Lilith--Blood Ink

by Dana Fredsti

  “Oh no,” I said, shaking my head. “I definitely should not.”

  A half-hour and a Lyft ride later, I stepped into the lobby of the Hotel Monteleone.

  Oh wow.

  I stopped and gazed around me. Polished parquet floors. Dark wood furniture, including an ornate grandfather clock, which was supposed to be haunted. Display cases filled with treasures—antique oyster plates, books and letters from literary figures. Old-world decadence and elegance combined. To the right was the Carousel Bar. I planned on checking it out later that evening after I had done a stroll around the French Quarter and hit Café Du Monde.

  I’d flown in a day early—with Cayden’s financial blessing, of course—because I wanted the chance to see some of New Orleans before it all became viewed through the lens of a camera. I’d watched The Big Easy, Angel Heart, and a few other shows set in New Orleans just to get an idea of what to expect, even though I knew that Hollywood’s idea of realism was generally either idealized or just plain incorrect. I wanted to see the real New Orleans—although I confess I really hoped someone, somewhere, called me cher.

  Cajun food, Creole cuisine, zydeco music, beignets at Café Du Monde, strolling through the Garden District, visiting at least one or two of the famous above-ground cemeteries… I had a bucket list and I was determined to cross everything off before the shoot was finished and I headed home to Los Angeles.

  My low-heeled boots clicked on the parquet flooring as I walked under a huge crystal chandelier sparkling from the ceiling. I quickened my pace, my SoCal earthquake radar kicking in even though Louisiana was more likely to be hit by a hurricane than an earthquake. After all, the last big quake that had hit the south had been in the 1800s… but that one had been big enough to temporarily change the course of the Mississippi River.

  Why do I even think of these things? I wondered, as I joined the line for the registration desk, my monster suitcase rolling behind me like a faithful dog. Two heavily made-up women in their fifties clickity-clacked their way behind me in four-inch heels. Both had the bouffant and lacquered hairstyles of former beauty queens and wore skirts and jackets in pastel shades that looked like they’d been barfed up by the Easter bunny.

  “I swear,” Bouffant A said in a Texas twang, her voice set at a pitch that could cut through iron and break glass, and made eavesdropping unavoidable, “this place is spooky enough to turn an atheist back to God. Just thick with spirits and evil haunts! You remember Lonnie Jenson, right, hon?”

  Bouffant B nodded, fanning herself with a pink-nail-tipped hand. “I sure do. Her sister was always a bit of a troublemaker, wasn’t she?”

  “Oh yes, she certainly was! You just listen to this now. Well, Lonnie told me she and her sister came to New Orleans, spent all sorts of money on the plane fare and deposits, and Lonnie didn’t even unpack her bags at the hotel. Lonnie said the air was so thick with satanic energy she told her sister, ‘You do what you want, I’m leaving right now and flying back home. Some places are closer to hell than others and this evil city is one of them.’”

  Both women shivered with delight at the thought.

  “Did they get their deposit back?” Bouffant B asked.

  “As far as I know,” Bouffant A replied, “the sister stayed behind while Lonnie went home. She’s always been that way, though, her sister. More interested in saving money than saving her soul.”

  Her friend tsk-tsk’d. As far as I was concerned, the much-maligned sister had done the sensible thing and probably enjoyed herself a lot more once killjoy Lonnie was out of the picture.

  “Now,” Bouffant A continued, “I’ve got us booked for a vampire tour, a ghost tour, and a voodoo tour, one each night, so we’ll need to…”

  I reluctantly stopped eavesdropping as a clerk waved me forward to the ornate front desk. Five minutes later I was checked in and headed up in the elevator to my room, keycard in hand. A hot shower was calling my name, loudly.

  * * *

  My room was around the corner and way down the hall away from the elevator, which made me happy. Nothing like being in a room by the elevator or the ice machine to make a person aware of how sound carries through most hotel doors, even in luxury hotels.

  Inside the room, more old-world, luxurious charm met my gaze. King-sized bed, covered with pillows and bedding in rich blue and golds. Walls alternating a pale yellow and cream stripe. Chairs that could have come from a high-end antique store—no shabby chic here. Curtains and swags draped over windows that looked out onto a view of the Mississippi River—which was running the right direction, thanks very much, brain. Even the paintings were a cut above generic hotel room art.

  A pricey-looking bottle of red wine stood at attention in the middle of a small round table with a marble top, an envelope with my name on it next to it. Pulling out the card—cream-colored vellum that screamed “expensive but tasteful”—I read the message: “Compliments of Berserker Productions.”

  Further exploration uncovered a garden tub, thick cream-colored towels folded neatly on a marble counter.

  Wowza.

  Cayden and his partner obviously had money to burn if they were putting out-of-town cast and crew up here, not to mention booking the flights in first class. I wondered how big of a crew we’d have on location—Cayden had said “small,” but that was relative when some films had end credits that lasted almost as long as the movie itself.

  I opened the fridge, giving a low whistle of appreciation when I saw two four-packs of Boulevard Quad, another high-calorie bourbon barrel-aged beer. There was another note tucked into one of the packs, this one scribbled on a piece of hotel stationary. This one’s on me, a large C scrawled underneath.

  Was he attempting seduction by craft beer or just being thoughtful?

  Immediately I heard Seth’s voice saying, “Try not to sleep with Doran.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I muttered. And I wasn’t. No matter how good the man’s taste in beer might be.

  “Sure, Lee,” Imaginary Seth replied in a tone that said he wasn’t buying it.

  I slammed the fridge door with more force than necessary, determined to kick Seth out of my head. This extremely snazzy hotel was my home for the time being and I was gonna enjoy it to the fullest, starting with a nap and then a shower. Later tonight after I explored the French Quarter, maybe I’d take advantage of the tub—crack open the wine, light some candles. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done anything that decadent. Hell, I couldn’t remember if I’d ever done anything that decadent.

  Living in Katz Stunt Central didn’t lend itself to things like long soaks in bathtubs. While I had my own bathroom off my room, it only had a shower stall—the bathroom off the hallway had the tub. Nothing like trying to relax in a hot bath while Drift hammered on the bathroom door, wondering if I’d be out before he “exploded.”

  Thinking of Drift made me think of home, which reminded me it was time to let people know I’d made it safely. I texted Sean first, adding Seth to the recipients right before hitting “send.” I immediately regretted the impulse, but it was too late to take it back. I hit Eden’s dial button next. She picked up after one ring.

  “Are you there yet?”

  Grinning, I lay back on the bed and took a swig of sparkling water. “I sure am. Right in the French Quarter.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I told her and then grinned at her indrawn breath followed by, “Oh, I am so jealous! I love that hotel!”

  “Have you stayed here?”

  “More than once.”

  “Then don’t be jealous,” I said reasonably. “This is my first time.”

  “Yeah, okay, fair enough. Have you been to the Carousel Bar yet?”

  “I just got here, but it’s on my list.”

  She heaved a tragic sigh. “So very jealous!”

  “Well, what’s your schedule like?”

  “Finishing up shooting over the next few days and then as free as the wily trout.”

 
“You wanna come hang out in my big ass hotel room and help me explore the town?”

  “Hell, yeah.” A pause. “As long as I don’t have to see Doran.”

  I had to ask. “You gonna tell me what that’s all about?”

  An even longer pause. Finally, “It’s complicated.”

  “Like, holding meetings wearing a bathrobe and trying to get a blowjob type complicated?”

  “He’s not that kind of a creep,” she answered. “Like I said, it’s complicated. I’d rather not talk about it on the phone.”

  I could tell she’d rather not talk about it at all. I decided not to press the matter for the time being. I shrugged, then realized she couldn’t see it.

  “Just come hang out and help me fill in some of my off hours, okay? You don’t have to see him, talk to him, or even breathe the same air as him.”

  “Deal.”

  “Cool,” I said, right before a huge yawn nearly cracked my face in half.

  “I’ll check flights,” she said, “and let you know what’s what. Now get some rest.”

  I planned on doing just that, but first I called Randy. I dialed his home number instead of his cell, knowing that he’d be working, thus avoiding a possibly contentious call. All I wanted to do was hear his voice and remind myself of one of the very good reasons I needed to keep my distance from Cayden, emotionally and physically—at least as much as possible while working with him.

  Randy’s answering machine picked up. “This is Randy. I’m out crashing cars, falling off tall buildings, or getting set on fire. Leave your name, number, and any other important info and I’ll call you back as soon as the flames go out.”

  I gave an inward groan, same as I did every time I heard that voicemail—which, by the way, was the same message he had on his cell phone. Very cheesy, and yet adorably Randy.

  “Hey, Squid,” I said after the beep, “just me. Safe and sound in New Orleans. Feeling like hammered shit after that red-eye and…” I paused, then quickly finished with “…and kinda missing you. Talk to you later.”

  I hung up before I had a chance to say anything else that might give him ideas of things like “commitment.” I was already regretting the “missing you” comment. Although I hoped if and when the time came that I was ready to commit, that I’d choose someone as… well, at least someone as nice as Randy. I couldn’t help but notice that even with a theoretical scenario in the unknown future, I still didn’t actually choose Randy.

  Sometimes I really didn’t like myself.

  Screw it, I thought, breaking off the mental self-flagellation session before it really got underway. I was in New Orleans. I had a job that had nothing to do with Sean, Seth, KSC, or anyone connected to it. The pay was more than good and I had a fridge full of excellent beer. I officially gave myself permission to not give a fuck about anything or anyone else until tomorrow.

  “Winter is coming,” my phone intoned in Jon Snow’s voice. “Winter is com—” I switched the notification off mid-sentence and glanced at the screen.

  Dinner at 7:00. Onc Cochon. See you there. Cayden

  I didn’t speak a lot of French, but I knew enough to translate “Uncle Pig.”

  Uncle Pig. Really?

  Guess I needed to give at least enough of a fuck to show up for dinner tonight.

  My phone told me it was 10 A.M. I’d lie down for a quick catnap, take a shower or even a hot bath, and then head out for a few hours of exploration before meeting Cayden for dinner. Maybe by then I wouldn’t even be pissed at his high-handed summons to dine with him. Maybe.

  I texted back a quick thumbs-up emoji and set my phone to “do not disturb” before stripping off my now aromatic travel clothes and crawling in between the covers of a bed obviously made of marshmallows and the softest down plucked from angel wings.

  Maybe I’ll just read for a few minutes. My eyelids, however, had other ideas. They shut with a nearly audible clunk, and I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  * * *

  “Lily…”

  Strong hands rubbed the aching muscles in my back and shoulders as I lay on my stomach, slowly bringing me from a deep sleep to the edge of wakefulness. I smiled, eyes still shut, and enjoyed the feel of my lover’s hands on my bare skin. He knew just where to touch in order to soothe me. To help dissolve the knots in muscles tight from sitting at a pianoforte for hours. To ease the tension earned by keeping my tone level and respectful while I taught the spoiled children of the white Creole families. As a violinist and music teacher, Étienne knew all too well the frustrations that came with our lowly position in the social circles of New Orleans society.

  He also had very talented hands and fingers, his touch changing subtly from the deep soothing massage to something more sensual. His fingers drifted from my shoulder blades over the sides of my body, caressing the outer curves of my breasts. I gave a small smile but was not inclined to give up my massage quite yet. I continued to pretend to sleep.

  “Lily…” His voice, deep and masculine, repeated my name. Softly at first, then more insistent. He crouched over me, careful to keep his weight evenly distributed for my comfort.

  Oh, how I loved this man.

  His fingers continued their teasing drift, this time sketching circles down my spine as he leaned forward, mouth against my ear and whispered, “Lily… pssst!”

  I giggled. I couldn’t help it.

  “Ah, you are awake! Minx.”

  I felt and heard the smile curving his lips, his touch becoming more teasing and less tantalizing as he began tickling me. I shrieked and wriggled until I managed to flip over onto my back, grabbing his wrists to stop the relentless torture.

  “Brute,” I said in between gasps of resentful laughter, trying my best to glare at him. “You’re an hour later than you said you’d be.”

  Étienne grinned, stretching full length on top of me. He still had on the dress clothes he wore when performing with the quartet. They’d played at one of Delphine LaLaurie’s soirées that evening. As always, I felt nothing but relief when he’d left that woman’s mansion none the worse for the wear. Madame LaLaurie was shallow and vindictive, with a reputation for mistreating her slaves. Even though Étienne was one of the many gens de couleur libres of New Orleans, like myself, I didn’t trust her to respect the boundaries of decency or of the law. And her husband Louis plain made my skin crawl.

  He kissed me, stilling both my laughter and my complaints. “I’m sorry to be so late,” he murmured against my neck. “Madame LaLaurie insisted we played until the last of the guests had left for the night, and there’s always one or two gentlemen—” he rolled his eyes at the word “—who have to have just one more glass of port or claret to go with a final cigar.”

  I wrinkled my nose, smelling the lingering cigar smoke on his clothing. “These must go,” I insisted, tugging at his shirt.

  Étienne obliged me by stripping off his clothing, only climbing back into bed when he was as naked as I was. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, savoring his scent, a mix of sandalwood, leather, and cinnamon.

  “She wants us to play again Thursday,” he said against my lips as we kissed.

  “But you can’t!” I exclaimed. “It’s Erzulie’s ritual and—”

  “I told Madame ‘no,’ never fear. I would never risk offending Marie or the loas.” He kissed me again. “But most of all, I would not want to upset you. I know how important this ceremony is to you.”

  “Was she angry? Madame Bitch, I mean.”

  Shrugging, Étienne rolled onto his back, wrapping one arm around me. I rested my head against his chest. “You know how she is,” he replied, a small frown line between his eyes the only sign that he was even slightly concerned. “She might find another violin teacher for her daughters.”

  I didn’t say anything at first, knowing that if I had managed to hold my temper I would still be teaching those girls piano. Louis LaLaurie, however, had pushed a boundary with me and I had not been able to let it go. I w
as no longer in the employ of the LaLaurie family.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” I finally asked.

  “We would miss the money.”

  “There are more important things than money.” Familiar words in a familiar argument.

  “Hush, Lily,” Étienne rolled over on top of me, choosing to end a possible quarrel before it began. I chose to let him. This time.

  * * *

  I slowly became aware that my alarm—currently the theme from Jaws—was going off next to my head. Grabbing my phone, I hit “stop” and then lay there for a few minutes, body heavy and relaxed as though I really had just had some totally killer sex with as handsome a man as I’d ever seen—and one that smelled like some sort of pheromone-infused candle. Fragrance of Cinnamon and Sex. It was a welcome change from the increasingly frequent nightmares I’d been having with scary death-drop dude, and I wanted to wallow in it a little while longer, impress the details into my mind before the dream fragmented and vanished from my memory.

  Glancing at the time, I reluctantly dragged myself out of the oh-so-comfy bed and into the shower. I emerged from the bathroom, redolent with the combined scents of bergamot, sandalwood and geranium, courtesy of the hotel’s high-end complimentary bath products. Then I threw on a violet tank top over a black gauze skirt and black gladiator sandals, slathered on some lip balm, and declared myself ready to take on the French Quarter.

  * * *

  When the pain first started, Charlie had gone out to the nearest bar, hoping that alcohol would dull the itching, burning sensation under his skin. Patches of red had flared up on his arms, legs, and torso, as if he’d rolled in poison oak. Three double-shots of mezcal hadn’t touched it, so he’d tried two more.

  Head spinning, he’d staggered out of the bar, intending to go back to Simon’s cousin’s. Instead, he’d passed out on the sidewalk and woken up in the trunk of a moving car. It felt like acid-dipped mites were burrowing through his body, the pain so off the charts, Charlie barely registered the fact he’d been kidnapped.

  They’d dragged Charlie out of the trunk and down a dirt path, the sound of frogs and crickets so loud it hurt his ears. When his captors finally dumped Charlie in a swamp, the cool water and soothing mud felt so good on his cracking, peeling, scaling skin he’d almost welcomed it. He thrashed about, churning up mud and water as his mouth opened impossibly wide to voice inhuman howls of pain, the sounds of his agony almost primordial. Startled flocks of birds took flight from the cypress trees, while frogs and lizards quickly hopped and slithered away to comparative safety. Even the copperheads and alligators shunned the pond, instinct telling them that these waters were no longer safe—even before the otherworldly shimmering haze settled over it, creating a barrier between the pond and the rest of the bayou.