased in wood paneling, floors and ceiling, was full of local and not so local people interested in the history of the house and its owner. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard stood at an ornate podium flanked by two spectacular tapestries, one depicting the battle of New Orleans, the other the Beauregard family crest, and addressed the audience. She introduces her daughter as the expert historian on the house. Babet slowly with her head held high, yet her emotions told another story, took to the podium thanking her mother for the gracious introduction. She fumbled with some papers and once in order she takes a deep breath, smiling at the gathering before beginning her presentation.
“Good evening. I would like to thank you all for coming this evening and your interest in our family home and history. As some of you know I began this historical project when I was in middle-school like my own daughter, Scarlet.”
“Her daughter’s name is Scarlet.” I say quietly to myself.
“Now my middle school history project has evolved to an annual event which I am very proud of. The history of our grand family home began before it was even an idea put to plans and built.” She stopped to take a sip of water nervously smiling again before addressing the crowd once more.
“My great grandfather four times over was the son of Pierre Gustave Touant Beauregard, a native son of Louisiana, military officer, politician, inventor, writer, civil servant and the first prominent General of the Confederate States Army during the American Civil War.” She stopped to laugh just a little and her laugh is one of the most symphonic sounds I have ever heard. I am quickly pulled back to here and now, “But don’t worry ya’ll, I won’t touch on each of these subjects.” And the crowd laughs in acceptance. “He served as an engineer under General Winfield Scott during the Mexican American War, he was appointed brevet captain for the battles of Contreras and Churubusco and Major for Chapultepec, where he was wounded in the shoulder and thigh….” She continued as my head began to circle the facts. This man, Babet’s great grandfather five times over, was Estella’s betrothed! I shook myself and got out of my own head to listen again.
“P.G. T. Beauregard had many nicknames given to him by his army friends such as “Little Creole”, “Felix”, and “Little Frenchman”. Beauregard married in 1841, Marie Laure Villere’, the daughter of Jules Villere’ a sugar cane planter in Plaquemines parish and a member of one of the most prominent French Creole families in southern Louisiana. The couple had three children: Rene’ in 1843, Henri in 1845 and Laure in 1850. Unfortunately Marie died while giving birth to Laure….” Babet was still addressing the crowd as I surveyed the attendants; I noticed a head of strawberry-blonde hair sitting on the left side of the room. I stared intently at the back of her head until she turned to see me in her peripheral, her teeth gleaming as she did so. I made motion for her to meet me outside.
I watch as Estella gracefully rose from her chair, clutching her little bag, courteously excusing herself as she made her way from the seated crowd. She slowly sashayed toward the exit and knew she was being watched by more than just me. She slipped through the heavy ballroom doors, putting on a decent ruse to the door’s weight. Once outside the ballroom Estella walked the hall out the front door where I stood waiting. She was dressed in her southern society best, almost an exact replica of Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard except Estella’s skirt was shorter and her heels were taller.
“Cian!” she said in her southern twang. “I didn’t know you were in town sugar.” Her voice trailed loud enough to have the evenings attendants disregard us as old friends the mini-hug and kiss she bestowed upon me helped. We walked the drive away from the house until we were literally out of sight.
I snatched her arm and just as fast she yanked it from my grasp. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I could ask you the same. I had no idea you had such an interest in Louisiana history or architecture, or historical architecture for that matter.” Her smile on her reply dripping with sarcasm.
“I was a soldier and it was a battlefield, there lies my interest.” Mirroring her sarcasm.
“Well darling the battlefield is that way and this is an antebellum home….you seemed pretty interested in that speaker.”
“After seeing the grounds I was interested in the history.” I said looking deep into her eyes “I guess this answers any questions I had abuot you keeping up with his family.” She turned away from me.
“Yes, I check in on them from time to time.” Her voice cracked and I could hear tears welling in her eyes. “This is the only time I like hearing about...him, all his wonderful accomplishments.”
I felt it was in bad taste to make the joke that finally a Beauregard married a Benoit, referring to Babet, so I kept it to myself and watched her dip her hand into the cleavage of her jacket, something else that varied between Estella’s clothing and Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard’s. She brought out a handkerchief with the initials G. T. B. in beautiful brocade stitch. She wrapped the material around her finger and dabbed the tears from her eyes careful not to ruin her makeup or stain her skin.
“I’m sorry to have pulled you away.” I said sincerely.
She made a “don’t worry about it” gesture and said, “I’ve heard it many times before.” winking at me concealing her sadness.
Estella was a beautiful creature, even clad in tears. She drew in her breath and straightened her face. Placing the handkerchief back in her clutch she turned to go back inside. She waved her hand over her shoulder to motion for me to follow and as she did her attentions diverted toward a mass of magnolia in the distance. She quickly straightened her back and took a deep breath, smiling at me once again.
“Come on Cian, let’s finish this thing.” Her head held high as she closed in on the front lawn. I wanted to comfort Estella but our relationship being what it is I have to keep a safe distance.
The attendants bowed their heads as she passed and nodded as I past them up into the house. Babet had reached the portion of her presentation that included the paintings.
“Here you can see the original artists brushstrokes are synonymous with the time; and show a great deal of the house’s detail and beauty.” The house in the original painting sat at a distance from the artist perch, flanked by two large trees. “The painter obviously wanted to capture the size of the house in retrospect to the land…a great historical work.” She smiled, clasping her hands together as she spoke of the technique and shading of the original painting. She seemed to tense as she took a corner of the tarp covering the second painting, apparently done more recently. Babet pulled the tarp off the frame to reveal a much more colorful rendition of the same painting, exact distance and size achieved. She beamed as the crowd erupted in applause. Once the roar died down she approached the podium again to explain that she had painted this six years ago, prior to that year’s ceremony and this was the first year she felt comfortable enough to unveil it.
It was magnificent. Babet used brighter more modern colors to enhance the already beautiful masterpiece, looking at the painting felt like God himself was shining down on the property and surrounding land. The flanking trees burst with five different shades of green and the columns on the front of the house were so bright white it was almost blinding, the eaves and windows shaded perfectly. The grounds surrounding it in Babet’s rendition were so inviting, like you could jump into the canvas and roll around on the fluffy green grass.
Babet continued to beam as her mother came from behind clasping her daughter’s arms and squeezing as if to say, “See, I knew they’d love it.” She whispered to Babet and then addressed the crowd.
“Thank you all so very much for coming tonight, I, as well as my daughter, greatly appreciate your interest in our family history. Please stay and enjoy, we have hors d’oeuvre and drinks in the parlor where the paintings will be displayed.” She smiled and hurried her daughter toward the parlor. I was snapped out of my gaze when Estella mentioned we should go, as food and drinks are of no interest to us. I wanted to get a closer look at the paintings as well as the artist who was already drowning in questions from admirers.
“Suit yourself.” Estella said turning to leave, she turned back to face me, “You look nice by the way.”
I smiled and nodded to thank her.
The story shifts from her missing husband to museum coming events, including one taking place this evening! It all made sense, why I hadn’t thought of it before, maybe I was too wound up in the Queen’s chores, whatever the reason I now realized how this exquisite young woman came to afford to own her own art gallery and studio in the French Quarter.
Benoit, more importantly Beauregard; names I have only heard spoken by one other, Estella. I tossed the paper back with the others and began to dress, in accordance with an evening out; I did own one set of evening wear, gray slacks and a black button up dress shirt. I slipped a black belt through the loop holes, fastening the buckle and stood in front of the floor mirror, deciding whether or not to also wear a tie. I opt for the bachelor look and leave the top button of my shirt open, slipping my feet into the one pair of Frank Sinatra; rat pack style dress shoes I own.
The quarter was busy with people as the evening was still early. I hastily strolled through them undetected and rounded the corner to the cobble stone street reaching the turquoise two-story building where Babet Benoit worked and lived. As I stood staring at the front of the gallery through large French windows, I was in awe. From ceiling to floor massive paintings occupied the cream walls. Larger at the top, smaller and smaller as they worked down to some 5 X 5 prints at the bottom, stopping at a chair rail circling the room. Landscapes and portraits, still life and nudes, all very beautifully painted. Dynamic brush strokes captivated the canvases with vivid color.
The floor was a tiled mosaic with colors that mimic the exterior of the building and surroundings of the Quarter. Glass shelves placed strategically as patron paths for browsing. Atop the shelves were ceramic pieces of all sizes and colors. Like colored pieces featured together as individual displays. My attentions were diverted when I saw Babet enter the gallery from the back carrying a painting under each arm.
She is thankfully dressed in something other than the worn out jeans and t-shirt and her hair was a waterfall of cherry curls pulled halfway up her head. Her flawless skin glowed against the bright white of her sundress that billowed like a ribbon as she walked; I watched as she gently she set the paintings down beside two ornate frames, I noticed when she turned; she had a small fleur de leis tattoo on her inner right ankle.
She slightly bent over and one of the dress’ straps fell from her shoulder to her arm. She quickly grabbed it to pull it back to place and hurriedly retreated to the back once more. I stood waiting to see her emerge again and when she adorned a light blue sweater, and carried a small bag and a pair of sandals in her left hand, car keys in her right. She walked barefoot to the narrow staircase and yelled up to someone named Caroline, she was leaving. Once back inside the Gallery she slipped on her sandals, threw the bag over her shoulder and grabbed one painting and one frame. She was to repeat this once more before she left the building. I crept down the alley to where I could just see her car, the trunk was still open. She had yet to finish loading the last painting and frame; suddenly I heard her angelic voice.
“Something I can help you with sir?” I hear her say from inside the Gallery. I darted back down the alley to the front of the building, peering through a corner of the window I saw her engaging in business with a local man.
“Oh, Babe, you startled me!” A mousey man in a linen pantsuit stood in the middle of the Gallery. He wasn’t even five and half feet tall with silver hair and blue eyes. He seemed nervous as he gripped a fedora tightly in his tiny hands.
“I’m sorry Mr. Bordeaux, I didn’t mean to,” her is voice a charming symphony. She stood smiling, patiently waiting for his reply to her first question.
He straightened himself, in a matter-of-fact kind of way and proudly said, “Yes, I wanted to commission you to paint my Millicent.”
I feel her swell with pride, “I’d love to Mr. Bordeaux and I usually would stay and go over the details with you, but my mother is expecting me at the museum with these two original paintings of the house, so I must go. Would it be alright if I call you in the morning to work out the specifics? You know, background, color, all that.” She said as she motioned him toward the front door and when his back was turned her face showed disappointment at herself for not locking it before she had intended to leave.
Once the jittery little man was out the door she flipped a sign stating the hours of operation and turned the lock. Leaping toward the back door she yelled again to Caroline that she was now leaving. I darted back up the alley where her car remained idling. She loaded the last two items and slammed the trunk. She turned and her dress floated up enough to see her upper thigh meet her buttocks. She jumped in her car, slammed the door and reversed down the driveway, nearly hitting a trashcan at the end. Once she was out of sight I ran down the drive to follow her.
It wasn’t a long journey, The Beauregard House and Chalmette Battlefield is only seven miles downriver from the New Orleans French Quarter. Babet pulled her car around to the backside of the house where her mother was standing waiting impatiently for her daughter to arrive with the paintings. Her car came to a stop and the trunk flew open before the brake lights dimmed out. She put the car in park and sprang out of the driver’s side door, slamming it as just as quickly. She awkwardly adjusts her dress as she walks around to greet her mother who releases her crossed arms at the sight of her daughter.
A smile grew across the woman’s face and she opened her arms to hug her daughter. Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard was an attractive older woman; her daughter may have inherited some of her mother’s facial features, but her complexion and shape are all from her father’s side, Creole.
Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard is a petit woman with silvery blonde hair and green eyes like her daughter. I am caught off guard slightly by the vision of Babet’s mother covered in blood, which quickly subsides. Where did that come from?!?
She is dripping in fine jewelry overtop a pink and gray tweed suit and sensible heels for a woman of her age and sociological rank. Babet isn’t as flashy as her mother who fixes and fidgetes with Babet’s hair as they enter the house. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard turns around at the last minute to have one of the attendants bring in the paintings and frames, mentioning harshly that they were original and old and to be careful. With a wave of her hand, “Just put those in the library for now, no one will be going in there this evening.”
Babet and her mother disappeared inside the massive Antebellum home. I observed while the attendants carefully removed the two paintings and frames from Babet’s car. I decided to take a personal tour of the grounds said to be the site of The Battle of New Orleans in 1814-1815. This battle is a significant one being the end to any attempt by England to gain control of the American Colonies, lost during the American Revolution. Being a soldier I am of course interested in battlefields and this one with the home residing on it is becoming more and more interesting to me as the moments tick by.
The grounds were extensive; I made it back to the house in time to see the 2 original paintings of the great antebellum home set in their respective frames. The grand ballroom, a room entirely encased in wood paneling, floors and ceiling, was full of local and not so local people interested in the history of the house and its owner. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard stood at an ornate podium flanked by two spectacular tapestries, one depicting the battle of New Orleans, the other the Beauregard family crest, and addressed the audience. She introduces her daughter as the expert historian on the house. Babet slowly with her head held high, yet her emotions told another story, took to the podium thanking her mother for the gracious introduction. She fumbled with some papers and once in order she takes a deep breath, smiling at the gathering before beginning her presentation.
“Good evening. I would like to thank you all for coming this evening and your interest in our family home and history. As some of you know I began this historical project when I was in middle-school like my own daughter, Scarlet.”
“Her daughter’s name is Scarlet.” I say quietly to myself.
“Now my middle school history project has evolved to an annual event which I am very proud of. The history of our grand family home began before it was even an idea put to plans and built.” She stopped to take a sip of water nervously smiling again before addressing the crowd once more.
“My great grandfather four times over was the son of Pierre Gustave Touant Beauregard, a native son of Louisiana, military officer, politician, inventor, writer, civil servant and the first prominent General of the Confederate States Army during the American Civil War.” She stopped to laugh just a little and her laugh is one of the most symphonic sounds I have ever heard. I am quickly pulled back to here and now, “But don’t worry ya’ll, I won’t touch on each of these subjects.” And the crowd laughs in acceptance. “He served as an engineer under General Winfield Scott during the Mexican American War, he was appointed brevet captain for the battles of Contreras and Churubusco and Major for Chapultepec, where he was wounded in the shoulder and thigh….” She continued as my head began to circle the facts. This man, Babet’s great grandfather five times over, was Estella’s betrothed! I shook myself and got out of my own head to listen again.
“P.G. T. Beauregard had many nicknames given to him by his army friends such as “Little Creole”, “Felix”, and “Little Frenchman”. Beauregard married in 1841, Marie Laure Villere’, the daughter of Jules Villere’ a sugar cane planter in Plaquemines parish and a member of one of the most prominent French Creole families in southern Louisiana. The couple had three children: Rene’ in 1843, Henri in 1845 and Laure in 1850. Unfortunately Marie died while giving birth to Laure….” Babet was still addressing the crowd as I surveyed the attendants; I noticed a head of strawberry-blonde hair sitting on the left side of the room. I stared intently at the back of her head until she turned to see me in her peripheral, her teeth gleaming as she did so. I made motion for her to meet me outside.
I watch as Estella gracefully rose from her chair, clutching her little bag, courteously excusing herself as she made her way from the seated crowd. She slowly sashayed toward the exit and knew she was being watched by more than just me. She slipped through the heavy ballroom doors, putting on a decent ruse to the door’s weight. Once outside the ballroom Estella walked the hall out the front door where I stood waiting. She was dressed in her southern society best, almost an exact replica of Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard except Estella’s skirt was shorter and her heels were taller.
“Cian!” she said in her southern twang. “I didn’t know you were in town sugar.” Her voice trailed loud enough to have the evenings attendants disregard us as old friends the mini-hug and kiss she bestowed upon me helped. We walked the drive away from the house until we were literally out of sight.
I snatched her arm and just as fast she yanked it from my grasp. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I could ask you the same. I had no idea you had such an interest in Louisiana history or architecture, or historical architecture for that matter.” Her smile on her reply dripping with sarcasm.
“I was a soldier and it was a battlefield, there lies my interest.” Mirroring her sarcasm.
“Well darling the battlefield is that way and this is an antebellum home….you seemed pretty interested in that speaker.”
“After seeing the grounds I was interested in the history.” I said looking deep into her eyes “I guess this answers any questions I had abuot you keeping up with his family.” She turned away from me.
“Yes, I check in on them from time to time.” Her voice cracked and I could hear tears welling in her eyes. “This is the only time I like hearing about...him, all his wonderful accomplishments.”
I felt it was in bad taste to make the joke that finally a Beauregard married a Benoit, referring to Babet, so I kept it to myself and watched her dip her hand into the cleavage of her jacket, something else that varied between Estella’s clothing and Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard’s. She brought out a handkerchief with the initials G. T. B. in beautiful brocade stitch. She wrapped the material around her finger and dabbed the tears from her eyes careful not to ruin her makeup or stain her skin.
“I’m sorry to have pulled you away.” I said sincerely.
She made a “don’t worry about it” gesture and said, “I’ve heard it many times before.” winking at me concealing her sadness.
Estella was a beautiful creature, even clad in tears. She drew in her breath and straightened her face. Placing the handkerchief back in her clutch she turned to go back inside. She waved her hand over her shoulder to motion for me to follow and as she did her attentions diverted toward a mass of magnolia in the distance. She quickly straightened her back and took a deep breath, smiling at me once again.
“Come on Cian, let’s finish this thing.” Her head held high as she closed in on the front lawn. I wanted to comfort Estella but our relationship being what it is I have to keep a safe distance.
The attendants bowed their heads as she passed and nodded as I past them up into the house. Babet had reached the portion of her presentation that included the paintings.
“Here you can see the original artists brushstrokes are synonymous with the time; and show a great deal of the house’s detail and beauty.” The house in the original painting sat at a distance from the artist perch, flanked by two large trees. “The painter obviously wanted to capture the size of the house in retrospect to the land…a great historical work.” She smiled, clasping her hands together as she spoke of the technique and shading of the original painting. She seemed to tense as she took a corner of the tarp covering the second painting, apparently done more recently. Babet pulled the tarp off the frame to reveal a much more colorful rendition of the same painting, exact distance and size achieved. She beamed as the crowd erupted in applause. Once the roar died down she approached the podium again to explain that she had painted this six years ago, prior to that year’s ceremony and this was the first year she felt comfortable enough to unveil it.
It was magnificent. Babet used brighter more modern colors to enhance the already beautiful masterpiece, looking at the painting felt like God himself was shining down on the property and surrounding land. The flanking trees burst with five different shades of green and the columns on the front of the house were so bright white it was almost blinding, the eaves and windows shaded perfectly. The grounds surrounding it in Babet’s rendition were so inviting, like you could jump into the canvas and roll around on the fluffy green grass.
Babet continued to beam as her mother came from behind clasping her daughter’s arms and squeezing as if to say, “See, I knew they’d love it.” She whispered to Babet and then addressed the crowd.
“Thank you all so very much for coming tonight, I, as well as my daughter, greatly appreciate your interest in our family history. Please stay and enjoy, we have hors d’oeuvre and drinks in the parlor where the paintings will be displayed.” She smiled and hurried her daughter toward the parlor. I was snapped out of my gaze when Estella mentioned we should go, as food and drinks are of no interest to us. I wanted to get a closer look at the paintings as well as the artist who was already drowning in questions from admirers.
“Suit yourself.” Estella said turning to leave, she turned back to face me, “You look nice by the way.”
I smiled and nodded to thank her.
September 23, 2013
Welcome to Morte'...
My arrival to Morte’ as an observer was as it always is, pulsating rhythms synchronized to elaborate light shows, for the time being, Porno for Pyro’s “Tahitian Moon” blasted it’s eloquence through the club, however the later the hour here, the darker and more dangerous the music becomes.
I silently slip into the hidden corridor leading to the balcony which overlooks the club and its patrons. The elusive balcony is usually where Madliene holds court, and at this moment in time she had not yet made her grand entrance as I emerged. I strode to the railed edge of the balcony overlooking the human patrons already inhabiting the club, some catching a glimpse of me, excitement overcoming them, I back away slowly. If invited to treat with the Queen atop the balcony, beware. There is a reason no human returns from the balcony. I do my absolute damnedest to avoid the patrons at Morte’.
One of the last remaining old warehouses off highway 90 by the Mississippi River. Morte’, itself, on the outside looks of nothing special. A large warehouse with a single door, the only working street lamp on the block flickers in the distance for the slightest hint of light. The sidewalk underfoot lay cracked with weeds growing between, no sign. If you weren’t hinted to the fact that it was there you would never know. Before actual entry to the club there is a sound proof membrane surrounding the interior, Once past the membrane you are met with the picture of blasphemous decadence.
Onyx floors stretch throughout encased by black and red damask plastered the walls above baroque wood paneled wainscoting, plush couches and chairs scattered around giant day beds covered in luxurious silk pillows outline a dance floor. Long and heavy black-out curtains from ceiling to floor, creating a beautiful pattern among the damask.
Gargantuan antique chandeliers rained over head and small stand only tables lined the exterior wall up to a birth on either side of the bar; a sight in its self to behold. Six, 6 foot multi-lit, multi-colored glass shelves housing any being’s preferred poison flank a granite slab on top of paneled wood. From the balcony is unseen as it lies directly under, at the bottom of a grand wrought iron staircase. The music has changed to Massive Attack’s “Angel” but there is no DJ or band visible, a laptop with a continual playlist as DJ, everything, including the lights fully controllable behind the bar.
The vampire community is well aware of Morte’ since Madliene is the authority in this area, but for humans it’s an invitation only establishment. A human must arrive with a vampire or have the name of a well known amongst the community to gain entry to the club. Hosts may share with other vampires at the human’s consent. If the consenting human so inclines, he or she may add themselves to the list of regular meals served at the club. Each night the same monotonous behavior, humans serving themselves up for vampire consumption; in hope, some sort of sick sadistic hope of being brought into our world, morbid hope to be sexually intimate with one of us. Or, sadly, a hope to die. Curious hope? Curiosity is a dangerous thing and human curiosity is that of a cat’s.
From high on my perch I could see Estella and Sophia, children of The Queen, running the bar at Morte’ and serving drinks; both women created by Madliene at the most desperate and detrimental part of their lives.
Madliene made Estella after finding her bleeding to death from a vampire attack. From New Orleans, Estella Lancaster Benoit had been the fiancée of a landowner, aged 21 years before her life was snatched from and returned to her. The daughter of a prominent plantation owner named Benoit, Estella was the picture of southern elegance, always dressed in the finest gowns and attending any and all social events. Not long after the Mexican-American war ended and her beloved returned home wounded, unlike so many others who didn’t return at all, she was dressing for his homecoming dinner. An event in the making since the boy departed. Times were still hard and in the south, very few families had the means to throw a party but the Beauregard’s adored their son and spared no saved expense when he came home from battle. Estella and the Captain (at the time, he would become a General) were to be wed as soon as his shoulder and thigh wounds healed. Unfortunately Estella didn’t make an appearance at dinner or anywhere else for that matter. Attacked inside her room and dragged out to the grounds she was fed upon by a vampire named Creighton and left for dead under a conglomerate of Magnolia trees. Madliene being omni-present felt Estella’s pain and saved the young beauty adorned with magnificent strawberry blonde hair and eyes radiantly green like moss in the forest.
Since that day she has been in debt to our Queen, forever to serve for the gracious gift bestowed upon her by her Majesty. Tonight she was dressed in her Morte’ best; pouring herself into a pair of skin tight black leather pants, my eyes flowed down her thighs to a pair of black shiny platform spiked heels before making it back up to the matching pink corset, which crushed her breasts to her chest, adorned with black lace up the torso and across her shoulders where the straps painstakingly held her in place. Estella is a bountiful creature and tonight her strawberry blonde hair curled perfectly around her uplifted breasts. She turned from the current table monopolizing her attention to peer up the balcony at me and smiled. Her beautiful gleaming K-9 teeth present as she did so.
Her Captain, who died a General, married of course. A prominent woman from a Sugar Cane family, they had 3 children. He lost her during the childbirth of the third. He re-married some years later to another daughter of a sugar cane planter, they had no children. She died four years later.
Estella speaks of her time with great fervor, truly a southern belle turned bitter by her circumstances. She is accepting of the facts these days however when you hear her speak of it, you can’t help but feel sorry for her. Her whole life planned out, gone in an instant. I don’t know if she keeps tabs on the remaining descendants of her Captain or that of her own family; but it wouldn’t surprise me.
Although I stood in deep thought I felt her presence as she graced the corridor, not to mention her heel clipping the step as she bent down to enter.
“See anything you like Cian? Can I offer you someone?” she said in jest. Estella knew of my feeding habits. I decided to make her think none the less.
“Eh, you’re working.” I said without changing my gaze at the crowd. I could feel her green eyes bore into what lack of a soul I had.
Estella and I have always had a pretty good relationship. She can talk to me and I can listen. When she and I do talk we don’t discuss me or my past. There have only been a few times she was the listener and from the way her face twisted while I spoke, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to listen to my past ever again; I am content listening to hers. She hasn’t the sexual desire for me that I have for her and in all honesty I don’t quite understand my fascination, but I have it and its present when I am in her company.
Unfortunately for me, she currently beds another female vampire, Angelique, sister to Sophia; Biological sisters to be precise. Angelique, the first to be taken by Madliene, then more recently Sophia; the sisters are not my biggest fans. Angelique resents the relationship I have with Estella and Sophia is just doing what her big sister thinks she should, I respect her loyalty.
Angelique is rarely at work due to her dissatisfaction with her position in Madliene’s court. The Queen, however is not concerned with Angelique as long as Sophia is present and accounted for. In turn Sophia holds a little of her own resentment toward her sister as Sophia has not long resided in the Queen’s court and Angelique has been in service for much longer. The sisters had very similar facial features; both have dark curly brown almost black hair and dark brown eyes. Angelique is paler than her sister and is always dressed in black; which only regards her as paler. Sophia likes to dress in the latest fashions and has an olive complexion. They are both bountifully proportioned with Sophia being slightly healthier than her gaunt sister. I can’t comprehend, nor attempt to understand the attraction Estella has to Angelique but it must be sincere.
Angelique as of late is missing, gone rogue. No one knows, Estella is visibly worried on a regular basis, yet she is counter controlled by Madliene to be the vision of eroticism, but many male patrons of Morte’ make the mistake of grabbing her and they learn very quickly to not do it again. The humans she is always cautious with, giving them a “slap on the wrist”. The vampires, who are old enough to know better, against them, she was allowed to defend her honor as she saw fit. Madliene sees everything as a sort of entertainment; everything has humor or an ironic fervor about it. Even if it involves her own children.
Madliene, The Queen of all Vampires made her grand entrance. The intense lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, “Heresy” ceases to play as the most dangerously beautiful woman in existence and the claimed, oldest of our kind; graces the club with her omnipotence. She is as shrewd in her business as she is about her children and she has millions of both, spending the vast amount of her time in New Orleans. It is said that the only vampire myth that is true from the old country is the “Death to the original vampire means death to all made vampires.” And she is speculated to be the One. If this is true I don’t know and we probably never know as she is indestructible, impenetrable, and harboring more than mere vampire powers, her ties to the Voudo underworld are also of infamy.
The Queen is a tall slender woman, almost gaunt but she is always dressed very well, for her money is no object. She has the complexion of a china doll, her hair is a wavy jet black, her eyes are black, almond shaped unless provoked or hungry; they begin to burn bright hazel with prominent green barbs, becoming wider and larger. No one knows her decent or country of origin, but it is speculated that she is of French ancestry. She has been virtually everywhere and known literally everyone.
Madliene glides across the floor, the train of her ornately beaded sheath gown following behind, everyone including the humans bow in her presence. Flanked by her minions Romeo and Damien, why she surrounded herself with humans who couldn’t protect her wasn’t beyond me.
She was making a statement, implying that she is so powerful she needs not immortals to protect her, but if need be they are not far. Sophia and Estella on alert nearby to spring into action should the situation call for it. After gracing the dance floor with her presence she and her minions made their way to the grand staircase, she floated effortlessly to the top while Romeo and Damien climbed each step behind her. Once at the top and in view of the patrons below she waved her hand and the atmosphere regained its previous debauchery.
Tonight the atmosphere was calm and neither Estella nor Sophia seemed to exude any sort of tension. I remained at my perch, observing and stalking, watching and spying…listening until the kiss of just before dawn, I made my exit through the corridor, while on the short walk to my haven, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of urge to wander into the Quarter, but time was limited and the following night I was at the whim of no one.
I only take one night a week to rest myself, not that I need to, being a vampire. The downtime is appreciated when I can get it. I had newspapers from weeks and weeks piled up around my haven and as I gathered them to take out I saw a familiarly striking face. Even in black and gray print she was beautiful.
The heavenly creature I had stumbled upon in the French Quarter was staring back at me from my newspaper, the headline reading, “Husband of Beauregard Heiress Missing.” Further down the article a picture of Griffin Benoit a healthy thirty-something father, with what looked to be sandy-blonde hair, light eyes and a kind smile.
I silently slip into the hidden corridor leading to the balcony which overlooks the club and its patrons. The elusive balcony is usually where Madliene holds court, and at this moment in time she had not yet made her grand entrance as I emerged. I strode to the railed edge of the balcony overlooking the human patrons already inhabiting the club, some catching a glimpse of me, excitement overcoming them, I back away slowly. If invited to treat with the Queen atop the balcony, beware. There is a reason no human returns from the balcony. I do my absolute damnedest to avoid the patrons at Morte’.
One of the last remaining old warehouses off highway 90 by the Mississippi River. Morte’, itself, on the outside looks of nothing special. A large warehouse with a single door, the only working street lamp on the block flickers in the distance for the slightest hint of light. The sidewalk underfoot lay cracked with weeds growing between, no sign. If you weren’t hinted to the fact that it was there you would never know. Before actual entry to the club there is a sound proof membrane surrounding the interior, Once past the membrane you are met with the picture of blasphemous decadence.
Onyx floors stretch throughout encased by black and red damask plastered the walls above baroque wood paneled wainscoting, plush couches and chairs scattered around giant day beds covered in luxurious silk pillows outline a dance floor. Long and heavy black-out curtains from ceiling to floor, creating a beautiful pattern among the damask.
Gargantuan antique chandeliers rained over head and small stand only tables lined the exterior wall up to a birth on either side of the bar; a sight in its self to behold. Six, 6 foot multi-lit, multi-colored glass shelves housing any being’s preferred poison flank a granite slab on top of paneled wood. From the balcony is unseen as it lies directly under, at the bottom of a grand wrought iron staircase. The music has changed to Massive Attack’s “Angel” but there is no DJ or band visible, a laptop with a continual playlist as DJ, everything, including the lights fully controllable behind the bar.
The vampire community is well aware of Morte’ since Madliene is the authority in this area, but for humans it’s an invitation only establishment. A human must arrive with a vampire or have the name of a well known amongst the community to gain entry to the club. Hosts may share with other vampires at the human’s consent. If the consenting human so inclines, he or she may add themselves to the list of regular meals served at the club. Each night the same monotonous behavior, humans serving themselves up for vampire consumption; in hope, some sort of sick sadistic hope of being brought into our world, morbid hope to be sexually intimate with one of us. Or, sadly, a hope to die. Curious hope? Curiosity is a dangerous thing and human curiosity is that of a cat’s.
From high on my perch I could see Estella and Sophia, children of The Queen, running the bar at Morte’ and serving drinks; both women created by Madliene at the most desperate and detrimental part of their lives.
Madliene made Estella after finding her bleeding to death from a vampire attack. From New Orleans, Estella Lancaster Benoit had been the fiancée of a landowner, aged 21 years before her life was snatched from and returned to her. The daughter of a prominent plantation owner named Benoit, Estella was the picture of southern elegance, always dressed in the finest gowns and attending any and all social events. Not long after the Mexican-American war ended and her beloved returned home wounded, unlike so many others who didn’t return at all, she was dressing for his homecoming dinner. An event in the making since the boy departed. Times were still hard and in the south, very few families had the means to throw a party but the Beauregard’s adored their son and spared no saved expense when he came home from battle. Estella and the Captain (at the time, he would become a General) were to be wed as soon as his shoulder and thigh wounds healed. Unfortunately Estella didn’t make an appearance at dinner or anywhere else for that matter. Attacked inside her room and dragged out to the grounds she was fed upon by a vampire named Creighton and left for dead under a conglomerate of Magnolia trees. Madliene being omni-present felt Estella’s pain and saved the young beauty adorned with magnificent strawberry blonde hair and eyes radiantly green like moss in the forest.
Since that day she has been in debt to our Queen, forever to serve for the gracious gift bestowed upon her by her Majesty. Tonight she was dressed in her Morte’ best; pouring herself into a pair of skin tight black leather pants, my eyes flowed down her thighs to a pair of black shiny platform spiked heels before making it back up to the matching pink corset, which crushed her breasts to her chest, adorned with black lace up the torso and across her shoulders where the straps painstakingly held her in place. Estella is a bountiful creature and tonight her strawberry blonde hair curled perfectly around her uplifted breasts. She turned from the current table monopolizing her attention to peer up the balcony at me and smiled. Her beautiful gleaming K-9 teeth present as she did so.
Her Captain, who died a General, married of course. A prominent woman from a Sugar Cane family, they had 3 children. He lost her during the childbirth of the third. He re-married some years later to another daughter of a sugar cane planter, they had no children. She died four years later.
Estella speaks of her time with great fervor, truly a southern belle turned bitter by her circumstances. She is accepting of the facts these days however when you hear her speak of it, you can’t help but feel sorry for her. Her whole life planned out, gone in an instant. I don’t know if she keeps tabs on the remaining descendants of her Captain or that of her own family; but it wouldn’t surprise me.
Although I stood in deep thought I felt her presence as she graced the corridor, not to mention her heel clipping the step as she bent down to enter.
“See anything you like Cian? Can I offer you someone?” she said in jest. Estella knew of my feeding habits. I decided to make her think none the less.
“Eh, you’re working.” I said without changing my gaze at the crowd. I could feel her green eyes bore into what lack of a soul I had.
Estella and I have always had a pretty good relationship. She can talk to me and I can listen. When she and I do talk we don’t discuss me or my past. There have only been a few times she was the listener and from the way her face twisted while I spoke, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to listen to my past ever again; I am content listening to hers. She hasn’t the sexual desire for me that I have for her and in all honesty I don’t quite understand my fascination, but I have it and its present when I am in her company.
Unfortunately for me, she currently beds another female vampire, Angelique, sister to Sophia; Biological sisters to be precise. Angelique, the first to be taken by Madliene, then more recently Sophia; the sisters are not my biggest fans. Angelique resents the relationship I have with Estella and Sophia is just doing what her big sister thinks she should, I respect her loyalty.
Angelique is rarely at work due to her dissatisfaction with her position in Madliene’s court. The Queen, however is not concerned with Angelique as long as Sophia is present and accounted for. In turn Sophia holds a little of her own resentment toward her sister as Sophia has not long resided in the Queen’s court and Angelique has been in service for much longer. The sisters had very similar facial features; both have dark curly brown almost black hair and dark brown eyes. Angelique is paler than her sister and is always dressed in black; which only regards her as paler. Sophia likes to dress in the latest fashions and has an olive complexion. They are both bountifully proportioned with Sophia being slightly healthier than her gaunt sister. I can’t comprehend, nor attempt to understand the attraction Estella has to Angelique but it must be sincere.
Angelique as of late is missing, gone rogue. No one knows, Estella is visibly worried on a regular basis, yet she is counter controlled by Madliene to be the vision of eroticism, but many male patrons of Morte’ make the mistake of grabbing her and they learn very quickly to not do it again. The humans she is always cautious with, giving them a “slap on the wrist”. The vampires, who are old enough to know better, against them, she was allowed to defend her honor as she saw fit. Madliene sees everything as a sort of entertainment; everything has humor or an ironic fervor about it. Even if it involves her own children.
Madliene, The Queen of all Vampires made her grand entrance. The intense lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, “Heresy” ceases to play as the most dangerously beautiful woman in existence and the claimed, oldest of our kind; graces the club with her omnipotence. She is as shrewd in her business as she is about her children and she has millions of both, spending the vast amount of her time in New Orleans. It is said that the only vampire myth that is true from the old country is the “Death to the original vampire means death to all made vampires.” And she is speculated to be the One. If this is true I don’t know and we probably never know as she is indestructible, impenetrable, and harboring more than mere vampire powers, her ties to the Voudo underworld are also of infamy.
The Queen is a tall slender woman, almost gaunt but she is always dressed very well, for her money is no object. She has the complexion of a china doll, her hair is a wavy jet black, her eyes are black, almond shaped unless provoked or hungry; they begin to burn bright hazel with prominent green barbs, becoming wider and larger. No one knows her decent or country of origin, but it is speculated that she is of French ancestry. She has been virtually everywhere and known literally everyone.
Madliene glides across the floor, the train of her ornately beaded sheath gown following behind, everyone including the humans bow in her presence. Flanked by her minions Romeo and Damien, why she surrounded herself with humans who couldn’t protect her wasn’t beyond me.
She was making a statement, implying that she is so powerful she needs not immortals to protect her, but if need be they are not far. Sophia and Estella on alert nearby to spring into action should the situation call for it. After gracing the dance floor with her presence she and her minions made their way to the grand staircase, she floated effortlessly to the top while Romeo and Damien climbed each step behind her. Once at the top and in view of the patrons below she waved her hand and the atmosphere regained its previous debauchery.
Tonight the atmosphere was calm and neither Estella nor Sophia seemed to exude any sort of tension. I remained at my perch, observing and stalking, watching and spying…listening until the kiss of just before dawn, I made my exit through the corridor, while on the short walk to my haven, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of urge to wander into the Quarter, but time was limited and the following night I was at the whim of no one.
I only take one night a week to rest myself, not that I need to, being a vampire. The downtime is appreciated when I can get it. I had newspapers from weeks and weeks piled up around my haven and as I gathered them to take out I saw a familiarly striking face. Even in black and gray print she was beautiful.
The heavenly creature I had stumbled upon in the French Quarter was staring back at me from my newspaper, the headline reading, “Husband of Beauregard Heiress Missing.” Further down the article a picture of Griffin Benoit a healthy thirty-something father, with what looked to be sandy-blonde hair, light eyes and a kind smile.
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