Page 24 of The Child of Rue Royale
Of the thousands of people I had met in my ancient life, there were a few that left a mark on me, that held my attention for even this long. Bastian DeZaiffe was one of them. I wanted to see him again, but time was not on my side. I needed to feed, and the sun would be up soon, and after a long sleep, I had to make it back to New Orleans.
A patron walked into the diner, the scent of their sweet blood causing my stomach to roil, so I gathered myself for a moment, then spoke with a sigh,
twisting my wrist to look at my watch. “I must go.”
“No, let me buy you a drink,” he said, and I laughed at that.
“I think you’ve had enough for the night, don’t you?”
Looking down to his plate, his face turned serious. “It’s never enough.”
I inhaled, smelling the alcohol in his blood, feeling the flutter of his heart. He would die at the rate he was going. But there was nothing I could do about it. I learned many years ago, you can’t fix people just because you want them not to be broken. But you could still offer help, and then Fats Domino played on the jukebox, and I took it as a sign.
“If you ever find yourself in New Orleans, this is where I’ll be.” I handed him my card for the bar my mother and I ran, a speakeasy in the French Quarter.
He held it between his fingers, sobriety taking hold of him more and more.
“Comey’s,” he read from the card.
“That’s the bar we own on Bourbon Street. Just say ‘Nosferatu’ to whomever is at the bar, and they will lead the way to the speakeasy.”
He repeated the password, his inebriation not allowing him to grasp the word he was probably familiar with. The word that would come to mean everything to him, much as it was the definition of who I was. Nosferatu.
Vampire.
THE WORDS SHAKE IN MYline of vision, my hands trembling at these memories, these real-life recollections of Cassius and Bastian’s first meeting. Bastian, sick and drunk, the life he was so ashamed of, the life he hated talking about it. It’s hard to imagine him that way. Charming, yes, he was always charming, but sloppy and drunk, a version of him that’s so foreign to me, a side I never saw. But I love all parts of him, and I know what Cassius saw in him. I saw that part completely. Taking a deep breath, I adjust my blanket and turn the page.
New Orleans 1956
“Cassius Delacroix, as I live and breathe,”HISvoice boomed. I spun on my foot, my heart stopping on the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon. I’ve heard many voices throughout my one hundred and fifty years, but that voice, that voice was one I knew to the depths of my soul. Why had it scarred me so? Why was it etched in my miles-long memory?
It had been a year since we met in San Francisco, and as I turned to face him, I realized I was stunned he was still alive.
“Bastian DeZaiffe. The man lives.” I walked to him, arm outstretched for a handshake, but he pulled me in with a hug that crushed my breath.
“I was coming to see you, but I got…distracted.” Raising his arms, he looked so full of life, so full of promise and excitement. Yet he smelled of booze, and trepidation took over me. Bourbon Street was not good for this kind of man.
“A city full of distractions.” I smiled tightly.
“I have the card,” he said, pulling his wallet out and presenting the card I had given himthe last time we were together. “Nosferatu,” he whispered with a mischievous smile.Besame Muchoplayed from a nearby club, and I couldn’t help but think, how fitting. How I had once longed to give him the kiss of death, but now, I just enjoyed being the person that caused his smile.
“Let us go then, there’s much to show you.” Hesitation took hold of my chest. I was happy to see Bastian again, that instant affinity for him resurfaced immediately upon meeting his gaze. But this city could eat certain souls alive, and Bastian was its favorite kind of prey.
“How did you get here?”
“Hitchhiked.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Yet to be determined.” He smiled, so sincerely. Since my father shunned me, I kept my distance from people, men especially. But Bastian had an ease to him that told me he wanted nothing but my friendship.
“Rue St. Ann,” he whispered, pointing to the St. Ann Street sign. “Still in French?”
“The French Quarter hasn’t changed much in the past couple hundred years.” I grinned. “That’s how we like it.”
We walked down Bourbon Street, Bastian taking in the sights as Dixieland music played loudly from various joints. Couples laughing, hand in hand, dressed to the nines for a night on the town, along with men of a certain age looking for a burlesque show to satisfy their lustful desires.
“This is it,” I said, entering the old bar Nicola had bought a few years ago. Pulling out a chair for him, I ordered us both bourbon and water from one of my employees as the band started playingCanal Street Blues. Comey’s was not as successful as we had hoped when Nicola purchased it, and the crowd was small enough that we could hold a conversation at normal volumes.
