Las Habladoras

Blood is Thicker than Water: Epilogue

2009-08-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

Epilogue

With the exception of poor Mr. Simpson, our adventures had a happy ending. Doyle returned to his life in London, and wrote a book about the death of the great detective under his pseudonym.

Juliet Armstrong returned to London herself some months later when Professor Broadstead arranged a scholarship for her in the naturalist division of her college. Our last letter from her was full of Latin descriptions that made Abby giggle with glee. We also receive frequent letters from Father Stewart, now back in Scotland, and Abby’s beau, Mr. Chip Hyland, who has come into quite a bit of money since oil was discovered on his ranch.

Mr. Forte became a press hero when our roles in averting the New Orleans disaster were discovered. He resumed his medicine show with fame as his partner, and, last we heard, was dealing with much success in the Midwest.

Abby and myself have moved onto another school, much closer to Abernathie. We are now fast friends because we are very important to each other. Our family is hale and hearty and full of love as it has never been. Soon I will be leaving Laura, Melrose, and Abby, to use some of my money to see the world, and live my fantasies as I never allowed myself to before. It took death to open my eyes to life.

So, gentle reader, I thank you for reading this memoir, and hope you find the account a credible one. Perhaps we can meet once again in the world of writing, and perhaps this memoir will reach out and touch future generations. I hope it does. My father believed that often through the most unusual adventures we discover the truth about the world, but most often we discover the truth about ourselves. I hope that your path to adventure leaves you with pleasant discovery.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Polly's End

2009-08-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

Benjamin found me three days later. I had taken to sleeping most of the day, to avoid my blood lust, and his coming alarmed me because I was napping. “Polly? I know you’re out here.”

I was a wild thing with unkempt hair and tattered clothes. I peered at him through the branches of a cypress. “Forgive me for not serving you refreshments. I seldom have visitors.”

“I would have come sooner, but there was the funeral. Come down. We have things to discuss.”

I dropped out of the tree and made a futile attempt to smooth my dress. “Simpson, of course. I am sorry.”

“Abigail is desperate to find you.”

“Well, she won’t. I can’t trust myself around any of them. You know that.”

He nodded. “What are you going to do with yourself?”

“Take care of any vampires that are left. We may have missed some. Since I’m the only one of Shalimar’s kind here, they are my responsibility.”

“My question remains.”

“Mr. Stewart, what would you have me do? I wish you would kill me, but I will live until I have killed all of them.”

“Mr. Forte and Mr. Hyland have dealt with most of them. Father Stewart purified the bodies and gave them a blessing. You are the last one left. Something must be done about you.”

“I see.” Fear gripped my stomach, but I knew what had to be done. “You must kill me.” I drew a deep breath. “Right now. Do it right now.”

Benjamin nodded. “You niece would have given herself for you,” he said. “This would be my gift to that sacrifice. Intense light glowed from his hands, dazzling. I was surrounded by pain as the light filled me, driving Shalimar’s stain out of my body. Spots danced before my eyes. Benjamin flickered into view.

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” I said. The bayou was less hazy, less dreamlike.

He proffered a hand. “It’s a long walk back, Polly. Shall we go?”

I took his hand. “You don’t want to tell me how--?”

“You can guess.”

The swamp whispered its goodbyes around us.

Blood is Thcker than Water: The End of Shalimar

2009-08-10T10:43:00.000-07:00

When Doyle came to, what seemed like seconds later, both he and Simpson were strung upside down, hands trussed behind their backs, like beef carcasses in a warehouse. Shalimar and Marcus watched them wake up.

“Are we conscious?” Shalimar purred. “I’m so glad you are. You see, I want you to be conscious for most of your death.” She twirled a lock of Simpson’s hair around long fingers.

“Leave him alone!” Doyle said. “He needs medical help!”

“You both will, soon enough,” said Shalimar. “No doubt, you can imagine that I’ve devised an unpleasant end for you. I intend to drain the blood from you slowly, to see the life force ebb out of you. Marcus and I will drink it as we collect it, just as it has always been good to drink the blood of one’s enemies. Of course, once you are close to death, we shall allow you to witness the death of your assistant in a most violent and bloody fashion. I want you to be conscious for all of this.” She put her hands on either side of his head and drew him close to her own face. “I want you to be extremely conscious, to feel your life flow away. You are quite conscious, are you not, Mr. Simpson?”

“I shall be quite conscious long after you are dead,” Simpson replied.

Shalimar smiled. “Such bravado. Can you keep this up all the way to the end? I wonder.”

Marcus handed Shalimar a thin dagger. Simpson gritted his teeth and his forehead beaded with sweat. She cut him across the artery, and the blood dripped down his neck, down his head, slowly, into a large goblet. Shalimar picked it up as soon as she had collected enough for a drink. “Your health,” she said, toasting the detective. Shalimar took another sip.

Doyle noticed that Simpson’s skin was tinged blue, and his eyes were glazed. Simpson began to gasp, raspy and hollow.

The goblet slipped from Shalimar’s hand and clattered on the floor. “What is wrong with me?” she gasped.

“Silver,” said Simpson hoarsely. “I have made you drink silver.

Simpson had silver poisoning! Of course! He had all the symptoms.

“What have you done?” Shalimar said.

“I have injected myself with a silver compound, and well, as you can see, it doesn’t agree with your kind.”

Shalimar sank to her knees. “I’m no vampire.”

“You have the same blood craving. You serve the same dark forces. This shall serve for you as well. Silver is a cumulative poison. You have drunk silver three times, thanks to me. The tea we served you was full of agyrol, a silver compound. The chicken you used tonight was injected, as was I. You are done for.”

Shalimar’s skin wrinkled, becoming the same tinged blue as Simpson’s. “This will weaken me,” she said, “but I still have plenty of strength to kill you.”

“No, my queen. I’ll make sure you won’t.”

Marie LaVeau stood in the doorway. “I am mistress of New Orleans once again. You will cause no more trouble here.”

“Marcus,” Shalimar gasped. “Please help me.”

Marcus stood between Marie and Shalimar. “No further, slave. No one will cause the queen further pain.” He picked up the slim dagger. Marcus knelt and drew Shalimar into his arms. “Have they hurt you?”

“I will live. Kill her.”

“I’ll take care of us all.” Shalimar felt Marcus plunge the dagger into her chest. She clutched at the handle, her face an unasked why.

Marcus cut Doyle down. He stared at Marie LaVeau. “My sister has been avenged. You will not hear from me again.” He left via the window, just as the rest of us burst into the room.

Doyle crawled over to Simpson. “You and your heroics,” he said. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Put this down on paper,” Simpson coughed. “It has a very emotional ending. Your readers should like that.” His eyes closed and Doyle looked away.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Abby's Resolve

2009-08-04T10:45:00.000-07:00

Benjamin had taken Abby outside. “Will they be safe?” Abby asked.

“As safe as God will allow them to be,” Benjamin said.

“But the house? Won’t Mr. Forte set it on fire or something?”

“No. I think Mr. Forte will be most careful. They should all come out fine.”

Abby moved back toward the house. “I think we should go back in. They need us.”

Benjamin motioned her back. “Miss Raintree, I promised your aunt I’d take care of you.”

The moon highlighted Abby’s face and her forehead creased with worry. “I feel the need to take care of my aunt, Mr. Stewart. I’ve done a poor job of looking out for my own up to this point. I’d like to fix that.”

Benjamin’s face also softened in the moonlight. “There’s nothing you can do for your aunt now. She’s dead. She just doesn’t realize it.”

“That’s not true! She’s very alive! Look, you know a sort of magic. Father Stewart says you do. Is there a cure for this? I don’t believe Mr. Forte that we’ll have to kill her.”

“What would you do to return your aunt to normal? Would you take her place?”

“Would I have to?”

Benjamin’s face was blank. “Perhaps.”

Abby was quiet. The sounds of the swamp reasserted themselves. “Yes, Mr. Stewart,” said Abby, with resolve. “I would trade places with my aunt.”

“Then,” said Benjamin, “how could I be expected to do any less. With a flourish of his cape, Benjamin returned them to the house. “Come, Miss Raintree. Let us fine your aunt.”

Blood is Thicker than Water

2009-07-28T11:42:00.000-07:00

Hyland knocked in the front door of Marie LaVeau’s home with a shoulder, and Marie LaVeau made an audible sigh. “Sorry about that, ma’am,” Chip apologized, his ears tinging pink. “Guess I got a little carried away.”

“No matter,” said Marie. “I can add it onto the many other damages.” The rest of us followed them in. Forte cranked the gyros on his gun. Broadstead brandished a branch like a sword.

Forte glanced at him. “I’d sharpen the end of that if I were you, Hamish. It would be more effective.”

I looked around the room. I could feel Shalimar in the house, up the stairs. Where exactly I couldn’t locate. Abby touched my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. “You really are Aunt Polly,” she said, as if she’d just come to that decision.

“Oh yes.” I didn’t show my teeth as I looked at her. That may have been a bit much.

“I’m sorry.”

“This wasn’t your fault, child. You mustn’t think so. I am to blame. I had no right to leave you. You were my responsibility.”

We were interrupted by Forte and one of his gadgets. “All the vampires out of the entry room,” he said, annoyed. “I can’t get any decent readings with some people around.”

“Are you referring to me, sir?” I was miffed.

“Yes, I am. Stupid idea to have a vampire—”

“Enough!” Father Stewart stepped in. “Polly is with us, Mr. Forte. I am inclined to think she is salvageable. Since I am your employer, that is all you need as an excuse for her presence.”

“Hey, the only good vampire is a staked vampire.”

“I hope to prove otherwise,” I said. “Otherwise, Mr. Forte, I give you free leave to kill me.”

“Dad-blamed vampire,” Forte muttered under his breath.

“Shouldn’t we be getting on with it, whatever it is?” asked Juliet.

“Of course,” said Broadstead, finished with his stick sharpening. He returned Hyland’s knife. “Bring on the aberrations!”

“Okay,” said Marion. He strode downstairs, followed by three women dressed in flowing nightclothes. Hyland was dumbfounded. Abby stomped on the cowboy’s foot, and Hyland sheepishly removed his hat. The women were regular vampires, not Shalimar’s special breed, that much I could sense.

“No problem,” said Forte, shaking his head and regaining his senses. He fired his gun. Nothing happened. Broadstead smirked at him.

“How was I supposed to know the energy pack was low?” Forte said, trying his gun and hearing a whine. Forte peeled his gun pack off his back and began turning a crank handle. “Keep ‘em busy, guys, while I crank this thing back up.”

Chip grabbed a stake from one of his belts and rushed forward. Marion became a cloud as Chip’s stake passed through him. Hyland ran through the mist, forward to engage a lady vampire. He apologized as he staked her, and she clawed at his jacket sleeve as she went down, hissing.

One of the women grabbed at Abby. Benjamin intervened. He swirled his cloak around my niece, and Abby and Benjamin were gone. I clawed the vampire, who was now clutching at air. Father Stewart backed her into a corner with his cross, and between the two of us, she was soon dispensed.

Forte’s gun throbbed to life. He pointed the nozzle at Marion and the last woman. As soon as the ray hit the woman, she powdered. The ray passed through vampire ash and shot a hole between Marion’s bushy brows. He shambled towards us.

Forte shrugged his shoulders. “Guys?”

Hyland feinted in for a second attack. Marion backhanded him and made for Juliet. Broadstead quickly crossed his path and stabbed Marion with his sharp stick. Marion, exasperated, looked at the stake in his chest. “I knew I should have killed you myself,” he said to Broadstead. The vampire fell forward.

“My hero,” Juliet beamed.

Forte smiled as he shouldered back into his gun pack. “Thank you,” he said.

Juliet ran past Forte to Broadstead. A hugged Broadstead was stunned into silence. Forte smirked. Hyland rubbed the bruise on his cheek.

“Miss LaVeau,” I asked. “Do you have an attic? That’s where I’d guess Shalimar is.”

There was no answer. Marie LaVeau had disappeared. Abby and Benjamin had yet to return.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Simpson versus Shalimar

2009-07-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

Doyle and Simpson had skirted the proceedings at Lake Ponchartrain. Simpson had been certain that if any action were to happen that night, it would happen at the LaVeau home. Doyle had fretted over the fate of the voodoos, but Simpson contested that in order to help the poor wretches in any way, they had to reach the root of the problem. Simpson continued to be pale, and he perspired greatly; Doyle began to worry about the health of his friend rather than his relapse into addiction.

Simpson’s plan was to lie in wait for Shalimar. They entered the house through the front door and met no resistance. “Just as I thought,” Simpson said. “Everyone is too busy outside tonight. We should have a relatively easy wait in front of us.”

Doyle nodded, but fingered the holy water in his pocket nervously just the same. They climbed the stairs. Simpson knocked on the door of the study, just for form. “No one home,” he said. He sat down in the giant chair behind the desk gratefully. “We have time to wait.”

“No,” said Shalimar, drifting in the window. “I always attend to my guests promptly.”

Simpson made a move toward Shalimar, but had to clutch at the chair to steady himself. Doyle moved to Simpson.

Shalimar laughed. Finally, the old man was being worn down! “I thought you had left the city. To what do I owe the honor of such a visit?

Simpson steadied himself against the desk, motioning Doyle back. “You’re finished. I have the intent of destroying you, and keeping this vampirism from spreading any further.”

“You?” Shalimar said with mock amazement. “You are a tired old man. You look like, well, the undead. And,” Shalimar stared past the detectives, “two of you are hardly a match for the two of us.”

Doyle watched Marcus come in. He debated flinging the holy water at Marcus, but knew that Simpson could not run once Doyle did. The detective was looking more ill by the second. Marcus grabbed Doyle quickly. Simpson chose that inopportune moment to collapse. Shalimar hovered over Simpson.

“Stay away from him!” Doyle yelled.

“The tables have turned, eh, detective?” Shalimar nodded at Marcus. “Things have not gone well. We don’t have much time. Take them upstairs.”

Marcus thumped Doyle on the head and the room faded away.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Fighting at the Voodoo Ceremony

2009-07-13T10:25:00.001-07:00

“Oh goodness, Polly,” Andrew said. “They’re bringing Abby out.”

Father Stewart and I watched from a tree where I had brought him only seconds before. My search for Shalimar had led us to the voodoo ceremony in progress. My niece was about to debut as a sacrifice. Two undead creatures dragged Abby into the circle when Shalimar called for her. Abby had obviously put up some resistance. An ugly bruise was darkening on her cheek, and the vampires who carried her forward were not without their own bruises, scrapes, and fingernail marks where she had been at them. I had never thought her fits as a child would be useful training for anything until now. Abby was yelling at Shalimar and the vampires with a string of obscenities that would make Father Stewart blush. Shalimar seemed largely unaffected.

Shalimar had a voodoo bring her forward a tray of knives. She took some time in selecting what she thought must be the perfect knife, a silver dagger. After examining the dagger’s cleanliness and pricking her own thumb on the point, Shalimar motioned for the vampires to bring Abby closer.

Father Stewart drew out his crucifix. “Your move, Polly. Do you still want to risk your control?”

“I have some will power,’ I said, “but I remember how it was when I was among them before. If I show any signs of weakening or helping them, remember Andrew, you must get Abby out of their clutches.”

“I promise that. Let’s go.”

I grabbed Andrew under the armpits. We flew over the voodoos and the vampires quickly. I dropped Andrew into the circle. A surprised Shalimar dropped her dagger. Andrew Stewart, in spite of his mild-mannered appearance, proved himself a daredevil. He splashed holy water in the faces of the vampires holding my niece. Then he pulled Abby close to him and wielded his cross, holding the vampires at bay. The holy relic even caused Shalimar to keep her distance. He gave Abby a bag of powder.

“Sprinkle this in a circle, girl!” he demanded. “It will keep the evil sorcery out!”

Abby, hands shaking, sprinkled an uneven but full circle. Shalimar’s eyes were black with anger, but her tone was casual. “You can’t hold us out forever, priest.”

“I don’t have to,” said Father Stewart. “Only until morning. Pity you killed all the locals. They could easily have crossed the circle.”

In the sky I swooped away. Abby and Andrew were safer than they’d be with me for the time being. I had to find the others and finish the job we’d started. Shalimar would find some wily way to get through Father Stewart’s circle sooner or later, and I wanted to keep that from happening. We needed Mr. Forte and his gun. Instead I found the one person I did not want to see. Rather, I should say he found me. Marcus swooped upon me from behind, his finger nails razors cutting into my back.

“Traitor!” he yelled. “I created you, and now I take your life.”

The wound knocked the wind out of me and I tumbled from the sky. My concentration deserted me and the ground came up dizzily to meet me. By the time I scrambled to my feet, he was ready for me, a vampire hundreds of years older, ready to use every skill at his disposal to make sure I had a suffering destruction.

“You wanted her place with Shalimar, and with me, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

“You killed my sister!”

His grief was genuine. I had come to think of the vampires as monsters, but that doubt I had felt that afternoon at Marie LaVeau’s house was on me again. No vampire truly chose his fate. At one time or another they were all victims. Marcus looked very vulnerable. Yet, I remembered how I’d been deceived by Marcus. That had cost me my life. If I wasn’t careful, this could cost me my existence.

“I didn’t kill your sister, Marcus,” I said gently. “Shalimar did.”

“You lie!”

“I saw your sister’s body. I was looking for Abby when Dalia took her away. The apartment reeked of Shalimar’s essence. Marion had been there too, no doubt tracking Dalia down. Think. Could I kill your sister? I can barely control my powers. I’m no vampire yet.”

The logic of this beat heavily upon Marcus, but logic would not carry the day against several hundred years worth of loyalty. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then, I give you leave to kill me.” Those words were out of my mouth before I had time to judge their wisdom. I felt a great deal for Marcus, as though he were my first real love. I wanted to truly be with him, as much as one undead could be with another. I gambled that perhaps he felt similarly toward me, because I didn’t want to believe he’d just used me.

He looked into my eyes and I let him. He was in complete control. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, exposing my neck. His nails taloned, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the strike that would end me. It didn’t come.

“Leave, Pauline,” he said heavily. His hand slid out of my hair.

“I’m sorry, Marcus.”

He would not face me. “Just go.”

I shot into the air. The night wind stung my back. I wiped tears out of my eyes. In the distance, Benjamin Stewart flagged me down.

“We need you,” I said, landing gently. “Father Stewart and Abby are trapped."

His cape wrapped around us, and we appeared in the circle by Abby and the priest. Abby’s face brightened when she saw me. I nodded cursorily at her. Shalimar laughed.

“A magician? Come now, Pauline, is that the best you can do? I can do tricks like that one in my sleep.”

Benjamin faced her. “Do you not recognize me?”

“I recognize you,” said Shalimar coldly. “Dalia told me that you had switched allegiance. When I am through with you, Benjamin, you will wish you had not been born.”

Benjamin laughed at her, a joke only he understood. The rest of us, friends and enemies, were startled by his laughter, uncommon with the morose man.

“You’re blind, Shalimar. Look closer.”

Father Stewart’s smiled at Shalimar with condescension. Her derision faded into an epiphany. She broke out of the circle and ran.

Confusion reigned. The rest of our troops picked that moment to arrive. Samuel Forte’s spirit gun blazed out of the night. Hyland and Father Stewart fought their way through the vampires, and Benjamin and Marie LaVeau practiced their magic. I decided to stay out of the way, especially away from Mr. Forte’s gun.

When the mayhem subsided, we had carried the day. Only Shalimar, Marcus, and Marion were unaccounted for. The time had come for us to enter the LaVeau home and take it back.

I wandered to Benjamin. I wanted to ask why Shalimar had been so frightened, but I thought perhaps I should be more discreet. “Where is Mr. Doyle?” I said, examining the scratches on my arms. “I could certainly use a doctor. What has happened to him and Mr. Simpson?”

Benjamin ignored my questions. “We should go inside,” he said.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Chase

2009-07-06T12:26:00.000-07:00

“Boo,” said Marie LaVeau for effect.

"Don’t do that!” Forte yelled. He had jumped, but he was pleased Hyland had jumped higher. “What’d ya see up there?”

Marie LaVeau climbed down to the ground. “Shalimar has killed several during the ceremony. Abby will no doubt make an appearance soon if Aunt Polly and Andrew have not found her.”

“Should we take ‘em out and get Abby?” asked Forte.

“I think that’s our wisest course of action,” Marie answered. “We cannot allow this vampirism to spread. Are you prepared to do what you were hired for, Mr. Forte?”

“Lady, I was born ready.”

Then they heard the noises. A loud splashing broke the distant wailing. Vampires, a hunting pack, flew toward them, in hot pursuit of the two tired victims. Forte re-routed his gun and fired a wild shot. The undead swarmed toward Forte, Hyland, and LaVeau.

“Run!” Hyland yelled. One of the running victims stumbled and Hyland backed up to help her out of the muck.

“Thank you, Mr. Hyland,” Juliet puffed. Chip kept her in her arms and continued forward.

All five ran for their lives deeper into the swamp. Forte recognized Broadstead as the other victim, but did not feel this was the time to gloat out a greeting to his debate partner. In the distance, the group saw a small shack.

“That looks familiar!” said Juliet.

“We’ve run in a circle!” Broadstead huffed. “Curse this swamp! Quick! In there!”

The group reached the hut. Broadstead shoved Hyland and Juliet in. Marie and Forte quickly followed. Broadstead lost some skin as he pushed himself back through the whole in the wall. Hyland and Forte propped the loose boards back against the walls, and leaned against them.

“I am kind glad to see you again,” Forte said to Broadstead, “but did you have to bring your rowdy English friends to our party?”

“Are those some of your spirits, Forte?”

The wall lurched. Forte and Hyland pressed the boards back. “Why yes, Hamish. They are.”

“Well, shouldn’t you take care of them? Shouldn’t you be firing your gun or something?”

“That’s a mighty fine idea,” said Chip.

The walls of the shake crumbled into handfuls as the undead shredded them. Juliet screamed when a hand reached through a board in front of her. Marie LaVeau touched the hand, shocking it with her magic. It pulled back. Forte’s gun hummed to life.

The door burst open, and vampires poured in from all sides. Forte fired. The first monsters through the door exploded. Broadstead pushed Juliet on the floor to cover her from blood, guts, and other shrapnel. Hyland and LaVeau ducked. Forte was in his element, spraying vampires left and right as they exploded into greasy fireballs. When the smoke cleared, the five of them were safe. The stench of burning flesh was overwhelming, and they quickly left the disaster behind.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to concede a point?” Forte said, looking at Broadstead.

“About?”

“The existence of the supernatural?”

Broadstead glanced back at the carnage and shivered slightly. “A small one,” he admitted sulkily.

Forte cackled with glee. “And remember, I have witnesses.”

They moved back into the swamp.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Vampire Swamp Hunt

2009-06-29T10:15:00.000-07:00

Chapter 9: In Which the Solutions to Our Problems Fall Into Place

Broadstead tried his voice and found it to be on the squeaky side. If he could wake up Miss Armstrong, surely she would laugh to hear him. But given their surroundings, he thought it imperative that he should wake her up, in spite of his voice’s humor potential.

“Miss Armstrong?” If that brute had caused serious damage to her, Broadstead would never forgive himself for not protecting her better. Certainly she did rush into the fray, but, he felt, it was only on his account. Wherever they seemed to be now was obviously far removed from Miss May Pettijohn’s. The clapboard hut smelled rotting, dank with swamp water. The floor of the hut was claylike. Unless Doyle was running around in the swamp out there, it seemed very likely that there wasn’t a doctor for some miles.

“Please, Miss Armstrong.” Broadstead shook her gently.

Her eyes flickered open. “I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he squeaked at her. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“That will do nicely. Do you know who you are?”

“Yes, Professor. Juliet Armstrong.”

“And who am I?”

“J. Hamish Broadstead.” She smiled at him. “What does the J stand for?”

“James.”

“Do I score well enough on my examination to sit up?”

“Rather.” He stood up to give her room, trying to brush muck off his pants. “Leave it to Americans to build a city on top of a swamp,” he muttered to himself.

Juliet smoothed her hair back into place. “Where are we?”

“Some sort of shack.” Broadstead offered a hand to help Juliet to her feet. “No doubt prisoners of the diabolic menace who accosted us. Although I’m not sure why he didn’t just kill us out right. My apologies for not being more effective.”

“You did quite well, considering the circumstances. Can we get out, do you think?”
“I have attempted the door, and while it looks as though it may fall off its hinges, it seems rather against opening.”

Juliet creased her brow. “It can’t be difficult to get out of a building like this, can it? In a recent story by Mr. Mark Twain, his main character broke out of a shack very like this one by knocking one of the boards loose from the wall.”

“The idea is certainly worth the effort.” Broadstead and Juliet pulled on the boards. After a few moments their efforts were rewarded by finding a wiggly one. “I think I’ve found something,” Broadstead said. “Now, is there anything to knock it with?”

They glanced around. Juliet sat down and began to unbutton her boot. Broadstead turned discretely away. “Here you are,” she said, handing him the boot, and standing lopsidedly.

Broadstead hammered and the board slid. “Truth is stranger than Mark Twain’s fiction,” Broadstead muttered. He and Juliet pried away the board, and the hole, they decided, was large enough for Juliet to try to inch through. Juliet put on her boot again before trying.

“We can pry another board loose from the outside,” she said, squeezing through. She pulled and pushed. The professor squeezed snugly through as soon as they worked the hole large enough.

“Nice work,” said Juliet.

“Merely following your lead, Miss Armstrong.” Broadstead untwisted his waist coat. “You’re a very resourceful young woman.”

Juliet blushed. “Really, it was nothing at all.”

“I insist that it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Look,” Marion said as he stepped beside them in the dark, “let’s not get carried away. You haven’t escaped the clutches of death yet.”

Juliet screamed. Broadstead stepped protectively in front of her. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, you villain!”

“Geez, Fatty, I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what I can and can’t do.” Marion cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you out here.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Broadstead, piqued, “the question had crossed my mind.”

“Shalimar wants your people dead. I thought maybe the boys in the coffins would like a little swamp chase. It’s much more dramatic than me taking you both out in front of a girl’s school. Besides,” he cocked an eyebrow at Juliet, “I always did like blonds, and now that Baby Doll’s gone, we could make beautiful music together.”

“I’d rather die first!” Juliet retorted.

“Good.” Marion smiled. “It’s easier that way.”

Broadstead clenched his fists. You’ll not lay a hand on her!”

“I hadn’t intended to.” Marion snapped his fingers. A circle of vampires closed around the little hut. The undead looked like they needed a wake up drink and Juliet and Broadstead seemed the best supply available.

“Tell you what,” said Marion, “since I’m such a sport, I’ll give you a head start.” Broadstead and Juliet hesistated. The circle opened to give them a place to pass through. “Run!” yelled Marion.

Juliet pulled Broadstead’s arm and they sprinted into the swamp. Marion allowed them a good thirty foot lead before he sent the vampires after them. “Sic ‘em guys!” The vampires swooped forward, beginning the nightmare chase.

Blood is Thicker than Water; Voodoo

2009-06-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

Samuel Forte hated the swamp. It was not a place he felt where a gentleman of his intellectual caliber should spend time. He felt his boots squelch one more time in the muck and realized that no one could ever pay him enough to go monster stomping again. He didn’t want to get bit by a slimy swamp monster or a vampire. Undead and swamp critters had the same pointy teeth. And Forte hated the way the swamp didn’t bother Marie LaVeau, who had gone on solo to scout out Lake Ponchartrain, or how Chip Hyland swaggered through the much beside him in a tough hombre manner. “I don’t see how anyone could find the critters of the supernatural in this place,” Forte complained. “Couldn’t tell the difference between ectoplasm and swamp goo.”

“Yup,” said Hyland, “but just as long as we can find Miss Raintree before they bit her, that’s all I care about. I don’t think I want Abby de-aging like Aunt Polly did.”

“Me neither,” Forte commented. “It did wonders for Aunt Polly though. Too bad I’ll have to plug her when this is over with.”

Hyland shook his head. “You aren’t plugging nobody.”

“It’s my job. That’s what they hired me for. To kill undead. Aunt Polly’s a vampire, and like all vampires, she’ll go bad. I’ll have to put her down. It’s as simple as that.”

“Abby’s not going to like that.”

“Maybe not, but when Miss Raintree and I are married, I don’t want visits from a maiden aunt who may suck out all my vital juices.” Forte pulled out the small box that clicked when he neared the supernatural. “Something mean and occult about to go on here soon,” the self-labeled scientific spiritualist announced.

“Fine and dandy,” Hyland said. “Soon as we find Abby, we’ll take care of it. Although,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I do wish I’d remembered some brass knuckles. Punching vampires is kind of rough on a man.”

Forte looked at Hyland incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. The two of them continued to slog through the swamp.

***

The voodoos were waiting. The new mambo was no woman they knew, but Shalimar disguised herself among them. Her bolt of black hair shimmered down her back. Her cocoa complexion told them she was partly one of their own. Rumor had it that Marie LaVeau was dead, killed by this woman. This woman had reputedly absorbed all of Marie’s power. Now, just as the sun dipped into Lake Ponchartrain, Shalimar stood in front of them, dressed in white, with the blue mambo cord around her waist, and they knew it was true. They belonged to this woman.

“Children,” she yelled above the beat of the drums, “it is time.”

The crowd silenced. The voodoo doctor behind her played his drums, slowly, seductively, and as Shalimar danced, the voodoos danced with her. She swayed, took small steps, and gyrated her hips. Once again the crowd copied her movements. They danced faster and faster. Then someone in the crowd handed Shalimar a black rooster. The rooster flapped wildly. She held its feet and raised the bird above her head for all the voodoos to see. It spread its wings and squawked. Shalimar posed with the bird, triumphant, and then with a smooth twist she wrenched its neck and pulled its head out. The crowd frenzied.

The headless chicken flapped wildly. Shalimar tilted it as though it were a glass, drinking the blood that gushed from its neck. Then she threw the body on the ground and continued to dance. The voodoos, tense, swayed.

In the crowd, vampires began feeding on the voodoos. One of them grabbed a nearby woman and bit. The crowd went wild. Shalimar admired her handiwork. When the voodoos rose in three days, they would be hers. The city belonged to the night, and the city would spread across the land a little at a time.

Marie LaVeau watched the small fires far away. “Once again, I cannot stop it,” she said.

“We can stop it,” said Benjamin Stewart from the shadows behind her. “You have more allies now. I will do everything in my power to prevent this. And so will you.”
Marie turned to see him. He had slipped back into the night, and she was left alone with the fires and the screams.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Aunt Polly Investigates the Scene

2009-06-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

We arrived at the Cliffington Hotel, one of New Orleans’ more exclusive guest residences. I felt Dalia was there. It was typical of her. Her pampered tastes would want the best she felt she could have, what she felt she deserved. We went in and were immediately approached by a curious clerk.

“Excuse me,” the clerk said, “but is one of the guests expecting you?”

“Yes,” I said. “A Miss Dalia?”

“Last name?”

I didn’t know Dalia’s family name. “I can’t remember.”

“Then,” said the clerk condescendingly, “I can’t imagine ‘Miss Dalia’ would be expecting you. Perhaps you would like to leave?”

I almost said something to the clerk that would have made my hotheaded niece proud of me, but Father Stewart intervened.

“You see,” Father Stewart said, “our visit to Miss Dalia is a church visit. An important one. Her younger sister is newly arrived in the city, and Miss Dalia wished us to visit her. You remember her?”

“Yes,” said the clerk, less friendly than before. “Perhaps you can tell the police more about her, since they are searching for her now.”

“What?” The exclamation escaped my lips. Why had the police become involved? What had Dalia done to Abby?

We were taken to a small room where we were questioned about my niece. Apparently there had been a murder upstairs and the police had identified the body as Dalia’s. I was disappointed in a small way, for the vampire in me wanted to pay Dalia back for my humiliation from earlier in the morning with lumps and bruises. When the police discovered we didn’t know anything, they let us go and decided to call us back for more questioning if they needed it. We left the hotel, Father Stewart and I both knowing we had to get upstairs to look into that hotel room.

“I think, Polly old girl,” said the Father, “that it’s up to you to get upstairs and see what you can see. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“I can fly up there, but technically I have to be invited into a room before I can enter it.”

“Ah, but the beauty of it is that this particular place belongs to no one owner. It’s a hotel. Entry should not be restricted.”

“So you suggest that if I go into the hotel with that frame of mind, I should have no problem getting in?”

“It is an opinion,” said Father Stewart.

I concentrated on floating up to the window after making sure the street was clear. I found myself hovering outside. Now if I could just figure out how to mist under the sill! I concentrated hard. Nothing happened. Harder. Nothing. Then something popped inside of me and I was a tiny bat. Apparently I had mastered shape shifting.

“Very good Polly!” said Father Stewart, looking up. “Now, how will you get in?”

I squeaked at him. This shape wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I tried one more time. Something popped again. I felt strange, floaty, and I oozed underneath the sill. On the other side, I became myself again, but only after looking to see if the police had quitted the site. One constable remained on guard. I hit him on the back of his head, knowing myself to be stronger than before. He took a slight nap on the carpet. When I had time to concentrate, I knew why I was on pins and needles. I smelled blood.

Actually, it wasn’t quite blood. It smelled sickly sweet, like the vampires smelled, slightly rotten. Ichor, that substance that runs through a vampire’s veins because of the borrowed blood. I swept into the room where the smell came from. I looked under the sheet that they had covered the body with. What I saw under there was brutal.

There was very little of the body left that was recognizably Dalia, except for the golden tresses that spilled onto the floor. Her body had been split open. The chest cavity gaped and a pool of slimy ichor gelled on the floor. Most appalling was her face and the condition of her skin, which had the consistency of grey ash. Her face had deteriorated to that of a hag’s. Part of it had turned to powder on the floor, leaving the skull exposed. I turned away from the body, fighting down the bile that fought its way into my mouth. Throwing up was a human reaction. I was dead, and I didn’t want to find out what would happen if I were sick.

A search of the apartment yielded no signs of my niece, but every evidence that other vampires had been there. Shalimar’s essence called to me in a way no other did. Her blood sang in me and made me what I was. Andrew and I could waste no more time here. We had to find Shalimar and my niece before the night, before she could be sacrificed. I only hoped that perhaps the others, the ones in the swamp would find her quickly, since they were there already.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Broadstead versus the Vampires

2009-06-10T11:57:00.000-07:00

Even though Broadstead was usually content with the idea of keeping the home fires burning, tonight he was bothered by an uneasiness that kept him on the edge of his seat. He could see Miss Armstrong was affected too, because even though she attempted her embroidery of a lovely butterfly, she sighed as she made mistake after mistake. Broadstead knew the reason for his frustration. He wasn’t quite sure he understood what events were taking shape around him. He knew there was a logical explanation for everything, and eventually one would come up to explain what was happening. He also had some slight trepidation in his mind since he let Forte on the loose, but Broadstead had every hope that cooler heads like Stewart and Hyland would keep Forte in check. Sending Hyland and Forte into someplace together was rather like sending a bull into a china shop, but at least Hyland could manage the unmanageable. In this case Forte.

“Another cup of tea?” Juliet repeated. Broadstead came out of his thoughts and took the cup that was offered him.

“Yes, thank you,” said Broadstead. “Another cookie would be nice as well.”

Juliet handed him the platter of molasses cookies made by Miss Pettijohn herself, her cheeks glowing pink as she did. Broadstead smiled back nervously. Juliet’s cheeks turned red. “Are you nervous, Miss Armstrong?” Broadstead said through a bite. “Don’t be. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“I’m sure of that, professor,” she said. “But I must admit to some surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“Yes.” Juliet’s voice was low. “I am very surprised to find as logical and scientific a man as yourself among the associates of the Raintrees.”

“I can assure you, Miss Armstrong,” Broadstead chuckled, “I’m only on this expedition to protect Father Stewart from being misled by Mr. Forte. You can see that he is a rather greasy sort?”

“Well,” Juliet said, becoming bolder, “he does seem correct about the vampires.”

Broadstead patted her hand. “I can assure you, dear, there must be a logical explanation.” Although once again, it bothered Broadstead that he could not produce one offhand.

“I’m sure you’re correct, professor. I’ve been a great admirer of your work for some time, and it is usually quite sound.”

Broadstead leaned forward, suddenly more interested in the young woman in front of him. “You know my work?”

Juliet nodded. “At least your beetle research. You see, I intend to study beetles. At your college. When I’ve made enough money to go back to England.”

“Goodness! And how did you end up in America?”

“I wished to study some of the beetles here.” Juliet became more animated as she warmed to the subject. “So I took the last of my inheritance and came to the States. But now I have all my data and I wish to return to England to interpret it.”

“What a rarity! A woman naturalist! Who would have thought? Can I see your notes?”

“Oh yes, professor!” Juliet ran out of the parlor as quick as she could.

Broadstead watched her go. He’d often been curious about women. There weren’t too many in the beetle field. Would she be any good? Would her research mean anything? As he watched her return breathlessly with her notes, he was caught in her enthusiasm. She watched proudly as he thumbed through her notebooks. “Why, this is very good, Miss Armstrong. How patient you must have been to get notes this exact!”

Juliet nodded. “I could just watch beetles for hours, professor!”

“Oh! Me too, Miss Armstrong!” He looked up at her, and she was aglow with happiness. He had only seen such a look of admiration when his mother looked at his father. The look that he had seen as a young boy had stayed with him because his mother had died early in his childhood, but he recognized the look for what it was. Juliet Armstrong seemed to admire him greatly.

Broadstead was puzzled. They had just met. Obviously Miss Armstrong loved an idea. She did not love J. Hamish Broadstead the man, she loved J. Hamish Broadstead, the perfect scientist. Not that Broadstead was shocked. His ideas about male and female relationships were probably not what Juliet might expect. Why, back in his younger undergraduate days, he’d written a rather radical political tract discussing the idea of free love. But she, young and inexperienced, was probably not aware of the concept. And he did not intend to introduce her to it, intellectually or otherwise.

“Miss Armstrong?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps we should see about a scholarship for you. This is brilliant work.”

“Thank you, professor.”

“Not at all,” he said, closing the book abruptly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He rose hastily and looked out the window. One of Miss Pettijohn’s young ladies was crossing the street, walking toward the school. A gentleman came towards her and stopped to converse with her.

“Is something wrong, professor?” Juliet’s voice made him nervous. It wasn’t the monsters—um—ruffians—putting him on edge at all. It was her.

“No, Miss Armstrong.” Outside the gentleman was no longer a gentleman. He was pulling on the young lady’s arm. The young lady began to scream. Juliet rushed to his side at the parlor window.

“Hey,” the man yelled toward the school. Ya wanna come out and play? I got one of your little girls here!”

Broadstead picked up his can and made deliberately for the door. “Obviously someone I shall have to thrash soundly. Please stay inside, Miss Armstrong. Keep the young ladies inside as well.” Broadstead strode from the house. Juliet grabbed an umbrella from the stand and guarded the door.

When Broadstead left the school, Marion released the student. She darted into Juliet's arms at the door, and Juliet pushed her inside. She closed the door behind her, clutching the umbrella. Marion surveyed Broadstead from head to toe. “Good help must be getting hard to find these days if the best they could do was you.”

“I can assure you,” Broadstead said stiffly, “I am more than capable of dealing with the likes of you. And I have summoned the constable.”

“I'd be shaking in my boot if this were any place but New Orleans. You can expect the police maybe next week. As for you,” Marion's fist flew into Broadstead's face. Broadstead, dazed, fell to the street. Juliet rushed forward, wielding the umbrella. Blood from Broadstead's nose dripped onto his shirt.

The naturalist stood up, ready. Marion had caught him off guard once; he wouldn't catch him again. “Get back, Miss Armstrong!” Broadstead, sturdy on his feet, assumed boxing stance. He popped the vampire square on the jaw. Juliet stood paralyzed while the fight began.

Marion decided to fight dirty. He crouched and leaped on Broadstead. Juliet screamed. Broadstead and Marion tangled to the ground in a mass of limbs. Juliet raced forward and whacked Marion with the umbrella. Using one hand to throttle Broadstead, Marion backhanded Juliet. The force sent her to the picket fence of the school, where she hit her head on the boards. Still clutching the umbrella, she watched dancing brown spots cover the world, thinking that if the vampires killed her at least she would die in the company of a great man.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Simpson's Bad Habit

2009-06-03T07:17:00.000-07:00

Doyle had come home from the council of war to find Benjamin Stewart waiting for him outside the door. Benjamin steered Doyle away from Simpson’s lab. Finding he could not confer with his colleague, Doyle went to bed. When Doyle awoke in the morning, he found Simpson lounging on the living room sofa in a stupor. That’s when Doyle realized that Simpson had been using cocaine again.

Cocaine was one habit of Simpson’s that Doyle did not enjoy writing about. Simpson had practiced the habit at the beginning of their friendship and had given it up at Doyle’s urging. Apparently, Simpson must have found the pressure of the current situation to be too much for him, and he’d snapped under the pressure.

“What have you done to yourself?” Doyle asked.

Simpson’s skin was a ghastly white and sweat matted the detective’s hair. “Your tone indicates that you are upset,” Simpson said, his tongue tripping over more words than he’d intended it to.

“Dash it all, Simpson!” Doyle’s fist pounded the back of the couch. “Now, when you’re needed the most by those who depend on you, you do this! Young Miss Raintree is missing! Tonight is the night Shalimar makes her move. How dare you incapacitate yourself!”

Simpson struggled to his feet. “Hardly incapacitated. I shall do my duty and more, as you will see. Now, what about Miss Raintree?”

Doyle noticed the strength in Simpson’s voice. Usually in his drugged state, he was listless and relaxed. “The vampires have taken her. The elder Miss Raintree has returned, but she is a vampire herself.”

Simpson nodded. “I was afraid that would happen. Well, we must fight to keep it from happening again. I hypothesize that Miss Raintree will be safe until tonight.”

“Surely the fiends would have done with her immediately?”

“No. Remember the voodoo ceremony we talked about earlier? Shalimar will need someone to kill. Miss Raintree is a maiden?”

Doyle blushed. “I should hope so!”

“No doubt, then, Miss Raintree is a sacrifice of sorts. Now, as long as we find and save her by tonight, I shouldn’t worry about her. We have other matters to investigate. We need to know exactly where this ceremony will take place along Lake Ponchartrain.”

Doyle nodded. Simpson was still in command of his faculties, even though as a doctor, Doyle was disturbed by the detective’s appearance. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”

Simpson allowed himself a slight smile. “Merely the aftereffects of an old habit. It will pass.”

Doyle shook his head. “You promised.”

“I slipped. I shall do my best to never slip again.”

“Then I’ll just get young Stewart.”

“He’s gone,” Simpson stated. “Now there’s a fellow who bothers me, I’ll admit. I haven’t got him quite pegged.”

“I never thought you’d admit it.”

“I’ve admitted that several times,” Simpson said, slightly irritated by the amusement in his companion’s voice. “However, that doesn’t mean that I won’t have him pegged by the end of this episode. Shall we go?”

The two men left the hotel, Simpson being careful to tuck a crucifix in his pocket before they left.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Abby and Dalia Part 2

2009-05-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

Abigail ran out of the room and into a parlor. She saw what she assumed was the front door. She lunged for the door handle when Dalia materialized in front of her.

“You have mussed my outfit considerably!” said Dalia at the end of her rope, “and I feel that you should be punished!” Dalia grabbed Abby. Abby struggled. “It will be your guess as to whether I make you into my companion, or I decide to kill you.”

The door opened. Shalimar’s throaty voice interrupted. “Still the savage after all my lessons in elocution. Dalia, are you going to spoil my sacrifice for me?”

Dalia let Abby go. Shalimar was framed majestically in the doorway.

Marion peered around one of her shoulders. “Hey, baby doll,” he waved, “our lady here wants a word with you.”

Abby sat up. “What do you mean sacrifice?”

“My dear child, at the voodoo ceremony tonight, you are to be the guest of honor,” Shalimar informed. “Dalia hasn’t told you? Marion,” Shalimar said, without looking at him, “take Miss Raintree outside. I wish to have a word with Dalia in private.”

Marion picked Abby up. She kicked and screamed. He slapped her, and she was quiet. He nodded at Shalimar, winked at Dalia, and went into the hallway.

“Shalimar,” Dalia cooed. “This isn’t what it looks like. I was preparing Abigail for you. I didn’t want Aunt Polly to get her. She’s turned on us, you know.”

Shalimar sat down in one of the high-backed chairs. “Aunt Polly has yet to become one of us. But she will in time. I am not concerned about Abby particular as a sacrifice. One virgin will do as well as another. But I am concerned about you. Have you been feeling yourself lately?”

“Of course,” said Dalia nervously. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t been home in two days. And you didn’t let Aunt Polly learn the lessons about being undead that I wanted her to learn. You arranged for her capture. One might almost think you were jealous.”

Dalia laughed casually. “Me? Jealous of an old maid?”

“Now she’s beautiful and rivals your place in my affections. Possibly your brother’s affections as well.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Then, how can you explain your actions? What other possible reason could you want Abby? For yourself?”

“I am allowed to make those claims, am I not?”

“Certainly. I wanted to be sure,” here Shalimar’s voice iced, “that you are not getting ideas that are above your station.”

“Ideas?”

“Yes.” Shalimar’s eyes clouded to a stormy black. “I have been alive much longer than you. To try to deceive me is folly. I know you envy me. We can’t have that.”

Dalia’s panic lodged in her throat. “You know how I look up to you! I’d never do anything against your wishes.”

“I thought you would be different.” Shalimar dashed a vase on the table next to her to the floor. “I kept Placas close to me when she was my serving maid, and I thought she would be with me forever. Now she calls herself Marie LaVeau, and she is worse than the enemies I had before her. I thought you would be different because I made you. I see now that the best I can hope for is temporary companionship.” She rose solemnly. “You will die before I allow you to oppose me.”

“Please, Shalimar, let me explain—”

“No.” Shalimar’s tone was light. “There is no need for explanation. I have decided your fate.” Shalimar began to check ugly words from a language Dalia was sure she’d never heard. But she recognized it as similar to the words of the blood ceremony, hard and cold. Dalia was transfixed, watching Shalimar’s face, unable to hide or run away. The savage words poured forth from Shalimar’s lips, and then Shalimar’s hands, smooth and white, reached toward Dalia. The long fingernails played over Dalia’s white throat for a moment. A trickle of blood rushed down Dalia’s dress.

Outside, Marion kept hitting Abby against the wall when she needed it. Finally Abby had learned patience. When Dalia screamed, Abby felt the shudder go through Marion’s body. The scream died in a throaty gurgle, and Abby felt growing nausea in her stomach.

Shalimar came out, seconds later, licking her finger tips. “The back way, I think. We have appointments to keep.” They left discretely seconds before the police arrived.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Dalia and Abby Part 1

2009-05-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8: In Which Several Events Occur Unexpectedly

Dalia combed a lock of perfectly curled hair into place on Abby’s head. Abby stared, still as a marble goddess. “Perfect.” Abby wore an elaborate frilly gown, much like Dalia’s own. Both matched the elegant décor of the hotel that Dalia had found for them. Dalia smiled at Abby. The perfect doll for her to play with, she thought. Yes, someone she could mold in her own image, like Shalimar had attempted to mold Dalia some time ago. Abby looked the role of Dalia’s personal protégée, and if Dalia ever hoped to replace Shalimar, she would need a protégée.

Over time, Dalia felt she had become more than a match for Shalimar. If Shalimar’s serving wench could strike out on her own and become successful, so could Dalia. Besides, Dalia was much prettier than Shalimar. And more merciful, so better liked by the other vampires in general. It would hardly be a challenge to get them to follow her.

Fine, so Abby wouldn’t have Shalimar’s special blood in her. Abby would only rise at night. Nevertheless, Abby would still be beneficial to Dalia. And there would be benefits to Abby being a night rise. No one would notice or think how pretty Abby was and compare her to Dalia. Dalia would not make the same mistakes that Shalimar made with her. Abby would never rival Dalia if Dalia played her cards correctly.

Now was the time to wake Abby up and introduce her to her destiny, whether she liked it or not. Dalia prepared herself by smiling dazzlingly. Then she snapped her fingers. Abby’s eyelids fluttered. “What? Where am I?” Abby’s eyes darted around the room.

“Oh, Abby dear! I’m so glad you’re yourself again. All of us have been so worried about you.”

Abby’s brain was foggy. “I don’t understand.”

“It was terrible!” Dalia patted Abby’s hand. “I understand how you feel. Your poor aunt!”

Suddenly memory popped into Abby’s head. She snapped up. “Oh! Aunt Polly!”

“Yes. Your aunt is fiendish undead. I hope Mr. Forte has put her out of her misery, like he said he would.”

“Then you’re no friend of mine!” Abby shot out. “That’s my aunt out there! I have to go to her!”

Dalia was puzzled. Abby should not be this concerned about her aunt, especially when she was under Dalia’s control. Could the little chit’s will possibly be stronger than her own? “Abby,” Dalia soothed, “leave it for now. You’re upset, I know. But what could you do? The best thing for you and Aunt Polly—”

“—is that I go to her! This is all my fault! I shouldn’t have let her leave. Then I shouldn’t have let her stay lost as long as I did. I’ve got to make amends with her! I’ve got to do something!”

Dalia reached out for Abby. “Abby, look at me.”

Abby brushed past Dalia. “I’m going. If you’re afraid, don’t come with me.”

Dalia grabbed Abby’s arm with surprising strength. “No. I won’t let you go. It’s not safe.”

“Let go of me!”

“Absolutely not!”

Abby tried to brush off Dalia’s arm. It wouldn’t budge. “Dalia, you are trying my patience.”

“Me? You’re not being very cooperative. I intend to keep you safe.”

“I’m going!”

“You are not!”

Since Abby couldn’t wrench her arm free, she decided on another course of action. She kicked Dalia in the shin. Dalia hissed at Abby in anger. Abby, astonished she hadn’t noticed them before, stared as she saw Dalia’s pointed white canines. Dalia let Abby go, shocked at her own social faux pas, and Abby jerked her arm away.

“You’re a vampire!” Abby said.

“Well,” Dalia said, “don’t act shocked or anything. Look at all the pinheads you’ve been running around with. Why should a vampire shock you?”

“But this is during the day!”

“Not again. Everyone’s been confused about the day issue this whole encounter. Just let me tell you that not all vampires are confined to the night, and let’s leave it at that.”
“You’re one of the people that did something evil to Aunt Polly! Stay away from me! I can’t abide you!”

Dalia giggled. “How very brave of you to argue with me. But I beg to differ. You yourself said you were responsible for what happened to your aunt. And I agree with you.”

Abby shook her head, her ringlets tossing. “No, you can’t blame me for that. It’s your fault. Or your society’s. You used me. Pretending to be my friend!”

“You drove her out by being a spoiled brat. There. That’s the truth right in front of you.” Dalia menaced toward Abby. “Perhaps I’ll be doing dear Aunt Polly a favor by making you my own. She might appreciate the revenge.”

Abby backed away. “Stay away from me!”

“No. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Besides, doesn’t living forever have an attractive ring to it?”

“I warn you, Dalia, stay away from me! I’ll hurt you if you don’t.”

Dalia grabbed Abby’s shoulders. “You silly chit! You have no idea how to hurt me. So you might as well give up now. Being undead has its rewards. Think of all the centuries you can live. We can be the best of friends, you and I. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

Abby struggled to free herself. “No! I want to have a life! I don’t want to be like you! You’re totally spoiled and want everything your own way!”

Dalia sighed. “Now isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? I know why you came to Miss Pettijohn’s, Abigail. You want everything your own way as well. How can you fault me for that?”

“This is the one thing you aren’t going to get your own way in!” Abby pulled away.

“Come back this instant!”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Meet Vampiric Aunt Polly

2009-05-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

I didn’t enjoy the council of war much, but it’s difficult to enjoy such things when you are trapped in a circle of religious symbols and artifacts especially designed to keep your kind at bay. The cross at the head of the circle was particularly glaring and made me, I sadly confess, cranky and irritable. Forte seemed ecstatic about my capture, which had the equally undesirable effect of making me cranky and irritable at him.

Father Stewart was saddened by my presence. He was affected the most by it, although the look of sympathy on Miss Armstrong’s face as we sat in her room was almost too much to bear.

“I’m sorry, Polly,” Father Stewart said. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I still don’t get why you guys keep saying Polly. You don’t know this is Polly for sure. This looks like your standard vampire babe to me, and I say we off her.” Forte, of course, was speaking, full of enthusiasm for the expertise of his profession.

“That’s quite enlightened of you, Forte,” Broadstead snapped. He was no happier than I, having been interrupted from a sound night’s sleep at his hotel because his colleagues had caught one of the “vampires.”

“The only good undead is a dead undead,” Forte said. He frowned at the speech, but ultimately found it acceptable and let it pass.

“I do wish,” I said, trying to break up the word by play, “that you’d go looking for my niece, who is well on the way to becoming a creature of the night.”

“Precisely what I think,” said Hyland. “But ma’am, we don’t know where to look.

“I can find Abby,” I said. “I know what she feels like now. I’ll take you to her.”

“With your special vampire sense?” said Forte.

“Yes,” I said, annoyed. “Something like that.”

“Uh-uh.” Forte folded his arms. “You stay put.”

“Really, Forte!” Broadstead protested. “You can’t be afraid of this young woman!”

“I hate to say it, Professor,” said Hyland, “but I’m with Forte on this one.”

“The great J. Hamish Broadstead.” Doyle ribbed Father Stewart. “Wouldn’t know a vampire if it bit him on the neck.”

“Broadstead might come in useful later,” the priest returned. “Forte, what if I watched Polly? I could do something about her if there was trouble. And so could Marie.”

Forte threw up his hands. “Your funeral, people.”

Marie erased part of the circle, and I stepped out.

“How do you feel?” asked Father Stewart.

“Hungry,” I answered truthfully.

“Toast her now,” said Forte, flipping switches on his equipment.

“No, Mr. Forte!” I protested.

“Uh-uh. I’m not looking at you. No vampire eye tricks, sweetheart. I know all about vampire eye tricks.” Forte was soon suitably restrained by Hyland and Doyle. I continued to talk to Father Stewart.

“I have not yet fed on blood. Is that part of the legend true? Can I still be saved?”

Father Stewart’s eyes lit up. Marie LaVeau nodded at me. “Good girl, Polly!” the priest exclaimed. “We may exorcise the vampirism out of you yet!”

“Why take any chances?” Forte wrested one arm free and fired his gun.

“Confound it!” Broadstead hit the floor. Juliet also ducked and sighed as she examined the hole blown in one wall of her room.

I barely moved out of the way in time. “You idiot!” I frothed at Forte.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Forte. “You’ve been taking lessons from Broadstead.” Forte’s next shot was knocked off course by Hyland as Forte yelled, “Eat hot afterlife, fiendish undead!” Forte was once again suitably restrained, and his power pack was removed.

“So then,” said Marie LaVeau. “The vampires make their move tomorrow. We must declare war on Shalimar and her people now. Polly and Andrew must locate Abby. The rest of us will take care of the rest of them. Professor, you and Miss Armstrong should stay here to keep the home fires burning. We have an obligation to the young ladies of this school to protect them, if need be.”

“You can count on me,” said Broadstead, not noticing Juliet’s adoring eyes.

I had thought these people either the bravest or the most foolish people I had ever seen.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Abby in Peril

2009-05-04T09:16:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, vampires cannot enter the homes of the living uninvited. I discovered this rather aggravating fact by finding my way to my niece's room barred by some force or other I had no clue how to countermand. I had grown rather quickly in my first few days as a vampire, but there were several things I did not understand. Entry was not one of them. I could locate where Abby was with little problem, but various holy relics about her window kept me away. There was one alternative I arrived at after some thought, and I found where Dalia was in the building. She read in the study. I pounded the window and she smiled brilliantly at me.

“You may enter, Pauline. This is my school as well as Abby's, and I give you permission. Enter freely.”

“I must see Abby.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. You see, I’d like Shalimar to make her one of us. I don’t want you biting her, and making her into one of the plebian vampires. Come upstairs with me.”

We tiptoed up the stairs so silently it seemed as if we were ethereal. Dalia opened the door. “Miss Armstrong’s room. Miss Armstrong is with them in the parlor. Your old friends. See how Abby sleeps so peacefully?”

“Yes.” I tried to sound disinterested. I couldn’t help looking at Abby. I was drawn to her as a moth to a flame. Her life burned in her so brightly, her skin so rosy. To touch her, I felt I would burn myself. “Dalia, I don’t think you should take Abby tomorrow.” Dalia did seem concerned about Abby. Maybe when she found out the truth she would help me. “Shalimar doesn’t have what you think she has planned for Abby.”

“What do you mean?”

“Abby is a virgin. She is Shalimar’s sacrifice. She won’t even get to be one of the ordinary vampires.”

Dalia grew quiet. Then her reaction made me feel foolish that I’d ever judged my Abigail to be selfish. “How could Shalimar do this to me?” she fumed. “I so wanted a playmate! Not you! You’re a cold fish!” She stamped. “I never get what I want!”

Abby began to stir in bed.

“Well,” Dalia said, “I’ll just show them all. If anyone spills Abby’s blood, it will be me!”

Needless to say, I did not expect this reaction. I had to do something. But what could I do against someone who had been a vampire much longer than I had? Dalia was familiar with all the tricks in the vampire’s tome. I was barely convinced that I was in this new body. And how many of my vampire talents could I use without becoming a bloodthirsty hunter?

Not much was needed to trigger these instincts. Teeth and claws, I launched myself at Dalia. She was taken aback momentarily, and I scratched a ragged gash across her chin. “The only spilled here tonight will be yours!” I growled.

“She smiled sweetly, then screamed. “Oh my goodness! It’s one of them! Help! A vampire!”

Abby bolted upright, bewildered. “Dolly, what is it?” Then Abby saw me. I desperately tried to fight the animal in me back into submission. I was determined to be in control.

“Abby,” Dalia ordered in a voice like her brother’s. “Look at me.”

“No, Abby!” Of course I had experienced what looking into the eyes of a vampire could do. “Don’t!”

Abby’s eyes were terrified as she looked at me. “Aunt Polly? That isn’t you, is it?” She looked away from me, and right at Dalia. She stiffened. Dalia put her arms around her.

“Game, set, and match, Pauline. Never cross swords with a vampire who has centuries on you. I’ll find another virgin for Shalimar. One’s as good as another. Or maybe it’s time for a new queen of the vampires. Maybe Abby and I will destroy her. We’ll take care of Shalimar tomorrow night. As for you, you have visitors coming.” Dalia and Abby went out the window. I rushed to it. They had disappeared.

The door thumped open. Ford and Hyland were there. Their eyes took in the unmade bed, the missing Abby, and myself, the fiend from Hell. The scenario was not in my favor, even if the evidence was circumstantial.

“She got her!” Ford said angrily.

“That’s Aunt Polly!” Hyland pointed.

“No, that’s dead undead!”

Ford blasted. The beam from his apparatus barely missed me.

I hissed at them, then clamped my hand over my mouth. It wasn’t good manners to hiss in front of gentlemen. I tried speaking again. “Dalia took her. Not me. She’ll try and change her. You must act quickly.”

Ford fired again. I dived toward the window, but crosses stopped me from going through. Why hadn’t they stopped Dalia. I ducked, narrowly avoiding Ford’s attack. I was stuck in the room unless I could get past the two men.

Like a net, something tangled me. Father Stewart, behind Ford and Hyland, read words from the Bible. Broadstead was behind him, and Juliet, her face in her hands.

“Pauline Raintree,” Father Stewart said grimly. “Don’t be in a hurry to go. There is a great deal we must discuss.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Interim Moments

2009-04-20T18:34:00.000-07:00

I wasn't sure how long I had flown in the swamp when I finally regained myself. My encounter with Mr. Hyland and the old woman had chilled me to the bone. Obviously I couldn't trust myself around living human beings. What Shalimar had said to me was true. I really was an outcast to my own kind. Nevertheless, my course of action was clear. I had to warn my niece and my friends of Shalimar's plans. I didn't want Abby to end up as a human sacrifice at a ceremony. And, even though officially I was one of the other team now, I didn't want New Orleans to become undead territory. Heaven knew where the epidemic would spread from there.

Flying was easy once I had discovered accidentally how to do it. Winging my way to New Orleans was fast. Finding my way out of the swamp meant merely attuning myself to my prey. The blood of the people cried to me, and the beating of hearts pounded in my ears. How I long for the taste of blood, I who had never tasted it before! But I kept my purpose firmly in mind, and I headed for the place I thought Abby most likely to be, at Miss May Pettijohn's school.

***

The vampires whom Shalimar sent to look for Simpson and Doyle after dark were handpicked by Shalimar herself. They were to make sure that the detective and his apprentice were gone, or they were to destroy them. Shalimar hoped that the latter was the case; she had told them she wanted the detective's death to be a bloody one if possible. Shalimar knew Simpson better than Simpson thought she did. The detective had never been know to give in easily, in spite of his professed weaknesses and fears. But search as the vampires could, they could not find their quarry, and they began to believe their queen's enemies were gone.

Cheated of their night's hunt, they swooped toward Congo Square in the hopes of finding equally delectable prey. They didn't see the dazzling light until it filled every crevice of their bodies, filling in the inky abyss of their souls. The pain was unbearable, yet the ecstasy was paradise as they felt themselves enveloped in the harsh white light. The heavens swallowed their essence and left behind the shells of what they had been. The corpses crumbled into ash, which rained on the streets below, tiny flakes dotting the streets.

Benjamin watched his handiwork from the alley where he stood and turned back toward Simpson's apartment, filling the night with the swelling tapping of his footsteps on the pavement.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Gentlemen Rivals

2009-04-13T08:24:00.000-07:00

One of Hyland’s chief concerns, and one of Forte’s too, through the next week of the vampire crisis, was the safety and well-being of Abigail Raintree. When Hyland had told everyone of my transformation, Forte became doubly concerned, because, as he put it, “undead seek their own.”

Father Stewart suggested that Forte should watch the school, just to make sure Abby was safe. Hyland, who didn’t trust Forte “any farther than Broadstead could throw him,” also decided to watch the school.

The fact that two virile young men such as Hyland and Forte had Miss Pettijohn’s permission to loiter about the school seemed to delight the young ladies no end. Rivalries occurred as to which gentleman was the most well-endowed, but even more exasperating than disagreements to the young ladies was that Hyland and Forte only had eyes for Abigail Raintree. Soon the young women began taking bets on which one would win Abigail’s affections.

Forte’s attempts at romance were well-planned. He opened doors for Abby, vied Juliet to put in good words for him, and used starry eyes and romantic phrases that would turn most girls’ insides to gel. Hyland, on the other hand, didn’t make much of an effort, and just did what he felt was right by a woman.

At first, Abby enjoyed their attentions and played them masterfully off one another. Hyland was ultimately convinced that Forte was a blackguard of the first order, and Forte was convinced that Hyland was an ignorant hayseed of the first degree.

Dalia was less than enthusiastic about the attention the two men gave Abby, and she noted her disapproval on several occasions. “We won’t be able to sneak out tomorrow night with them watching.”

Abby waved at Hyland out the window. “Maybe we don’t want to. After what Chip said happened to Aunt Polly.”

“Surely you don’t believe that?”

Abby faced Dalia, who sat on the bed petulantly, knees drawn up to her chest. “Dolly, I can sneak out on anyone anywhere. I’ve done it before.”

“Then you want to sneak out?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ve changed my mind about it. Aunt Polly’s dead.” She didn’t want to elaborate to Dalia more than that. “I feel I’m much safer here.” Abby tried to lighten the tension in the room. “You must understand, some things take importance over silly children’s adventures. Men for example. Now if we can find a way to combine adventures and men…”

“This is hardly a silly adventure,” Dalia said moodily. “You said you wanted to see some voodoo. I made all the arrangements. The people I made them with won’t be too friendly if we back out now.”

“No one could hurt us,” Abby soothed. “Not with Chip and Samuel watching.”

“You don’t understand, do you? These people are my friends. I don’t want to let them down. I wish I’d known I was dealing with a coward before I asked.”

“I am not a coward,” Abby protested. She looked at Dalia as she sulked, and suddenly thought that Dalia was the most spoiled creature she had ever seen. “Fine. I’ll go. If it means so much to you.”

Dalia leaped off the bed and grabbed Abby’s hands. “Tomorrow. Midnight. You’ll find it fascinating. And you’ll like my friends. Really.”

Abby’s voice was full of doubt. “I’m sure I will.”

Out on the street, Forte looked up at Abby’s window. She waved good night to him and blew him a kiss. Then her drapes closed.

Forte put on a lopsided grin and headed down the street. The kiss was definitely a point in his favor. So caught up was Forte in his reverie that he ran literally into Chip Hyland.

“You could watch where you’re going,” said Hyland.

“You could watch where you’re standing,” said Forte.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Forte.”

“What would that be cowboy?”

“You’re some sort of spook chaser?”

“To be exact, I’m a scientific spiritualist.”

“Now you know I don’t fancy your labels or your high-handed ways. So don’t give me none of your million dollar vocabulary. You know how to kill monsters?”

“Most of them. I’ve got this gun—”

“Well, I don’t. What’s the best way to kill these vampires. I need something simple.”

“That figures.” Forte realized that if he wanted to, he could steer Hyland wrong and have Abby for himself. He also realized that anything worth having was worth fighting for. Forte was sure Abby would end up his, and if he couldn’t win her without strong competition, he didn’t deserve her. Besides, if anything could be said truthfully about Samuel E. Forte, Ph.D., was that he was honest about his profession. It wasn’t his fault people chose not to believe him. It also wasn’t his fault that he had to turn to dishonest dollars to get him by in life.

“Okay, Chip,” Forte began, “killing vampires works like this. The best way to do a vampire is to stake ‘em. Through the heart with a long pointy stick. Splashing holy water on ‘em, waving a cross at ‘em, that makes ‘em edgy, but the damage is pretty superficial. They are susceptible to silver, and it can kill them if a fellow wanted to come up with something clever.”

“Like silver bullets?”

“Wrong monster, silly! Those wouldn’t kill ‘em, but they might slow ‘em up. Burn them into ashes while they’re coffinated—that’s a technical term for being in the coffin—is fine. Out of the coffin is okay too, but it’s harder to get them to keep still.”

“What about this light thing? Can daylight get ‘em?”

“Most of ‘em. These really tough ones, the ones you told us about, no, probably not. But those are your basics.”

“Supposed I’d better whittle me some sticks, then. Much obliged, Forte.”

“My pleasure, Hyland.” Forte started to walk away.

“Oh. Forte?”

Forte stopped in his tracks. “Yes?” he asked sweetly.

“Hate to tell you, but it looks like Abby’s about done with you.”

Forte sputtered. “Sure, cowboy. For your information, the lady blew me a kiss tonight. I’d hardly call that neglect.”

Hyland shook his head. “She blew me a kiss.”

“When?”

“Just before I ran into you.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but that was my kiss you intercepted.”

“I didn’t see you nowhere by.”

“Trust me. Miss Raintree is—um—too refined for a man like yourself.”

“Are you saying that I’m not refined?”

“When the ten-gallon hat fits…”

Hyland touched his hat. “Guess you got me pegged there. Hyland picked Forte up by his collar. “And since I’m not refined, Forte, guess I’m not above a little manhandling.” Hyland pitched Forte into an undignified heap about ten feet away.

“Thanks for the vampire advice,” Hyland repeated as he strolled off.

“Of course,” Forte said to no one in particular, “this means war.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Lab Work

2009-04-06T08:52:00.000-07:00

Marie’s lungs did not hurt quite as much when she finally came to. The horse hair sofa she reclined on scratched her, and it annoyed her that it would disturb her sleep. When her eyes flickered open, she found Doyle sitting over her solicitously, a glass of brandy in hand. She shook her head. “No, it will burn going down.”

Doyle’s face relaxed visibly. “I am glad you have decided to come back to the land of the living. Both you and Mr. Hyland had me worried.”

“Where is Mr. Hyland now?”

“Strong as an ox, that man. Only could keep him about fifteen minutes before he had to wander off to find the others and tell them about Aunt Polly. Is her vampirism true?"

“As far as I could tell.” Marie sat up and discovered that there weren’t quite as many little black dots dancing in front of her eyes as before. “The vampires have reduced one of our number, certainly.”

A voice from behind the sofa spoke softly. “To lose one to the vampires is to lose too many.” Marie saw the man with white hair who had helped her escape from Shalimar before.

“Benjamin, isn’t it? Why are you here?”

“Father Stewart sent me to look after you. He felt my abilities might be useful to you without your magic. I tried to convince him that you were just as useful without it. You are very resourceful.” Benjamin said it as a statement, as if he knew the many long years of her life had trained her to be that way.

“I can get by.” Marie stood up, straight and tall. “Doyle, where is Simpson?”

An explosion from the room next to theirs answered her. Doyle muttered under his breath, “Playing with noxious chemicals, no doubt. Frankly, I think all this vampire business has unhinged him. He seems to be puttering about in there for no apparent reason, and he’s been at it for almost a day straight.”

Marie took the brandy from Doyle and sipped it. “I’m sure he’s up to something constructive. You said the others were at Miss Pettijohn’s?”

“It’s our unofficial headquarters now,” Benjamin informed.

Marie wondered what Miss Pettijohn had to say about that, but the twinkle in Benjamin’s eyes told her that Miss Pettijohn was pliant in Benjamin’s hands.

“I’m off now. There is much to be done. I could use an escort though.” Marie started to rise off the couch.

“I’m your man,” said Doyle, extending a helpful hand to her. “And your doctor.” He steadied her, then knocked on Simpson’s door. “Simpson, we’re off to the school. Do you want to come?”

“With the vampires out looking for us tonight? Not likely,” the muffled voice came from behind the door. “I’ll be fine here.”

“Suit yourself.” Doyle shook his head. “I can’t just leave him alone.”

“I’ll stay,” said Benjamin. “If you arrive with Miss LaVeau, I’m sure that Father Stewart cannot fault me. He wouldn’t want any of our number to be solitary.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy while I’m out,” said Doyle. He and Marie made their way into the street.

Benjamin figured they had two hours before evening fell. Plenty of time to make their way safely to Miss Pettiohn’s without undue interference from vampires.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Timely Intervention

2009-03-30T12:54:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7: In Which Rival Factions Emerge and Converge

Marie LaVeau had followed Chip Hyland in spite of his not wanting “somebody’s grandma” to come with him into the swamp. She didn’t have trouble with the boat like he did, like he wouldn’t have had if she’d been with him. She had reached the small island in the bayou shortly after he did, and watched in admiration as he dispatched Marion. Marcus bowed out in true style, and Hyland had matters in hand, until the female, whom Marie had not seen before, attacked.

Marie reacted without thinking. The geas she threw around Hyland made the vampire fly back in terror, and sent magical emanations rippling back to Marie. Marie had remembered the way the woman had felt when she had seen her before. It was Pauline Raintree.

The woman hissed at Hyland and flew away. “Don’t let her go!” Marie yelled at Hyland. “That’s Aunt Polly!”

Chip was suitably distracted by his unexpected visitor, and Polly flew off into the bog. Marie came out of the shade, looking less ominous then she had when she was casting the spell. Chip blinked. Blue sparks coming off the old woman’s skin he credited to fatigue on his part. “Where’d you come from?”

“Out there.” Marie flung a thumb back in the direction of the swamp. “I told you I would be help to you.”

“You were. I don’t figure I was up to another monster today.” He looked up at the hug house. “Reckon they have Aunt Polly in there?”

“That was Aunt Polly.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I know these things.” Marie looked at the house, longing to be home. “We should leave. There’s nothing for us here.”

“Just the same,” Hyland said, “we should take a look inside.”

Suddenly Marie’s disguise fell away, surprising both Marie and Hyland. “She knows I’m here,” Marie whispered. “Come Chip, we must leave immediately.”

“What is going on here?” Hyland was perplexed.

“I’ll tell you on the way home,” said Marie, pulling on his arm.

“No one is leaving,” said Shalimar, suddenly in front of them, cool and composed even in the swamp. Chip rolled his eyes. Yet another creature of the undead to combat with.

Marie stepped away from Chip. “Your quarrel is with me, Shalimar. Leave this man alone.”

“No. He attacked my people. Marion is even now still face down in the mud. I’d be worried if he wasn’t dead already. Now, what kind of a leader would I be if I let this gentleman get away with beating up my minions?”

“You’ll have to get through my magic before you can touch him,” Marie said.

“That I’ve already done, Madame Legendre. Haven’t you noticed? You are no longer voodoo queen around here. That honor belongs to me.” Shalimar raised her hands above her head. “Prepare to meet your maker. Nothing personal,” she addressed Hyland, “but one does what one must.”

Marie’s lungs were suddenly crushed. None of her magic had worked to repel the attack. She saw Hyland gasping for air, struggling to step forward and apprehend the sorceress in front of them. He staggered, then fell to the ground. Marie felt that after all her careful preparations to gather the right tools to combat Shalimar, she had failed miserably in her first attempt at confronting her nemesis.

The light flashed from nowhere, and the voice that accompanied it rumbled the very earth. Shalimar fell gracelessly to the ground. Marie’s vision was interrupted by tiny spots, so that she couldn’t see what had happened clearly. Suddenly the pressure on her chest was gone and her strangled lungs gasped for air that burned her insides as she gulped it down. Then she felt Hyland’s strong hands scoop her up, and they were running.

“I don’t know what that was,” he said breathlessly, “but it sure knocked her for a loop.”

“I have a boat not far from here,” Marie said, trying to ignore the burning in her chest. “We both need a doctor, I think. Find Dr. Doyle. I know his hotel.”

She had just enough strength to say that before she faded into blackness.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Chip vs Marion

2009-03-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

Marcus had stopped me completely where Marion's goading had failed utterly. I was amazed at the attraction I still felt for Marcus, even after what he had done to me. “Shalimar tells me you’re leaving us. Is that true?”

I spoke bitterly. “I have absolutely no reason to stay here.”

My head turned as Marion roared with laughter. “Woah! Watch it, Marcus! Wouldn’t want Shalimar to know you’ve goen sweet on the new girl!”

Marcus reddened, or rather turned a shade of ash—vampire blushing. “What makes you think Shalimar would care?”

Marion snorted. “We all know, buddy. About you and Shalimar.”

“Oh, that.” Marcus had assumed control. “Can I help it if I am the only male among the chosen that can satisfy her needs?”

“That’s it.” Marion stalked toward us, pulling off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. “We’re gonna have it out, pal, just you and me.”

Chip Hyland stepped directly between the two men. He held a shotgun over his head to keep it out of the water as he came onto the bank. “I’m gonna ask you folks one question, and you’d better answer fast. Where’s Pauline Raintree?”

“Oh, Mr. Hyland!” I gushed. “Thank goodness you’ve come!”

He looked at me sideways. “You have me at a disadvantage, ma’am.”

“It’s me! I’m—” I realized Hyland wouldn’t recognize me because of my new appearance. “I need your help too,” I managed to say.

“Well, I’ll see to that presently.” Hyland first eyed Marcus, then Marion. “Which one of you will tell me about Pauline Raintree?”

“I’ll leave that dubious honor,” said Marcus, grabbing me by my wrist, “to Marion.”

“Me?”

“Yes. In your own particular idiom.” Marcus tugged on my arm. “We’ll watch from over here. Hope he wasn’t a friend of yours,” Marcus whispered in my ear. He gripped my wrist tightly with his hand, a steel vice.

“You a vampire?” Hyland asked Marion.

Marion smiled, bared his teeth, and ran at Hyland. Hyland’s rifle sounded twice, knocking Marion to the ground. Marion stood up, dusting himself off.

Hyland glanced over the rifle, then pitched it in the direction of the bog. “Well, okay then. Come on over here. Let’s have this thing out. Just you and me. If you can handle getting those dandified duds dirty.”

“Oh, I can handle it, cowboy,” Marion said. “Looks like you’ll put up a good scrap before I kill you.”

“Wish I could say the same about you,” said Hyland.

“No more witty repartee! God, I hate you guys and your snappy patter!” Marion lunged forward and both men fell off the bank into the swamp. Both men disappeared underwater.

Marion surfaced first, holding Chip’s head under the surface. I tried to start forward to help Chip, but Marcus held my wrist firmly. “We don’t want to be unfair, Pauline. One-on-one.” I watched as Hyland’s arm flailed vagrantly. Marion fell back into the goo.

Hyland emerged, gasping for air. Suddenly, Marion shot out of the swamp like a bullet, a huge bat with slime oozing from his wings. Marion arched and swooped toward his target. Hyland reached into the water and pulled up the same gun he had tossed there seconds before. He lifted it at precisely the right moment, and Marion flew into its butt. The vampire slid into the murky water again.

This time, Hyland seized its head. Wings flapped furiously, yet Hyland held on. The wings de-solidified into mist, and by the time Hyland had refocused onto his target, Marion had become substantial on the branch of a cypress tree in his human form.

“That crap tastes awful!” he exclaimed. “I’ll do you for that!” Marion looked pointedly at Marcus. “You wanna give me a hand here?”

Marcus shook his head. “You’re doing wonderfully. I wouldn’t want to interfere.”
“Don’t let him hurt Mr. Hyland!” I said. “Shalimar really told me I could go. I don’t want anyone to be hurt because of me.”

Marcus laughed. The two men began to beat each other again, each with a dazed look on his face. Hyland leveled Marion with a solid punch to the vampire’s jaw. Marion fell forward into the murk. “No real problem there, Pauline,” Marcus said. “No problem at all.”

Chip slogged onto the bank. “Okay,” he pointed tiredly at Marcus. “You’re next.”

Marcus bowed graciously. “I have no wish to fight you now. You’re tired. Maybe later. For now,” he released my wrist and pushed me in Hyland’s direction, “to the victor, the spoils.” Marcus slowly faded into mist and disappeared.

“Vampires!” Chip looked around for his hat briefly, then gave it up for lost. “They never tell you what you need to know!” He looked sternly in my direction. “Well, are you one of them? Are you going to attack me too? I don’t hold with hitting women, but we’ll figure something out.”

Now, lest this narrative sound too predictable with the past line and what immediately followed it, let me suggest two things. Firstly, I really didn’t have any intention of attacking Hyland, but he was the first living, breathing human who smelled of blood that I had come in touch with since my transformation. Secondly, remember that I had not yet eaten. Before I could control myself, I was all teeth and fangs, and pouncing at Mr. Hyland!

“Not again!” Hyland muttered. I wondered how he would rid himself of his vampire problem, and still not hit me.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Chip Searches the Swamps

2009-03-16T11:05:00.000-07:00

Chip Hyland was not having what he would consider a red letter day. About eight hours before he had burst into the parlor at Miss Pettijohn's, he waded through murky goo in the bayous of Louisiana. How he had come to find himself in such a predicament was the fruit of two days' search for Pauline Raintree.

When Juliet Armstrong had contacted him three days ago about Aunt Polly's disappearance, Chip had promised her he'd get right on the problem. Several discreet inquiries turned up no information as to Polly's whereabouts, and several indiscreet inquiries had the same fruitless results. By the end of the second day, Hyland was attempting to recalculate his strategy, when he was approached by the woman who had delivered Juliet's note to him.

“No luck, eh?” she said slyly, as if she expected luck.

“I haven't got any good news to send, if that's what you mean.” Fatigue and frustration made him short with her.

“Maybe I could help you. I have a guess where she might be.”

“You couldn't have told me this when you brought me the note?”

“I didn't know then. I can guess now. Let me come with you. I don't know the backways, and I can help you. I have some small talents.”

Chip had heard of voodoo mambos, and thought this little old lady might be one of them, but he wasn't about to take somebody's grandmother into the swamp. He removed his hat. “No offense, ma'am, but I don't think swamp explorin' is your kind of work.”

“You will need me,” the woman said. “The vampires have her. I can deal with them.”

Hyland considered what this woman said. He was made from practical fabric, and came from practical stock. But, well, if somebody said vampires, even though he might not be dealing with real monsters, he certainly might be dealing with dangerous ruffians. Those considerations helped him decided what course of action to take. “That may be, ma'am. But slaying monsters is definitely not women's work.”

The woman said, “What is women's work, Mr. Hyland?”

“Stayin' out of harm's way mostly. Now, if you'll just point me in the right direction?”

Hyland paused in the mire. The woman, whose name was Legendre, had given him excellent directions to an old mansion. Unfortunately, Hyland had to abandon his boat some miles back when the mire had become too difficult for him to row through. Although Abigail was not Hyland's primary motivator in looking for Aunt Polly, Chip did wonder how far a man ought to have to go for a woman. He thought that eventually he could have got on Aunt Polly's good side and have been allowed to write Abby. Well, first he'd have to find Aunt Polly to get on her good side.

Chip felt lucky there had been no alligators yet. He would hate to have to fight alligators on top of all this. Not that they had too many alligators back where he came from, but well, how could alligators be bigger than a steer? He'd wrestled plenty of steers.

Hyland hoped he hadn't gotten lost. The whole swamp looked the same. Then he heard an eerie sound, one he hadn't heard since he'd come into the swamp, the sound of human laughter. Chip recognized that kind of laughter. When he was a little tenderfoot, the ranch hands had used the same laugh, the merciless teasing the comes when someone hasn't proven themselves. Hyland approached the small grassy island dead ahead, where the big house sat.

“I said go away!” The voice was a young woman's.

The laughter again. “Aw, come on,” said a male. “You could change if you really wanted to. Come on!”

“Marion, I will not be goaded into it. Now I've already told you I'm not staying. That will be enough out of you.”

Hyland peered through the vines and saw a pretty woman approached by a short, stocky man. The woman walked to the far side of the lawn and stopped as she was headed off at the pass by another man. This man, blond and handsome, would have had more success as he tried to get her to stay. Hyland, however, wasn't going to watch the melodrama unfold. He was here to find Pauline Raintree, and these three probably knew where to find her. He stepped out of the clearing and onto the grass.

Blood is Thicker than Water: The Vampiric Basics

2009-03-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

My position with Shalimar was an odd one. Until recently, I had been the enemy, and I still considered them my opponents. They had done this awful thing to me, changed my state of being. Yet, I was one of them. Was I obligated to the vampires in any sort of way? Should I stay with them because I was one of their kind? I felt an easy answer to that question. No, definitely not. I was a vampire, but I was definitely not one of their kind. My strategy would be caution. I felt no small trepidation about why Shalimar wanted to see me or what she wanted to do with me. Being cautious was my best recourse.

A curt “enter” answered my knock, and I found myself in a study seemingly walled with books. Shalimar was enthroned in a huge chair behind a large desk. The massive furniture shrank her to a less imposing stature than she had been when I’d last saw her and I felt more at ease.

“Welcome back to us, Pauline. You and I need to discuss your future. I’m sure you have many questions.” She looked at me over the top of steepled fingers.

I remained standing because I was sure she would prefer that. “What do you intend to do with me?”

She laughed. “Do with you?” Nothing really. Pauline, I’ve done everything I could with you already. You are no longer a player in this little game with me and Father Stewart and Marie LaVeau. You’re one of us now. You have to start your life over. To help your former allies against us is to destroy your own kind. Does that not sound a tad genocidal?”

I really wanted to tell Shalimar that I felt the quality of life might be better without vampires in its general scheme, but I did not think this would be a wise line of reasoning to bring to her attention. “Yes, it does strike me that way.”

“I’m not stupid. You know, Pauline, you desperately want to be some sort of heroine. There’s courage and stubbornness all mixed up into a delicious chemistry someone might call brave, and all this is churning away in side of you. You will want to betray your own brothers and sisters to your friends. But you’ll find you can’t go against your nature. You can betray us, yes, but when you need some place to go, when you discover exactly what it is that you’ve become, then you’ll need us in ways you can’t imagine yet.

“You’ll kill because you must for survival. You’ll have victims. And don’t fool yourself. Victims can be people you love as well as those you despise. When you need to learn control, you’ll need us. So you might as well join with us now. Don’t endanger your friends.”

Her honesty startled me. “I would never do anything to harm anyone…”

“I hope,” she continued, “that your first victim is your niece. If you don’t claim her, I will. For my yearly sacrifice. Won’t that be an honor?”

“What do you mean sacrifice?”

“Every year I bathe in the blood of a virgin to maintain my youth. I can assume, in spite of your niece’s reputation, that she is a virgin?”

“What a question to ask!” If I’d had blood, I’m sure I would have blushed crimson.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. After all, I must do something with your niece. Dalia wanted to make her one of us, instead of you, and she still thinks I can. As another vampire she’s utterly useless, but as a blood sacrifice, she’ll be magnificent.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

Shalimar was over the desk in a flash and by my side. She swept me with her arms and took me to the window. “Why not? What has Abigail every given you but trouble? Isn’t that why you’re here with us now? That whole world out there can be anything you want, Polly. Seize it! Don’t worry about your past. It will grow old and rot before you do. Your only concern now should be yourself.”

“What will you do to me if I try to stop you?” I expected terrible action would be forthcoming.

Shalimar turned away from me. “Let you do it. I don’t think you’ll be very effective.”

“That’s it?” I said, astonished. “You aren’t going to make me do terrible things? Or torture me? Or anything?”

“Why?” she purred. “Do you want me to?”

“Oh no,” I said hastily. “I just didn’t expect you to allow it.”

“There are lessons we must all learn on our own. You’ll learn yours soon enough, and then you’ll come back to us, and we’ll see what’s to be done, based on what you’ve done. But be certain of this, Pauline, you will come back. Gauge your behavior accordingly. Be wise, prudent.”

I left the study, feeling strangely muddled. I still despised Shalimar as much as before, but she seemed thoroughly convinced that I was to become like her. True, I had to warn Abby about Shalimar’s plans, but was I putting my niece in more danger going to her than in leaving her unwarned?

Blood is Thicker than Water: Transformation

2009-02-25T08:23:00.000-08:00

(author's note: I'm giving you a double dose this week, as I will be at two conferences in the upcoming month. Hope you enjoy it!)

Dalia led me to them and Marcus clenched my hand. His eyes sparkled as he looked at me, and I was myself the way he saw me, young and vital. Shalimar spoke to me in a command that shook me to my marrow. “You will join!”

“Yes!” the crowd whispered in religious fervor.

“Yes!” I said, joining in with them.

Then they were all upon me. The crowd surrounded us, each ripping the cloth of my gown and snatching pieces of my veil. Shalimar herself clutched my necklace; she broke the chain and the diamond tears cried onto the floor. The monsters scattered for the sparkling stones, the pieces of silk and veil. I later found out these items were their share of me as the new initiate, sort of a commemorative of the event. As they cleared away, I could see my dress was tattered. Still, I felt my eerie calm, and a conviction that I was doing what was best for myself. Whatever happened to me next would be just as natural. Dalia and Marion stepped forward, wrapping me in a cape to cover my shredded garments. Dalia removed what was left of my veil while Marion pulled my hands behind my back roughly.

“Whatever you do,” he whispered, “don’t scream. She hates it when they scream.”

Dalia smoothed my hair and flipped it over my right shoulder. She pulled it toward her firmly, revealing my neck. Shalimar, regal, was beside me.

The other vampires went wild. Shalimar raised her hands in a gesture of silence. “She is one of mine. I make that claim. Do any defy me?”

None of the audience would have dared, but the speech was a necessary formality. Shalimar smiled coldly. “Then she will be my child and Marcus’ bride.”

The spectators cheered again. Shalimar raised a hollow metal stick, pointed on one end. Again, I remembered that Shalimar was special. Why? She had no fangs. Father Stewart hadn’t told me this. I had expected Marcus to bit me. I did not expect Shalimar to pierce my neck with an instrument of torture. The euphoria I was in came away suddenly, a curtain pulling aside to reveal the reality of my situation. I began to struggle, but Marion and Dalia were ready for me and held on tight.

Terror gripped my stomach like ice tongs. Shalimar raised her stick and the crowd chanted her name. Her expression was delight; she thrived on fear. “Please! Don’t!” I yelled, my voice in its terror foreign to me.

“Too late to back away now, Pauline! Much too late for that!” Shalimar drove the stick into my neck. It didn’t hurt as much coming out than going in, because I think I was in shock. She lowered her lips to my skin and drank my blood.

Then she did something I found even more hideous. She slashed her own wrist. Blood shot purple into the air, becoming bright red as it splattered onto the remains of my dress. She clamped her wrist between my lips. “Drink!” she commanded. “Drink!”

The blood filled my mouth. I tried not to swallow, but Dalia pinched my nose shut. I choked and sprayed blood at Dalia, but I swallowed most of it.

Shalimar slapped me, and I crumbled. Marion and Dalia released me, and I fell to my knees, still oozing blood from the wound in my neck. My body felt like thousands of ants were burrowing into me.

The vampires were frenzied. Shalimar towered among them triumphant. The monsters began to feast on each other, ripping and tearing their own skin. Some ran into the night to hunt. Others fell pretty to killing their own kind, mingling bodies, limbs, blood. Shalimar wandered into the crowd, a smile playing on her bloody lips.

Marcus scooped me up. He carried me out of the ballroom and up the wide staircase. “It’s almost over, Polly,” he said softly. “Soon you’ll be one of us, body and soul.”

We were in a large bedroom. Marcus lowered me gently onto the snow white sheets, soon speckled like a robin’s egg with my blood. I was sick with fear. “Marcus, no,” I said feebly.

He laughed at me. “Do you want to die? Because that’s all that’s left.”

I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want to be undead. I said nothing.

“Polly, look at me.”

No! That was something I would not do! I would not!

“Look at me!” his voice boomed.

My eyes betrayed me, snapping to meet his. He showed himself to me in his aspect as a vampire, and in my controlled state, I was delighted. His eyes were rimmed red, his skin was waxy, unnatural, and his teeth were savage. He curled back his lips and his mouth was full of teeth. Boney hands caressed the side of my head and terror welled in me again.

“Do you want me, Pauline?” His voice was throaty with hunger.

I could do nothing but obey him. “I want you,” I echoed.

His cold lips closed on my neck. His fangs punctured me, and I started in pain as they entered me. At first, he drank greedily. I remembered, oddly, from my research, that to become a vampire you needed three such bites. I was sure Shalimar’s blood didn’t count. She wasn’t a true vampire. How could I keep Marcus from feasting on me again? Would I crave his bite? The books said I would.

Marcus slowed. I had difficulty breathing. My vision mingled with black dots. Once again, Marcus appeared as Apollo to me, and although I have never experienced a man in the Biblical sense, I felt that I had.

Most people conceive that a vampire’s bit is painful. Initially it is. But after you reach a certain point of not return, and after you are almost dead, the sensation of the bit becomes dreamlike. You are drowsy, but wholly aware of the intense pleasure of the drawing of your blood. After you have combated the idea that you are dying, it’s almost soothing to feeling your life come to an end.

Yet, the final terror, the clear realization you are dying, comes at the end, and you try to struggle back to consciousness. I fought when Marcus drew away from me to gather strength, but there was none left in me to gather. I slipped into a blackness that muffled my last spark of life, and then I knew I was dead, a victim of my own foolish vanities, and I would never see my friends or family again.

***

I awoke on the same bed alone. I was unclean, as though I hadn’t bathed in days. My neck throbbed, and my head ached intolerably. I knew I must have felt as Juliet did when she first woke up from her long drinking binge. I didn’t know whether to cry or cheer at being alive still, and I had no idea what was in store for me next. I staggered out of bed.

My clothes were the same ragged ones that I had been wearing. I hoped to find better ones to escape in, but these would do if they were all I had. Shoes were another matter. I had no shoes and I would need these for travel. I decided to look in the closet. I passed the mirror and saw a reflection that didn’t belong to me. Yet I recognized it. The image was that of the young woman Marcus had planted in my mind.

I was what I had appeared earlier in life, save for some improvements. My nose was perfect. My eyes were captivating. My figure had rounded from spare to hourglass. In short, I was beautiful. As creamy complexioned as Shalimar and Dalia, and as dark in hair and eyes as Shalimar. Had becoming undead changed their beauty as well?

But I couldn’t be a vampire! I had only received one bite! And the fact that I saw myself in the mirror indicated that I couldn’t be one. I was also ravenously hungry. No, I couldn’t be a vampire.

Then I noticed my teeth were too big for my mouth. I smiled at the mirror. I had fangs!

“No!” I panicked. I rushed into the hallway. Marion, who was passing my room, caught my arm as I whizzed by.

“Good morning, Princess,” he said. “You might not want to go prancing around like that. Might make some of the other ladies jealous.”

I kicked him in the shins. He hopped, and let me go. “Fine,” he said. “If you want to get in trouble, go ahead. And here I was going to get you breakfast.”

“Am I one of…you know…”

"You got it, Cakes."

“The books, all of them I’ve read, they said you needed three bites to become a vampire. I’ve only had one. And I can see my reflection in the mirror. And,” I said, jabbing my finger at an open window, “why is it daylight? Why haven’t I been burned to a crisp?” I’d be writing to the authors of those books, let me tell you!

Marion leaned against the wall, like he figured he had a lot of explaining to do, and would be in the hallway for quite awhile. “First off, you can’t believe everything you read. A smart lady like you ought to know that. One bite is all it takes. The mirror is a big fairytale. How’s a beauty like Dalia gonna check out her looks if she can’t see them in the mirror?

"Now the daylight thing—that’s Shalimar. You, me, Marcus, Dalia, we’re the only ones like that. It’s her blood and some sort of sorcery in it. She can only make special ones once in a great while. The last one was me, so now you get to be low man on the totem pole.”

My heart sank. “You mean I’m really a vampire.”

“You new guys.” He shook his head. “Always slow on the uptake. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I guess it is. What do I do know?”

“Oh, lots of things.” Marion was happy to give me instructions. “Got anybody you want revenge on?”

Abby’s name flashed briefly in my mind. I quickly buried the thought. “No.”

“Well, that takes some of the fun out of it. Hey, there’s always hunting.”

“For blood?” The very thought made me squeamish.

“No. For butterflies. What do you think?”

I shook my head. “No, I could never do that.”

“Suit yourself. But you’re gonna make one awful vampire.” He walked away, and then looked over his shoulder. “Shalimar wants to see you, as soon as you wake up. Change your clothes.”

I’d make a poor vampire, huh? “Of course I’ll make a poor vampire!” I shouted after him. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.”

“Nobody ever really does,” he shot back. “Don’t worry. You’ll come around.”

It had never occurred to me until that moment that all vampires start out as victims. This gave me some philosophical food for thought.

As I dressed myself in some of the clothes Marcus had bought for me the previous day, I found myself wondering how long I had actually been dead. Three days. Weren’t vampires supposed to rise again in three days? I didn’t know if I could trust the books on that one. They’d been wrong about several points so far.

Abby would be worried sick. Surely she would have told her mother and father about our fight by now. As I pinned up my hair, I realized that my being undead threw a wrench in the works of my ever going back to my family and taking well deserved lumps from them. I guess it threw a very large wrench in said works. More philosophical food for thought. Was I even related to them, or were they obligated to me since I had died?

Blood is Thicker than Water: Scandalous Ball

2009-02-16T17:50:00.000-08:00

“I have not seen you socially in New Orleans,” he said at one point in our conversation. “Why?”

“My niece and I have only been in New Orleans for a short time.”

“Is your niece as beautiful as you?”

I laughed nervously. “Much more beautiful. I can assure you of that.”

“No. I can not believe that, Polly.”

This was the first time since William that a gentleman of any sort had indicated interest in me, and I allowed it to affect me. I began to imagine myself how he treated me. The Pauline Raintree he talked to was not an old maid, but an interesting, intellectual young woman. To him, I was like Abby. My nose and chin were sharper, and my hair and eyes were darker, but I was like Abigail—someone men appreciated and wished to be seen with. My intelligence was wit to Marcus, not a spear that poked suitors away. I was a belle with Marcus, and, even though I felt well at ease, I felt giddy and elated at the same time.

The afternoon was a revel after lunch, somewhat like a dream, and I remember enjoying it. Marcus took me shopping for clothes. This seemed perfectly natural to me. He brought me gorgeous garments, and I became the proud mistress of a beautiful wardrobe that became me as no other I'd ever owned. He sent them home, which also seemed quite natural to me, because I knew I'd be going to live with him.

I walked arm in arm with Marcus on Rue Royale, exchanging kind words with lovely society ladies who treated me as though my family had been in New Orleans forever. Marcus took me on a boat ride among the dripping cypress trees of the bayou. He hummed a lilting melody and smiled kindly. “You'll love them, Polly,” he said, “and I'm sure they'll love you.”

“I'm sure they'll love me,” I parrotted gaily.

Then there was a beautiful party. I wore a ball gown, a slight red touch to its silk. At my throat were diamonds that glistened like rain. Dalia was there, dressed in blue, her aspect a finely chiseled porcelain doll as she flirted with men. Marcus introduced us, and she kissed me, saying she'd love me like a sister. Shalimar was more removed when I was presented to her.

“You enjoy Marcus?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then he is yours, Pauline. We are all yours. How do you feel about that?”

Here I began to sense there was something unnatural in my Cinderella evening. But I didn't sense enough to run. “I'm not sure.”

Shalimar placed a long hand on my shoulder and led me away from the dancing, happy group of the party. Marcus looked at us from across the room, as perfect as any Greek statue. Shalimar smiled kindly at me. “We understand you, Pauline. Your life has not been easy. We want to give you what you've been denied for so long.”

The room, my perfume, even the punch I'd drunk were making me drowsy. Shalimar's eyes, commanding, were meant for nothing else but orders which had to be obeyed. “We want to give you your freedom,” she spoke, “and admiration. Acceptance. Do you want that?”

I was enrapt at her voice, and captivated by her eyes. “Yes,” I said fervently. “I want that.”

“Good.” Shalimar's eyes darkened. “Stay with us, Pauline. You will know what we are. We know what you are. This is your party. Tonight you are the bride. Go to Marcus. Go to your lover.”

Blood pounded in my veins and roared in my ears. The tiny part of Pauline Raintree I had been that morning fled to the back of my mind in fear. I wanted to be one of them, and I knew what they were. I wanted to live forever. Shalimar spread the news of my decision throughout the ball, and they congratulated me. I danced wildly and laughed hysterically in my release. To me this seemed like liberation, true freedom for the first time in my life. I would seek knowledge over an eternity. I would be privy to all their dark secrets. I would belong.

Dalia took me away from her brother in the last hour of the ball. She bathed me in water where lilies floated, and as she dried me, she told me how lucky I was to be welcomed by her brother. When I arose, I would be special, just like her. At the time, I didn't know what that meant. I only felt special to be chosen by Marcus, and I told her so. She told me how wonderful life was for them.

“Imagine,” she said, “never growing old, or feeling pain, or dying. We are godlike. Soon, you'll be godlike.”

Although the thought frightened me, at that point, I seemed to welcome the prospect.

Dalia dressed me in a gown of white, and combed my graying hair out to its full length. She placed diamonds around my neck, frozen drops that trickled down my neck and onto my chest. Dalia placed a veil over my head and I could see her smile in satisfaction from behind its gauzy film. “Marcus will think you a beautiful bride.”

Everything that had been a concern to me that morning was washed away. I had no niece, no family, no responsibility. This was my new family. Marcus was my new lord, Shalimar my queen, and all the rest my brothers and sisters. I was an empty chalice, ready to be filled by their love.

Dalia led me into the ballroom. Twilight tinted the sky outside with a vivid purple. The rest of my brothers and sisters had risen from their day sleep to join the chosen court in my welcome. They parted as I walked among them, whispers of bride and chosen filling the air. As I walked to the front of the room, I walked toward hundreds of candles that gave the room an intimate glow. Shalimar waited for me at the front, wearing a red robe like my own white one, her black hair spreading out over he like a black mantle of night. By her side stood Marcus, resplendent in the evening dress he'd worn to the ball.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Scandalous Luncheon

2009-02-09T10:16:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6: In Which I Cease Being a Spinster

When I first left my niece after our fight, as I mentioned before, I had no firm plan of action. Although it was not hard to find a den of iniquity in New Orleans on a Saturday morning, that sort of entertainment was not what I was looking for. I did want to shock the proprietous denizens of Abernathie, but, unlike my niece, I was not willing to commit myself to the seamier side of life to do this. What I was looking for I wasn’t certain. I only knew that I would know when I found the perfect past time, for I would be doing it already. As I walked the streets, people cast sideways glances at me, and I heard snatches of conversation. I looked neat as a primrose, I knew that, but perhaps my running the streets alone made some commentary among the more conservative of them.

I decided I should review my actions. Certainly I would never return to Abigail, but where and with whom would I stay while I decided in what direction to take my life? Father Stewart couldn’t take me in. He was a lodger himself, and having a woman about wouldn’t be conducive to his chosen post. None of my other acquaintances in New Orleans were oddly enough, citizens of the city, excepting Marie LaVeau, and she was having problems of her own. Besides, I could not visualize Marie LaVeau taking time out of her life and death struggle with the vampires to find me a place to stay. Not a very practical idea. Well, maybe the vampires would take me in. I shuddered at the very thought.

I was not totally penniless, but to do anything on my own for a long term would require I wire Melrose for money. This I would not do. He would give me part of my trust money, a tidy sum, but he would also try and talk some sense into me, as he would put it. And I was beginning to consider my actions foolish. I had exploded half-cocked, a foolish, uncalculated move. But even if I were willing to swallow my pride and return to Abigail, two more thoughts prevented me from doing so. Firstly, I truly did feel my life was a waste and I needed to change it. Secondly, the vampires could only harm the ones I loved through me. Perhaps after this affair was cleared up, I might swallow my pride and return, but the wandering I had decided to take would be safest for all concerned. Except me

My stomach growled. The roll I had discarded across the room had done me very little good on the nutritional side of the survival issue, and I was regretting my rash action of tossing breakfast aside. Remember, if you ever find yourself about to leave home in the effort of starting life anew, don’t forget to eat a healthy breakfast. This action will save you bodily distress until around maybe 3:00.

I stopped in front of a restaurant, a relatively stylish establishment where I’d eaten before, but could not eat now, for I only had 2 cents with me. I felt much like a street urchin, gazing through the window at the sumptuous repasts being brought to the patrons. After a minute of such torture, I decided to scoot away before someone came to shoo me off. I started towards a less reputable part of the city, where I hoped I could purchase some gumbo and a little bread at a small price.

His hand fell heavily on my shoulder. As I didn’t hear him approach, he startled me. I turned and found myself facing one of the most exquisitely sculpted men I’d ever seen. He was extraordinarily fair, and for a moment, I had a mad notion that he was undead. I stepped backward, and then I scolded myself. How could I have possibly thought this man a vampire? His skin was tan as though he had spent time in the tropics. His gray and wondrous eyes made me feel safe, like all my problems had been solved.

“Can I help you with something?” His voice was kind.

“No.”

“But you were looking at me? Through the window?”

“Oh no,” I protested. “I was,” here I was embarrassed, “I was looking at the food.”

His eyes became concerned and their edges crinkled, making my insides flutter. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Oh, heavens no!” Once again, I felt compelled to tell him the truth. “Well, yes, but I can’t afford to eat here. I was just on my way to—”

“No.” He placed a guiding hand firmly on my arm and led me into the restaurant. “You will eat with me.”

I didn’t protest. He was a captivating companion performing a spontaneous, courteous deed, just like many a rich benefactor from the serial novels I enjoyed reading. Forget that we’d been hardly introduced. Having lunch with this man was bold and scandalous, yet not too shocking or dangerous. At least I thought so at the time. If only Abernathie could see me now!

Blood is Thicker than Water: Tea and Abby

2009-02-03T08:02:00.000-08:00

The young ladies at Miss Pettijohn’s were abuzz with the news of the wide array of visitors hat turned out for Abigail Raintree three days after she had moved in. At first Miss Pettijohn had vetoed the gentleman callers in no uncertain terms. Then the mysterious one in the cape grinned at her, and Miss Pettijohn sent for tea, sandwiches, and Abigail in one breath. The visitors were cloistered in the parlor, and when Miss Pettijohn left them to return to her room, every young ladies’ ear strained for the parlor door. Dalia, in top form, had edged her way to the front of the crowd and was listening intently. She had taken great care that none of the visitors had seen her on the way in, although she had resisted great temptation to wink at Benjamin. Shalimar was right, he was good. As she listened outside the door, it sounded exactly like he was helping their side instead of Shalimar’s side.

Inside the parlor, Father Stewart threw up his hands in disgust. “Miss Raintree, you didn’t see fit to notify the authorities of your aunt’s disappearance?”

Abigail’s hands shook as she held a teacup. “No, Father. I thought sure she’d come home by now. You don’t think anything serious has happened?”

“Food for worms now,” Forte said. He put down his cup of tea, which he had been sipping in an effort to imitate and annoy Broadstead. He looked over his audience. Broadstead scowled at him, Father Stewart shook his head in disbelief at both Forte’s remark and Abigail. Benjamin seemed only to be paying slight attention to the proceedings. Abby looked worried, and Forte imagined he’d be the one to console her, poor thing. Her teacher friend, Miss Armstrong, was oblivious to him. She stared raptly at Broadstead, eyes glazed. What a waste. What that cute blond saw in him. Forte’s stomach did flip-flops thinking about it. “How long ago did you say your aunt left, Miss Raintree?”

“Three days ago.”

“Do you think they got her, Andrew?”

“I hope not,” muttered the priest.

“Well, don’t worry Miss Raintree,” said Forte, honey dripping from his tongue. “We’ll find your aunt and put her out of her misery.”

Abby recoiled while both Broadstead and Benjamin hit Forte. Forte immediately sported a what-did-I-do look.

Father Stewart tried to speak soothingly. “Miss Raintree, did your aunt tell you exactly the kind of work I do?”

“No, sir. But I assume you hear a lot of confession.”

“I am an exorcist, my dear,” the priest said patiently. “Although it’s a little out of my usual line, right now I am hunting vampires.”

Broadstead looked at the ceiling, trying to disconnect himself from such lunacy. Juliet, however, did not let him escape neatly. “Professor Broadstead, surely you don’t think—”

“Young lady, of course not! I—” Broadstead stammered a little, “this is a highly fascinating delusion, and I am researching it for my studies. But I do know that some sort of band of brigands poses a real threat to New Orleans.”

Juliet’s faith in Broadstead was restored, and she relaxed, wondering why the bearded man was sniggering.

Fire flashed in Abby’s eyes as she looked squarely at the father. “Sir, I do not believe in vampires. But if you have placed my aunt in danger, willing or otherwise, I will persecute you to the full extent of the law. Is that clear?”

Forte internally danced with glee. This one had fire and spirit! What a conquest she’d make.

“Quite clear, Miss Raintree. I could expect no less from you. You are your aunt’s niece. We need to find your aunt. We want to help her. That’s why we’re here.”

“Actually,” said Forte, “that’s not why we came. We were looking for your aunt so she could help us kill the monsters.”

Broadstead nudged Forte in the side. Forte had just about enough of Broadstead’s social prodding, but figured he’d wait until he got outside to settle the score with Tubby. You didn’t impress a young lady by getting blood on the tassels in her parlor.

“We don’t need your help,” said Abby haughtily. “Juliet has hired someone to look for my aunt. It’s only a matter of time until she’s found.”

“I haven’t hired anyone,” Juliet said. “A friend is looking for us. But New Orleans is a large city. We should all look. That would be wisest.”

The door opened and faces of curious debutantes peered eagerly in. Chip Hyland dwarfed them. He was covered in mud from the waist downward. “Miss Armstrong,” he spoke breathlessly, “I’ve found Miss Raintree. And you aren’t gonna like what I’ve found.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Post for Mr. Hyland

2009-01-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

Chip Hyland was finishing off a pint of beer—dark, thick, not the kind they served at home. He backhanded the brew off his mustache and leaned back against the bar. Only two more days and he’d be back on the range, punching cows with his daddy. He was ready to get back home.

When he heard his name called, he wasn’t sure if the voice had really come from the old woman beside him. The voice was deep and powerful and had boomed, “William!” No one else in the room had heard it. Probably the beer. That was the safest assumption.

The woman held up a letter. “Yours,” she said, in a light French accent, “sent by a lady.”

Hyland took the letter. The writing was small and delicate. The envelope smelled like a boudoir. He blushed and found a coin for the woman who delivered the message. She took the coin and walked back through the patrons who refused to notice her.

Hyland opened the envelope. It was a letter from Juliet Armstrong.

My dear Mr. Hyland,

Having just met, I am rather reluctant to impose on you. But you are a man of action, and a man of action is exactly what I need. As a result of my foolishness of last evening, Abigail and her aunt have had a quarrel. Miss Raintree the elder is wandering the city in her ire, while I have managed to find Abigail a place to stay at the school she attends and where I work. No reconciliation appears forthcoming. For the elder Miss Raintree’s safety, I can only beg your help. Can you please help me find this esteemable woman? She is at the mercy of a city to which she is a stranger, and is probably subjecting herself to dangers no woman should be subjected to. I realize this is much to ask of you, and I also realize that you most likely have a poor opinion of me for my recent activities, but if you could help me, I would be eternally grateful. Not only would you come to my aid, but to the aid of two women who so desperately need your guiding hand. Please return your response to Miss May Pettijohn’s, asking for me. I remain your friend in hope.

Miss Juliet Armstrong

Hyland headed for the door, jauntily angling his hat on the way out. There was only one recourse to take when presented with a letter like this back where he came from, and although these three women were strange women, he could do no less that offer his aid. This course of action was the only decent course a real man could take.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Juliet Takes Abby In

2009-01-21T08:48:00.000-08:00

Abby sat in the parlor outside Miss Pettijohn’s room. She was angry, so angry she expected to explode over every piece of lace and tassel in the room. And there was a lot of lace and tassel. She could hear Juliet talking to Miss Pettijohn about finding Abby a place at the school. Juliet insisted that Abby not stay alone. The only benefit Abby could see to the whole situation was easier access to Dalia. Aunt Polly probably wouldn’t have approved of that relationship anyway. She’d mentioned some disapproval on the boat.

Aunt Polly…how dare she abandon Abby! If Aunt Polly thought she was going back to Abernathie, dear old Aunt Polly was out of her mind! Abby was sure that being at the school would work out better for her. She wondered what had happened to Aunt Polly, what she was doing. It never occurred to Abby that Aunt Polly might have trouble taking care of herself until just that moment. Abby would have to search for her.

Juliet opened the door, her step still unsteady from last night’s escapade. Miss May Pettijohn, a Southern woman of proper decorum, followed. Her outfit was simple and she smelled of lilac. Abby had perceived that her whole body was constructed of pure moral fiber from the moment they had originally met.

“Abby,” Miss Pettijohn said in soft, feminine tones, “I’m sorry your aunt was called home. Until one of the girl’s rooms becomes open, you may stay with Miss Armstrong.”

“Thank you, Miss Pettijohn.” Juliet helped Abby with a small bag and took Abby to their room. A small cot had been placed by the usual bed.

“Don’t worry, Abby. I’m sure this is just temporary,” Juliet said as soon as the door was closed. “We’ll find Aunt Polly and square things away.”

“Why should I wish to do that? She started it.”

“Yes,” Juliet sat at her desk, “but don’t you want to make amends?”

“No!” Abby stamped her foot. “She said terrible things! I’ll never forgive her!”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Yes, I do! And from now on, I will do what I want when I want. Anything at all!” She stopped when she saw the look of dismay on Juliet’s face. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about you,” said Juliet decisively. “I’m worried about your aunt. And New Orleans. I’m worried about you Raintrees and what you’ll end up doing to the poor city.” She began scribbling a letter.

Blood is Thicker than Water: The Nature of Benjamin

2009-01-15T11:54:00.000-08:00

A pleasant chuckle came from behind them. Broadstead looked into Benjamin’s smiling face. Broadstead’s jaw dropped three inches. “How did you get back here?”

“Help me up!” yelled Forte. “I’ve to set this on super fry!”

Benjamin reached down, grabbed Forte under the armpits, and pulled him upright. The machine’s lights went haywire, then went out like candles in the wind.

“Hey,” said Forte to Benjamin with a lopsided grin, “How’d you do that?”

“We can’t have any more property damage. Not in a house of God.

Forte noticed his surroundings for the first time. “But vampires can’t—wait a second!”

“I still can’t figure out how you brought us here. Mass hynopsis?” Broadstead figured he had all the angles logically covered. “And you doubled back on us in the smoke so you were behind?”

“As you say, Professor.” Benjamin’s voice was pleasant. “Now, shall we find Father Stewart? He is waiting for us.”

“Uh-uh.” Forte crossed his arms and stood rigid. “I don’t go anywhere with creatures of the night, regardless of the kind you are.”

Broadstead rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to sooth an approaching migraine. “It’s day, Forte. We can go. Unless you’re expecting an eclipse soon?”
“It was figurative. A figurative expression. All right?”

“How on earth are we going to repair that altar?” Broadstead attacked.

“Well—”

“And don’t you think you owe this man an apology? You tried to kill him!”

“I—”

“—did a bloody good imitation of it anyway.”

“Please gentlemen,” Benjamin tried to interrupt.

“Stay out of this!” Broadstead yelled. “This has nothing to do with you!”

“But Father Stewart is here.”

Forte and Broadstead looked at the altar. Father Stewart, surveying the damage, was rubbing his chin. “That contraption of yours packs a wallop, Forte.” He blew out a solitary candle which was still burning.

“Where have you been?” Forte decided it might be wise to abandon Broadstead for a more sympathetic audience. “I’ve been worried about you!”

“I’ve been with Benjamin.”

“Oh yeah?” Forte quickly pulled out his little box. Once he was away from Benjamin, it clicked languidly. “The priest’s clean,” he said to Broadstead.

Broadstead rocked on his feet. “Fine. I see reason has lost all control here.”
Father Stewart walked to Broadstead and shook hands with him vigorously. “So glad you stopped by! We need good men like yourself.”

Forte snorted and began to fiddle with his gun.

“You need men like me for what?” Broadstead asked warily. He had no desire to become involved in the mad state of affairs he had witnessed.

“Try and think of this as an extreme journey into the world of debunking.”

Forte watched the two older men hammer out details. As if they needed a goofball like Broadstead!

“Hey father,” Forte yelled, “what is this Benjamin guy?”

“He’s my nephew,” the priest answered.

“Your nephew the vampire?”

“Not a vampire, Forte, but help against them.” The father smiled at Benjamin. “Miraculous help indeed.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Forte and Broadstead Team Up Part 1

2009-01-06T12:31:00.000-08:00

Samuel Forte, balanced on the two back legs of a kitchen chair, propped his feet on the room’s small coffee table. He had gone downstairs to where the lady of the boarding house had prepared breakfast. After eating both his share and Stewart’s, he climbed up the stairs to wait for the priest’s return. Forte’s collar was unbuttoned, his hair was still mussed by sleep, and his beard was full of breakfast crumbs. He was not bothered by any of this, and he waited patiently for Father Stewart to come home from morning mass, or where he was, and offer him some sort of drink.

There was a knock on the door, and Forte moved his stockinged feet off the table. He undid the locks and opened the door. On the other side was J. Hamish Broadstead. Forte slammed the door and returned to the sitting room.

Broadstead, for his part, was confused, firstly, at seeing Forte again, and secondly, at such a curious reception. He beat on the door again, and after five minutes of no response, decided to enter the premises himself.

“Is anyone here?” his voice filled the front room. He took some tentative steps forward. “Father Stewart? I hope that ruffian Forte hasn’t done anything to you!”

“Shows what you know.” Forte stepped into view under the doorway that joined the two rooms. Strapped on his back, lights flashing, was what Forte referred to as his spirit removal gun. He had the nozzle of the machine aimed at Broadstead.

Broadstead stood his ground, as cool as a November breeze. “Aren’t we being a little melodramatic, Forte?”

Forte came forward. “The father thought you might be coming by. He’s not here though. He’s out doing some priest-like things, being a priest and all.”

“Ah.” Broadstead tightened his grip on his cane’s handle. “That’s your supernatural ghost remover, is it? Don’t suppose it has any effect on those of us more corporal in nature?”

“How do you know I haven’t adjusted it for narrow-minded bug professors?”

Broadstead guided Forte’s nozzle out of his line of fire with the tip of his cane. “Just a hunch.” Broadstead turned to go. “I hope,” Broadstead spoke without looking back, “that I can convince the father to have nothing to do with you. I at least owe him that.”

“Shows what you know, jack. The father and me, we go way back. And he hasn’t got the time of day for a stuffy old tweed like you.”

The door opened in front of Broadstead. A white-haired gentleman was framed in the doorway. Broadstead instinctively stepped backward before regaining his composure.
Forte shifted to the new target, asking himself, “Supernatural?”

“Who the devil are you?” asked Broadstead.

The room melted away, much to Broadstead’s amazement. He, Forte, and this newcomer were all in a dim, gloomy chapel, one solitary candle cutting the darkness.

“I am Benjamin,” the man in the cape said, as if that alone were enough.
Oddly, to Broadstead, it seemed enough for the moment. Broadstead shook himself. Why did he feel as if this man were examining him from outside a glass case, and he himself were pinned down for display?

Forte, oblivious to the scene change, held a small box that clicked rapidly. “Definitely supernatural,” he announced to the world in general.

Benjamin gazed at Forte, eyes flashing. “You don’t want to hurt anyone with that gun, do you, Samuel?”

“No,” Forte began woodenly. “I don’t—hey!” Forte shook his head and looked away from Benjamin. “Undead mind tricks. Very clever, but not clever enough.”

The pack on Forte’s back whined as Forte focused an energy beam. The knockback sent Forte sprawling on the floor.

Broadstead flattened himself behind a pew. “Good God, man, are you crazy?”

Broadstead cautiously peered over the edge of the bench. The altar had been hit by the blast and broken in half, its remains smoldering.

Broadstead bolted back toward Forte. “You idiot! I thought you said it worked only on the insubstantial! How are we going to explain this?”

Ford wriggled like a turtle on its sell. “You don’t understand, Broadstead! That’s a vampire!”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Tea with Shalimar and Simpson

2008-12-27T10:30:00.000-08:00

Simpson drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. Where was the woman? If she were such a bloody powerful undead, why couldn't she be on time? Did internal clocks go off after death? Drat and bother!

Yet, Simpson could wait longer. Not every day did the world's greatest consulting detective meet a deadly enemy for tea. There was an element of high drama to the situation certainly. She'd want to kill him, of course. That's why Simpson decided he would invite Shalimar to tea in the hotel salon he detested so much. People did in occasion come in handy, especially mass quantities of them.

Doyle munched on a finger sandwich. He was uncertain that he wanted the vampires to come. What on earth could Simpson hope to gain by confronting the enemy? This wasn't his usual style. Doyle knew that Simpson was effective as a blackmailer, and many direct confrontations had this purpose in mind, but what could one blackmail a vampire about, especially one who was so little concerned about image?

“I say, Simpson,” said Doyle, “you don't actually think that Shalimar will drink this tea?”

“Probably for appearance's sake. She's no fool.”

“Oh.” Since their last encounter with Monsieur Lalaureie, Doyle was more than ready for any undead. He touched the spot on his shirt where he could feel the cross underneath the material. Simpson had told him that wearing a cross wasn't going to be effective because Doyle wasn't particularly religious. Doyle insisted Simpson was wrong. He attended church just as much as any other man. But just in case Simpson was correct, in his right pocket, where Doyle usually carried his old service revolver, Doyle also carried a stoppered bottle of holy water. Just to be prepared.

Doyle glanced over at Simpson, who appeared to be reading the paper. The illusion of calm was a good one, but it couldn't fool Doyle, who knew Simpson was internally fidgeting in his seat, ready to continue with the case.

“I don't think they're coming,” said Doyle. “It may have frightened them, all these people.”

“She's coming,” insisted Simpson.

“She won't confront us on our ground. That's not a wise strategy.”

“Very true.” Simpson didn't look up from his paper. “But she will come. Her kind enjoys flexing their claws around her adversaries.” The prophecy proved true. “Here she comes now.”

Doyle looked at the woman who had been giving him nightmares, and was pleasantly surprised with what he saw. High cheeks and a delicate nose. She was almost translucent in color. As the woman and her female companion neared the table, Doyle decided he didn't find Shalimar as pleasant as he initially thought. Her eyes were cold and empty, glittering like the black onyx eyes of a cobra. He hoped Simpson was up the role of mongoose as they rose to meet the ladies.

“Welcome,” Simpson said cordially. “Do have a chair.”

Shalimar and her companion seated themselves. The blonde who was with Shalimar smiled at Doyle agreeably, not unlike a cat who was thinking about swallowing a goldfish. He patted his pocket and found the vial reassuring.

“A cup of tea?” the blonde repeated. “I asked if I could have a cup of tea?”

“Oh, certainly. And you?”

Shalimar ignored Doyle. “Such good planning, Ulysses. Tea? I haven't had tea in quite some time.”

“A useful prop,” said Simpson, watching the blonde pour her some from a delicate china pot. “Helps us fit in with the natives.”

She took a long sip, and then made a judgmental face. “Bitter. I can see why I prefer other drinks.” She occasionally sipped from the cup throughout the conversation.

Doyle decided he would make pleasant conversation with Shalimar's companion. “So, do you miss it?”

Dalia batted her eyelids at him. “Miss what?”

“Being alive.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

“No.”

Dalia laughed, her hand genteelly covering her fangs. “Why should I miss being alive when being undead gives me incredible power?”

“Yes, but you know, seeing life through living eyes must be different. Don't you have any regrets?”

Dalia considered. It looked as though she hadn't given the matter much thought.

“Why,” Shalimar asked Simpson, “did you ask me to come?” A cruel smile made her face stern. “The years have not told well on you.”

“They've told very ell on you. My guess is that you are a vampire. You are your people fascinate me.”

Shalimar gingerly lifted a petit-fours from a tray. “Is that why you pointedly encounter us at every opportunity?” I thought you might have had a more crusading purpose.”

“Each time,” said Simpson, “we have met by accident. I can assure you of this.”

“Ah. Well, then how did you know how to reach me?”

“For a good detective, that sort of information is easy to obtain. The procedures are elementary.” Simpson's keen eyes twinkled back at her. They were matched, wit to wit.

Dalia was flustered. Doyle had asked her about the odor of flowers. “I only smell one thing,” said Dalia.

Doyle pursued his point. “You don't smell flowers?”

“Predators don't need to smell flowers. The scent only gets in the way of what you're hunting.”

“Then you only smell human blood?”

“This room smells divine,” said Dalia. She quickly picked up the bouquet centerpiece and buried her nose in it. She smiled back at Doyle, who was finding their exchange fascinating and macabre.

Shalimar broke the tension. “Get in my way, Simpson, and I will kill you and your friend in painful ways.”

“I have no intention in getting in your way.”

“You've been asking all the wrong questions to indicate that. You know I'm New Orleans new voodooienne since Placas is gone. You've been asking the voodoos questions about me.”

Simpson maintained eye piercing contact. “I will stop.”

“What do you want, Ulysses?”

“Safety.” Simpson lowered his eyes.

Shalimar laughed triumphantly, and Doyle, who was asking Dalia how she could see if she had turned into mist, looked toward them in alarm. Simpson must have played the wrong card.

“The great detective defanged at last?” Shalimar laughed again. “There is no safe place for you in my city!”

“That is why I wish to leave it. Doyle and I will take no action. We will return to England and give you no further trouble.”

“Why,” Shalimar cooed, “I”m surprised. This is so unlike you.”

“I'm getting too old for this. I'm no fool. I want to see my old age, and I don't want to damage those around me.”

“Simpson,” said Doyle, “you can't just walk away from this!”

“But we will, nevertheless,” said Simpson, annoyed. “Shalimar, if you promise to leave us alone, we promise to leave your plans to you.”

Shalimar sighed. “It would be so much more fun to kill you.”

“Yes,” said Simpson. “I'm sure. I am rather famous, you know. That would give what you wish to have happen here undue scrutiny. I'm sure you would rather be covert in your actions.”

Shalimar hesitated. She decided and rose abruptly. “It will be a shame for you to leave so soon. None of my people will harass you until tomorrow sundown. Do give me your word as a gentleman you will be gone?”

“Oh yes.”

“Good. If you or your partner are found tomorrow after sundown, I will have my way with you both.” She smiled toothily at Doyle. “Ask Mr. Simpson what that means.”

Shalimar began to walk away. Dalia picked up two of the small cakes and scrambled after her mistress. She twinkled her fingers at Doyle in an almost affectionate leave taking.

When he had seen them both clearly out of the salon, Doyle turned on his partner. “I would never have pegged you as a coward!” he sputtered.

“Oh, surely you didn't buy any of that?”

“What do you mean?” asked Doyle cautiously.

“You never do quite catch on.” Simpson sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course, we are staying right here.”

“But you gave your word as a gentleman.”

“You know I am not a gentleman. I'm an American.”

“Then why this meeting? Why warn them of our intent to stay.”

“I want her to be looking for me. I'll be disappointed if she doesn't come.”

“Why?”

“You think about it, old man.” Simpson glanced at his pocket watch. “Must scoot. I'm off to see a man about a chicken.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Polly Becomes Independent

2008-12-27T09:52:00.000-08:00

Chapter 5: In Which I Declare My Independence

Oddly, I was the first to arise in the morning. I felt thoroughly depressed. I felt old and manipulated. As I washed myself, I saw myself in the curved surface of my room's mirror. I was old and I was a waste. No man had ever wanted or loved the flabby body I had, and while men weren't everything, well, having one want to sign your dance card didn't hurt. I put on my dress, methodically buttoning it, and I put on my shoes, which were just as straight-laced as I was. I had done the best I could, showering love onto my brother and his family, and while I had loved them as much as I could, I could see in their eyes, in Abby's eyes, that I was just a servant to them. I was dependable Aunt Polly, only good for serving their purposes.

When I was young, I had been much too timid. I had tried to fly, less high than Abigail, but my wings had been tied down. I had ultimately allowed other people to rule my life. With trembling hands, I carefully pulled my ugly, graying hair away from my face. Miss Pauline Raintree. Poor, plain Pauline. Pauline was fast approaching fifty. Her life was almost gone. I placed the chain holding my spectacles around my neck, and went out to the dining room.

The sideboard had little to appeal to me this morning, so I took a cup of coffee and a roll.

I had been poking at my food for only a little while when Juliet joined me. She entered the room, her hand clamped on her forehead, shuffling rather than walking. “Good morning, Miss Raintree.”

“Aunt Polly,” I said, wincing at the “miss” this morning. “Call me Aunt Polly.”

Juliet sat quickly at the table, avoiding the sideboard entirely. She sat rigidly, trying to appear alert, but she abandoned this idea in seconds and caved in completely.

“I'm so very sorry, Aunt Polly! I've been so dreadful! I know you deserve to have my job! I won't blame you if you speak to Miss Pettijohn!” Unable to face me, she lowered her eyes to the tablecloth.

By all rights, I should have had this woman's job. My mood was gray this morning, however, and I was more inclined to pity than anger. Why should I destroy her life when other people were so busy destroying mine?

“Juliet, your behavior was intolerable. But we all make mistakes. I do not intend to mention this to Miss Pettijohn.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Raintree! I don't know how to tell you how grateful I am!”

“Yes, dear. Now, try to make yourself more presentable for returning to your post today.” As Juliet left, I decided to add a piece of advice. “Juliet?”

“Yes?”

“You might do yourself a favor and avoid my niece. She is a decidedly bad influence.”

“You mustn't say that.”

“Nevertheless, it is true. Now, go.”

Abby passed Juliet as Juliet left the dining room. My niece appeared fresh, as if she'd spent an uneventful night in blissful sleep.

“Good morning, Juliet,” she sang. “Good morning, Auntie.”

Juliet was too hung over to smile, and she acknowledged the greeting with a moan.

Abby sat opposite me after grabbing one of Sarah's sticky rolls. “Poor Juliet,” she said. “Looks like she had a difficult night.”

“You might say that.” I sipped at my coffee.

“Poor old girl. Looks like she had too much to drink last night.”

I clinked my coffee spoon onto my saucer purposefully. “Of course she did, Abigail.”

Abby peeled off the outside of her roll, oblivious to my growing anger. “You know, you might have a chat with her. Tell her what she's got to look forward to.”

“I beg your pardon?"

“You know, about being a spinster, that sort of thing.”

I threw my own roll on the table in disgust. It bounced in Abby's direction. “That's enough!” I roared.

“Why Auntie,” Abby looked at me in wide-eyed amazement, “what's wrong?”

“Don't you 'Why Auntie' me, you odious child! You know perfectly well what's wrong. I won't let you blackmail me! I won't!”

Abby was astonished. Frankly, so was I.

I stormed away from the table. She followed in shock, still holding her breakfast.

“I want you to write to your father! No, wait, why don't I write to him? I will not put up with you a moment longer, you selfish, ungrateful, hateful child!”

“Wait one moment!” Abby's eyes flashed angrily. “If this is about last night—”

“Oh no!” I grabbed my hat from its stand. “It's about everything! It's about your whole ungrateful family!”

Abby's bewilderment caused her to bluster. “Us? Ungrateful? We've given you everything!”

All I could do was glare at her. “All you've done is use me! Well, no more! Aunt Polly is on her own!”

“Fine. I'll just write to my ungrateful family, tell them about your actions, and let them boot you out. You'll be penniless.”

“Good! Do that!”

“I shall!”

I opened the door just as Juliet staggered in to see what the trouble was about. “I wanted to leave the whole hateful lot of you anyway! Just see how long you get your way when your parents send you to a convent!”

“We're not Catholic!”

“If they're smart, they'll put you in one anyway!”

“Where are you going?”

“To live! To really live!”

I slammed the door, and had the pleasure of hearing plates and photos crash to the floor on the other side. Not until after I was out in the sunny street did I realize that I had no plans. I only knew it was time for Pauline Raintree to loosen her corset.

Blood is Thicker than Water: God's Messenger

2008-12-16T11:25:00.000-08:00

Marie settled back into her chair and began. “I have lived for a very long time. I was here I New Orleans when this city was founded, believe it or not. I care a great deal for what happens in this city. Over the years I have spent here, I have made several acquaintances, good and bad. The same holds true for the rest of my life. One of my enemies has followed from place to place. Fifty years ago, I drove her out of the city, and she feels she must be avenged.”

Forte rubbed his chin. “If you've been around as long as you say you have, you hold your age pretty well. How do you do it? Lots of rouge?”

“Exactly.”

Father Stewart fidgeted in his chair, and Marie scolded him.

“Stop squirming, Andrew. I'm giving him the shortened version.” She re-focused on Forte. “The woman's name is Shalimar. Unlike myself, the only way she can keep her long life is to drink the blood of others. She associates with other blood drinkers.”

“So she's a vampire?”

“In purpose, yes. But she only needs one body every year. Most of her associates are the more common type of vampire. She has favorites to whom she has given her own blood. They are like her. They can stand the daylight. It's because they're closer to the source of the spell.”

“The spell?”

“Shalimar's long life comes from a blood sacrifice and a magical incantation. The spell for someone to bathe in the blood of fourteen virgins.”

“Sounds risque.”

Father Stewart kicked Forte for the comment.

Marie continued. “The caster recites the spell, and then has eternal life. Shalimar wanted to test the spell first, to make sure no harm would come to her.”

“That's where Marie came in,” commented Father Stewart. “She was the test sacrifice for Shalimar.”

Marie nodded. “I received the full effect of the spell, and she received partial effect. That's why she must have the blood of one human per year, to stay immortal. Of course, Shalimar seems to enjoy killing and its arts, so usually she drains as many victims as she thinks she can get away with.”

“Sounds serious.” Forte was leaning forward, listening intently.

“Only if you consider the city of New Orleans becoming a colony of vampires serious.”

“Hey! The army could stop that. All we do is stake the vampiric vermin in their coffins during the day.”

Father Stewart interrupted. “No, Forte. Remember, some of these vampires are day creatures. Shalimar certainly is. We are up against some very powerful undead.”

Forte thought for a moment. “Fine. I'm in. I think I can tinker with the ole blast 'em gun so it at least dents blood suckers. Who else is gonna help us do this?”

Marie LaVeau numbered the vampire hunters on her fingers as she listed them. “You, me the father, a consulting detective, his assistant, dear Aunt Polly, and hopefully Professor Broadstead. That makes seven.”

“Broadstead? Not that idiot!”

“Well,” Father Stewart said to Forte, “he's already shown he's effective in a fight.”

Forte frowned.

“Besides,” Father Stewart added, “I paid his way out of jail. He owes us a favor.”

Forte scowled and Father Stewart puffed on his pipe.

***

Father Stewart had managed to calm Forte down by suggesting that it was not yet definite that Broadstead would be working with them. This seemed to placate Forte. Marie LaVeau stepped back into the night, explaining to Father Stewart that she had other errands to run, and Andrew, after telling her to be careful, reluctantly let her go. Forte was shown the bedroom and was soon snoring off the late night.

The father went to chapel. When Marie had found him a place to stay, she had considered his needs, and a church was close by. In the evening gloom, Christ shined on his crucifix. Father Stewart lit one candle, knelt in front of it, crossed himself, and recited a Pater Noster. Then he began his personal request.

“Lord, I realize that you and I have been many places together that I would be afraid to go alone. This place where we go next frightens me more than any other. I know what you think of Marie, so I am not worried that you'll disapprove of my helping her. And I know that you'll give me enough power to see this affair through. But I worry because our opponents are so powerful. I am uncertain of the best path to take. I could use an idea or two.”

The doors to the church blew open in a dramatic windstorm. There had been no wind that night. The gust billowed the opera cape of the silver-haired gentleman that filled the archway. The man was immaculate in his theater clothes, his shirt and collar a pristine white. A top hat finished the stylish ensemble. He removed it and his hair was silver in the moonlight.

“Who are you?” Father Stewart gasped.

“I am your Lord's sign. Will you invite me in?”

“Yes,” the priest stammered.

The man entered, his cap swirling, as much the darkness as surrounded by the darkness. “We shall talk,” he said, looming over the father, “you and I.”

Father Stewart's scream rang out into the night, making Forte sit bolt upright, thinking the undead had come for him. But although Forte strained his ears to listen, he heard no more than the calm night, so he chalked it up to nerves and went back to sleep.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Forte meets LaVeau Part 1

2008-12-08T10:55:00.000-08:00

While I was seeing to the morality, or lack thereof, of my niece, Father Stewart was also ministering to the souls in his care. He had taken Samuel Forte back to his rooms. Forte looked much fresher after a decent washing and a new collar. He had also combed the dried blood out of his devil’s beard. Now he reclined on the horsehair couch in the room’s small sitting area, a steak flopped over his blackened eye.

“Now, let me get this straight,” Forte said from underneath the meat. “This is kinda weird, you and the old maid, excuse me, my dear, sweet, Aunt Polly, coming to my aid and all. Things like this don’t usually happen to me. I usually have to find my own way out of things. Except for that time when me and LaVerne decided to be women from Venus—the yokels sure bought that one. Well, why don’t you give me all the particulars?”

Father Stewart put the finishing touches on stuffing a pipe with tobacco and gave Forte as many details as he thought he could. “You, being a scholarly man, and being in your field of study,” have certainly heard of Marie LaVeau?”

“Oh yeah. I hope the very well off, influential Marie LaVeau?”

“Miss LaVeau is a desperate woman. Some creatures of inexplicable horror have invaded her home. She herself has escaped their clutches. I hope we hear from her soon.”

“Inexplicable horror, huh?” Forte’s comment was light, as if he were considering removing termites or rats from the woman’s home. “You mean poltergeists? Hauntings? Something like that?”

“No.” The father lit his pipe and pulled a drag. “What would you think if I said vampires?”

“I’d think that you’d read one Hungarian folk tale too many, and that you want me to deal with undead. I don’t do undead. I do spirits. Ghosts. Wee beasties. Things that go bump in the night. Werewolves, vampires, things that make me into one of them I stay away from.”

Father Stewart grinned. “Obviously that is a luxury that you, a freelance businessman, can afford. On the other hand, I tend to go where He points me.”

Forte stroked his beard, puzzled. “Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?”

“No.”

“Well, good. It didn’t.”

“Then,” Father Stewart said, “there is the sum that Miss LaVeau is prepared to offer you."

“Yeah, well, look here, Father. I may appear to be a man who can be paid off to you, but I do draw my line at undead. It’s not good advertising for a man in my line of work to drink blood at business luncheons or to be available for only night cases.”

“Miss LaVeau is prepared to give you one thousand dollars.”

“That’s not bad,” said Forte, beaming. “Is there anyway I can talk to Miss LaVeau. Get the particulars from her?”

“Perhaps,” said a feminine voice from the shadows. “But I very much doubt she’ll come out of hiding for you, Mr. Forte.”

Both Stewart and Forte looked at the door in surprise. Forte stood up and extended his hand. “Mrs?”

“Madame Legendre.” The woman nodded in Father Stewart’s direction. “The priest knows of me.”

“Yes,” said Father Stewart, “Marie has told me about you. Is she well?”

“We, she and I, are keeping her away from the demons. We thought it wise that Marie LaVeau not walk the streets at night.”

“A wise choice,” the father said. “Madame Legendre seemed familiar to him.

“I wish the circumstances of our first meeting were more pleasant, Mr. Forte. How much has Father Stewart told you?”

“Only that Miss LaVeau has fiendish undead in her home.” Does he mean the family cottage?”

“No. Her mansion. May I be earnest with you, Mr. Forte?” The old woman took a chair. “And you, Father?”

“I would prefer it,” said the priest.

“Do you recognize me, Andrew?”

Father Stewart was puzzled. “Marie?”

“Yes. After all, the streets aren’t safe for Marie LaVeau, but they are perfectly safe for Madame Legendre. So Madame Legendre graciously offered me her identity.”

Forte nodded his approval. “Nice disguise! Much better than the women from Venus.”

“Thank you, Mr. Forte. Now, all the details?”

Forte resumed his seat. “I would prefer that, Miss LaVeau.”

“The truth will sound unbelievable.”

“No. Unbelievable is that a fat English guy twice my age can duke me out and get away with less damage than me. After that, I’ll believe anything.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Shalimar Mixes It Up

2008-12-01T12:20:00.000-08:00

Dalia sat in the parlor chair, her hands folded daintily across her lap as she watched Marion pace the floor. Marcus sat moodily in the corner. There were still a few red patches of skin on his usually smooth complexion that Ulysses Simpson had given him, but these were healing up almost as Dalia watched them. His clothes, of course, lacked his body’s regenerative qualities, and Marcus would have changed them, save that Shalimar had made him wear the rags a little longer so he could meditate upon his failure. Dalia could tell this galled her brother, but who was he to say no to Shalimar? Marion might try that, but Marcus was not that stupid. She glanced up at the bell pull and tried to take her mind off Shalimar’s arrival. They would probably get the tongue lashing of their lives. At least this time it would only be a tongue lashing.

“I would’ve ripped the priest’s throat out!” Marion broke the silence.

“Please be quiet,” Dalia said.

“Next time I see him, I’ll make him eat that crucifix!”

“I’ll bet,” said Marcus, sulking in his chair.

“Oh, Marion?” Dalia attempted to interrupt.

“What’s the matter, Marcus? Don’t think I could do it?”

“That’s not a very smart approach. You need to find a more covert way around the priest.”

“I guess you’re the expert. I see how well you coverted that detective guy.”

“Marion!” Dalia protested.

Marcus stood up. “You’re out of your depth, young one, tangling with me. I’ll give you ten seconds to apologize.”

“Who does your suits?”

“Take it back,” Marcus stepped forward menacingly.

“Fat chance!”

“Marion!” Dalia yelled.

Both men looked at Dalia. “Fighting among ourselves isn’t going to look good to Shalimar when she arrives.”

Marcus collected himself and looked as poised as he cold in his tattered, sooty clothes. Dalia noted, to Marcus’ credit, that he still outclassed Marion. “Dalia’s correct. But don’t try me again. I am not in the mood.”

“Yeah, well, lucky for you you’re my baby doll’s brother, or I’d have taken you down a peg or two.”

“I am not your baby doll!” Dalia muttered.

Shalimar walked regally into the parlor and surveyed the three of them in silence. It disturbed Dalia and she hoped Shalimar would break the silence soon. Shalimar went to Marcus, surveyed his clothes with disgust, and slapped him. Even Eustace flinched a little as the sound went through the room. Then Shalimar’s attention was on them all.

“This is the thanks I get for creating you all in my image. Failure! You have all failed me! How dare you fail me!” She moved from Marcus to Marion. “I will not tolerate failure! You must make amends, or I will allow others to become my companions! And I won’t describe what will happen to you.”

“Yeah, but—” stammered Marion.

“No, don’t protest. I have decided this is what will be.” She directed her attention at Dalia. “Because I have decided to be merciful today, you will all receive one more chance.”

“Thank you,” said Dalia, relief in her voice.

“Our problem,” Shalimar lectured, “is that we have all perhaps been exploring the wrong opponent. So, I feel we should shuffle. You may have noticed Benjamin’s absence. Since he did not fail me, I have already put him to work. I have sent him to the priest.”

“I could’ve taken him out!” growled Marion.

Shalimar sent him a withering look that cowed him into submission. “Marion, I personally have a major project that will need you as steward. And I expect no arguments.”

“Right.”

“Dalia?”

Dalia looked hopeful. “The girl?”

Shalimar nodded curtly. “The girl.”

Marcus spoke. “And myself?

“Ah.” Shalimar perched herself on the arm of his chair and ran her fingers teasingly in his hair. “Something that calls on your unique talents. The aunt. Enjoy.”

Marcus seemed satisfied. “I will. Thank you.”

Shalimar gave all of them a final look. “Do not fail me again.” She walked out as regally as she walked in, and the three of them relaxed visibly as the confrontation ended.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Blackmail

2008-11-24T09:06:00.000-08:00

Abigail was unflinching. “Auntie, first of all, I’m old enough to know about life. Why can’t I go where I want, do what I want?”

I threw up my hands. What sort of imbecilic questions was the child asking me now? “You are a Raintree! And you are not 21! You are not some lower class vagabond or some tawdry street urchin! You can never forget your station in life! You have no choice in what you do!”

I couldn’t believe I’d just said all those things to my Abigail. The words sounded just as harsh as when someone had yelled them into my ringing ears years ago.

Abigail most literally rose to the occasion. She stood up, her eyes flashing, and for a moment I was afraid. “Don’t give me that, you old witch! I know all about you, you spooky old woman! I know how no one could get you to settle down when you were my age! I know you want to stay in New Orleans more than I do! You and your occult bunk!

“Face facts, Aunt Polly. You need me. You can’t stay here without me. Unless you loosen the reins, I’ll write Mama and Papa and tell them everything about everything.

“That I’ve become friends with a priest? My, that will worry them.”

“No,” said Abby. “I’ll tell them about the running around and how you bailed a con man out of the pokey.”

I was stunned. Here was the worst of our family rolled into one. My adventurousness coupled with Melrose’s stubbornness and Josephine’s knack at blackmail. Perhaps Melrose and Laura wouldn’t believe Abigail. But Abigail did have one point. I couldn’t stay in New Orleans without her. The vampires would probably hunt us down in Abernathie and put our whole family in danger. They had to be stopped now, in New Orleans. That meant Abigail had to stay, whether I liked it or not.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.”

“Touche, Abigail. You win.” I plopped onto the sofa, feeling old and tired. “I won’t send you home.”

Abigail laughed triumphantly. She kissed my forehead. “I thought you’d see it my way. Good night, dear. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She closed the French doors on her way out, and I felt out of control, fearing the vampires less than the world of Raintree tyranny, as I was about to be victimized by a third generation.

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Breaking Curfew

2008-11-17T08:35:00.000-08:00

I heard the three sets of steps echoing in the hall. This startled me greatly. I was more startled when I rushed into the hall and saw Juliet slung between my niece and a strange man, muttering how awful she felt and how she wanted to die.
When I had slowly figured out that Juliet had been drinking, my concern slowly turned to anger. They had not seen me yet and the man was saying kind encouragements to Juliet.

“Just a little farther, Miss Armstrong. You can make it.”

“Shh,” Abby hissed. “You’ll wake Auntie.”

“Indeed.” They noticed me as I spoke to them. I folded my arms and made a conscious effort to look stern. “Auntie is already awake.” Mr. Hyland blushed and used his free hand to remove his hat. Abby at first tried to look glib, as if she’d done nothing wrong, then defiant, as if she dared me to tell her she had. “Abigail, I’m sorely disappointed in you. And what has happened to poor Juliet?”

“Well, ma’am, fact of the matter is that Miss Juliet got a little excited when she and Miss Raintree were attacked in the saloon.”

“Saloon?” I was aghast.

“Now, Auntie, it wasn’t a saloon. It was—”

“She’s right, ma’am. It was a casino.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? Young lady, women of breeding never go into casinos!” I could barely bring myself to voice my suspicions regarding Juliet’s behavior. “Have you been drinking?”

Abigail’s eyes lowered. My suspicions were confirmed. My face flushed with color. “Help Juliet into the guest room. Then I will see you and this gentleman.”

“William Hyland, ma’am.”

“Yes. In the parlor immediately!”

They took Juliet into the guest room. I would have harsh words with her in the morning. How dare she allow Abigail to talk her into such a preposterous idea! Going to a casino! Abigail was an admitted harridan, but Juliet was supposed to be a school teacher! Well, if they wanted to test my mettle as a chaperone, they’d be sorry!

And this man? I’d have his story first, but I was sure he was unsavory. He’d have to leave immediately. By all rights I should send Abigail packing back to her parents. Now I had double the reasons. Cowboys and vampires both!

Mr. Hyland joined me almost immediately in the sitting room. I closed the French doors and wheeled on him. “Just who are you? What have you been doing with my niece?”

Hyland removed his hat again and looked at me most sincerely, the way his horse might have looked at him. “William Hyland, ma’am. Chip to my friends. I was helping Miss Abigail and Miss Juliet home. There’d been some fellows at the saloon who were being right ungentlemanly.” Here Mr. Hyland stopped for a moment. “Might I suggest, ma’am, that you keep Miss Abigail on a tighter leash? A saloon ain’t no place for a pretty young thing like that.”

“I am fully aware of that,” I said icily.

“Yes, ma’am. Well, like I was saying, these two men were begin right down unfriendly and I helped the ladies out. Since Miss Juliet had fainted—”

“Miss Juliet did not faint, Mr. Hyland. She is drunker than a skunk.”

“No.” Mr. Hyland’s eyes became stubborn as he dared me to say the contrary. “She fainted.”

I allowed my cool visage to melt a little. He seemed as determined to avoid scandal as much as I was.

“Very good, Mr. Hyland.” I gestured to a seat. “She fainted. Now, please continue. Did anything else happen?”

“You might want to check Miss Abigail’s arms for bruises. That man pinched her pretty tight.”

“I’ll do that.” I stood, and he stood with me, once again placing his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. “I hope I don’t seem rude, but given the hour and the situation, I must ask you to leave. Abigail was lucky that you were on hand.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Hyland touched his brim. “Give my goodnights to the young ladies.”

I saw Mr. Hyland to the door, and when I returned to the sitting room, I found Abby waiting for me.

“You are very lucky,” I said to her as I walked in, “that Mr. Hyland was there tonight. Those two men were dangerous. It sounds as though you and Juliet were almost kidnapped.”

“Now, Auntie, that’s just a little bit of an exaggeration.”

“If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll send you back to your parents, lock, stock, and barrel! How dare you abuse your privileges! How dare you allow Juliet to drink like that! How dare you make me worry!”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Chip Hyland to the Rescue

2008-11-10T07:25:00.000-08:00

The blond frontiersman threw his poke hand face down on the table, placed his hat on at a jaunty angle, and walked toward the booth purposefully. Later we would learn this step typified Mr. Hyland’s attitude in life: don’t put it off, just finish it. Chip Hyland recognized ladies in distress when he saw them. “’Scuse me, I believe that you may be harassin’ these ladies.”

“These, sir,” Henry spoke, “are no ladies. Now, why don’t you mind your business and return to your card game?”

“I don’t imagine I know how you folks run your business down here,” Hyland said, “but back where I come from, any female gets a sight of respect. Now, mister, you’d better let go of her arm.”

Claude sized up his opponent, and in true New Orleans fashion, was too headstrong to be intimidated. “Before we settle this unpleasantly, you might follow my friend’s advice. Return to your poker, cowboy. This is none of your business.”

Chip touched his hat and Abigail saw how enormous his hands were. “I reckon you’re right,” he said to Claude. “So I’ll make it my business. Ma’am?”

Abigail fluttered her lashes at him. “Yes?”

“My name is William Hyland. I’d be obliged if you’d call me Chip like the rest of my friends do. Can I help you and the other lady?”

“I’d be much obliged, Chip. I’m Abigail Raintree. My friends call me Abby.”

“Well, Miss Raintree, now that I know you, I’ll be happy to take care of this yahoo for you.”

“That would be most kind, Mr. Hyland.”

Chip returned his attention to Claude, who was befuddled by this exchange. “This is my friend, Miss Raintree,” Chip said. “Since she is my friend, I figure you’d best be getting your hand off her, or I’ll have to do something you and your friend would regret.”

Claude threw Abby’s arm down and stepped out of the booth. He must have been intimidated by Hyland’s size, but he faced the man. “Do you wish to duel?” he asked.

“Nope,” replied Hyland. “That’s illegal. I just want to punch your face in.” Hyland swung his massive fist under the man’s jaw, and Claude crumpled to the floor. Then Hyland reeled to face Henry.

Henry was not as disposed to talking as Claude had been. Henry had removed a knife from somewhere, and, stepping away from Juliet, circled Hyland in a half crouch, ready to spring. The knife flashed through the air. Hyland feinted and blocked the knife arm. He then brought a hammer-like fist into Henry’s midsection. Henry dropped the knife and doubled over. Hyland slammed both his hands down on Henry’s skull and the man was down.

Chip straightened his tie and retrieved his hat from the floor where it had fallen. Abby was helping Julie, who muttered that she felt ill, up from the table.

“Are you ladies hurt?” Hyland asked solicitously.

“Thanks to you, Mr. Hyland,” Abby said, “we are not. My companion appears to be the worse for our experience. Could you please help us home?”

Between the two of them, Abby and Hyland managed to get Juliet through the streets to our rooms. If any vampires observed their walk home, they left them unmolested. Mr. Hyland would have given even the undead pause, I am sure. Of course, it was impossible for Abby to take Juliet upstairs alone, so once again Abby enlisted Chip’s aid, requesting silence so they could avoid waking me. Such fortune was not destined for my niece that night, since I had waited up.

Chapter 4: Houses of Ill Repute

2008-11-03T07:48:00.000-08:00

Chapter 4: In Which Chip Hyland Comes to the Rescue

Would that Abigail had truly gone to the theater, I would not have been as mortified as I was when I ultimately found out the truth of her evening. Juliet, shocked and angered by the fisticuffs that had occurred at the debate, was much too preoccupied with her own disappointment to object to Abigail’s outing. Abigail’s curious adventuresome steps led them to one of the gambling casinos for which New Orleans is notorious. It disturbs me, I must admit, to report such unladylike behavior of my charge and her friend. The gambling house was obviously not the place for polite young women. I must confess, on the other hand, that I currently view the scenario a little more lightly now than before, and have, over the course of this narrative, forgiven my niece several indiscretions, for she has proven herself to be worthwhile in spite of them. However, at the time, I was as mortified as you are, gentle reader, that my niece would abandon herself to New Orleans in this most coarse fashion. Besides, above all the social disgrace, I was sure undead were lurking around every corner, attempting to swallow her whole.

At least Abigail had the common sense to choose an elegant gambling casino. Chandeliers dripped from the ceilings like elaborate fountains, the booths and chairs were covered with plush velvet, and the bar was carved from rich oak. Lions’ heads perched on the corners of the bar, roaring courageously at the bar’s patrons. Abigail noticed she and Juliet were not the only women in the establishment. The other ladies were, as Abigail called them, painted ladies, probably burlesque women or singers, or the New Orleans equivalent of saloon girls, or something else polite women don’t write in their accounts of their adventures. I assume these women were the reason Abigail and Juliet were allowed admission into the casino. No doubt the patrons assumed they were, despite their differences in dress, the same as the young ladies of the establishment.

Abigail ordered two sherries from the bar and gave one to the sulky Juliet. She sat down next to her crestfallen friend and put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Abby said, trying to sound concerned, but only sounding giddy because of her freedom. “Look at all these lovely gentlemen! Forget about Broadstead! You’ve got lots of choice right here.”

Juliet groaned.

“Ah,” Abby said petulantly, “not the right subject. I can’t help it though! Just take a look around you. Now, see that man over there?” Here Abby motioned to a blond man with a thick mustache, six foot of pure frontiersman. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked on the sides. The mustache was carefully waxed into sharp little points. All in all, he looked capable of wrestling wild animals, in spite of the elegant surroundings and his somber black suit. “Now that’s a man,” Abby sighed.
“Abigail Raintree, how can you think of men at a time like this?” Juliet drained the last of the sherry from her glass.

“Just because your Romeo’s fallen flat doesn’t mean I can’t look.”

Juliet slammed her glass on the table. “I need another drink.”

Five sherries later, Juliet was reduced to a giggling mass of hysteric depression. Abby feasted on the rugged males of the establishment and made flirtatious eye contact with several gentlemen. The frontiersman himself placed his hand to where the rim of his hat would have been normally and smiled broadly at her, then continued on with his poker game. Eventually two gentlemen did approach Abigail and Juliet.

“May we join you?” one of the gentlemen asked Abby. Abby smiled at his dark, foreign looks. She nodded her head and batted her eyelids. Juliet used the little presence of mind she had left to realize something was not right about inviting unknown men to sit at your table. She stared at the gentlemen, her eyes glassy, trying to formulate a refusal. They took her silence as acquiescence and sat down. To her credit, Abby maintained a proper sitting distance.

“How long have you ladies been in New Orleans?” the first man ventured.

“Not long,” Abby gushed. “Well, Juliet here has been in the city longer than myself, but not long enough to meet fine young men such as yourselves.”

The young man sitting by Juliet smiled at her. “Juliet. What a lovely name.”

“I’m Abigail,” my niece interrupted, returning attention to herself.

“I’m Claude,” said the first gentleman. “My friend is Henry.”

Somewhere in the back of her conscience, Juliet’s thoughts coalesced. She felt that both she and Abby were doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time. She stood up quickly, upsetting the glasses on the table. “Abby, we must leave!”

Henry pulled her back down beside him. “Why would you wish to do that, Mam’selle? We were just beginning to become acquainted.” He flashed Claude a knowing look.

Abigail had seen that look before, and contrary to her reputation, she always drew the line with young men when they looked like that. She smiled pleasantly at Claude. “I think I’d best take my friend home. She’s had a tad too much.”

Claude stood up as Abby did. “There’s nothing we’d like better to accompany you ladies home.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Abby attempted to get out of the booth, but Claude blocked her way.

“We insist.”

“Let me pass, please!”

Claude grabbed her arm firmly. “No, Abigail. A woman like you cannot send the signals that you are open for business, then reject me. That is a bad way to build clientele.”

Abby frowned. “Sir, I resent what you are thinking.”

“As all women of your profession profess to do.”

Abby spoke lowly. “Sir, if you do not release my arm, I will make a scene.”

“I’ll bet.”

Abby laughed politely, cleared her throat and screamed. My niece is not prone to much screaming, but when she does scream, it pierces the noise of the most crowded room. A lighthouse beacon could not cut a clearer path through fog. The room riveted its attention to the foursome in the booth. At that moment, Abigail made the acquaintance of Mr. Chip Hyland.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Bailing Out Forte

2008-10-25T07:41:00.000-07:00

Father Stewart had revived me, and I wanted to go home. It was nearly one a.m. However, he suggested that I would be more needed at the jail to help him bail out Forte. I could see how the presence of a woman could indeed gain sympathy. I knew I was no seductress, but perhaps I would remind Forte of his mother. We hurried to the jail, hoping to avoid any more night encounters. Father Stewart thought one would be unlikely. We had just defeated two of the best the vampires had to offer. If this was the case, I felt our chances for survival had increased markedly.

When Forte was presented to us by the constable, he looked the worse for wear. Broadstead had connected with Forte’s right eye, and Forte’s jacket was torn at the shoulder. He was muttering something about a man named LaVerne, and he looked surprised to see us.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No,” said Father Stewart.

Forte laughed nervously. “Do I owe you money?”

“No.” I smiled as warmly as I could at him, given the night’s events. “Mr. Forte, we’re here to offer you employment.”

“Oh. Well, as you can see, I’m going to be busy for a couple of days—”

“Father Stewart and I have taken care of that.”

Forte ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “Who are you people?”

“Why, don’t you remember me, Samuel? I’m your dear, sweet Aunt Polly!”

Forte leaned towards us, still separated by wire mesh. “Oh. Well, it’s been a long time, Auntie. Say,” he added, “can you get my machine unimpounded?”

“We’re counting on it,” said Father Stewart.

Father Stewart proceeded to take care of all the details and even posted bail for Broadstead, whom he thought was a victim of unfortunate circumstance. Forte and Father Stewart escorted me home, and I ran in to check on Abigail. She wasn’t in her bed. Neither was she on the balcony. I was about to panic when I found the note on her dressing table.

“Auntie, poor Juliet needed cheering after the lecture. I took her to the late night vaudeville. Please do not wait up.”

I was beside myself. Those monsters were out there, waiting for us if we ventured out. And Abby was out there, yet I was too afraid to find her. I hated myself for that. I could hear Melrose telling me I was a true role model for his daughter. Indeed I was. Had I not just shown my niece how to gallivant to all hours of the morning, and place myself in mortal danger? She was only following my lead. I sank onto the tuffet of her dressing table, wondering what to do next.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Marie LaVeau and Madame Legendre

2008-10-20T06:15:00.000-07:00

The cabin where Madame Legendre lived on St. Anne Street, not far from Congo Square, was rumored to have been in the LaVeau family for generations. In actuality, this was not the case. Madame Legendre knew, like all the children of Marie LaVeau knew, that the cottage had been acquired for services rendered for some wealthy patrons some fifty years ago. Legendre knew that the cottage had been purchased by voodoo, and she did not enjoy that, particularly since she was attempting to reinstate the good name of LaVeau.

Madame herself had been called a beautiful mulatto by the newspapers when she’d arrived to bury her mother. The papers thought they’d proclaimed her beauty by saying she was angelic, almost white. This also aggravated Madame. There was an etherealness about her and the neighbors found the way Madame Legendre carried herself a startling change from the way her sister Marie Glapion did. But Glapion had taken her mother’s name and place as voodoo queen. Legendre wanted to be respectable, to recapture the qualities that made her mother well known in her last days.

As Madame tended the small cooking fire, she felt resentment that the good LaVeau name had been forgotten. Marie LaVeau had bought comforting words to condemned criminals. She had followed Catholicism as well as voodoo. Now all New Orleans remembered her for were the evil charms, the gris-gris, that she had threatened her enemies with. Legendre’s half-sister, Marie Glapion, had compounded the problem. She assumed her mother’s name and used it to grow powerful in the city. When Madame had returned to New Orleans twenty years ago, she had driven her sister out of the family cottage. Glapion had disappeared and many of her followers claimed that she was dead. Now another voodooienne calling herself Marie LaVeau had risen, and tonight, when that woman came, Madame Legendre would tell this woman in no uncertain terms what she thought of that!

Madame had received the note from the woman earlier in the day. Marie LaVeau begged an interview with Madame Legendre over matters of great importance. Well, Madame would turn the interview into one of other matters. The woman would give up her mother’s identity when she left. Madame would make sure of that.

A knock sounded on the door. Madame stirred the coals of the fire, stood, brushing her skirt clean, and went to the door. She lightly fingered the cross around her neck as protection from any evil magic this woman might mean to make. She knew God would be by her side in this, and she felt more comfortable with that knowledge.
She opened the door and stared at the woman standing outside. She was startled at the woman’s immaculate clothing and regal bearing. Perhaps this woman could help her restore her mother’s reputation if Madame allowed her to carry on the charade, provided the woman only did good works. No, Madame realized, this was wrong. She had heard terrible things of this woman that made her sister pale in comparison. This woman could influence her by her appearance, but nevertheless Madame would be firm. Marie LaVeau, as a name used by anyone, must be no more this night. “Madamoiselle,” Madame spoke politely, “please enter.”

The woman came through the door. “You hospitality is well-know, Madame. I thank you for this meeting.” Marie sat down in a chair.

Madame returned to the fire and stirred the coals. “I have meant to discuss certain matters with you for some time,” she said. “I do not approve of your using my mother’s name.” There, she had said it now. It was out in the open and now she would weather the curses of the voodoo woman, still resolute in her stubbornness to see her mother’s reputation cleansed. Nothing the woman could do to her would turn her from that.

To Madame’s surprise, the woman apologized quietly. “I am sorry. I have used your mother’s name when it suits me ever since I have been in New Orleans. I have even claimed alliance to your family. But it suits me no longer to be Marie LaVeau.”
Madame nodded. “Then perhaps we can speak civilly after all. I was afraid of you. And what you might do to me.”

Marie came over to the fire and stood by the older woman. “You should not make the mistake of trusting me. You see, I return to you your mother’s identity. I intend to take yours with me.”

Madame rose quickly. She placed the poker she had been jabbing coals with between LaVeau and herself. She was not the frail old woman she was generally believed to be, and she wouldn’t let herself murdered without a fight. “What do you mean to do?”
“I knew you mother,” this Marie LaVeau said quietly. Marie could not tell Legendre that she had taken the original Marie LaVeau’s place some fifty years ago when the voodoo queen had been injured and Shalimar as Madame Lalaurie had tried to kill many of LaVeau’s followers. She could not tell Legendre how she had become Marie LaVeau at rites and sometimes how Marie had been in two places at once during night ceremonies along Lake Ponchartrain. Nor could Marie mention how she and Marie Glapion, the second voodoo queen by the man of Marie LaVeau, made a deal for her succession to the throne when Glapion, one of the first Marie’s children, was old and she was still in the bloom of her youth Shalimar had given her so long ago. Somehow Marie did not think Madame Legendre would understand. But Marie had hoped that Madame Legendre would be instinctual in what needed to be done to do right.

“Your mother fought evil, she didn’t cause it. I wish to fight evil as well. Did you ever hear the legends about the vampires?”

Legendre furrowed her brow. She remembered a story told around the hearth. Usually one of her many brothers would bring the story up on a late stormy night, when the boys would try to make the girls scream, particularly when their mother wasn’t home. When she was one of the older girls, she would smile and watch the younger ones try the same tactics. Shortly before she left New Orleans to marry her husband, she had a long serious talk with her mother.

Mother had said there were bad things in the world, but she was sure Legendre knew, and she was protected by her own goodness. So she had told Legendre the truth about the vampires, that they were real, and that an angel, her mother thought, had come to her to help her rid her city of the evil creatures. The angel was gone as soon as the monsters were driven away. Then her mother had given Legendre the wooden box. She had said the vampires might come back, when she was gone. Since Legendre was the best of her daughters, she was to guard the box until someone asked for it. Legendre crossed herself. Someone was obviously asking. “The vampires have returned?”

Marie smiled. “Your mother did tell you. That makes my task much easier.”

Legendre took Marie into her bedroom. The two of them pushed the bed away. Legendre crouched and lifted a piece of wood from the floor. She removed a mahogany box from a hole in the floor. Marie raised an eyebrow. Surprisingly, this was the box of a casket girl, one of the early French women who had settled in New Orleans with all of her possessions in a wooden box, or casket. The original Marie LaVeau was no casket girl. She had probably acquired it as payment for services rendered. But, like all the other caskets, it was handed on from mother to daughter, with family heirlooms. Legendre opened the box. The silk interior reflected in its contents—an ornate silver cross and a long silver sword. “Take these.” Legendre began to pack clothes into a little bundle. “I will leave tonight.”

“You’re leaving? Just like that?”

Madame did not look away from her task. “There cannot be two of us, blessed one. People will talk. I will leave you to your work.” She continued to pack in her silence. Marie wondered how much the woman really knew about her, but could not dare ask.

Finally, Madame stood at the door of the small cottage on the brink of the starry night. She kissed Marie on the cheek. “Give my mother back her name. Use both of ours names for that purpose. God be with you, Placas.” Marie began down the little path away from the house.

Marie touched her cheek where the woman had kissed it. She wondered at the old Catholic woman as she walked away into the night. Marie began to change. All any late night walkers from the celebrations in Congo Square saw as they passed by the cottage on St. Anne Street was Madame Legendre waving good-bye to a late night visitor. If they looked closely enough, they would see she was waving good-bye to herself.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Vampires Vs the Exorcist

2008-10-11T08:13:00.000-07:00

As Father Stewart and I rapidly made our way along the streets, I realized what an exciting adventure this outing was turning into for me. I had never been to a jail before, in spite of the fact that I was Abby’s chaperone. Soon, I would get to see hardened criminals. Well, I was sure Mr. Forte was not a hardened criminal, but the prospect was nevertheless exciting.

“Very well,” I said as we walked. “You pop in and out of my life like some mysterious character in a novel. Perhaps before you explain what is happening, I should tell you what I’ve figured out, that we are against vampires. You and Miss LaVeau have managed to gain the vampires’ disfavor.”

Father Stewart stopped walking and grabbed my shoulders. “Very good, Pauline! You have a future in working the supernatural!” He laughed.

I laughed with him. He hadn’t attempted to hide the identities of the creatures and the clues he had left me made it very easy for an arm chair occultist like myself to discover what we were up against. I slapped him suddenly, hoping to knock the smile right off his face. “How dare you!”

He was confused. “I don’t—”

“It was purely by accident Abby and I became involved with your creatures of the night, and you leave us unprotected! Do you consider us cannon fodder? Because I can assure you that’s what we’d be—!”

He grabbed my shoulders firmly this time. “Believe me, Polly, I’ve been watching you and your niece ever since you came here. You have been safe enough, or I would have told you.”

“Rubbish!” I was outraged. “We could never be safe enough!”

“That’s why we have to take care of this business. One of the things we must do to accomplish our goals is to employ Mr. Forte.”

“You certainly have a way with the ladies,” I muttered at him. “Small wonder you became a priest.”

“That aside,” he said after a brief, reflective moment, “we must press on.” I noticed the mist come up about the same time he did. His manner changed just about as abruptly as the weather. The father was all business. He drew my attention to a man and a woman. The man was short and thick, wearing one of those evenly cut jackets that have no tails. The woman I recognized. She was Abby’s friend from the boat, her hair done in perfect ringlets, her dress a vivid white against the night. How she came to be in the company of the man I could never guess. “Do you see those two?” the father asked.

“Yes.”

“They are vampires.”

“They don’t look like vampires,” I said.

“Well,” the father was indignant, “what do you expect? Opera capes and fangs dripping with blood?”

“It would make identification easier,” I ventured.

“I ought to leave you with those monsters,” Father Stewart said, “just so you can discuss their wardrobe with them. Obviously, these aren’t vampires in the traditional sense, but they will attempt to suck the blood from you just the same.”

“Hah! I am hardly delectable enough for a vampire!”

“Apparently your research has been very selective. You’d make a decent midnight snack. Oh, heavenly Father, they’re coming for us!”

It was true. The thick male had pointed our way, and the female’s curls bobbed up and down in obvious satisfaction. The father grabbed my hand and we zoomed down the street. We were trying to mix with the night life, so we headed for the areas where it was heavier. I had no idea where the father was taking me. “What will they do if they catch us?”

“We’ll be martyrs for the cause.”

Oh joy. Martyrs for a cause I knew the barest bones about. Here I was in a strange city with a foreign priest being chased by non-conformist vampires, with no hope of gaining help from the local police because they’d think I was crazy! And heavens, it was crazy! And if I thought it was crazy, me, the insane old maid of Abernathie, any sane person would certainly lock us up. Now that I reflect on it, this moment was a major turning point in my life, for the mayhem and panic I felt as we ran from the vampires recurs in my life to this day. But I’m getting away from the chase.

Father Stewart led me on a snake dance through the streets. The quality of the buildings decreased as we scurried. We jostled black and white citizens alike as we darted from one side of the street to the other, the vampires still hot on our tails. I was becoming rapidly exhausted. We did not travel this fast in Abernathie, and the sultry night was making me perspire all the more. When I would glance back, the two vampires, crisp and cool, still followed at a walking pace. I hated that. Perhaps they had special undead sense that enabled them to hunt us swiftly and look immaculate at the same time. This sense probably let them track their quarry, drag the hunted down, rip their throats out, and wallow in their blood. It was probably best not to think about that too much.

The father passed a street vendor who showed his wares to us. Father Stewart shook his head and led us into a side street. We were in an alley, the classic dead end scenario. I groaned. Of all the clichés to get caught in, this was not the best for the time. Father Stewart looked apologetic. “I really thought that I had memorized the map better than this. Stand behind me, Pauline.”

I ducked behind the father. The two vampires were framed in the mouth of the alley. The woman’s delicate step indicated superlative breeding somewhere in her history. “Father Stewart.” Her voice was the same music I remembered from the boat. It was like the voice of a heroine from a gothic novel, sweet and reassuring. I felt sad that such a beautiful creature would drain one of us as dry as autumn leaves.

“Dalia.” The father nodded graciously in her direction. “The company you’re keeping has lowered.”

The thick man scowled. “Yeah. Well, you Scottish jerk!”

“Pretty good retort. Marion, is it?” Father Stewart leaned toward me. “This is the part where he asks if I’m making sport of him.”

“Are you making fun of me?” the vampire asked.

“Close enough,” I remarked to the father.

“Nobody does that! Christ, I get sick of you witty victims! Laugh in the face of death sorts! You make me want to puke!” His giant fist slammed into a building wall, pulverizing bricks and sending dust and debris falling to the ground. Dalia’s cream features blushed, and he suddenly turned sheepish. “Sorry, Dal,” he said. “look what say we take care of these guys, go back home, and I’ll make it up to you?”

The woman’s crimson face turned into a sneer. I noticed the street merchant look around the corner, purse his lips, and look away. Whatever happened in the alley certainly wasn’t his business. Dalia scolded her cohort. “Why Shalimar ever wasted heavy breath on your neck, I’ll never know. Every time we go into public, you embarrass me!”

“Hey, I find ‘em, don’t I?”

“What I did in life to deserve this—!”

“I’m the best tracker, right?”

Dalia stamped her foot. “Let’s just get this done, then leave.” She kept her voice even. “We can discuss this later.” Her eyes rolled back. She lifted up the translucent veil she wore and walked forward. “Marion, the woman is mine.”

The mist curled in more thickly. The undead apparently came with their own theatrical effects. She came closer. I was vaguely aware of the other vampire moving to our right. I was also dimly aware, in the back of my mind, of hearing Father Stewart telling me not to look into Dalia’s eyes. I wasn’t paying any attention to that. I was drowning in a sea of agate blue, smooth calm, and all I wanted was the caress of a woman who promised me a wonderful life of beauty, love, and peace. I wanted to be like her—so dainty, so accepted, so—.

So what? The flood in my mind stopped. Dalia stood two feet in front of us. Her lips were pulled back to reveal elongated canines, although they were perhaps the whitest canines I had ever seen. Father Stewart wielded a large crucifix in front of us like a shining knight’s shield. I shook my head, feeling it full of cotton wool. Dalia issued a very unladylike hiss.

The father was still all business, yet he seemed pleased. “I could destroy you, but I want you to tell your mistress how you were beaten. Tell her she may have Marie, but the battle is far from over. God never sanctions evil, even, in spite of what some people think, in this city. Shalimar’s eternal days are numbered.”

“She will feast on your heart!” Dalia yelled, shielding her eyes from the cross. Marion cursed in pain.

“And Lord willing, she’ll choke on a cliché like that. Or have heartburn. Or something. Now,” he said, brandishing the cross anew, “get you gone!”

“I’ll get your for this, priest,” Marion said, backing up. Dalia too stepped back, regaining her composure and replacing her veil.

“Be silent, Marion!” she scolded. “There will be a time and a place, but it is not now.”

The mist faded and I think I faded with it, for they disappeared as my mind and the mist cleared. “They could have killed us!” I stammered. The back of my neck was cold with sweat.

“Oh ye of little faith,” said Father Stewart. “I’ve always wanted to say that to someone.” He stepped closer to my side and gave me his arm for support. “I’m truly sorry this happened, Polly. At least we had a fighting chance. That Marion, he’s a stupid one.”

“Abigail! My God, is she safe?”

“I should think so, for the moment. I expect this little incident should stir things up a bit. Now that we’ve riled them, you should probably try to send your niece back to Vermont.” He paused for a moment. “My only regret is poor Marie. She could have helped us. She knows Shalimar inside out.”

“Then don’t have any regrets. I saw Marie LaVeau at the debate.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Heaven be praised!” He let go of me and I steadied myself. “Well, since she’s out, things should become much easier for us. It always helps to have some magic on your side.”

“Aren’t people in your occupation usually against that sort of thing?” I steadied myself against one of the walls for a second. The whole fright had left me rather dizzy.

“I imagine you might realize now that I’m far from ordinary in my profession. I’m an exorcist.” He headed for the alley’s mouth. “Coming?”

I opened my mouth to say yes, but found myself falling forward instead. Before I passed out, I thought perhaps this adventure might be a bit much for Aunt Polly after all.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Doyle and Simpson Versus Lalaurie

2008-10-06T05:31:00.000-07:00

Doyle, Simpson, and Marie made their way through the streets, just as countless others had done after the lecture. Doyle, hands deep in his pockets, was sulky about the debate’s outcome. “Forte should’ve taken the pudgy little blighter!” he commented.

Simpson shrugged his shoulders. “Broadstead has truth on his side, you know. And logic. And a mean left hook.”

“I still think Forte could have taken him out.”

Simpson sighed. Was Doyle always to confuse a cause with a man? How entirely illogical! He felt, perhaps, he should have a serious talk with Doyle if the young man continued to plot his adventures. After all, we did not wish to continually muddle facts with emotion, did we? “Miss LaVeau,” Simpson said, his mind fully capable of working on two problems at once, “here is where we part ways.”

“Yes, I know.” The woman moved toward Congo Square, and her traditional home. Simpson and Doyle continued their walk.

“I still think we should go with her,” said Doyle.

“Yes,” Simpson scoffed. “What an undercover agent you’d make in the black districts. Indeed, this is a place she must go by herself.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it,” Doyle returned.

“Do not worry about me,” Marie walked back to them briefly. “I am going among friends.” She pressed Doyle’s hand reassuringly, and walked away from the two men, fading into the dark. Doyle and Simpson moved on toward their hotel. The streets were busy as New Orleans reveled its Saturday night away. Doyle found the rush of the people fascinating, and occasionally stopped to look at some crowd or other. Simpson quickly prodded him along. He knew these revelers would rise piously Sunday morning, get church over with, and begin their useless pastimes again. What a waste, he decided resolutely.

The two men entered their hotel. Doyle pulled his key out to pen the door, but Simpson blocked the keyhole with his hand. “We have a visitor inside,” Simpson remarked.

Doyle raised an eyebrow to the detective. “Then perhaps you’d care to go first?”

“No. Do you have that service revolver in your pocket?”

“Always.” Doyle placed his hand in his pocket to feel the reassuring pistol.”

“Have it handy, then. In you go.”

Doyle turned they key in the lock, and then pushed the door open. He stood in the hallway for a second to let his eyes become accustomed to the gloom of the room. Some light reflected up from the street. The room appeared empty. Doyle gripped the revolver in his pocket more firmly. Entering the room, he peeked behind the chairs, perused the bedrooms, and even looked up the chimney flue. No one. He relaxed his hold on the revolver. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone here, Simpson.”

The man tackled him. Doyle felt a great weight on top of him, crushing the air out of him, strangling his neck. He’d felt hands like that around his neck only once before, and that time was also Simpson’s fault. Simpson had paired him up against one of the bigger criminals in the East End. Then, Doyle had been standing up, facing the brute, so he had used some of his army training, and dispatched an effective punch to the brute’s kidneys. Now his assailant was on top of him, and Doyle’s own arms were pinned. Doyle felt as though his head would explode. He could hear his own blood rushing in his ears.

“So, detective, how do you feel now that you can’t protect those you value from us? I could crush this man’s windpipe without a thought.”

Doyle’s chest was grinding into the floor. He hoped Simpson had a clever idea. He himself could do nothing.

“I don’t deal with underlings, Monsieur,” Doyle heard Simpson say. “Where is Madame?”

The creature on Doyle’s back drove its knee deeper into Doyle’s spine. Doyle cried out in pain, and the creature slammed Doyle’s head into the floor. “You would do well to deal with me now, Simpson!” Doyle heartily agreed at this point. He saw his own blood begin to puddle onto the floor.

“Lalaurie,” Simpson’s voice was even, “we shouldn’t destroy each other. Not yet. Where’s the sport, the challenge, in this ambush?”

“You notice, I’m not destroying you. Not yet. But you’ll get your just desserts, just like this one will now.”

Doyle felt sure he would die. The hands tightened more around his neck and the floor began to disappear between black flashes. Then there was a tinkling noise, and heat. Doyle felt himself burning, and the weight was suddenly off him—Thank God! There was a horrendous crash, and then Simpson had Doyle wrapped in the drapes, rolling out the flames on his back.

“Come along, Arthur!” Simpson was saying, “Stop burning, man! There’s a good lad!”

Doyle gulped down good, clean gasps of air. In the back of his mind, he imagined the ruin of his suit. “What was that?” he managed to croak.

“Monsieur Lalaurie.” Don’t talk. I’m sorry I let you in first.”

Doyle smiled. “My first brush with the supernatural. How thrilling.”

“Nothing appears to be permanently injured?”

“Oh no.” Doyle had discovered the blood was coming from his nose. His chest felt on fire, but his fingers were already checking his rib cage. Bruised perhaps, but not broken. “What did you do to him?”

“I lit up the lamp while we were chatting. I threw it on him. My, but he went up!”

“Is he dead?”

“He wasn’t when he broke out the window. We can hope so. But these Lalauries—so unpredictable!”

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Forte Vs Broadstead--Fisticuffs

2008-09-29T05:46:00.000-07:00

Forte had received the stage. He flashed all his pearly white teeth at Broadstead. I thought he looked rather like a crocodile about to swallow his dinner. I also noticed for the first time a huge object covered by cloth that the Frenchman had wheeled from behind the stage onto the platform. “Mr. Broadstead, let me get this straight,” Forte began. “You say that everything that exists has a logical explanation?”

Broadstead’s answer was absolute. “Undoubtedly.”

“And the evidence, or rather the lack of evidence of the supernatural convinces you of this?”

“Indeed.”

“And what about those things that have evidence? Like ectoplasm, or moving furniture?”

Broadstead snorted. “The only tangible evidence of ghosts I have seen is luminous cheesecloth! Or something like that.” The audience sniggered in approval.

Forte reddened and slammed his hand on the podium. “It just so happens, Tubby, that I have made studies in the scientific spiritual field. Proof? You want proof? I’ll give you proof!”

“What’s the matter, Forte?” Broadstead purred. “Angry about losing the debate in St. Louis?”

The mediator had come to the middle of the stage. “Gentlemen! Please! No fighting!”

Forte knocked the Frenchman out of the way. “I am sick and tired of you, you parasite!” he said to Broadstead.

“Fine, Forte.” Broadstead crossed his arms in unmovable decision. “I’m sure all of New Orleans will enjoy it if you make a fool of yourself. Pray, enlighten all of us here.”

“I certainly did not enjoy the way you said that, Tubby.”

Broadstead walked out from behind his podium, slowly, deliberately. He nearly stood on tiptoe to look Forte in the eye. “Broadstead. My name is Broadstead. And my skepticism comes from the fact that I have heard ill of you, Mr. Forte. You are a medicine show man. A cheat. A scoundrel. You have been run out of more towns than your fellow country man, P.T. Barnum. You seem to be interested in anything that can make you a speedy dollar. You, sir, are a fraud.”

“A fraud!” Forte’s voice roared in the hall, vibrating the walls. “Okay Jack, stand back. Back off,” he said to the Frenchman, who had taken refuge by the covered object, “I’m a scientist.” Forte unveiled a large box, covered with flashing multi-colored bulbs and what must have been state of the art scientific doodads that whirled frantically in front of us.

“This,” said Forte, “is a machine that catches spirits.” Forte twirled a dial, and the box began to hum ominously. “If you’d done your homework, Tubby,” he spat at Broadstead, “you’d know that I’d caught several pieces of luminous cheesecloth with this baby!”

Broadstead’s face was the color of a purple beet. “You sir, are more than any honest man can take! No doubt you are going to demonstrate that contraption and blow us all up in the process! After all, you almost burned down the town hall in Boston!”

Broadstead turned Forte’s dial off, and the machine whined in protest.

“What’s the matter, fat boy?” Forte was leaning over the man who was half his height and twice his width menacingly. “Afraid I’m going to prove you wrong?” His long arm searched behind him and turned the machine on.

“Enough name calling, you cad!” The machine was off.

“I’m not done with you yet, porky!” The machine was on.

“Cur.” Off.

“Pompous—” On.

“Scoundrel!” Off.

“Arrogant—” On.

“Oaf!” Off.

“Son of a–!”

“Gentlemen!” The Frenchman was trying to work his way between them. “Please,” he entreated. “No violence!"

“I hope,” Broadstead said coldly to Forte, “you know Queensbury rules?”

“Let me tell you what you can do with your Queensbury rules!” Forte took a swipe at Broadstead, and Broadstead ducked.

The ensuing chaos is difficult to place on paper. Several young men headed directly for the stage to attempt to placate the combatants, some of them cajoling Forte to “shoot the old man” with his ghost gun. One of these vehement young men was gesticulating wildly to a tall subdued man at his side, who studied the proceedings passively. At the side of this man was Marie LaVeau. I turned to Father Stewart, but he had employed his nasty habit of disappearing on me again. My next thought turned to removing Abigail and Juliet from this fray.

By the time the law enforcement officials arrived, I had secured Abby and Juliet a space in the comparatively empty back of the hall. I plunged back into the crowd, both to find Father Stewart and his mysterious lady friend. The two fighting men were a flurry of limbs when the police tore them apart, Forte still yelling blasphemies at Broadstead and causing ladies to swoon, and Broadstead turning a deeper, more vivid purple. By the time the paddy wagon had removed Broadstead and Forte, most of the crowd had dispersed following the wagon, or moving out to spread the news of the fight to all the quarters of the city. I felt a familiar tug on my elbow.

“Some fun, eh, Polly?” Father Stewart beamed at me. I frowned at him.

“This,” I said, “has been quite a fiasco. What was the purpose of bringing me here?”

“I can tell you on the way to spring Mr. Forte.”

“That medicine show man?”

“The very same. Using Broadstead’s terminology on him won’t win him to our cause, you know.”

“I can’t go with you,” I protested. “I have my niece to worry about.”

“Well, tut, woman! Send her home!”

I couldn’t argue with that. It seemed extremely logical to me. The only way I would find out exactly what was happening from Father Stewart was the walk to the jail. The father and I sent Juliet and Abigail on their way, I admonishing them to be careful. Then we headed for the jail. I didn’t know if the priest had seen Marie LaVeau in the crowd, so I thought I might have a surprise of my own for him.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Forte Vs Broadstead Part 1

2008-09-22T07:40:00.000-07:00

Chapter 3: In Which Two Eminent Scientists Discuss the Supernatural

Abigail and I had comparatively simple living arrangements to those we were used to in Abernathie. We occupied a set of rooms in the American quarter. The care of our household was given to a woman of color, Sarah Bolivier, who had once served Laura’s family. She was somewhat shocked with Abby’s abruptness and my collection of occult books, but I was personally shocked by the chicken’s foot she wore around her neck. The talon, she informed me, was to keep away evil spirits. I was not surprised. If I were an evil spirit, I’d stay away from a chicken foot as well. Sarah kept it out of sight at my request when she worked in the front rooms, but she displayed it in the kitchen, where I caught a glimpse of it once or twice.

Our riverboat journey had been normal in its last days. Father Stewart and I did not have a chance to speak much, for Abigail was being more attentive than I wished. He did, however, mention to me that he try to contact me and explain. Perhaps an occultist like me would care to rendezvous at the Forte/Broadstead debate?

Upon delving into the papers, I discovered exactly what the Forte/Broadstead debate was. Forte was a professor of scientific spiritualism (whatever that meant—I’m sure he must have made it up), and Professor Broadstead was a Cambridge naturalist whose hobby it was to debunk supernatural occurrences. Some soul of show business leanings obviously had paired these two on a lecture circuit that was to circulate the U.S.

My plans to escape to the debate undetected by my niece were not meant to be. When asked how I would spend my Friday night, I mentioned that I had an engagement which would hardly interest her, a debate on the occult. She seemed disinterested in it, until I mentioned the names of Forte and Broadstead. Then Abigail began laughing, and asked if she could bring a friend. In spite of my every argument to convince her that the debate would drive her out of her mind with tedium, she would come. That is how I came to find myself at the New Orleans town hall with Abigail and Juliet Armstrong. Miss Armstrong was an instructor of Abigail’s at Miss Pettijohn’s, and Abigail said she had a strong interest in debunking. I rather thought Miss Armstrong a bit short on brain power, because she gazed raptly at the platform, especially when J. Hamish Broadstead came onto the stage.

Broadstead was a short, paunchy man whose eyes were almost invisible behind his glasses. He was most likely around my age—past the prime of his life—but since he was an academician, this age suited him. The brick and ivy of an old college emanated from him, and he needed to stand on a pile of dusty books just so he could see over his podium. Waiting for the debate, he pursed his lips and ran his hands nervously along the sides of the podium.

An older gentleman with a French accent introduced the opponents. “Professor Broadstead is a well-known debunker, having written several books on the nonexistence of the spiritual,” the French man concluded. Then the mediator directed our attention to Forte.

Forte was Broadstead’s perfect opposite, and not only in viewpoint. Seeing the tall lanky Forte and the butterball Broadstead on stage together reminded me of the humorous sketches of the Lincoln/Douglas debate the Abernathie Courier had run years ago. Forte sported a devilish Van Dyke beard. He actually made eye contact with Abigail and smiled at her roguishly. She batted her eyelids in return and I did not know who the bigger flirt was. Forte’s attitude was confident; Broadstead waited for the debate to begin with reserve.

The respectable Frenchman had finished his introductions. “Professor Broadstead will assume the anti-spiritual side of the debate. Mr. Forte will be pro-occult.”

Forte cleared his throat and motioned the Frenchman to him. He whispered in the Frenchman’s ear. Then the Frenchman spoke again. “My mistake. Professor Forte, PhD, will speak after Professor Broadstead.” Broadstead snorted; Forte winked at a young woman in the front row. He clasped his own arms in the victor’s fashion and shook them above his head.

Broadstead straightened his short waistcoat, through which his stomach threatened to poke. Then he glanced at his notes, pushed his glasses higher on his nose and began. “New Orleans. I am glad to be in New Orleans tonight. It is a city of mystery. Caught up in the very essence of what is both spiritual and paranormal. There are events in this city, which claim the inability to be explained. People claim to see their loved ones at séances, women cast charms on their rivals, glyphs and wards abound in the city, the list is endless of what occurs here. And why shouldn’t that list continue? People will believe the inexplicable as long as they have no explanation.

“I can understand why we have no explanation. Perhaps because we choose not to. We wish to remain in the safe, dark superstition of our ancestors. We wish not to change, nor to confront the truth. And this we should not do! For now, in the age of science, we must confront truth. Truth can explain the inexplicable. If science is used on this superstition, it evaporates into nothing. Practitioners of charms become those who prey on the emotions of others. Dead spirits become the rigged tricks of pseudo-mediums. My friends,” here Broadstead paused to bring his point home, “we must assume responsibility for our own lives, ideas, and emotions. We must come out of that superstitious dark place. We must realize there is a rational explanation for everything."

I felt a tug at my elbow. Father Stewart sat beside me. “He’s a windbag,” the priest commented, “but this one’s worse.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Entymology

2008-09-15T11:13:00.000-07:00

“Oh!” Juliet threw her embroidery in her lap. “That’s not what I meant! Women can be what they wish now, if they try hard enough. There are lady doctors and lawyers. I’m not going to settle for a life of mere domestic bliss, though I do hope to work that in. Or,” Juliet second-guessed Abby’s response, “a studious life of a school marm either.” Juliet sat straight, proud, keen eyes twinkling. “I’m going to be a naturalist.”

Abigail’s face was blank. “A what?”

“A naturalist! Abby, I’m going back to England when I’ve saved up enough money working for Miss Pettijohn. I’m going to go to Cambridge. And I’m going to become one of the world’s foremost authorities on beetles.”

“Did you just say beetles?” Abigail asked cautiously.

“Yes.” Juliet glowed with pride.

“Weeeee!!!” Abigail waved her hands in the air. “Just the life of adventure I’d crave!”

Juliet’s shoulders squared. “What’s wrong with it?” You can go places—like the Galapagos Islands or Africa…”

“Oh yes! In search of bugs!”

Juliet’s shoulders drooped. “Yes. Well, I know it’s not a typical aspiration for a woman, but we do need to branch into all fields, especially science. There are those who say a woman’s mind is not capable of such things, but you and I know that is not true. Besides,” she smiled suddenly, dreamily, “there’s the great J. Hamish Broadstead to consider.”

“Who?”

“The foremost Cambridge authority on beetles. The Darwin of his school.”

Abby laughed. “You’re sweet on a bug professor?”

Juliet blushed. “Well—”

“You are! That beats all!” Tears welled in Abby’s eyes because of the laughter. “Oh Juliet,” she giggled, “I’m so sorry. I think it’s wonderful you want to study beetles, truly I do!” Here Abby erupted into laughter again, then stifled her laughter. “Every woman should love bugs! And buggy professors! But really, I didn’t mean academics,” Abby said, sobering up slowly. “I meant day to day living. Let’s do something exciting.”

“What do you mean?” Juliet asked flatly.

“Let’s see some of the mystery of New Orleans. Maybe some of the voodoo in the city.”

Juliet’s face registered her shock. “You can’t be serious!”

“Of course I’m serious. We could visit Lake Pontchartrain. I hear ceremonies go on out there all the time.”

“That’s absolutely impossible—” Juliet was interrupted by the tingling of a small bell. She stood up quickly. “Miss Pettijohn wants me. Now Abby, it’s best to put that voodoo idea right out of your head. That’s dangerous. Polite young women don’t—”

“Drink chicken blood?” Abby interjected.

“Don’t be disgusting. Abigail Raintree, you are incorrigible.” The bell rang impatiently. “We’ll discuss this more later.”
Abby walked to the mantelpiece and drummed her fingers on it. Who would have thought? Juliet, with a big interest in creepy creatures like beetles, but no interest in big creepy creatures. Ah well. She could probably find a student that would go with her.

A noise caused Abby to whirl around. Dalia stood in the parlor doorway. Abby walked over to her. “What are you doing here?”

“I go to school here. I thought it might be pleasant to surprise you with being your classmate.” Dalia kissed the younger girl’s cheek. It was smooth, warm, and alive, and Dalia could feel the blood coursing underneath the skin.

Abigail genuinely liked Dalia. Underneath the polished veneer she presented to the world, Abby sensed that Dalia too was an adventuress, with savageness in dealing with the world around her. Dalia would go to Lake Ponchartrain if Abby asked her.

“I heard you talking about voodoo when I came into the other room. Old Juliet’s a stick in the mud you know. But she’s right. You mustn’t think about that sort of thing.”

“Yes?” Abigail grinned slyly. “And you’ve never been the least bit curious?”
Dalia echoed Abby’s grin. “I didn’t say that.” Dalia paused, just long enough for drama. “I’ve seen things…”

“What things?” Abby was eager for fuel to feed her curiosity.

“I could show you, but I don’t think your aunt or Miss Pettijohn would approve.”

“I’ll worry about my aunt.”
“Then, I’ll take you there.” Dalia’s voice was decisive. “Soon. I know a place where we can hide and watch everything.”

Abby nodded approval. Finally, something to do in New Orleans at last.

Hiatus

2008-09-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

Blood is Thicker than Water is on hiatus indefinitely, as I have most likely cracked my right elbow. We'll hopefully heal up sooner rather than later. Thanks for your understanding and forbearance. The story will be back as soon as it can be.

One picture, different views

2008-08-28T17:55:00.001-07:00

This is Rhiannon, a character of mine. The original picture as a whole didn't work out as well as I'd hoped, but I do like how they look taken by halves:)

Blood is Thicker than Water: Abby at School

2008-08-27T07:49:00.000-07:00

It had been a relatively easy thing for a cultured young lady like Dalia to find her way into Miss May Pettijohn’s School for Young Ladies. She half-controlled, half-charmed her way in with the delicate proprietress of the school who was delighted to meet her, and became a regular, although, like Abigail, she too did not plan on living at the school.

She had her orders from Marcus—find out what the young woman knew about them. Based on what she knew, Dalia could kill her, or do what she wanted with her. Marcus hinted heavily that he might rather have the niece killed, but he really couldn’t deny Dalia her play things. It had been that way since they were children together.

Dalia was glad that her brother had made her one of the undead. She wasn’t one of the ordinary undead, the night stalkers who buried themselves when the sun dominated the sky. No, she was one of the special chosen, whom Shalimar had made in her own image with a particular brand of sorcery. She was as lovely as she had been when she died centuries ago, perhaps better. She could function in the daylight for her mistress—a special servant. Just like Marcus, her brother. And Benjamin. And that annoying thug Marion. She hated Marion with a passion. He was so common. To think he actually thought it possible Dalia could love him! She shuddered at the thought.

Dalia thought she had an ageless beauty, matchless really. When she was a girl in sixteenth century Italy, artists called her cherubic. She and her brother Marcus were foreigners to Milan, and their blond hair and blue eyes caught the attention of the city. Marcus caught Shalimar’s attention. When she had recreated Marcus in her image, Marcus so loved his sister that he had insisted Dalia become one of the eternal undead as well. At first Dalia was reluctant. She did not wish to become a frigid creature, like she perceived Shalimar to be. But, she had to admit, Shalimar was well preserved for being a couple of thousand years old. Dalia herself did not want to pass into old age, obscurity, and death. So she drank the blood and killed her first victim, and Dalia embarked on a life of sumptuousness that surpassed even those marvelous days in Milan.

One thing that could be said for Shalimar was that she never traveled second class. Wherever she and her followers settled, there was the best of everything. The furniture was always fine wood. Blood was plentiful. Lodgings were majestic and luxurious. If any trouble arose from enemies, those enemies were immediately conquered by the lesser servants, or if need be, by the chosen. There had been the one time in New Orleans when they had fled, but now they had returned to settle that score. Shalimar always had time on her side—something the humans did not have.

Dalia interrupted her thoughts. She returned her attention to her quarry as she worked at her knitting. In the other room she could see Abigail studiously cross stitching. Dalia was glad today's task was not blood letting—as fun as that was, she hated to ruin a perfectly good toilette with a feeding. Perhaps Dalia could do more for Abigail than just give her the honor of being a victim. Maybe she could let Abby become a special servant, like herself. Then there would be someone to discuss the latest fashion trends with. Dalia enjoyed that prospect.

***

Abigail hadn't noticed Dalia in the other room. She was most diligently trying to make her mark on Miss May Pettijohn. Abigail had introduced herself formally to her teacher that morning. Miss Pettijohn was an older lady layered in perfume and lace. Her eyelids drooped like the heavy blossoms on a spring apple tree, and she exuded an aura of incredible femininity. She welcomed Abigail to her bosom gladly, complimented the girl on what a fine student her mother had been, and extended the invitation that Abigail should bring her young chaperone for tea. Then Abigail was left in the care of one of the young women who worked at the school, Miss Juliet Armstrong.

Abigail sat in front of the fireplace with Miss Armstrong. Juliet was a blond, her hair the color of shiny brass. Her blue eyes keenly concentrated on the embroidery under her pince-nez—a monarch butterfly. Juliet was English and had all the appearance of a governess in the Jane Eyre tradition She embroidered rapidly, her fingers guiding the needle swiftly, leaving no white spaces in her work. Abby envied her her skill. Cross stitching and needlework were activities Abby found excruciatingly dull. Abby poked her finger once more, and found the jab to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

“Rats!” When Abby cursed, she usually cursed with vehemence, but she was in polite company, so she lowered her voice so her exclamations would not reach the lady of the house upstairs with her French pupils. “I've messed up this pattern again!”

“Abigail,” Juliet's accent was crisp, “Miss Pettijohn does not approve of the word 'rats'.”

“Then let her do my cross stitch!” Abigail leaned toward Juliet. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Between you and me,” Abby folded her cross stitch in half, “Miss Pettijohn can go hang.”

Juliet continued her work. “I know. Abby, you are incorrigible. Miss Pettijohn has had several letters from your mother about your behavior. That is why you have me as more or less a permanent mistress. Miss Pettijohn also mentioned something about a Yankee upbringing hampering your manners.”

Abigail started to get up. “Why, I'll tell that old biddy! I'm a Raintree! She can't—”

Juliet put out a restraining hand. “I must spring to Miss Pettijohn's defense. She did take you on. Many school teachers might have refused you because of your background. If I were you, I'd try to save what dignity you had left, and bide away your few years here in good behavior.”

Abigail thrust her cross stitch in a wicker work basket. “That's just typical. Placid cow! We sit and learn French, master basic geography, learn to sing and look pretty, learn when to bat our eyelids and flutter our fans, then poof! We're ready for society and young men.”

Juliet glanced at Abby over the pince-nez. “Are we a tad cynical today?”

“I had hoped someone would understand.”

“I think I do. A woman's lot in life is not always an easy one. But we do have ways to change it. Can I confide in you?”

“Why not.”

“Not all women have to be ornamental. You don't have to be destined for the life of a wife.”

“I know,” Abigail sighed, exasperated. “But I don't want to be an old maid like Aunt Polly.”

Blood is Thicker than Water: Enter Ulysses Simpson

2008-08-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

Ulysses Simpson lounged in an overstuffed chair. New Orleans, he reflected, was much too extravagant for his taste. The hotel rooms where he and Doyle had set up temporary housekeeping had disturbed him in their elegance. Chandeliers and mints left on pillows at bedtime meant nothing to the world’s greatest consulting detective. The sooner he could return to his chambers in London, the better. But that small matter with President Arthur had called him across the Atlantic. It was all Simpson could do, as an American, to help a fellow, but Simpson much preferred the climate of his adopted home where the pea soup fog lent an aura of the sinister to his many mysteries. Well, Doyle had written a phrase like that, he was sure. Poor Doyle, given too much to the romanticism of their profession, when the actual technique of detective work itself was what should be studied.

New Orleans was still insufferable, even after the changes the war had produced. The climate caused its denizens to constantly move in slow motion. Simpson was glad he was not on the society lists, because he could not, would not, stand the company of these belles. Doyle, his younger companion, was less adamant on that front himself. Between entertaining himself at dances and the theater, Doyle did not keep Simpson company, save during afternoon sessions, when Doyle, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, would interview Simpson for his stories. Another reason Simpson wished to return to England was to prevent his partner from ruining his health. Simpson glanced at Doyle, who was absorbed in the morning paper, and shook his head in disapproval. Ah well, at least he was up this early. This was an improvement. Simpson’s attention wandered to the window to survey the listless street below. Perhaps he could send Doyle out today for steamer tickets. Then he spotted a curiosity in the streets and all thoughts of the steamer evaporated.

“Doyle?”

“Yes?” Doyle peeked out from behind his newspaper.

Simpson was framed in the soft light of the window, a tall muscular man of formidable stature. His usually passive eyes danced with the light that told Doyle he had an object that demanded his investigation. “I believe we shall have a visitor,” Simpson announced.

Doyle chuckled. “I can’t imagine how you could tell, old boy. This is a hotel, in a city where it is very fashionable to visit salons. With all the people who come in and out of those downstairs doors, how can you possibly pick out one of those people for us?”

“That woman. The mulatto, dressed in the formerly white, now gray dress. Do you see her?”

Doyle joined Simpson at the window and pulled back the crushed velvet drapes to gain a wider view of the street. “That one?”

“Yes. Now observe her. Do you notice the muddy aspect of her gown, the disheveledness of her attire, the fact that she walks without the hat, gloves, or veils that protect the ladies of fine breeding in this city?”

“Well, obviously,” Doyle explained, “this is not a woman of fine breeding. Perhaps it is one that has fallen on harder times.”

“Not so.” Simpson’s voice laid out his case matter-of-factly. “From even this distance, I can see that the dress is reasonably new and recently marred. Her coiffure is awry, but she has attempted to smooth it back into what looks like the residuals of a very professional job. No, this is not one of the pauvre riche, as they are called. This is a woman of means who has recently seen some difficulty. She’s entering the hotel now. I am sure we shall hear from her shortly, if the management will allow such baggage up the stairs of their hotel.”

In a few moments, the knocker of the chamber rapped loudly. Doyle shrugged his shoulders and conceded the deductional victory to Simpson, who smiled in self-satisfied smugness. A hotel manager smiled an oily smile as Simpson composed himself in the overstuffed chair, and Doyle opened the door. “Gentlemen, a visitor for you.”

The woman from the street stepped majestically into the room. “Which one of you,” she spoke in English tinted with French, “is Monsieur Ulysses Simpson?”

While the manager excused himself, Simpson stepped forward. “I believe you wish to see myself, Madamoiselle.” His penetrating eyes catalogued every aspect of her, head to toe. “Doyle, this woman has wounds you must see to.”

Doyle was not only a chronicler of Simpson’s adventures, he was also a doctor. His eyes went to the woman’s hands, then her back, noticing bruises and dried blood. That was all he needed to see. He hurried to his room to fetch his medical bag.

Simpson indicated a seat to their guest. “You have obviously been in some danger of late, and wish our assistance. Please tell me who has been keeping you prisoner, and why.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”

“Obviously your hands, your wounds, your appearance, the way you looked over your shoulder as you approached the hotel. You have escaped some party that felt the need to keep you shackled.”

Doyle arrived with his medical bag and a pan of water. He began to bathe her hands. “Mostly damage about the wrists, Miss. You haven’t broken anything at least. Those scratches on your back are nasty though. Let me dress these and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Thank you Mr. Doyle.” She returned her attention to the detective. “My name is Marie LaVeau. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Have you ever committed a crime?”

“No.”

“Then,” he stood with a sigh, “I shall have to look it up.” Simpson removed a thick volume from the fireplace mantle. He turned some pages, read for a moment, then looked up. “Voodoo queen of New Orleans?” Besides Marie, Doyle started.

“The very same,” Marie replied.

“Pish-posh. A lot of drivel. But still,” he skimmed the rest of the book's passage, “you seem to have some influence over these superstitious New Orleans citizens just the same.”

“Simpson?”

Simpson closed the book abruptly. “Doyle, we aren't going to it again.”

“Why couldn't she manipulate powers, just like the book says? We must never discount the spiritual world.”

“Doyle, I do not ever discount anything. I merely prefer to begin my cases from a concrete basis. Whatever remains after all the coincidences have been explained away, however illogical, is the truth.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “Yes, Simpson, I know.”

“Then please allow me to continue with our client.” Simpson returned his attention to Marie. “Now why have you come to us?” Simpson settled back in the overstuffed chair, folding his arms.

Marie leaned forward as Doyle tended to the scratches on her back. “A mad woman has attempted to destroy me. She will attempt to destroy you.”

“Why me?”

“She is Madame Lalaurie. Do you remember her?”

Simpson looked pensive. “When a mutilated slave was found in an alley some years ago, I was called in to aid the New Orleans police department in their investigation. The good lady, Madame Lalaurie, turned out to be torturing slaves for her own amusement. We didn't bring her to trial because divine justice took a hand. The citizens of New Orleans stored her house.”

Doyle looked up from his work. “This must've happened before you met me?”

Simpson nodded. “When I was about your age. Miss LaVeau, the Lalauries have returned? Both of them?”

“Yes, and they bear personal grudges—against you for exposing them, and against me, because I—well, my family—was instrumental in their downfall.”

“Ah yes. Your title of voodoo queen is inherited, is it not?”

“From my mother and her mother before.” Doyle mentioned to Marie that he was finished and she sat back up.

“Ah. The family business. Can you tell me,” here he changed his tone of voice to piercing curiosity, “where the Lalauries are presently?”

“My home.”

“That explains the imprisonment. Now,” he said, standing, What prevents us from going there straight away and apprehending them?” Doyle recognized his friend's itch to spring into action.

“Complications,” Marie sighed. “We cannot prove to any police officials this is the same woman. You see, she has not changed her appearance significantly in these last 25 years. She looks as young as Doyle, or myself.”

Simpson was vain enough to notice she'd left him out of the comparison, but he was much older now. He was less concerned with his public image than with validating the woman's claim. “You know I shall have to see this for myself.”

“And so you should. But I think we should deal with the vampires first.”

Doyle practically clapped his hands in glee at the thought of something supernatural, but a stern frown from Simpson stilled him. “There's more to your story than just criminal revenge, isn't there?”

“Yes Mr. Simpson. Madame Lalaurie has brought vampires with her. And she intends to make all of New Orleans vampires. We must prevent an epidemic.”

Simpson's brow furrowed as he tried to fit this improbability into the framework of the scenario. Doyle was beside himself with both terror and glee. He was glad to show Simpson, finally, that the supernatural existed, but now that they had vampires, what would they do with them?

Blood is Thicker than Water: Marie LaVeau's Escape

2008-08-11T13:05:00.000-07:00

Marie was moping. She watched the flickering candle flame, in her mind's eye making the flame a dancer, one of the many voodoo doctors she'd seen in the ceremonies, full of life and fire. The wax ran down the candle, beginning to bead on the stick. She wondered if she could use the wax to help her slip out of the shackles. True, once out of the shackles, she didn't know how to open the shutters Shalimar had secured, but she decided on difficulty at a time was enough.

She blew the candle out, and the room became pitch. She poured the wax in the holder between the shackle and her wrists. The hot wax burned, then coated her skin. Then she twirled the cuffs as much as she could, making her wrists smooth. The hard part came next.

Marie began to slowly work her hands out. She could feel metal pinching her wrists as she inched the iron cuffs over her hands. Bones pressed together, skin broke where the metal scraped her hands. Marie minded the damage, but not half as much as she minded staying here. She finally pulled one hand free.

The door bust open. One of the guards feel at the feet of a tall man Marie had not seen with Shalimar before. The new arrival, resplendent in theater garb, was at her side in two long strides. “Leave your candlestick Marie LaVeau. We must leave immediately.”

“No wish could be dearer to my heart at the moment, Monsieur. But I make it a policy never to leave with strange men.”

“I am no stranger. At least not in the traditional sense. And I am no friend of Shalimar's. At the moment I hope that will be sufficient motivation?” He moved to the window, his cape swirling slightly. He smashed the glass with a fist, then heaved upon the secured shutters. “This is the way you must leave. Out this window.”

Marie finished drawing her other hand out of its fetter. Her hands were swollen, torn, and painful. She caught a glimpse of his hands and saw no blood staining the white kid gloves he wore. Of course not. If Marie could assume correctly from his appearance, the only blood he would have would most likely be on loan. “What can you possibly gain out of this?” she asked. Marie was sure this was a game of Shalimar's. The moment she stepped outside, a manhunt was certain to begin.

“Even if that is what you think,” said the man, “this way you have some chance to escape. Is that so bad?”

Whoever this vampire was, he was certainly a good debater. Marie couldn't argue with his logic. And what he stood to receive in return for his actions from Shalimar was no longer her concern She surveyed the grounds below her. The trimmed lawn of the island the house was built on soon disappeared into chaotic bayou. “You must find Ulysses Simpson,” the man said behind her. “They will attempt to do him harm. You must join forces.”

She climbed on the ledge. Ulysses Simpson, that detective who had been on the Lalaurie case some years ago, could wait for a more reflective time to receive her consideration. She turned to thank the man for his assistance. He had disappeared into th night with the usual mysteriousness of his kind.

Marie walked the high second floor ledge, glancing occasionally at the ground. She knew that Shalimar's creatures would still be active, feeding. She inched herself down a trellis, each movement of her swollen hands knifing her fingers. The night felt as though it would swallow her; the chirping of the insects in the bayou rumbled like a growling beast. Perhaps her escape would blend in with the natural sounds and the night creatures would not notice her.

Marie ran for the edge of the small island. She had nothing to fear from the animals of the bayou. She had made an agreement with the alligators long ago. They watched her house. She gave them meat. They left her visitors alone, when she wanted them to. However, as she was about to step into the swamp, she hoped Shalimar had remembered to feed the alligators better than she'd remembered to feed her prisoner.

A roar of air hit her ears and she knew where it came from before the thing touched her. The giant bat's claws raked her shoulders, tearing her dress, leaving red streaks, knocking her down. She lifted her face from the much and glanced furiously at the creature. It was turning, circling for another attack.

Only one of Shalimar's lesser creatures, thought Marie ruefully, feeling the sting of her back. She lifted her hand, felt the power hers again, as she lay on the ground next to the earth. She needed the creature to land, come closer to her. She tried to will it to do so.

The monster was surprisingly willing to cooperate. It landed before her, changing into a man. Like herself, he was of mixed color, taking on an eerie yellowish tinge that glowed in the night. “My prey,” he hissed in a decomposing voice, “meet your master.”

“I am Marie LaVeau. You are in my city, and in my power.”

“Marie LaVeau?” The monster chuckled and wheezed at the same time. Smoke began to flow from his ears, as Marie tightened her magic grip upon him. “That explains a lot.” He pitched forward, dead instead of undead.

Another whoosh of air. Not again! She didn't know if she could stand another confrontation. She was becoming tired and Shalimar might be sending out the bigger artillery.

The man in the opera cape stood inches away. “Come,” he said. “It is time to go.”

Marie stood up. “Yes, I know that. Believe me, I wasn't hoping to be invited in for dinner.”

The man swirled the opera cape. The wind whistled in their ears and they were airborne, dizzying heights above New Orleans. He swirled his cape again, and she faded into blackness. When she awoke, she was unceremoniously heaped on a chalky doorstep. Of the undead who had brought her here, there was no sign. The morning sun peeked rose colored over the horizon, and Marie LaVeau stretched. She shuffled down the street to locate Ulysses Simpson. New Orleans began to wake, sensing its sorceress in the streets.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Peril for Marie LaVeau

2008-08-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2: In Which the Reader Sees a Reunion Between Very Old Friends, and Meets Ulysses Simpson

After calling Father Stewart, and, inadvertently, myself, the mysterious “they” came for Marie LaVeau. She was now waiting to see the woman who had invaded her home. The home itself was a mansion of sorts, deep in the heart of the bayou, away from New Orleans proper. Marie had kept a residence in the city, but that residence was now occupied by Madame LeGendre, the first Marie LaVeau’s daughter. Since the good Madame had arrived in the city, Marie kept her voodoo activities to a minimum. She planned on staging a death for Marie LaVeau, and then moving on to some place new, with a new identity, as she had been doing for the majority of her long life. Then Shalimar had arrived in the city.

Ever the show woman, Shalimar arrived in style. Marie had been amazed when she first saw her old mistress at the theater, gems practically glowing out of the woman’s raven hair. Shalimar had always been pale, but now she had achieved a luminescence, probably because she was picking up the habits of the vampires who served her and seldom went out during the day. Years before, Shalimar had tried to live in New Orleans and make it her own place, and Marie had helped to drive her out of the city. Now, perhaps, Shalimar had returned to even the score. When Marie discovered that Shalimar had indeed come for revenge, she attempted to shake Shalimar and her servants. But Shalimar and her servants had caught her, and now she was waiting for Shalimar’s summons.

Shalimar had searched Marie’s room thoroughly. She had removed the materials for charms and gris-gris. While Marie was capable of casting other spells from an older magic, iron shackles clasped around her wrists, and her powers were rendered useless. One candlestick lit the room, a kindness from Shalimar to her one time handmaid. It was better than absolute darkness. Marie knew Shalimar would have put her in a dungeon if she’d had the option; luckily, there were no underground structures in New Orleans.

The waiting taxed Marie’s nerves. The shadows hung heavily on her, and time pressed her even more as she waited for Shalimar to decide her fate. That idea did not comfort her, and Marie kept an eye out for every opportunity to escape.

Two silent men came to take her to her judgment. They were probably low on the scale of service here. Marie walked between them with as much dignity as she could muster. The French doors to the study were open, and Shalimar sat in a large velvet chair, the walls on each side of her lined with books. Shalimar looked strange to Marie in the corset and dress. Perhaps she was a little older than the last time? That was odd indeed.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Shalimar spoke, giving Marie a sweeping head to toe glance. “So Marie LaVeau now, is it? You aren’t being very original. This city has had a Marie LaVeau of some sort for around sixty years. Will you claim to be the daughter’s daughter this time?”

Marie hoped she could choke down the anger that attempted to overpower her, and keep her voice calm in front of this woman. “Are you still calling yourself Lalaurie, my lady? Are you still torturing slaves?”

Shalimar laughed, a cool and coquettish laugh. “In emancipated America I can no longer keep a private stock. But we still meet our needs.”

“They will recognize you again. The people of New Orleans will not take you back again after what you did.” Marie smiled with some satisfaction at the memory. “They tore your house to splinters my queen. White people and black people.”

“So they did. But we will not ask them if we can stay. We will take what we want.” Shalimar walked around the desk, closer to Marie. “For example, we will stay at your home. No one disturbs Marie LaVeau, the voodoo queen.” Shalimar wound some of Marie’s hair around her fist and jerked upward. Marie winced, but did not make a sound. “I can be voodoo queen as easily as you.” Shalimar snaked her hand out of the hair. “And you. After all this time, I have finally thought what to do with you. The solution was so simple that I don’t know why I didn’t think of it years ago. Since I cannot kill you, I will feed you to my associates. Provided they do not drain you dry, you can produce blood for them for eternity. Of course,” Shalimar moved her lips close to Marie’s ear, “one of my greatest pleasures will be finding out how much pain you can take.” Her voice lowered to a husky whisper. “How much do you think?

Marie perspired. Years ago, when Marie was a girl, Shalimar had beaten her brutally because Marie had dropped the queen’s necklace. Marie had almost died in the servants’ quarters afterward. Shalimar’s savage desire for torture had made her famous during several of her stops in history, and Marie knew full well the damage Shalimar was capable of inflicting on the human body, both hidden and seen. She would have a fresh victim for torture in Marie every time, because of Marie’s special gift. Probably Shalimar felt justified in torturing Marie for a long time.

“Take her away,” Shalimar commanded the guards. “I will play with my toy later.”

The two men turned Marie around. Shalimar was confident she was held here for the time being. Where would she go with several vampires roaming the grounds? Shalimar left the library. Downstairs she quickened her pace to the parlor. Two men waited for her there: one, an immaculately dressed blond, hair cut slightly longer than the norm, in the fashion of a romantic. The other man was more striking—tall, white hair, and he wore what appeared to be the dress uniform for a vampire: the black tails of evening dress, a swirling opera cape, and a touch of individuality in a top hat. Like the blond, he had found ways to walk the streets in daylight. There were part of Shalimar’s inner circle.

Shalimar took the hands of the blond. “Have you been discussing my plan, Monsieur Lalaurie?”

The blond kissed her cheek. “We have, dearest. Dalia to the priest was an excellent idea.”

“But,” the white-haired man said, “we have had a complication. A woman. Stewart has contacted her, and he’s certain to tell her everything. Or he will.”

Shalimar shrugged her shoulders. “Then we’ll have to kill her. Anyone else we need to kill?”

“Do you want me to kill her?” Monsieur Lalaurie asked.

“Oh no. Marion can take care of it. How hard can it be? Since Dalia’s with the priest, the two of them can take care of it.”

“Swell,” the blond muttered. “Dalia’s going to love this.”

“The woman has a niece,” the white-haired one spoke.

“Well, Benjamin, what do you think we should do about the niece?”

“Kill her?” the white-haired vampire ventured.

“Excellent assumption,” Shalimar returned. She returned her attention the blond. “Marcus, there of course remains Mr. Simpson. He requires your special attentions.”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to give Mr. Simpson every consideration before I destroy him.”

Shalimar shook her head. “Haven’t I told you not to hold grudges? Just because he helped us out of New Orleans before—”

“You mean you don’t want me to make him suffer?”

“No. I didn’t say that. I want you to make him suffer for me, not for yourself. Please remember that I am your queen.”

Marcus gave her a slight bow and a smile. “I don’t think I could ever forget that, Shalimar.”

“Good.” Shalimar sat down on the red velvet sofa. She ran a finger in one of the grooves of the carved wood arm. “We cannot kill Marie. I’d like to put more of the fear of—well, some fear into her. Benjamin, I want you to help her escape.”

Benjamin seemed puzzled. “What purpose would that serve?”

“She will attempt to ferret out all those in New Orleans who will be of use to her. Besides the priest and Ulysses Simpson. If we let her do the ferreting, we can intercept possible aid. We can—well, you know—to anyone who gets in our way.”

Benjamin nodded curtly. “Consider it done.” He left the room, cape billowing around him.

“I do wish I knew how he managed those dramatic effects,” Marcus said.

Shalimar pressed her body against Marcus. “Remember, I want you to hurt Simpson. Very personally. Usually the best way with him is through someone else.”

“It is necessary to take our revenge from someone else?”

“Most definitely. It is the only way to cause Simpson real pain. Simpson must be eliminated from our game. He is the only man who could expose us before we finish. He must be dealt with before he is allowed to begin any investigation in our general direction.” She nuzzled him again and slowly he relaxed. “There is one more thing I’d like to do this evening. And Marie will have better chance to escape if we are otherwise distracted.”

Marcus smiled. He had wanted to try out the mahogany bed in the master bedroom, but for the moment the velvet couch was serviceable.

Writers' Resources #4 - The Bottomless Well at HollyLisle.com

2008-07-30T10:53:00.000-07:00

After a brief hiatus for real life to get back to normal, I am back with your latest writers' resource column :) Sorry for the delay!

As I've said before, there are a ton of websites that offer writing resources. Some, such as HollyLisle.com, clearly stand out.

Holly Lisle is a prolific writer whose books have been in print for over seventeen years. In an increasingly fractured market where the publishing world seems divided with the NY times best-seller super stars on one side and a million regular authors on the other, somehow Holly has managed to make a living as a mid-list author. That in itself is an accomplishment. Most authors have to keep their day jobs whether they want to or not. However, Holly hasn't just been writing fiction. In between novels she has been diligently at work creating a huge online resource library for writers. HollyLisle.com boasts acres of articles, workshops, suggestions, tools and general good advice for every writing subject you can imagine. And much of it is free. In addition to the free content, there are courses, how-to books, clinics and factoids that you can purchase without emptying your bank account.

This would be a very long article indeed if I listed all of the content available on Holly's site. Rather than type my little fingers off, however, I'll merely highlight a few of my favorite offerings. When I began work on my current novel I was overwhelmed at trying to build my own fantasy world. The world building articles and question ideas offered on Holly's site proved invaluable.

If you've ever struggled with plot or character, scene structure or creating a believable culture Holly has a workbook for you. For less than the cost of most writing books available today you can purchase an e-book of Holly's "Create A Language Clinic", Plot Clinic, Character Clinic or any of a half-dozen others. I've personally used her language clinic and it was wonderfully helpful in making a consistent and usable language system for my book. One part workbook with exercise sheets and one part writing manual the clinics are very, very useful.

Recently Holly began offering courses taught over the net via email, the web or even video on various subjects. Wildly successful, these courses often fill up quickly and are in high demand. The courses have a fee of course, as you'd expect with any class. If you'd rather not spend the money, perhaps Holly's newsletter might interest you. Sent out weekly, the newsletter contains lots of advice, updates on current resource offerings and a Q&A column that allows subscribers to interact with the author and ask her their writing questions.

One new feature on the site is a series called "The 33 Worst Mistakes Writers Make About ___." Co-produced with other writers and writer hopefuls the articles give insight into various areas and pitfalls. Current offerings include info about horses, guns, the Celts, ballerinas and going missing in America. Full of tips and inside info the articles are short and to the point as well as inexpensive.

Overall, Holly's website is a treasure trove that can be quite overwhelming it has so much content. Go have a look and poke around for a while. I think you'll find a few things of interest and maybe a gem or two. http://hollylisle.com/fm/

Blood is Thicker than Water: Father Stewart

2008-07-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

Our journey west to the Mississippi River was more or less uneventful. Abigail’s behavior ranged in extremes. She brooded over her parents’ unfair treatment of her; her tongue lashed acidly when she spoke of them. She had several headaches and I spent much of the trip trying to succor her. On the other hand, Abigail occasionally acted as though this adventure west were of her conception. She was as giddy and flippant as any eighteen-year-old girl about the prospect of going to a romantic and mysterious big city. Chatting about parties, running away with riverboat gamblers, and having dashing Creoles fight duels to the death over her were just a few of the topics that helped her pass the time. I constantly reminded her that the Creoles left since the war had ended were not as passionate as those of old, and I did my duty as a chaperone should regarding such girlish fantasies, interjecting occasionally to voice my disapproval. I secretly enjoyed Abby’s ability to create romantic fantasy, but decorum would not allow any such informality as my admitting that.

When we left our train in St. Louis and stepped onto our riverboat, Abby’s mood did not much change. My mood changed dramatically. I had been on a boat only once before and the motion of one made me violently ill. The seasickness that overtook me our first day on the river made me oblivious to any complaints or fantasies Abigail had. She abandoned me the first day of the trip in our cabin wallowing in my misery. The second day I had no food in me left to heave. I also managed to struggle upstairs for some sun. I tucked myself in a lounge chair with a blanket and tried to move as little as possible. Abby, because she was the definitive social butterfly, had already made the acquaintance of several people on the steamer. She was playing shuffleboard with a blond woman and two white-suited gentlemen. I failed in my chaperoning duties that day I was much too ill to care what Abby did and did not do. Everything around me appeared hazy and not quite of this world.

As I lay on the deck, wishing to be anywhere dry and solid, someone broke through the haze. An older man dressed in a priest’s cassock took the deck chair by me. He looked at me thoughtfully and benevolently, light reflecting off his balding pate. “Are you not feeling well, ma’am?” he said. I believe his accent betrayed him to be Irish.

I squinted to bring him into focus. “I do not enjoy the water.”

“Indeed.” He smiled lopsidedly. “You are the color of split pea soup. You’ll get used to it. When I was a boy, I remember my passage. I spent two days below. You may not believe it now, but you will get used to it, much sooner than you’ll get used to this heat.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. We were in September, but the weather in these regions was abominably hot all year around, at least that’s what Laura had told me. The priest extended his hand. “Father Andrew Stewart.”

I touched his hand limply. “Scottish, not Irish?”

“Indeed,” he repeated.

“A pleasure,” I said, with what little enthusiasm seasickness had to offer. “Pauline Raintree, of the Abernathie Raintrees.”

The father puzzled for a moment, then placed the name. “The mail order family?”

“Not that branch, but the same tree.”

“Delighted. What brings you south, Mrs. Raintree?”

“That’s Miss Raintree,” I corrected. I have always felt that there should be some way for the spinster to identify herself to someone in society who does not notice jewelry. Perhaps a ribbon with an elaborate S embroidered on it, or something akin to Hester Prynn’s scarlet letter.

“My regrets,” he said.

“Mine too.”

“I meant for the mistake.” He laughed.

“No offense,” I lied. I indicated Abigail across the deck playing with her new friends. “My niece Abigail is the young brunette playing shuffleboard.”

“My compliments, ma’am. She is very pretty.”

“Thank you. She is beginning school in New Orleans.”

“She should meet better acquaintances there, I hope.”

Had the whole world heard of Abigail’s misdeeds? “I do not see how that is any of your concern.”

“No offense meant to your niece,” Father Stewart inserted. “The blond woman is of whom I speak. She’s not a very good influence.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about Abigail. I’m sure she’s beyond anyone’s corruption.”

“Naivety will not save your niece.”

“No,” I said, sobering, “Naivety will not save Abigail, that’s for sure. I can assure you of that.” I was going to explain this further to the man of God when two events occurred simultaneously. The first was that Abigail and her new friend approached us, fresh from their triumph of shuffleboard victory. Abigail asked permission for me to allow her new friend, Dalia Saunders, to join us for lunch. I had no plans to eat ever again and I felt Abby could use the company, so I approved. Miss Saunders smiled warmly at me, dazzlingly at the priest, and they headed for the stateroom.

The second was that Father Stewart startled as a dark skinned woman neared us. Laura had tutored me somewhat in what I might be seeing should I visit her part of the country. A great many of the people in New Orleans were shockingly of mixed color, though the city often tried to deny this to the world. The woman was obviously a mulatto. Her skin was grayer than any other color. She had a straight long nose, sparkling dark eyes and thick long hair pulled into ringlets. Her looks astonished me.
The father addressed her. “Good God, Marie.” I was somewhat offended that a man of the cloth had taken the Lord’s name in vain, but my curiosity made me hold my tongue.

“There is no God in this,” said the woman to him. “You must hurry. They have found me, and there is little I can do to fend them off.”

“Be strong, Marie. I am very close.”

“Do not let them find you!” The woman’s face contorted with fear. “They’re here! I must go!” And go she did. She completely vanished. I gasped. Perhaps I had been hallucinating because of the seasickness. Or, perhaps this was the supernatural occurrence I had been waiting for all my life. If that was the case, I wasn’t sure that now was the time for it.

Father Stewart’s bushy eyebrows rose inquisitively, as though he hadn’t expected me to see her too. “Are you ill again, Miss Raintree?”

“Oh no, Father. I just wondered to whom you were talking.”

“No one,” he said, shaken. “No one. Pray, excuse me.”

I couldn’t pretend in good consciousness. I am many things, but I am not a deceiver. “I saw her too,” I said softly. “This Marie.”

He placed his arm on mine firmly. “Would you mind explaining to me how you saw her?”

I extricated my arm. “Would you mind explaining to me why you have an apparition for an acquaintance?”

“She was no apparition,” he said.

“Well, I don’t know of anything that would disappear so readily as an apparition.”

He smiled lopsidedly again. “Miss Raintree, I’m astounded. I think that this is a matter with which I cannot in good conscience involve you. I believe you will have your hands full looking after your niece. Guard her well, and good day to you.” He wandered away. I confess I would have followed him, had not my illness gotten the better of my curiosity. I remained on deck until Abigail came and found me after her luncheon and tucked me away downstairs. As Father Stewart predicted, before the trip was over, I managed to gain my sea limbs. The rest of our trip passed without incident, although I did not see Father Stewart or his apparition on board the riverboat again, although I did often think of them.

Doodle

2008-07-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

A random owl lady cobbled together during one of Maeve's rare naps:)

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Chaperone Duty

2008-07-21T07:07:00.001-07:00

The next morning began with the usual breakfast at the sideboard. I did not see Melrose, Laura, or Abby while I ate. Mrs. Goodman, our housekeeper, supervised the cleaning of the chandelier and after breakfast I spent the morning moping in my room, the silence of the house lending gloom to the disaster I expected to come. I was not surprised when, just before lunch, Melrose called us all into his study for a conference. Laura looked as though she’d been crying, Melrose was positively grim, and Abigail’s expression was rigid marble. I broke the silence. “You really don’t need me—”

“No. Stay, Pauline. This concerns you.” Melrose chewed his moustache. “This house can no longer continue to be a rumor factory!” He shot from his seat, hands slapping his desk. “Abigail, your mother and I are frankly at a loss of what to do with you.” I noticed Laura began crying again. “I suggested a convent. Unfortunately we aren’t Catholic! Luckily your mother has arrived at a viable alternative.”

Abigail stared stonily at her father. I wanted to crawl under my bed, be away from all of this. Laura said quietly, “Abigail, we are sending you to my old school.”

“Miss May Pettijohn’s School for Young Ladies. It is my hope,” Melrose continued, “that you will learn to deport yourself as a Raintree.”

“I have always done so,” Abigail said stiffly.

“Hardly!” Melrose did not attempt to conceal his anger. “Small wonder I sometimes think you were switched at birth!” He paused awkwardly, then continued. “I give you a chance to defend yourself.”

Abigail was aware that all our eyes were upon her, and she decided to use this undivided attention as best she could. “Father,” she said coolly, “I see nothing wrong with my behavior, nor does Mother or Aunt Polly.”

“Preposterous!” Melrose stammered.

“Not at all. Only you find fault with it because I am not a man. If I were your son instead of your daughter, you’d be slapping me on the back and pouring me another brandy.”

Melrose opened his mouth fishlike in amazement. He began to sputter. Abigail raised a slender hand for silence. “Well, I’ll stop sewing my wild oats. You think you are punishing me by making me leave Abernathie, but you are doing me a great service. Abernathie is the most boring place conceivable upon the earth. Wherever Miss May Pettijohn educates her young ladies, it certainly must be more interesting than here.” Abigail surveyed the room, first her astounded father, then her distraught mother, and turning, glided out of the study with the coldness and stateliness of Anderson’s The Snow Queen. She did not wait for her father’s usual dismissal. I privately wished Miss May Pettijohn much luck with our not penitent Abigail. She would need all our prayers indeed.

Laura melted into Melrose’s arms for comfort, and since this public display of affection made me a touch uncomfortable, I decided to leave. I felt I needed to lie down after all the night and morning dramatics, but Melrose stopped me. “Pauline, there’s more I’d like to say to you.”

I stopped, almost afraid to turn around. Perhaps now was a time of reckoning for the eccentricities I brought to bear on the family. Perhaps Abigail’s behavior was perceived to be somewhat my fault, an unwanted influence by her crazy aunt. “Yes?”

My brother seated Laura on a footstool and sank back into his chair tiredly. Laura was rigid, although tears dampened her face. She was crying bravely, because her chin did not quiver one iota. “We must be firm with Abigail,” Melrose said. “Perhaps we have not been firm enough in the past. But if we hope to change her behavior, we must start now.”

I nodded. No one in the house dared to disagree with Melrose when his mind was set, and he was correct in Abigail’s case. Truly, her behavior had to be molded more suitably so she could represent what the Raintree family stood for in Abernathie. She had to learn to be what people wanted, especially if she hoped to gain a husband and make her mark on proper society.

“Miss Pettijohn raised Laura, you know. Laura has already written to her about Abigail, and Miss Pettijohn is delighted to have her, especially now that the old city is trying to be more pleasant to us Yankees. However, Miss Pettijohn has a full house of girls already. I am reluctant to have Abigail alone in New Orleans. So she will need a chaperone.”

I nodded again. Obviously this was true. Miss Pettijohn would have to divide her attention among all her students equally, whereas Abby would require at least three or four people to supervise her.

“New Orleans is a city of many temptations that would attract a girl such as Abigail—theater, socials, gentlemen.”

I agreed with my brother once more. He watched me with a raised eyebrow expectantly. In my mind flashed a terrible idea. I hoped Melrose would not say what I expected him to say.

“Pauline,” Laura spoke this time, “it will be a great burden from my shoulders that Abigail will have someone like you to rely on while she is away from home. She is so fond of you.”

“You must watch her. Control her with an iron fist,” Melrose added.

“Don’t allow her to be homesick.”

“Allow her no slack!”

“Bid her to write us!”

The parental advice was salvoed at me quickly and furiously as I allowed the implications of the situation to seep into my consciousness. It was obviously assumed that I would journey to New Orleans with my niece. Gone would be my carefree days in Abernathie next to my books. Midnight jaunts into the unknown were impossible. I had no choice, however reluctantly I made it, but to chaperone Abigail. I was indebted to Melrose and Laura for giving me a home. True, I hoped to repay them, but I thought more in terms of baking Christmas cookies or nursing them in their sick rooms. Chaperoning Abigail was the ultimate repayment they could require, or so it seemed to me at the time.

I cleared my throat. “Are you certain that I would be the best chaperone you could have for Abigail?”

Melrose leaned toward me, his elbows resting on his desk top. “You are a quiet gentlewoman, Polly. I have every hope that you will inspire those qualities in my daughter.”

Sooner ask the sun to change its path than ask the belle of Abernathie to change her qualities! “Sweet brother and sister,” I said, clasping one of each of their hands, “I feel I have no recourse but to accept.” She was my goddaughter, after all. “You can rely on me to help in anyway I can.” Thus was my doom sealed, and I found myself traveling to New Orleans with Miss Abigail Raintree and her copious amounts of luggage. Abigail left Abernathie one week after the morning discussion I have recorded, her icy bearing in tact. Only once as we began our journey did she reveal to her aunt a chink in her armor. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she kissed her mother goodbye.

Quotes of the Day from the Criminal Justice World

2008-07-17T18:29:00.000-07:00

Today's quotes are brought to you by my colleague, Lisa. She graciously kept track of all the funny misspellings she read in the crop of cases she looked at today:

"Straight from the offense reports….

In Texas , we do things differently. In fact, we take it nice and slow when it comes to obtaining samples from DWI defendants to determine BAC (blood alcohol level)
Arresting officer then transported the defendant to the hospital for a 'blood drawl.'

The latest technological advancement in Artificial Intelligence:
'The computer check reviled [defendant’s] legal name to be…' Further, 'Officer conducted a computer check of [defendant] which reviled two open warrants…'

It’s always important to keep up with the latest fashion trends:
'[Defendant] continued to be uncooperative. I upholstered my Taser and pointed it at him.'

_____

Check out the writers and their soundtracks blog, as well as fun information on Julie Rose's blog: http://juliekrose.blogspot.com/

Check out the latest contest at Cats Curious Press by reading this livejournal: http://sonyamsipes.livejournal.com/tag/press+release

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Abby Breaks Curfew

2008-07-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

Melrose thought that my spinstership was driving me crazy, and left me to my own devices. Laura worried more than anyone else. “Are you a voodooienne?” she asked me one morning in the sitting room.

I laughed. I had read about voodoo. “I have not sacrificed any chickens to date,” was my glib reply. Voodoo was a perversion of my clean, vaguely scientific attempts at magic, and I was most diverted. Laura told me that all people in New Orleans used some sort of magic. I explained to her that most people in Vermont did not. Like a true sister, she decided that Melrose didn’t need to know what I was up to.

With such beautiful parents, Abigail was destined to be a beautiful child. She inherited her mother’s dark eyes and hair, and while she was more Melrose’s rosier skin color, she still appeared a beautiful belle like her mama. I admit we spoiled her because it seemed Melrose and Laura could successfully have no other children. After three miscarriages, the doctor suggested steps be taken to protect Laura’s health. Abigail was adventurous and daring like her father. I loved her perhaps more than if she had been my own daughter, as I had no other creature to whom I could wholly give my affections. I loved her parents, but I loved her more, and I believe she loved me right back. All of us made the mistake of allowing her all that she wanted, but of course, how could we not? She was the light of our home.

The time in which I begin this narrative is some years from Abigail’s birth, and, alas, my twenty-third birthday. Let us say I am a woman of a certain age now. Our family is well. Melrose may well find himself governor of Vermont, or at least in the state house if he is not careful. Laura is the glowing and elegant hostess of the key parties of Abernathie’s social season. Abigail is the flower of these parties, for she is truly in bloom when surrounded by five or six beaux in want of her card for dancing. And I? I have four walls, ceiling to floor, of books, and have successfully communicated once with the spirit world.

It is around Abigail that the next part of this narrative centers. I am sure, dear reader, that you are aware of some of the behaviors of the more high spirited of our young women. If the woman is plain, as I am, I do not see this as a disadvantage, for these women are likely to remain spinsters, and therefore must use all the tools at their disposal to make their way in the world. When they have secured their niche, then they can tame their personalities. However, spiritedness in a comely girl is entirely a different matter. Most young men, except for the most disreputable, are attracted to gentleness in young women, both in behavior and personality. My niece’s personality was fiery and her exploits were far from gentle. As a matter of fact, Abigail’s behavior bordered on scandalous. She had many male companions of the disreputable type in her wayward adventures. My Abigail could trap a suitor of any sort with ease. Her chestnut hair cascaded down her back in waves, her emerald eyes dazzled young men with their richness and sparkle, and her eighteen inch waist was the envy of many Abernathie women who scarcely breathed in their bustles and corsets.

In addition to luring young men with her looks, Abigail used impropriety as a weapon. She would allow the occasional flash of ankle at waltzes, would sneak off in dark corners unchaperoned to cozen secret kisses, and once dared to play field hockey with the young men of Abernathie Secondary School. Yes, Abigail scandalized grandmothers, mortified her parents, turned other Abernathie girls green with envy, and was a favorite of the young men. It is allowed without saying that none of them would ever settle down with her. Her reputation was only saved from absolute ruin because dear Aunt Polly would protect her reputation with timely alibis. Once Abby picnicked with John Price in our orchard at midnight. I told her parents she’d spent the night in my room because of the rainstorm. I did not tell her parents she had climbed up my rose trellis and was sopped to the skin when she had finally come home.

Unfortunately, I could not protect Abigail from all the harm her antics would cause her. I did not feel comfortable lying to Laura about the girl. In some ways I felt I was protecting Laura from what would be a horrible disappointment in her unladylike daughter. Melrose was a good father inasmuch as he ran his business thoroughly and successfully. Words of his daughter’s exploits surely must have reached him, but he truly did not listen if they did, or he must have seen the home as Laura’s domain, for he never broached the subject with Abby. One night, however, Abigail took matters too far. If she had wished to enrage her father more completely, I do not see how she could have planned it.

I was in my room, propped cozily against the headboards, reading. Some woman in the book was claiming that she had made contact with her long dead husband and the author of the story was documenting all the details of her encounter with great care, from the Indian spiritual guide to the rising table, when from downstairs came a crash. No ordinary dropped vase this. It sounded as though someone had knocked over the china cabinet! I uncozied myself, wrapping myself in my robe. I cracked the door open and gazed cautiously into the gloomy hall.

Our upstairs landing opens over the reception room. I peered over the landing. The giant chandelier was no longer in its customary spot. Its fragments lay all over the floor. The huge chain upon which it was lowered for cleaning was stretched down and still in one piece. Abigail leaned against a wall, choking with laughter. Melrose, fists clenched, teeth gritted, stood silently by her.

My niece’s laughter subsided. “Oh Daddy,” she gasped, “I’m sorry. I let it down too fast.” She giggled again. I was struck that she was altogether too gay for this catastrophe. She had been drinking.

Laura was by me on the landing. She began to climb down the stairs and I stopped her. Melrose’s face went from white to livid. In two strides he reached his daughter. He slapped her. She cried out, stunned. “Get to bed,” he said. Then he stormed upstairs, passing Laura and myself, into his bedroom, slamming the door.

Laura looked helplessly at Abby and me. She followed Melrose, and I knew I was to take care of Abby. Abby marched by me, brushing me off, and slammed the door to her room.

Maeve

2008-07-11T16:02:00.000-07:00

As a gift for my in-laws, I painted a portrait of my daughter. I'm not entirely happy with it, but it's different from what I'm used to. It's not as big a deal messing up the fantasy faces, but screwing up a picture of your kid is a bit scary:) It feels a bit wrong, like there's a bit of Maeve-isnness I'm not capturing. I think this means I need to do more of these...

2008-07-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

The Next Installment of Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Chapter 1: In Which Abigail Causes Myself to Leave the Peacefulness of Abernathie for New Orleans

Before I begin this narrative in earnest, I must apologize to the reader for my chapter titles. I fear my titles are long and wordy, and describe a shade too much the chapter’s content. I have consulted the works of several great writers on the subject of titles, and I have discovered that Mr. Charles Dickens generally titles his chapters with a phrase that denotes their content; however, I am concerned that my personal choices may be repetitive to my attempts to narrate. I beg the reader to consider my inexperience and to ignore any chapter titles that do not please them. I also hope that my naming conventions will improve as I warm to my narrative. Yet, I simply can not bring myself to entitle this opening chapter as “Abigail’s Unbridled Spirit” or “The Passions of Youth,” or some equally odious and melodramatic alternative. Sincerely, I hope the content of the chapters adequately apologizes for the lack of creativity in naming them.

This tale begins for me in my hometown of Abernathie, Vermont. Abernathie is the scenic country village where we of the Raintree family have been held in high regard for over 75 years. I understand that there are long family dynasties in Europe, but for those of us of the Yankee persuasion, 75 years is rather a lengthy time period. Because the United States has a shorter history, I believe we escape the undesirable side effect the Europeans have of considering themselves historically above their fellow citizens to boot. We know that money and ingenuity, not time and social standing, make the difference in the caliber of a person. If Abernathie can be said to have a higher society, its core is the family of Raintree.

I was born to Dwight and Pauline Raintree, and was named for my mother, although I have always been called Polly to avoid confusion. Father was a respected lawyer, a favorite nephew of the self-made Theodore Raintree of mail order catalog fame, and when Father retired, my brother Melrose inherited his legal practice. Melrose and I had another sister one year my elder, Josephine, who is currently in Boston, the light of the society known as Mrs. William Townsend. For purposes of this narrative, Josephine is irrelevant, and perhaps the less I mention of Josephine, the better, for I am certain to portray her in an unfavorable light.

Abernathie slept, like all towns its size and evolved slowly, if at all, from the town I grew up in as a little girl. In my youth, the farmers tended their apple orchards. Every year a flood of workers would pick apples for the farmers, and the harvest air was pregnant with the smell of ripe Jonathans. As a little girl, I would sometimes visit the orchard we owned and watch the workers, after a long day of picking, dance to the music of someone’s violin, drinking hard cider outside of the bunk houses, a bonfire fending off the chill autumn air.

Abernathie also had a beautiful church, mostly because the Raintree family had donated the stained glass windows. Mama had them imported from Germany. They depicted various scenes of the crucifixion. A long window representing the Last Supper was my favorite because of Jesus, hands folded, head tilted, his eyes reading and understanding my thoughts. All in all, such peace as Christ needed we could achieve in Abernathie and the little girl I was wondered why Christ appeared so sad.

Abernathie remained the same in the most respects as I aged. There was a short time when I was in love, but Willie returned to Boston with Josephine, not me, and then all of Abernathie became strange to me. I knew Christ’s despair then. The long walks on late harvest nights no longer sparkled with magic. I began to doubt the Lord had a plan for me. To fill the emptiness inside of me, I began to read voraciously. While my mind was improved, I must say that my general appearance was not. I was never as beautiful as Josephine or Mama, and I began to hunch over my books, to neglect my meals, and to look in general like a pinched spinster. My appearance only served to make me understand my role as I realized that I was abandoned by my own chance at marriage. As I read, I discovered that I had a terrible weakness for mysterious occult tomes, Indian lore, and general drugstore supernatural hoopla. Of course, if anyone asked me if I believed, for example, in mediums, spirits, or the Jersey devil, I would laugh. But I personally do not see, gentle reader, why we should discount these things, when there is so much of the spiritual world that we do not understand.

I confess sheepishly and reluctantly to you in the pages of this narrative that I rather found some of the ideas of incantations and spells appealing, and while I hardly would believe that I could become a conjurer or a magician, anything as nonsensical as that, still, experimentation hurt no one. I became adept at reading Tarot cards, studying the bumps on one’s head, and amusing myself with such soothsaying as might be socially passable for a night of harmless parlor tricks. I occasionally tried to find the answers to what seemed to me to be a pointless life in my fortune telling, but since I did not enjoy the depressing answers that looking into my own future seemed to give me, I abandoned those pursuits. Mostly, I read and occasionally walked out at night, and developed an odd reputation.

The War Between the States touched Abernathie very little. Melrose was a dashing young ensign in our navy and was involved in the occupation of New Orleans. When he returned to our town, he brought with him a new wife. Laura was a slight scandal in Abernathie. Of course, money insulated us from a major scandal. Laura was Creole: beautiful, impeccably mannered, with a touch of French in her accent. Her parents had much disproved of her match with a Yankee, so she and Melrose had eloped. I liked this daring young woman and we soon became fast companions. She was the one who invited me to stay with Melrose and herself after my mother died. Of course, I accepted.

My niece Abigail was born on my twenty-third birthday at 4 in the morning. She was christened in the church at Abernathie with Jesus’ forlorn face gazing at me as I promised to be her godmother. I was more skeptical about Christ. He had heard the citizens of Abernathie whisper about poor, plain Pauline Raintree, and He had done nothing. I had prayed to him about my loneliness and He had said nothing. I regarded our Savoir much more skeptically than before, although this was not a thought I shared with my family. My life now rested in helping Melrose watch over his wife and daughter. The only luxuries I allowed myself were my deepening interest in the occult, my increasing experimentation in ritual, and a larger than average leather bound library.

Blood is Thicker than Water: Prologue

2008-07-02T05:53:00.000-07:00

Prologue

When Mr. A. Conan Doyle tells his stories about my friend Ulysses Grant Simpson, he gives his characters and himself false names and descriptions. Mr. Simpson becomes an eccentric character with a hawk-like nose who plays the violin, and Doyle falls back on his guise as a doctor. As an attempt to recreate the facts of this particular tale as accurately as I can, I will use Mr. Simpson’s and Mr. Doyle’s real names. I prefer to think of this literary endeavor as an accurate history, so none of the characters will be given pseudonyms. I must confess that my own poor skill at writing dramatizations of certain events that occurred without my presence demands so much of my creative energies that I shall conserve all I can when I name my characters. Regardless of this, and of the incredible tale that will unfold in these pages, you must believe that every word of what I tell you is true, and I hope to increase my credibility by using truthful names.

My story deals with those affairs recently bought to light in the pages of the New Orleans Picayune regarding the affairs of the supernatural in their city. Not only do Simpson and Doyle figure heavily in my tale, but also Marie LaVeau, the reputed voodoo queen, and Professor Samuel Forte, well-known scientific spiritualist, according, mostly, to himself. I here reproduce the actual events that led to the press’s inquiries, and provide you, gentle reader, with as accurate a depiction of the facts as possible.

--Pauline Raintree

Art Stuff

2008-06-28T20:19:00.000-07:00

Hey all! It's Cat here, and I'm chuffed because I've sort of finished my Seasons series. Sort of because I want to work more with the background in Summer, but for the moment I declare it finished.

Writers Resources #3 - You Should Be Listening

2008-06-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

With the rise of Apple's ubiquitous iPod and the popularity of portable MP3 players a new kind of media emerged - the podcast. For those that haven't heard of this latest media trend, a quick explanation. Podcasts are subscribable audio or video programs that are released through various services on the Internet such as iTunes, Podcast Alley and Podcast.com. When you subscribe to a podcast through a service such as iTunes new episodes are automatically downloaded to your computer or media device when they are released.

Most podcasts have a format similar to a radio show and if you can think of a subject, there's a podcast out there about it. From super short 2 minute podcasts to shows that run several hours, podcasts may feature a single host, several hundred or no host at all. Podcasts have been used to teach classes, to release audio versions of books and as online diaries to name just a few.

As you would expect, there is no shortage of writing podcasts. The sheer variety and number can be quite daunting. A few, however, stand out. In the coming weeks, I'll cover some of my favorites. Let's start with one of the earliest and best.

I Should Be Writing, with host Mur Lafferty, began in August 2005 as a way for Mur to encourage herself to write and to share her road toward publishing with other wanna-be fiction writers. The show is released regularly and as of this post is up to episode number 92. Each show features writing advice about a given topic or an interview with a published author. Mur also answers listener questions and continues to offer updates on her own progress as an author. In the past, she's covered areas as diverse as how to find time to write, world building, caring for your muse, story structure, and of course how to find an agent and publisher.

Each episode is self-contained and you don’t need to listen to previous episodes to follow along and get something out of it. If, however, you want to listen from episode one you can do that as well – every single episode is available in the archive on Mur’s site.

The author interviews in particular are excellent and Mur has interviewed everyone from Neil Gaiman to Connie Willis and many, many others. Curious about self-publishing? There's a show on that. Want to know about author rights & copyright law? Ditto. There are very few topics Mur hasn't covered. The episodes usually run 20 minutes to a half hour so it's a quick listen.

Go listen and see what you think. The advice is good, the host charming and the episodes frequent. To find out more, search for I Should Be Writing in iTunes, via another podcast service, or visit the I Should be Writing website at http://isbw.murlafferty.com

Writers Resources #2 - Moving Beyond Word

2008-06-19T14:58:00.000-07:00

All word processing programs are not created equal. At least, not when it comes to writing your novel, short story, or screenplay. The days when Microsoft Word and its handful of clones were the only options in town are long gone. Today, if you want to write the next great American novel your options are, if not endless, certainly quite varied.

So what? Why would you ever stray from the warm embrace and comforting familiarity of MS Word? The fact is, MS Word isn't exactly the friendliest program for writing a book. You basically have two options: save your novel as one humongous document and scroll FOREVER to find earlier sections, or save each chapter/scene as it's own document. The later might seem like common sense but you're still going to have to hunt for those scenes and if you want a word count ... prepare to break out the calculator and start adding up individual chapters. Not to mention if you do save the novel as separate chapters you'll have to cut and paste them all into a single document later when you're ready to submit your manuscript. Notes? Strictly on a document level. Find & Replace? A little TOO broad sometimes. Nice clean layout that is free from tons of distracting buttons everywhere? Errr not exactly. MS Word is most definitely not the be all and end all program from writers. Use it to format you novel before submission, but other than that, you can do a lot better.

Okay, okay, so if MS Word isn't the answer, what is? That depends. Are you on a Mac or a PC? Yep the old OS wars are alive and well in the wide world of novel writing programs. Whichever operating system you run, however, there are countless options for you to consider. Typical features of those programs include working on a project level with multiple documents in a single project, combined word counts, word count and page progress meter bars, advanced find and replace, manuscript-specific formatting options & templates, full-screen mode to cut down on distractions, notes panels on both a document and project level, outling tools, and many, many, many more.

For the last week I've been test driving a Mac program called Scrivener. I have to say, I am already a huge fan. The cost is negligible, $40, and you can try out the full program for 30 days free. Scrivener has almost all of the features I listed above as well as a lot more. You can keep media files such as movies, photos and audio in a notes folder associated with your project. Each document (chapter/scene for example) has an index card associated with it - a place to type a brief description. In the cork board view you can see those index cards and easily change their order, moving one scene in front of another and vice versa. It's quite powerful and easy to use. I highly recommend giving it a try if you're on a Mac. The only quibble I have with Scrivener so far is the fact that while individual documents in a project display word counts, there is no overall project word count available. Here's a good tour of the program and its features: http://www.literatureandlatte.com/Scrivener_intro.mov

Scrivener is just one of many options, however. In fact, Scrivener's makers were nice enough to put together a fairly comprehensive list of those other options and even details on each program's various features. Rather handy, wouldn't you say? In the page linked to below, scroll down to view the sections titled "Writing Software for Mac OS X" and "Writing Software for Windows." http://www.literatureandlatte.com/links.html

My challenge to you is to get out there and test drive an application or two. You just might find the writing software of your dreams, or something a little closer at the very least.

He Was Fine, Once He Was Sober And Not Naked

2008-06-14T19:41:00.000-07:00

In the criminal justice system there are very few laughs. Those of us in this business tend to laugh inappropriately at crime scene photos and other things that would shock many people. We have to or we’d never last in these jobs. (We also shed tears, believe me!) Once in a while, though, we get a funny story that we might actually be able to repeat at home. I’ll be posting about the ridiculous things I've seen in my job over the years. Working in a DA’s office is great for an aspiring writer because you just can’t make this stuff up.

My first naked defendant case was assigned to me when I worked in the appellate section of the Dallas DA’s office. A young man was working for a guy who let him stay in the back of a shop. One night he decided to steal from his employer. As he was being chased through the neighborhood by his boss, he thought that he could elude capture if he removed his light colored shorts. Unfortunately, that was all he was wearing. He went tearing down the street completely naked, ending up at the home of an elderly couple.

What do you say to a naked man who shows up at your door in the middle of night? You call the police. Here’s where my memory fails me, which you would expect after the number of cases I’ve read in my job. I think he was arrested for threatening the officer, but given the fact that he was naked, I can’t think what he used to make that threat! (no pockets for a weapon!) He must have gone for her gun.

I had another appeal in which a daring defendant tried a unique way to argue his innocence. He was a drug dealer. The police investigated him, collected evidence, applied for a search warrant, and searched his apartment. They not only found mens' clothes in the closet, they found womens' clothes as well. They also found pictures of a woman, but this woman really resembled the defendant according to the testimony. This was a one-bedroom apartment as I recall, and there was only one person on the lease. The police never saw the man and woman together. Do you see where this is going? This guy argued to the police, and later to the court, that the drugs found in his apartment did not belong to him, but to his female roommate. It was a fun case to argue, although I don’t remember if I ever got to see pictures of the defendant and his “evil” roommate.

I don’t have to open a file to be amused at my office. Sometimes what I overhear at the water cooler is just as entertaining. Recently, I went into the kitchen to get some water and some coffee. As I walked in I heard one of my colleagues say, "Well, if I ever get in a gun fight, I'm just going to use my pistol until I can get to my shot gun. Pistols are worthless in a gun fight." I don’t know about you, but I’m just as happy not to have to plan what I would do in a gun fight. I know what I would do. I would faint.

Writers' Resources #1 - It Began With A Book

2008-06-11T13:30:00.000-07:00

There is no shortage of books, websites, newsletters, conventions, friends and blogs all waiting to give you writing advice. You can spend so much time studying the craft of writing, you never start page one.

I have to admit I'm a writing junkie. I trawl the net checking blogs and sites, subscribe to writing podcasts and comb the bookstore looking for the threads of gold amidst the haystacks. Over the past couple years I've found some helpful stuff so why not add to the vast sea of writing info out there waiting to suck aspiring writers down?

Each week I'll let you know about a resource I think is helpful for authors (aspiring and established). Perhaps I can save you a couple hours. Then again you're reading this, so you're probably as bad an info junkie as I am. Take a deep breath. We'll get through this together. One link at a time.

***

Way back in the cretaceous period, when I started scribbling my first stories, another beginning-writer recommended I read Self-editing For Fiction Writers by Renni Browne & Dave King. If I could find that writer today, I'd kiss her.

Self-editing was the first writing book I read and it remains the best. It's not about grammar, spelling and punctuation, although those topics are important, it's about making your novel the best you can. It's about honing and refining, distilling the ideas until they leap off the page and drag readers in. Good writing is in the details and Browne & King are all about details.

Below is a list of the chapters.
Ch. 1: Show and Tell
Ch. 2: Characterization and Exposition
Ch. 3: Point of View
Ch. 4: Dialogue Mechanics
Ch. 5: See How It Sounds
Ch. 6: Interior Monologue
Ch. 7: Easy Beats
Ch. 8: Breaking Up is Easy To Do
Ch. 9: Once is Usually Enough
Ch. 10: Proportion
Ch. 11: Sophistication
Ch. 12: Voice

If you haven't read Self-editing, go pick up a copy now. If you have read it, read it again. I know I'm going to.

Join Las Habladoras at Wiscon 32

2008-04-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

Las Habladoras will be presenting art and stories at Wiscon 32 on Saturday, May 24 at 4:00 p.m. in Conference 2.

If you're at Wiscon, stop by - there might even be organic chocolate in it for you!