New Orleans, 1842
by Nicole Hadaway
Smashwords Edition
© Nicole Hadaway 2010
Published by Vamplit Publishing at Smashwords
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All characters in this book are fictional and totally invented from the author’s imagination. None of the events or characters in this book has ever existed outside the author’s imagination or the content of this novel.
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NEW ORLEANS, 1842
At first Miranda worried that she wouldn’t be able to stand the humidity. The heat wasn’t a problem; she was born of a being of fire, after all. It was the water that weakened vampires, and Miranda had worried that the humidity in the air might damage her skin. She was sensing, though, that the city had a magic to it, both good and bad, which must have worked in Miranda’s favor, as her skin remained intact despite the thick, water-laden air.
My father warned me about the air in New Orleans, but I had to see the city, this growing metropolis, for myself, she thought as she walked down Bourbon Street. Before her visit to the city at the mouth of the Mississippi river, Miranda had thought New York City to be the height of cosmopolitan culture. She wasn’t certain if New Orleans could surpass New York in all the trade and commerce, but New Orleans had something New York didn’t …a soul.
Many different races of mortals were found in New York City, but none of them melded quite together to produce the wonderful, spicy mélange that was New Orleans. It was a city of contrasts, to be certain. For example, the alleyway between the Cathedral and the government building was where many a lawless deal with pirates and prostitutes took place. Although strict segregation rules separated the blacks from the white mortals in other parts of the country, New Orleans had a more relaxed hierarchy that led to many interesting and exotic characters, especially at night.
Miranda sighed with contentment as she did a little pirouette on the sidewalk, sidestepping away from a tethered horse, which had started shying away from her, as she approached. That was the only thing about walking with the mortals; their domesticated beasts knew she was of the damned race and barked or shied away accordingly and if it happened too often, people would begin to wonder.
Though I have a feeling there’s much to wonder about in this city, Miranda said to herself as she crossed the street, hopping over a pile of dung in the middle, willing her skirts to stay down so as not to expose her ankles. Cray is really missing a treat; perhaps he can come and visit me in a few years, or we can come back in a few decades, she mused. I only hope it retains its mystique throughout time, she made a wry face, thinking of how human progress was always changing the land and their settlements into things that little resembled their humble beginnings. Indeed, her own father often remarked his surprise at how New York City had grown and changed in the forty years he’d been settled there.
I don’t even miss them, not one bit, she thought smugly and smiled. Well, maybe Cray. It was the first time the twins had been apart in their twenty-two years, but this separation was necessary; all vampires needed to learn to survive on their own, without their parents or siblings, once they were of age. This was why she had travelled to New Orleans, to experience new things and although her race didn’t make a habit of mixing with humans socially, sometimes it was unavoidable. Other times, it was desirable.
“Excusez-moi, ma’mzelle!” Miranda was almost knocked off balance, though she was able to right herself, quick as a flash. before anyone noticed.
“Oh je vais bien, Monsieur. C’est moi qui a tort,” she apologized to the man who had just bumped into her. He was handsome. Perhaps it might be nice to make him a companion during her visit?
Let’s see how well our mortal servants have schooled me in their ways, she challenged herself as she fluttered her eyelashes and pretended to smooth her skirts from the encounter, exposing a flash of ankle in the process.
“Miss, are you unescorted? A fine lady such as yourself really should not go alone down these streets – pirates. I mean,” he attempted French, “il y’a des pirates pres de la Cathedrale…”
“Oh, that’s fine sir.” If only you knew the pirate I killed last night! He thought to rape me and behead me with his cutlass, sharp and as long as your leg – now he’s feeding the fish in the river! “I speak English as well.” Miranda assured him, collecting herself like a proper young lady. Mortal men liked their women to be pretty and demure.
“Oh, jolly good. It’s so nice to meet a bonnie lass such as yourself amidst all these uncivilized folk,” he paused and blushed, “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Hey, John Stevenson!” A feminine face called out from the house facing Miranda and her new-found friend. “I hear what you said to that pretty lady there, but you didn’t think my casson was so uncivilized a few minutes ago!”
Miranda gasped as the woman leaned out of the window, her naked white breasts swinging as she waved her fist in the air.
Miranda felt her canines lengthen as the beat of her companion’s heart quickened, sending his blood rushing through his body, inflaming his cheeks and neck. All at once, it seemed like she was swimming in blood: the naked prostitute, flushed from her recent exertions; the Englishman, both embarrassed and aroused by the taunting of the woman for hire; even in the thick, wet air, swirling around her.
Miranda followed the scent of the life essence, though this scent was not human but some type of bird, and found it to be coming from the yellow house.
“Miss, please, you really don’t want to go near that house.”
“I smell blood,” she said before she remembered she was talking to a mortal. “Oh!” she gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand. The gesture was probably taken by the Englishman as one of a demure lady surprised and embarrassed, but in reality, she hoped it hid her lengthened teeth, which she now felt protruding from her lips.
“Yes, indeed, it’s a house of ill repute. Though I don’t think that a lady such as yourself knows what that is, nor should you,” he shook his head as he placed his hand under her elbow and guided her firmly down the street, away from the smell of the sweet, delicious blood.
“I’m sorry you had to be witness to that exchange,” he tried to apologize; unaware that Miranda had the ability to see the tell-tale crosses in his eyes as he lied. “I daresay she’s got me confused with some other John Stevenson. It’s a common enough name.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Stevenson,” Miranda played along, as they turned the corner onto St. Peters Street. Well how about that, Miranda mused. I cannot walk near the Cathedral, but St. Peter does not prevent me from walking down his street! “I knew at least two in my own neighborhood in New York City.”
“New York City!” the Englishman exclaimed, and a group of young ladies being escorted by their mothers turned to look at them.
“Excuse my outburst, Ladies,” Mr. John Stevenson apologized to them.
“Interesting,” Miranda said. “Where on earth would young ladies be headed dressed so finely with their mothers this evening?”
“Probably to be presented to society, seeking husbands and all that sort of foolishness. Though I’m sure you must have gone through the same in New York City, being the young woman of quality that you are,” he looked at her dubiously; as if he would drop her in the street should she turn out to be of lesser means.
“Of course, Mr. Stevenson. Though our parties were more segregated, you understand,” she looked at him meaningfully, though she failed to hear his answer for she was busy thinking to herself, How utterly progressive this city is! Self-imposed segregation of the mortal races had made no sense to her, though humans did many things that mystified her own kind. Really! They separate the races and keep their women underfoot! Impossible that they are the superior species on the planet, yet that’s exactly what they are…
“… which does remind me, Miss, that you are quite a ways from home, especially if you wander the night unescorted. If I may ask, what brings you down here?”
Miranda’s keen nose detected a hint of danger emanating from the body of her would-be protector. He probably means to seduce me now, she surmised.
“What is that darkened section over there, Mr. Stevenson? Is that an entryway to a courtyard, or a stable? It seems so black and secluded,” Miranda hoped she’d affected enough worry in her voice.
“Fear not, dear Mademoiselle,” Mr. Stevenson straightened his posture and puffed out his chest, removing his right hand from her arm and gripping the hilt of the rapier which swung at his left side. “John Stevenson is not going to be known in this city for allowing harm to come to pretty ladies such as yourself Miss, er Miss… What is your name, by the way, dear lady?”
“I’d be more concerned about your own life, Mr. Stevenson, were I you,” Miranda answered him as she took her hand and gripped his bicep, pushing him firmly into the blackness. “You should know better than to trust the savage peoples of New Orleans, no matter how pretty,” were her words to him before she sank his teeth into the neck of the gallant, deceptive John Stevenson.
I remember the house was yellow; but is it past… Ugh! What house is this? The power coming from it! Miranda stumbled slightly and careened to her left, into the street, which made a horse rear and whinny in fright.
“Madamoiselle! Prenez-garde!” the angry rider called down to her, as she scurried back onto the sidewalk, taking care not to approach, too closely, the house with such power emanating from it.
“Ooof! Hey, ma’mzelle!” A familiar voice and body bumped into Miranda’s.
“Well, Mr. John Stevenson!” Miranda hoped she sounded surprised and not dismayed. She’d only drained a little of his blood last night, not enough to keep him out of commission for too long. Next time I’ll need to take a little more, to make certain they stay inside the following night! She scolded herself firmly.
His smile was short-lived. “Miss, er – I never did get your name last night, Madamoiselle,” he pursed his lips in disapproval. “I am rather beginning to think you’re not the virtuous young maiden I mistook you for at our first meeting.”
Well, two can play at that game! Miranda thought as her emotions got the better of her. “And I might say the same of you, Mr. John Stevenson. I meet you outside a brothel, no less, and then you proceed to walk me down to a secluded area of town under the guise of escorting me safely, but then you accost me!” She hit him with her fan as if to emphasize her supposed anger.
“I accost you… wait, I thought we were set upon by buccaneers?” He looked puzzled.
Miranda felt slightly weak. I’ve made my first mistake; I forgot what I mesmerized him to remember! She needed some time to think, so she stepped to the side of the Englishman, where she stumbled again.
It was that house; she’d gotten too close to it. It was giving off such an… emotion… if a human dwelling could do such a thing. The power both pulled Miranda in and yet repelled her as the same time, making her very unsteady on her feet.
“It appears, Ma’mzelle, that whoever attacked us last night did the same to you as they did to me. Indeed, I awoke this morning swooning and stumbling about, feeling very weak. Here,” Miranda felt John’s hands at the sides of her waist, “let me help you. We should be away from this house. It’s said a famous voodoo queen dwells here, selling her potions and performing rituals,” his voice held an edge of real fear and awe.
“That voodoo, it must be powerful magic,” Miranda heard herself say, as John Stevenson near carried her away from the house and down the sidewalk.
“I’ve heard that they dance naked with snakes!” John whispered into her ear. “I do say ma’am, I don’t wonder if you’ve not got a fever. You’re burning hot to the touch!”
Now nearly a block away from the source of her discomfort, Miranda struggled as she yanked herself out of John Stevenson’s grip. “That really is enough. I do thank you, Mr. Stevenson, but I can assure you that I do not need to be carried about like some helpless mortal.”
Another mistake! Miranda wheeled about and started marching away from the Englishman in frustration.
“Wait, Miss! You really should know where you’re going, first!” he called out behind her.
This reminded Miranda – she wanted to know where the yellow house from last night was located. She knew it was on this street, but had forgotten how far down. Her sense of direction was all askew from the influence of the voodoo house – she didn’t know if she was headed in the direction in which she started, or the opposite. She stopped and looked back at the Englishman.
“I’ve a feeling there’s something amiss about you,” Mr. Stevenson declared as he caught up to Miranda. The glint of danger, the one she’d sensed last night just before feeding on him, was there again in his eyes. Not harm, but … opportunity. He’s basically a decent man, but he’s looking for a situation to exploit, that’s for certain. This could be mutually beneficial to the both of us.
“Indeed,” she fluttered her eyelashes at him, and then hid her face behind her fan.
“Yes,” he pushed her fan away. “Does your father know you’re here? Are you a runaway? Are you…” he leaned in close, his breath on her face making Miranda’s canines lengthen in anticipation of his blood, “a lady of the night?”
WHACK! “Mis-ter Stevenson! The suggestion!” Miranda did her best to affect being affronted.
“I do beg your pardon, Ma’amzelle, but you are … different. For one, you’re very strong,” he rubbed his shoulder where she’d hit him with her fan.
“Be that as it may,” Miranda kept her tone coy, and resumed walking slowly. “My business is actually none of your concern. Nor…” she stopped his attempted interruption “is yours mine. But I have a proposition for you. One that an enterprising young man, like yourself would be a fool to turn away.”
“Really,” he clenched his hands into fists eagerly.
“Where was that house, the yellow one you visited last night?”
“I… um…,” the familiar smell of his embarrassment flooded her nostrils, and Miranda stopped breathing, lest she be tempted to feed on his blood right then and there.
“Oh bloody hell,” he conceded. “It’s down this way,” he flung his hand to her right, and Miranda was relieved to see that it was in the opposite direction from the voodoo house. “Down there,” he said again as he licked his lips; Miranda could hear the quickened heartbeats as he no doubt was thinking of his time spent there. “You’re not looking to be a prostitute, are you Miss?” he asked her, looking her form over as if judging her suitability for the occupation.
A passing woman gasped and stared at Mr. Stevenson, then narrowed her eyes at Miranda, while her husband tried to usher her along.
“Come along, you silly goose!” Miranda grabbed Mr. John Stevenson by his arm, forced it under hers to make it seem as though he was escorting her through the streets, and sped past the outraged couple.
“Why are you so determined to make your way to the house, Miss – what the devil is your name, by the way?” Mr. Stevenson asked when they were further down the street, about a half-block from the house in question.
“Miranda. Miranda Dandridge. And no, Mr. Stevenson, I am a woman of means and do not need to resort to selling my body to make ends meet, fortunately.”
“Miranda Dandridge, eh? And a woman of means? You’re not lying to me now, are you?” he asked her sharply, with furrowed brows. “There are all sorts of strange people in this town.”
“So I’m learning, Mr. Stevenson,” Miranda brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder, as she knew mortal males liked tactile stimulation. “Though we’ve already settled that I’m not an ordinary woman. As I said, I’ve a proposition for you.”
“Really?” he cupped his chin with his palm, placing one elbow in the crook of the other, and regarded Miranda with opportunistic eyes.
Miranda reached forward and clasped his hands within hers. “I can assure you, Mr. John Stevenson, that I have no business whatsoever at that house. It merely intrigues me. You see, I,” she leaned towards him conspiratorially, “I often crave a bit of adventure. Drives my father to distraction.” She punctuated her declaration with a sheepish grin.
Mr. John Stevenson’s eyes lit up as if he’d struck gold. “Well then Miss Dandridge, if it’s danger you want, you’ll need look no further than me! D’you fancy a turn near Pirate’s Alley?”
“Oh, I do see I’ve made a good bargain!” Miranda placed both her hands flatly on his lapels and started fussing with them as if they were a couple very familiar with one another. “Here’s what I propose. Let us seat ourselves at this establishment here,” she gestured to a coffee house across the street and two houses over from the yellow brothel. “We should have a good view of La Maison Jaune from the empty table right at the window, you see it there? You may get yourself one of those new-fangled drinks they now serve, the ones with ice. I’ve a feeling, you see,” she lowered her face, looking at him through her eyelashes, “something exciting is about to happen this very evening at that yellow house. Something we’d be fools to miss!”
Miranda knew she had captured John Stevenson with her excitement and her beguiling ways for he readily agreed and added, “The close air does make a cocktail sound good right about now,” he wiped his brow to emphasize his words.
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Stevenson!” Miranda slapped his shoulder lightly with her fan. “Quickly now, let’s settle ourselves at that table before someone else has a mind to do it!”
And so they seated themselves, no one daring to look twice at a lady in a drinking establishment, and Miranda was really enjoying her freedom in such a cultured, progressive town. Mr. John Stevenson ordered himself a mixture of whiskey, sugar, and bitters, served over ice. He allowed Miranda to sample his drink; she shuddered at the taste while he laughed. Though the tales he told were embellished to make them seem more dangerous, and Mr. Stevenson more of a hero than they really had been, to his credit, her companion proved an avid listener. Mr. Stevenson ordered a second drink as Miranda told him of her brother and his trip to Russia. Before she knew it, a third round was underway, with Mr. Stevenson brazenly lying about having been attacked by pirates on his trip across the sea to New Orleans. Yet it was a pleasant time they were passing, so much that Miranda had quite forgotten their purpose in sitting at that establishment by the window.
It wasn’t until a twinge of power fluttered over Miranda, like a butterfly’s wings brushing by her face, that she recalled the mysterious draw of the yellow house.
“Oh look, Mr. Stevenson!” Miranda gestured out the window, pointing at the yellow house. “Something is about to happen, I do believe!”
“Why yes,” Mr. Stevenson looked slightly put-out that Miranda’s attention was no longer on him, though in truth, many eyes, not just those of Miranda and Mr. John Stevenson, were turned in anticipation of a drama about to unfold.
Across the street from the yellow house stood a tall, beautiful woman, her skin quite near the color of caramel, save for a slight reddish tinge. Miranda felt a magic coming off the woman in waves, the same intense power that had disoriented her earlier when she’d stepped too close to the alleged voodoo house,. The vampire shrank back slightly in her seat, lest she become faint and dizzy again.
Whispers and suppositions flew around the coffee house.
“Where did she come from?”
“I didn’t see her standin’ there a minute ago!”
“It’s that voodoo magic!”
“By heavens it’s Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen, come to do battle with a rival!”
All voices hushed as the tall woman spoke, her voice loud and commanding, though she was so far away.
“Ruth DeVilliers!” the statuesque woman called out. “You stop that vile trade of prostitution right now! It’s against God’s will! To mix that sin with the magie of voodoo is an abomination! Ékout-moi byin; pa jouer ojordi!”
“Oh, a Creole French speaker,” Mr. Stevenson commented.
“Yes, it sounds like the woman means business; ‘no playing today’,” Miranda affirmed, entranced by the scene unfolding in front of her. The woman standing across the street, the one they whispered was Marie Laveau, the famous voodoo queen, was indeed a beautiful woman, with her chiseled cheekbones and straight nose. She had quite the air of regality. Miranda knew nothing of this new magic called voodoo, though she had dabbled in the magic of her own race and that of the Fallen Ones. I must learn more! The power this woman has…
“Ha!” an ebony face appeared out of the window to the right of the door. The woman was fine-looking, not quite as attractive as the statuesque lady outside her door, but handsome in her own way. More faces appeared in the windows of the yellow house and Miranda could see that there was no segregation in the house of prostitution; all races, from black to white and several shades in between were represented. The ladies of the night started shouting various catcalls at Marie Laveau, much of them lascivicious and scandalous.
“Enough! Rete!” the statuesque woman yelled at them. “Ruth DeVilliers, don’t you teach your girls to respect themselves? They’re half-naked and hanging outta the windows! How can you defile the Voodoo with such shameful behavior?!”
Indeed, many of the prostitutes showed no modesty and allowed their topless chests to show for all to see, much to the tittillation of the men in the coffee bar, Miranda noticed.
“Marie Laveau, you do no order my girls around. Dey listen to me and no one else!” The ebony woman shook her fist. “You ain’t da only voodoo queen here. Doctor John’s been teachin’ me, showin’ me da ways o’ da Great Zombi. My magie is pure, from Haiti itself, like me. Not mixed wit’ dat Catholic junk you put in it. I can do my rituals here, and if more people come to me for da gris-gris, den so be it!”
The chorus of girls hanging from Ruth DeVilliers’s windows thundered their approval at their mistresses’ challenge.
“SILENCE!” Marie Laveau commanded, stretching out her arms and then bringing them together in a swift movement.
CLAP! Miranda felt as though she’d been slapped across the face; the air crackled with electricity.
“My word!”
John Stevenson feels it too, the power that woman has. I need to know more, to find out more about her. Maybe she’d welcome a friend like me… Miranda’s thoughts trailed off as she watched the ebony woman’s face disappear from the window.
“You’re a damned woman, Ruth DeVilliers! T’morrow night is St. John’s Eve. You’d best leave town, I’m warnin’ you now!”
With that, Marie Laveau gathered her skirts about her and made to turn her back on the yellow house. Before her head completely faced the opposite direction, her eyes caught those of Miranda’s for a split-second.
She knows! Their eyes had only locked for a breath, but in that moment, Miranda could see that the woman knew her to be something other than human.
“Well, indeed, Miss Dandridge!” Mr. John Stevenson drank the last of his cocktail, and wiped his brow again. “I dare say,” he garbled as he chewed the ice, “that was one of the most interesting theatrical displays I’ve seen in my entire life. And it wasn’t even on the stage! I do suppose that there will be some sort of duel tomorrow evening near the lake front. That’s what was implied to me, at least,” he looked at her questioningly
“Do you really think so, Mr. Stevenson?” Miranda inquired, fluttering her eyes and flashing a wide, engaging smile. “You would know such things, after all the dangers you’ve faced,” she flattered him.
Leaning across the table and stroking his hand she suggested, “Perhaps you can tell me more? Do you have rooms around here, somewhere close by where we may retire?”
Miranda didn’t engage in sex for sport; it wasn’t the way of her kind. Most of my kind, anyway, she mused wryly as she remembered her brother and some of his friends. In this instance, however, seducing Mr. John Stevenson would provide her with the information she needed to attend tomorrow night’s duel. As it was a legitimate means to an end, one that Miranda was certain would entertain and no doubt serve as an education in the ways of humans, which was the whole purpose of her sojurn alone in the world. Miranda didn’t mind in the least as Mr. John Stevenson whisked her hurriedly out of the tavern, even hailing a hansom so that they might reach his rooms with great haste.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea for me to come here, Miranda thought as she saw the scantily clad man, dressed in nothing but a white loincloth, throw a live black cat into a cauldron of boiling water. Cats didn’t like Miranda’s kind any more than horses or dogs, but she always enjoyed watching their sleek, graceful bodies move. She didn’t think such a noble creature deserved such a cruel end.
Miranda didn’t have time to mourn the gruesome death of the cat she needed to brace herself from reeling; the magic from the latest sacrifice reverberated through the air, pushing against her like a strong gust of wind. The drums, beaten upon by large men wielding horses’ leg bones for drumsticks, grew louder and louder with each heartbeat. Women with cymbals strapped to their knees danced, the crash from the instruments heard with nearly every breath. The crowd whipped itself into frenzied chanting “Come li Zombi!” louder and louder with each round.
“You alright, Miss Dandridge?” Mr. Stevenson leaned in to her face, a little too closely for Miranda’s comfort. They were standing about fifty yards away from the cauldron, under an oak tree. Even the green, leafy Spanish moss that drips from the trees branches seems to have magic coming off it, Miranda thought before she placed her fan demurely between the concerned visage of Mr. John Stevenson and that of her own.
“It’s just the heat, being June and all,” she explained. “That, coupled with the fire … it’s just very close here, Mr. Stevenson.” It was midsummer’s eve, June 23rd, known in Christian circles as St. John’s Eve. Every religion has its own way to celebrate the summer solstice, that’s for certain.
“Oh, I do understand your meaning, Miss Dandridge,” Mr. Stevenson dabbed his face with a handkerchief. “Perhaps that’s why the participants are dressed in such little clothing.” his face took on an expectant leer. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be too ashamed to shed some of your layers, Miss Dandridge. I see several other young ladies here in shifts.”
As Miranda’s kind, were not bound by the mortal codes of bodily shame, she agreed with him to a point. Especially after last evening, when she’d bared all for Mr. Stevenson, who’d declared enthusiastically, several times over, that she was more talented than any of the ladies in the yellow house, indeed any brothel, he’d ever visited. In this instance, modesty was not an issue.
Exposing who, or rather what she was, however, was an entirely different story. The humidity in the air, coupled with the dampness from the lakewater, was affecting Miranda’s skin in an adverse manner – it was dissolving the bonds in her skin, the typical effect water had on vampires. This didn’t happen before, despite the humidity… Must be the magic in the air. It seems so evil, the animal sacrifices, but yet, there is something good in it that repels me as well. Though her skin repaired itself quickly, she had no desire to draw any more attention to herself, which would no doubt occur if she stripped down to her shift.
“I think I’ll survive for now, Mr. Stevenson, though I’ll take your suggestion into consideration if I become too uncomfortable,” she demurred. “Look, that must be she… Marie Laveau!”
The tall, beautiful woman from last evening – Miranda could pick her out of a crowd anywhere for she carried herself so regally – appeared almost out of nowhere. The congregation parted for her as she made her way to the boiling cauldron, the red scarves she wore in place of clothes swinging as she walked.
Once at the cauldron, she placed her heavy burden, a small coffin, like one for a baby, at the foot of the fire. Stepping back, she threw out her arms and yelled, “Come to us, Zombi. We, who are your worshippers, need you here with us now!”
The coffin lid sprang up, seemingly of its own accord, making the crowd of worshippers gasp and kneel in reverence. A white snake slowly made its way out of the coffin, slithering to the beat of the music. Miranda watched in amazement as she saw the white rope wind its way around the legs of the voodoo queen, moving up to her hips and resting itself across her shoulders.
“Behold, Li Grand Zombi has come!” Marie Laveau turned around to face the crowd, who cheered at her proclamation. Miranda found herself clapping with the others, although she wasn’t certain if this magic entirely welcomed her kind.
“Whoever has come, Marie Laveau, dey cannot save you!” a woman’s voice shouted its challenge from somewhere behind Miranda, off to her right.
“Why Miss Dandridge,” Mr. John Stevenson took hold of Miranda’s hand, “I do believe it’s the brothel-owner who quarreled with the voodoo queen just last evening.”
“Yes indeed, you are correct,” Miranda acknowledged. “Oh Mr. Stevenson, I do not think this evening bodes well for Miss DeVilliers,” she found herself gripping his arm as if afraid, anticipating the downfall of a proud woman this very evening.
“You think you are more powerful than me, Ruth DeVilliers? You know NOTHING!” Marie Laveau’s voice boomed throughout the congregation, coming from everywhere at the same time.
Ruth DeVilliers wasn’t impressed by this feat. She stood straight and proud, though her black-feathered headdress moved with the wind, her body did not flinch or bend. When the words of Marie Laveau had gone and the lakefront was again quiet, Ruth DeVilliers raised her hands so that her snake-head staff was high above her head.
The winds started swirling, slowly and quietly at first, but they quickly reached a fever pitch within a few breaths, such that kerchiefs, hats, and various articles that the worshippers used for clothing were blown about and even torn off their bodies. People covered their eyes and howled. The dirt and debris were pelted this way and that, beating their bodies into crouched positions on the ground.
All except Marie Laveau. Her eyes remained wide opened, as she stood as tall and proud as ever, despite the forceful gusts that swirled.
“Rete! Stop! By Li Grand Zombi, this I command you!” she called out, and all at once, calm prevaded over the congregation.
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. I beseech thee: this woman, Ruth DeVilliers, has commited crimes against virtue and has turned her face away from God. Punish her for her heresy and her wanton ways! Make her see how long her life can be without the True God and your Son, Jesus Christ. Holy Mary, by Li Grand Zombi, I, Marie Laveau, command you!”
As she spoke, she took a bit of ash from the fire and sprinkled it into her hand. Many gasped and wondered aloud as a single rose grew from the ashes, perfect and white. When she’d finished her incantation, Marie Laveau held the rose in her two hands as carefully as one would hold a newborn baby, and blew on it, the power of her breath sending it to Ruth DeVilliers.
Ruth crouched low, her knees bent but her back straight, and chanted, “Protegez-moi, Dhamballa! I am your faithful servant, Ruth. I serve you and only you. Make the magic of Marie Laveau as harmless as dust!”
Miranda knew who would be the victor, long before the white rose hit its mark. She, being of the ancient vampire race, the descendant of an angel and a woman who left Eden before its fall, could sense who had the stronger magic. Marie Laveau possessed far greater power than Ruth DeVilliers could ever imagine. Miranda pitied the DeVilliers woman before the first white petal touched her beautiful, dark skin.
The white flower reached its mark and disappeared. For a moment, everyone thought that the great Marie Laveau had failed.
Then the tremors started. Something was shaking Ruth DeVilliers from her very core. Her arms flailed wildly while her head lolled to and fro; the whites of her eyes visible as they rolled far back into her head.
Ruth began screeching in pain at the same time the spiders erupted from her skin. Miranda was surprised for she’d never seen white spiders before in her life. Almost as if Marie Laveau made them that way, so everyone could see them in the night.
Ruth DeVilliers writhed and wailed as the spiders covered her body, biting her and tearing bits of her flesh. She tried knocking them off with her hands, but new ones rose from her skin to take their place. There was no hope.
Marie Laveau’s voice rang out across the lakefront, triumphant. “You see them? Do you see your sins, Ruth DeVilliers? The number of times you’ve sold women for profit? Your God-less ways will make you feel the pain for a long, long time. You should never have crossed me, Ruth DeVilliers!” To punctuate her curse, Marie Laveau threw her head back and laughed; it was a sound Miranda thought she wouldn’t forget, not if she lived a thousand years.
“But she’s not a bad woman; everyone believes in God in their own way, and your own Bible contains a tale of a father who offers his own daughters to satiate a lustful mob!” Miranda was surprised to hear her own voice. Her instincts told her what she was doing was foolish, but her sense of justice made her continue. “It’s not fair to condemn her; those girls have no other way of making a living, and would be dead right now if she hadn’t taken them in. Doesn’t your God believe in mercy and forgiveness for sins?” she reminded the great voodoo queen.
The crowd was hushed – would there be two challengers to the great voodoo queen tonight? That would be unheard of, especially this young white woman, though she did appear wild-looking and exotic. No sound issued, no breath made as Marie Laveau walked to the young girl, who stood her ground valiantly.
“With youth comes much foolishness,” she chuckled, placing her forefinger under Miranda’s chin and looking deep into her blue-grey eyes. “You, as a nightwalker, have power to save her, t’is true,” Marie Laveau nodded her head slowly. “P’raps some forgiveness is in order, as the Blessed Virgin teaches. You may save her,” she tossed her head in the direction of Ruth DeVilliers, who still twisted and screamed in agony. “But the curse will stand. She’ll not die when she should. And, you must,” hazel eyes bore deeply into Miranda’s own, “keep her away from me. Forever!”
Miranda was glad when Marie Laveau broke her intense gaze; she didn’t know a mortal could have such strength over a vampire. Before the voodoo queen could change her mind, Miranda sped to the side of Ruth DeVilliers and knelt as closely as she could to the flailing arms and legs. She was glad to see out of the corner of her eye that the crowd had returned to face Marie Laveau, continuing their worship, so no one would see what she was about to do.
Speaking in Vralic, she commanded the spiders to stop their biting and to flee into the lake. Vampires had command over the darker, less desireable creatures, so they heeded her at once. What they left behind, however, didn’t look very promising.
Ruth DeVilliers had been humbled, no doubt. Still shaking and brushing her body as if the spiders continued to crawl and bite, she only succeeded in tearing more bits of skin off herself, leaving a bloody mess. Despite the blood, however, Miranda didn’t feel the call to feed; this was blood brought from magic, from a curse upon those who had done wrong. This was not drinkable blood.
“Why, Miss Miranda! You are indeed a powerful sorceress! Yet you seem so nice, so good…” Miranda had nearly forgotten about Mr. John Stevenson. He, apparently, had not done the same regarding her, as he was now by her elbow, leaning over her shoulder at the bloody mess that was Ruth DeVilliers.
“She looks nearly dead, Miss Miranda. Perhaps we should give her an overdose of opium? It’s doubtful her life will mean much to her, from here on out,” he suggested.
Miranda turned to him and adressed him face to face. “Actually, Mr. John Stevenson, I beg to differ with you on that point. You’ve been nice to me, for the most part, and for that I do thank you. Yet I rather think that it’s your life that isn’t going to amount to very much.”
Without further ado, she sank her teeth into the jugular vein of Mr. John Stevenson and drank, then drank some more, and some more, until the man was drained of his lifeforce. When she was done, she turned back to Ruth and whispered, “Now I am full and powerful. If only I knew how to heal you better.”
“Your blood. It can help heal me,” the bloodied mouth spoke.
“My blood?” Miranda looked confused.
“Ya. Vampire’s blood. I say de incantation while you rub it on me. You just feed, non?”
Miranda needed no further coaxing. She cut her right palm with her left forefinger talon until her blood ran freely, covering her palm in red.
“By the Tetragrammaton, by the healer Raphael, and by St. Lazarus: I command the angel’s blood here to heal me,” Ruth managed to croak as Miranda gently rubbed her blood over the woman’s wounds.
The skin ceased its bleeding while the wounds closed, though deep pits remained. Miranda doubted that it would ever recover its once-smooth texture, and the proud woman would be forever pock-marked with her sins and her failure.
“You know, if the pain is too great, I can relieve you from it,” she offered to the woman.
“Yes, nightwalker. I will look like hell, dat I know. Yet I don’t t’ink I be ready to visit dat place jes yet. I will live a while longer. Where, I do not know.”
Miranda smiled. Her parents were getting ready to move out in a few years, and the large Dandridge house would be empty. Jackson and Cordelia Dandridge had filled their home with friends and companions, and Miranda had always appreciated that she and her brother had never been alone. It was so nice to have companions who understood, and listened.
“I know where you may live, Ruth,” Miranda spoke gently, stroking the woman’s hair.
~~~~~
Read more of Miranda’s exploits and meet her brother and other characters in RELEASE. Available now from Smashwords and Vamplit Publishing.
Ben never imagined meeting vampires, let alone demons and werewolves, whilst in the Polish Resistance during World War II. Far from being horrified, Ben discovers that Miranda and her friends have very useful talents, especially when it comes to saving children from concentration camps. In desperate times the line between good and evil is clear, the one between heroes and monsters is very blurred.
Sample Chapter
CHAPTER 1 – A NICE HOT DRINK
It’s a common misconception that World War II involved the entire world. My race, though inconveniently affected by it, had absolutely no part in the ridiculousness of it all. We had other interests to pursue. Like women or food. For us, the two are one and the same.
I love a long-necked woman, and it was a good thing that Dublin seemed to be full of them. Exactly like the one I was holding now, my lips pressed against her lovely throat, her blood filling my mouth. Not that a woman’s legs weren’t equally appealing – sometimes even more so, given summer months when necks went uncovered, and two small scabs might be easily noticed. However, it was Cantlos, the start of the cold season in the Northern Hemisphere which necessitated sweaters and scarves, so I felt safe. Besides, this lass wasn’t going to survive the night – I was giving her to Denny to finish off. Denny hadn’t fed well for a few days, and since he was a good friend and hadn’t minded it when I asked him to stay a few more days in Dublin, I really couldn’t begrudge him tonight.
You see, the countryside was really better for him – he could get by just feeding on stray sheep or cows, but me, I was stuck with human blood as my only means of nourishment, and it was easier for me to find prey in a bigger city. In small towns, people tended to notice their missing neighbors. Although, these days, people weren’t as superstitious as they once were, which was a good thing. In this new age of science, not too many still believed in vampires, so the results of my feedings were explained away by other means. All the same, I didn’t want the humans looking too closely at dead bodies drained of blood or dead, bloodless bodies that were half-eaten and burned, courtesy of Denny. It would only take one superstitious person to cry ‘vampire’ before trouble might start and I didn’t want a repeat of Vienna.
So I’d have to be careful of how we disposed of this girl, sweet Kelly – or was it Mary? I’m never good with names – it’s all just blood to me.
As I drank in that beautiful, tasty blood, amidst thoughts of heading to Cashel or somewhere more rural, I noticed Kelly’s breathing had become shallow, her heartbeat slow. She was dying. The funny thing was, her brain hadn’t registered that fact, for, just then, she let out a small sigh of contentment. No matter how many times I killed, I always marveled at how sexually charged our prey became as we fed on them. Kelly’s scent, her warmth, her sighs – all indicated that she was ready for sex, despite the fact that she was dying. I knew I’d better hand her over to Denny now, as he needed a bit of blood in the meat to be fully nourished. I didn’t always need to drain the blood completely, and to do so now would be poor form in our friendship.
I took one last, long, sweet draught of Kelly’s blood, then drew my mouth back from her neck, not bothering to lick the small rivulets of blood that dribbled down her throat between her breasts.
“Hey Denny, here.” I held her body out to him in my two arms, speaking in my native tongue, Vralic. Denny understood it, as he did all languages.
“Thanks Cray, I really need this tonight.”
“I know it, and you’ve been a sport since we’ve been here. Oh – I have an idea where we can put her when you’re done.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I walked away from them, further into St. Stephen’s Green, as the smell of the blood would only bring out the hunger again, and I might be tempted to fight Denny for her, especially as he tore the flesh from her bones with his teeth. So, I stood upwind from them, away from their smell, but able to catch other scents blowing in the slight breeze. It was always safer to hunt in pairs. One can act as a lookout while the other fed.
Since the start of World War II, Denny and I had been making a tour of Ireland, which was thankfully neutral during the War. I had been forced to flee, very unceremoniously, from Monte Carlo when the Nazis had marched in, and I had difficulty with the fact that gambling and womanizing weren’t part of my life right then. No gambling at all, which was rough for me, as that was my favorite pastime. There was a little womanizing, but not like Monte Carlo. The War had everyone on edge, and even though Ireland was neutral, newcomers were scrutinized. Especially attractive ones, like myself, or ones that didn’t quite look right, like Denny. Sigh. Such is life. Fortunately, after five years of fighting, it looked like the tide was turning. France was liberated, and Denny and I had contemplated heading back to the Riviera.
The breeze shifted, and I caught the smell of burning flesh, which alerted me that Denny had finished eating and was now doing his best to reduce the remains to ash. I quickly headed back to him. Looking down at the charred pieces of human sitting before him; legs, arms, and ribs that were once a pretty, laughing human who’d danced with me, I felt – nothing. My sister, Miranda, would have probably felt a slight twinge of remorse at killing an innocent girl, cutting short her life of fun, then family, and … love.
My sister envied humans their ability to love each other. I think most of my kind did, but we just didn’t admit it to ourselves. It’s not our way – to dwell on what isn’t. We merely accepted our fate, content to occasionally involve ourselves with human lovers, but mostly living in our own little world we had created for ourselves. Except for my sister; she felt like we were missing out on something.
Oh, I’ll admit that humans have some interesting pastimes. Gambling, sex, dancing – all entertaining ways to pass eternity. However, for the most part, I view humans as what they are to us – prey. Although I live on their Earth, I rarely involve myself too deeply in their doings. I mean, expending effort to actually try and affect outcomes of their affairs, on a consistent basis – as Miranda did – was not my way. Sure, like Denny, there was a human or two I’d “saved” from mortal danger, but to “help” like my sister did – that wasn’t for me.
Ah, my sister Miranda. Denny was a good friend and still is, but Miranda – she was probably the only being I really, truly cared for. I think I might have even put aside my usual selfishness and laid down my life for her. Not just because she had traveled into the depths of Hell to save me once. Mirrie and I had this – connection. Hard to explain, but we could sense if the other was doing well or in trouble, even though continents separated us. At times, we could even be telepathic, speaking to each other without sounds. I do think Miranda and I are a bit closer than most other vampire siblings I’ve met. Hell, I’ve met many brothers and sisters who had no idea where their siblings were, nor did they care.
Despite our closeness in heart, however, Miranda and I don’t communicate on a regular basis. I could sense right then that she was doing fine – not in trouble or anything and I’m certain she sensed the same thing about me – especially because I knew how to take care of myself by then. That was good enough for us at that point in time and I had no doubt that we would see each other more regularly in the future. Even siblings who are close can’t spend eternity constantly in each other’s presence.
As if sensing my thoughts, Denny asked, “How’s your sister – have you heard from her lately?”
“I sense she’s doing well. Happy even.”
“You think she’s still singing with Vanessa and that other girl, the werewolf? Boosting the morale of the fighting troops and all?” he laughed.
“I’m not sure – I’ve sensed certain moments of danger, and excitement. So I guess so. I don’t think she’s in any trouble, and that’s all that matters.”
Denny sighed as we walked through the park. “Still involving herself in the human affairs?”
I didn’t answer him, as he had known my sister long enough to know her habits. So Denny thought he’d press me further. He chuckled as he said, “Where does your sister get her conscience? She makes me laugh! Hasn’t she had enough of these humans and their triflings to want to settle down and make vampire babies?”
Now, I’m used to Denny speaking his mind, and I knew he meant his comment lightly, but it got my ire up. Protective of my little sister, I suppose. I answered him from atop my high horse, “Maybe our kind is evolving. Developing a new sense of self in this twentieth century.”
Then I reminded him, “Besides, Miranda’s not the only one who has stepped outside her designated, moral parameters.”
Denny had worked as a debt collector for his father, the fallen angel Semjaza. One time, Denny was supposed to collect the soul of some poor sap – and he just couldn’t. Typically, Denny’s kind – spirits, products of human mothers, fathered by fallen angels, long, long ago – didn’t feel many emotions. Certainly not pity, or world-weariness, but Denny had tired of the pleas and screams made when he collected a debt. This guy he was supposed to go after – it was the last straw, I suppose. Denny just couldn’t do it. As his punishment – because you don’t just ‘quit’ your job for your demon father – he was sent to Hell’s prison. Which was how we’d met.
As I looked at Denny’s black eyes, eyes that gave away the fact that he wasn’t really human, just a spirit put into dead flesh, I knew he was remembering that story as well.
“Okay, okay” he conceded “– it’s none of my business what your sister does with her life and for Hell’s sake, Cray – not killing one human does not give me a conscience.” He stopped for a breath, hesitating, as if he were thinking whether or not he wanted to add something.
“Just didn’t seem right to kill a guy for wanting a stupid love potion,” he finished.
I laughed in response, but before I could think of something sarcastic to say, he cut me off, motioning to the burned corpse and asking, “What is your plan for this one, anyway?”
I looked around us. We had reached the edge of the Green and were about to be conspicuously carrying burnt human remains across a street.
“Over there, about 100 yards – see that pub? With the smoke coming out of the chimney?”
“There’s smoke coming from behind it, as well,” Denny pointed out.
“Exactly my friend – they burn their garbage. We will merely add to it, hopefully unnoticed.”
Denny turned a dubious eye in my direction. Really, he had such little faith in me sometimes. “Here, give me those pieces you’re carrying,” I ordered him. He complied, stacking them onto the pile in my outstretched arms. I held the pieces closely, concentrating hard on the image of a crow carrying a bundle of twigs. I felt my body tingle all over and suddenly, I was falling, the weight of the twigs pulling me down. I quickly felt for my wings, flapping them, getting my balance in the air, then started flying over to the pub and the smoke emanating from the area behind it.
It felt so good to soar above the night. I spotted the big, metal drum that a pub worker was emptying various refuse into, and swooped down, careful not to get in the way of the smoke. I hovered few minutes until the man went back inside, and then I skirted over the edge of the drum, dropping the “twigs” as I flew. As they left my grasp they changed back into their original form – charred pieces of human – and fell with a thunk into the bin.
Task completed, I headed back to the edge of the Green, where Denny awaited me. What happened to the remains of pretty Kelly – or Mary – from there, whether they were found or not, was no longer my concern.
~~~~~~
RETURN
The sequel to Release
Due for publication Summer/Autumn 2010:
“Until death do us part.”
Such words will not be said at the wedding of Miranda Dandridge and Matthew Brandenbourgh, because vampires live forever. Removed for eternity from the human world and its daily existence, not even the events of September 11, 2001 threaten to disrupt Miranda’s wedding.
That is, not until Miranda receives a most unexpected visitor from her past, one brought into the earthly realm by the evil committed on that fateful day in September. It is then that she and her brother, Cray, realize the importance of family, both born and made, as well as how intertwined the lives of vampires and humans can be, as the Dandridge twins must harbor two human fugitives who are being framed for a murder they did not commit.
As the mortal world makes a slow recovery in the weeks following 9/11, Miranda’s life descends into chaos as her family is ripped apart and her friends are threatened, forcing her to make an alliance with a most undesirable character – for better or for worse…
Sample Chapter
CHAPTER 1
FOR EACH OF YOU WILL BE COMPANION TO THE OTHER
Katie Baxter knew she shouldn’t be doing this. Dragging her little sister through the darkened paths of Central Park wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Even though her safe neighborhood of Central Park West wasn’t too far away, she was starting to doubt that any amount of beer and cute guys would be worth this nervousness. Katie’s mother would never let her go outside without first telling her the story of the jogger who had been raped and beaten – Mother talked about it still, even though it happened over twenty years ago.
However, hearing the small footsteps of her sister, Julia, beside her, Katie reminded herself why she was doing this. She had promised Julia that tonight would be a great time, and Katie’s friend from school had assured her that this party would be nothing less than a blast. Screw it, I don’t care anymore, Katie thought, pushing aside her fears. She and Julia had been through so much, while their parents cared only for themselves, often using Katie and Julia as pawns in their ugly divorce. Julia was just twelve – much too young for that kind of stress in Katie’s sixteen-year-old opinion. So she pressed onward along the dimly-lit path, the light blocked out by trees on either side.
“Katie, I don’t think you got the directions right. There’s no one out here in this part of the park…” Julia’s voice broke through Katie’s thoughts. “Why on Earth would someone throw a party in the woods, anyway?” her sister whined.
“Trust me – you’re going to thank me when this is all over,” Katie reassured her. Honestly, kid sisters could be so ungrateful, and at the worst of times too.
“Oh!” Julia’s voice pierced the air as the Baxter sisters stopped dead in their tracks. A man landed in a crouch not ten feet in front of them and began to straighten himself. Katie looked to either side of the path and saw that only trees stood there – had he jumped off of a treetop, to be in front of them so?
“Cool!” another exclamation from Julia, and Katie had to agree with her sister – the man was handsome. God was he handsome. Tall, with long brown hair, curly and tied back in a pony tail. His eyes, light, almost ice-blue and perfect facial features – chiseled cheek bones, a straight nose that was neither too broad nor too thin, and full, inviting lips. She felt a sudden tingling below her stomach as those lips parted in a smile, his white teeth visible from where she stood.
“Cray, shall we help these ladies to their final destination?” a woman’s voice called out. Katie wanted to turn around and see who it was behind her, a woman who clearly knew this alluring stranger in front of her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his.
“Who are you?” Julia asked. She must have turned around to see the woman behind us, Katie surmised. But how can she not be staring at him, he’s so…
Katie’s mind snapped back into her body as the stranger broke eye contact with her, looking over her head and answering, “Yes, Mirrie, I think these ladies should have an escort.” He smiled again at Katie, and held his arm out to her, inviting her to into protection. She found herself placing one foot in front of the other, walking towards the man who returned her foolish grin with a devilish smile of his own.
“Who are you?” she heard Julia ask again from somewhere off to her right.
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