“Yeah. I know the feeling.”
“It’s like that, in a way, except if you don’t eat, you will eventually die. If I do not drink, I will just go on feeling like that until I do.”
Kieran’s emotions flipped between scared and fascinated. He was actually, really, talking to a real live vampire. And she was telling him things that he and his brothers could not learn from any book, or movie, or penny comic. “Is that what happened tonight? At the carnival?”
Elisabeth nodded without turning.
“That must be really hard, to feel like that all the time. But you feel better now, right?”
“I feel worse,” Elisabeth said. “No, I don’t like killing. You’re very astute, Kieran Landry. Maybe you’re reading me, after all? Maybe you lied about that? But there are rules, in our brood. Rules we have no choice but to follow, because there are more of you than there are us, and rules keep us safe.”
Kieran didn’t point out the irony in the idea that she had to kill others for her own safety. “I told you my brothers and I used to study vampires. We had a club. We called it Liga Vanatorilor de Vampiri. League of the Vampire Hunters. I realize how cheesy that sounds now, but it was cool when we were younger.”
Elisabeth snorted.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you. I believe you were foolish enough to think you could learn anything from what movies or books tell you about us.” Elisabeth finally turned around. Her eyes seemed ablaze with emotion, irises flared. “I didn’t even know what I was getting into when I agreed to this, and most of my family were blood drinkers. I was only twenty, I’d just met my husband, and I—”
Kieran worried she was headed into a sentimental place where she’d be hard to reach. “What year was that?”
“Eighteen ninety-three.”
His blood chilled. There was no hesitation in her answer. No guile that he detected. Only truth. “That was a long time ago. So you must remember the Civil War?”
She gave a short laugh. “I was born in seventy-three. The war ended in sixty-five. My father remembers it.”
Elisabeth spoke of the years from the nineteenth century, the same way they spoke of modern times. He didn’t know why that struck him as so odd. “You were married?”
“Not for long.”
“He did... is he...”
“He did not take the gift from the Master. What he did take was his life, when he was confronted with what we are. A not so uncommon affliction in those who dare love one of us.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t need your pity. It was a very long time ago. I don’t even recognize this as the same world where that happened.”
Kelley would know if she was telling the truth. His memory was like a steel cage, and he’d never filed his own knowledge away, like the Kieran and Dillon had. He’d never stopped believing.
“Why this place? This isn’t where you take your victims, is it?”
Elisabeth’s eyes widened, surprised at the question. “I’ve never taken anyone here.”
“But you’ve been here before.”
“Many times.”
“Why?”
“With my grandfather,” she said, without elaboration.
Kieran tugged at his bindings. They weren’t very elegantly tied. He could probably free himself, but then what? If she didn’t get him, the unforgiving miles and miles of swamp greeting him outside would. He didn’t know where he was, but there was only one boat, and they were an hour from the road they’d driven in on.
“Your grandfather?” he repeated, hoping to keep her talking.
“We came here to hunt the Rougarou.”
Kieran couldn’t stop himself before he burst out laughing. “The Rougarou. Really.”
But Elisabeth wasn’t laughing. “I envy you. I wish I had never seen him. I could think, like you, that he’s only a childhood boogeyman, designed to scare children into submission. But I have seen him. And he is real.”
Kieran’s laughter faded. She had to be having him on, though he didn’t detect that in her at all, only a calmness threatened by deep and long-lasting fears.
“Okay, well, isn’t this Rougarou season? When he’s supposed to come out of the swamp and eat babies or something?”
“It is.”
“And you still chose this place?”
“There was nowhere else,” Elisabeth said, sighing. “If I took you to any of our family properties, you’d not be around to ask me these facile questions.”
This was interesting. She’d come here to kill him, but yet was afraid to take him to any of her fellow vampires for fear they would kill him.
Maybe she was more conflicted than he thought.
“My mother is Chelsea Sullivan. My father is Mason Landry. Chelsea, she’s kind of a failed Sullivan, for not becoming a lawyer like her brothers, and, you know, for marrying a pub owner and all that. When she had us, the triplets, she swore she’d never get pregnant again because, with her luck, she’d end up with seven or eight, and so she didn’t have more kids. It’s just the three of us, and though we’re triplets and all, we couldn’t be more different. Kelley is kinda stuck in his own thoughts, and Dillon, well, if he even has thoughts—”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Sullivans, especially if you’ve been in New Orleans all these years. Hell, maybe we’ve even represented your family in something. All the big families come to us. The Denaults, the Bensons, the Deschanels. But the Deschanels are technically family. We didn’t know that until a year or so ago, though. Someone found out that my great-great-grandpa Seamus had an affair with Ophelia Deschanel, and when it was discovered, because, you know, this was the olden times, she gave the baby up for adoption and Seamus and his wife adopted the kid. Patrick. It explains why most of us have some magic in us too. Like me. I can read emotions. My mom can slide things across the room, but it tires her out. It’s like in a video game where you have an energy bar? One slide of a coffee cup depletes her entire bar and she has to wait for regeneration. So, no combos for her. I suppose you probably don’t play video games, though.”
Elisabeth watched him. “You believe if I care enough about you I will spare you. Is that it? Is that what you’re doing?”
“Um. Well...”
“Oh, mon dieu.” Was she trying not to laugh?
“We can talk about something else.”
“I have a better idea for your mouth,” she said and disappeared, slamming the rotting door behind her.
9
Kelley
Colleen Deschanel lived at The Gardens on Jackson Avenue, one of the largest mansions in the Garden District, known for its columns spanning all four sides of the porch and the gardens that seemingly went on forever. It had more than two cross streets, because the property touched both Prytania and Coliseum. And if one still needed more guidance to find the monstrous structure, they need look no further than the throngs of tourists always parked out front taking pictures.
The Deschanels, like the Sullivans, were hierarchical. They cherished their system of heirs, passing the core of their power and money down through a single line. Colleen was not the heir, though she did have the power, assuming command of both their club of magi—The Deschanel Magi Collective—and the role as unofficial heir. The true heir had died, and the next in line wanted nothing to do with it. So it all fell to confident, capable, unshakeable Colleen, as if the fates themselves had conspired to make it happen.
Kelley, prior to seeking her out for assistance after the run-in with Vincenc, had met her a few times. Kelley’s mother and uncles had been close with Colleen and her siblings growing up, friendships that evolved into something more practical as they aged. Colleen and Uncle Rory had almost married in their youth, but now conspired solely on business matters.
She hadn’t been willing to have a serious conversation before, but he had new information to present, and a brother in mortal peril. Colleen could easily validate that herse
lf, with access to dozens of seers among her own family.
Aria answered the door. “Is Mrs. Deschanel expecting you?”
“No, but she will want to speak to me.” He hadn’t dared make an appointment that she could shrug off or reschedule.
Aria regarded him with amused skepticism. “I’m afraid she’s leaving for another engagement in ten minutes, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
Kelley shuffled around on the broad white boards, trying to ignore the curious onlookers. They were probably wondering what business he had to be knocking on the door to this grand estate. But the Sullivans were no slouches, either. Not as famous, but just as connected.
The door opened quicker than he expected. Colleen, looking as neatly pressed as always, smiled and invited him in.
“Would you like some tea? I’m afraid I don’t have long.”
“Aria told me. No, I’m fine. But I really do need to talk to you.”
“We’ll retire to the porch then. Come.”
The screened porch spanned an entire wing of the home, and beyond, delicious, exotic flora in bold colors beckoned, providing a canopy from the world beyond. He would happily pass a lazy afternoon watching birds land upon branches, and the crepe myrtles sway in the forgiving breeze. But this was not that day.
“What can I do for you?”
“Kieran is in danger. I saw it.”
A single brow rose. “Saw it? Tell me about that.”
“You know. Saw it. Like seers do.”
Colleen folded her hands over her knee. “What specifically did you see, Kelley?”
“I saw...” Now for the hard part. Where she would undoubtedly kick him out for funning with her. But they’d already eaten into three of the ten minutes she had. He required every second. “I saw him taken by a vampire.” Kelly swallowed hard.
Colleen didn’t kick him out. She didn’t even crack a smile. “Like the one you met in Seattle.”
Kelley’s mouth parted in shock. “You know about that?”
“I have to. You’re family. Our experiences matter. Collectively. Individually.” Colleen’s immaculate hair moved with her as she tilted her head to the side. “Is it? Like the one you met?”
“I don’t know... maybe... you believe me?”
Colleen looked forward again. She nodded. “Do you know the de Blancheforts?”
“Sure. They own half the land along River Road and a bunch in New Orleans, too. Richer than God, Mom says.”
Colleen smiled at that. “What I’m going to tell you, I would ordinarily reserve for the knowledge of the Council alone. But you, Kelley, have had a most unique experience. One I can say that only a few others in this family have ever had. You deserve to understand it.” She kept gazing straight ahead. “Vincenc told you what he was? Dhampir?”
Kelley nodded, still dazed by her easy acceptance of his claim.
“Many of the de Blancheforts are, as well. Their patriarch, Etienne, had one come to him with an offer. There are only so many dhampir, as you may know, and to make one, you must undo one. A trade of the gift that only The Master can offer. And the one who came to Etienne—Childeric they call him, claiming to have been a Merovingian king, of all things—had with him hundreds ready to lay down their gift and sleep eternal. He bade Etienne to carry this message to his own brood and convince them, over the years, to take the places of Childeric and his own tired creatures. And they did. Not all de Blancheforts are vampires, of course, but the ones who are live in the many old plantations Etienne and his descendants purchased over the years. A resting place where they can have seclusion and safety.”
“Wow,” was all Kelley could say.
“It was my own daughter, Amelia, who learned this and shared it with me. She had an encounter with one. As did my niece, Olivia. A Victor de Blanchefort, grandson of Etienne. He is still around, searching for something he will never find.”
“If you know about them, why haven’t you killed them?” Kelley asked.
“Killed them? I’d be no better than a dhampir if I did that, Kelley. They don’t wish to harm us any more than we wish to harm them. There’s a reason they stay away from New Orleans and live as hermits. And the de Blancheforts are family.”
“We’re related to them?”
“Going back to our days in France. But I digress, as you did not come here for a history lesson. I tell you all this only so you understand that I do believe you, and you are not losing your mind for believing you’ve had an encounter with a vampire. You have. And it is quite possible your brother has, as well, if your vision proves true. If he has, then the de Blancheforts have broken the unspoken truce between us, and that cannot go unanswered.”
“How do I know if my vision is true? There has to be a way to be certain.”
“I can sense you wish for me to consult the Deschanel seers for validation, but that is not how a seer learns to cull his visions into action. A seer learns by trusting his own self, and by listening to the words within him that bring thought to image. If you rely on others to interpret your visions, you will lose your faith in yourself, and for a seer, that is all you have. So I ask you again, tell me what you saw.”
Kelley took a deep breath and recounted the strange flashes of blood at the carnival. Of the vampire—this one, female, and beautiful—looking up with her radiant blue eyes, crimson dripping from her chin. It was not Kieran she feasted upon, but someone who had been with Kieran.
Kieran, then, in a trunk. Alive, still, but the reason was unclear. Bayou. A boat. Kieran trussed but unharmed. Afraid, but also exhilarated. Curious.
“Right then. I’ll have Aria cancel my next appointment. I am no seer myself, but I will try to instruct you in how to turn vague impressions into useful details. I don’t know if we can save your brother, but I know we can find him. How quickly is up to you. Are you ready?”
Kelley nodded so fast his vision blurred.
10
Elisabeth
Elisabeth shoved handfuls of blackberries into her Birkin, creating a deep purple mush in the lining of the expensive bag her aunt insisted she needed. Victorine would lose her mind when she saw the growing stains, but she had nowhere else to put the stupid berries. She hadn’t risen that morning intending to kill an innocent college student and kidnap the boyfriend, only to have to then decide whether to kill him after all or do what was necessary to keep him alive.
She didn’t want to kill him. She didn’t want to kill anyone. For a century and a half, Elisabeth de Blanchefort had done everything in her power to find better ways. Bayou animals were not as satisfying, but they were enough, sometimes. When they weren’t, she’d read the police reports from the local paper and find the very worst of society. Even that didn’t sit well with her, because a life was a life. Over time, she learned to go longer without blood, and she was proud of this. Her resolve was stronger than any other de Blanchefort, even if the word they would’ve used to describe this was weakness. It had been over a hundred years since she’d been so artless with a kill as she had been that night.
Stepping over swamp detritus and cypress knees, her mind wandered back to the days Victor brought her here.
He’d started taking her on his Rougarou hunts before she’d been given the Master’s gift. She often wondered why he chose her, a third grandchild, and a girl to boot. Her oldest brother, Benjamin, had been the heir, and there was even a spare in Geoffrey, but Victor chose Elisabeth. Every August, they’d spend two weeks in the ramshackle cabin, mostly in silence, reflecting on every sound outside in case it was the one they’d come for.
It never was, except that one time. But as Elisabeth aged from a girl to a young woman, she began to suspect that it wasn’t why they came. Or at least, not why he came with her.
Elisabeth, he said, when she was about sixteen. You’ve said nothing to your mother and father about accepting your gift. All your siblings have either been to the Master’s Tree, or look forward to doing so once they h
ave come into their full adult form. But not you.
I don’t know if I will, Papa.
What troubles you, mon cher? What have you not told your mother and father?
Elisabeth was afraid to answer. Not afraid of her grandfather. Never him. But of what he might think of her, if she chose honesty.
But Victor de Blanchefort was a reader of minds, and though all de Blancheforts were taught from a young age to block such intrusions, he always seemed to know when she was lying.
I’m afraid to kill, Papa. No, not afraid. That’s not right. I’m not afraid to kill. I’m afraid of... of what killing will do to me.
Is that all?
Elisabeth was so taken back by his answer all she could say was, is that not everything?
You fear a loss of your humanity. But you will no longer be human. Dhampir live by their own rules, and they are essential, but they are not the rules of man. We are not bound by the ethics and morals of a mortal race once we take the gift, and so our souls, for whatever they are, are free from such judgment.
But... all I know is my humanity. I was raised on it. It is part of me, if not all of me, and I cannot simply forget it once I am something else.
Mon cher, you will never forget it. You will wish you had never had it. You will revile it, spit upon it, be glad it’s gone! You will be washed anew, in the blood of the Master, for a life bigger than your mortal mind can ever imagine! I have loved not once but many times. I have lived almost two lifetimes and I will live two thousand more. He’d touched her cheek. His fingers were cold. Your first kill will give you pause. Your second will give you power.
But he was wrong. Her second made her feel worse, and her third caused her to go into hiding for a full year. When at last they found her, shaking and whispering in French, a language she’d not spoken since girlhood, they forced her to drink until she was well again. No one let her out of their sight for several more years, and only then when she convincingly lied and said she was well past her disgust of killing.
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