Le Roi Du Sang

by Tiana Laveen

  “Tick, tick, tick… time has run out, Mickey. If I gave you one more day, what would the others think, huh? Now that wouldn’t be fair at all. You had one job…” He put up one finger. “To get me that fuckin’ money back plus interest… This is an investment!”

  His fangs extended and he found himself licking his chops as he stared down at the man, who was now shaking, sobbing, and pissing himself while Whiskey kept him down in the seat with one hand.

  “I told you that failure was no longer an option. I have looked high and low trying to find the woman. It’s been quite an expense to track her down. I don’t even know how much I’ve spent for this endeavor, but it’s been way too fucking much. I’ve hired numerous detectives. They all bombed. I’ve had the help of all sorts of so-called professionals, bounty hunters, you name it, but not one of you motherfuckers can find this fuckin’ woman!” He kicked over a nearby chair, causing it to shatter, the wood splintering and sliding in a million directions. “Sure! It’s a needle in the haystack. I don’t know her name… don’t know how she looks, but I know she’s here somewhere. That much, I know for certain. I told you what I could, and I knew the job wouldn’t be easy… but it’s not impossible.”

  “You’re right! It’s not impossible! I can do it. If ya don’t want the money now, let me get the girl! Gimme another crack at it!”

  He began to pace around the man, while rubbing on his chin.

  “All the cracks have been sealed. This has been going on for years… The search continues, but I’m running out of time, just like you have tonight.” He went around the chair one last time and gripped the arms of it, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s and looking the fearful maggot in the eye. The fella’s dark eyelashes webbed with liquid, his enlarged pores seeped with sweat. The man’s fear stunk like burnt human flesh on an open fire. Weakness made Alexandre want to vomit, especially when it came from the male of any species. “It’s life or death… It’s the most important thing to me right now, and you failed,” Alexandre stated calmly… so calmly.

  “Maybe… maybe there’s been a mistake, Alexandre! Maybe she died or she isn’t here. It happens! Let me… let me find out for ya! PLEASE!” the pitiful bastard blubbered.

  “It was clear… there was no mistake. The Sorcier Cadieux makes no mistakes. I was told as a boy that she would be here, in this city, at this time.” He pointed towards the window but kept his eye on the man. “I do not know much about her, but I can sense her… She’s too far away to corner though. It’s almost as if she’s disguised her scent. It’s enraging, you know that?” He narrowed his eyes as his heart beat faster… a reminder of how the mere topic drove him insane, made him want to give chase to a ghost. “It shouldn’t be this difficult, but it is. And with all I’m going through, all I did was ask that you repay the loan I gave you after you came groveling to me, begging, pleading like the fragile son of a bitch that you are!”

  Snot trailed from Mickey’s nose, his words now incoherent as he cried like a fucking baby.

  “I hired you to find her. You could not. I didn’t slice your fucking throat for that failure. I let you live! And then you returned to me, needing more, promising that you’d find the woman but needed money for some debt. So you asked for an advance… more money. I was told you were the best. You’re nothin’, Mickey. You’re worthless… You won’t even taste all that fuckin’ great, but tonight, you’ll just have to do.”

  He grinned from ear to ear as he traced the fucker’s face with his fingertip, the nail on his pinky extending, growing several inches then curving over. Mickey caught sight of it and winced. The skin around his eyes crimped, almost closed shut as if he were trying to withdraw within himself, like some frightened turtle.

  “You’re weak… an addict! But you see, Mickey, I know your greatest desires and fears… I know what makes you tick.” He tapped the side of the man’s head, then grabbed his jaw and snapped it hard out of alignment. The crackling noise echoed in the room. The bastard’s eyes grew large and a gurgling sound emitted from the back of his throat… too afraid no doubt to attempt to speak in such a condition. “That must feel awful, huh?” He laughed as he dropped to his knees before the miserable man, yet still towered over him. “Let’s see…”

  He looked deep into Mickey’s eyes, raiding his fears and desires. Tiptoeing in his brain with the greatest of ease, invading his privacy in the most beautiful of ways. “Ahhhhh, there it is. You’re afraid of rats… how funny.” He laughed. “Fuckin’ terrified of ’em! And your greatest wish is to be filthy rich. Makes tha whole sayin’, ‘gettin’ over like a fat rat’ come to life, right?”

  Alexandre got to his feet. The lights in the room suddenly vanished, and they were drowned in darkness. He could hear Mickey’s rapid heartbeat, like a running rabbit’s feet in the wilderness. The sound of rats filled the place… chewing, scurrying. Mickey cried out, wailing in fear as the sensation of rats nipping at his ankles and feet soon commenced. Just as quickly as it occurred, the lights suddenly came back on, and Alexandre burst out laughing so hard, he almost choked.

  “Oh man! That was great! You should’ve seen your face…” His smile quickly vanished, and then, he glared up at the ceiling and crossed his arms over his bare chest to take a few deep breaths before proceeding to dislocate his own jaw, making it snap and crack as he extended his fangs. Famished, his mouth watered at the bounty before him.

  He could feel his veins throb with his essence, excitement in every fiber of his being in anticipating a fine feast. Mickey’s screams blended in with Otis’ crooning of ‘Pain in My Heart.’ In a flash, Alexandre buried his incisors in the prey’s neck, while ripping at his flesh with one hand and holding him close with the other. Sweet, crimson blood sprayed in all directions, painting the rugs and nearby wall red. He sucked and drank, draining the bastard dry in a matter of minutes, until all that remained was a ghostly white corpse, dried out to the bone. The body fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Alexandre licked his fingers, lapped at his thumb, then locked his jaw back in place. He returned to his record player while Whiskey and Bruce carried the measly leftovers away, closing his office door behind them.

  Alexandre turned up the music, then went back to the window, stepping into a puddle of Mickey’s blood along the way. The city lights twinkled and sparkled, glowing like diamonds and colorful jewels…

  She’s out there somewhere… one of those glowing lights is hers. He inhaled and exhaled hard and heavy, then again, closing his eyes, falling into a trance.

  I never give up, my bride. I’m going to find you. But please know, you will be punished when I do. I’ve grown impatient, and you are to blame…

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m Your Venus, I’m Your Fire – At Your Desire

  Over thirty identification cards, passports, and driver’s licenses from various countries and across the US lay sprawled on Venus’ kitchen table, in her Manhattan apartment. They were all expired, but at times she enjoyed pulling them out and travelling down memory lane. She picked up one and smiled.

  Toronto, Canada – 1943.

  There weren’t too many places on Earth she’d not travelled to or through by boat, train, or plane. She’d returned to New York a few months prior after living in Rome for three years. She’d bounced around quite a bit, but always found her way back to NYC, where it had all begun for her…

  Manhattan was far too expensive, but she needed to stop spending so much time in Brooklyn and Queens. She couldn’t afford to be remembered.

  Placing her red coffee cup to her lips, she drank, letting the hot liquid slide down her throat. She refused to give up the routine she’d grown accustomed to because a shred of humanity was needed in her life. The usage of utensils, sipping beverages with friends at coffee shops, watching television, shitty YouTube prank videos, and the like was a required protocol she’d demanded of herself. She took another sip and grimaced. Despite the abhorring taste of the brew, she’d maintained the ritual for centuries and refused to
give it up.

  Notwithstanding her ‘condition’, retaining these key components of human normalcy proved essential, surpassing even her desire to divorce herself from the past. She smiled as she got a whiff of something sweet… The aroma reminded her of her mistress Geneviève’s signature scent. A wall of melancholy instantly consumed her then; her smile melted away like black candles snuffed out by Wiccan priestesses while they summoned the undead.

  Geneviève may very well have been a High Priestess herself. She definitely knew magic…

  That seemed unheard of in the vampire circles she’d travelled with the woman, though the woman swore they existed. She’d been revered, feared, and admired back in those days. People bowed down to the tall woman, dropped to their knees as soon as she made an appearance. Geneviève had been her freedom, and her imprisonment, too…

  I miss her… What’s it been? A hundred and twelve years since I last saw her?

  The woman had been good to her—the kind of good that was unheard of in such a sick, cruel world. She’d kept her promises to take Venus around the world, educate her, refine her, and treat her well. Venus had never been in a vehicle before, let alone big boats and the like. With Geneviève, she wore expensive clothing, including thick petticoats made by highly-sought-after seamstresses, and slept in beds that were so high off the floor, she needed steps to climb into them. Her hair was done at all times, sometimes braided and adorned with gold and silver beads, and at other times pulled back in a knotted updo. Her now healthy jet-black, kinky mane hit her hips when stretched with the fingers. Most didn’t believe it was hers, but it most definitely was… all thirty-two inches of it.

  Geneviève had also taught her about her mother’s culture, Nigeria, about all of Africa, India, and Egypt. The woman had showed her beauty rituals, how to handle money matters, and yes… how to hunt and feed. Though her mistress had been stern and secretive at times, Venus knew it was for her own protection. Their relationship had been at times hard to explain, yet they’d shared a strong connection, one that couldn’t be denied.

  She was my second teacher… Grandmama was my first. Geneviève taught a slave to read and write. I recognized some numbers, like dates on a calendar, things like that, a few words here and there, but not enough to get by.

  She’d immediately taught her to read and write in three different languages as soon as she got her away from South Carolina. When introduced, she stated that Venus was her assistant, but called her Annabelle in an effort to alleviate the suspicions of those who may have recognized her, despite them living in various European countries during most of their time together.

  Geneviève had warned that one could never be too careful about such things, for Venus had a bounty on her head. An escaped slave from a large plantation, one who’d been purchased for a pretty penny and was definitely of child-bearing age was a hot commodity.

  Child bearing… breeding… I hate you!

  Flashes of the Miller Plantation dashed through her mind.

  She gritted her teeth and soon tasted blood. Her fangs had sprung from the gumline and sliced into the tender flesh of her lower lip. The flavor of iron made her pupils dilate; she could feel it, just as she was aware of every single thing her body did at all times. Her every sense was heightened and then heightened some more.

  She quickly retracted her fangs, gaining control of herself, and made an earnest effort to shake the repulsive, heart-wrenching memories out of her mind. She turned towards her living room window and noted the bustling sounds of the city were unusually amplified. She glanced at the large black and white clock on her wall, with Roman numerals on its face. It was rush hour traffic. She looked down at the passing cars, yellow taxis and buses going to and fro in bumper-to-bumper traffic. She’d been home for two hours after work and the day had been a blur.

  The bright sun was setting, the sky streaked with watercolor hues of candy apple red and cotton candy lavender. Pressing her hand against the cool glass, she took a deep breath, and then another. Her phone rang, jerking her out of her deliberations. She walked back to her small kitchen, retrieved her cell, and answered with a smile.

  “Hello, Camille.”

  “Hi, babe. Do you wanna hang out with me and Deborah this upcoming Saturday? There’s a party and—”

  “You know I would, Camille, but—”

  “Come on, come on, come on! It’ll be fun!”

  “You and Deborah would have no fun with me, believe me.” Venus’ lips curled in a grin as she played the modest act. Anything to get out of being at some club or shindig where the lights were too bright and the scent of the people swarming around with ill intentions made her either sick or ravenous. “Remember what happened last time? You both danced the night away while I played on my phone and then got into a Twitter beef with some fucker about the life of Vincent Van Gogh.”

  “Oh no, no, no… you’re not doing this to us again, Venus, okay? Van Gogh defender or not, I need you to lend me your ear, all right?”

  “Cute.” Venus chortled.

  “I will not be tossed aside like last month’s assignments. You told us no last week and the week before that and then, when you came out with us a couple months ago, you left after fifteen minutes and caught a Lyft home. Come on, Venus!” the woman whined in her sweet little way, triggering Venus to smile as she walked out of the galley and back to the window to people watch. “You can’t stay held up in that lecture hall discussing dead artists, or jammed up in your home drinking wine alone all the time. Live a little!”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes rested on a muscular man donning a black hoodie who was holding a rolled newspaper in one hand and a bookbag in the other before flinging it over his shoulder. She zoned in on him as though her eyes were binoculars. She could practically smell his anxiousness from so far away. That feeling of unease emanating from others made her queasy and thrilled all at once.

  Maybe he’s running late. His energy is tangible… Shit. Everyone is running late around here, right? Does he have a wife? A lover to go home to?

  “Well?!” Her friend interrupted her private thoughts, bringing her back to the here and now. “Are you hanging out with us or not?”

  “I have a lot of papers to grade and—”

  “We’re coming to get you at eight and that’s that, Venus. Yashek is having a party and, knowing him, it’s going to be incredible. He throws the best bashes! Open bar, too. Look, we’ve worked our asses off. It’s time to unwind for the weekend. I won’t take no for an answer. See ya Saturday night.”

  And then, just like that, the call was over. Camille was a fellow professor at Colombia University. While Venus taught Art History, her friend taught Drama and Theater Arts. Deborah was part time and taught Film and Media Studies. The three often hung out together gossiping, sharing work stories, growing friendships… This one she actually liked. Camille was fun and beautiful with her short, reddish-brown, bob cut hair and dark tan skin.

  She had an asshole ex-husband that she still fucked every now and again for posterity, and a teenage step-daughter who she doted on and spoiled. The woman was a bit too trusting, but she was intellectually astute and worth the time of day.

  Venus brought the cup of coffee to her lips once again and swallowed down the awful muck. She observed the muscular man disappear out of a store he’d dipped in minutes earlier and emerge with a plastic white sack in his hand, more than likely containing something to eat for his dinner that evening. She smiled sadly as she recalled picking beans with her grandmother, chewing on uncooked collard greens, tasting the bitter sweetness as she ground the dark leaves between her small teeth. She remembered the smell of soft oatmeal and raisin cookies made of flour and cane sugar, big, pink spongey cakes covered in tart pineapples and syrupy cherries… baked in the big house. When the White folks’ dinner was over, she and the other Black children got the leftover sweets.

  Her recollections of that time resurfaced, as they often did when she felt all alone in the world. Howev
er, in those brief moments, those passing periods of limited joy, she held on to them, like she would onto busted beads from a broken, precious pearl necklace… some slipping through the spaces of her fingers, hitting the floor and rolling away from her on the ground… while others would grow hot from being squeezed so hard in the palm of her hand. She’d hold those few pearls to her chest, so tight, as if her life depended upon it. She couldn’t release those coveted jewels, for they were the only thing that remained constant. Memories remained constant, never-changing, like the locked gates of Heaven and broken chains of Hell.

  She looked down and shook her head, wringing her hands as her body surged with heat, her muscles tightening and rolling beneath her flesh…

  She’d probably have to move again in a few years like she always did. She wasn’t aging, so people would have questions. It was the way of her kind. There was no longer any such thing as home. She sometimes left dwellings she’d decorated in her own special way, places she adored, people she cherished, and yet, the gnawing hunger and the pitch black, cold darkness within her would never allow her to fully bond with the outside world. It would be a rare treat to relax, sigh with relief, feel true love for anyone, or to take her time doing anything at all. What would it be like to dip her toes in the water of the stream of life while braiding spiky weeds and tiny white flowers together to make a fine necklace provided by Mother Nature?

  After pouring herself a glass of red wine, she sat down at her small kitchen table, going over her students’ papers while Kelly Rowland’s, ‘Ice’ played on her Pandora playlist.

  A few hours later, when the city was a bit quieter and the crack and heroin addicted whores, the sleepless homeless and mentally deranged swarmed the spit and piss covered streets trying to find a dollar, a fuck, or a fight to pick, she put on her long black cloak, slid on her thigh high boots and black leather gloves, and headed out into the night. Forty-two minutes later she spotted a man asleep inside of his car…