by Jenna Payne
Lucas let out a low and rumbling laugh. “Maybe you should be asking how old I am.”
“Well? How old are you then?” Violet asked.
“I was nineteen when the War for Southern Independence began,” Lucas replied, keeping his eyes on the road. The fog had intensified as they drove deeper into the bayou.
“The War for…?” It took a moment for Violet to realize what he was referring to. “You mean the Civil War…? But that…But that would mean that you’re over eighty years old!” She shook her head at the ludicrousness of the statement. He had to be pulling her leg. Lucas barely looked a day over twenty-five.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked, glancing at her, still smiling. Violet was busy lighting another cigarette.
“Why should I believe something so impossible?” Violet replied.
“Fair enough…You might believe me when we get there, though,” he shrugged. They passed a hand-painted sign for Terrebone Parish. Violet rested her hand on the edge of the window. The night air was damp and cool. It smelled of crushed leaves and honeysuckle. She pondered the question of whether Lucas was a madman or not. The skeptical instincts that New York had instilled in her made her prone to disbelief, and yet she couldn’t shake the sense that she had stumbled into a world so unusual that she couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. She decided to prod him more.
“Okay, so how does it work?” she asked.
“How does what work?” Lucas replied, glancing at her. The wind had blown her scarf back, and he could see the mark he had made on her neck. It enticed him all over again.
“If you’re really a…vampire…” It felt ridiculous to even say out loud, but she persisted. “If you’re really a vampire, then how did it happen? I mean none of the stories talk about being ‘born a vampire’.”
“Ah, you really don’t believe me, do you,” Lucas said musingly, “Even after last week, and what you saw at Rivet’s…”
“How do I know you don’t just have a little of the Marquis de Sade in you?” Violet replied. It wasn’t the first time she had taken a lover who preferred their pleasure mixed with pain.
Lucas laughed at that. “Well I just might, by way of a distant cousin.”
Violet rolled her eyes. This was getting frustrating. They turned onto a dirt road and sped on.
“Rivet and I have a very special bond,” Lucas offered. “He lets me feed off of him whenever I’m hungry. He’s a real giver, you see. It’s something to do with voodoo. Anyway, if he hadn’t let me indulge that night, then you might have woken up in a casket the next morning.”
It didn’t sound like a threat, but Lucas’s words send a chill over Violet’s body, “You mean you would have killed me?” she asked, sounding shriller than she had intended.
“No, not killed,” Lucas murmured. “No, I would have brought you to the place in-between. I would have made you like me.” The thought filled him with a desire that made his mouth water.
Violet was staring at him now. She could tell that he was serious, or at least that he believed what he was saying. She was scared now, but she felt her fear through a veil of intrigue.
“You’re frightened,” Lucas said, sounding regretful.
“No, just…”
“You want me to prove it to you?” he asked.
Violet didn’t respond immediately. The mist had begun to settle, and she thought she could see lights glowing through the trees.
“Once we get where we’ll going, I think you’ll put a little more trust in me.”
The funny thing was that in spite of the near insane insinuations that Lucas had made in the past half-hour, Violet didn’t exactly mistrust him. “And where are we going?”
“Deveroux Plantation,” Lucas said, turning onto yet another road.
The lights were growing nearer now. Violet could see lanterns hanging in the trees that lined the road. The gnarled chaos of the bayou forest that surrounded the road gave way to orderly rows of oak trees. Their ancient branches reached out over the road and formed a dark canopy of leaves and moss. It seemed that every bough was laden with a small brass lantern, glowing warmly in the misty darkness, drawing them deeper into the bayou. The beauty of the scene settled in Violet’s chest, and her apprehension gave way to wonder as a house appeared at the end of the road. It was everything she had imagined a Southern mansion would look like. Huge and white, with tall columns and a two-story porch that ran the length of the edifice. French doors were flung open to the evening, and men and women lingered on the lawn, champagne saucers and cigarettes in their hands.
Lucas parked the Rolls a few paces away. He opened the door and offered his hand to Violet. She alighted on the grass.
“Why thank you,” she smiled slightly. “I mean to say, this is incredible.”
Lucas returned her smile. She noticed that something about his demeanor had shifted. He seemed suddenly restrained—more formal.
“This is where it all began,” he said, offering her his arm.
They walked across the lawn to the steps of the porch, and made their way up. As they reached the doorway, a man emerged. By appearances, he was unlike anyone Violet had ever met. He was very tall, and although he was slender, he gave off an impression of strength. He was as fair as Lucas, and his hair was fire red. In the latest fashion, he was clean-shaven, and his hair was shaved at the sides and slicked back at the top. His eyes were dark blue—almost black, and watchful. Dressed in a pure ivory linen suit, he was impossibly elegant. Violet felt her heart summersault as he greeted them. Her focus rested on him and the chatter of the other guests faded from her consciousness.
“My dear Lucas,” he said in a deep, accented voice. Violet was surprised as he reached out and caressed Lucas’s cheek with the tenderness of a father. He seemed unfazed as he leaned into the touch.
“Oliver, this is Miss Violet Miller,” Lucas introduced her.
“You are every bit as beautiful as Lucas said you were,” the man called Oliver said, leaning down and kissing her hand. “Almost perfect, I daresay.”
Violet wondered fleetingly if he was making fun of her, but his expression was deadly serious. A waiter appeared with three glasses of champagne. They each took one.
“To the night,” Oliver toasted.
“To the night.”
They drank, and their glasses were immediately replaced.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment…” Oliver bowed slightly, and went to greet another group of guests who had just arrived.
Lucas seemed to know everyone. Violet met actresses and businessmen. Southern belle heiresses who wanted her autograph. Men who lavished her with compliments. It seemed as if the entirety of New Orleans high society had gathered at the Deveroux mansion. Finally, Lucas lead her into the house away from the revelers on the terrace. The mansion was just as pristine on the interior as the edifice suggested. Antiques mingled with art deco furniture. Every room embodied a sense of light and life. Green vines crawled up the walls of one of the sitting rooms, and there were flowers on almost every surface.
“I’ll show you the upstairs,” Lucas said, nodding and leading her up the grand staircase to the second floor. He led her into what was evidently a study. Unlike the rooms downstairs, this room was dark and close. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and lined with bookshelves packed to the bursting point with titles in English and French. There was a mahogany desk upon which sat a number of albums. A phonograph sat in the corner next to a burgundy day bed.
“You have some interesting friends, I must say,” Violet said. They were alone now. The room was quiet, and the sounds of the party barely reached inside the book-lined walls. It smelled of paper and pipe tobacco.
“Oliver is much more than a friend,” Lucas replied distractedly. He was scanning the bookshelves, running his finger along the leather spines, looking for something. He turned to the desk. “Ah, looks like someone’s been feeling a bit nostalgic,” he said, almost to himself.
Violet watched him
curiously as he flipped through pages lined with photographs.
“Here.” Lucas beckoned her to look.
Violet leaned over the desk beside him, and her mouth dropped open. “But that’s not you!” she exclaimed. It was a photograph of a confederate soldier. A portrait, clearly taken just before he departed his home for battle. There was no mistaking him. It was Lucas.
“It’s me,” Lucas replied, chuckling at her surprise. “In 1861, right before I lost my innocence.”
Violet looked up at him with sympathy in her face. She knew many men who had spoken of their time in World War I the same way.
“I died in that war,” he said musingly.
Violet shivered and goosebumps rose to her arms. Something told her this wasn’t a poetic statement.
“And Oliver saved me…He took my humanity and gave me the privilege of eternity. Found me dying on the battlefield.”
“You mean that he’s a…” Violet whispered into the silence.
“Oh yes…” Lucas replied, nodding. “I was riddled with bullets. I’d been stabbed through the wrist with a bayonet. Just lying there, bleeding, watching the blue sky fade to black when he found me. Best doctor I ever had.” He let out a laugh and shut the album with a snap.
Violet jumped at the sound. She made her way to the sofa with unsteady legs and sat down, clutching her champagne saucer and looking at Lucas with an expression close to amazement. Her head was spinning. How could it all be true?
“You’d be surprised at how many guests here are the same. Or really, how many people…Lincoln himself, Roosevelt’s first wife, the list goes on…” As he spoke, Lucas helped himself to a glass of scotch from a bottle on the desk.
Violet shook her head. “It will just take some getting used to, I suppose.”
“Well New Orleans is the place to grow accustomed to these things,” Lucas said, leaning against the desk. “Tonight you’ll get a taste of our local magic.”
“Magic?”
“Voodoo sacrifice,” Lucas replied with a grin. He wasn’t hiding his fangs from her anymore.
“Is that as scary as it sounds?” Violet asked. All of this uncertainty was beginning to make her weary.
“Not at all,” replied Lucas reassuringly. Sensing her mood, he fetched a small silver box from Oliver’s desk and offered it to Violet. “Cocaine?”
“Why thank you.” Violet took the box. She needed energy. Cocaine was all the rage with her compatriots in New York, and it was more legal than liquor. She indulged in a small bump and passed the box back to Lucas, who allowed himself a little taste. She felt energy surge through her, and rose to her feet. She wanted to know more. Her thoughts were racing as she joined Lucas next to the desk.
“So tell me, Lucas, if you’re over eighty, then how old is Oliver?” she asked as she rifled through his records, choosing some low key creole jazz for the phonograph.
“Oliver, well…he’s probably close to two centuries,” Lucas said thoughtfully, reaching for the silver box to have another taste.
Just then, the door to the study opened. Oliver entered gracefully, showing no signs of surprise at the pair’s presence in his private study.
“Speak of the devil himself,” murmured Lucas. Violet noticed that when Oliver arrived, Lucas stood a little taller. He couldn’t take his eyes off of him.
“Who, me?” Oliver replied, with a low rumble of a laugh. He closed the door behind him, and made his way over to one of the bookshelves. He moved as if he were leaning against it, and the entire wall of books swung back, giving way to another room.
“Goodness gracious,” Violet exclaimed. The drug had loosened her tongue and returned her sense of confidence. She gazed into the secret room with wonder. It was like nothing she’d ever seen. Strange symbols, drawn in white chalk, adorned the dark walls. The floor was lined with a perimeter of red dust. It was a narrow room, lit only by candles that burned in brackets on the walls in intervals. At the end of the room was a table, laden with burning candles, statues, and all manner of mysterious objects. It was an altar to the Voodoo pantheon. The room smelled of rum, and smoke, and lavender. It should have frightened Violet, but instead it intrigued her. She drew closer to the altar, observing the figures with interest. They all seemed somewhat familiar—reminiscent of the Christian saints.
“Oliver is a conjure man…” Lucas whispered in her ear. Violet turned, and saw that he was standing very close behind her. The hair stood up on her arms as she realized that their host was watching them. His expression was unreadable, as he collected items from a cabinet in the far corner of the room. It felt strange to be so intimate in what was obviously a sacred space, but Violet did not pull away when Lucas placed his hands loosely on her hips. He looked as though he wanted to kiss her.
“Tonight, we bring Papa Ghede into our midst,” Oliver said, watching them still.
“He loves beautiful women,” Lucas added. “Like you.”
Violet didn’t know who Papa Ghede was, but she guessed from the nonchalance of the men that she was in no particular danger. Oliver was leading the way out of the room now. He closed the door behind them.
“Who is Papa Ghede?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“He is the crossroads where life and death meet,” Oliver said ambiguously.
“He’s a party animal,” Lucas added with a grin. “A patron saint of voodoo, if you will.”
Oliver lead the way, and Lucas and Violet followed, his arm wrapped around her waist. They went out onto the lawn. The partygoers had assembled there: men in their summer suits, and women dressed in satin and velvet gathered around a symbol that had been burned into the grass. As they drew nearer, Violet saw that it was an elaborate cross, lined with white stones. There were men with instruments now—the makings of a jazz band. As Oliver approached and took his place in the circle at the head of the cross, they began to play. Slowly at first, the drums and horns playing out a mournful dirge. Oliver began to speak in a different language. His deep voice mixed with the rhythm of the drums and became indistinguishable. They played faster. Violet began to move her body unconsciously with the rhythm that shook her legs. The men and women around her swayed and dipped their knees. The pace quickened. Oliver was moving now too. He shed his graceful countenance and moved his body fluidly, violently in time with the music. He began to strip off his shirt. His voice grew louder as he spoke in tongues, his arms and legs shaking in time with the endless beat as he anointed himself with rum. The crowd was moving with him now, the feverish pace of the drums driving them into a dancing delirium. Violet was in the circle now, with Lucas at her side. Her heart was pounding as she danced, throwing back her head as she let the music take her. Oliver took hold of her, pulling her into his dance, throwing his body against hers and spinning her around and around until she lost sight of the waking world. He showered her bare shoulders and chest with rum. The drums pounded in time with Violet’s heart as Oliver pulled her against him, thrusting against her in time with the beat.
It was as if she had been transported to another world. Hours slipped away and she lost all sense of time. She could no longer recognize her body as her own as she danced. It didn’t matter that her clothing was in disarray. Sweat dripped from her face and mixed with the rum that soaked her skin. She was taken by intense euphoria as the conjure man grabbed at her hips and pushed his body against hers. She knew that he wanted her. She could feel his desire flowing through her, his naked arms around her, and she let out a loud delighted, animal yell as the music grew faster. She collapsed to the ground, and he continued to move his body over hers, frantic now, feverish and panting he pantomimed the most carnal of acts, pulling at her clothing frantically. He placed his lips against her neck and bit like an animal tasting its prey. As blood flowed over her white skin, the pain mixed with pleasure, and Violet cried out in a language that she didn’t know. And then, without warning, the drums stopped. And they collapsed into the grass, panting.
When Violet finally s
at up, she saw that many other guests had collapsed to the ground as well, their clothing in some disarray. Oliver was entwined around her, panting. Lucas was sitting up next to them, shirtless, scratched and bleeding, breathing hard. Without saying a word, he leaned over and ran his tongue over her neck.
“I missed the taste of you, my sweet, beautiful Violet,” he murmured.
“Ghede wanted a taste, I see,” said Oliver as he sat up. He caressed Violet’s neck with a gentle hand. Although he had stripped his clothing off, and his face carried a shadow of exhaustion, his demeanor resumed its previous elegance. “Papa Ghede never could resist a beautiful woman.”
Violet’s head was still spinning. Her heart thumped against her ribcage and she struggled to catch her breath. The scene surrounding her shifted in and out of focus. Her vision blurred, and she fainted into Lucas’s arms.
When Violet awoke hours later, she felt dazed. Her body ached, and her mouth was dry. She sat up slowly and saw that she was in a suite-style bedroom with dark mahogany and green furnishings. She was reclining on a chaise lounge beneath a silk sheet. Lucas was seated in a chair across from her, smoking a cigarette and reading. She looked under the sheet and realized that she had been undressed down to her lingerie.
“W-what happened?” she asked, her cheeks reddening.
Lucas looked up. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said, closing his book and leaning forward. “You fainted, that’s all. It can happen when a possessed conjure man brings you into his fold, so to speak.” He seemed unconcerned, smiling across at her with his legs crossed casually.
The memory of the evening flooded back into Violet’s mind: the drums and the dance—Oliver taking control of her body. It was like a vivid dream.
“And what happened to my dress?”
“Covered in rum.” Oliver emerged from somewhere behind her where she lay. He was dressed in his white linen again, and looked as immaculate as ever, though his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He was holding an ornate porcelain opium pipe in his hand, which he placed on the table next to Lucas’s book. “But how are you, my darling?” he asked, leaning over her with concern written in his pale features. He caressed her cheek and tilted her chin up, looking into her eyes. Violet wasn’t used to being poked and prodded like this, but as she looked into the dark blue eyes of her host, she felt herself give in to his touch. She gazed up at him and thought that he was ageless. His skin was paper-white and flawless. His red hair, previously smoothed back, was now slightly untidy. A strand fell forward, framing his face. He seemed completely at ease, although his expression was something reminiscent of concern.
