The Vampire, The Witch & The Werewolf: A New Orleans Threesome

by Louisa Bacio

  A noise behind her. She held still, willing her heart to stop beating, fearful he could hear it. He could smell her fear. She listened to the quiet, convincing herself that it would be all right, that she would be able to escape. Freedom she so wanted.

  A slimy tentacle slid along her naked shoulder, leaving a wet trail of goo.

  Screaming, she turned away, only to be grabbed tightly around her ankles. She plunged toward the floor, and readied herself for the approaching pain.

  She woke, sitting upright in bed, her scream shattering the night. Her throat raw, she screamed until her voice grew hoarse, until her air ran out.

  Strong arms wrapped her, and she instantly felt safer. She was wrong, though. It wasn't Trevor. At some point, Lawrence must have relieved him of Lily-sitting duty.

  “Hey, are you all right?” he asked, slowly rocking her in his arms.

  The demon in her dreams wanted her purity, her virginity, her soul.

  Would they be able to keep her safe?

  Chapter Ten

  Lily

  “Ready to be schooled?” Lawrence asked, coming into the dining room with a handful of papers. Lily had been eating a quick snack before heading back down to the bookstore for her evening shift.

  After the run-in with local hooligans on the streets the other day, she'd decided to take Lawrence up on the offer of working in the store … temporarily. She certainly couldn't hide indoors forever, but for right now her microcosm of a world felt safe.

  The days had settled into a rhythm with their late nights, sleeping in, and then helping run the home-based business in the afternoons and evenings. Usually, Lawrence emerged from his daytime slumber around six in the evening. She had come upstairs, hoping to run into him.

  “I'm always ready,” she said with a smile. “What do you have for me?” She looked at the sheaf of papers he held, anxious that today might be the day that she discovered who she was.

  “Ever hear of ‘the witching hour?’” Lawrence asked, with a touch of playfulness, as if he had knowledge of something that he was hiding. She couldn't help but observe his striking attire. Tonight he wore a red velvet jacket over jeans and a white T-shirt. His dark hair hung shaggy, just a little bit too long, to the edge of his strong jaw line, and he sported the smallest cropping of hair beneath his bottom lip. She longed to feel it against her mouth. He looked like he should be serving up cocktails in a high-class nightclub rather than avoiding paper cuts as he stocked books.

  “Well, sure,” Lily responded. “Round about midnight, right? And isn't there a film with that title, too?”

  “Ignore the mass media movies,” Lawrence said. “They're good for a scare for the norms, but offer only a glimpse into paranormal reality. Traditionally, it's thought that witches are the most powerful at midnight, but there's another time that's out there, too—3 a.m.”

  Lily sat at the table, inspecting her hands and nails, in need of new polish, as Lawrence explained the history and basic beliefs that accompanied the mystical time.

  “Some mythology points to 3 a.m. as being the witching hour of power because it's the opposite hour of when Christ supposedly died, at 3 p.m. But many discount those comparisons because there's no foundation. Plus, why correlate the concept of witchcraft with evil? It can also be used for good. The research I've read, such as on The Mind's Eye website, even points to the dead of the night being when REM sleep is the strongest so people would naturally feel paralyzed at that time,” Lawrence continued on, “Still, much happens that cannot be explained. People wake up for no reason.”

  Lawrence's demeanor grew a bit more serious. “And what time do you mostly wake up from your nightmares?” he asked.

  It didn't take long for Lily to respond. “Most of the time, I wake, and it's 3 a.m. or right before. I always look at the clock,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “So wouldn't it be natural, for a witch to come into her own powers at the age of, say, thirty?” he paused, which made Lily consider the implications.

  All of this chaos had started right after she'd turned twenty-nine, and as she grew closer and closer to that magic milestone of thirty, it had spiraled even more out of control. “Are you saying that I'm a witch?”

  “I think so …” Lawrence came back, “but there are other mystical qualities that you possess that can't really be explained with the label witch. You are a unique individual.”

  “And the whole ‘can't have sex thing?’” Lily asked jumping to the heart of the matter. Coming up on thirty and still a virgin. She felt like a bad imitation of an old maid. There was a time in her life when she wanted to wait for the “right” person, but lately she'd begun to feel desperate. When it simply wouldn't happen, she felt like she would give it up to just about anybody—but she did have her standards, no doubt.

  Now? Now she was old enough to realize that it all mattered. Her heart was at stake, not just her body. Thinking about getting horizontally physical, and being in such a close proximity to Lawrence cranked up her hormones. She pulled at the neckline of her turtleneck. Either the temperature had skyrocketed recently, or she was even worse off—and hard up—than she liked to admit.

  “Still working on that issue, too. It seems connected to the other powers situation,” Law said, “and I don't totally understand it.”

  He stopped looking at the notes in his hands, and turned his attention to Lily. As his eyes caressed her, she felt her nipples perk up, as if her body knew something was about to happen that her mind wasn't necessarily privy to. Dampness settled between her legs, letting her know that physically she was more than ready for a lover. Perhaps, Lawrence acted as a key. Maybe she needed a non-human lover. Maybe something about her body connected to his on another level that neither of them knew about. And where did that leave Trevor?

  Within an instant, she saw Law's pupils dilate and his interest level rise. Just as quickly, he looked away, and the feeling dissipated. Either she had been imagining the connection, or he'd squashed it for some reason. She wished that she could read him, and his feelings. She strained to pick up on something, but if it had been there, he'd blocked her.

  “You've been to doctors, right?” he asked. “It's not something physical or psychosomatic?”

  Her muscles tightened up. The previous warmth poured out of her body, leaving her cold and unsatisfied. “What? Like I don't want to have sex, subconsciously, so I purposely make it impossible for my body to be penetrated?” she asked, feeling insulted.

  If only it could have been that easy. Matt, her first real boyfriend in her senior year of high school, had asked her the very same question. Laying in his twin bed, beneath a blue plaid comforter that he'd probably had since he was twelve, with his dick rubbing against her thighs. She'd wanted to give herself to him, and to feel that magical love connection between them, but her damned body wouldn't cooperate. No matter how much he poked and prodded, and believe her, he'd tried. A teenage boy with a willing sexual partner, playing hooky from school?

  Nothing. Nada. Zip.

  He'd ended up coming all over her legs, and she'd escaped back to the group home to shower off the sticky mess. The next week, he'd used the excuse of their “differences” to break up with her, and soon started dating Sally Jane, the overly friendly senior class vice president, who rumor had it “put out.”

  For someone who had been deemed such a “bad girl” by the system, how come she never could be quite bad enough?

  Lawrence seemed oblivious to her mental hiatus, and continued to talk about the potential medical aspects of the situation.

  “It's documented. For some, the fear of the unknown, and potential pain is so great that they can literally clench up their muscles, and close off the entrance,” Lawrence said. He looked at her expectantly, as if he were waiting to hear the answer to his question.

  “No. I've never been ‘checked out’ by doctors. And talk to a shrink? Thanks, but no thanks. I did enough of that when I was in the system.”

  She'd come to
New Orleans to find out some answers, not to be recommended to the medical profession. Still … a witch? She'd learned something new.

  “So what do we do now?” Merely asking the question made her lose a little bit more hope for the future. Still, she'd continue on until the sliver of hope still living inside her was extinguished.

  “Keep looking.” Lawrence didn't even pause in his reply. “We'll find the answer, and the cure.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lily

  The smoky mildew smell of old books filled Lily's nostrils and black ink left smears over all of her fingertips. That's what she deserved, coming to booksellers in order to find out about herself. She could literally take a fingerprint test just with the old ink lining her fingers. She was not-so-silently cursing Lawrence for sending her into the stacks to make sense of the piles of books.

  Another yawn overtook her, and she rubbed her eyes. If the damn nightmares would stop, she'd feel a whole lot better during the day. She needed something to help keep her going.

  Her lower back ached from bending over the stacks, and lifting the heavy tomes. She straightened out, stretching her arms up high, and raising up on her tip-toes. The act alone felt so good, a small moan of pleasure escaped from her mouth.

  All of her research kept taking her back to the Greek god, Arimanius. The history books didn't know much about the Dark Lord, and an Internet search had proved even more futile. Wikipedia listed him as a god of the underworld, and then referred researchers to another entry on Ahriman, which gave even less information. In her mind, Lily had started thinking of Arimanius as Ari. Nothing like a nickname for a demon to sound less scary.

  The more research Lily did, the less she felt like she knew. Surely this wasn't what she had in mind when she came to Lawrence and Trevor for help. She wasn't the expert to pore through books, they were. Weren't they? Maybe Lawrence was simply looking for some cheap labor. As she unpacked another box, she slowly organized the unshelved material. Might as well put her time to good use.

  Over the bookstore's stereo system, the tempo of the music shifted, catching her attention. It was strange to suddenly hear the music when, after the last hour of instrumental, she'd blocked out what was playing. Suddenly she tuned into Ke$ha's “We R Who We R,” and although it was definitely a party tune that she'd heard in a few bars, the song spoke to Lily. Whatever answers she found, she'd still be herself. She couldn't lose herself in the search in order to find herself.

  None of it made sense, and it all made sense at the same time.

  The jingle of bells from the front pushed her out of reflection, and she heard Trevor call a greeting out to the shopper. Something in the were's tone, though, made her look out from behind the stacks. From her vantage point, she couldn't see Trevor but the back of a tall man, carrying a box of books. Nothing new there, for a used bookstore …

  “Sorry, Lawrence won't be here until later this evening,” Trevor explained to the newcomer. “If you'd like, you can leave the box and a card, and he can give you a call later with an estimate.”

  “I didn't carry this shit-load through the streets for nothing, man,” the guy said. The air charged with the man's animosity. Under his shirt, his muscles flexed as if he was making up his mind to do something. If some sort of trouble broke out, she wouldn't be much help.

  The man dropped the box heavily onto the counter, rattling the display cases and slightly stepped to the side. Lily still couldn't see Trevor's face, but he lifted his arms out in a universal gesture that said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Frank, we've been over this before. Lawrence does the buying. I'm just the glorified hired help, and he only works in the evenings.”

  “Don't know how you guys do business keeping those type of hours,” the man said, raising his voice and sounding a bit drunk.

  “Tell you what,” Trevor continued. “Why don't I give you ten dollars for a deposit, and you head down to the bar at the end of the street for a few beers and wait for Lawrence.”

  With a ding, the old-fashioned register opened up, and Lily guessed that Trevor had handed over the money. The man shook his head, took the money and stalked out mumbling to himself about dealing with the creeps at the bookstore.

  As soon as he left the store, Lily came forward. “You handled that guy well,” she said, startling Trevor.

  “Who Frank? He's mostly a pussycat, but can be a mean drunk, especially when he's broke,” Trevor said. “He scours estate sales for collectible used books, and sometimes uncovers a rare treasure.”

  “Estate sales? You mean dead people's books?” she asked with a shiver.

  Laughing, Trevor nodded. “I guess you could see it that way. ‘Dead people's books.’ Is there something wrong with that?”

  “I don't know, doesn't the family want them?” Lily thought of the potential inheritance of one of her relative's items. Not like she had any relatives that she knew of, but books seemed so personal. And, if a person was the type to make notations in the text, a person could learn so much about another just by looking through their favorite books.

  “You would be amazed at what people sell, give away, or even throw away. We get so many Bibles in here. Now there's history for you, a family Bible.”

  Lily couldn't even imagine. To have something as personal as a Bible that belonged to one of her parents, her mother? She'd trade just about anything for that connection to her unknown past.

  All she possessed was a scrap of material with her name on it: Lilianna Anima. It was written in brown ink, and the color made Lily think of dried blood.

  Digging through the books in the box, Trevor made a few neat piles on the counter. Stephen King's Salem's Lot went with a copy of Anne Rice's Interview with a Vampire. A few worn cookbooks went into another pile, and some books on local history stacked together.

  “You're more than a glorified salesclerk, you know?” Lily said.

  “Yeah, I know, but I don't want guys like Frank to know about that. Lawrence is the money guy. Better to deal with cash with him around, than for me to handle it,” he said. “Otherwise, they'd be bothering me all day long when we see most of our tourist trade.”

  “I get it,” she said, dusting her hands off on her jeans. She felt like she was covered in a shimmer of grime from head to toe. What she wanted more than anything right this moment was a hot, steamy bath. Well, and maybe some hot steamy sex to go with it.

  “How's the research going?” Trevor asked, instantly breaking her fantasy.

  A blush bloomed in Lily's face, as if he might have known was she was thinking. She shrugged her shoulders. “It's going. Not having too much luck, and like our friend Frank who was just here, I think I might need more of Lawrence's help, too. I feel like I'm running in circles, whether I'm looking through books or clumsily searching the web. I keep coming across the name ‘Arimanius,’ but can't find much about him. It's just this feeling.”

  “I'm a firm believer that you must listen to those inner callings,” Trevor said knowingly. Lily got the idea that he meant much more than their current topic of research.

  “What about you, Trevor, would you sell family Bibles?”

  He stopped shuffling through the new inventory, and got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were looking into some distant future that only he could see. “Only if my life depended upon it.”

  “Well, let's hope that it doesn't come to that,” she said more light-heartedly than she felt.

  “But I will sell other dead people's Bibles,” he returned.

  Again, a sense of dread overcame Lily, as if a spirit were trying to tell her something or warn her away. “Do you believe in ghosts, Trev?” she asked.

  “Definitely,” he replied. “In fact, I think we have a number of dear departed spirits that haunt this bookstore. You'd never believe how many times I've put a book down and when I returned for it, it was gone.”

  “So I've heard,” she said, with disbelief in her voice. “You've seen them?” There was somethin
g about being watched without seeing the person, just feeling them, that made her feel uneasy. How could she protect herself from the unknown and unseeable?

  “Why not? Oh, you mean vampires, werewolves, and demons are fine, but throw in a few unsettled dead people and suddenly you get creeped out?” Trevor said, coming out from behind the counter and crossing the room to the Local Reads section. He pulled out the History of Ghosts in New Orleans, and handed it to Lily.

  “Here's some reading. If you're going to live in this town, and our home, you might as well get used to some of the invisible inhabitants.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lily

  In addition to the undead one, the shifter, and herself, supposedly the Pages acted as home to several ghosts. Common local belief held that the ghosts were children who had died in a fire at an orphanage. Just the thought alone made Lily shiver. She'd spent so much time in “group homes,” which was modern-speak for orphanage, that she could only imagine what these young kids had gone through. She sighed, pushing down the bitter memories. They should have been loved by a family; instead, they burned to death alone—or together—depending upon how one twisted the tale.

  Ironic how the three of them – Lily, Lawrence, and Trevor – had all grown up alone, without the traditional family, and then found themselves together here, with ghosts with a similar background.

  As she lay in bed, Lily did her best to ignore the various creaks and groans in the old building. She told herself it was simply the settling of the old building. Hotter during the day, the wood expanded, and then, during the cold nights, it contracted, causing the sounds she currently heard.