by Lynn S.
“Ladies first.” Garan helped Natasha find her footing and jump over the wall with minimal effort. There was barely two meters to jump over. Natasha announced her safe landing with a whistle. Garan and Ladislav jumped after her.
Garan hardly noticed, but as he walked toward the cemetery, the dweller kept gaining advantage, suppressing whatever measure of care the violinist might have had within him.
There was a reason for the absence of all things vampire in New Orleans. Brigitte had banished them for the time being. The creature that lived inside Garan Nolton was old enough to have friends and sympathizers. It was a cautionary measure, not to give him ideas of flight or reasons to plot. However, mirror dwellers thrived on certain magic that was unknown to other vampires. They lived off exchanges. As beautiful a face the city showed the world, it also had a sinister side. There were forces that walked between the living and the dead that missed a little bloodshed.
“This cemetery is not as well taken care of as the rest.” Natasha couldn’t hide the disgust in her face.
“It’s the oldest one. Still endearing. There’s something venerable about this place that escapes those not attuned to it.” Garan was running short on patience. He had no time for those who didn’t respect the dead.
“Are all of the tombs either mausoleums or ossuaries? Nothing underground?” Ladislav wanted to feel relevant. Garan actually appreciated the question.
“There are few of those. It’s almost impossible. The city is beneath sea level. You’ll end up digging yourself a pool.”
Ladislav pushed Natasha softly against Garan, who, lifting her chin, kissed her. Lips were locked on her, but his eyes, never quite closed, looked for the approval of the man they met at the bar. After breaking their kiss, Ladislav whispered, “Well, there goes you fantasy about making love on top of a tomb.”
Garan perceived Ladislav was getting tired of running around with Natasha. Perhaps the man was exhausted of being dragged around, pretending to have interest in things that pertained solely to her. It crossed Garan’s mind he might be doing them a favor.
“But the night is young. One must never lose hope. Come with me.” Grabbing them both by the hand, the vampire led them through the maze of tombs until they finally arrived at a decrepit mausoleum.
“For the love of God, Garan! This place is a mess! I think I got spider webs in my hair,” Natasha protested. Her shirt had traces of dark patina. The black sheen that covered old tombs stuck to her body as they squeezed in between old resting places.
“What were you expecting? Golden altars? What if I told you,” the vampire pressed her back against crumbling bricks, “that you are leaning against the tomb of Marie Laveau?”
“I’d say you are a liar. The tour guide says that—”
“Shhh. Toss Frommer’s aside for a second.” Garan pushed her further against the tomb. With an inviting gesture, he told Ladislav all his dreams were about to come true. The other man stood next to the woman and Garan, the three connected in a soft embrace.
“As I was saying,” the vampire continued. “Knowing the city goes beyond turning the pages of a book. There are things that require a level of acknowledgement. One must pay respect. Let’s take, for example, Marie here. Can you feel her? Waiting on the other side of this brick wall?”
“What’s she waiting for?” Natasha purred, brushing her lips against his.
“An offering, of course.”
Garan beckoned the couple with piercing blue eyes.
“On top of a grave, against it…what’s the difference?” Had they known him a little better, they would have noticed that the singsongy cadence of his Cajun accent had disappeared completely. That should have been enough of a signal for them to run. But Natasha’s and Ladislav’s understanding was blurred by alcohol and lust, and they simply let themselves be toyed with.
The vampire brought them together, letting them know it pleased him to revisit the kiss of moments before. They were still linked together in an embrace. The couple’s body heat seeped into Garan’s flesh and for a moment it all felt oddly human. A slip into absinthe fueled debauchery.
Ladislav took a step to the side. Caressing Garan’s back, he allowed the vampire to take his place. Natasha kissed the black-haired fiend deeply, her desire evident as she intertwined her fingers into his raven-winged hair with urgency. The vampire indulged her, kissing back with a ferocity that matched her own, even if it was only a means to an end. They both invited Ladislav into the intimacy of their space, reeling the man in with caresses until he was once again trapped between the vampire and his female lover.
Garan pressed against Ladislav’s back. Fitting himself to the man’s form, the vampire guided Ladislav’s hand, covered by his own, to rediscover Natasha’s curves. Together, they found warm flesh underneath her top. The couple reacted as the vampire orchestrated their every move. They moaned softly, wanting more. The vampire started finding it all tedious. The dweller had suppressed Garan completely in order to get ahead without those pesky revisions of conscience. But cutting his human side down meant not quite understanding, let alone enjoying, certain human rituals. The thirst claimed him and he knew what must be done.
“Can you feel her heartbeat?” the vampire asked of Ladislav while brushing away the man’s hair and pressing a firm kiss on his neck.
“Of course,” Ladislav replied haltingly, the best of him swept away by excitement.
“Perfect.” Not only had the accent disappeared, but any indication of the man’s voice being human. Garan’s tone was deep and reverberated like the rush of waters.
With one swift movement, the vampire used Ladislav’s own hand to break through Natasha’s chest cavity. Ladislav screamed helplessly as his own hand collapsed after unexpectedly breaking through flesh and bone. For a fleeting moment, he felt his knuckles scrape a still beating heart. His scream was cut short as Garan pierced the base of his neck with the mighty power of a vampire’s bite, right where he had marked the spot with a kiss just moments before. Two rows of dagger-like teeth tore through skin when the vampire, unhinging his jaw, bit down once more.
Blood spurted, feeding the need of a beast. The dweller wanted to be strong enough to erase the blonde-haired woman and her soulful gray eyes from Garan’s memory, but her image still burned through them both. It was a sudden realization. Marissa made them stronger, balanced, even.
The vampire pondered these possibilities as his pupils stained black while gorging on precious blood.
***
Hours later, Garan found his way back into the French Quarter. Waking from a feeding frenzy, Nolton found the bodies of two tourists shredded and drained at his feet. Cursing his weakness and lack of judgement, the vampire consigned both victims to the river.
Brigitte didn’t stop me, the vampire thought to himself. Perhaps she considered it necessary. Still, it didn’t hurt to take further precautions. His blood drenched clothes were carefully disposed of.
Back on the street, Garan was still trying to figure out whatever transpired earlier that night. As much as he tried, there were blank spaces. Hands in his pockets and face half covered by a navy blue hoodie, the vampire didn’t realize he had walked beyond certain boundaries he had marked for himself. His steps took him far from Decatur, close to Frenchmen Street. The incessant comings and goings of tourists and their chatter died down and there was live music in the air.
“Garan, is that you?” Azure’s manager was on top of him before he could change his mind about it. Nolton felt that motherly display of affection as Veronica gave him a quick peck on the cheek, followed by an unexpected slap across his face. “I never took you for an ingrate, you gorram Cajun! How come you left us without even giving us a call?”
His instinct pleaded to make the woman shut up, but he had given in to the beast too much that night. He played his way by ear, threading carefully around a woman who could read him like a book. “I’ve missed you all. But things happened and…I’ve been so down and out that I just disappeared. I di
dn’t want to rub my rut of bad luck on you.” Garan spoke half-truths and gave her a sad attempt at an excuse. However pathetic, it was as close as he came to being human once more. His soul showed up, clear of guilt, through the blue of his eyes.
He recognized there was something about Veronica that wouldn’t let him quit. She loved him as a son and he loved her back in earnest. As impossible as it seemed, even if he was a creature of the night who’d rather wrest himself from human feeling, a part of him wanted to tell her, or at least beg her to take him back home. He missed her, the crew at the bar, and that violin he’d left behind.
“Don’t tell me, honey, that we are having girl trouble again. This is becoming a habit! You know what, let’s roll back to the bar.” Veronica dragged him by the arm, leaving no place for excuses. “Benny will give you an earful and what the hell, I’ll break the rules and extend hours. People drinking ’til at least four in the morning will give me a pocket fix and buy us some time to talk this over. It was a turn of luck to find you. Good thing I stepped out for a little something-something, otherwise I would have miss you.” Veronica tried to recall why she had left her place behind the bar. “Geez! Either I’m getting old or seeing you erased all my concerns. I can’t remember, for the love of all things holy, what the hell I was about to do!”
You forgot nothing, Veronica, the violinist thought as they walked up to Azure. It was all me. He had called out for her, using the power of summons, the irresistible call of a vampire that lured victims out to cross his path. It drew her away from her duties to meet him at the edge of the French Quarter just because he wanted her. Because he needed her.
Garan knew that divorcing from his reality was not a wise course of action, but his forty-eight hours were not up yet and he had leeway to do that and more. So, he let himself be guided back to his old life. Sitting at a booth, he heard Veronica and Benny recount everything that had happened while he was away. They spun their stories with the grace of those used to doing so by trade, making the trivial sound impressive and moving him to laugh between sips of whiskey.
The laughter was genuine, the drinks a carefully rehearsed act. After all, liquor no longer quenched his thirst.
***
The forty-eight hours granted by Brigitte didn’t do much for the quiet Morrigan. Bansit spent her day thinking about the bruises inflicted upon her by Killian. Her considerable restorative gifts could have done away with them in a second, her unbridled power could have silenced the prince, knocking him off with just a word. Still, she chose to let them both be.
Considering the things she had come to witness, and the fact that her business was in part judgement and retribution, she allowed Killian to claim that small victory over her.
This was how the sleeping prince remembered the Morrigan—not as women, but as creatures born of ill omen. Inclement executors, they took all from him without justification. Whether or not their actions carried consequences to the goddesses was not his concern. It shouldn’t have to be.
Still, they had the upper hand. The Morrigan passed judgement upon the prince and his bride, and finding the latter at fault, made them both pay. While Zaira’s demise came swiftly, Killian carried forever a mark to remind him. His bruises would never heal.
On the second day, with twenty-four hours to go, Bansit found herself struggling with the need to get back home. Annand had forbidden it until the Alexander situation saw its resolution, but the truce was a blank slate for all, and in a sense, went over her sister’s dispositions. “Whatever you need,” the Lady had said, “along as you come back with your head in the right place.”
She had felt them all leave. The vampire simply disappeared, the prince went to meet with his brother, Auberon, somewhere in the outer realms. Why should she stay?
Bansit took to the air, abandoning that mortal coil others may have found attractive but was nothing compared to her real appearance. It was liberating to finally unfold her dark wings. Invisible to mortal eyes, she surveyed the city before parting toward the Spheres. The only trace of her presence was the call of black birds echoing in the distance. They flew along with her, disappearing behind thick spring rain clouds, back home.
***
The crows announced her arrival. Blue-black against a rose tinged sky, they pirouetted and kept gliding in formation as The Phantom Queen touched her feet to the ground. Inside the hall, Annand waited.
“Is Francis Alexander dead? I’d call that unexpected news. I thought I’d feel it, at least.” The Morrigan with the vacant eyes didn’t wait for her sister to reply. “He must be dead. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“You know that is not the case, sister, though his death might come in as handy as ever. I live in fear, Annand, of the things he might have told Killian the night of that vision. How much did he say about what he knows? The prince didn’t confront me as I would have expected. Still, he went to his brother. What if he kept something and now…Auberon, Killian’s brother and heir to the throne of Aval, has always been more steady than his brother. Where Killian is blinded by passion, Auberon makes calculated observations. What if he guesses at it? What if he puts words on his brother’s lips that might force me to tell secrets we swore to keep?”
Annand didn’t flinch. The blind Morrigan walked about, searching the light coming from above. She dressed all in black and it was impossible to tell where her robes ended, with wings folded over her clothes ever so carefully. Annand looked like a ghost, a wraith dressed in the remnants of a nightmare.
“The mark on his side scrambles his thoughts. Killian will only hold to words spoken by us, and no one else. No matter what he hears or learns, he’ll soon forget unless one of us tells him to remember. You were wakened by being bound in trust. Had you lied to him, it would be a thing of the past already, but those are chances we had to take when dealing with the requisitions of the Lady Brigitte. How fares she, by the way?”
“Don’t change the subject, Annand. It does not become you to be so trivial.” Bansit struggled to make a point. “Don’t you think it was cruel, what we did?”
“Just imagine the consequence of inaction and tell me if we were cruel, Bansit.”
“Where is Mikka?” The abrupt change of subject only indicated that Annand had won.
“Doing her job as well as yours, for now. We live in violent times, and a Morrigan is never done while there is death on the battlefield.”
Bansit felt inadequate. She had nothing to do but wait, and it was something she could do anywhere, without aggravating Annand.
“I will return to the earthly realm immediately, then.”
“How much time do you have left?” Annand demanded.
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Then, my sister, you’ll return tomorrow.”
Both embraced. As diverse as they were, the three were always of one heart, and Annand knew that Bansit needed her. She would have hugged her sister even if the Universe hadn’t called for it.
Chapter XIV
Violent Farewells
Marissa sat at the table. Playing with the fork, she moved the salad on her plate with disinterest. The thought of taking a bite made her nauseous.
For the first time in weeks, she felt as if she was waking from a nightmare. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, her memories were scrambled, but there was a nagging feeling that kept pounding at her. Sometime within the last few days, something triggered within her. She found herself dealing with an aversion to Esteban. More than their usual banter and clashes, it was something so strong that went beyond animosity. It manifested in everything she did as long as O’Reilly was around.
Her heart skipped a beat as she caught herself cringing at the thought of Esteban’s name. He wanted her to call him Francis Alexander, even if it that name tasted like bile on the tip of her tongue.
Since his inconceivable return, Marissa and Esteban’s relationship had taken a turn toward unilateral. For some reason, she had not noticed until recently, when the dr
eams started. She dared not tell him, for fear he might reproach, but Marissa kept dreaming about Esteban’s face.
In her dreams, his features disappeared and all that was left was a piece of glass where his face used to be. The surface was polished, the edges jagged, and just where her fiancé’s eyes should have been, there were eyes of the softest blue. They stared intently, unsettling her with each turn. At first, they looked at her uncaringly, cold and distant. As of late, they were, if not loving, at least curious and inviting.
As she decided to follow, each night, her fractured psyche mended and became somewhat stronger. The blue of those eyes guided her to places she had forgotten, never attempting to rescue her, but allowing for her to put two and two together. Marissa started to uncover things and accepting facts she had been avoiding for weeks.
Her instinct, that part of her she had gleefully renounced, came back into play. The voice was weak, almost obliterated. But this time around, she listened. “We are dying. Or did you really think you could forsake me and live? You must find him. He can lead us to Adriana. I can use him. He can help us break this chain.”
There was no use trying to eat. Setting the plate aside, Marissa went upstairs and grabbed her cell phone. Once again, she dialed her mother’s number, as she had been doing the last few days, always careful to erase all traces of her reaching out. The voice mail answered with a recording that said it was full to capacity. If Adriana was in possession of her mobile, she was not bothering to answer. Either that or she had changed numbers after her murderous spree. Still, Marissa had not changed hers and Adriana never hesitated about locating her daughter before…blood on the floor or not.
That need to contact someone overtook her, the feeling of being trapped almost rushed her into a panic attack. Marissa and Esteban had made it to the outskirts of New Orleans. For the last couple of days, they had been making themselves at home in an apartment in St. Tammany, an affluent city suburb. Esteban left early that morning to settle some business in the French Quarter, but the hours stretched, and her being separated from him worked to her advantage, though she didn’t know what to make of it. “Afraid, always afraid of what you can do…letting him hurt you instead. You don’t love him, not like you used to. Whatever lingering feeling is grounded in your fear of discovering what you know to be the truth. That he is not Esteban.”