by Dana Alice

I knew I was on a fool's errand, before I even began it. I leaned back in my seat, and felt for the cold, little charm inside my lavender blouse. "Real, " I thought, fingering the small treasure. Yes, real, and that thought alone should have stopped me in my tracks this morning. But it had not, nor had an exasperated phone call from my partner. I could not be dissuaded from flying to New Orleans today.

"Dana, we just got to New York. We have 3 seminars to attend today alone! You have one mysterious, bohemian night in the Village-without me, I might add-and now you are ditching me?" He was incredulous, and maybe a little hurt that I was leaving him behind.

Truthfully, I had no rational explanation to give him, to pacify him, or myself. And the one explanation that I did have was far from rational, and belonged to me alone.

Everything I knew about the world had been turned upside down, and I was flying to the one place I thought I might find some answers. I released the charm, and gingerly touched the sores on my throat.

The plane landed uneventfully. I acquired my rental car, and started off for my hotel. I would really have some tall explaining to do when I got back to Washington, but that seemed too remote right now to worry me.

What both worried and excited me, was the dying sunlight. That fading violet-cast sky was quickening my pulse, if not shaking my resolve. Still, I put my foot to the accelerator, and drove on.

I left the car at my assigned place, at an anonymous hotel, and locked my bag and jacket inside. I had underestimated the close heat of the city, and felt a bit overdressed in my blouse and skirt. But the pumps were comfortable enough for the long walk ahead of me.

Had I been less preoccupied with finding Santiago again, I would have gotten forever lost in the inestimable beauty of the French Quarter. I certainly knew enough from reading *those* books, to search for my vengeful monster here. Here he may stalk his prey-human or vampiric-with relative ease.

Much as I was stalking him…

Dusk had grown so quickly to darkness, but the streets both wide and narrow, teemed with life still. "Dana, are you mad to think you can track him here? How can you even know if he is here?"

And yet I knew. Something deep and primeval in me knew, and had been driving me onward, into this night. Keep walking, keep watching, keep biding your time.

I found myself at the gates of the St. Louis cemetery. Strange, really. There had been no rhyme or reason in my searching. In truth, part of me supposed that Santiago knew I searched for him. Now I was standing before all these graves, ornate tombs, waiting for Death.

And just what exactly did I want with him? What in heaven's name was I doing? I could only believe when I saw those brilliant, dark eyes again, I would know. He had untethered something wild in me when his fangs sank into my neck.

This humid, night air was curling my red hair, dampening it to my forehead. My fear was more palpable here, among the dead, and alone in this terrible darkness. But I was not alone.

I heard something, and a thrill went through me. I could see now a lone figure among the graves, almost invisible in black attire. He had been crouching near a stone, in shadow, but now was ambling towards me. And I was frozen right to the very spot.

The grace and elegance with which he moved seemed to my eyes unreal, and as he drew closer, I could make out the black hair curling around his face. His face seemed lit from within with a rosy light, illuminating fine and delicate features, though not at all distracting from his masculine beauty. As he stood now, before me, I saw that he had fiery, emerald eyes. Eyes that still shimmered with pink tears.

I thought I would begin to cry as well, just from the look of abject sorrow on his face. Though it was easy to mistake him for a mortal man from afar, up this close was another matter altogether. I wanted to apologize if it was my presence that had disturbed his reverie, as I opened my lips to speak, he began…

"Mademoiselle, you should not be out alone, walking this cemetery. It is most unsafe in a city such as this." His voice was soft, a caress in the darkness. He wiped away a single, escaping tear, but seemed to smile a bit.

"Forgive me, " I stammered, "I thought I was alone here. I was walking, looking for someone really, and I had not meant to…" I was not making sense, even to myself. And I gave an involuntary shudder, as he took a step towards me, close enough now to touch me. And he did, an elegant finger touching the wounds on my neck, then tracing a line down to my collarbone.

"Now I *know* that you are in danger…Dana," each word tinged with his drawl. "Go home, or go back to New York, to your partner. If *I*can read you, then truly, your thoughts are too close to the surface. You are in danger."

But even as he spoke his warning, he was drawing me closer to him, his hand now on the back of my neck. I could only imagine that he had fed earlier, because his touch was warm there, his face soft and flushed with life. I found myself leaning forward, closing my eyes, parting my lips, waiting. And then the shock of those lips on mine, his mouth as warm and sweet as any man's.

It was at that moment I heard a sardonic voice, "What have we here, a la belle etoile?" I was released from the kiss, and Louis stepped in front of me, as though to protect me. "Cherie, you have traveled so far to find me, to subject me to this torture?" Then he laughed, long and loud, and I felt a measure of shame. "And, Louis, really, your choice of companions is improving, but must I always find you my rival?" But his voice held only uncontained mirth at the situation.

Without warning, all at once, I found myself spirited from behind Louis, lifted up in Santiago's arms. It happened so fast that I lost my breath, and could do nothing but clutch to his neck. Where he was taking me, what he could possibly have planned was utterly beyond me. I looked back at Louis, his bewilderment and regret so obvious to me. I, then, did the only thing I could-I closed my eyes and prayed.

I was being held rather carefully in his arms, as he made his way back to his lair, his flat, really. I tried to tell myself that this was what I came looking for--the Vampire Santiago, and now, well, I would have to wait and see.

Trying to remember the details of the journey was as impossible as trying to read his thoughts. But it seemed soon enough that we were out of the humid night, and I was deposited, a bit gently, into a beautiful bed. Perhaps I had been right to fear, perhaps this was the worst idea that I had ever had, perhaps I would not survive this.

There were a few candles lit around the room, flickering, illuminating his features. But the illumination was a trick, softening his eyes, as a long and ghostly hand reached out. I was almost hypnotized by that hand, as it reached out to undo the first button on my thin blouse, then another, effortlessly. The blouse was taken from me with only a few scarcely noticeable motions. On much the same manner, a chill hand ran along the length of my body, finding the zipper to my skirt, sliding it down my silk-clad legs. Not one word was spoken, though I should have had a plethora of objections. I voiced none of them.

He watched me lying there, and I waited for him to lunge at me, or laugh at me, or leave. He did none of those things, but reached out again to the little clasp at the front of my bra, and flicked his hand over it--I sat up myself and removed it for him. For that moment, he appeared almost pleased, so I knelt on his fine bed, and removed my panties and stockings as well, with nervous hands. Then, God help me, I lay back down on his bed.

It seemed that the all the heat of Louisiana was born in me--and he began. His icy lips touched my throat, but just barely, my lips, but for a moment. Then he ran his hand, again, down my side. And before I had to time to react, took a sharp finger, and ran it slowly from the wounds in my neck to below my left nipple. He left a thin crimson line there, and I gasped as his mouth found the droplets that formed. His tongue capturing the blood, barely oozing from the cut--his mouth then slowly running over my breast, lapping at the incision he made.

He moved then over me, fully clad still. Yet I could feel winter emanating from his body, and I closed my eyes. He kissed me--drawing my lower lip into his mouth, bruising it. And then as though he played *my* game long enough, could not control himself another second, he pinned my arms over my head, with one preternatural hand, and went into my neck.

Much more power than I had imagined, and suddenly my thoughts were tumbling out of my head. I could remember little things, and all those things were drawn out of me with my blood. Dancing with my father, kissing a boy for the first time, making love to my college sweetheart, my last encounter with Santiago, Louis...

I felt his cold lips curve into a smile against my neck, and he was still suckling from me, his other hand roaming over my bare breasts, my belly, my thighs. I thought he would never stop...Did I want him to stop? That blackly exciting feeling, that he has full dominion over me, my life.

I was becoming more and more tired, far too tired to have thoughts of resisting him. Funny, I was not frightened as he drank, merely rode the waves of sensation he was producing with his hand, his mouth, my memories.

When I believed that I could no longer hold on, the image in my head was altogether strange. There was a scene, a tableaux, that was not my memory at all. A young man, with gold and copper glints in his auburn hair was being held, soothed, by a figure. A man with raven hair held him close, running his hands with abandon through his hair, over his back, murmuring in French to him. It seemed though, that it was the man who was crying.

This is the last I recall but for the pain I felt for him, and the agony when he tore his mouth away. I wanted to touch him, but still he held fast my arms.

"Sleep, cherie. You are well."

And I did sleep. Had he lain next to me, stroking my hair, whispering? Perhaps not. Perhaps that was merely part of an exquisite dream.

I woke in a hospital, my partner sitting in a chair by the bed. I closed my eyes again, not wanting to explain.