by Nancy Morse
“Go home and frighten your Marie with that look,” she said. “You do not frighten me.”
“Yes, Marie is waiting for me. And where is your pirate?”
She hadn’t seen Stede in days. Where was he? At his cottage? Aboard the Evangeline? She had to see him and give him the potion-laced wine.
Forcing the thought from her mind lest it show itself on her face, she said dismissively, “You can leave now. Your paramour is waiting.”
He turned toward the French doors. “Be careful, Prudence. Do not turn your back on the hunter or the voodoo queen.” And then he was gone, the foreboding sound of his voice lingering in the sultry air.
Nicholas was right. She was jealous, and it was jealousy that made her say the harsh things she regretted now as she walked to the edge of the gallery and peered out over the railing. She searched the street below looking for a sign of his panther-like stride pulsing with feral grace, but he had evaporated into the shadows, leaving only the sweet scent of the vampire to taunt her.
There was no sport in hurting him. He was powerful and fearless and yet so easily wounded by her words. But it was more than the aching vulnerability in his eyes that made her regret her harshness. Even when hating him, her fingers ached to touch the cool skin of his breast beneath his linen shirt and do the things she knew he liked that would make his body shudder and quake. She knew every inch of that well-knit body and craved the stroke of his hand and the hard, driving, animalistic possession that made every nerve scream for sweet release the way only he could do. In his arms she felt wicked and weak and free. Yes, free, even though trapped in this prison of immortality from which there was no escape, save the implausibly dangerous charade on which she was about to embark.
Her head ached with confusion. She didn’t want his love, she thought dully, and yet she could not imagine life without the pleasure she found in his arms. How it took all modesty and virtue from her, although in truth she gave it up so easily. How it offered momentary respite from the impulses she could not control. How afterwards she would lie in his arms, sated, remembering only the bliss, until reality reared its menacing head and she was reminded once again of the miserable existence he had forced upon her.
He was forever taunting her, as he did this evening by disclosing the existence of his paramour. Indeed. Was the girl as lovely as he intimated? Was it true that she craved his love? There had been untold numbers of women for him over the centuries, but Pru had never been aware of him inviting any of them to live with him.
The wind murmured off the river. The mist was rising from the bayou, and the creatures that craved the darkness were venturing from the safety of their holes. The thirst rose from the pit of her being. It was time to go hunting. But first, she would go to the cottage on the bayou and see this Marie for herself. It was curiosity, she told herself, no more than that. She had nothing to worry about, for it wasn’t likely the girl’s path would ever cross with hers.
Chapter 15
She prowled the narrow streets for hours, alone with her thoughts and plans and the secret fantasies she dared tell no one. Her quiet footsteps took her to the tree-lined levee where it was easy to pick the pockets of men lying drunk in the alleys. From there, she turned in the direction of the bayou, to the small Creole cottage sitting at a bend in the crescent of water, nearly obscured by magnolia and sweet olive trees.
The light of a single tarnished candle lit the cottage within. As she approached, she heard a woman’s voice softly humming. She crept stealthily up the steps and peered through the window.
A lithe figure in a white dressing gown moved about the room. Her hair was down, reaching nearly to her waist. When she turned, Pru could see her arms, slender and honey-colored, and the press of her small breasts against the thin fabric. Her eyes were large and brown beneath a shelf of fine, black lashes. Nicholas was right; she was lovely. And young. A dainty little creature soon to lose her shimmering youth, to wither and die like the commonest weed in the garden. Whereas, she would remain youthful and vibrant forever, and for the first time since her making, Pru did not hate her lot in life. That, she supposed, was what jealousy did, put notions in her head that were otherwise repugnant.
A wicked thought came to her. She could slip in without a sound and overpower the girl and drain every drop of blood from her veins. It would serve Nicholas right to deprive him of his pretty quadroon. He would be terribly angry, of course. She could just picture him drawing himself up to an unimaginable height, green eyes molten, face contorted with rage. But the thought vanished like morning mist on the river. She would not kill the girl, not because she feared his wrath, because she didn’t, but because she was not a wanton killer.
Sniffing the air, she detected no hint of the sweet intoxicating fragrance that invariably accompanied his presence. He was most likely out devouring his latest victim, having left his little paramour for later consumption of a different sort. The girl’s odor came to her on a bayou breeze, and she drew back at the scent of sex. So, he had already had her this evening. Once? Twice? Insatiable beast that he was. Why should it matter to her who he bedded? She had more important things on her mind. Hugging the decanter of potion-laced wine to her breast, she left the cottage on the bayou.
She hadn’t seen Stede since the night she feigned a headache and he drove her home. They hadn’t spoken much on the dark, winding river road leading back to town. She had sucked in her breath at the strength of his hands that went around her waist to lift her down from the carriage, craving the feel of those strong fingers burning into her flesh. He had kissed her briefly but passionately at her front door before bowing low and taking his leave. If Nicholas had not shown up unexpectedly and uninvited to thwart her plans, she would now be basking in the love of her mortal.
The moon was peeking through the moss-hung cypresses when she arrived at Stede’s house bordering the swamp. She expected Delphine to answer her knock, but when the door swung open, it was Christophe’s tall form standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the candlelight within.
“Is he in?” she inquired. “He’s not expecting me, but I thought—”
“He’s not here,” the lanky quadroon said abruptly.
She sought to mask her disappointment. “I see. And may I ask when you expect him to return?”
“I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.”
She didn’t like the way those unblinking eyes looked at her. “Very well. Would you tell him that I called?”
He allowed a long silence to pass before answering with a negligent shrug. “I’ll tell him.”
“That’s very good of you,” Pru said, unable to keep the caustic tone out of her voice.
He stepped back and closed the door.
There was something about that man that made the hairs at the back of Pru’s neck stand on end. Those watery blue eyes regarded her a little too closely, and his abrupt manners left something to be desired. He clearly did not like her, although what sort of opinion he might have formed about someone he did not know was beyond her. Did he sense something unusual about her, or worse, something unnatural?
She turned away from the swamp and headed back to the narrow streets of the old city. Through the high windows of the old French houses candlelight from crystal chandeliers played across the plaster ceilings and lamp-lit courtyards nestled behind whitewashed walls. It was well past the hour when decent folk were out and about, and she was burning with the physical need to drink. She turned in the direction of the cemetery, where she often found peace from her disturbing thoughts among the crypts, and sometimes a meal. A rat scurried across the banquette in front of her. She might have fed easily from it, but rats were such repugnant creatures. Somewhere nearby a dog howled at the moon, but she’d always had a fondness for dogs and could not bring herself to feed from a furry canine throat.
Her dear papa was spared the gory details of the hunt. For him, chicken blood or ox blood was sufficient to satisfy his sanguinary needs. But she subsisted on the salty
blood of humans, and although she was in love with her mortal nature and clung to the memory of her former life and the hope of regaining her lost soul, she could not deny that the hunt had developed into a game for her, a game of superhuman strength and otherworldly power at which she excelled. She could fulfill her thirst and eradicate an unsavory character all in the same bite.
A movement from the shadows caught her eye. It was the padre exiting the cathedral. She recognized his round brim hat and rounder belly. What was he doing out at this hour?
The stars were small and faint in a sky of deep midnight blue, and the air was muggy and fragrant as she followed his penguin-like gait through the narrow streets to the riverfront where the immigrants lived. He stopped at a little slope-roofed house whose cracked and blistered plaster showed the moldering brick beneath. Weeds grew knee-high along its foundation, and the shutters sat askew on windows of broken glass.
She watched from behind a tree as he waddled to the front door along a walkway where weeds erupted through cracks in the stone. A shaft of yellow light split the darkness when his knock was answered and the door opened. He stepped inside, sealing off the light.
Pru was about to turn away when she heard a pitiful cry from within the house. She stood stark still in the moonlight and cocked her head to the side, listening. There it was again, a desperate sound, like a whine, a moan, and a plea all combined. In the blink of an eye she was at the window, peering into the dimly lit interior.
A woman cowered against the wall, eyes wide, face as pale as plaster. A long, unbearable moment passed in which the inevitable bore down upon the woman and her expression changed from revulsion to mute understanding.
He reached for her waist, but instead of flinching away, she stood motionless. Pru heard the pounding of the woman’s heart succumb to the dull thud of resignation and saw a curtain descend over her eyes, and she knew the woman was willing herself far, far away from the assault that was about to happen and which had obviously happened many times before.
Pru drew back in horror. Her heart, unfed and thirsting, pounded. Without forethought, she found herself inside the house, having burst through the door with enough force to shatter the rotting timber.
With pants pooled at his ankles, the astonished padre whirled around and found himself looking into ferocious blue eyes. He stumbled back in horror, but his fate was sealed. With one hand she lifted him off the floor and flung him against the wall. As the woman cowered in a corner, she fell upon him, twisting his head to one side to expose a fleshy throat, and sank her fangs deep into his jugular, bonnet ribbons flapping with each great, gulping swallow.
When she was done, she lifted herself from his bulbous body and wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her hand. The padre stared fixedly, his mouth frozen in gaping surprise, his lascivious heart having taken its final beat.
Pru felt no remorse for what she had done, no shame or guilt to have rid the world of one such as him. A sudden thought came to her. She knows! Her gaze swung to the woman.
“Is he—is he—?” the woman stammered.
“Yes,” Pru said flatly. She delved into her pocket and withdrew the coins she had filched from the pockets of men in the alley. “Here,” she said, pressing the coins into the woman’s hand. “Take these.” Now that the padre was dispatched, she didn’t want the woman to have to resort to selling herself to drunken sailors just off their ships. “There will be more every month on the condition that you tell no one what you saw here tonight.” She squeezed the woman’s hand for emphasis. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Whether out of fear or the prospect of a monthly income, the woman gave a pained nod of the head. Confident she’d made her point, Pru turned back to her kill. Casting a sneer down at the padre’s rotund, now drained, body, she hoisted him up and slung him over her shoulder. He smelled of incense and tallow as she carried him to the door. Peeking out and seeing no one about, she moved with superhuman speed through the quagmire of riverfront streets and squalid alleys. On the outskirts of the city she dropped the bloodless body into a bog.
From deep in the swamp she heard the beating of drums, and light from a fire flickered faintly through the oaks and cypresses. With the image of Sabine Sejour writhing in a trace-like state and ripping the heart out of a man’s chest fresh in her mind, she stayed only long enough to watch the muck swallow up the padre’s body. Come morning, the parishioners would no doubt be wondering where he was when he failed to show up for his Godly sermon.
Pru smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and brushed off her hands. Having rid the world of one more heinous character, she fancied herself quite the avenging angel as she made her way back to town.
The light from the oil lamps swinging from projected arms nailed to wooden posts lit her way along the constricting streets. As she neared the alley between the Cabildo and the cathedral where she’d had her first encounter with Stede Bonham, it occurred to her that he might be at The Snapping Turtle getting drunk with his cohorts. Hopefully, he wasn’t stirring up trouble to get himself tossed out again.
Judging from the volume of sound coming from the tavern, the men inside had consumed copious amounts of raw whiskey and beer. A stealthy peek through a dirty window revealed a low-beamed room populated by an assortment of men in various stages of inebriation—a flatboat bully with a red turkey feather bobbing in his cap, a gambler whose frilled, loose collared shirt was partly concealed by a fancy vest of unspeakable gaudiness, sailors in short pants, buttoned jackets and knee-high stockings secured with garters, pirates with colorful sashes across their chests and big gold buckles on their belts. Stede was not among them.
“I’m a pizen wolf Kaintuck and chock-full of fight!” the flatboat man shouted.
“I can wrastle a gator and chew off the ear of a panther!” another boasted.
“But can ya swim five miles to shore when yer ship’s been sunk by the Spaniards?” another chimed in. “Aye, that’s what I did when the Evangeline went down.”
One by one the voices died as he told his tale.
“We was cruising off Omoa when we spotted two Spanish merchant vessels. It was cloudy and visibility was low that night. Bos says we can take ‘em. They looked to be runnin’ away, but then they made some lantern signals and turned back. Turns out they was armed Spanish warships and returned heavy fire. The Evangeline put up a good fight, but she was no match. Them bastards came aboard, took the bos and killed the rest of the crew. I was up front pissin’ off the bow, so I jumped overboard. Then they scuttled the ship.”
“They took him to the Fortress of San Fernando,” said the gambler. “I’ve heard of it. The Spaniards built it to protect the coast and shipments bound from the mines of Tegucigalpa to Spain from attack by pirates. Sounds like your captain wasn’t so smart to get himself caught and his ship sunk.”
“More like he was drunk,” the seaman bitterly complained. “The bos likes his green drink.”
“Ah, la feè verte,” the gambler exclaimed. “The ruin of many a good fellow. They probably hung him by now.”
“They’re more likely to torture him first,” said one of the others.
Outside, Pru sank back against the weathered timbers of the tavern, her fist going to her mouth to stifle a sob. The thought of Stede being tortured in a Spanish prison was unbearable. With silent, trance-like steps she left the alley, the tears that tumbled down her cheeks glistening in the light from the oil lamps.
Back home, coal burned in the grates to chase away the autumn chill, and the chords of her papa’s violoncello floated through the house. Rather than stop by the music room, she went straight upstairs. In her bedroom she heaved an involuntary sigh, shuddering with uncertainty over Stede’s predicament. What were the Spaniards doing to him?
She flung herself down on the bed with its billowy hangings, not daring to let her thoughts go that way. It would do him no good for her to fret and worry. What he needed from her was action. But what could she do? To sail
to the fortress would take days…days which Stede did not have…and her preternatural powers were not yet strong enough to transform into a bat and fly across the water. There was one, however, whose powers were already forceful and robust. But did she dare approach him for this?
Chapter 16
“You want me to do what!”
Pru knew he’d be angry, but she underestimated the ferocity of his outrage. Pushing back the hood of the chintz cloak that swung from her shoulders, she bit back a cringe. “I’m not yet strong enough to transform or I’d do it myself.”
“So, you don’t mock my talents when it suits you.”
“Oh, that.” She offered a guilty little smile at the way she had ridiculed him when she accused him of crawling up the side of Stede’s house.
“Yes, that,” he said petulantly. “You want me to use my transformative powers to save him? And what would you have me transform into? Not a nasty little creature like a spider.” It was his turn to mock her, and he did so with relish. “Wait. Let me guess. A bat. Yes, of course. You would have me transform into a bat and wing my way across the water to the Spanish fortress. And then what? Mist? Yes, that would get me past the guards without being seen.” His look turned menacing. “And then, perhaps a wolf, to tear out the throat of your vampire hunter.”
“He’s not, I tell you,” she exclaimed.
“Oh, Prudence. You have such beautiful blue eyes. If only you would open them to see what is as plain as the nose on your face. Or will you finally believe it when he plunges a stake into your heart? You realize, of course, that if it comes to that, I will devour him limb from limb.”
“Nicholas, please, I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“No, you came here to beg for my help. I have just one question for you, dear Prudence. What are you willing to give me in return?”
She covered her eyes with her hands, knowing full well what he was asking. “You truly are an evil man.”
