Paris of the South
Chapter One
The reporter looked past the old woman who slowly stood and steadied herself. He gazed briefly out the open window into the blue-green night wishing he could linger there. The air in New Orleans was thick with humidity and the scent of jasmine, a familiar combination that meant home to the reporter. Luscious Boston ferns, the kind that can only be found swinging on old French Quarter balconies and dangling between the columns of Garden District mansions, swayed lightly on the opposite side of the sheer white curtains that separated the commotion in the Cornstalk Fence Mansion from the peaceful evening on the porch. He both envied and admired the old woman as she moved across the room of her mansion past the stairwell, her silver hair neatly manicured into a style that added a youthfulness to her otherwise frail, worn stature. How could someone so old be so together? So smart? So lovely?
***
“Ms. Penrose, can you tell us a little about your new book, Wilted Rose?” asked reporter David Hammer, positioned, appropriately, an end table’s length away from the famous author. He shifted to the edge of the monochromatic cream striped sofa. “You mentioned that it may be your last in the Gustov the Vampire series?
“Dear, I did not intentionally write it to be the last, but I fear Gustov will have to venture on without me.” She paused. “Or die with me. I have so many visions for Gustov, Chloe, Brigitte, and Garro, but they have not chosen to give me the gift of immortality.” She smiled. “So, I will have to leave it to my readers’ imaginations where they might go after Wilted Rose.”
“While your fans have continued to follow Gustov the Vampire through your most recent novels, you have remained out of the public eye,” Hammer continued. “One hundred and two years old—that is quite astonishing. And you seem to be sharp as a tack. Can you tell us why we haven’t seen you over the past several years? And can you tell us why you’ve chosen now to make an appearance?”
The mixed bouquet of colorful roses, daisies, and white lilies situated on the coffee table brought a softness to the aged author seated behind them. “I feel fortunate to have so many fans for Gustov and the other characters who have come to be his family and foes,” Eleanor graciously began her explanation. “I also feel extremely fortunate that my mind and my drive for writing have not been stifled by the deterioration of the shell I live in. My physicians made it very clear that if I was to continue my time on this wonderful earth, I would have to ‘take it easy,’ meaning stay away from the public, away from infections, away from the common cold.” Eleanor stopped for a moment and pretended to take a sip of water from a glass on the table by her side. It gave her a moment to collect her thoughts. “Life is so precious. I have been granted good health and have tried to make the very best of every moment on this earth. I fear that I will not be with it much longer, and I wish to say goodbye to my readers and thank them for their interest in Gustov. I have led a very privileged life, and I have everyone who has supported my writing to thank for that.”
“It’s no secret that over the years you have been less than happy with some of the local politicians, and you have taken a strong stance on many issues in the city.” Hammer leaned forward a little. He recalled the time she had been driven to unseat Mayor Kindle when he made what she, and many of New Orleans citizens, believed to be poor choices with tax dollars allotted for the city’s historic preservation. “Can you tell us how you feel about the current state of New Orleans, and if you could, what if any issues would you be addressing?”
“Yes, as you say, New Orleans is very dear to me, and yes, I wish I could do more for the city. I think our city has a history of corruption because it came from a very sordid past. From our roots have grown the beauty of our colorful culture, but those who have ruled the city, and those who continue to rule the city, rarely look at the big picture and truly nurture that which is important to New Orleans. Rather, they focus on short-term fixes and what makes their pocketbooks fat. Unfortunately, that has not changed. If I had another lifetime on earth, I believe I would make my presence as a politician, with an agenda that was truly for the people and the city of New Orleans. I just hope that someone with character and charisma will step up soon.”
David looked at his notes, hesitating a moment, before committing to his next question. “I know we are using your cameraman today. Can you tell us why it is that you will only allow your personal photographers to capture your image? I recall that at all your past events no photographs were permitted.”
“Yes dear.” Eleanor smiled. “I suppose we are all a little vain in our own way.”
A striking man standing behind Eleanor held up his hand, signaling to the reporter that it was time to end the interview.
Hammer quickly nodded and made his final comments. “Ms. Penrose, I, as well as everyone out there who have loved your Gustov series, am so grateful to you for this interview. If you have one thing to leave us with, what would you like to tell your fans?”
“Thank you. I would like to say thank you.” Eleanor smiled again, and her eyes became wet. “You have all made my life here a magical experience. Thank you.” The camera zoomed in on the sincere expression on Eleanor’s withered features.
***
The reporter worked quickly now to tuck his notes into his already overstuffed, overused satchel. A broken clasp had the pouch dangling lopsided off his shoulder. He fussed with it, yet he directed a fixed smile at the old woman, the source of his interview, Eleanor Penrose. She was being led out of the great room and away from the prominent clatter of cameramen gathering the abundance of equipment they had been asked to store by the door.
Her assistant guided Eleanor arm-in-arm up the grand stairs. His gentle demeanor was a brilliant contrast to his striking presence. She had called his name with such sincerity, “Heiko,” and had spoken it again through puckered lips as she took his arm out of necessity. Six foot four with an athletic physique and sharp angular features, he was well put together without much attention for vanity’s sake. The reporter found him a bit intimidating. A man of few words, Heiko had a German accent and was handsome enough to be a movie star from the days of Rock Hudson and Clark Gable.
“Mr. Hammer,” the housekeeper interrupted. “Are you quite through here?”
“Yes, we won’t be long.” He handed the woman a card. She didn’t even glance at it, her stance impatient. The reporter directed his team to move everything to the curb. With the interview now over, the three young men, followed the reporter’s orders, gathering the clumsy equipment they had lugged to the estate in vain.
Hammer returned his attention to Eleanor. He had known she was eccentric, and the rumors proved true upon their arrival when it was announced that Eleanor’s cameraman would film the interview. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the interview. His team had occupied the home of the famous vampire fiction author for the past two hours and the reporter had been captivated by the old mansion’s majestic charm and, more so, the importance of what had just transpired. He felt full for the day, with a news story that would surely have global reach.
Eleanor Penrose had granted Mr. Hammer the long-anticipated exclusive interview on the occasion of her hundred and second birthday. She had chosen this day to release the twenty-first book in her popular vampire fiction series featuring Gustov the Vampire. It had been remarkable news for the reporter when he received the phone call from Eleanor’s assistant requesting his presence at the Penrose Estate. It seemed to come out of left field, considering his status as an investigative reporter. Her assistant, however, explained in his heavy, convincing voice that Eleanor enjoyed Mr. Hammer’s very straightforward and ethical approach to his news spots. It was no secret that in her younger years Eleanor had been known for voicing political views and making numerous public appearances for her fans. Yet she had all but disappeared from the limelight in her later years as the crippling effects of age began to take their toll. Hammer was honored by the opportunity this interview provided; it gave him an edge he much deserved. It had been over eighteen years since Eleanor had last shared herself with the public.
From her sanctuary, the Cornstalk Fence Mansion on Prytania Street, Eleanor continued to pen novel after novel, each receiving kudos from fans around the world. An icon in New Orleans, she was ingrained in the city like red beans and rice. While her characters bounced across the globe, their adventures taking place centuries in the past and into the present, they also occasioned New Orleans, where they seemed to thrive by submerging themselves into the comfortable culture and decadence the city had become known for. Eleanor's love for New Orleans had been carefully woven into her words.
At the top of the stairs, Hammer watched as Eleanor, her assistant by her side, disappeared into the privacy of the second floor. Yes, movie stars. That was it, they held themselves like movie stars. An older Katharine Hepburn with a young Clark Gable by her side. Hammer marveled at the beautiful relationship between the pair. In the short time he had been able to observe them, the admiration and respect shared between the two were clear.
Hammer held the door for the last of his team while he took one final look at the entryway. To live like this . . . and some people did. Eleanor Penrose did. He took in the backdrop, a hand-painted mural of pirogues navigating a bayou, the majestic mahogany staircase, and the marble that connected delightfully with the soles of his patent leather shoes. He waited for Ms. Penrose’s photographer to present the camera file.
***
Heiko delivered Eleanor to the master bedroom, which had a lovely sitting area next to her vanity. The window overlooked the front gardens where the news team had gathered.
“There you are, Liebling; I’ll just see that they find their way out the gate,” he said.
Eleanor slowly took her place on the olive-green velvet settee at the vanity and turned a solemn glance to the vanity mirror framed with carved cherrywood. The vanity came from England and reminded her of her mother. It seemed like only yesterday she was playing dress-up in her mother’s Easter hats, checking her reflection over and over in the very same mirror, its condition maintained almost flawlessly. She stared at the wrinkles now framing her swollen eyes. Her fingers touched her once plump lips, maneuvering over the lines around her mouth. They were hard and leathery, and she loved them a little.
Not long after, Eleanor saw Heiko appear in her mirror, standing in the doorway behind her.
“They forgot to have you sign the release,” he said, shaking the single sheet of paper.
“Where has the time gone?” she asked, not looking away from her reflection.
Sensing Eleanor’s distraction, no doubt elicited by the interview, Heiko thought better of bothering her with trivialities. He knew he had one hell of a night ahead of him. Who was he kidding, it would be one hell of a fight.
“I’ll sign it for you,” he said, and vanished again from the doorway.
Eleanor glanced back out through the wavy glass windowpanes at the crew waiting for Heiko to return in the dim glow of the gas lamps and the solar flowerbed lanterns that sprayed streams of muted light on the slightly uneven slate, encouraging the visitors to walk toward the street.
She turned back to her mirror. Using her right index finger, Eleanor followed the lines around her eyes. With surgical precision, she inserted her fingernail right next to her eyeline, and then, placing her thumb at the base of her heavy, weathered skin, she pinched, squinting. Slowly, she pulled a small portion of the wrinkles away to reveal the smooth porcelain skin beneath. She did the same with the left eye and deposited the skin onto the polished silver tray positioned directly in front of her. It was an odd sight now, the contrast of the smooth complexion under her eyes surrounded by a shriveled face. Goodbye, Eleanor, she thought to herself. She hurried a little now to complete the task, removing the wrinkled skin around her mouth, chin, and then forehead. Below her chin, she tugged at the uncomfortable flap of wrinkles and gave a quick shiver as it pulled away from her slim, elegant neck.
Heiko reappeared in the framed mirror. “Are you all right, darling?”
“Not really,” she said, slightly shaking her head. “I don’t even think I’m going to the funeral this time.”
“We don’t have to go. Why should we, really? We’re free now!” He tinged his voice with enthusiasm, trying to lighten the mood.
“Free. That’s a funny way of looking at it.” Eleanor ripped the wrinkled skin off her breasts and threw it on the vanity. “I don’t want to die. I love Eleanor, I love New Orleans, I love this house. Why did it have to go so quickly? Honestly Heiko, I’ve never been happier in all my life.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t be ridiculous. Hiding behind ancient skin, hiding in these walls . . .”
“Oh, don’t you start. I know you love New Orleans.”
“Yes, of course, but good God, woman, we have the world.”
“Heiko.” Eleanor took a deep breath. “You just don’t understand. You don’t want to understand. I’ve finally found something I’m good at. Really good at. I have fans! Do you know what that means to me?”
“And that’s why you did this interview, which you never should have done. I really shouldn’t have allowed it. It puts us at so much risk. The slightest mistake, and can you imagine? You have your books as your legacy here; that’s more than most people can say in one lifetime.”
“I just don’t want her to die. Eleanor—I—am good for the city. Now we have to orchestrate this nonsense, and the city will mourn her, but not as much as I will.”
“One hundred and two! I should have my head examined for letting you talk me into allowing her to live this long! You’ve become boring, my love.”
“Boring. I’ve never been called boring before . . .” Eleanor thought on it for a moment.
“René has been patient. It’s time to let him have his fun.” Heiko was stern now.
“No! He’s better for the city just passing through. He’ll take advantage of her.”
Of course, Heiko was right. René would come. Deeply intelligent yet childish and greedy, René was a vampire she once greatly admired but had grown to loathe. He could cause a great deal of harm to New Orleans if he stayed too long. Her New Orleans.
“We don’t have to stay away so long. Eighty years? Seventy years?” Heiko watched her expression. “That’s a blink of an eye.”
“She will be different then.” Eleanor pouted.
“That’s the beauty of New Orleans; it will be exactly the same.” Heiko stood behind her and held her shoulders in his protective hands. “Honestly, I can’t stand to see you like this. Please take off those ridiculous clothes.”
Eleanor started to unbutton her floral blouse and had to smirk at how odd she now looked, dressed the age of what had become her “character.” Once the buttons were all undone, Heiko pulled the blouse down and released Eleanor’s arms. Underneath she wore a strange contraption held by straps around her arms that gave her the appearance of a small humpback. She freed herself of it, and Heiko threw it on the ground.
“That will be the last of that!” he said. “Come here.”
Eleanor stood up, now just in a bra and camel-colored floor-length skirt.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed as he removed the wig from her head to release a mess of blonde hair she tousled quickly with her fingers. Her dark-green eyes investigated his, and he melted at knowing her so intimately. “I hate seeing you sad.”
She knew it was true. She kissed him, tugging at his bottom lip. He was all hers, and he was all she’d ever wanted in a man, partner, and husband. Heiko was Eleanor’s soulmate, if such a thing existed. It had taken her hundreds of years to find him, and then they had met by chance, so easily. On a train from Nuremberg to Fürth, in 1835, she had caught his scent. The attendant had just passed with offerings of grapes, bread, and chocolates for the travelers, but she sensed a vampire. It had been years since she’d made an acquaintance of her kind among mortals. He was younger than she, not in human age but in vampire centuries, and his senses were not as keen. However, instinct set in, and he felt her glare at the back of his head. Heiko was fond of telling her he still remembered the exact moment he first set eyes on Eleanor’s delicate features. He turned to see the cause of the nagging sensation he felt coming from rows behind. There she was, a vampire. He saw it immediately and felt himself fortunate to be in her view and soon in her company.
“I’m going to take you to Paris!” Heiko announced in the regal bed chamber of the mansion, which had been their home in New Orleans for more than seventy years. He swung her off the ground and into his arms, her long skirt still dangling around her. “I want to do everything—out in the open—no one to recognize us. We can dance, take walks in the Parisian moonlight . . .”
“Paris,” she whispered. “Darling, you know my weak spots,” she smiled and took a breath. “Paris is one of them. Just as long as we can come home to our Paris of the South,” she smiled.
Heiko nodded. “It’s good to see you smile.” He laid her on the bed and rolled her over so he could unzip her skirt. Eleanor turned back as he slipped the skirt from around her waist, down her legs, and off her feet. “Now that is my girl.” Heiko kissed her, removing her bra. “Do you want a taste?”
Eleanor nodded yes, and Heiko left the bedroom in record time. While there were many drawbacks to their circumstance, speed was a benefit that never got old. Eleanor reclined on the bed in anticipation as Heiko moved through the halls, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. She wanted to please him. It was so good to see him happy for a change, full of life again, as he had been when they arrived in New Orleans. It was time she took his needs into consideration. All these years he had played second fiddle to her career—her character. A supporting role.
In the refrigerator next to blood bags several rows deep waited a coveted selection of blood vials in various sizes. He grabbed a vial no larger than half the size of a fountain pen and was back up the stairs at Eleanor’s side. While vampires required a gluttonous amount of blood—an average of no less than a gallon every two days—the tiny vials were a delicacy.
Over the centuries, humans had polluted the world and themselves with processed foods, chemicals, and poisons, and their blood reeked of it. For older vampires who had once feasted on the purest blood, such a delicacy was all but a memory now. Fortunately, small amounts of young, unpolluted blood were shared among vampires, and savored. Deeply prized, the small portions were sold at a premium.
He broke the seal and offered Eleanor the first sip. She took it delicately, savoring the flavor before swallowing the tiny portion. Heiko finished the vial and returned his attention to Eleanor. The blood filled their veins, heightening their senses. He ran his fingers along her shoulder, down the curve of her waist.
Her skin tingled, and she held his hand, pulling him in for a long kiss. Her eyes opened. “Paris hu?”
***
With movements that seemed frantic, a muscular figure jabbed his arms violently in the vast space of the dark New York loft. A dim gray glow filtered through candlelight, creating a purple, glossy tint on the man’s moist skin. He was dressed only in a white tank and dark jeans. Jet-black waves of hair danced around his head in sync with the rhythm of the bold colors of paint slapping against a vast six--by-six-foot canvas. René Descartes, who currently found comfort in the alias Daboussier, had long ago discovered art an outlet that relieved his desire for a more sinister alternative. His style was violent and dark. He had grown dangerous over the years, largely because he was indifferent to mortal problems. He had come to consider humans as no more than weak animals. The sheer masses of them, just hovering about like mosquitos. Why couldn’t there be another plague to weed out the weakest? His masterpiece was finished. A dark purple background was the base for black, orange, yellow, and light violet splashes of color. He stood back admiring it, freeing himself of blue plastic gloves he tossed in a small trashcan next to his buckets of paints.
Famished, he walked across the old wood floor of his Soho loft to a small refrigerator, from which he took a bag thick with blood and downed it in a few hungry gulps. Dense dark paint covered each floor-length window to keep the loft dim, enabling René to move about in daylight hours. He turned on the morning news and continued to shed his paint-spattered clothes, until the television became the focal point of everything.
“Famous author Eleanor Penrose has passed away at the age of one hundred and two years old,” said a spunky female reporter wearing a low-cut red dress, inappropriate for someone delivering such somber news. “Just yesterday Ms. Penrose did a long-awaited interview for her fans, announcing the release of her next and last book in the Gustov the Vampire series. Here is an excerpt from that interview with reporter David Hammer.”
“Wilted Rose, an interesting title. Does it reflect your life in some way, Ms. Penrose?” asked the reporter for WWL-TV.
The older woman on screen giggled a little. “Well, of course it does, dear. Over the years I have put a lot of myself into my writing, but I think Wilted Rose will let my readers in a little deeper. Into my love for New Orleans, for Gustov, and into my soul.”
The underdressed, over-made-up news reporter returned to the screen. “We will miss her,” she said, before signing off.
René turned off the television. “Eleanor,” he whispered, and an opportunistic expression crossed his face.
Chapter Two
Eleanor stood gazing at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her quaint but glamourous dressing chamber. The space was not as large as she wished it was, and the mirror took up precious wall space, but the atmosphere in the closet, if you could call the small room a closet, was welcoming. She had painted it in a pale lavender tone with white and antique green trim. The space was large enough to spend time in, and she often did. She stood to the right of her extravagant shoe collection, the prize of her dressing chamber, and considered her dress. A velvet band secured the black lace veil covering her eyes. The straight, simple black dress fell just above her knees, and eggshell embroidery with black pearls adorned the dress’s form-fitting bodice. Her cleavage was only slightly visible, a tease of elegant sexuality. Her slight smile caught the attention of her lover.
“I thought we weren’t going!” Heiko said as he discovered her there.
“I have to go,” she said with a sheepish smirk. “Please, Heiko, humor me.”
“Humor, I assure you, has nothing to do with this.”
“Were you able to make the arrangements?” she asked.
“Yes of course—it’s all taken care of. It wasn’t difficult. Mr. Billings was a pleasure and the body is secure. He has assured me the viewing will be grand.”
“Fine. Just fine.” She took off her veil. “This means a lot to me.” She kissed him thoughtfully. “It’ll be fun?”
“René called,” Heiko said, abruptly, getting something unpleasant over with quickly.
Eleanor’s expression darkened as she turned away from him. Her tone changed, weighted with sarcasm. “When were you planning on telling me?” she asked without looking at him.
“He only called now,” Heiko answered. “I’m telling you.”
She shook her head, clearing her face. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m just so . . . not myself.” She pulled him closer.
“Well, I’ll be glad when this ridiculous charade is finally over and we’re in Paris,” Heiko said.
She knew Heiko felt silly and there was nothing silly about him. He was a serious sort, and had it not been for protecting themselves—protecting her above all, he would most certainly be far removed from any childish pageant for humans.
“Me too, darling. Me too,” she sighed.
“Good, so now lose the veil, and I’ll get a vial. Meet me in the garden.”
Heiko smiled at her as he left the dressing room, giving her a quick love pat on her bum. Even through this strange time, closing a chapter in their life, Heiko now seemed so much happier. Eleanor hadn’t expected it. She herself was going through a flurry of emotions. Having to say goodbye to a version of herself she had come to love was ever so difficult. However, Heiko’s happiness made it a little easier. His enthusiasm gave her the adventure of their future to look forward to.
She and Heiko had spent countless evenings in their garden over the years, smelling the jasmine and admiring the cereus and epiphyllum she had planted, which bloomed fully in the light of the moon. It was Heiko’s favorite place. His most cherished moments. She knew he enjoyed their time together, away from her desk, her countless hours of solitude spent writing. Those were stolen, relaxing moments she was sure they would miss. However, those times would be replaced with nights on their balcony looking over the steeples of Notre-Dame under the same moon, in the Parisian sky. Everything would be all right.
***
Sonata No. 14 in C, “Moonlight,” by Ludwig von Beethoven, filled the walls of Eternal Peace Funeral Parlor. Mr. Billings sat in a room so dark it was unimaginable anyone could create art in such a dungeonlike space. Lit only by faint candlelight when he took his post at night, it was his chosen atmosphere to inspire his unique talent. Mr. Billings’s old-fashioned eccentricities were part of his charm. He held a small vial of blood high, as if to toast himself. But instead he examined the vial, wondering where the blood came from and paying respects before consuming its contents. The liquid seemed to dance on his palate, and he let it linger there, tasting it from all the regions of his tongue—sweet, sour, spicy, he savored each flavour. Finally, he swallowed and enjoyed the sensation of the blood flowing through his veins, filling him with life.
The door cracked open. “You in here?” came a deep voice followed by a burly man who clumsily stumbled into Billings’s workspace, knowing he shouldn’t.
Billings, bitter for the interruption, remained silent, dismissing the figure lingering by the door. Frank Harvey tainted his atmosphere. Billings, reserved and refined, considered Frank’s simple, somewhat slobby approach to his persona despicable. While Frank had been turned to vampire at forty-one, Billings never seized to be amazed by Frank’s inability to mature. A bully turned biker over the decades, with little ambition beyond greasing his Harleys and watching television. Since his turning in the 1950s, Frank had followed what Billings considered the path of mindless humans and developed an affinity toward pro wrestling and Jerry Springer. He was fascinated and in complete admiration of the art of tattooing, while deep disappointment rattled in him that his vampire skin could not retain one.
“Well,” Billings finally spoke. “What is it, Frank?”
“Look,” the young New Orleans vampire said with an apologetic tone that telegraphed the beginning of a problem. “I ah, I . . .”
“Frank, out with it.” Billings now fully stopped, staring at the intruder.
“I got a body for you. It’s cool though. No one saw or nothin’.”
“Alright.” Billings was surprisingly not phased and went back to work. Preoccupied with his own task, he would let this one slide.
“Really?” Frank said with a grin. “Okay, so I can bring her in?”
Billings did not respond but allowed Frank to come to his own conclusion.
“Okay.” Frank turned to the door, where just outside he had stored a body of a young woman. He heaved her over his shoulder and lifted her into the parlor. “It was a total freak out. I mean one minute we’re sittin’ there talking and she’s telling me all this shit, you know. Like deep shit, and I’m really like kind of interested. But then she says, she’s in love with this guy, and I’m not her type or something and I don’t know—I just lost it. But she’s just passin’ through—so. Nice bike.”
“Frank!”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” He dropped the body on one of the cold, silver rolling carts lined up against the wall. “Thanks man.”
Billings had never created a fledgling. It was a serious responsibility. Frank was a perfect example of that. Billings was of the mind that, those who recklessly chose to create others of their kind without taking responsibility for their progeny should be punished, but there was no real law among vampires. And while that provided a certain freedom, it came with its Frank difficulties.
It wasn’t really Frank’s fault. They had yet to discover his maker, and as Billings watched him now, with disgust, it was simply a reminder that turning a mortal to vampire should be intensely contemplated. Billings dreamt sometimes of the kind of person he would turn and then school in the ways of vampire life. What did the person have to offer their community? Could they handle the transition and the ominous reality of eternity? While the notion could sound romantic and intriguing to mortals, Billings had seen newly turned vampires beyond overwhelmed at the notion of no end in sight and only the darkness of night as their reality.
His vocation had doubtless given him added insight into the difficulty. Watching those around you die, lives snuffed out at the comparative frequency of mayflies, often led to vast depression and irrational decisions. It could be tempting to turn someone, out of guilt or love, but the state of mind of the individual being turned was of utmost importance. Vampires had made many mistakes over the centuries, many that the world continued to suffer from, and Billings didn’t know of one of their kind that hadn’t seen the fallout of one of these poorly handled rash decisions. However, with so many years past, and so many mistakes considered, vampires, most of them anyway, had learned to deeply contemplate the weight of their actions before making a decision about such matters.
No one knew who turned Frank. Only that he was left a hungry vampire in a room of drug dealers and thugs, who had been slightly restrained until he woke. A setup—and Frank was the weapon. Hungry, angry and confused, he made his way through the lives in the dark room, instinctively drinking the blood of his victims, not asking questions until it was over. He tried to recall those he was dealing with—who was missing? Who had turned him? But the memory never came.
Billings set up his pallet of tools—clay, foundation, and powder, as he reflected on his own misfortune. The Carter brothers. Wayne and John Carter. He had been their victim, and when they were caught and tried as murderers by mortals, their punishment was death. Sealed in a tomb, innocent humans, not anticipating a monster’s escape, celebrated a safer city at the Carter brothers demise. The tomb, where the vampires no doubt waited for the sun to set, soon stood empty. The Carters vanished, leaving Billings, then newly turned, to fend for himself. No law for vampires, yet a crime unthinkable. Billings pondered for many years how he would handle a reunion with Wayne Carter, his sire. Anger, painful regret for having put himself in the situation that led to the events of that terrifying night, sorrow, and strangely now a little gratitude, were swirled emotions floating through caverns in his timeless memory.
A tall thin woman in a light grey fitted suit entered the parlor. Also a vampire, she had style - shoulder length brown hair, she almost always wore pulled back in some fashion, her face intense, with angular features that gave her expressions more purpose.
“Constance,” Billings said, relieved to have her there. “Meet the newly deceased Eleanor Penrose.”
“You have your work cut out for you, sir,” she said with a grin. “What happened here?” She referenced the woman’s body slung onto the cold silver cart.
Billings looked up from his art and gave Constance a glance that could only mean “Frank.”
“Hu, at least it will give you a new canvas if you have to start over,” she joked.
“Yeah, right. Hey, Heiko asked me to have you call on him tomorrow night. He wants to iron out the details of the service.”
“Oh, I’ve been on the phone all day with Mary Jude,” she said, chuckling. “All day. I’m exhausted. Mentally, I guess more than physically. That woman wears me out. But she does do a good job for Eleanor’s fans.”
“Well, see that you get with Heiko. We want this to run smoothly.”
“Sure thing, boss. I’m heading out.”
“Okay, I’m just getting started. I’ll be here for a while.”
“Goodnight,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Billings sighed. Good to have Constance, he mused, applying the first thin layer of clay over the corpse he worked to disguise. There was no funny business or extravagance coming from Constance at any time. She was a model employee who kept to herself in her off time, much of which was spent learning, studying. Constance had collected a vast library—a historian’s dream, and she spent her time with those books. Billings admired her thirst for knowledge. He admired anyone with a passion. As long as it wasn’t for tattoos and T.V.
Finally, Mr. Billings was alone. The funeral home was exquisitely quiet now, and he was the solitary presence there, other than the two silent corpses and his music. He had acquired a government contract to deal with individuals without family or resources, making stealing corpses for vampire transformation a simple task. Billings stared at a photo of the great one-hundred-and-two-year-old Eleanor Penrose. After mixing his powders, he began adding wrinkles over the weathered skin of the unfortunate Mrs. Dorothy Brown. Her complexion was noticeably darker than Eleanor’s. As luck would have it, only the body of a seventy-four-year-old, destitute black woman had been available. Dorothy had passed of cancer of the pancreas. She lay there, spread out in front of Billings, expressionless. Billings considered the woman’s past. Why had she died alone? What leads humans to take for granted their short precious time on this earth?
The makeup he would use to transform her into Eleanor was a special formula, so intense that it didn’t matter the color of the corpse’s skin, nor her age. Though it was fortunate that she had been elderly, giving Mr. Billings a base of shriveled skin for his solvents to adhere to. As Billings applied layer after layer and molded the face. He thought of how shocked Mrs. Brown would be to see the great deal of attention her body would soon receive at her funeral. What a surprise to the dear old girl who had died alone in poverty. As Billings continued his work, he thought about the life she must have lived. She’d had a long one, and most likely a hard one. Beethoven’s notes filled the room, and Billings’ small plastic tool moved side to side in time with the music as he lovingly and masterfully executed his sculpture.
The candles created an eerie glare across the face of the corpse. Eleanor started to appear as the layers were applied, and the once-black Dorothy drowned beneath the white puckered complexion of the character who had been Eleanor Penrose.
***
Just in time for the last crescendo of Frederic Chopin’s “Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor ”, popularly known as the Funeral March, to crash over Billings’s speaker, Eleanor Penrose was complete! Billings stood back and admired his creation. Dorothy Brown, under layers of clay and powders had been transformed into Eleanor Penrose. Mr. Billings blew out the candle flames that surrounded the corpse and rolled the body to the cooler to be kept safe until the unveiling. It was a day and a half until the funeral, and he would have little touching up to do.
***
The study at the Cornstalk Fence Mansion was in use. Eleanor felt most at home when writing or painting surrounded by the library of books she had collected over the centuries. Miles Davis played softly while she hand wrote notes in a copy of her new release. She heard Heiko’s footsteps as he entered the study, and quickly closed the book. He came up behind her and bent down over her left shoulder. “Your talents are boundless,” he said, pulling her hair back off her shoulders.
Eleanor continued to impress Heiko daily. She took full advantage of the gift of eternal life. Writing, painting, sculpting, learning, creating. She never stopped. It seemed the more she created, her thirst for pouring herself into and onto the world only continued to grow.
Heiko’s cellphone rang. The screen lit up with the name Mary Jude Douglas.
“Go ahead, answer it,” said Eleanor. Mary Jude was the head of the Eleanor Penrose fan club and had been conversing with Heiko almost hourly since Eleanor’s “death.”
“Hello Mary Jude,” Heiko said into the phone.
“I’m so sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I had a couple of other things come up.” Mary Jude was anxious. “You’d think I’d be ready for all this, but it just came so suddenly. Guess you just never really can prepare for something like this.” Her voice trembled. “The venue needs to know if we will have someone to close up after we leave and head to the cemetery. I can’t find anyone who wants to do it, because they all want to follow the procession. I certainly can’t be there.”
“Well, I will have someone there. Tell them Constance Cleary will be there to man the door and ensure everyone is out.”
“Oh, Heiko, that’s wonderful. Thank you!” Despite sounding relieved, Mary Jude’s voice was still breaking. “This is all just so difficult. Oh, also, we had Fleur de Lis, the flower shop on Taledono, donate four large bouquets of black and red roses for the funeral, and they have offered to take them along with the procession and place them on all four corners of the tomb. Everyone is just being so gracious.”
“That’s lovely, Mary Jude. Now get some rest. I’m sure we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Heiko hung up the phone and smiled at Eleanor. “She’s a mess over you.”
***
Mary Jude felt somewhat like a mother who had lost a daughter. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself. Eleanor had always seemed so full of life - cheerful, and full of ideas for each book release. A young soul. Wanting to savor this last edition, Mary Jude read only the back cover, and then the author’s notes.
The Management of Vampires
I have found my writing has become a management of the vampires on my pages. Though they all wished to blossom in various directions, now and then I had to prune back their desires in service of the greater story. Other times, I gave them a little room to grow, to see where they might lead me.
Knowing they will live for eternity—that is, if they behave and take care of themselves—is somehow very freeing. Knowing that my life is coming to an end is very limiting, solemn, and even a trifle terrifying.
For Garro, my dear, you still have a lot to learn and I fear I am making that impossible for you. You have been a wonder to behold and you have surprised me as to where you let my pen flow—directly to your inner desires. Truly, nothing in this world is black and white. I wish I could stay on this earth a little longer to help you curb your instincts—and for you to teach me more about mine.
For Chloe, the real blossoming bud in the series. You have indeed flourished and have learned how to use your charm to your advantage. A wonderful lesson, I hope, for the many ingenues who doubt their talents and capabilities and the femininity that gives them power.
For Brigitte, stop being so messy and let the others live. While I believe you mean well, ultimately it is selfishness that guides you. Once you find comfort in yourself and security in who you are, you will find great pleasure in those around you. Every story needs a villain, and in that you have found your purpose. Now is my time to set you free. If you could go on, I would let you taste sweetness—if only for a moment so that you could feel what I have made you miss. Then you could decide your next direction. I feel I have failed you.
And lastly, for you, Gustov, my love, I wish you the world. You have been my inspiration, my lover, and my child. I regret more than anything that you are sure to die with me, but in my imagination, you rise from the pages and bid me a sweet kiss farewell.
For you, my readers, I ask you, where do you see our characters going? Let your imaginations run wild. I fear, much like a wilting rose, it is time for me to make room for the blossoming and bid you all love, laughter, and mystery for eternity.
Sincerely,
Eleanor Clarice Penrose
A tear slid off her cheek, onto Eleanor’s signature. “Shit.” Mary Jude dabbled the page with her blouse sleeve not wanting to tarnish her prized possession.
***
Mr. Billings walked around the corpse that was now Eleanor. He touched his brush down on her cheek, then, thinking better of it, he pulled it back. She was perfect.
Frank stood in the background scrolling through his phone.
“Frank, they’ll be coming for her soon.” Mr. Billings detested being awake during daylight hours, and only did so in extreme emergencies. “Please have Constance get her staff ready.”
“She’s still resting.”
“That’s why you are going to wake her. Good God, Frank, must I spell everything out for you?”
“I have a date.”
In his agitation, Mr. Billings let his brush fly from his hand and bounce off the floor. “This is what I’m talking about. You have to learn to discern between situations of importance and trivialities!”
“Trivialities! I haven’t had a date in, let me see, one, three, no, four months! I’m a hungry vampire in many ways, and Eleanor isn’t really dead now, is she?”
“Frank!”
Frank sighed. “I’ll wake Constance.”
***
Heiko ran his index finger up and down Eleanor’s neck. He gazed at her as she rested against the wonderfully soft goose down pillows they had imported from Germany. She was a real beauty. How had she managed so many years in hiding, covered in grotesque makeup for her fans? Anticipation of their next life filled him with sheer happiness. They would wander the streets in Paris as they were—beautiful creatures.
Eleanor stirred and opened her bright green eyes, finding comfort in Heiko’s staring back at her. She smiled at him. “Are you ready for this?”
“I only wish I could be with you. Mary Jude isn’t quite the same company I’m afraid.”
“I appreciate it, Heiko. I don’t know what I would do without you.” She moved forward to kiss him.”
“And you shall never find out.”
Heiko left Eleanor there while he went to dress. She stared at the medallion above the fan on her ceiling. It still looked exactly the same as it had so many years ago when they had just arrived.
***
New Orleans, 1941
“Hurry we’ll be late,” Heiko had shouted at her from the bathroom. They were barely settled into their new abode on 4th Street and Prytania. Eleanor laid on their new bed at the Cornstock Fence Mansion staring at the ceiling fan as it circled over her head and created the slight wind that played with her hair. Eleanor and Heiko had fallen in love with New Orleans the moment they set foot in the French Quarter. They immediately began toying with the idea of making it their home, so Mr. Billings, their old friend, arranged to meet with them. Daily tasks, which mortals took for granted, were troublesome and could be complicated for vampires. Mr. Billings, armed with a briefcase, met the couple and helped arrange for an evening realtor, and secure all the necessary nocturnal needs for them. The group often met at Chinn’s Bar on Decatur Street.
“The names and owners may change, but our kind is always to meet at 1123 Decatur. It’s the one sure way we can find each other,” Billings instructed.
There, Billings had secured a contact for safe blood and a list of all New Orleans vampire contacts. Billing was the central source for this territory. As was customary when moving into a territory, Eleanor and Heiko were expected to “register” with him. It had become a structured way for vampires to maneuver among mortals and work together to coexist.
***
It hadn’t been easy for René to book an evening flight from New York on such short notice. He was relieved to be secure in his seat, next to a middle-aged woman who was layered from head to toe in smart travel wear. He wondered if there was some truth to the old tale that vampires are supposed to be obsessed with counting small peas or stones, as he himself was obsessed with small details. Even now as he sat next to this average woman, he noticed everything. Her bag, already tucked in the overhead compartment, was compact and sensible: lightweight and dark gray to avoid showing inevitable wear after being tossed about in trunks, travel compartments, and racks en route. She wore a light scarf to curb drafts during flight; flat, lightweight, breathable leather shoes; slacks; and a blouse and sweater fit for comfort. She was fixated on her cellphone, as was common for most humans now, which suited him well. Maybe it was just him, he hoped. He hated being common. If his innate need to dissect every little detail was unique to him, then it pleased him.
René was of the opinion that first class was the only way to fly. Rarely did a seatmate engage in bothersome small talk unless invited. There was a certain dignity to it, an upper-crust attitude shared by first-class flyers.
He knew his presence in New Orleans would be controversial, especially so soon. But he couldn’t pass up the delicious opportunity to see Elly. Was he being caddy, or simply seizing the moment?
In his mortal life, René had lost his daughter, Francine, who was only five years old when scarlet fever had taken her delicate soul. He had been devastated and turned his life’s work from medicine to questioning life’s purpose. Shortly thereafter he had been approached by the vampire who offered him eternity. Brilliant, he would become a philosopher turned vampire with nothing but time to contemplate the Universe. He needed only say goodbye and good riddance to the world he once knew. Standing on the dark bank of the Seine with the sinister creature at his side, he welcomed darkness as his friend. Eleanor, however, had insisted on reminding René, time and time again, that he had been human once. Though the loss of his child twisted his soul, boring Eleanor wanted him to be rational. She wanted respect for mortals.
He looked out the window to avoid eye contact with Ms. Travel Ready. At long last, New Orleans would be his. He could taste New Orleans, smell it. There wasn’t much about it he didn’t like. And unlike Elly, he would let vampires be vampires there. The city was designed for it. Tourists, derelicts, criminals, it was the one city where people could disappear—a lot of people—and no one would ask questions. New Orleans was the perfect location to start his quest. Tired of hiding in shadows and procuring blood through what were now considered “proper” channels for a vampire, René longed to hunt. With him at the helm in New Orleans, he would be looked upon very favorably by the majority of “younger” vampires—those that craved sinking their teeth into human flesh, not sipping from a vial of civilized sarsaparilla.
It angered him, the thought of what those who tried to govern him and others called being evolved. Evolution. Over the centuries he had maintained the beliefs he had taught so long ago, under his name. He later continued his work as an Oxford professor under the name René Durand, when attempting to live among humans, as Elly had urged. Never again. He had no need to evolve. They were vampires; it was time to live like vampires. It was his time. Finally, the world would change; vampires would step out of the shadows and lead. It would be a long, well-thought-out, and well-executed process, under his leadership, but he was eager for the challenge. “I think, therefore I am,” indeed. He had been angry for centuries that that was the one phrase that had lingered with humans and which he became known for. While he was human when he wrote it, he had meant it as a derogatory comment on human’s limited thinking, and they took it as an epiphany of their existence. René closed his eyes and tried to ignore the scent of Tresor perfume that masked the underlying human smell: hard-boiled eggs and crackers, coffee, gin and tonic, cheese—blue cheese, in fact. He could smell how the traveler had spent her day. He could not wait to hunt.
***
The sun set on the evening of Eleanor’s third orchestrated funeral in the past two hundred and eighteen years. The corpse arrived at the monastery. The flower shop Fleur de Lis had set red and black long-stemmed rose bouquets strategically on the side of each pew. Spanish moss draped the urns at the front of room, on either side of the casket, for a haunting effect. The casket stood waist height between them. Purple and black stained glass decorated the casket’s corners, and the sides of the box featured etched wood exquisitely handcrafted with three rows of the fleur de lis symbol so emblematic of New Orleans. A wrought-iron stand held the casket in place. Constance stood by the casket, impatient. Security guards had been stationed at the front door, six in number. Constance called to one of the men, beckoning him over.
“No one is to cross this line,” she reiterated her instructions. “No one! No one may touch her, even breathe on her, understood?”
“Yes ma’am!” the security guard answered military style.
Mary Jude made her way into the monastery, saddened. What would her fan club be now? She had never thought to run a club without a star. Would it be the same? No more personal engagements, no more book release parties, no more . . .
“Mary Jude, it’s nice to see you,” Constance said.
Mary Jude’s dark green suit stuck to her skin, humidity thick in the air. She talked from behind a black lace fan, which she carried half for the relief of a slight breeze and half to hide her sorrow. She had been running the Eleanor Penrose fan club for over forty-eight years. The florist approached with two large black baskets overflowing with rose petals, black and red intermixed. The petals carried a strong scent that reminded Mary Jude of Eleanor’s garden.
“These are for the aisle,” the florist offered with sincerity.
“They are beautiful. Everything is beautiful.” Mary Jude reached into her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill that was neatly placed among many others in a row in her wallet. “It’s the least I can do.” Mary Jude tucked the bill into his palm. “Just a tip.”
The florist took it graciously. “Thank you, Mrs. Douglas,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, dear! My loss. I suppose it is my loss too. “Everything really is just exquisite.”
Mary Jude took the second basket from him and set them on a pew. She felt Constance’s need to console her.
“She would have loved this. Truly, you’ve done a great job. What will you do now?”
“I haven’t let myself think that far ahead. I mean, Bram Stoker didn’t have a fan club until after he died, right? I just don’t know—I don’t know if it will be right for me. Perhaps I’ll hand the club over to someone else.”
Constance placed her hand on Mary Jude’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll find a place among it all.”
“Well, she found a way to surprise me, even in the end. I never expected her to pass the day after the book release—her birthday. I was prepared for a soon and sudden death, but she had to slide in a shocker.”
“That was her style,” Constance said as she consoled her again.
Mary Jude admired Constance, who stood tall in her slender black cargo dress and sleek black pumps. She held her notes precisely in her right hand, as though she were taking roll call.
“You, Heiko and I will sit here.” Mary Jude pointed to a bench with an outstretched finger painted black overlaid with purple glitter, a look out of place for her age, but not her character. “It will make it easy for us to escape to the front for the second line. The news media should be outside by now. I better go make a statement.”
Mary Jude had made a life among vampires without having the slightest idea of it. She was one of the rare few they allowed to mingle among them. She had a personality a bit like a schoolmarm, but with an unusual edge to her. Somewhat overwhelmed, she stood momentarily at the doors of the monastery. She took a deep breath and then gently pushed the right door open just enough to get a glimpse of the scene. And a scene it was. The hearse club had arrived and had vehicles lined up on both sides of Rampart Street. Several limos were parked in a row, anticipating the doors opening. She spotted Heiko standing off to the side, out of reach of the cameras.
“Here we go,” Heiko said, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Ready and able!” Mary Jude slid out the door and then the questions came flying.
“Missy for WGNO, will the fan club go on without Eleanor Penrose?”
“Brian Huff, for FOX News 8, will you continue to run the fan club?”
“David Hammer, WWL-TV, will you continue the Gustov Halloween Galas?”
Mary Jude swallowed. “It’s all happened so fast, I’m not sure at this time what the future will hold. I can only say that I won’t make any decisions without the community. We will do what’s best for the fans.”
Somewhat certain the reporters were satisfied, she headed back into the building and security guards stood ready as VIP ticket holders filed in behind her.
***
René stood across the street a block away. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, were in front of the monastery. Jealousy consumed him at the sight. He forced himself through his feelings and through the crowd. He could not let Heiko see the green envy that would cloud his good decisions. Eleanor . . . He wanted her to see him among the masses of her New Orleans fans. Her fans, who would soon be his. Subjects or prey. His gaze sliced through the crowds of people dressed in torn pantyhose, leather miniskirts, and lace tops. Young men, dangerously thin, were clad in plastic, covered in tattoos with hair dyed in various colors, stretched ear lobes swaying around the gaged holes. What happened to the men of the world, men of dignity and intelligence? Were they trying to look dead? René wondered. They resembled cartoon characters. Did they really believe vampires dressed like the walking dead? If that’s what they wanted, he could help them out, he watched as they marched toward the old building like zombies.
René’s tailor-made charcoal blue linen shirt was perfectly tucked into his black slacks. He still carried the old Pinchbeck pocket watch Elly had given him in 1792, inscribed Cogito, ergo sum. Elly had been one of the few who understood what he had meant by it. “I think, therefore I am.” No, you must do more to be a man. The metal was heavy in his hand as he popped it open to check the time. 7:45. Several young girls passed him, batting eyes and swaying hips to get his attention.
“Wow, now that’s what I call a handsome vampire,” the scantily clad girl in red boots whispered to her friend. The scent of cannabis mingled with cheap perfume in the air around them.
“Shhh, he’ll hear you,” hissed her friend dressed all in lace. She was a looker but coated in candied gothic glam that he felt stripped any attractive quality from her natural features. As much as he looked forward to a little hunting, he missed the days of elegance and mysterious women who made the hunt an adventure instead of an appetizer. There was something about the ordinary people of the world now that rendered even the taste of fresh blood flowing from warm veins somehow unsatisfying. In New Orleans, René would feed as often as he liked, but he would be hunting for the adventure that would sate his real hunger. A challenge.
The pungent smell of liquor and sweat hung in the air and filled René’s nose. He felt someone stumbling about near him, entering his space. “Help a brother out, man; all I need is twenty cents.”
“I need a lot more than that,” René said disapprovingly.
In record speed, he took the man around the collarbone and pulled him back into the dark shadow of a large oak with one quick jerk. His other hand fastened tight over the man’s mouth as René felt him aching for a breath of air. He sunk his teeth deep into the large vein protruding from the derelict’s neck, throbbing to his accelerated heartbeat. René felt his lust for blood rise to a fevered pitch just as the hot, coppery liquid burst upon his tongue. It had only been two hours since he had arrived in New Orleans and already the mundane quotidian that had become his reality had been lifted. The man trembled delightfully in his arms as René let him sink slowly to the ground, careful not to let the man’s filth and blood soil his clothes. Glancing around to ensure he remained unseen, René took a switchblade from his pocket, flipped it open, and deftly cut a deep gash across the man’s neck to cover his tracks. He licked the knife and wiped the rest of the blood from the blade onto a handkerchief that he tossed into a trashcan in a nearby parking lot. Oh, he had been bored for so long. While the victim’s blood was a welcome and refreshing drink, it was just the beginning. He craved that real challenge.
***
Eleanor arrived solo. The real Eleanor.
Constance spotted her and pulled her through the crowd toward the front, but away from Mary Jude and Heiko. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered in Eleanor’s ear.
Elenore kissed her on the cheek. “This is a bit overwhelming, even for me.”
“They loved you!”
Eleanor smiled at her and let her go about her business. She looked around the room. Hundreds of fans flooded into the monastery to say their goodbyes. She so wished she could get in the coffin, sit up, and say, “I’m not ready to say goodbye.” Eleanor wished she had it in her. One last shock—but it was just a dream. She had begun penning her novels in 1941, shortly after she and Heiko arrived in New Orleans. Heiko had been patient with her for so long, and she knew he was right. It would be impossible to stretch her character’s life any longer. It just didn’t make saying goodbye any easier.
Two women with full bouquets of roses pushed passed her to the front to deliver their offering. It filled Eleanor with emotions she could not explain to other vampires. Her love for her fans, humans who appreciated her talents. Without them, she would be just another vampire hiding in the shadows. They had all been human once, after all. It was so easy to forget, once turned. Humans seemed so fragile, and somehow worthless. But now, to Eleanor, they were her kingdom. She took another look around the vast space, filled to the brim with human flesh.
A peculiar prickling sensation, as though she were being watched, flitted through her head. Across the room and to the front . . . There. She saw his eyes peering at her. His mouth stretched into a long, sarcastic grin when her eyes met his. René was in New Orleans. Her brow furrowed in barely contained rage. Where was Heiko? She needed him. Relax, this is your night. Don’t let René see your agitation. She forced a smile and waved in his direction. He gave a ridiculous finger wave back at her. She was glad he was acting a fool, in keeping with his normal persona, and confirming her loathing of him. René, the pompous ass. For now, she would have to let it go. Let New Orleans go for now, or it would consume her. She had Heiko, and, as he said, they had the world.
The security at the door could be heard repeating at nauseam, “No camera or cellphone pictures. If you take a photo, your phone will be confiscated.” Mary Jude rang a bell that chimed throughout the entire building, bringing everyone’s attention to the front of the room. Eleanor was pleased to turn her attention from René to the funeral that was her party.
“Dear guests, thank you all for coming. Eleanor would have been truly moved. Eleanor loved her fans, and that was apparent in every action she took. To sit for an interview for you, at her age, even though she was directly instructed not to by her doctors and all those around her, it was important enough for her to say her goodbyes. She was an astonishing woman, with an imagination like no other.”
Eleanor glanced back at Rene to discover his silly grin had vanished. It was indeed tormenting him to see the mass of humans she had captivated.
“She was also such a wonderful addition to the city of New Orleans and was instrumental in a variety of city projects that were brought to fruition, including afterschool programs for underprivileged children. It is a sad day that we truly must say goodbye to Eleanor Penrose.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let's make this as easy as possible. Please file in two lines for the viewing. Please do not cross the yellow line, and please move quickly, as we have many, many people who would like to say their farewells. You will then continue to file through the venue and out the doors to get in line for the procession, which will leave in precisely two hours. Please file through thoughtfully and follow the crowd to the cemetery with respect for the streets. Again, thank you all for your support, and graciousness here today. Thank you.”
Eleanor turned quickly, evading Heiko’s eyes. She knew he would search the crowd for her, so she moved stealthily among the jungle of constantly shifting black hats and veils that camouflaged her whereabouts. The crowd was so dense it was impossible not to rub against people from all sides while moving about. She had to confront Rene, whose attention had been drawn by a lovely young girl who appeared to be at the funeral on her own. René licked his lips in anticipation. He followed the pink-haired girl through the crowd. She looked back at him flirtatiously. He had been made, but his advances seemed welcome.
Eleanor hurried to reach him.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “René,” she whispered. “Weren’t you going to say hello?”
“Or goodbye rather?” he replied as he watched pink hair disappear into the crowd. “You are looking well for a corpse.”
“Well, let’s just say a great weight has been taken off my shoulders. I was bored with all this. Heiko and I are headed to Europe; that’s where we belong.”
“I’m surprised at you, Elly. Why on earth have you stayed here so long then?”
“Really, only to keep you away. You are a mockery of what vampires have become, and you will be the death of us one day. Find your peace among the living, René, or others may be forced to seal your fate.”
“I know you’re not threatening me!”
“No, René, I’m celebrating the death of a legend. A character I created to allow me to live among the living. How shortsighted you are to think being a vampire means to kill. If you don’t evolve, as we have, you will do nothing but set an extreme example for the young, who find it difficult to curb their appetites. You must lead by example to protect our future.”
René scoffed. “My future has nothing to do with living among human flesh. New Orleans is mine now. You are welcome to visit, but don’t feel obligated to stay long.”
Eleanor's fist tightened and she trembled as she forced herself to harness her emotions. “Always the child,” she said bitingly. “I worry for you. That’s someone’s daughter, you know.” Eleanor was referring to the pink-haired girl. She still knew how to get a rise out of him. His nostrils flared. She had made her point. Eleanor turned and faded into the crowd.
***
Heiko, anxious now, followed the black hearse carriage carrying the impostor’s corpse. The jazz band had kicked off the procession with a slow funeral march, that quickly fell into an upbeat ditty that had the masses dancing in step. Thousands poured into the street behind the band and the hearse, filling the air with cheer. The city’s inescapable humidity bestowed upon everyone a damp glow as they danced and paraded to the Tomb. Frank Harvey danced on the wall of the cemetery, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, mocking the mortals as he masqueraded as an enthusiastic fan.
The buggy reached the cemetery entrance, and Heiko spotted Eleanor at the gate. She stood close to where the florist was hauling the four huge floral arrangements. Obvious relief washed over him at the sight of her.
Eleanor had to keep reminding herself this was all for her. She wanted to enjoy it if it was at all possible. Would she tell Heiko about her brief conversation with René? Probably not tonight. Mary Jude and Heiko passed Eleanor, and she filed behind them, leaving several rows of people between herself and the pair. Mary Jude might recognize a young Eleanor, so it was better to be safe. The band continued to play “Glory Time,” and the music flowed through the city of the dead, caressing the tombs.
Mary Jude directed the pallbearers as they followed the lead of the cemetery staff. The sky was filled with puffy clouds, moving too quickly, and the hot breeze below swayed slow. The tombs surrounded them, cracking seams and broken bricks. It was a dream come true for fans of the macabre. Silent corpses within their decaying crypts being serenaded and celebrated as another arrived to join them. The casket was lifted into the tomb, and the tomb sealed. Eleanor Penrose was laid to rest.
Eleanor watched from afar as Heiko helped Mary Jude with every detail of the procession. She waited patiently until she saw him give Mary Jude a farewell kiss on the cheek. That was her cue; she would meet him at the gate and they could make their final escape.
Suddenly, she was accosted by a fan she hadn’t noticed standing near her. “You look like her—you know, Eleanor Penrose?” said a thirtysomething groupie, staring in her face.
“Thank you, I’ve been told that before,” Eleanor said, hiding her shock with a smile. She vacated the cemetery lightning-fast, literally stumbling into Heiko on her way.
“Good God, woman!” he said, spinning her around in an embrace.
“Let’s get out of here,” Eleanor said, worry and excitement coloring her voice. She was actually ready to bid New Orleans goodbye.
That evening the couple spent most of their time sifting through their closets and packing the few belongings they would need. The home would remain under the care of their day staff until their eventual return. Just their housekeeper, who was not live in and had become accustomed to their unusual request to not be disturbed during daylight hours, and the gardener, Jake, who also washed their cars and did little odd jobs. Eleanor had made the case that there was really no reason they couldn’t visit their home now and then. Heiko of course would be opposed to returning to New Orleans any time soon, but she liked to leave her options open. She was already secretly planning a quick weekend getaway to check on the city, just as a precaution. She was bound and determined to protect New Orleans from René and his careless ways. Eleanor had not anticipated him coming so soon. His presence in the city was reason for concern, an indication that he intended to move quickly with whatever plan he was wishing to orchestrate. She knew him well enough to know there was a plan.
Now, however, she filled up her leather jewelry travel roll. An emerald bracelet and dangling diamond earrings were the last to make the cut. Over the years, Heiko had gifted her with many exquisite pieces she would find good use for in Paris. The Paris of the South would belong to Rene for a spell, but Eleanor would watch from afar and ensure Rene’s influences wouldn’t damage her New Orleans. Rene liked perfection. Yet, fixing what was broken – when it came to New Orleans – would mean ruining the character of a free soul, or stifling a poet from creating a meaningful verse.
Chapter Three
René crouched among the wisteria and bricks above the still courtyard of Café Amélie when the sound of shattering glass alerted him to the presence of the young derelict in torn clothes breaking into the restaurant. The unkempt man had smashed through the glass panel of the French doors at the entrance before reaching in to unlock the door and slip inside. This was just the cat-and-mouse game René craved.
He leaped with complete silence into the courtyard, hidden by foliage and fountain. He could smell the urine on the young man’s soiled pants as he neared the café entrance and spotted him, fumbling, trying to pry open the cash register drawer on the other side of the bar. Stealthily, with a vampire’s heightened speed, René glided across the restaurant to stand behind him, so close the crook could feel René’s breath on his neck. The burglar froze, sensing René’s presence. The man’s eyes flickered back and forth before finally meeting René’s in the reflection of the restaurant’s wall-to-wall windows. The man startled, but before he could make a move, René’s teeth sank into the skin of his neck, plunging into his vein.
René maneuvered his victim out of the restaurant and into the courtyard, where he commandeered a bench for his feast. A slight warm New Orleans breeze touched his skin, “Hallelujah . . . she cries to the heaven above.” Sade’s voice traveled through the air from an open window a few doors down.
Coppery, salty, sweet, he swirled the blood around his mouth with his tongue. René was satisfied. Human blood, acquired through hunting, capturing and taking what was rightfully his. Who was anyone to question God? His kind were not monsters but created as part of the Almighty’s bigger plan. There is only one creator, and that is God, and God had a purpose for each creature he put on this earth. Population control seemed the obvious purpose for his kind, as they were not curtailed by what humans called morality. Vampires were a part of the big picture, and when they had allowed humans to force them into the shadows, God had to step in with more devious tactics to keep the human population in check, such as yellow fever, the plague, Carona Virus. Still, humans continued to find a way around each tactic God had implemented, causing an imbalance in the universe. Humans needed a predator. It was time for vampires to do right by God, to step up to the plate and take the feeblest. Why did no one see this but him?
Sade’s sweet sultry voice filled the air from a neighboring balcony—“You know me better than that…” He enjoyed modern music. He enjoyed watching women evolve and take their place in the world among men. He enjoyed much of where the world was going save human’s ignorance and lack of modesty. Everything had evolved but vampires. Eleanor called drinking blood from straws and charading as mortal’s “evolution”—what a joke. Humans had become the all-powerful, playing God with science and space travel, “fixing” God’s answers for balance in the world. René found humans to be nothing but armies of ants, constantly building, damaging the planet. René was put on this earth to show others like him that there was nothing evil about God’s plan. New Orleans gave him ground to begin his crusade.
He returned his attention to the criminal draped across his lap. The body pulsed slightly. He allowed himself another drink from the open wound before he tossed the soon to be corpse on the warm slate tiles, still simmering from the summer swelter.
The body sprawled at his feet was a problem. The only troublesome issue with a vampire’s hunt—the unfortunate remains. He borrowed a dinner napkin from the café and placed it over his shoulder before draping the corpse across his frame. He would deliver him to Mr. Billings tonight to dispose of the corpse.
It was time he built his “castle” in the city. He swore to himself on this night that soon other vampires would be delivering their hunts to him. He was a leader who demanded respect and was not to be bothered with the disposal of leftovers. His attention was needed on a more important matter: the management of vampires.
René had made his home in the French Quarter, in a two-story estate with a spacious gallery - possibly hi “castle”. He enjoyed being in the center of the action. It was just like Eleanor, he thought, hiding herself behind wrought-iron fences and lush grounds in the Garden District. Predictable. She had never been the leader she thought herself to be. Deep down, he knew his reason for despising her was based on her complete loathing of him. Good she was gone. New Orleans was his.
The End.
For Now
V”V