The House of Bourbon

Chapter 9

The following day, Jamison arrived at the address printed on the back of the card well before noon, as instructed. His breath came in shallow gasps, not from exertion but from the stifling stench of stale smoke that clung to his lifeless companions' singed clothing. The smell was overwhelming, a bitter reminder of the fires that demolished the city years ago – fires that had claimed more than buildings. He lost a lot of loved ones in those flames, friends whose faces still flickered in the back of his mind, like haunting embers of a dwindling fire that he once knew as his identity. The faces from that time flickered in the back of his mind's eye, ghostly apparitions of friends long gone, their smiles and laughter now reduced to haunted memories of an eternal creature. The curse of vampirism was more accurate to the individuals who lived with the mistakes of a life lived over centuries rather than a few decades on this earth. But that was a digression from the pressing moment at hand. Today, the present could not afford to wait for the past to settle. He returned the feelings like a gulp of silva into the belly. It was an immediate refocusing of his attentions to the lifeless woman in his arms.

He had spared her a fiery fate, but now Jamison was faced with finding a witch who was said to possess the solution to the woman's unending torment. The rumors were thin; whispers carried on the wind from people he rarely trusted, but it was all he had to go on. Whether he believed in the witch's abilities was another matter entirely. No witch he'd encountered had ever been able to do more than concoct simple tonics or ointments to ease a mundane ailment. How was this one supposed to wield the power necessary to pull another being from the clutches of whatever cursed trance held her captive?

Jamison had seen vampires cure human illness, their blood offering temporary relief, and occasional humans responding to Western medicine—but this was something else. Something far darker. He had sensed it when the shadow passed over them, a cold, creeping presence that left him unsettled. It was as though a piece of the night itself had followed him from the burning building, wrapping itself around the woman's limp form, refusing to let go. Whatever had taken hold of her was unlike anything he had experienced.

He adjusted the sagging woman in his arms, her body limp and unresponsive, as he approached the door. The weight of her cursed state reminded him of the dark forces that clung to her, and the uncertainty of the witch's promise gnawed at the back of his mind. Still, he had no choice but to press forward. Jamison pressed his forehead against the grimy glass pane, its surface cluttered with faded bumper stickers and chaotic scribble art, making it nearly impossible to see inside. Squinting, he could barely make out a figure moving in the dim interior, a shadow slipping past.

With a grunt, Jamison shifted the woman higher, propping her lifeless form against his chest to free a hand. He raised it to the door, knocking lightly—three ginger taps that barely echoed in the stillness. As he lowered his arms, repositioning her weight, he waited, his eyes fixed on the door. The sun's growing heat pressed against his back, but the heaviness in his chest—an uneasy mix of doubt and urgency—kept him rooted in place. The figure inside moved, but whether this witch held any real power was yet to be seen.

Though still cool by winter's standards, the sun felt a touch hotter than it had in months. It was the dead of winter, yet this morning carried an odd, unsettling warmth. Jamison could feel the sun's rays crawling over the back of his neck, its persistent heat seeping through his clothes. He needed to feed—and soon. The gnawing hunger inside him mixed with the increasing discomfort of the sun, making him shift uneasily as he tried to shield his neck from its vicious glare.

If this door didn't open soon, and the witch didn't respond, he would have no choice but to burst through. His skin was beginning to burn, and with each passing moment, the hunger in his veins screamed louder. He clenched his jaw, feeling his patience and strength waning as the seconds ticked by.