La Vida Vampire

Except for a cute towheaded boy of perhaps five years and a fiftyish stone -faced man with a scar trailing down his right jaw, who drifted up to stand near the newlyweds.

The boy gave a single nod, wiggled his shoulder from his mother’s grasp, and dashed up to tug on my skirt.

“Hey, lady ma’am,” he yelled, “are you a real vampire?”

His mother surged forward and croaked a frightened, “Robbie, get back here.”

I held up a hand to reassure her he was safe and looked down. The child didn’t blink, didn’t budge. Streetlights made a halo over his blond mop of hair.

I smiled, sank into a crouch, and answered as loudly as he had asked, “Indeed, Master Robbie, I am a vampire.”

“Huh.” He cocked his head at me, obviously thinking. “My babysitter says vampires are monsters that ’thrall you with their eyes and then they—” He chomped his teeth twice. “—bite you. Are you gonna bite me?”

This kid needed a volume knob, but he was a cute corker. “Well, sir, I’m not good at enthralling because my eyes always cross. Like this.” I crossed my eyes hard. Robbie laughed the way the children of the old Spanish Quarter used to. A sound I ’d missed.

“And you’re not gonna bite me either?” he asked, not quite as loudly.

“Ewww, no way.” I pulled a face that made him laugh again. “I don’t like biting people. It’s icky.”

The mother released the breath she’d been holding, a few in the crowd chuckled, and Robbie grinned.

“You’re not much of a monster, are ya?”

“Nope, but you’re a fine young gentleman.” I ruffled his hair, and stood. “Now, if you’ll scoot back to your mother, we’ll start the tour.”

He did, and I faced a marginally less wary, more attentive crowd. Problem was, between the group ’s high emotions and intense curiosity, they shattered my psychic shields. Thought-questions flew at me left and right. What was my heritage? Where did I live? Where was I buried? Do I like this century, what do I do with my spare time? Do I show up on film? Does the tracker hurt?

How do I eat? Do I shave my legs?

Shave my legs?

I couldn’t pinpoint exactly who thought each question, not this close to the new moon. Heck, with the dark moon so close to shutting The Gift down entirely, I was surprised the impressions were this clear. Then again, they ’d handed me inspiration. If knowing more about me would calm fears, I’d handle their avalanche of questions as part of my spiel. Only Stony—who looked like he’d have more fun getting his teeth extracted with a crowbar—and the newlyweds didn’t seem to mentally bombard me. The petite brunette bride tossed her long hair back so often, I wondered if she had a kink in her neck. She wore skintight black slacks and a semi–see-through black camisole. If that was the fashion in Paris, I’d pass. Her hubby wore gray trousers and an Oxford striped shirt. Their long, speculative glances at me didn’t hold fear. In fact, I could’ve sworn they leered. And the bride’s head tossing? It almost looked flirtatious. Sure had Gomer gawking at her. Too creeped to try taking a psychic peek at them, I focused on being tour guide extraordinaire.

“Welcome to the Old Coast Ghost Walk. I am Francesca Melisenda Alejandra Marinelli, your guide, born here in St. Augustine in 1780. I know you have questions about me, and I’ll get to those in a second. First, let me introduce my friends and assistants, Janie and Mick. Janie’s dressed in a Minorcan ensemble of the late seventeen hundreds, and Mick’s wearing a Spanish soldier’s costume.”

“Why are you wearing an Empire gown?” the Shalimar Jag Queen asked. “Isn’t that from the Regency period?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mine is circa 1802, and I chose it because I love the style. ” The two oldest Jag Queens tittered, and I continued.

“We’re standing at the north end of what used to be the Minorcan Quarter, or the Spanish Quarter, or simply the Quarter. We’ll go through the city gates to the Huguenot Cemetery, then loop through the historic district to end our tour on the bay front. You’re welcome to ask questions as we visit the sites, but let ’s see if I can address some of your personal questions before we start.

“First, please call me Cesca. You can take pictures, I do show up on film, and I hope you’ll get my best side.” The loud wiseguy waved his camera and laughed. “Seriously, if you get any ghostly photos of the haunted sites, the tour company would love to have copies.”

“Ghost pictures?” Gomer breathed, goggle-eyed. “Honest to goodness ghost pictures?”

I nodded.

“Goll-lee.”