The girls that come down to this tourist attraction are easily fascinated with bouncers, thinking them the alpha males of the debauchery—the ones in charge of the chaos.
While they do go for the bouncers, you should see how easily they follow a man in black who claims to be a vampire. The fantasy melts them—they don’t care if he’s crazy—they never dream he’s telling the truth. They just enjoy the bad boy, and live the dream—the dark fantasy she’s created in her mind that he’s bringing to life for her.
Funny—the silly things they think about vampires. They think we’re all straight out of a Victorian romance.
Let me tell you, the affinity with antiquities and Victorian fanciness is all bullshit. Vampires have always been gluttons, addicts to desire. There is no room in a vampire’s being for pomp and circumstance. It’s hard to worry about staining a designer shirt when the lust for hot, spurting blood places my fangs inches from tender flesh. The desire is the glory, not some trinket or frivolity of fancy society. We have as little care for antiques as a lion on the prowl. It’s the bloodlust we crave. Had you ever experienced it, you’d see that nothing else ever comes close to it, and you’d never waste your time pursuing anything else. The only appetite that remains in me for things from centuries past is an affinity for women in poofy skirts, or perhaps it’s just the thrill in lifting them up that lingers.
As for attire, a vampire is more likely to approach you in torn clothing that he cares little about than dressed as a silly poet professing love up to a balcony. Your blood tastes the same no matter what he’s wearing.
Speaking of balconies, it’s not the decrepit, rundown buildings, tall pointed cathedrals, or even the legendary river itself that brings my kind to New Orleans. It’s the howling from liquor-soaked mouths, feet stumbling down beer-stained streets, and even the stink of it all. It knells like a chiming dinner bell, summoning us to its decadent streets. It’s a playground. A playground for things daylight would rather not touch.
It’s not just the drunkenness either. It’s the tourists who come here like Anti-Pilgrims, unfamiliar with the customs and the bizarre, crooked streets that follow the curves of the river—refusing to be restricted to any manmade grid. They travel here from all over the world, having left a substantial part of their sound judgment in their homes hundreds of miles away, looking to fill their own twisted desires. After all, it’s why most pay to come here—the anonymous romp in a decadent city where no one knows their names. It’s intriguing to watch.
Besides all that, this city grooms belles with attitude and a love for the macabre. This city worships things of the dark and breeds young women with a lust for that which is not common. Delving my teeth into any dainty flesh stirs my senses, but diving into one that poses even a hint of a challenge tastes all the better. One with dark lipstick, playful eyebrows, and intoxicated breath is what drives me.
Speaking of which, the painted piece of fluff kisses the bouncer on the cheek and walks down Toulouse toward the bar her friends have recently entered. Enticing.
I jump down from the top of the dumpster I’ve been sitting on. The bouncer signals to someone inside the bar. A man of similar size appears in the opened French doors beside him, and the bouncer heads after the girl. Bad news for him.
In a few short seconds, I’ll be tasting the sweetness of the pretty thing he’s after, and he’ll be tasting nothing but the after.
Chapter XII
Different Edges of the Spear
The place buzzes like it had two nights before. Libations, celebrations, and gyrations—it echoes, full of the sounds that appease the flesh.
The mass of people bounce as if they are all one body, flinging their hands in the air, surrendering to whatever temptation taunts them the loudest.
I don’t deny any of them their taste of the wild—surely I’ve had my fill here in days past. Although the rhythm is the same now as it was then, I’ve lost my taste for all of this. I long for a sweet treasure left in the woods—left with a she-vamp to look over her. But, if I’m to find a way to get those that hunt her to leave her be, this place is the only chance I have. Slim as it may be.
No longer ‘80s Night, but The Saturday Night Goth/Industrial Ball. Type O Negative’s “Blood & Fire” grooves through the speakers, blanketing the crowd with a dark, sexy vibe. Still an energetic and enthusiastic group of people, but the colors have changed from bright blues and pinks to edges of crimson mated to clothing ranging from black to blacker. Tank tops traded for corsets—short skirts and leg-warmers swapped out for leather and boots. Bright blue eyeliner has turned deep maroon. Red lips painted over like night. Dark and lacy. The more the outfit looks like it could line a coffin, the better.
Truth be told, I loved this night as much as the ‘80s soiree that always came two nights before. They were two different berries from the same wilderness. Both nights for us weirdos, just a separate event for each kind. Somehow I prowled them both. Two tastes to satisfy the same hunger.
Weave between people—edging my way to the dance floor. With every pulse of the bass from the speakers, I can see the blood flashing and shooting through the bodies around me. The bass makes my thoughts waver and flicker to black, on the verge of passing out, and the blood it reveals makes my fangs feel all the longer in my mouth—aching all the more to feed and stop this marathon torture I’ve been inflicting on my body.
Couldn’t feed. Was no time to leave Ruby and find someone to feed on. If I had left, they could’ve found her, helpless while I would’ve been gone. Not safe.
Had I gone to feed when Edgar attacked, she’d be gone now too—or at least in the hands of Roderick. Can’t let that happen.
Silly as it seems, don’t know if I could’ve fed anyway—even if a small town were only yards away from us in the woods. Only her neck seems right to feed from, but her eyes seem wrong to prey upon. Don’t want to dry up, don’t want to press my lips to another’s neck, and can’t look into her eyes and dive into her flesh.
This problem is becoming more important with every second. With every swaying of my mind from my purpose—the one I’m searching for—the reason I’m here, and with every fading of my vision from the drinking and dancing that surrounds me to nothing but black, I know I’ll have to compromise something or die. But for the moment, as Ruby waits under the trees for me, it’ll have to wait. Flesh’ll have to find a way to rise and reach my spirit.
Something grabs my wrist.
Tugging at my arm is a tiny redhead dressed in a deep-red, skintight shirt, black leather skirt, and spiked, black heels. A smile and glossy eyes project an energy much larger than her little body.
Could feast on her neck, regain my strength, stop this wretched aching inside. A week ago, she’d already be wrapped in my arms. Now that I’ve met Ruby, this redhead may as well be as hard as stone, as dry as marble, and as hollow as a cave.
Muster a faint smile and keep walking.
Bass pounds. Vision’s gone. Torso sways.
Feel small hand on my back.
Step forward—vision still not back.
Heavy hand on my shoulder.
Squint eyes hard. Blurry, but can see outlines. Hazy black and white.
Turn around slowly—heavy hand guiding me.
“Well, Simon, seems we keep running into each other.”