Her Home Run Desires

by Jenna Payne

  Though her bath rejuvenated her somewhat, Violet spent the afternoon at home, nursing her sore muscles with a tincture of laudanum and lemonade as she glided through the house. She stopped in the studio, and observed Lucas’s sketches. To her surprise, they were rather remarkable. Gestural, but somehow he captured her expression with the accuracy of a photograph. She wondered if he would ever really paint her.

  Early evening found her dozing in the drawing room, a copy of Eliot’s The Waste Land open on her chest. As the evening drove the sun towards the horizon, a golden light filtered into the room, rousing her at last from her opium-induced siesta. The tendrils of euphoria still clinging to her, Violet decided to stay in for the evening. She went to her room and collapsed into bed, sleeping the rest of the night.

  For the next week, she explored the city alone, hearing and seeing nothing of the vampire who called himself Lucas. She supposed that she would never see him again.

  After a week of daytime wanderings and early nights, Violet was determined to go out and paint the town. She dressed in a clingy but simple black dress that fell just below her knee, and wrapped a black scarf around her hair, arranging it so that the ends of it fell just-so over her neck, covering the scar that still lingered where Lucas had bitten her. She outlined her eyes in kohl, so that they shone out bright blue, and colored her lips crimson red.

  It was a Friday night, and the streets were alive with men and women. Jazz music and laughter could be heard from the open doors and windows of restaurants and homes alike. Violet stepped down from her front porch and made her way down Bourbon Street, admiring the local ladies in their evening wear. She arrived at Arnaud’s, a restaurant that Mr. Astor had recommended. It was a marvelous brick building, with three stories of cast-iron balconies that wrapped around the entire structure. Bright flowers and women’s shawls flowed over the balconies as the patrons smoked cigarettes and drank champagne in the evening. The air smelled sweet and spicy. She walked inside and was greeted by a maître d’ who, to her surprise, already seemed to know her.

  “Right this way, Ms. Miller,” said the short man with a slight bow as he led her through the dining room to a private table next to a window. It was set for one. She supposed Mr. Astor had a permanent reservation. Soon a waiter came to her table and poured her a glass of champagne. “Shall I bring you a menu, Ms. Miller?”

  “No, that’s alright,” she smiled at him. “Just bring me what you think I ought to have.” She had never dined at a Creole restaurant before, and she supposed she wouldn’t know what to order even if she had a menu. She pulled out her cigarettes and placed one in her dinner-length holder, nodding appreciatively as the waiter lit it, and then scurried away into the chaos of the kitchen. It was a lively atmosphere, and Violet, still tired from her exertions, was relieved to be sequestered at her own table next to the window.

  The first course arrived as a small plate of delicately smoked fish. She tasted it, and found that it was quite delicious. She smoked and drank more champagne. She was more in the mood for booze than victuals, but she tried everything for the sake of politeness, and ate all of the strawberry baked Alaska that was brought at the end. Feeling a bit more lively, she ordered pastis and water, and smoked, and watched young lovers furtively fondle each other at the bar.

  “Well hello, beautiful.”

  A familiar voice interrupted her solitude and she turned to see Lucas leaning casually against the window frame. In one hand was a glass of bourbon, and the other, a cigar that smelled of vanilla and something herbal that Violet couldn’t quite place. He was dressed in a classic light blue seersucker suit and a white panama hat. She had to admit that he was quite dashing.

  “Is the gentleman disturbing you?” The waiter had rushed over, and was regarding Lucas suspiciously. Lucas tipped his hat, but stayed where he was.

  “No, no, he’s alright. A, uh, a friend of mine.” Violet explained. The waiter seemed mollified and withdrew.

  “Ohh, he’s keeping an eye on me now,” laughed Lucas.

  “He knows you’re trouble,” Violet replied, sipping her cocktail demurely. She hadn’t forgotten the mark on her neck, and the long week of silence.

  Lucas feigned offense. “Me? Trouble?”

  Violet blew smoke in his face in response.

  “Oh, I see, you’re still mad about this…” Before she could stop him, Lucas had reached out, brushing her scarf aside as he placed a finger on the spot where he had wounded her. She shivered. His fingers were cold, but she didn’t move away. “Well I’ll tell you, Miss Violet,” he continued in a low voice, “you make a man want to give in to all kinds of madness.”

  “And are you?” she replied, almost without thinking. “A man?”

  Lucas looked at her long and hard, and then a smile spread across his lips, and she could see now that his eye teeth were long and razor-sharp. She stared back at him, heart racing. Did this mean that he was a…vampire? But what kind of vampire wore a seersucker suit?

  “Do you want to come to the country tonight?” he asked. “A friend of mine is very interested to meet you.”

  There was a business-like tone to his voice that surprised Violet. She paused for a moment, sipping her drink again, and then, against her better judgement, she decided. “Yes, I’ll come…You know I’ve always wanted to see one of those old mansions…”

  Lucas’s smile returned, “You won’t be disappointed,” he promised. “Meet me downstairs in a few minutes.” He withdrew from the window, leaving Violet to ponder what she had gotten herself into.

  Moments later, she was descending the stairs to the street. “My god, you are a picture,” Lucas exclaimed, watching as she alighted on the pavement where he stood next to a silver Rolls Royce.

  “This is your auto?” Violet asked skeptically, looking at him with raised brows.

  “Mmm, I’m borrowing it,” Lucas responded with a wink that told her he had most likely stolen it.

  Nonetheless, she climbed into the passenger seat. Lucas started the engine, and they drove off into the night. Violet looked out the window as they drove, passing through brightly-lit streets filled with men and women of all classes and colors. It seemed that the entire city had abandoned all responsibility in favor of the summer air and the taste of champagne. They broke out into open country, and the lights of New Orleans faded into the distance. The sound of people was replaced by a chorus of bull frogs. The moon shone down full and bright amidst a slew of stars over a foggy landscape. Tall trees cast weird shadows in the headlights. Violet felt a prickle of anxiety. They were truly alone together now. She could feel her heart humming in her chest like the motor beneath the hood of the car. Was it fear?

  “So tell me,” she began, surprised to hear that her voice sounded steady and casual. “What are you?” She was looking at him, studying the side of his handsome face.

  Lucas let out a low and rumbling laugh. “Maybe you should be asking how old I am.”

  “Well? How old are you then?” Violet asked.

  “I was nineteen when the War for Southern Independence began,” Lucas replied, keeping his eyes on the road. The fog had intensified as they drove deeper into the bayou.

  “The War for…?” It took a moment for Violet to realize what he was referring to. “You mean the Civil War…? But that…But that would mean that you’re over eighty years old!” She shook her head at the ludicrousness of the statement. He had to be pulling her leg. Lucas barely looked a day over twenty-five.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked, glancing at her, still smiling. Violet was busy lighting another cigarette.

  “Why should I believe something so impossible?” Violet replied.

  “Fair enough…You might believe me when we get there, though,” he shrugged. They passed a hand-painted sign for Terrebone Parish. Violet rested her hand on the edge of the window. The night air was damp and cool. It smelled of crushed leaves and honeysuckle. She pondered the question of whether Lucas was a madman or not. The skeptical ins
tincts that New York had instilled in her made her prone to disbelief, and yet she couldn’t shake the sense that she had stumbled into a world so unusual that she couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. She decided to prod him more.

  “Okay, so how does it work?” she asked.

  “How does what work?” Lucas replied, glancing at her. The wind had blown her scarf back, and he could see the mark he had made on her neck. It enticed him all over again.

  “If you’re really a…vampire…” It felt ridiculous to even say out loud, but she persisted. “If you’re really a vampire, then how did it happen? I mean none of the stories talk about being ‘born a vampire’.”

  “Ah, you really don’t believe me, do you,” Lucas said musingly, “Even after last week, and what you saw at Rivet’s…”

  “How do I know you don’t just have a little of the Marquis de Sade in you?” Violet replied. It wasn’t the first time she had taken a lover who preferred their pleasure mixed with pain.

  Lucas laughed at that. “Well I just might, by way of a distant cousin.”

  Violet rolled her eyes. This was getting frustrating. They turned onto a dirt road and sped on.

  “Rivet and I have a very special bond,” Lucas offered. “He lets me feed off of him whenever I’m hungry. He’s a real giver, you see. It’s something to do with voodoo. Anyway, if he hadn’t let me indulge that night, then you might have woken up in a casket the next morning.”

  It didn’t sound like a threat, but Lucas’s words send a chill over Violet’s body, “You mean you would have killed me?” she asked, sounding shriller than she had intended.

  “No, not killed,” Lucas murmured. “No, I would have brought you to the place in-between. I would have made you like me.” The thought filled him with a desire that made his mouth water.

  Violet was staring at him now. She could tell that he was serious, or at least that he believed what he was saying. She was scared now, but she felt her fear through a veil of intrigue.

  “You’re frightened,” Lucas said, sounding regretful.

  “No, just…”

  “You want me to prove it to you?” he asked.

  Violet didn’t respond immediately. The mist had begun to settle, and she thought she could see lights glowing through the trees.

  “Once we get where we’ll going, I think you’ll put a little more trust in me.”

  The funny thing was that in spite of the near insane insinuations that Lucas had made in the past half-hour, Violet didn’t exactly mistrust him. “And where are we going?”

  “Deveroux Plantation,” Lucas said, turning onto yet another road.

  The lights were growing nearer now. Violet could see lanterns hanging in the trees that lined the road. The gnarled chaos of the bayou forest that surrounded the road gave way to orderly rows of oak trees. Their ancient branches reached out over the road and formed a dark canopy of leaves and moss. It seemed that every bough was laden with a small brass lantern, glowing warmly in the misty darkness, drawing them deeper into the bayou. The beauty of the scene settled in Violet’s chest, and her apprehension gave way to wonder as a house appeared at the end of the road. It was everything she had imagined a Southern mansion would look like. Huge and white, with tall columns and a two-story porch that ran the length of the edifice. French doors were flung open to the evening, and men and women lingered on the lawn, champagne saucers and cigarettes in their hands.

  Lucas parked the Rolls a few paces away. He opened the door and offered his hand to Violet. She alighted on the grass.

  “Why thank you,” she smiled slightly. “I mean to say, this is incredible.”

  Lucas returned her smile. She noticed that something about his demeanor had shifted. He seemed suddenly restrained—more formal.

  “This is where it all began,” he said, offering her his arm.

  They walked across the lawn to the steps of the porch, and made their way up. As they reached the doorway, a man emerged. By appearances, he was unlike anyone Violet had ever met. He was very tall, and although he was slender, he gave off an impression of strength. He was as fair as Lucas, and his hair was fire red. In the latest fashion, he was clean-shaven, and his hair was shaved at the sides and slicked back at the top. His eyes were dark blue—almost black, and watchful. Dressed in a pure ivory linen suit, he was impossibly elegant. Violet felt her heart summersault as he greeted them. Her focus rested on him and the chatter of the other guests faded from her consciousness.

  “My dear Lucas,” he said in a deep, accented voice. Violet was surprised as he reached out and caressed Lucas’s cheek with the tenderness of a father. He seemed unfazed as he leaned into the touch.

  “Oliver, this is Miss Violet Miller,” Lucas introduced her.

  “You are every bit as beautiful as Lucas said you were,” the man called Oliver said, leaning down and kissing her hand. “Almost perfect, I daresay.”

  Violet wondered fleetingly if he was making fun of her, but his expression was deadly serious. A waiter appeared with three glasses of champagne. They each took one.

  “To the night,” Oliver toasted.

  “To the night.”

  They drank, and their glasses were immediately replaced.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment…” Oliver bowed slightly, and went to greet another group of guests who had just arrived.

  Lucas seemed to know everyone. Violet met actresses and businessmen. Southern belle heiresses who wanted her autograph. Men who lavished her with compliments. It seemed as if the entirety of New Orleans high society had gathered at the Deveroux mansion. Finally, Lucas lead her into the house away from the revelers on the terrace. The mansion was just as pristine on the interior as the edifice suggested. Antiques mingled with art deco furniture. Every room embodied a sense of light and life. Green vines crawled up the walls of one of the sitting rooms, and there were flowers on almost every surface.

  “I’ll show you the upstairs,” Lucas said, nodding and leading her up the grand staircase to the second floor. He led her into what was evidently a study. Unlike the rooms downstairs, this room was dark and close. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and lined with bookshelves packed to the bursting point with titles in English and French. There was a mahogany desk upon which sat a number of albums. A phonograph sat in the corner next to a burgundy day bed.

  “You have some interesting friends, I must say,” Violet said. They were alone now. The room was quiet, and the sounds of the party barely reached inside the book-lined walls. It smelled of paper and pipe tobacco.

  “Oliver is much more than a friend,” Lucas replied distractedly. He was scanning the bookshelves, running his finger along the leather spines, looking for something. He turned to the desk. “Ah, looks like someone’s been feeling a bit nostalgic,” he said, almost to himself.

  Violet watched him curiously as he flipped through pages lined with photographs.

  “Here.” Lucas beckoned her to look.

  Violet leaned over the desk beside him, and her mouth dropped open. “But that’s not you!” she exclaimed. It was a photograph of a confederate soldier. A portrait, clearly taken just before he departed his home for battle. There was no mistaking him. It was Lucas.

  “It’s me,” Lucas replied, chuckling at her surprise. “In 1861, right before I lost my innocence.”

  Violet looked up at him with sympathy in her face. She knew many men who had spoken of their time in World War I the same way.

  “I died in that war,” he said musingly.

  Violet shivered and goosebumps rose to her arms. Something told her this wasn’t a poetic statement.

  “And Oliver saved me…He took my humanity and gave me the privilege of eternity. Found me dying on the battlefield.”

  “You mean that he’s a…” Violet whispered into the silence.

  “Oh yes…” Lucas replied, nodding. “I was riddled with bullets. I’d been stabbed through the wrist with a bayonet. Just lying there, bleeding, watching the blue sky fad
e to black when he found me. Best doctor I ever had.” He let out a laugh and shut the album with a snap.

  Violet jumped at the sound. She made her way to the sofa with unsteady legs and sat down, clutching her champagne saucer and looking at Lucas with an expression close to amazement. Her head was spinning. How could it all be true?

  “You’d be surprised at how many guests here are the same. Or really, how many people…Lincoln himself, Roosevelt’s first wife, the list goes on…” As he spoke, Lucas helped himself to a glass of scotch from a bottle on the desk.

  Violet shook her head. “It will just take some getting used to, I suppose.”

  “Well New Orleans is the place to grow accustomed to these things,” Lucas said, leaning against the desk. “Tonight you’ll get a taste of our local magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “Voodoo sacrifice,” Lucas replied with a grin. He wasn’t hiding his fangs from her anymore.

  “Is that as scary as it sounds?” Violet asked. All of this uncertainty was beginning to make her weary.

  “Not at all,” replied Lucas reassuringly. Sensing her mood, he fetched a small silver box from Oliver’s desk and offered it to Violet. “Cocaine?”

  “Why thank you.” Violet took the box. She needed energy. Cocaine was all the rage with her compatriots in New York, and it was more legal than liquor. She indulged in a small bump and passed the box back to Lucas, who allowed himself a little taste. She felt energy surge through her, and rose to her feet. She wanted to know more. Her thoughts were racing as she joined Lucas next to the desk.

  “So tell me, Lucas, if you’re over eighty, then how old is Oliver?” she asked as she rifled through his records, choosing some low key creole jazz for the phonograph.

  “Oliver, well…he’s probably close to two centuries,” Lucas said thoughtfully, reaching for the silver box to have another taste.

  Just then, the door to the study opened. Oliver entered gracefully, showing no signs of surprise at the pair’s presence in his private study.