Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles)

by Angelic Rodgers

  Brigitte’s Cross

  Book Two of the Olivia Chronicles

  Angelic Rodgers

   Copyright 2014 Angelic Rodgers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review without permission in written form from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All similarities to actual persons living or dead are purely coincidental. To read more about Olivia, check out Blood Sisters, the first novel in the Olivia Chronicles, as well as the prequel short, “Van Helsing’s Lament”.

  Quotations used are from Bram Stoker’s Dracula. To access your own copy of that novel, visit Amazon’s Kindle Store.

  To Brigitte (no matter the spelling).

  “We become that which we love.”

  --attributed to Saint Bridget

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: February 19, 2012

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Afterward: Mardi Gras Day, February 12, 2013

  Acknowledgements & Thanks

  Prologue: February 21, 2012

  Mike wondered where Tim was Mardi Gras morning. He assumed he’d simply partied too hard over the weekend; despite the promise to meet Mike early for coffee and staking out a spot for the Zulu Parade, Tim did not show. Mike wasn’t surprised. He tried Tim’s cell while he waited for his coffee to go, but after getting another message that the voicemail inbox was full, he decided to simply pay and get going. Even though it was early enough to be still dark out, he knew that the only hope of catching any throws and seeing anything was to get a spot now.

  His ex was brilliant, but he also was a bit too much professor hot pants. Mike was sad they broke up, but he knew that he was too much of a monogamist to be able to share Tim, so the split had to happen. For Mike, Tim not showing up when he was supposed to was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Chapter One: February 19, 2012

  Tim was well in his cups after the Krewe of Bacchus parade. He’d staked out a spot where St. Charles ends at Canal and becomes Basin Street on the Quarter side, and he’d gotten to see the first few floats move up Canal Street before making their journey back down it toward the Mississippi River and the parade’s end point at the Convention Center.

  The crowd was thick and rowdy, people dressed in various costumes. On one side of him was a drunken Popeye who was chatting up a girl dressed as some Disney princess or other. On the other side were two younger, buff guys who alternated between making out with each other and giving him the eye. They had been there most of the afternoon, and everyone was friendly enough to give each other bathroom breaks and do drink runs.

  As the lead float made its slow corner headed toward uptown, the crowd cheered it on, yelling for throws and screaming at the King of Bacchus, Will Ferrell, to throw beads to them. Tim marveled at how a crown and satin garments could transform people into royalty. Ferrell’s red-gloved hands grabbed strands of beads and tossed them to his subjects below. In her quest to get the King’s attention, the Disney Princess somehow managed to undo her top and Popeye was getting an eyeful. Tim could feel the crowd behind him pressing into him and the two guys who’d been giving him the eye all day took advantage of the surge to get even closer. He kissed them each briefly and looked up just in time to see a wad of beads flung their way. He grabbed for them and split the spoils with his new-found friends.

  They watched as the first few floats went by, including the Bacchagator in all of its green glory. The parade was long, with over thirty floats and several marching bands, and Tim lost interest after getting his throws and seeing his favorite float, and he made his way through the crowded outer edge of the Quarter to the gay bars near the Esplanade edge. He preferred Café Jean Lafitte in Exile or Le Round Up over on St. Louis to the younger crowds at Oz and Bourbon Pub/Parade, but at the height of Mardi Gras it could be hard to find a seat at either bar, and he had an Oz Mardi Gras Weekend Pass.

  It didn’t hurt that it was easy to find lots of out-of-towners to while away the time with. He wasn’t above sleeping with students, but it was certainly easier to sleep with someone who would be heading back home after vacation. He liked to think about having made their stay in New Orleans a little extra special.

  Alex was behind the bar along with a couple of other bartenders. On heavy traffic nights, the owner liked having Alex work because she wasn’t as easy to flirt drinks out as most of the male bartenders were, and she didn’t get distracted by the boys go-go dancing on the bar. Not only did the bar not lose money when she was working, but customers also got better service than they did from a lot of the younger male bartenders. Tim managed to get a bottle of beer from her, and he paid and tipped all at once. He knew she’d take care of him, but he tipped her well anyway. He knew that as a grad student, she could use all of the money she could get.

  As he made his way through the crowd to see what was going on upstairs, he noticed a thin, well-muscled young man across the room. He wore a mask that covered the top part of his face, but Tim thought he looked familiar. Something about the mouth, especially when the other man smiled, was familiar. Ditching his plan to go upstairs, Tim made his way toward the masked man.

  When he got close enough, he was surprised. “Well, hello. I am surprised to see you here.”

  Christophe smiled again. “I was hoping no one would recognize me.” He slid the mask up over his head. “No point, I guess in hiding if I’m that easy to spot.”

  Tim reached up and slid the mask back down gently. “Oh, don’t give up the mystery. Besides, with the mask on, I can hit on you without being so self-conscious that someone will recognize you.” He nodded toward Alex, who was the prime person who would know that Christophe was a student. She was way too busy to see anything other than the patrons immediately in front of her.

  “Are you hitting on me, Dr. Clark?” The corners of Christophe’s mouth twitched a tiny bit, as he tried to suppress a smile. His playing coy made Tim want him even more.

  “Oh, I think I am just getting started. Here, take this beer, as yours is nearly empty. I’ll grab another and meet you upstairs.”

  Christophe took the beer and drank from the bottle. Then he handed it back to Tim. “Actually, maybe we can finish
this one together and go someplace else?”

  Tim nodded and took a long pull on the bottle and then passed it back to Christophe, nodding to him to finish it.

  On the way back to Tim’s house on Danneal Street, they said very little. They miraculously were able to get a cab rather quickly, snagging one that was dropping people off. For the Quarter, 10 pm on the Saturday before Mardi Gras was early. Tim slid his hand under Christophe’s thigh as they sat in the back.

  He felt like a kid. There was an air of danger because Christophe was a student. He wasn’t in Tim’s class, but he seemed really young. Tim guessed he was barely old enough to drink. He thought to himself that he really should be more careful.

  Once inside the house, he pressed Christophe up against the wall, kissing him hard on the mouth. Christophe kissed back, nipping Tim’s lip, bringing blood.

  “You’re not only gay, but you’re far more assertive than I would have guessed.” Tim felt himself get even more excited, his heart pounding.

  “Sorry about that. I do like to be in control.” Christophe’s excitement was equal in pitch to Tim’s, but it came from a different place, a different hunger.

  “Control, huh? I suppose you want to play the professor tonight?” Tim didn’t usually get into the role of submissive, but he found himself wanting to be dominated by Christophe. Besides, it meant even less chance of misunderstandings or pressure from Christophe if he let him be in control.

  Christophe didn’t say anything; instead, he pressed against Tim, sliding from between him and the wall and heading toward the back of the house where the bedrooms were. Tim followed.

  “Take off your clothes and lie on the bed.” Christophe sat in the chair in the corner of the room, waiting for Tim’s compliance. Once Tim obeyed, Christophe walked over to the closet, grabbing two ties. He used the neckties to tie Tim’s hands to the scrolled iron headboard. When Tim’s hands were secure, Christophe slid his belt from his jeans. Tim could feel the warmth left in the leather from being next to Christophe’s body as he looped the belt around his ankles, binding his legs together.

  Other than removing his belt, Christophe removed nothing else—not even the mask. “I’m sorry, Dr. Clark, for misleading you.”

  Tim started to feel fear rising in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried to think of what to say. “Christophe, really, it’s OK.” He tried to subtly test how well tied his arms were. He couldn’t raise his upper body and the ties felt firm.

  “I thought tying you up would make it easier for both of us. I’m not gay. But only you can give me what I need and what I want at the same time.” He slid the mask off. “Know that this is something that I have to do.”

  He sat on the bed next to Tim. He leaned in and Tim could smell his cologne and he smelled of warm sandalwood. His eyes were pale amber, flecked with tiny bits of green and gold that were imperceptible until he was close. Tim relaxed looking into those eyes—they were kind, and he felt safe. Christophe leaned in, kissing him softly. At the same time that their lips pressed together, Tim felt a tiny shiver of pain as Christophe slid the tiny blade into his skin. As the first drops of blood rose from the cut, Christophe moved his mouth to the wound and began to feed.

  Tim was almost completely gone when Christophe stopped for a brief moment and looked at his face. Their eyes met, and Tim simply said, “Thank you. . .so beautiful.” Christophe cried as he finished the task he was sent to do.

  He took his time setting up the scene. He carried Tim to the bathtub and ran the bath. He left him there to soak; he wanted the skin to appear to have been waterlogged. When the water was all but completely gone, he put the plug back in, slightly ajar as if a foot might have nudged it, causing the water to leak out. He placed the cuts where they should be and there was just enough blood left in Tim to leave no doubt as to the cause of death, once it mixed with the tiny bit of water left in the tub under him.

  He turned on the air conditioning before he left, hoping to hold off discovery a bit.

  He went to Olivia to tell her what she asked of him was done and to claim his reward.

  When she saw Christophe, Olivia could tell that he succeeded in his task. Despite the sadness present in his expression she could see that he was stronger and revitalized.

  He hadn’t said anything since arriving at her house in the Garden District at 2:30 in the morning. He tapped on the door and simply walked past her, heading to her bar and pouring a stout double shot of rye. He sank into a chair, staring ahead and taking an occasional sip from the glass.

  She watched him, comfortable with the silence. He was stunningly beautiful when they first met, and now he was even more so. His skin was paler now, but with an underlying honeyed warmth. His hair he wore short, but not so short that the natural waves were hidden. His name announced his Creole heritage no less than his appearance did. His eyes were always amber, but since he began his transition, they lightened up considerably, turning almost other-worldly with new flecks of green and gold. Everyone who knew him assumed he had begun to wear colored contacts.

  She wondered if he would realize that she deliberately sought him out rather than the other way around. Over the years, she came to realize that some people were searching for something they couldn’t define much less attain on their own. Some felt it as the desire for immortality but more often than not, they felt a lack of time and strength to do what they somehow knew they were destined to accomplish. She chose carefully who she bestowed her full gifts upon, and she took the task seriously. This time, she chose him because she knew that not only did he want immortality and power, but that he had so much to offer her, too, even though he didn’t know it.

  “You seem sad, Christophe. This is a time for celebration, not sorrow. You’ve helped me greatly tonight, and in return I will teach you what you need to know to make the most of the power I’ve given you.” She went to the bar, refreshing her glass and his before sitting on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. “And to make the most of the power you already possessed when I met you.”

  Her free hand caressed the back of his head and neck. She could feel the soft waves under her fingers, the shorter hairs on his neck bristling against her hand as her touch raised goose bumps. He drained his glass and stood up, standing in front of her.

  “Please, take me to bed.”

  Olivia rose from the chair and he followed her upstairs. While she had turned him into one of her kind, she never before allowed him in her bed. She was not unfamiliar with male lovers but she preferred women. Men seemed so much more limited to her, but then she also knew that Christophe had never just been a man. As a direct descendant of Marie Laveau his heritage did more than simply provide him with prestige in the city, but he possessed untapped powers he could only guess at.

  She pushed him back on the bed, straddling him. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his and kissed him softly at first, then harder. She could taste the lingering sourness of the rye.

  Neither of them spoke; they were both too busy trying to shrug off clothes and explore each other to utter any intelligible words. She was simply dressed in a long nightgown with a low neckline and a high split in the skirt. She expected this, as Christophe from the beginning made very clear his desire for her. He wanted to slow her down at the same time that he couldn’t take any more waiting and the feel of her as she moved on top of him, taking him in, was almost too much for him. He flipped her over, never leaving her.

  As her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms circled his neck, he realized that he was willing to do absolutely anything for her.

  Chapter Two

  Christophe met Olivia at a New Years Eve party at an old family friend’s house in the Garden District. He’d been talking to the oldest son in the family, Robert, about maybe going back to school. He was at loose ends and felt as if he was just marking time. His main purpose was to be there for the women in his family. They were standing outside smoking and talking about it when she walked up the path from the street
. She immediately caught his eye.

  She was small, but she looked powerful and moved gracefully. She was wearing boots, and as she walked down the sidewalk toward the path, the heels rang out in a sure and steady rhythm. He noticed the boots first, then followed the line of her legs, the curve of her hip to her narrow waist, and was surprised to see she was in a tuxedo. It looked like it was made for her, and as he looked at her face, she smiled. Not a huge smile, but the smirk of a beautiful woman who knows everyone is looking at her. She actually reminded him of Marlene Dietrich or Greta Garbo; she was obviously a woman in a tuxedo, not a woman in drag. She owned the suit. Her hair, the color of strong tea, not quite brown or red, was braided and pinned up around her head, a braided halo. She wasn’t wearing make-up, or didn’t appear to, but then he thought she didn’t need any. Her skin was perfectly smooth and her lashes dark against her pale skin. Her lips were full and supple, and looked perhaps as if they had just a sheen of gloss on them, their natural pinkness better than any lipstick stain could have been.

  All of this he took in as she walked past them into the house. She nodded as she went by, making brief eye contact. He could feel Robert tug on his sleeve.

  “Hey, man. You hear anything I just said to you?”

  Christophe had to admit he hadn’t. “Sorry, I just lost myself for a minute. Who is that woman?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Probably somebody my dad or mom knows. They invited a whole bunch of university types, I think.” Robert lit a fresh cigarette. “What I was saying was that you just gotta figure out what you want to do and get the creds to do it. Your sister could help you out. She’s been through it more times that I can count.”

  Christophe nodded. “I know. I’m not one to make resolutions, but I just can’t keep doing nothing.” They stayed out for a bit longer, just long enough for Robert to finish his second smoke, and then they went back to the party.

  He headed toward the bar, making sure to tip the bartender well so he’d get his Manhattan heavy on the rye. As he waited for the drink, he scanned the room. The house was typical of the Garden district, a large Victorian. The renovations Robert’s parents had done made the bottom floor much more open. The great room was set up for parties just like this one, allowing for the bar on one end and the piano at the other. They’d put up a large Christmas tree, a natural one, which would stay up until January 6th, the kickoff of Mardi Gras season.