Under a canopy of peridot stars a shy and lonely nymph awaits Arms of oaks caress her so commanded by the Fates Satyrs, so naughty, taunt and tease Cymbals harken to her lil’ ears and a piper calls ‘pon warm breeze She blows kisses and drops a foot Giggles and blushes and smiles, and flees deeper into the wood.
Dayven preened, bedazzled by his own reflection in the handheld mirror. He looked for blemishes, pimples, moles. There were none, only oozing flesh. Brown viscous goo seeped out of holes and dripped down his face. His long tongue lapped at the putrifying essence. Ladie’s man extraordinaire. That Dos Equis man had nothing on him. Dayven was King of the Nosferatu. King of Nosferatu in the the Crescent City at least. Soon to be King of Louisiana, king of all.
Dayven clicked his tongue and rasped, “Stay thirsty my friends.”
House Rakoczy celebrates the Feast of Hastaruha tonight. Here is my poem offering:
Goddess So Hewn
Fiery projections from the abyss of eternal Life reach into my soul and abduct my unconscious mind There is no retreating passageway from this grip of Death, for the breath of Hastaruha has sought me to bind
The Dark Lord’s life force and mine are one Great Star burning, our black radiance sparking in the luminosity of a New Moon With ruthless love, my Dragon Sire unlocks my self-knowledge building my power and my Beast, revealing a Goddess so hewn.
Jean-Paul parked behind The Dungeon, the club where Ellerson tended bar. And where the creatures of the night came to gather. He was immediately swept in by Auguste, the door man. Auguste dared a hasty look at the leather-clad man. The vampyre frightened him. His senses told him to run every time he saw the man.
Jean-Paul sniffed the air and read the patrons. Prey were out tonight. Human thralls. Human Living Vampyres. Even some off-limits Fae and Therians were flitting around.
Ellerson was running back and forth, serving up Chambord for the cool crowd sporting the bladed ankhs. Chambord was a lovely deep red color and the kids could pretend they were drinking blood. Jean-Paul deftly pulled out his own bladed ankh and laid it atop his zippered black leather motorcycle jacket. He turned a tad and was pleased with the bouncing reflections. Such silly bling.
The glint caught Ellerson’s eye and she looked over at Jean-Paul. The Upyre saw no recognition in her eyes. She was new in town and he had glamoured everyone that fateful night; they would have described a man fitting the description of the blonde Gregori fellow. Jean-Paul wondered if any would remember Rick Wells or if the police had come calling yet.
Jean-Paul held Ellerson’s gaze so that she could not look away. “Evening, cheri,” he smiled. Ellerson blushed and stuttered deeply, “Call me Ellie, handsome.” Jean-Paul jumped at the bass emanation. He immediately thought of that song by Ray Stevens, “Mama Sang Bass.” Then the Elvira song came to mind. Giddyup. Hell no. He shook the craziness off and smiled again at Ellie.
“Would you like to go for a ride with me, darlin’?” Ellie looked nervously around at the patrons and then at her boss. “Now!” commanded Jean-Paul. Ellie nodded and exited the bartending station.
Jean-Paul was not about to take her arm or touch her. He bid her follow him. With a smirk he noticed the boils on Ellie’s back and chest. He snickered to himself. Violette would not be able to eat anything with boils or pimples. He would not make her. What to do with Ellie then? He’d figure out something fun. His medieval dungeon was waiting.
Jean-Paul climbed on his sleek black hog and motioned Ellie to climb on behind him. She stepped on the tailpipe and knocked it loose. Damn! Jean-Paul was aggravated. That wasn’t the worse though. Ellie snaked her arms around him, caressing the leather on his jacket. Then, he felt five o-clock shadow biting into the back of his neck.
Dayven slipped the topless ’62 caddy into neutral, wincing as the car groaned and creaked. There were numerous potholes. Normal for dirt roads in the bayou though. There were no street signs…or streetlights. Thank the dark gods for GPS.
“Turn right on Toulouse Road, 20 feet,” the digitized female voice instructed. “Thanks for the warning, beeyotch!” growled Dayven.
Dayven pushed the stalk into the Drive position and switched off the headlights. If the headlights had been left on, the Nosferatu might have spotted the red-eyed welcome wagon. Alligators were running along both sides of the car. It was easy for the gators to keep up with the bouncing caddy; Dayven was creeping only 5 to 10 miles per hour.
Lawton was sitting in the back seat and began waving at the air. “Dayum, it stinks ‘round here,” he complained.
Rowdy and Dayven giggled. “It’s low tide in the bayou ma nigga, gonna smell fishy,” Dayven explained. Still grinning, he chanced a peak at Lawton in the rearview mirror. Melvin was sitting next to Lawton and feigned a limp wrist and lisped, “You are sooo gay, Lawton.”
Lawton grabbed Melvin’s hanging wrist, pulled it off and tossed it out of the car. All five of the Nossies began laughing. “You bald fuck!” Lawton grabbed Melvin by a shoulder and launched them both out of the car.
Dayven shook his head, “There be a party wherever we go.” He floored the car with no intention of letting the two bro’s catch up.
King Tut and Queen Pas-Tout-La slowed down to a happy ambling stroll, bellies full. The two gators were over 100 years old each and sly as the devil. And just as mean. They had been terrorizing the bayou residents for decades. No one could outsmart them. That Broussard gal had come close the other day. Close but no cigar. King Tut had snapped her line and almost snapped her back. Next time, next time.
It is said that God rains down goodness on the righteous and unrighteous alike. All that King Tut and his queen had had to do was open their mouths and receive. Nosferatu was some darn good eatin’ in these parts lately, a real fine blessing.
Inspired by the music videos Deacon Gray posted tonight:
Surrender to the Kiss
I hear the weep of strings lilting in the mist Primal beats impale me with a classical twist I surrender to the sweet call and offer my wrist Searing pain and sharp pleasure greedily insist, there is no escape from the vampyre’s kiss.
Dayven slowed the pitching caddy, slipped it into neutral, and killed the headlights. He didn’t want the so-called Master Upyre to hear the lumbering beast or see any lights.
The road leading to the cabin was at least a mile long and the three Nossies began trekking about ¼ mile from the cabin. It was pitch black. No city lights, no moonlight, no starlight. And fog from the water was rolling in, dancing around the Nosferatu like intoxicated ghosts.
Dayven held his hand up, right in front of his face and couldn’t see it. But he was just that pale. They all were. All nonhuman vampyri are dead white, unholy.
King Tut wiggled his nose, taking in the scent of rotting flesh. He and the Queen raced forward to catch the Nosferatu. The King was already drooling, thinking of how he’d roll his prey and crush it. Nosferatu melted into a delicious tender goo.
The opportunistic Lucifer and his lady, Eve, however, were closer. Champ stepped on Lucifer’s head and Rowdy tripped over Eve. Lucifer launched vertically, sending Champ into the air. When he came back down, Lucifer had his mouth open. Eve crawled onto Rowdy’s back and tore his head from his body and swallowed in several gulps, her head moving up and down to force the contents down her food channel.
Dayven was horrified for the first time in his undead life. He stood still for a moment, thinking, not thinking. Then, he bolted for the caddy. He felt something touch his leg and screamed. Can’t go that way. He turned once again and headed for what he thought was the cabin. He was now on open ground. Grass. Strong smell of grass. His foot came down on something with give. Fuck! Alligator his mind screamed.
Long strands of necrotic tissue mixed with adrenalin and goo were flailing off of Dayven in a wake. Dayven heard a loud hissing sound and had no choice but to launch himself supernaturally. He had no idea where he was going or where he would land.
Dayven was flying. But not for long. He felt dirt pummeling his head. Smelled death. He had fallen into a hole in a cemetery. He gained his composure for a moment and said aloud, “Home sweet Home!” He slapped his own bald head and cackled.
King Tut and Queen Pas Tout La heard the muttering and smiled, too. They were on their way to Jeal-Paul’s family cemetery for a free refill.
***Ellison is now Carlson Cremzon (Carla for short).
Fog on the bayou had reduced visibility to a foot. Jean-Paul would have overshot his turn if it had not been for the familiar pothole. Carla’s heavy beard shadow had once again slapped the back of his neck when he’d hit the damned pothole. He was growing more agitated by the moment.
The hog rolled to a halt and Jean-Paul deftly alighted. He pointed a finger at Carla and said, “stay!” Startled, she braced herself for a second and then wiggled her torso at him, teasing. She smiled and blew him a kiss. She knew he was a Dom all along and was growing excited. And he could smell her excitement/his excitement. The uninterested Upyre muttered, “yuk,” and turned his back to the new thrall.
Jean-Paul pulled out his athame and placed it in his right hand. He then held the athame skyward and commanded the alligators to return to the waters of the bayou. He sensed that they immediately obeyed him. They were all heading south, feet plodding along. He could even feel a physical vibration under his boots. Good.
The Upyre stroked his goatee and looked at the fog and then back to the dingbat on the bike. Oh, what the hell. He placed the athame in his left hand and commanded the fog to lift. He heard Carla muttering something. When he turned to look at her, she was rolling her eyes. Clearly, Carla thought Jean-Paul was playing a game, trying to impress her.
Begrudginlgy, he got back on the bike. A hundred feet ahead, panic hit Jean-Paul like a brick. An old caddy was sitting in his drive. Once again, he alighted and told Carla to stay. Nosferatu. The stench was strong. He looked toward the house. All of the lights were still off but the monsters could see well in the dark. He ripped the keys out of the ignition and grabbed the laptop from the front seat. “Hold this, don’t drop it,” he ordered Carla. She held it tightly as he had commanded. She was tempted to toss it to see what he would do but decided it was too early for games. Later.
As soon as they were at the cabin and off of the bike, the Upyre held his hand out and said, “give me, please.” Carla reluctantly handed him the laptop. Jean-Paul made a note. He flipped the parlor lights on and sniffed. The Nossies had not been inside of the cabin. Thank the gods for that. He exhaled in one long push.
“Please, have a seat, Carla. Oh, the washroom is just down the hall and on the right. I have to take care of something. I’ll be back momentarily with refreshments.”
Jean-Paul dashed off to the kitchen and selected three glasses - two 16- ounce glasses and a shot glass. He put the tub of frozen human blood into the microwave and set the timer for 15 minutes, medium power.
Violette’s master carefully unlocked the chains and removed them from the coffin. He lifted the lid and reached for her. He placed a hand gently on her cheek, “Violette…wake up.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Darling, little slave.”
The flame-haired Upyra opened her eyes, just barely. She moaned and tried to go back to sleep. Jean-Paul rubbed her cheek again. Violette then opened her eyes fully and smiled at Jean-Paul.
“Did you have a good rest, ma cheri?” Jean-Paul smiled at her, still rubbing her cheek.
Violette nodded and then stretched. She then reached for her master and kissed him on the lips. He lifted her out of the coffin and held onto her.
“There is someone upstairs I want you to meet,” Jean-Paul smirked. Violette gave him a funny look. “A guest? Dinner?” she was hopeful.
Jean-Paul shook his head, “No love, that is in the microwave…unless you find this guest appealing. I know you are very hungry and need to feed. We shall see.”
Jean-Paul chose a white lace dress and silver heels for Violette to wear. He took a silk cloth and polished her slave collar. “A very special guest, Master?”
“Ummm...not exactly. Not royalty!” he chuckled. “Now, get dressed and put your hair up, too.”
“Yes, Master. I love you.”
Jean-Paul checked the temperature of the blood. The shot glass worth of blood needed a bit of cooling. Violette met her master in the kitchen.
“Do I look ok, Master?”
“You look beautiful, perfect. Hmmm. I think I will take you now,” he purred, “but we have a guest.” Jean-Paul placed the libations on a serving plate and Violette looked at the shot glass. Who the heck drank such a small amount of blood? A tick?
Jean-Paul nodded for Violette to go first and he followed her to the parlor. Jean-Paul heard Violette’s gasp before he saw the spectacle. Carlson, not “Carly,” was sitting buck naked in Jean-Paul’s black leather recliner. His legs were spread wide, balls resting on the seat cushion and his penis was aiming at the ceiling.
Jean-Paul whispered in Violette’s ear, “Babe, I’m so sorry.” Violette looked at Jean-Paul, wide-eyed, fearful. He kissed her on the cheek and she turned a look to the guest. She saw boils, big ones. They were on his chest and on his shoulders. Some had stuff.
Violette turned back to Jean-Paul and buried her face into his chest. It was muffled but he heard her say, “He has big bumps.” Jean-Paul put his hand on her back and petted her. She was feeling calmer from her master’s touch. Violette turned to their guest with her head high. She smiled and extended her hand, “Welcome to our home. I’m pleased …”
She was cut off by a gruff voice emanating from the naked human on the couch, “I don’t touch donors.” Violette felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She was humiliated. Totally.
Jean-Paul was, how shall we say it? Exceedingly pissed? Eternally pissed? Supremely pissed? His decision was made. He would torture Carlson to death and enjoy every second of it…for days. And his little flower, his Sukuya, would learn what it was to be a Loogaroo predator. Loogaroo predation isn’t just killing for survival. There is a certain element of extreme pleasure in watching the prey suffer, especially if they have insulted or harmed a Sukuya. The Loogaroo were skilled sadists, male and female alike.
Kiss me with the kiss of thy mouth so empassioned
For thy love is better than wine or absinthe
Thou art a solid tree in a desert of arid starvation
Thy ripe fruit hangs o’er me like a bower
Taunting and tempting me to pluck thy offering
I lie here with lips apart, mouth a-blister with need
My tongue licks my dry lips, needing a salvation
My hair blows in the hot wind, torched to white
Burning in the sun like a flock of goats
Tell me love where thou feedeth, where thou maketh rest
Let it be with me, ‘pon my mouth and breast.
There is this tree in the cemetery. For as long as I can remember, it has been a dead thing. I’ve never seen a single leaf or bloom. It’s covered in moss from the most skyward-reaching branch to its flared base. I guess trees are never dead. Not really. Inside they’re teaming with life. Bugs. Worms. The cycle goes on. It is an eternal thing.
When I was a child, I thought the tree was alive somehow, an angel of death. My uncle hanged himself when I was 5 and he was buried under that tree. I remember when we filed by his casket. The tree seemed to be calling to me. I was glamoured by its complex ugliness. I could not resist looking up unto the branches. The twists and lines and knots reminded me of grandma’s arms. She had passed. Was she looking over me? Wasn’t she supposed to be way up in the sky, in heaven?
The tree is much more I’ve found. It is a portal to a place. It is a gate. It will never die, for it is not of this earth.
My mother let me play in the graveyard; it was right next to the house. It was safer than my forbidden forays into the Great Dismal Swamp. Mother had warned me to be respectful of the dead, not to step on the long tombstones. She knew children were apt to play skipping and jumping games.
Daily, I would read the names of my relatives, when they were born and when they died. “Good morning, Frederick,” or “Good morning, Constance,” I would say to my two favorites. I shyly admit I had conversations with these two on more than one occasion. Imaginary friends didn’t go over well with my parents.
Some of the headstones were ancient and the names had been worn from erosion. There were a crop of three identical headstones on the east side of the cemetery. They were leaning to and fro. They’d not stood tall and clean like Frederick’s and Constance’s headstones. The freezing ground had pushed them around and they were near falling flat. There were no names, no slight indentations from a chisel. But there were dates. The three unfortunates had all died the same year. D. 1735. I wondered what they had died from, why there weren’t names. Maybe there was some pandemic that wiped out that part of the country and there wasn’t time to inscribe names. The headstones were true headstones, not found river stones; they were smooth and rounded on top. Someone had taken at least a little care.
One day, I was playing in the cemetery near dark. I’d become bored and was hopping graves. I felt like I was getting away with murder. That was a saying my parents used often. A metaphor. A crooked lawyer who had swindled someone, for instance, had gotten away with murder. It was exhilarating. In my glee, I didn’t see what was happening. Then I heard an odd sound, a sort or whooshing.
I turned around and saw that the tree was covered with moths. Huge luna moths. Have you seen them? They are as big as a vampire bat. They seemed to be glowing a neon green. The glow was simply their pale green contrast against the ever-deepening sky. But what a fascinating sight!
Night fell quick. And I continued to watch the moths. They were growing in number. Where were they coming from? I didn’t see any in the air around me.
I must have blinked. Most of the moths were now flying overhead, scattering in different directions; they had some place to go to. And there were three people walking toward me. Two males with a woman between them. They were all dressed in clothing from a long time ago. “Old-timey” I would have said. The men were wearing black top hats. The lady was adorned in a beautiful long flowing gown. Despite the grandeur, the three were menacing with their large soulless eyes. Their eyes reminded me of the eyes on those luna moth wings that nature put there to scare predators away. Black. Deep.
I screamed, “ghosts,” and ran. Just like in our worst nightmares, my feet would barely move. I might as well have been caught in waist deep mud. The circled me. The pretty lady said, “Don’t be afraid.” I locked eyes with her and calmed down. I became sleepy. Kindly, as I was a child, they hadn’t sought to terrorize me. I am grateful today as I see what we do. We frighten our prey such that they sometimes die of heart failure before we can drain them. Nevertheless, the blood gushes into our waiting mouths like a flood.
Sixty years have passed. All of my family have passed. I have new headstones to enjoy. The spirits are familiar though. In fact, I know all of the spirits in the cemetery. We are a family. We became vampires after death. Or in my case, if one is unfortunate enough to see us as we ascend from the underworld, one is then taken.
During the day, we sleep beneath the tree, way down in the Underworld. At dusk, we emerge as the luna moth and fly to our destinations, to find prey. We drink the blood of the living and leave their shells littered like empty exoskeletons. We fly back to the tree at dawn and descend to the Underworld for a day.
I always find time to read the headstones though. My stone is next to the three. There is no name, just my death year. D. 1942. I was only ten. I brush my fingers over the date and wonder what could have been. No use in thinking too much. I get away with murder. The cycle goes on. It is an eternal thing.
King Tut and Queen Pas Tout La began running, their lumbering bodies turned into lithe arrows. They could smell the stinking Nosferatu and their primal instinct drove them onward to the cemetery.
Dayven felt the ground shaking and stood. Water sloshed around his knees. No wonder most cemeteries in Louisiana had above-ground tombs. Still, this wasn’t as bad as Terrebonne Parish in the southern part of the state. He once had tried to go to ground an hour before dawn, digging like a mad cat. He had hit water just three inches down. Fortunately, he had found rest in a barn. Just for fun, he had braided the manes and tails of the horses. When the farmer’s wife had appeared at dusk to feed the horses, she had screamed, “lutin!!!” Dayven had cackled loudly. He knew what she was thinking. She thought the ghost of an unbaptized baby had done the dirty deeds. The joke was on Dayven, though. The farmer’s wife had heard him cackling, picked up a shovel and literally knocked his head off. His head had rolled into a stallion’s stall. Dayven had looked up at the black beast and blew a raspberry at it, “pffffffffffffft!” The horse reared up, it’s front hoof coming down on Dayven’s head. He screamed, “thiiiitttt! ouchy!” The horse shook it’s mane and pawed at Dayven, sending his head flying out of the stall. His head hit the side wall of the barn and miraculously landed next to his body. He quickly grabbed his head and reattached it. Meanwhile, the farmer’s wife had run out of the barn. He had eaten her alive as per usual. No bath salts, thank you very much.
The ground suddenly stopped shaking. All was eerily quiet. Dayven listened. He could hear running but it was moving away from him now and toward the bayou. He poked his head out of the empty grave and stared, his eyes adjusting to the dark. The fog had lifted. He crawled out of the grave and skipped toward Jean-Paul’s cabin. That’s where the red-haired girl was. Dayven, consummate ladie’s man, was known for being a fly in the sugar bowl.
Jean-Paul stared at Carla. Violette could feel his rage over the insults. It was frightening. Violette found herself stiffening in Jean-Paul’s arms. Instinct. Fight or flight.
Jean-Paul sat Violette down in his red velvet chair and soothed her, petting her head, smoothing her hair. Carla smirked and belched out, “Are all your donors lovers or just her?” Carla inclined her head at “her” disapprovingly as if she were nosing away a piece of trash.
Jean-Paul was standing in front of Violette, just off to the side. She could see Carla. She also saw her Master put his strong hands behind his back and wring them. His long fingers reminded her of deadly snakes entwining themselves. She noted his knuckles were turning white. Uh oh.
“Carla, please dress. And we shall talk about your business in New Orleans,” Jean-Paul insisted.
The naked woman-man sighed, “It’s your home, buddy. But I think you have something against transgendered people. That’s what I think. A hissing sound escaped her mouth.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t think, Carla,” Jean-Paul snarled. “It’s your rudeness and disrespect that I am displeased with. I could care less about your gender.”
Violette feeling safer, relaxed, piped up in her Georgia drawl, “I bet you know the DSM-IV backwards and forwards, dontcha?” A little smile flitted across Violette’s lips.
Carla’s face turned red and she wanted to kill Violette. Jean-Paul declared, “Yes, darling, they all do. Those who won’t take responsibility for their status in life thump that manual as their bread of life. Everyone whom they think opposes them falls into certain categories of mental illness.”
Jean-Paul put a finger to his mouth, “Now, dear, be quiet.” It was a command. Violette smiled at her master and nodded. “And you need to stay away from the vampyre forums, Violette.” Jean-Paul raised an eyebrow at her. Violette smiled broadly and shifted her eyes to the side.
“Fuck, what are you two doing?” Carla snapped. She was clearly disgusted.
“Since you are so bold to ask, Violette is my slave, my fledgling, and my lover,” Jean-Paul offered. Carla made a hrmmph sound.
“Fledgling? I think you two have roleplayed long enough. What’s your usernames in the Community?” The Community Carla was referring to was the online vampyre community.
“Our usernames are none of your concern,” Jean-Paul motioned to Violette, “and as of today, Violette is out of the Community. What do you think you are going to do, Carla?” Jean-Paul was becoming threatening now, his demeanor changed completely. Carla felt the ice dribble down her spine.
“I…was just curious,” she lied.
Jean-Paul curled his lips and exposed his deadly fangs, two long incisors on top and four along the bottom. Carla was incredulous but frozen to the chair. She stared at the incisors. They were long and hideous. And not particularly sharp. They would tear. Possibly a slow and torturous death.
Jean-Paul started. He put his hand up and inclined his head toward the front door. He looked at Violette, “Do you hear that?” Violette shook her head. Jean-Paul frowned and then nodded, “It will be awhile, darlin’, before you have the hearing.”
“This is such bullshit,” Carla growled. She’d obviously composed herself. Silly woman.
Jean-Paul walked toward the door and opened it before Dayven could knock. The Master vampyre had smelled the Nosferatu before he had climbed the steps to the porch. And Dayven had smelled dinner.
Jean-Paul looked into the eyes of the Nosferatu. A sense of the end, of death, twisted Jean-Paul’s gut. Better make the best of it. He was already calculating how he’d save Violette from being eaten and worse. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind.
“Pleased to meet you, Nosferatu,” Jean-Paul extended his hand and shook the hand of the grinning monster. “Won’t you come in?” The Nosferatu nodded and entered and zeroed in on the two women.
Slyly, Jean-Paul wiped his now-brown and smelly hand on the drape. He picked up a tussie-mussie that Violette had made and quickly handed it to her. Violette had taken up Victorian crafts and this one was going to be handy. He pointed to Violette then touched his own nose. She quickly put the tussie-mussie up to her nose. She had smelled Nosferatu before, the night Jean-Paul had flung her and the Nossie parts over his shoulder. Rotting meat and garbage. She had vomited and vomited that night.
The Nosferatu bowed to Violette and she inclined her head. With a muffle, she said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr…”
“Dayven. Please call me Dayven, my dear.”
Not be left out, Carla cleared her throat. Dayven turned at once to Carla. She was shocked at how fast the fool could move.
Dayven was confused. She looked like a woman. But he could smell male. Still, plump and tasty. He saw the swollen belly and could taste the fat. His tongue darted out. Carla recoiled. What the hell?
“Nice to meetcha. You are…?” Dayven asked.
“I’m Carla Crimson. Isn’t it too early for Halloween?” The booming bass voice made Dayven jump.
“You scared the shit out of me, man!” It was unusual for anything to scare Dayven. “Respect. You got my respect, man.”
“I…am…not…a…man,” Carla slowly snarled. Dayven began cackling, his shoulders hunched around his ears. Concerned that the Nossie would go beserk and kill, Jean-Paul offered everyone a nice warm glass of blood.
Dayven happily took the largest glass of libation, about two cups worth, and downed it immediately. “Oh, thank you. That’s gooood. Real gooood,” he said in appreciation.
Violette daintily sipped her 8 ounces and looked at Carla. Carla was entranced by Dayven and his need. It was doubtful anyone had seen a human down that much liquid so fast. She smiled to herself when Jean-Paul handed Carla a shotglass with 2 tablespoons or so of blood.
“What’s this?” Carla asked. A smirk crossed her face as if to say, “I know you will say it’s blood but we all know it’s fake. ROLEPLAYER!”
Jean-Paul leaned into Carla’s face. He was clearly irritated. “The operative words are, thank you. It’s human blood.” Jean-Paul put his forefinger on the bottom of the glass and pushed it toward Carla’s mouth.
Dayven was bemused and puzzled. “Damn, what an ungrateful beeyotch.”
Jean-Paul motioned for Dayven to sit. And he did. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“I am Jean-Paul and this is Violette, Dayven. What brings you to the House of a vampyre tonight?” Jean-Paul studied Dayven, eager for answers.
“I lost my laptop. Have you seen it?” Dayven eyed Jean-Paul suspiciously.
“Why, yes, I have it. It was in the Caddy?”
Dayven nodded. “I want it. Must have it.”
“You shall, sir.” Jean-Paul walked over to the sideboard, picked up the laptop, and handed it to the Nossie.
“Have you taken a looksee?” Dayven smiled, revealing his yellowed teeth. Violette thought they looked rather odd. Gods, they were sharp. Two rows of them. She heard Carla gasp. With an inward sneer, Violette saw that Carla had not tasted the blood.
“No, I haven’t had a chance, Dayven. Is there something I need to see?”
“Maybe. I procured this gem from “The General,” who is no longer with us.” Dayven giggled and moved his head from side to side.
Dayven pointed to Violette with a long dirty finger. “There’s a pic of her and one of you. And your address.” Dayven looked back and forth between the two, waiting for a response. Outrage would be delightful. A sauce of fear or anger was the best seasoning.
Violette froze, was scared. Jean-Paul put his hand on hers, simultaneously pushing the tussie-mussie up to her nose. She’d started to drop it in her fear.
“Who the hell farted?” Carla’s inquiry punctuated the conversation. The stench of the Nosferatu had finally assaulted Carla. Violette groaned. She was fighting vomiting already. Roses. Think of roses. Daffodils. HELP.
Dayven looked at Carla, inclined his head and placed his hand on his chest, “Awww. You hurt me so…”
Fighting his own tightening stomach, Jean-Paul steered the conversation. He wanted the laptop. He would get it.
“I have a proposal for you, Dayven.” The Nosferatu’s eyes lit up. “How about a trade? The laptop for the rude human?” Jean-Paul inclined his head towards Carla. “But you will need to do your business a few miles from here, at the very least.”
Dayven thought for a second. “I like it. I like it,” he nodded happily, “but hows about you copying everything onto a flash drive and give me the laptop?”
Dayven handed the laptop to Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul pulled a 32 GB drive out of the drawer in the sideboard and plugged it in. While the data was downloading, he watched Dayven. His gaze swept over to Carla. She still thought this a game, some sort of mad LARP. Or maybe she was in shock.
Jean-Paul handed the laptop to Dayven. He then motioned to Carla, inviting the Nosferatu to take his prey. And get the hell out.
“You’re a bunch of crazy fuckers! Wait till I report you to the Council!” Carla yelled. She was now in a tizzy.
“Pffffffffffffft!” Dayven blew a raspberry at her. He then danced around singing, “Council, Council…la la la la la.”
Jean-Paul made eye contact with Violette and pointed down, meaning for her to go to ground at once. Violette jumped up and fled faster than she had ever moved in humanoid form. Jean-Paul was thankful for that. She was learning.
“Is this The Council, Sparticus’ council? Is this why you’re in New Orleans? To spy on us?” Jean-Paul inquired.
“Maybe,” Carla responded. Defiant.
Dayven clicked his tongue, “Tsk, tsk.” He made two steps toward Carla. He was becoming aroused by her fear.
“I think they’re trying to find out who’s offing those movie vamps,” Dayven declared.
Carla’s face fell. That’s exactly what she was doing in New Orleans. She worked for the Council. Together, she and Rick Wells were to infiltrate the vampyre hives in the New Orleans area. The killer had been tracked to the Crescent City.
“I can see our friend Dayven is right,” smirked Jean-Paul. “And the Council should never send humans to take monsters. You’re going to be slaughtered…just like your friend Rick…Wells.”
Carla then knew. Vampyres were real. She’d though herself a Human Living Vampyre, even had donors. What a fool. But hindsight is 20/20 as they say.
Tired of the game and starved, Dayven growled loud and grabbed the rude human by the hair, pulling the wig off. “Well, thit!” he shouted. He threw the wig up and over his shoulder. Jean-Paul looked up to see the wig land in the rustic chandelier. He couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed loud and long. Dayven laughed, too. The long blond wig dangling in the chandelier was a hoot.
Carla was screaming and fighting but there was no way she could escape the Nossie’s slippery grip. He was dragging Carla by an arm. At the door, he turned to Jean-Paul and said, “Even a blind dog gets a bone.”