She tugged off her clammy, sweat-drenched nightgown and pulled on an extra large T-shirt. She started to feel a tiny bit better. She knew what she was going to do.
Chapter Twenty-five
It was warm and the air was thick with humidity and pollen. Gnats and mosquitoes swarmed lazily above. The narrow cobbled streets and cramped sidewalks were crowded with tourists who ignored the damp, suffocating heat. It was typical weather for New Orleans in April, and though Carnival and Mardi Gras were long past, a new crop of visitors were storming the city in preparation for the Jazz and Heritage Festival, which would last through the end of the month.
It was over eighty degrees outside, but Dameon shivered in his long overcoat and huddled on the bench. He was getting strange looks from the passersby who strolled through Jackson Square. They would glance his way and then quickly avert their eyes. He looked disreputable, he knew. White faced, shivering and gaunt, he looked like he belonged with the street hustlers and junkies rather than with the well-dressed, camera-wielding tourists.
A plump young woman in a too-tight playsuit with a mass of stiff golden curls clung to a husky man in a crew-cut. The woman squealed and pointed to the horse and buggy parade lining up near the curb waiting for customers. She gushed over the mule in the flowered sombrero and tugged on her escort's arm. Watching their solid, brightly-clad bodies mount the waiting buggy, Dameon suppressed a wave of intense hunger.
All of these bodies, so rich and healthy, and full of blood. He shouldn't have let Lauren feed him. The young woman and her man, along with the scores of wandering visitors, would run screaming if they guessed how strongly he hungered for them.
He could scent the blood, and nearly taste it. He licked his dry lips and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Enough. They were lucky, these humans, that his self-control was so strong. At least it was strong for now.
He closed his eyes as the sun suddenly burst through the cloud-laden sky. His system's defenses were weakening one by one. Damn, maybe Lauren was right. Maybe he was a crazy fool.
Lauren had kissed him good-bye, after all. Even after she warned him that it would take her years to forgive him, and that he had all but broken her heart. She would do fine, though. She was not only tough and practical, but a good person.
He had intended on going to Ingo's immediately. Ingo was an old friend, the kind who wouldn't ask questions or push. He would let Dameon be, let Dameon descend into his own private hell. Ingo wouldn't pry or push. He would let him stay even if Dameon hadn't done so many favors for him.
Ingo's old house was a charming mixture of old world beauty and contemporary comfort. It was close to Royal Street, deep in the heart of the French Quarter or, as some called it, the Vieux Carré. His mansion was well-screened by enormous magnolia trees and moss-covered oaks, but that didn't stop tourists from stopping to gawk. Or even knocking on the door, despite the broadly visible sign announcing that the house was not part of the walking tour. Yes, Ingo's would be restful, but he wasn't ready to face even him.
A gaggle of youths paraded by in flashy bicycle pants, the girls in cropped tops and the boys, shirtless. They preened and laughed, arrogant in their beauty and vitality, flaunting their lithe, tanned flesh. There were about six of them and they paused to examine Jackson Square. Scornful eyes swept the manicured grounds, the flowers and bushes and, of course, Andrew Jackson in all his sculpted glory.
Several of them were clutching plastic Hurricane glasses, and Dameon could smell the rum on their breath from where he sat.
"There's nothing here to see," one girl sniffed. "It's just a stupid old statue and an old garden."
"Let's go back to Bourbon Street," one of them shouted to the eager agreement of his group.
Watching them strut back down the street, Dameon could feel his mouth water. Lauren had spoiled him. Young blood was proving addictive. Sharp-toothed pain chewed its way up his spine and his body stiffened. His cells were going mad from deprivation, dying from withdrawal. By now, he wondered if his treatment would even work.
More voices flowed by and over him. "...Voodoo Tour." A strident female voice was suddenly clear amidst the cacophony. "I want to see where the savages did their sacrifices."
Dameon hid a grin, his eyes narrowing speculatively. "I'll show you the real thing, Madame," he could hear himself saying. "If you want to see blood, I'll show you blood." He could see himself opening her jugular vein as he said it. Horror and revulsion followed his amusement. He was becoming what he loathed the most. Even in fantasy, bloodshed sickened and frightened him. A vampan had no choice, kill or convert. No tidy little gray areas, none of the in-betweens that Lauren indulged in.
"I want to see the Ann Rice Cemetery," another younger voice whined through his reverie.
"It's not Ann Rice's cemetery, stupid. It's the LaFayette Cemetery!" The young male voice was superior.
Dameon wanted to cover his ears and shut the incessant noise out. If they liked Ann Rice so much, he could show them the genuine article. Maybe bare his fangs and give the human irritants their money's worth. The thought was tempting, too tempting.
Tightening his jaw, he knew it was time to go to Ingo's, time to leave before he snapped. New Orleans had enough dark, eerie glamour without him adding to its reputation.
He had wanted to bring Jen here, and show her all of the beautiful, unique sights. New Orleans was a city steeped in a hodgepodge of traditions and cultures. The stunning architecture, the history, the food, the music—she would have loved it.
The sobbing murmur from a saxophone cut through the air and ballooned into a deep wail, which pierced his heart, burrowing through the emptiness till the hunger for Jen was exposed—deep, bottomless and desperate.
The sax player, a slender black man in a tux jacket and jeans, poured out a stream of music, filling the square in sorrowful, rich sweetness. Feeling tears touch his eyelids, Dameon wanted to beg the street musician to stop. But the saxophone continued its too tender dirge, and finally, Dameon rose. He walked over and tossed a fifty-dollar bill in the open case on the ground, barely hearing the saxophone player's shocked thank you .
He had to find a discreet dark corner and leave. A flash of golden-reddish hair caught his eye. He spun around, ignoring the sea of bodies in his path. The willowy shape was disappearing into the throngs. The hair shone and bounced down the woman's back. Dameon thrust his way through the sticky human blockade. In seconds, he reached her. She was inches from him. He started to call to her when the woman turned. The face was fuller, ruddier and the eyes smaller and darker.
The disappointment turned his stomach to lead. Of course, it wasn't Jen. The woman, receiving the full blast of his vampire aura, was glassy-eyed, quivering and excited. She called out to him and tried to follow.
Angry and filled with disgust, he slipped into a dark and deserted alley and teleported himself from the square. At Ingo's, he trudged up to the pavilion patio. The huge columns fronting the house were heavily swathed in ivy. The three-storied house was painted ivory, but the shadows from the mammoth trees rendered it dark and secretive.
He was demented and deluded to believe that Jen would somehow find him, that she would want to find him. His tentative efforts to touch her had failed. His psychic strength had waned and he could not link with her. He was truly lost.
Opening the unlocked door, he entered Ingo's house, which was soothingly cool with the lights properly dimmed as befitted a vampire abode. The high vaulted ceilings had sky lights in stained glass, which diffused and tinted the brightness, and added to the dramatic ambiance. The decor was baroque and genuine Steamboat Gothic with the usual excess of faux-bois and faux marble. Several miniature banana trees lined the foyer. Above them, mobiles of ivory and glass abstractions clinked and tinkled continuously. Far off, the incongruous sounds of squeals and blasts from a video game competed with the bass thumping of a stereo system. A sweet, sugary smell filled his nostrils, but he simultaneously noted an underlying unpleasantness. A very fai
nt whiff of decay. He wondered if Ingo had a dead bird or raccoon trapped in one of his chimneys again.
He was just about to call out to Ingo when even his dulled senses detected movement, a presence. He turned and faced the figures poised in the entrance of the sitting room adjoining the foyer. In full makeup and artfully curled hair, the two humans gawked at him and then dissolved into giggles. One wore turquoise spandex pants and a tube top, the other an ankle length, iridescent cocktail dress. Both were fully armed in flashing bracelets, necklaces and chandelier sized earrings. Mixed with cheap cologne, hints of something bitter like marijuana reached his nostrils. They watched him eagerly with unabashed open interest.
Sighing to himself, he asked politely for Ingo after introducing himself as an old friend. He tried to shut out the ceaseless tinkling of the mobiles behind him.
The statuesque blonde in the spandex answered through explosive titters. "Oh my, I'm sooo sorry to disappoint you, and you, such a fine and good-looking gentleman, but our dear Ingo is off on a quest." She put a hand to her overflowing bosom.
The blonde's friend broke in eagerly at Dameon's confused expression. "A quest for love! Ingo has become smitten with a supermodel. You've heard of her, I'm sure—Sika, the hottest face of the century! He's followed her to Milan, or was it Paris?" She tossed back her mane of brown curls and fluttered her lashes coyly at Dameon.
At hearing the news, he sighed more openly. This was a complication he hadn't anticipated. He fought back a wave of disappointment and steeled himself against the physical sickness that suddenly doubled his vision. "How awkward, but is Marika in?"
"Nooo," the blonde dragged out her syllables theatrically, "that's the incredible coincidence, the bizarre twist to the whole story. Marika was suddenly, mysteriously called out of town—a family emergency." The blonde put a hand to her forehead and shook her head, a heroine in a melodrama. "So we've been left on our own. No one's here but us chickens." She collapsed into giggles, her friend joining in with a high-pitched cackle.
"But you must stay. Ingo or Marika will be back eventually. They told us to make ourselves at home, so our home is your home. Anyway, I just know they would be terribly sad to hear they'd missed you."
"Oh yes, you must stay. There's lots of room."
"Lot's of room."
"It will be so much fun!"
"Tons of fun!"
The two tossed sallies back and forth, inane and with the false exhilaration of people intoxicated or drugged. Dameon stared down at the small compact bag at his side. He had intended on buying whatever he needed once he got here. Right now, the idea of a hotel brimming with humans and their accompanying temptation, noise and lights nauseated him. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was on the verge of mental and physical disintegration. Teleporting himself from Chicago to Ingo's had taken a lot out of him.
He nodded silently, too exhausted and ill to manage actual words. He scarcely took in the shrill back and forth chatter of the humans. He would find a small, quiet room somewhere in the back, confident Ingo would not object to him staying. If, for some remote reason, his old friend was offended by his boldness, he would make restitution and a full apology. For now, all he required was peace and solitude. He looked up.
The two humans had suddenly stopped chattering. The two of them were frozen in position, and then began to jerk about woodenly like puppets on a string. They began to tremble and shake, limbs twitching aimlessly. Immediately, they had become pitiful, the bold makeup and bright clothing ineffectual and awkward. Eyes downcast, they turned and ran out of the room. He watched as they disappeared down a dark corridor.
Their heavy perfume lingered in the air, and Dameon reached for the nearest chair to sink into. His legs were giving out on him. Staring at the empty space that the humans had so recently occupied, he couldn't help but think that New Orleans was truly a city of the unexpected. Where the unusual and extreme were accepted as the norm.
Those two transvestites were obviously under the thrall of some vampire, and a fairly powerful one at that. There was definitely more than one vampire in the house, but there was one dominant aura, definitely. Even in his state, Dameon could read the heightened atmosphere clearly. The two humans were on the bottom rung of the hierarchy.
Cross-dressers or professional drag queens were as common as red beans and rice here in the Big Easy, and often lovely and unrecognizable as men to the average eye. These two were not the upper tier. Under the makeup and frantic smiles, he could see they were not so young or naturally pretty. Second-stringers, they would probably never reign as queens in the Quarter. What disturbed him was the aura of naked submissiveness and hopeless desperation they wore. While Ingo was well-known for opening his doors to misfits, he would never exploit the down-trodden or vulnerable.
Someone here was definitely feasting on human weakness and human blood, and Dameon could taste the depravity permeating the house. It was not surprising that many vampires chose New Orleans to hide out in. The city encompassed a diverse range of behaviors and types, even such types that were nesting in this house. Such dark, amoral, greedy auras he was reading. The complete opposite of his friend, Ingo.
Ingo was a dream-stalker, romantic, gentle and vague. He occasionally fell deeply and senselessly in love, which only from time to time was reciprocated. Dream-stalkers didn't wield quite the sexual clout that other vampires did. It was not entirely surprising that he would wander off across continents and oceans in pursuit of romance. His new love object, Sika, was the reigning top model, a flawless, queenlike, Jamaican siren. Ingo was no doubt, yet again, on a hopeless quest.
Marika, Ingo's sturdy, competent companion, was another story; she was neither lover nor purely platonic friend. Marika was always there, steadfast and reliable. It was a shock not to see her at Belle Mansion. It was startling to realize that she actually had family. Marika was not quite human, having been partially transformed by vampire blood and influence.
Dameon closed his eyes. His head was exploding and weariness made black dots dance before his eyes. Wishing he could crawl into a dark, quiet hole, he took a deep breath when his attention sharpened to instinctive wary alertness. He opened his eyes to a bizarre but exquisite sight.
For a second, he thought he was seeing two women—two tall, attenuated figures with waist-long white blond hair, eerily bright, ice-blue eyes and dead-white skin. His brain sifted out pertinent details, and he quickly realized one of them was male. Good God, lamias—twins—with one a male. They were a freak of vampire nature. A rarity seen maybe once every five-hundred years. He instantly stiffened his guard. No one should relax around lamias.
The twins watched him silently, arms draped casually around each other's waist. They stood well over six foot each. An enormous walnut grandfather clock suddenly boomed from the corner. And still, the two said nothing. Dameon stroked the red and gold brocade of the chair as if absent-mindedly, not taking his eyes off the pair. He wouldn't speak first but let them make the first move, knowing this game of cat and mouse well.
The woman broke first. She pulled loose from her brother and drifted closer, and he could see the whiteness of her face was due to kabuki-like makeup. She was beautiful in a grotesque, unreal way. Her strange eyes sliced into him. A lesser being would have shrunk away. Dameon, despite his greatly depleted state, forced himself to hold his own. She wore a velvet tunic over tights in shades of purple. Her brother wore the identical outfit in total black. They clashed with the old-fashioned room with its rich brocades, velvet curtains and heavy, dark wood furniture. She stood over him, a faint smile on her face.
"So, at last, Hollie, we meet the famous vampan who incinerated the poor lamented Tatiana." She broke into a high, inappropriate giggle, and fingered her own throat with a long, white hand. She knelt next to Dameon, her body sinking down gracefully as if without bones. "We are truly impressed, Dameon LaFaim." Her white, glittering face was inches from his. He could see the sharply defined lips and the matching razor sla
sh eyebrows. "Truly impressed." A very subtle aroma of something bitter and decayed came from her. Dameon wondered if she and her brother were as stoned as the two drag queens had been.
The brother remained motionless and without visible expression, yet Dameon could feel the laser-hot intensity burning beneath the mask. The brother was as watchful as a hawk and scarcely as friendly.
Dameon hoped the pain swimming through his body would remain at a low ebb. He spoke with deliberate disinterest. "No reason to be impressed, Madame. What is past is past." He shrugged casually.
Another excited, shard-like laugh burst from her lips. "Hmmm, modest, too." She fluttered her long, curled lashes at him and reached across to stroke his cheek. He forced himself not to recoil.
"I beg your pardon, Madame. You have me at a disadvantage. I'm afraid Ingo has never mentioned you and your brother. I don't know your names."
Abruptly, but without a hint of awkwardness, she rose and slithered to the matching brocade love seat facing his chair. She snapped her fingers to her brother, who trotted obediently to her side. Reclining with grace equaling his sister's, his face, Dameon could see, was nearly the mirror image of hers right down to the mask-like makeup. The masculinization of his features was very subtle—the barest hint of a stronger jaw and chin, the slight heavier brow line, the shoulders and arms a bit bulkier. He was pouting, though. He was transparently jealous of anyone capturing his sister's attention.
"I am Evelese, and this spoiled creature"—she pointed with a wicked smile, enjoying her brother's discomfort—"is Hollingsworth, or more commonly called, Hollie, my obvious and beloved twin brother."
A male lamia, and a twin at that, Dameon thought again in horror and dismay as he shook the pair's hands. Evelese's grip was enthusiastic and too long. Hollie's was quick as he jerked his hand away before their fingers even touched.
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 25