by J. R. Rain
Quite close to what you are doing now, Sssamantha. Though, they wouldn’t have hidden like ratsss.
“What, they just streaked?” I blink at the wall of a house in front of me.
You forget, this country wasss founded by men terrified of the human body. Hissstory wasss far more bawdy than you’re allowed to believe.
I’m definitely more unsettled by Elizabeth talking so much than I am at the thought of the vampires of the 1400s shapeshifting in public. And yeah, I guess she’s got a point. The U.S. isn’t exactly the most open society when it comes to showing skin. Hell, even in the mid-twentieth century—a time still far in the future—there will be actual cops whose only job will be to run around on beaches measuring women’s swimsuits with rulers.
But, back to Elizabeth. She’s being unusually chatty. Or, I’m being unusually permissive by not stuffing her back in the box. It could be something relating to time travel that’s helping her surface, or perhaps it’s my desperation talking. Could even be her desperation if she thinks I have a chance of stopping my whole vampiric rebirth. But, she is right about one thing: I know I can’t tolerate waiting like 150 years to see my children again. Who could I even be after that much time? My personality could totally shift, or God forbid, Elizabeth could latch onto my loneliness and maybe push me to that point of ‘screw it’ and surrendering to her.
She writhes in pleasure at the thought of taking me over.
Stuff it, lady. This body is mine.
I cinch the last of my bootlaces and stand, fluffing out my crinoline and the actual dress over top of it. As long as it took me to strip, fly, and put everything back on again, I should’ve just walked. I don’t think I saved much time.
Unfortunately, it’s pretty much the middle of the night, so I’m not going to get much searching done. A woman walking around alone after dark will attract too much attention, and most everyone I’d want to ask about finding the particular man I’m looking for is asleep.
So, I do the only reasonable thing a girl in my position would: locate the nearest hotel and charm my way into a free room. Once upstairs, I luxuriate in a bath for the next hour. Or two.
Not like I’m going to sleep or anything.
***
My night proved reasonably entertaining, all things considered.
I had a long conversation with a woman named Mary Connor, or at least, her ghost. The poor thing had been murdered in my hotel room going on twenty years ago, and the locals didn’t put much effort into investigating since she was “just one of them Irish.” It didn’t help that she’d worked as a lady of the night either. She’d have been more restless, but the man who killed her wound up dead himself months later—shot after being caught cheating at cards. I’m not entirely sure what causes ghosts to linger around like that, especially since she couldn’t ever get justice.
Then again, I’ve also learned that most ghosts are just fragments of who they really were. Her soul—her true self—was long gone, having gone to heaven or hell or somewhere in between. That she remembered anything after twenty years was pretty amazing. But I knew that her memory would fade, and so would her general shape, until she was nothing more than an amorphous ball of energy flitting about here and there, to be captured as “orbs” on digital cameras a hundred and fifty years from now.
Anyway, having someone to talk to where I could be myself (as in, not have to hold any secrets back) was a much-needed release. It’s not as if I have to watch what I say around her. Who would she tell? She didn’t believe me about being a vampire until I showed her my fangs, but her reaction at that point surprised me even more: curiosity. I suppose I shouldn’t be confused at her lack of fear. She doesn’t exactly have any blood to be stolen, nor is she susceptible to being murdered again. And, since I happened to be the first person she could talk to since becoming a ghost, she had a lot to say, even if she was only a fragment of her former self.
Alas, she has no idea who I might be looking for, as she doesn’t often leave her room. The only times she does is if one of the hotel staff annoys her. Then, she’ll spend a day or two pestering them.
She found the conversation most fascinating when I speak of the future. Though, by the time I got done telling her about smartphones and the Internet, I think she thought me insane. Or maybe I simply grew tired and wound up rambling incoherently at that point since the sun had almost come up.
I awake later that afternoon and enjoy a few more minutes of naked freedom before forcing myself to get dressed in my only outfit (the irritatingly heavy burgundy-hued gown). Being in a hotel, I head downstairs and set about politely interrogating the staff about the man Chloe described. While poking around in their heads, I make sure that the management believes I’ve paid for two more nights. Naturally the way my luck works, none of them remember seeing anyone fitting the description of the man I’m looking for. I rush out the door, now worried this person could leave Richmond at any moment and I’ll miss him. I’m not experiencing any strange feelings of direction from Elizabeth, so I proceed with doing things the old-fashioned way: pounding pavement. Or pounding dirt as the case may be. Not every road here is paved or planked.
For hours, I run around Richmond asking after a ‘well-dressed man with small sunglasses.’ While I verbally describe him, I prod their memory with the image I lifted from Chloe’s thoughts. Brothels, taverns, hotels, shops, and markets go by one after the next with nothing to show for it. Feeling like I’m never going to see my kids again, I draw in a breath to let off a tremendous scream of frustration in the middle of the street, but catch myself.
Emotion won’t help me right now. I need to stay focused and not give in to anger and worry. As much as I think that voodoo priestess didn’t fling me back here on purpose, I still want to do unseemly things to her. It hadn’t been personal. It couldn’t have been. No way she knew I’d come looking for Angela. Which makes me wonder what the heck she was trying to do with that spell in the first place? I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything about voodoo that has the least bit to do with time travel. Maybe something went wrong or it’s like a bad idea to fly too close to a spell in progress… like swimming too soon after eating or something.
Ugh. None of which helps me now.
Hands balled in fists, I storm down the next street, finding myself heading into an area with large houses. As far as I’ve been able to tell, there’s not much of a thriving ‘occult’ community here. Nowhere near what had been in New Orleans. It doesn’t make much sense to me why a man like the one I’m searching for would even visit Richmond.
Of all possible luck, I stumble across a local police officer who responds to my description.
He squints suspiciously at me. “Why would you be asking after him, ma’am?”
“Oh, just a little personal matter, officer.” I twirl a bit of hair around my finger and lean in close. He manages a faint, dumb grin before I dive into his thoughts. Okay, impolite of me, but I am sick of being stranded in the 1800s!
This guy remembers a complaint that a well-dressed Northerner or foreigner had been ‘disturbing the peace’ at the Spotswood Hotel. This particular complaint originated from a rather churchy woman who decided that between the man’s admission of believing in ‘other gods,’ plus the ‘look of the Devil in his eye,’ she felt the need to summon the police. Fortunately, the man had been merely socializing at the hotel’s bar, so little came of it.
“I believe he said he was staying at a hotel… Spotswood or some such thing like that?” I say, trying to fake a Southern accent. “Could you be a dear and tell me where I might find the place?”
He relaxes into a smile. “At the corner of Eighth Street and Tan Road. Hard to miss. Then again, the place has only been there a touch over two years. S’pose it’ll take a bit longer ta fix in the memory o’ most folks.”
“Thank you, officer.” I smile and wave while reading his mind for the exact directions… since I have no idea where to go based purely on his street names.
&nbs
p; A few minutes later, I approach a stark five-story building covered in windows. It’s rectangular and brick-shaped, so plain it looks like a government office building instead of a fancy hotel. Of course, this is 1862. Some Confederates lingering near the front chat about the post office in the basement.
Something hits me at random from my days in high school history class long ago… a teacher I had in my sophomore year, Mr. Perry, who spent most of a whole class period talking about Belle Boyd, a Union spy, who stayed at the Spotswood. Apparently, this place hosted quite a few spies during the war. That, of course, gets me wondering if this man I’m after might be some manner of Northern agent.
Nah. He’s too distinctive. A spy wouldn’t be so flamboyant, right? Or maybe he’s doing that on purpose so no one suspects. I slip past the crowd and make my way inside. Despite the plainness (to me) of the exterior, it becomes quite apparent that I haven’t dressed the part for this place. Though I’m not rocking the ragamuffin look, a dress that’s been my only outfit for several days is showing signs of frump compared to everyone around me.
Perhaps due to that legendary Southern hospitality, no one comments directly to me beyond a few overlong stares. I head straight for the desk where a white-haired man in a fancy black suit glances down his nose at me.
“Pardon me. I’m trying to locate a friend of mine.” I smile and poke his thoughts with my memory of what my quarry looks like. The name Delacroix echoes in his head. “A Mr. Delacroix?”
“I see.” He regards me for a moment, finding me simultaneously attractive and ‘too poorly dressed.’ He’s about to dismiss me when I give him a mental nudge. “Mr. Delacroix went into the hotel bar a while ago, though he did not say anything about expecting company.”
“Oh, that’s odd.” I tap a finger to my chin and stare at him. “I’m sure he’s expecting me.”
The man’s gossamer white mustache twitches. “Miss Moon?”
“That’s me.”
“Ahh, yes. Now that you mention it, he did ask us to send you his way.” The clerk leans forward over the counter and indicates a double door on the left. “Right through there.”
“Thank you.”
I curtsey at him and hurry for the bar. As soon as I’m no longer looking at him, my overly polite smile melts into a glower of determination. Cigar smoke punches me in the trachea as soon as I go inside. Gah. I forgot about that. Used to be, people could smoke in bars. Ugh. I don’t even have to breathe and it’s still horrible. Squinting at the haze in the air, I make my way deeper into the room while fanning at my face. Men sit at the bar on the right, others occupy small booths or chairs set up by a fireplace. There are maybe a dozen guests enjoying the heat in here. Between the mugginess and the smoke, this has got to qualify as one of the levels out of Dante’s Inferno.
A lilac-toned hat catches my eye on the far left end of the room by a window. Delacroix’s gussied up in a suit of matching light violet with a frilled thing down his chest, lacy cuffs, and a set of tiny, round sunglasses parked on his nose that have no apparent means of staying there. He’s even on the pale side. Wow, dude. You look more like a vampire than I do—at least one with tragic fashion sense. The wavy black hair hanging down to his shoulders gives him a too-hip-to-be-hip forty-year-old rock star kinda vibe. In person, he’s a little less handsome than what I’d been picturing, so I guess Miss Chloe had taken a few mental liberties. Though I wouldn’t call him unattractive, he’s no Jack Sparrow.
As soon as I focus my attention on him, my ears hone in on the conversation he’s having with another man seated at his table, who’s a few years younger than him and light-haired.
“Of course, Mr. Fischer,” says Delacroix, with a faint French accent. “I share your concerns.”
“Please. Call me Obediah. Good of you to offer the table.”
Delacroix raises a wine glass in toast. “The establishment is rather near its limits, wouldn’t you say? Not enough sense in this place.” He shifts his head in my direction, and fixes me with a stare that I know all too well.
This guy’s no vampire, since I can see his shimmering aura. He’s also not a voodoo priest. No, he’s an alchemist, or damn close to one. Obviously, he’s not my friend from the library, but I can feel the magic in his eyes. No wonder he’s been freaking out the locals.
“Of course, of course.” Obediah nods eagerly, then takes a healthy slug of whatever brown liquor he’s working on. “The war’s going to roll through here shortly, and any man with sense ought to be quite well away.”
Delacroix keeps staring at me. “How apt a thing to say.”
I stroll up to the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Might I join you?”
Obediah stares at me like a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time on HBO late at night. “The room’s rather packed, lass. Mr. Delacroix here was kind enough to share his table with a fellow traveler.”
“An interesting and beautiful creature,” says Delacroix. “Please, sit.”
“Why thank you, kind sir.” I snag an empty chair from a nearby table occupied by a portly older man radiating the approachability of a flaming porcupine. Though he glares at me, he says nothing. I’m half tempted to flip the chair around and sit backward on it, but that would draw too much attention here.
“This is quite a pleasant surprise.” Obediah grins. “What brings you to Richmond?”
“I’ve been looking for Mr. Delacroix.” I ease myself into the chair and tidy my dress.
“Oh?” Delacroix raises an eyebrow. “Have we met?”
“It is my hope that you will be able to assist me with a matter of importance,” I say.
Delacroix sips his wine again. “What is it you wish from a simple businessman from New York? This whole war affair is such a tremendous waste of resources. I don’t understand why the Union is bothering to fight. Clearly, the people of the South have made up their minds. One cannot force an ideology on others.” I sense the mockery in his tone.
“Damn right.” Obediah toasts him.
“Care for a drink, my lady?” asks Delacroix.
I absentmindedly rub the ring that lets me eat normal things. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“I insist.” His stare narrows ever so slightly.
“All right.” I almost blurt out a request for a margarita, but catch myself and say the only thing that comes to mind. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d fancy trying one of those mint juleps.”
We engage in meaningless small talk for a while, mostly about both men’s plans to evacuate Richmond soon and head north before “things get bad.” When a serving girl goes by, Delacroix requests my mint julep. Obediah launches into a rambling discourse about a particular horse he’s been trying to sell, one that’s brought rather catastrophic luck to all four men who have thus far purchased it. Not one lived longer than a week after taking possession of the horse, and the animal kept finding its way back.
“I think it’s cursed,” says Obediah.
Delacroix offers a dark smile. “Or more likely, you’re attempting to sell a horse during dangerous times.”
The girl returns with a pewter cup covered in frost. A sprig of mint leaf pokes up from the ice, strong enough to compete with the smell of sugared bourbon. Okay, this will be interesting. Never had one of these before, but at least it won’t affect me at all. I take a sip from the cup, finding it much sweeter and tamer than I expected. Of course, even food I want to taste is bland to me now, so maybe that helps pluck the alcohol’s fangs, too.
Delacroix glances my way with a note of surprise in his features right about the time a vampire would’ve been forced to vomit up a drink. His previous wariness shifts to something more akin to curiosity.
“Speaking of which.” Obediah glances at his pocket watch. “I thank you for your gracious companionship for the past hour, but I must be on my way. Perhaps this latest young man will survive purchasing my horse for more than a week.”
“I shall drink to his good fortune.” Delacroix nods
at him. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, sir.”
The taller, stockier man manages to get to his feet without disturbing our table too much, and strides off across the packed barroom.
“So, Miss Moon…” Delacroix tilts his head at me. “I am quite curious to learn how it is you came to believe I may be of assistance to you.”
I take a larger sip of my mint julep. At least I can enjoy tasting something other than blood, even if it doesn’t do me much good in any nutritional sense… or a getting-shit-faced sense. Once, the idea of vampires being real would’ve been enough to make me drink myself to oblivion. After that, I never thought anything would shock me that much again; that is, until I was hurled back in time. The question remained: what other surprises await me in the future?
“I’ve got a particular problem of the magical variety,” I say, watching rivulets form in the frosted condensation on my cup, creeping inexorably toward the scarred tabletop. “It is my dearest hope that you can help undo something.”
“Undo?”
I nod.
He swirls the remainder of his wine around the base of his glass before tilting it back. “The feeling your presence imparted upon me initially… such things are beyond my power to undo. Vampirism, Miss Moon, is eternal. But perhaps I misread you. Tell me, what sort of magic are you seeking to be rid of?”
“I don’t belong here,” I whisper. “In the 1800s, I mean. While I’m not absolutely certain, as I’m no practitioner of magic, I believe it was voodoo. I stumbled into a ritual involving a human sacrifice. Actually, I’d gone there on purpose trying to find the young woman who wound up being killed right in front of me. Whether something went wrong, or it had been intentional, I remember a bright flash… and the next thing I knew, I wound up shot back in time.”
Both of his eyebrows go up. “And by what means are you certain it was voodoo? Assuming, of course, you haven’t merely left the greater ration of your sense behind.”
