“You can’t keep making vampires, Ransome. If you do, we’re going to get caught,” Marcus warned him one night when they were hunting in the swamps outside the city for something to feed to Ransome’s latest project, a Creole prostitute named Suzette Boudrot who had been run down by a wagon near the cathedral.
“So what,” Ransome said. “What are they going to do if they find out we’re vampires—shoot us?”
“A piece of gunshot between the eyes will kill you, vampire or not,” Marcus replied. “So will hanging.”
“They only hang runaway slaves and felons in the Place d’Armes. Worst I’d get is a day in the pillory with a placard around my neck,” Ransome retorted. “Besides, we wouldn’t have any trouble with the law at all if you would just let me make a few of the police into vampires.”
“You’re too young,” Marcus said.
“I’m older than you are,” Ransome observed.
“In human terms, yes,” Marcus replied. “But you’re still not ready to have more children of your own.” Marcus stopped himself before he could utter more de Clermont logic.
“Anyway, it’s too risky,” Marcus continued. “We’re not supposed to gather in packs. Humans notice when we do. We make them nervous, you see, and as soon as something goes wrong—”
“And it always goes wrong,” Ransome said with the voice of experience.
“Indeed,” Marcus agreed. “That’s when the humans start looking around for someone to blame for their troubles. We stick out from the crowd, just like the witches do.”
“In this city?” Ransome guffawed. “Lord, Marcus. With all the odd bodies in this town, a few vampires more or less won’t make any difference at all. Besides, aren’t you tired of saying good-bye to friends?”
The city was plagued with disease, and every month Marcus seemed to lose someone to the latest illness sweeping through the streets. Reluctantly, he nodded.
“I thought so,” Ransome said. “Besides, all I’m doing is making good on the promise of the revolution you fought to win: liberty and fraternity. Equality Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
Encouraged by Ransome’s conviction that no one would notice, and spurred on by his own need to belong, Marcus began to take note of young people who seemed destined for something greater than their sad lot in life. One by one, he started to save them.
Marcus began with Molly, the Choctaw who worked in one of Ransome’s upstairs rooms and had the voice of an angel. Was it really fair that such a beautiful young woman lose her life, not to mention her looks, because one of her customers had given her syphilis? Marcus felt having a daughter would bring respectability to the family, provide him and Ransome with a hostess in their fine house, and stop the wagging tongues of neighbors. None of these dreams came true.
He tried again with One-Eyed Jack, who ran with Lafitte’s gang of thieves before he fell down drunk onto a wrought iron finial shaped like a fleur-de-lis. The point went straight into his eye. Marcus removed the spike, but not the eyeball, and all of his blood. Then Marcus gave One-Eyed Jack enough of his own blood to bring the man back to life, though the eye never recovered. Instead, the iris turned a hard, flat black that made his pupils seem permanently dilated, and he couldn’t see out of it afterward.
After One-Eyed Jack came Geraldine, the French acrobat who could swing between balconies on Bourbon Street even before she became a vampire, and then Waldo, who dealt the cards at Ransome’s new gambling hall and could spot a cheat quicker than anyone in New Orleans. Myrna, Ransome’s neighbor, who kept too many cats and donated her clothes to the poor—even if that meant stripping down on Rue Royale and giving her bloomers to a beggar—had a heart of gold and a quixotic mind that kept them all entertained, even when the slaves revolted and the British threatened to invade the city. Marcus couldn’t let her die, though her delicate mental state wasn’t improved once she began to drink blood.
One by one Marcus’s family grew larger and more boisterous. It happened so incrementally that Marcus took no notice of it, though Marguerite D’Arcantel and her coven surely did, as did the city officials.
By the time yellow fever hit the city hard in the summer of 1817, Marcus had generated a family of two dozen men and women of all backgrounds, religions, colors, and languages in his charge, as well as three distilleries, two brothels, and Ransome’s Domino Club, which had been shut down several times only to come back to life, vampire-like, as a members-only dining establishment. Since the mayor was the first to join, it seemed unlikely that the card games and sexual liaisons that took place before and after meals would get them into trouble.
It was at the height of the epidemic that New Orleans residents began to ask questions about Marcus and his family. Why did none of them ever get sick? What was keeping them healthy, when everyone else was dying of the fever? There were rumors of voodoo, which Marcus laughed off. He was feeling comfortable in New Orleans now. Marcus liked the city, and its inhabitants. He was well-fed, happy with his work, and enjoyed his family and their fast-paced life. Sometimes Marcus worried that he and Ransome were drawing too much attention to themselves, but it was easy to shrug off those concerns and focus instead on another game of cards or a new woman in his bed.
He and Ransome were at the Domino Club, counting the night’s take while Geraldine recorded the sums in the club’s ledger, when a woman arrived at the door. She was beautiful—not just pretty, but jaw-droppingly perfect. Her mixed-race heritage showed in her softly curled hair—most of which was piled on her head while the rest fell in tendrils that clung to her neck in the humid air—her café au lait skin, and her high cheekbones.
“Marcus de Clermont.” The woman smiled like a cat.
Ransome pulled a pistol out of the desk drawer.
“Juliette.” Marcus’s heart jumped, and Geraldine looked from him to the woman at the door, curious about her effect on him.
“Hello, Marcus.” His maker, Matthew de Clemont, joined the woman. “I told you he would remember you, Juliette.”
“What are you doing here?” Marcus asked Matthew, dazed by the sudden intrusion of past into present.
“I’ve come to meet my grandchildren. They’re the talk of the town.” His voice was calm, but Matthew was clearly furious. “Will you introduce me—or should I do it myself?”
* * *
—
“I TRUST YOU KNOW my son.” Matthew poured a glass of wine for the aristocratic vampire who sat across the table. It was so polished that you could see the dark reflections in the mahogany surface.
“Everybody knows him.” The vampire, like Matthew, spoke French. Marcus’s French was excellent thanks to Fanny and Stéphanie, and living in New Orleans kept him fluent.
“I am sorry for that.” Matthew sounded genuinely regretful.
“Louis.” Juliette sailed into the room, a silk turban wrapped around her head that nonetheless allowed a few curls to escape and tumble around her delicate face and neck. Her dress was also silk, caught under her breasts in a way that accentuated her slim figure and the curve of her shoulders and bosom.
“Juliette.” Louis stood and bowed. He kissed her on both cheeks in the French manner and pulled out a chair.
“So you’ve met Matthew’s problem child.” Juliette pushed out her lower lip in a seductive pout. “He’s been very naughty, I hear. What shall we do with him?”
Matthew looked at Juliette fondly. He poured her a glass of wine.
“Thank you, my love, but I would prefer blood,” Juliette said. “Would you like a slave, Louis, or are you content with wine?”
“I have all that I require at present,” Louis said.
“We have no slaves.” Marcus had been told not to speak unless he was directly addressed by one of his elders, but he detested Juliette Durand.
“You do now.” Juliette snapped her fingers and a vacant-looking black girl walked into the room. She stumbled and nearly fell.
“Juliette. Not here,” Matthew said, a note of warning in his voice.
But Juliette ignored him.