The Vampire (THE VAMPIRE Book 1) (2 page)

When he got back to the hotel, he found he needed to crank up the room’s air conditioning, then took a shower, and quickly fell into blissful asleep.

The next morning, March 18th, was his birthday. He intended to make his way to Pat O’Brien’s later to celebrate with a Hurricane. He was sure this was going to be a memorable day and he felt ready for new and different experiences. He didn’t care if what he did was considered typical tourist stuff or not. He wanted to see and do it all.

He got an early start with what turned out to be one of the best breakfasts ever at the Camellia Grill, a small quirky place on Chartres. He wandered into various shops around the Quarter, looking over all of the interestingly weird souvenirs. He remembered to gather some post cards to send to his sister Carrie, and would send some to himself as well, noting the date, what he was doing or planned to do that day. He regarded these as brief journal entries, a memory to enjoy when he returned, feeling only slightly self-conscious about the sentimental side of him he was reluctant to show to others.

His day was filled with pleasant surprises and tasty new food experiences, including his first praline; freshly made and still warm, it almost melted in his mouth. He found the Maspero Café to be a great place for lunch. He ate fresh fruit at the French Market and then bought small silver jewelry items there as well as T-shirts and several elaborate but inexpensive decorative masks. Later he browsed in a voodoo shop then checked out antique shops on Royal Street. He ended up buying a few more silly and scandalous trinkets and souvenirs for himself and family. Finally he was exhausted from all of the walking and decided to go back to his hotel to drop off his purchases and take a nap. Later, feeling refreshed, he headed out for the evening where, in the space of a few hours, he had joined in a Cajun two-step, enjoyed rowdy piano tunes at Pat O’Brien’s after drinking two Hurricanes, watched a street performer walk barefoot on broken glass on Bourbon Street, listened to sad soulful tunes in one bar and then heard some lively Zydeco, which he termed “feel good music” at another bar to round out his night.

He climbed into bed happy and exhausted, thinking how this had been the best birthday of his life. “This couldn’t get any better. I should make it a point to be here every year on my birthday.”

His next morning began at the Camellia Grill again; he loved the atmosphere and camaraderie of the place. Out of all the many good places to eat he already had some favorites. He finished his breakfast and dashed out to catch the
Natchez
for a paddlewheel boat ride on the Mississippi. As he waited to board, he witnessed a second line parade: people following musicians in a sad, then happy remembrance of someone who had passed. The mournful, slow tribute deeply touched him. Someone’s ashes were being taken to be distributed into the river.
People know how to live here,
he thought.
They know exactly what the most important thing is; and whether it’s a good time or a sad one, they do it right
.

Later that afternoon he spent a pleasant hour listening to Yes Ma’am, a street band performing near Royal Street. They became an instant favorite and he bought one of their CD’s. He discovered the meaning of
lagniappe
and was delighted with the custom of receiving a little something extra with some of his purchases. That evening he splurged on dinner at Arnaud’s and then sampled local cocktail specialties at several bars before taking a Vampire walking tour to finish up the evening. He found the Vampire tour to be rather too theatrical, but some of the stories were intriguing enough to follow up on when he got a chance to do so.

He slept in the next morning, waking up a little late to try to find breakfast close by, and decided he would return to a new favorite, the Maspero Café, for lunch instead, with no definite plans yet for the rest of the day.

It was 11:45 by the time he entered the café, just after they had opened. He expected the lunch crowd would be filling up the place soon.

The first thought he had when he entered was the place was not quite open yet. He saw absolutely no one at first. And then just one person, a man standing at the bar, with his back to the door, caught his eye. Slowly the man turned in Jason’s direction.

Jason stared, wondering if he should say something, or leave, or stand there and wait. The man was tall, thin, dressed in a dark gray business suit, narrow red tie. His neatly groomed, longish dark hair brushed his shoulders. He gazed toward the doorway as if expecting someone. Jason suddenly felt self-conscious about staring and glanced away. Then he blinked several times and looked all around him in amazement: the place was busy and nearly full of customers. In fact there weren’t any open tables. He shook his head, feeling as if he probably wasn’t fully awake yet. The place had seemed quiet and empty a moment ago.

Jason stood and waited. People started coming in and waiting behind him. A young couple got up from their table suddenly and headed for the door, moving quickly past Jason. It appeared they had not even ordered yet; their table was still clean.

Jason caught the eye of one of the servers; she nodded at the empty table and he moved toward it, taking the seat that faced the bar. The server arrived a few minutes later with ice water and a menu.

I’m starved,
Jason thought.
Hungry enough to eat a whole muffaletta. I’m going to need coffee too, to wake me up. Maybe a glass of wine also. Why not? So what if it’s not quite noon— I’m on vacation
.

He took in his surroundings again now as he waited for the server to return. He loved the exposed brick and wood beams; the comfortable informality of the place; the big open windows, perfect for watching the crowds and traffic moving along busy Decatur Street.

He took a look at the menu. The food was good, plentiful and easy on the budget. There were the expected gumbo and seafood dishes; jambalaya and etouffe. But they had burgers, fries and salads as well. He intended to try local specialties everywhere he went.

As he sat and waited to order, he began to feel as if someone was staring at him. He took a casual look around him but no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

He glanced at the people passing by on the street for a while then reached for the glass of water and took a long drink. The server returned and to his surprise he heard himself order the large chef salad instead of the big muffaletta sandwich he had wanted. He paused after he had said it; he could feel his puzzled expression and was suddenly unsure of himself. A moment ago he had been certain of exactly what he wanted. He glanced around the room, distracted again by the feeling someone was watching him. And again, no one seemed to be paying any notice. He wasn’t usually this self-conscious. Instead of correcting the order, he requested coffee and a glass of Pinot Grigio.

He felt a little stunned at what had just happened.
I like salad…but it was not even on my mind to order that
.

The server brought him the glass of wine. Jason took a sip and used that motion as an excuse to gaze discreetly around the room, still feeling eyes upon him. The only person even facing in his direction now was the guy at the bar. And he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Jason. “I must really be tired from last night.” He shrugged.

He occupied himself by gazing out the window across the room until the salad arrived, a huge one, with bacon and chicken on top. It really did look good, and he had no real choice now but to eat it. He speared a forkful, and as he brought it to his mouth he felt it acutely: someone was definitely observing him. It almost made him too self-conscious to eat. Jason laid down his forkful of food, and looked toward the bar. Nothing suspicious there. He shrugged it off again with a big sigh.

Jason resumed his meal, absorbed in his own thoughts, absently alternating sips of water and then the wine. He glanced through a tourist brochure he had stuffed into his pocket. He was enjoying the meal, but was still wondering why he wasn’t eating the muffaletta he had wanted originally.

“There.” He felt it again now. Someone was definitely paying close attention to him. Without intending to, he stared at the man who had his back to him now at the bar. He glanced away and took another sip of his wine and a moment later sipped the coffee. When he glanced up again the young guy at the bar was looking, not at him exactly, but in his general direction.

Curious now, Jason took in more details about him. He was good looking; actually quite good looking in that effortless way some people seemed to have. Wearing a suit did not make him appear older—he looked to be in his early twenties, maybe, if not younger. He could be a model or a professional entertainer of some kind. Maybe even someone famous. But he did not look familiar. Jason took another sip of his wine. When he glanced up, he involuntarily looked toward the man at the bar again. He had a gut feeling this was the person who had been staring at him. He took another big forkful of the salad. No way he would be able to finish all of this; it was daunting.
So what if I couldn’t finish the whole muffaletta at one sitting either… I’d rather take that back to the hotel to eat later than a salad I could get any—

The guy from the bar appeared beside his table, holding a glass of red wine
.

“I have been waiting for someone…” The stranger paused, waiting for Jason to finish a quick sip of his water. “…may I share this table while I wait?”

Jason’s immediate instinct was to say no. Which wasn’t like him at all. He was often accommodating to strangers. But the dining area had no other empty seats then, except one bar stool available, way in the dark corner by the kitchen entrance. The man had been standing at the bar.

Jason couldn’t account for why he felt so uncomfortable.

The stranger’s voice was pleasant, unexpectedly soft, yet able to be heard over the din of the busy dining room. In fact, he had just a slight Southern accent, combined with something else…European maybe? Jason found himself nodding, as if he were remote controlled. Nearly a subconscious gesture.

The stranger pulled the one empty chair away from the table, at least a foot or more away, and then gracefully sat. He seemed to deliberately distance himself from Jason and his gaze went elsewhere.
Well, good,
Jason thought,
maybe he is at least a little uncomfortable too
.

Jason glanced up at the stranger as he took another bite of the salad. The man was not looking at him, and yet Jason felt as if he was being studied just the same. And he felt sure of it now: this person had been observing him, no matter where else he had seemed to be looking.

However much his appearance—and it was decidedly gothy today—might draw attention, it was never Jason’s intention to do so. He was out of his comfort zone being the focus of attention in any situation. Now, something cold and clinical about the way he was being observed added to his discomfort. He had never felt so probed, so acutely aware of another person’s attention before. He lost his appetite suddenly. He wanted to down the rest of the wine, get his check and leave. He glanced up, looking for his server.

“What brings you to New Orleans?” the soft voice inquired.

Jason looked up at him in surprise.

The way the stranger had said New Orleans told Jason he was definitely local.
Is it so obvious I’m a tourist?
Then he remembered the tourist brochure, now sitting in plain sight.

“Vacation.”

“What sort of work do you do?” The soft voice made no attempt to disguise the directness of the question.

“Media analyst,” Jason heard himself reply.
Why am I being so honest? I could have told him anything
. Actually he was still learning his trade. Not a full-fledged analyst yet. He took a sip of his wine and gazed out the windows at the crowds moving along Decatur Street.

“I cannot place your accent.” Softly spoken; a silken voice.

Jason returned his gaze to the stranger.
What is he up to? What does he want, really?
That low, soft voice, nearly seductive. It brought to mind an ad campaign, one of many Jason had studied in his school curriculum: “If you want someone’s attention…whisper,” the product had invited. Well, whatever this stranger wanted, Jason was not willing to give it to him.

“Minnesota.” he answered.
I don’t have an accent
.

“I would have guessed New England, perhaps.”

“I attended Boston University.”

“Did you take a degree there?”

Jason nodded. “Bachelor’s.” He frowned as he glanced at people ambling by on Decatur. Then he took another sip of wine. He was probably making too much of this encounter. People were just very nice here, friendly. He should be used to it now. Everywhere he went, in fact, people always found him approachable. He was always the one people asked directions of, even if other people were close by. He was the one with whom they always wanted to stop and chat. He rarely felt like reciprocating. Suddenly, though, at this moment, he did feel like it.

“And what kind of work do you do?” he asked of the stranger. His tone sounded more direct than it might have been usually. He was suddenly curious.

The stranger’s eyes flickered for a moment. He seemed to be considering his reply.

“Business. Investments. Real estate. Mostly, though, I am at leisure.”

Vague and evasive
. Something about his speech and his manner seemed to belie his youthful appearance. “And your home is in New Orleans,” Jason stated. He really did not buy for one second that this guy was a businessman. And he wondered why he thought that.

The stranger stared impassively at him for several moments.
Have I managed to disrupt his calm and collected demeanor?
Jason glanced around again for the server.
Time to go now
.

“There is a residence in Boston,” the stranger replied. His direct stare made Jason swallow. The stranger’s eyes kept drawing his attention and now Jason realized why. It wasn’t just the intensity of the gaze: it was the almost unnatural shade of deep violet. Even for someone accustomed to seeing exotic special FX lenses and extreme eye makeup within the goth community, Jason found these eyes rather unusual.
No one’s eyes could look like that naturally,
he thought.
He has to be wearing contacts
. But what an unusual color to choose. The man’s dark, nearly black hair and his very pale complexion probably made his eyes, the color at least, more prominent.