by D C Young
“What would you like to talk about, little one?” Julia asked, taking the glass from Bridget’s hand.
“Tell me about who you were before you came to be a vampire.”
“You can read that in any of the history books in this library. There isn’t much more to it, really.”
“Seriously, Julia. You know that the renditions written down for general consumption are mostly biased. They were recorded by men, and of course, a woman’s story is never as important as a man’s. They’re all gutless… these historians; afraid we might seem as interesting, as powerful, as important.”
Julia admitted to Bridget that the story of her first life had best been told in a rendition by a local fiction author named Chanel Smith. The book had been published about three years before and had sold well. Chanel had made a name for herself chronicling the activities of several members of the international paranormal community; hunters were her favorites, of ghosts and of other creatures.
She told Bridget that she had suspicions about who the books were about for quite a while. Their names had sometimes been changed, but not always. Veronica Melbourne was a prominent character in one series Chanel wrote and the use of the vampire huntress’ real name gave Julia reason to think that perhaps it was the author’s name that was the biggest piece of fiction in the equation. The Greek had never been concerned about validating those suspicions; she admitted that she enjoyed the stories too much. The accuracy with which her story had been related in one of the Veronica Melbourne books had given her pause though; she had only told one person about her past in such great detail.
“it doesn’t bother you that you might have been betrayed by someone so close to you… to us? As a Watcher aren’t these the very things you should be trying to put a stop to?” Bridget asked.
“If it were published as an autobiography, or an interview, definitely! But it is a novel. Like so many other vampire and were wolf novels by so many other paranormal authors that have spent years on bestseller lists the world over,” Julia replied. She took a sip of her drink and smiled at Bridget’s obvious displeasure with the whole thing. “I mean, do you think that woman made up all that stuff about the Portland vamps?”
Bridget faltered. “As a matter of fact, I assumed it was all just a figment of her imagination.”
“Some of it maybe… most of the adventures they had in Forks were quite made up but where do you think she got the main ideas? Werewolves and Vampires in a constant fight to keep the balance, rogue vampire covens rising up to create discord… and most importantly, the idea that a small group of a selected few ancient vampires would be placed above them all to ensure the survival of all vampires and paranormal beings?”
Suddenly Bridget saw what Julia meant. “Ahhh! You just might be on to something there, Julia. And thanks, I doubt I’ll ever be able to read another paranormal novel without super analyzing the contents.”
Julia laughed at her sarcasm. “Do you want me to tell it? So would you rather I read it in the words of our dear friend Veronica?”
“I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was curious how it was told in the book,” Bridget confessed. “You clearly admire how it was presented for the whole world to see.”
Julia smiled and nodded her agreement. “I actually do.” She stood up and walked to the bar to refill her glass. Then she went to a shelf on the wall and pulled out a paperback novel from among the books there.
As she took her seat again, she flipped the book open to where a small card had been left in it to mark the page.
Not vain at all, Julia! Bridget thought with a quiet chuckle.
“Ahh, here it is,” the Greek said with a soft sigh and then she set her glass down beside her and started to read.
“The Vampire with the Golden Gun by Chanel Smith. It reads:
‘This was the second life of Julia Augusta Agrippina or Agrippina the Younger as she was often called. Julia had died her first death almost two thousand years ago. She was the oldest vampire known in the Western Hemisphere and possibly the oldest of all the known supernatural beings as well.
‘She remembered the day she died like it was yesterday. Often when the thought of it came to her, she mused that it was perhaps because her memory was so good that she never took to the suicidal madness that she had seen claim so many vampires before her.
‘In 59 A.D., her son Nero had the shipwrights of Rome design a ship for Julia’s birthday. A pleasure vessel that she and her court could take out and use to make crossings over to the Tyrrhenian Sea islands that she enjoyed so much. He made a lot of fuss over the consignment and spoke about the magnificent ship constantly. So it was not a surprise to anyone that it was completed and delivered ahead of schedule.
‘But her son’s gesture was filled with tyranny and deceit fueled by the words and encouragement of his married lover, Poppaea, who had all but convinced him that his mother plotted against him and his throne. He had the ship built so that it would open up at the bottom while at sea in hopes that she would drown. Agrippina was put aboard and after the bottom of the ship opened up, she fell into the water. But Agrippina swam safely to the shore, so Nero sent an assassin to kill her. Nero then claimed Agrippina plotted to kill him and when her plans had supposedly failed, she had committed suicide.
‘Her last words, which she felt she had spoken only yesterday, uttered as the assassin was about to strike, were "Smite my womb!" She had indicated to her killer that she wished to be destroyed first in that part of her body to rebuke her treacherous being for having given birth to so abominable a son.
‘She had been bleeding to death on the floor of the villa where she had hidden herself in Misenum when the Vampire Quintus had found her. Of course, he had instantly recognized her and saw a long awaited opportunity to turn Roman politics over on its ears. That night, he made Julia Agrippina into a fledgling vampire and then he taught her to slake her thirst only on the blood of corrupt Roman officials, of which there was a staggering number.
‘The Vampire Quintus had been a Watcher for many years by then. He had been busy for centuries keeping a close watch on the members of each successive Roman Imperial family. He would seek out signs of madness, treachery, manipulation and any other forms of discord, and then he would do his best to weed it out. Sometimes that meant destroying a spouse or concubine and other times a General or adviser but, of course; there were times when the Emperor himself had to be eliminated. He never killed a ruler with his own hands. On such delicate occasions, Quintus would orchestrate coups in the Senate or ambushes by Barbarians, even deadly openings in the midst of a battle.
‘Under Quintus’ wing, Julia rose through the ranks of the vampire hierarchy in Europe and by the time she was just over fourteen hundred years old, she decided to venture to the New World. With the Spanish Inquisition in full swing, Europe had fast become a place that was hardly safe for strange people, much less super-naturals, especially vampires. At that point, the over zealousness of the Catholic church had been a major concern for them for years. But when the sleeping place of the Watchers was razed by fire while the midday sun shone brightly above, it was clear that they had been discovered.
‘Agrippina escaped in a crated coffin filled with soil along with three of the remaining elder vampires. William Adelin and Petronilla de Aquitaine had come to the Watchers from England and been offered their protection from the Inquisition without hesitation. They had been public figures in their first lives, royalty in fact; and were well known which posed the risk of being recognized and captured. They were also much used to the tasks and tactics of ruling. William Wallace had been an oddball choice but Agrippina had felt the need to have some brutish protection for her group of adventurers. After all none of them knew what, or who, they would encounter in the New World.
‘As it had turned out the foursome had quickly encountered the Others, as they had called themselves, after their ship had arrived near the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia and, though naturally suspicious of them, the
two groups had joined together and traveled the new continent far and wide. They acquired land and property, accumulated vast wealth and invested in business ventures over the next five hundred years. Though a few members had gone on to the final death, Agrippina had maintained the number of her council always at thirteen.
‘Presently, in the year two thousand and fourteen, they were a unique gathering of the oldest vampire beings that walked the earth and Agrippina always found it ironic that they had all been notable people in their past; perhaps that strength of character or superior breeding and bloodline had played a role in their particularly long existence when others like them had run to meet the sun centuries before. Julia’s companions, and then house guests, included Petronilla de Aquitaine, Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov and her brother Alexei, Bridget Bishop, witch of Massachusetts, Amelia Earhart, Marie de Guise, the bane of the English, Empress Dowager Tzu-hsi and Saigo Takamori, William Adelin, William Wallace, Bjorn Ironside and Marcus Antonius, known to most of the world as Mark-Anthony of Rome.’”
“Oh, my Lord,” Bridget said in awe. “What a wonderful story. Is it all true?”
Julia laughed as she closed the book and set it aside. “Bridget you know that I don’t pass out compliments freely. So, when I say that whoever wrote this told it best, it would be safe to assume that it is quite true and well put together.”
“Amazing, simply amazing.”
“But what about you, my darling?” Julia said. “Everyone who has ever sat in a classroom knows the written history of the Salem witches and the Salem Witch Trials, but anyone with sense knows that what’s recorded for the masses could only be the tip of the ice berg.”
Bridget nodded in agreement.
“What’s your story, little one?”
“No one’s ever asked me that question, Julia. Up until now, I wasn’t sure what my answer to such a question might have been.”
“So, what’s your answer now… to me?”
“My story began in England, on the moors of Wales, a hundred years before I was born. I will gladly share it with you but from the looks of the sky, that is something best left for another night.”
Julia looked up. Bridget was right. The gold, pinks, purples, oranges and yellows that signaled the rising of the glorious sun were dancing happily across the sky. It was time to rest and prepare to face another night.
Bridget Bishop excused herself just before sunrise and retired to her suite on the second floor of the house. She undressed and slid into the queen sized bed after pulling the old fashioned velvet bed curtains closed around it. For the first time in ages, she put her head down on her pillows and immediately fell asleep.
Sometime before sunset, Bridget attempted to open her eyes. They felt as if they had been glued shut in her sleep; trying to force them open only seemed to cause her pain. As she struggled to figure out why she was unable to wake up, Bridget found out the reason why; she was engulfed in a kind of waking dream which just as quickly turned into a full blown vision.
She saw herself standing on the deck of a boat looking out to sea. It was warm, humid and eerily calm out on the water. She looked out and with her vampire eyes she could see what she was sure was Grand Island, Louisiana about eight miles to the East. She was in New Orleans, sailing out from the mouth of the Rigolets canals onto Lake Borgne. The boat was making good time and as it slipped through the many tiny bays towards Chandeleur Sound, Bridget turned her eyes South toward Port Eads and the Gulf of Mexico.
Far out to see the clouds were forming into a tempest the likes of which the Gulf Coast had never seen before. They churned and funneled, stretching towards the water then receding again, as if they were testing the conditions before making the perfect strike.
The movement, the organization, the menace that the storm bore was nothing coincidental, nothing borne of natural phenomena. Within its depths, Bridget could sense the dark influence of an old and ancient magic. Every fiber in her own magical core seemed to hum in its very presence, even from such a vast distance, and its message was as clear to her as high definition image on a television screen.
A dark force was about to descend on the town of New Orleans, a literal bad wind was on the way to destroy the supernatural beings residing there and ‘cleanse’ the city of all magic; primarily by absorbing it for itself. The jewel of the gulf coast was being set upon by Yemaya, a sea demon as old as the tribes of West Africa. She had to warn someone immediately.
When the vision finally released Bridget, she rolled out of bed, throwing the bed curtains aside and hurried to the telephone on the side table in her sitting room. Beside it lay a leather bound book with thousands of telephone numbers and addresses. Bridget was a very old fashioned woman, even before she had become a very old fashioned vampire. Quickly, she flipped through to the ‘B’ section and found the name ‘Benoir’. There was a mobile number listed among several others and she didn’t hesitate for a moment before dialing it. The line rang twice before it was answered.
“Hello? You have reached the Blackwells. My name is George Falco. How may I be of assistance? ” a firm male voice answered.
“Good evening, sir. This is Bridget Bishop of Salem, Massachusetts. I’d like to speak to Erika Benoir Blackwell please,” Bridget said. She was doing everything in her power to regain her composure after shaking off the vivid vision.
“I’m afraid both Miss Blackwells are indisposed at the moment. They are attending mass; it is All Saint’s Day after all.”
Bridget looked at the clock on the sitting room wall; it was 7:45 pm. Then, she turned to the calendar beside the phone. It was November 1st.
“Oh, dear! It is, isn’t it? I apologize for my disorientation. When do you suggest would be the best time to call back?”
George Falco hesitated for a moment.
“One moment, ma’am,” George said with renewed urgency, “This sounds like a matter of great importance.”
“It is, Mr. Falco. Very much so.”
“The bells announcing the end of services have just started to ring, so both Miss Erika and Miss Jade will be out presently. Would you like to hold?”
“Yes, sir,” Bridget said, trying her best to relax. “I’ll hold the line until Erika can take my call. Thank you.”
Chapter Six
Welcome to Savannah, Georgia
The Savannah- Hilton Head International Airport may have been the smallest international airport Sam had ever traveled into and for whatever reason, she couldn’t help but wonder why it was classified as such. As far as she knew all the flights that landed there originated from inside the U.S. and every flight leaving it was headed to a bigger, busier airport in some other major U.S. city.
But for what the airport lacked in size, it more than made for in appearance. As simple and straightforward as the actual airport building was, it was exquisitely designed with beautiful touches of Victorian architecture and a pleasant mix of modern and traditional décor. This was particularly evident in the central atrium where all the arrival concourses met. It was a wide open space with a glass roof. Restaurant counters and various shops lined the perimeter but along both sides of the center aisle were two rows of colorful wooden rocking chairs and gardens filled with local flora.
Escalators led down to the baggage claim area where an information desk dominated the center of the space boasting thousands of colorful brochures and two smiling faces and the rental car companies had service desks along the outside wall.
Anthony rushed towards the desk and immediately started gathering handfuls of brochures about the excursions his aunt had planned for them. Sam, Mary Lou and Rick watched helplessly as Anthony’s three cousins ran to join him in wreaking havoc on the brochure stand.
“I’ll round them up,” Rick finally offered with a sigh. “Tammy, stay here with these ladies. Make sure they don’t go wandering off.”
“Okay, Uncle Rick. Will do!” He gave her a mischievous wink and head off to the information desk.
“Now what?
” Mary Lou asked Sam.
“Well, our bags should be coming off over there in a few minutes,” Sam replied pointing to carousels 3 through 5. “On number 4. I guess we need some transport.”
“The beach house has two SUV’s for us to use included in the rental, so we just need to get there.”
“Uber?” Tammy piped up, pointing to the black and grey sign in the middle of the baggage claim area.
“Huh!” Sam said. “Sure why not? We’ll need an XL though… an 8-seater with cargo room.”
“I’m sure I can make that happen. The pickup point is right outside those doors,” Tammy replied confidently as she pointed to the exit beyond carousel 5. Then, she whipped out her iPhone and got busy ordering the Uber.
“Okay, missy. You handle the ride and we’ll get the bags. Come on, Mary Lou.” Over her shoulder, she called out to Rick. “Gather the kids and meet us at carousel 4 or outside those exit doors.”
“Okay, Captain!”
There was already luggage coming down the carousel when Sam and Mary Lou got there and it wasn’t long before they had all six bags in a neat row at their feet. Tammy led the way outside while Sam grabbed two by the handles and so did Mary Lou and Anthony. Rick fell in behind them wrangling his three ruffians.
Before they could get to the curb a big, shiny, black escalade pulled up and parked in front of them. It had shiny big rims and a sleek chrome trim that made Anthony squeal. On the front, there was a Uber logo license plate and on the back, the vehicle sported vanity plates that read, ‘REBEL 78’. The driver hopped out of the driver’s seat and came hurrying around the SUV to greet them. She was a pretty woman who stood about five and a half feet tall in her five inch designer stiletto heels. She had caramel colored skin and bouncy curls that ended in the middle of her back. A well cut navy blue pin-striped jacket, tailored navy blue pants and a frilly white blouse completed her work ensemble. The cleavage created by her ample bosom was hard to miss despite her professional attire. Neither Rick nor Anthony seemed to miss that either. Sam and Mary Lou exchanged a knowing smile. Boys will be boys.