by Lexi C. Foss
“You’ve not been a vampire long, have you, Crispy?” she asked.
“Long enough,” he answered.
Solange watched him answer. She turned her body in the pew, pulling her knees up to comfortably face him and speak to him. “How long?” she asked.
Crispin watched her feeling him out. Watched her size him up, taking all of him into consideration. He noticed she’d not answered his question, and decided perhaps she would if he answered hers.
“Centuries. I’ve been a vampire for centuries. I’ve lost all I loved, and watched the world change around me. I am connected to nothing now. I am no more than a hunter like yourself.” His eyes glanced down at her wrist with the tattoo clearly visible, where it lay across the back of the pew she sat in. “Without the fancy markings and titles, though,” he added with a sincere smile.
Solange smiled, self-consciously tugging her sleeve down over her tattoo. “How have you not lost your humanity?” she asked.
Crispin laughed a bit. “I wonder that myself. Or at least I did — until now.” He looked her directly in the eyes, relieved when she didn’t flinch from his red-pupiled gaze.
Solange looked back at him unabashedly, trying to decipher his words. “I’m not what you think I am,” she finally confided.
“Oh, I know. What do you label yourself? Mage? Witch? Or just very talented slayer?” he asked.
Normally, Solange might have taken offense to those words, and coming from anyone else she would have, but from Crispin, it was merely a question. She brushed off his words and countered with her own question. “Why do you want Alastair dead? How do you know him?”
Crispin shrugged. “He is one of the oldest of my kind. It is no secret the slaughter he is leaving in his wake. He’s got to be stopped — at all costs, no matter the sacrifice,” Crispin said, leaning forward, so close to her their noses were almost touching. He watched her closely, breathed the same air she breathed, felt the warmth from her flesh so close to his, and scented her blood where it was pressed at the edge of her lips, leftover from her fight with Alastair. “Your heart pounds, yet you do not fear me, beautiful slayer,” he said softly.
Solange just barely shook her head, trying to hide her blush from his compliment.
Crispin, unable to deny the pull he felt toward her, moved his face closer to hers, his lips just an inch from Solange’s lips. He was intrigued. She was so strong, so capable, and a fearless warrior, yet she blushed and shied away when he pointed out her beauty. “I hear your heart pounding,” he said softly.
“And I yours,” she answered, just slightly adjusting her head so that her nose nudged his.
Crispin painstakingly slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, closed the small distance between them, pressing his lips to hers. At first she didn’t respond, but neither did she pull away. He opened his mouth just a small bit and allowed his tongue to smooth along her bottom lip and dip to the corner, swiping away the drop of blood that lay hidden there.
Solange’s breath caught, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d puckered her lips and pressed them back against Crispin’s. When she felt his tongue tasting her bottom lip, asking entrance to her mouth, she opened for him. He wasted no time, he sat forward on the edge of the pew, slowly raising his hands to cup her face as he kissed her slowly. Taking all he could, and smoothing his tongue over the small wound on the inside of her cheek that her teeth had made when Alastair had struck her.
But Solange was unaware of him taking tiny drops of her blood. She raised her hands to his wrists, holding him as he held her face, kissing her gently, seductively. This was her first kiss, she wanted to make sure to remember all of it. There was no rush, no desire to hurry through this kiss and miss a single moment of it.
Crispin kissed her endlessly. Her blood was not sustenance to him, it was savior. Though she didn’t know it yet, she was his savior. He lost himself in her, tasting all of her, placing innocent little pecks across her lips, then teasingly playing with her tongue, and running his own tongue over her lips and front teeth. Surprised at what he felt, he pulled back just enough to look at her, and the moment was broken.
Solange dropped her hands from his wrists, and when he didn’t release the hold he had on her face, she gently pulled from his grasp.
“I thought…” he started.
Solange knew what he thought. She smiled at him, intentionally letting her incisors show so he’d see for himself, they were as normal as they could be. “I’m sorry, I forgot myself for a moment,” she said by way of explanation for their kiss.
“I’m not. I’m not sorry at all, and I didn’t forget anything,” Crispin answered, getting to his feet as she herself stood.
“I should have known better. I apologize for my lapse of reason,” Solange said, attempting to step past him.
“I will not allow you to apologize for something I enjoyed, and desperately need again,” he said softly, taking her face in his hands again. He looked down into her face and smiled at her. “I don’t even know what you are, what your name is. I can’t call you slayer forever…”
Solange dragged her eyes from his gaze and shook her head. “I’m nothing you need. I’m only good for one thing. Fighting and elimination. And it’s your kind I’m meant to eliminate.”
“No, not my kind. Those of my kind that are rabid and beyond redemption. They are to be eliminated.”
Solange shook her head insistently, trying to make him understand. “No…”
“Yes! Just because we are different from humans, doesn’t make us all bad. Just being different doesn’t make us evil,” he insisted.
Solange snapped her gaze up to meet his. He’d just repeated her personal mantra almost verbatim.
“Won’t you tell me your name so that I don’t have to call you slayer,” he begged once more.
“I’m not supposed to,” she answered, being lulled by the feel of his hands cupping her face, his body close to hers.
“I know that,” he answered. “Will you at least tell me how I can find you again, little mage?” He asked, kissing the tip of her nose and angling his head to press his lips against hers again, unable to help himself now that he’d begun to feel something other than loneliness.
Solange began to shake her head, and she pulled back out of his reach. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I’m not a mage,” she said softly.
“Then you must be a witch. Doesn't matter to me what you are. I want to know you,” he insisted.
“I’m not good for anyone, Crispy. I’m cursed. I’m more cursed than you’ll ever know,” she said, slowly walking backward away from him as she held his gaze.
He took a step forward, knowing she was preparing to leave him. “Don’t go…” he hesitated, not knowing what to even call her by. “It’s been so long since I felt alive. Please… I don’t even know your name!” he shouted to the empty church, his voice echoing around him as she disappeared from view.
Solange didn’t want to leave Crispin in the church, but she had no choice. She had to follow the protocol she knew was best. And him becoming attached to her, meant nothing but heartache for them both later on. Knowing how he hunted Alastair just as she did, he’d never be able to look past how she came to be — she couldn’t even do it herself. But she took pity on him as she heard him in the church calling out to her, asking for her name.
“Solange,” she whispered into the air as her magics swirled taking her away from him.
Crispin stood in the middle of the church, watching the spot she’d just stood in, feeling more alone than he had since he’d awakened to find himself this new creature he was now. Then he heard her voice, her whisper, filling the space all around him, echoing off the stone walls — “Solange”.
Despite his loneliness, he smiled. She’d trusted him with her name. This wasn’t over. It was far from over. “I’ll protect you, Solange,” he called to the quietness. And he meant it. He knew she was hunting Alastair, so to find her, he only had to fin
d Alastair. He licked his lips, the taste of her kiss still there, and the hint of her blood he’d taken into himself. It was enough that if he was close, he’d be able to locate her. But he had to be close first. He walked out of the church, running his tongue over his own front teeth. He felt the points of his fangs, and smiled to himself. His little slayer, Solange, she had more to explain to him the next time he saw her — he’d felt her fangs when he ran his tongue over them. They were small, but they were there. Granted, when she smiled at him, he couldn’t see them, but he felt them. And just what kind of witch was she that she came with fangs?
Solange materialized in the back of the home she’d fought Alastair in earlier that evening. She was concerned about the dog that had belonged to the family. He was a cute little light-brown Cairn terrier mix. He was a happy little guy that had trotted out to greet her as she hiked around the area. He hadn’t been there to meet her earlier, and she’d not seen him, nor heard him. And Crispin hadn’t seen him either.
She let herself into the house and searched each room, calling for him. “Here little dog,” she called quietly. “Come out, little guy, I won’t hurt you,” she promised. But he was nowhere to be found. She made her way back outside to the yard, calling for him and making little clicking noises with her tongue. She loved animals, always had, but her grandmama had said they were too distracting and her attentions were better focused elsewhere, so she’d never had one of her own. Even now, she knew she really didn’t have the time to devote to a pet, but she knew she couldn’t just leave him out here to fend for himself with all of his people gone. She went back into the outbuilding they’d been in earlier and clicked her tongue a few times. Then she heard it.
A slight whimper, muffled, but definitely there. Solange clicked her tongue again, and called out. “Here boy, come here, I won’t hurt you,” she promised. She walked slowly back and forth, her eyes darting here and there as she scanned the building for any sign of him. She heard another slight whimper and followed it to a closed door. She opened the door and called for him again. She heard scratches and whimpers. Solange followed them to a wooden chest beside a work table set up near some large wooden barrels. She pulled on the latch and it fell open, allowing her to lift the lid.
As soon as the lid of the chest opened, a little, scruffy, brown head popped out, with huge sad eyes looking at her. “There you are!” Solange said.
The dog whined at her, and kept his tail tucked.
“Do you remember me? You came to visit me twice when I walked nearby. Remember?” she asked.
He whined again, but made no move to get out of the wooden chest.
“How did you get in there?” she asked. “Did your little girl hide you away?” Solange asked him, reaching out to pet him.
The dog let Solange pet him and in fact, leaned into her touch.
When she pulled her hand back, he whined, jumping up to put his front paws on the edge of the chest he’d been in. “I bet that’s what happened. She wanted you safe and thought she’d come back for you later. It’s okay, though. I’m here to let you out.”
The dog whined a bit more and looked up at her expectantly. “You want out of there?” she asked, reaching for him to take him out of the chest. As soon as he was in her arms, he snuggled into her embrace and licked her chin.
“Well, aren’t you a sweet little man?” Solange said to the dog, holding him close to her as she left what she’d determined was a little wine making and storage facility. She pulled the door closed behind her. She left the building and walked around the house, intentionally avoiding the house. Crispin had told her he’d buried the family and she trusted that he did. She saw enough blood and gore on a regular basis. She didn’t have any desire to see anymore, so she just left it at that and made her way back down to the village with the dog in her arms.
“I’ll find someone to take care of you before I leave tomorrow morning. You’ll be just fine,” she told him, petting him and snuggling him along the way.
12
Alastair lay in the familiar dark, dank apartment in the long deserted building above him. At one time, it had been a proud home standing on the historical streets of the Garden District of New Orleans. Then an unwelcome visitor named Katrina had come to town, destroying this building along with many more like it. This one though was special to him. He walked along its moldy, rat infested hallways, until he got to the back of the house, where the kitchen had been. He followed the steps in the pantry and looked around the room they led to. He knew immediately, this was the right place. This had been his place. This was where he’d lived when he’d had Mouse with him. This was where he’d bred her, made sure that he’d be tied to the LaCelle line for all eternity. He thought of the LaCelle line with hatred and vehemence. He didn’t even remember why, just that he hated them all. Even his fucking Mouse. She was one of them, or so he thought. His face clearly reflected his confusion as he tried to remember if Mouse was one of the LaCelle witches or not. He tossed himself down on a very sour, very water damaged mattress and tried to bring her face to mind. He shifted as the numerous cuts and slices he had on his upper body pulled and snagged on the filthy clothing he still wore. Then he remembered the woman who’d put them there. She’d been Mouse, only stronger. But Mouse wasn’t strong.
He lay there thinking of Mouse and the woman that had attacked him. The woman he’d been about to kill, until fucking Crispin had interrupted. Fucking Crispin. He was always just a step behind. He wasn’t sure why Crispin always hung around, or how Crispin even knew where he was, but the irritating male was never more than a moment away from him and it drove him crazy. He settled into the mattress he lay on, and looked around the room, thankful for whoever had nailed the plywood over all the windows, sealing the sun out. He thought of Mouse again. This was the very room that he’d kept her in. And this new stronger Mouse… this is the room he was going to breed her in, too.
He closed his eyes and turned over, allowing sleep to take him despite the stinging and throbbing of the cuts on his body. “Fucking bitch,” he mumbled as he fell into a deep sleep, with visions of a dark haired girl, smiling, waving to get his attention. When he waved back, she called him. “Daddy!” she shouted happily. He ran to her, swinging her into his arms and tossing her in the air. He looked up to catch her, and as she landed in his arms once again, her hands came down slashing him with the knife she held in her hands.
Solange smiled down at the scruffy, little dog as she walked down the sidewalk that would lead her to the New Orleans offices of E.V.I.E. It was only her first day back in town, but she needed to speak to Gillian, update her on all that had happened and maybe see if she could guilt Gillian into taking Mr. Scruffikins for her. She was gone entirely too much, and sometimes without notice, to be able to take care of a dog.
She pulled the glass door open, and the secretary looked up from her computer. “Hi, Solange!” she said happily.
“Hello, Marilee. Is Gillian around?”
“Sure is, go on in. You're always welcome.”
Solange walked past Marilee’s desk with Mr. Scruffikins prancing along beside her like he weighed one hundred fifty pounds. She grinned down at him. He looked spiffy. He had a black and white leash, and his collar was a black bow tie looking affair complete with white accents. He was freshly shampooed and groomed and looking quite handsome if she did say so herself. She tapped on the office door before pushing it open and sticking her head in. “Gillian?”
“Solange! Come in,” Gillian answered, standing up and walking around her desk to greet Gillian. The two had actually become quite close. They were very dear friends.
Solange walked in the office with Mr. Scruffikins beside her.
“And who is this?” Gillian asked, smiling and kneeling down to pet the little dog.
“This is Mr. Scruffikins. Scruff for short. He needed a home, and I couldn’t leave him behind. I tried, I even asked a few of the ladies in the little village, and a couple said they’d take him, but when
it came down to it, I just couldn’t bear him looking at me so sadly as I started to walk away. So, here we are, and he’s in the market for a new mom.”
Gillian petted the dog and allowed him to brace himself on her knee with his front paws to give her kisses, before deciding he’d had enough and moving back to Solange’s side of his own volition. “Looks like he has one,” Gillian said, watching Mr. Scruffikins look lovingly up at Solange.
“I wish I could keep him. I just never know when I’m going to be here, or be called away. Since I have my new place, and I’m alone all the time, I don’t see how I could possibly take care of him. It’s just not fair to board him all the time,” Solange explained.
“Well, maybe if you could find someone to take him when you’re gone. Maybe take him back to your Grandmama when you have to go; then, you could just pick him up when you get back,” Gillian offered.
“I was hoping you could adopt him,” Solange said, coming clean.
“Me? But I’m no good with dogs,” Gillian objected.
“That’s not true. He liked you. He gave you kisses,” Solange said, smiling down at Mr. Scruffikins. “Didn’t you, sweet little man. Him’s a good boy, yes he is!” Solange said in her best baby talk, causing Mr. Scruffikins to dance in a little circle at her praise.
Gillian laughed. “That little guy has already picked out his new mommy. And he wants to live with you. You can have pets in your condo can’t you?” Gillian asked.
Solange smiled at her. “Yes, I can, and I love him, I do. But I don’t want to have to board him all the time. And I don’t have a yard, I’m eighteen stories up. There’s no place for him to play.”
“You’re in the penthouse, Solange. You have a private pool on your private terrace and quite a bit of space to relax around it. You have a small area you use for a garden. Dig up the plants and put down a little sod for him. And walk him often, he’ll be fine.”