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Chapter 2
Quebec
Anne awoke on a hard, narrow bed in a white room. Her first thought was that she was in a hospital, but there wasn't any medical equipment, and a feeling of peace pervaded the small, bare room. She looked around, although there wasn't much to see—three wooden pegs were attached to the wall in lieu of a closet, and a crucifix hung over the bed. A simple, hand-made chair, small table and the bed were the only furniture. There were not any windows or electric lights, but the morning light shone through the open doorway. The room was austere, but it didn't feel sterile, like a hospital.
Anne pushed back the thin wool blanket and well-worn cotton sheet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she gripped the sides of the mattress to steady herself. Her feet touched a hand-braided rag rug beside the bed, and she burrowed her toes into it while she tried to discover where she was. Wherever it was, it felt safe and comfortable, so she managed to hold back the stirrings of panic.
How had she gotten here?
Somehow, she 'knew' she didn't live here, but she couldn't seem to remember where she had come from or how she had gotten to this place—wherever it was.
Anne carefully stood up. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown that was much too big for her. She rolled back the sleeves that covered her hands and lifted the hem so she wouldn't trip as she slowly made her way to the table and chair. She sank down in the chair as another wave of dizziness washed through her. When her vision cleared, she noticed a pitcher sitting in a large bowl on the table. Next to it was a square of soft flannel and a bar of strange-looking soap that smelled of lavender. She poured some of the water into the basin and washed her face. She immediately felt better, but wished she could do something about her hair. It was filthy—matted with sweat and dried blood; it was beyond her abilities to deal with right now. Maybe later. Now she needed to find out where she was.Leaning on the edge of the table for support, Anne pushed herself to her feet. The dizziness seemed to be lessening the more she moved around. Good. Gathering the long skirt of the nightgown in her left hand, she placed her right hand on the wall for balance and began making her way to the open door.
**********
Los Angeles
Will awoke refreshed and ravenously hungry. He checked his wallet, then decided to treat himself to the $4.99 breakfast special at Denny's before he went back to work. As he stood under the hot water of the shower, allowing it to wash away the last vestiges of sleep, ideas for the next chapter were racing through his mind.
This book would be even better than the last! He was sure of it.
His first novel was the story of Liam, an Irish peasant in the 1700's, who was in love with the Lady Deirdre. Lady Deirdre was petite and blonde and breathtakingly beautiful, but her beauty was a sham. Inside, she was cold and heartless and cruel. Rosamunda, the gypsy girl who loved Liam, tried to warn him about the Lady Deirdre, but he saw only her surface beauty—Liam wasn't the brightest hero ever created. One could even say he was a few potatoes short of an Irish stew.
He totally rejected kind, loving Rosamunda to continue to moon after Lady Deirdre who, in ordinary circumstances, wouldn't have given him a second look. But Lady Deirdre wasn't an ordinary noblewoman. Oh, no. She carried a dark secret. She was a Vampyre!
She owned many estates in England, Ireland, France and Italy. She would stay at one as long as she could without inciting undue notice. When it would have become apparent that she wasn't aging, she would fake her death, leaving the castle to a fictional infant niece and move to another estate, until all who had known her at the previous residence were dead. Then she could return later as the niece.
Liam was a large, strapping man. Tall and strong—if a trifle hulking—he was nevertheless a fine figure of a man. He was handsome, in a coarse, peasant-y kind of way. His lips were a bit thin, his eyes somewhat beady and his brow was a touch Neanderthal, all hinting at the potential for cruelty that attracted the Lady Deirdre.
For Deirdre was lonely. She had been alone for centuries; a creature of the night, never able to get close to anyone for fear of discovery. She saw something in Liam that drew her, and so after a night of unbelievably erotic passion (inspired by, but definitely not plagiarized from, Lady Chatterley's Lover) she brought him into her world and made him her Vampyre consort, re-naming him Azreal—the Angel of Death.
Liam/Azreal and Deirdre cut a swath through Europe, inciting each other's cruelty and depravity and poor Rosamunda, knowing she had lost Liam forever, threw herself into a peat bog in despair—possibly to be discovered thousands of years in the future, perfectly preserved, if slightly mummified. It was epic! But the new novel would be even better.
Will finished drying and swiped the damp towel across the mirror to erase the fog from his shower. He glared at his unmanageable hair. Soft and sandy-colored, it had a definite mind of its own. Maybe if he became a successful author he could do something cool with his hair—he could make it black and spikey like Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day (whose new American Idiot album was the best thing that had come out since the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Californication). Or, he could dye it platinum, like Anthony Keidis did during the Californication period. Maybe he should just shave it all off like Justin Timberlake (who apparently had similarly unmanageable hair)!
Will's stomach grumbled loudly, so he gave up on his hair, dressed hurriedly, grabbed his notebook and a handful of pens and left for Denny's.
**********
New Orleans
The overlapping sounds of jazz, zydeco and rock and roll mingled in the warm night air of the French Quarter. Even at this late hour, the streets teamed with tourists and residents in this southern city that never sleeps.
Peter Horton threw back another shot of Southern Comfort and stumbled to his feet. He was very drunk but it hadn't done squat for his mood, and now he had to piss like a racehorse. Where the fuck is the bathroom in this joint anyway? He had blown a wad on a trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and now he couldn't even find a bathroom. Somehow, it had to be Vickie's fault.
Vickie. How could she do that to me? After 18 years she . . . what? Didn't want to be married anymore? How can you just wake up one morning and decide you don't fucking want to be married anymore? But she still 'cares' about me? Big fucking whoop. If she still cared about him, he figured, they'd still be married.
Peter had cashed his paycheck, and instead of depositing it in the joint account like he'd done bi-weekly for the last 18 years, he'd taken the cash and decided to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras on the spur of the moment. Mardi Gras had been like nothing he could have ever imagined, but now it had been over for days, it was almost Valentine's Day, he was broke and nothing had changed.
New Orleans was the Big Easy, right? Well, tonight he was going to get laid! Eighteen years of fidelity hadn't gotten him anywhere but broke, drunk and spending Valentine's Day apart from a woman who didn't want to be married anymore.
Where the fuck was the damn bathroom?
Peter made his way to a door and wrenched it open, only to find himself out on the street instead of in the hoped-for men's room. Fuck it!
Fumbling with his fly, he staggered to the side of the bar and pissed. Leaning against the side of the building, he began to stroke himself. Everybody got laid in New Orleans! It was kind of like an unwritten rule! Maybe Vickie didn't want to be married to him anymore, but there were plenty of other women who'd want him! His unauthorized 'vacation' was over, he was broke, it was Valentine's Day and he was damn sure gonna get laid before he left the Big Easy!
Still stroking himself, he stumbled down the narrow passageway between buildings, emerging into the next cross-street. There were still plenty of people wandering around, but the crowds were much sparser here.
Peter's eye was caught by a slim, dark-haired woman coming toward him. Perfect! Just what he needed! Vickie was a buxom blond, carrying 30 extra pounds that had crept on over the years; this little lady was the antithesis of the woman who didn't want to be married to him anymore.
He reached out and grabbed her arm and dragged her into the narrow space between buildings before she had a chance to realize what was happening. He pinned her body against the wall, fumbling with her long skirt, when he realized that she wasn't struggling. Hot damn! She wanted him as much as he wanted her.Wha'd'ya think about that, Vickie? Huh? There's other fish in the sea and I don't even need no line to catch 'em—just my pole. So, fuck you, Vickie! Ha, ha! I'm the one gonna get fu—
Peter looked into her yellow eyes as her mouth seemed to move in slow motion toward his throat. He felt a rush of excitement and then dizziness as his lifeblood was rapidly drawn out of his body.
His last coherent thought was Hot damn! Anne Rice was right. There are vampires in New Orleans!
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