La Luxure: Discover Your Blood Lust (2 page)

Her cell phone rang just as she tossed the
book aside. Grabbing her purse, she flipped open the phone and
headed into the hallway. Even if she hadn't planned any activities
for this evening, she could at least get a bite to eat, and then
wander the streets for a few hours.

"Hey, Jules," Clare's voice piped in. "Sorry
about earlier. I was just a little
occupied
. You know how
Chris is."

No, Julia did not know how Chris was, nor did
she want to.

"Just don't answer the phone next time," she
snipped, once again surprised by her irritable reaction. She felt
like a bitter old woman. Why was she so annoyed by Clare answering
the phone while having sex? Maybe Julia was jealous. Her vibrator
was the only companion she'd had for a while.

"Um, yeah, no problem," Clare said
cautiously. "So what are you up to?"

"Heading out to get dinner. Have any
suggestions?" Julia arrived at the elevator and paused. The stairs
had to be nearby. Taking a guess, she pulled open a door near the
shaft. She'd assumed correctly, and stepped into a metal and
concrete stairwell that looked like it belonged in a bad horror
movie where women in stilettos ran screaming from a masked,
chainsaw carrying psycho.

It didn't matter. Anything was better than
the elevator.

"I don't think I've ever eaten while in
NOLA," Clare admitted with a laugh just as Julia negotiated the
first step. "There is a pizza place on Bourbon by the 'Live Sex
Acts' show."

Julia grimaced. "I'll keep that in mind."

"The pizza or the live sex acts?" Clare
teased.

"Neither. Well, I'm sure I'll find
something."

"Eat some oysters. They're an aphrodisiac you
know. There's a popular restaurant on Iberville St."

"Oysters do sound good. Thanks, Clare. I'll
talk to you later."

Julia reached the lobby and pulled out her
map. Not only had she researched the city, but always the good
engineer, she'd also printed out a map and circled points of
interest. She'd even calculated the distance and time it would take
to get to each one.

It would be a refreshing change for her to
simply be adventurous, actually go somewhere unprepared, truly live
in the moment...but at least she knew how to get to Iberville, only
two blocks down.

The sun was slowly creeping behind the
downtown skyline and Bourbon Street was already a bustle of
activity. The minute Julia stepped off the quiet street her hotel
was nestled on, the energy changed from quaint 18th century town to
spring break. Music blared from open bar windows. Techno clashed
with hip-hop while head-butting a Mardi Gras brass band. People
stumbled down the blockaded street carrying huge, plastic souvenir
cups most likely filled with alcoholic beverages, and waitresses in
overly short skirts balanced trays of brightly colored test tube
shots.

She realized this endless party was part of
the city's appeal, but good grief, it was Sunday.

Something whizzed past her head, and Julia
ducked instinctually. A strand of cheap purple beads lay curled on
the dirty street. Following the beads' trajectory, she glanced
towards the wrought iron balcony across the street. Three
overweight, hairy men stood on it, spilling beer over the edge. One
lifted his t-shirt and catcalled, shaking his fur covered belly and
man-boobs at her.

Julia tucked her head and geared her stride
into New York mode, quickly slipping past two strippers beckoning
passers-by into their club, some guy puking into a trash can, and
an area that smelled strongly of urine, until she was finally able
to escape onto Iberville.

Once off Bourbon, the energy changed back to
quiet calm. It was startling how different it was, like an
invisible line had been drawn at Bourbon's right-of-way and she
passed from one dimension to the next when crossing it.

With the palms of her hands, Julia wiped the
imaginary scum from her jeans and sweater. She felt like she needed
a shower. When she headed back to the hotel later, she'd be sure to
take a parallel street.

Unfortunately, the restaurant with the neon
"Oysters" sign blaring in the front window had a line out the door.
Her stomach gurgled angrily. Oysters would have to wait another
day. There was a hot dog guy on the corner. She could grab a quick
bite and then check out Jackson Square. The temperature was cooler
than she expected, and the chilled air was slowly seeping through
her sweater, but a brisk walk to the Saint Louis Cathedral should
warm her up.

Holding her breath against the stench of
urine and alcohol, she braved getting close enough to Bourbon St.
long enough to buy a hot dog and Diet Coke before beginning the
short trek to the Square.

Rue Royal might run parallel to Bourbon, but
that was where the similarities ended. It was lined with antique
stores, art galleries, and the kind of jewelry shops that attracted
women with fur coats and conservative bobs. No beads, no blaring
music, no hairy balcony dwellers. Julia might not be the type that
frequented antique shops or art galleries, but it was still
peaceful.

She settled into a comfortable stride and
lost herself in the fantasy of another time. It was easy to do on
the stone New Orleans sidewalks.

Alton was a historic city too, with dozens of
brick streets and plenty of 19th century charm. But at no time did
walking the hilly streets of the city nestled on the bluffs of the
Mississippi River allow Julia to forget she was in any time but the
present. Maybe it was the cars parked on the wide streets, or the
huge grain silo paralleling downtown, or the glitzy casino
riverboat that masked Alton's historic feel. Compared to New
Orleans, Alton felt like just another pre-civil war city that was
an infant by the world's standards, and ancient by American's.

She imagined herself as the character from
her book,
Marguerite
, a stranger in an even stranger city,
her wounds still seeping from a recent tragedy, wandering the
foreign streets, and looking for something to heal her.

Julia wasn't all that different. Not that her
wounds were as raw, but she wasn't without her scars. About 8 years
ago, her mother had died in a car accident. Julia was still in
college and Clare had just turned nineteen. Almost immediately
after the funeral, their father moved across the state, where he
promptly started a family with his new, 25-year-old wife. Up until
that moment, the Brown family had fit the American ideal.

In the eight years following her mother's
death, she'd barely spoken to her father twice, and had never even
met her new siblings or
stepmother
. So, like
Marguerite
, Julia understood what it was like to have her
world come crashing to an abrupt halt.

And like
Marguerite
, Julia had never
been to New Orleans.

She glanced up from her daydream. It had
suddenly gotten very quiet. The antique shops, galleries, and other
tourists were gone, and she was alone at the intersection. The
street sign read, "Ursulines Ave".

Julia unfolded her map. Oops, she'd gone too
far.

Doubling back, Julia studied the map. If she
took a left on the next street and then a right on Chartres, she
should pass right in front of the cathedral. Surely she couldn't
miss it then.

She'd crossed Royal and was heading down the
connecting street when a striking couple made her pause. Dressed in
elegant
Goth
fashion, the woman wore an ankle length, red
velvet dress with corset lacing, and her sleek, black hair
glistened in the flickering gas lamps that illuminated most of the
French Quarter. The man was dressed all in black, with a satin
button up shirt and fitted trousers. His midnight hair was short
and arranged in rigid spikes.

Julia slowed her stride enough to stay a safe
distance behind, but not enough that it was obvious she was
following them. When the couple disappeared through a brick
archway, Julia sped back up to see where they'd gone. A tiny sign
with red cursive writing hung at the peak of the arch.

La Luxure
.

Leaning cautiously against the edge of the
archway, she peered into the darkness. A narrow alley stretched
before her, opening into what looked like a small courtyard. She
could just make out another doorway at the end, and beyond that she
could faintly hear music.

"Are you going inside, O negative, or do you
plan on lingering out here all night?"

Her skin and body nearly separated. Laughing
nervously instead of screaming, she turned to the tall, lean man
who'd so efficiently snuck up on her. He had waist length,
multicolored dreads, pale skin with hollow cheeks, a hook nose, and
the craziest white-blue eyes she'd ever seen. His clothes were more
Steampunk than traditional Goth, with a fitted waistcoat, pocket
watch, and motorcycle goggles perched on his head.

Not that Julia had ever worn either style.
But it was something Clare was into, and Julia had spent hours
listening to her sister gush about this corset dress, or that
fabulous bustle, or this mini top hat, to at least recognize the
difference between the fashions.

Her voice escaped in a rush. "Oh! It's a
bar?"

"In a manner of speaking." His burgundy
painted lips separated, revealing sparkling, white teeth. "There's
no need to be shy. You're welcome to come in and have a drink."

As curious as Julia might be about the inside
of
La Luxure
, she really didn't care to go in based on some
strange guy's invitation. He had the most lust filled expression on
his angular face, and it was more than just sexual.

"Maybe later. I'm expected somewhere else."
She hoped to make him think people were waiting for her. Ditching
the body of someone with friends was harder than ditching a loner
no one would miss.

"Too bad," he said, sliding past her and into
the dim alley. "You're definitely my
type
." He grinned one
last time at her before disappearing through a door at the far
end.

What the hell did that mean? He didn't seem
the kind to prefer the "girl next door", and he'd emphasized his
last word enough to make her wonder at its innuendo.

Hadn't he called her
O negative
?

That was her blood type.

Goosebumps covered her body, and chills
danced up her spine. Julia didn't linger any longer, but hastened
away as quickly as she could without actually running. She felt
like the little girl she'd once been, who scampered up the basement
stairs convinced there were monsters underneath waiting to grab her
ankles.

Planes and elevators might send morbid images
into her head, now she had another scene to add. This one revolved
around a tall, pale man sucking her dry in a dark, arched
alleyway.

It was scary and somehow sexy at the same
time.

Chapter Two

Minutes later, Julia stumbled onto Jackson
Square. The cathedral was beautiful even in the twilight hours. Its
gray spires reached well above the building rooftops and she
wondered how she'd missed it the first time.

Except for a few artists packing up their
wares and some lingering fortune tellers, the Square was empty. The
temperature had dropped even more, or maybe Julia was still chilled
from the creepy encounter at
Luxure
, but she wished she'd
brought a jacket.

Peering through the metal slats of the park's
perimeter fence, she could barely make out the statue of Andrew
Jackson. She'd come back when it was light out, but right now, with
the lack of safe sunlight and dwindling number of people, Julia
decided it was best to retire to her hotel room and immerse herself
in a more interesting New Orleans adventure.

"I must read your cards," a short, smarmy
looking man said, drawing her attention away from the park
landscaping. He wore a black leather jacket and matching moustache
from 1989.

"No thanks, I'm good."

"I have to. I was packing up, but something
told me I had to read you." His black eyes sparkled when he smiled.
"Let a real Rom tell your future. Half price."

Wasn't this the spontaneity she was craving?
What else did she have to do? She shrugged. "Sure."

"It's not often I really feel the need to
read someone," he told her as he led her over to a card table
covered with one of those cotton blankets sold in head shops: the
kind with astrological signs, lots of stars, and often an Indian
God or two. "Been doing this for 20 years. You're only the third
person that called to me."

Oh, it was probably his normal shtick, but it
was harmless enough to buy into it. Besides, she'd always wanted to
have a tarot reading.

"Really? Well, I hope you've got something
good for me." She followed his lead and sat across from him in a
plastic, foldable chair.

"So what question do you have for the cards?"
he asked as he shuffled the large deck once, twice, a third time,
and then, after hesitating and pressing his ear against the cards
as though he was
listening
to them, a fourth time.

"Um, nothing particular. Just tell me about
the future, I guess," she said, too embarrassed to ask the real
question she'd like an answer to. Would she ever meet a man that
made her feel something more than ho-hum?

With rapid, practiced movements, he placed
the cards on the points of the yellow star centered on the blanket
covering the table. Starting with the center, then moving to the
upper point, the lower right point, the left point, and continuing
until all the cards were gone. Next time she was bored at work,
she'd have to look up the significance of the pattern on the Net.
Or ask Clare. That girl knew the most bizarre trivia.

He flipped a few cards over, studied them a
moment, and then said, "I see you as lost. Not really unhappy, but
not quite satisfied, like the niche you've carved in your life
isn't quite the right fit and you're searching for something to
fill in the missing pieces." He glanced at her. "You're single,
right?"