BAD BLOOD AND BITTER COFFEE
1.
There were few things that the vampire cared to hold on to. If given a choice, he'd strip of all but his pride. He once had been close to a God in his magnificence, and that sufficed him. He'd ease into slumber thinking that only the divine had his measure of self-regard, or the fortitude to sustain the price of his fall.
Since those glory days had long gone, the monster had lived many lives. Always a fugitive, leaping from host to host, chastised for crimes and horrors unmentionable. Wherever he went, disgrace surely followed, and no matter what skin he rode, the torment of hell always looked back at him, calling from beyond the surface of every mirror.
The vampire had lived in Europe for a while. He cherished his time there as one might a sacred space. It was the only interlude of peace in his long existence where someone offered protection fashioned as a truce between those of his kind.
That until one day the beast in him craved too much, indulged without measure, and unleashed upon mortals like an unstoppable force. It was nature's way of warning that he was better fending off by himself.
It was too late to make amends, but never too late to start again. Just like anyone that suddenly found a need to be a nobody, the vampire booked a cabin on a ship, and crossed an ocean to start a new life in America.
He arrived in New Orleans before the city could even be considered a decent French enclave, let alone a part of the United States. It had Spanish influence before it developed to French tastes. For at least a century, he didn't need a name. Shedding the skin that brought him across the ocean, the vampire roamed the bayous that teemed with life having his fill. He had met them all, the natives, the French, the Spaniards, the Italians, the Americans, all held a claim to the land upon which he stood, yet none could touch him.
He was a whisper, a dirty secret, a faceless curse that appeared as the moon rose and vanished with the break of dawn. His were endless nights of desolation that left traces of red upon the water.
That, until someone came looking and called out a name, his name.
'Linda ...' the woman's voice carried a playful cadence, almost irreverent. Her dark skin and the luscious ringlets of hair that shone blue-black in moonlight reminded him of home. She pronounced his name correctly, Leenduh a name given to a warrior, and not to a mortal girl. The female stranger smelled of clove oil, cinnamon, and honey, with a hint of tobacco and rum. The vampire had never felt attraction to human skin, but suddenly found himself wondering what she'd taste like.
'You know well what I taste like. You have danced with me for centuries now. I am Death, all you step on is my domain ... and death lives ... here as much as anywhere else.'
Boldness took him by surprise and when he met her, he knew true fear. She was not of the flesh; her eyes gleamed in topaz; half hidden behind thick lashes. He had seen eyes like that only in the Golden Lady, the Mistress of flowing waters. As she spoke, an albino snake slithered in a branch above them, clear scales upon white skin shifted silver moonlight into rainbows.
'Are you her envoy? Do you speak for the Lady Oshun?'
The woman leaned against the serpent's tree and the serpent advanced towards her, nestled its head on her bosom and lazily framed her curves.
'Wrong lady ... wrong continent though worry not. I know all Gods and answer to none. Call me Brigitte. This here ... the snake, is my brother Wedo. We are the Oracles of the land, and those who walk the line between the living and the dead must speak the truth before us ... dweller.'
The vampire laughed, disembodied as he was, his voice was barely a ripple over waters.
'If you are Death, you can't take me ... if he is Life, he can't touch me.'
He bluffed, and she knew it. It's hard to make a spirit shiver and she made him tremble when her hands caught a droplet of rain and turned it into a shard of glass.
'And I thought you were a reasonable man.' She bit her lip and smiled, making Linda think about the curve of a sickle. 'I do not take, I bargain. You are useful to me, and I'm good for payments to those who serve me. I can give you what you have always craved, your original body, the one the Golden Lady did away with when she confined you to the depths of that first prison made of glass. For centuries you have made abode in a score of bodies, from kings to paupers, and yet you've never been yourself. And now it is your time, for no other city will let you be, the way New Orleans will, if only you will serve me.'
And serve her, he did.
No one ever asked where Lindsey Valois came from, and if they did, questions were lost to their scrambled minds. There was no need to insist on matters that Brigitte du Cimetière didn't care to answer.
The dweller was who they agreed he'd be. To the eyes of all, Valois was a free man of color, a skilled musician in both keys and brass whose craft helped him make a name for himself in a city that was nothing short of an altar to music. He'd entertain the crowds with notes that were mellow, soothing, and rich. Music was an expression of his enthralling persona.
His real talent, however, was the violin. The vampire understood the intimacy of it all, the coolness of Indian ebony against chin, and strings that translated essence of life into music. So personal, so particular his style that the whole of New Orleans recognized it, and yet no one in their right mind would ask for Lindsey Valois to play strings at their soirées. His savage, sensual recitals were solely for those Sundays of wild freedom at Congo Square, where no one would dare cross the voodoo queens and houngans of the Crescent City.
The exquisite, matched rhythms of string and drums guided those gathered to a soaring, breathtaking religious ecstasy that made the uninitiated tremble. It was said that his mastery was such that he made the loa weep, and all his past sins were forgiven.
It was unnatural for a vampire to have no sins to account for. For this, there was a remedy.
Lindsey's other work began when the good people of the Tremé and Quarter were safe inside their houses.
Night in New Orleans was never quite dark. Indigo midnights spoke of unseeing things that prowled the alleyways and made the heavens blush with their misdeeds.
He took them down, one by one, be it mortal, fallen, or anything in between. He was the Midnight Rain, a vampire protected by the mantle of the Loa of Death, a true immortal capable of walking in both light and shadow, gorging in endless offerings of altars made of flesh and blood. He'd drink until his hazel eyes turned red and the golden hue of his skin went as dark a shade as it was before he became undead. The extent of his power was such that he'd extract truths as he drew blood, making transgressors confess before he tore them apart.
Everything was perfect, a symphony of dread and beauty ... until the letter came, calling him back to a place he had already made peace with, and buried in the depths of memory. For actions of long ago had not gone unnoticed and at such a coming together was bound to be, and now it has been seen ... even the dead can die.
