"Fevre Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R. R.)

CHAPTER SIX

Julian Plantation, Louisiana, July 1857

Sour Billy Tipton was out front, chucking his knife at the big dead tree that fronted the gravel path, when the riders approached. It was morning but already hot as hell, and Sour Billy was working himself up a good sweat and thinking of going down for a swim when he finished up his knife-throwing. Then he saw the riders emerge from the woods where the old road crooked around. He went over to the dead tree and pulled loose his knife and slid it back into its sheath behind his back, all thoughts of swimming forgotten.

The riders came on real slow, but bold as brass, riding straight up in broad daylight like they belonged here. They couldn’t be from these parts, Sour Billy figured; what neighbors they had all knew that Damon Julian didn’t like no one coming onto his land without his leave. When they were still too far away to make out good, he wondered if maybe they weren’t some of Montreuil’s Creole friends come to make trouble. If so, they were going to regret it.

Then he saw why they were riding so slow, and Sour Billy relaxed. Two niggers in chains were stumbling along behind the two men on horseback. He crossed his arms and leaned against the tree, waiting for them to reach him.

Sure enough, they reined up. One of the men on horseback looked at the house, with its peeling paint and half-rotted front steps, spat out a wad of tobacco juice, and turned to Sour Billy. “This the Julian plantation?” he said. He was a big red-faced man with a wart on his nose, dressed in smelly leathers and a slouchy felt hat.

“Sure is,” Sour Billy replied. But he was looking past the horseman and his companion, a lean pink-cheeked youth who was probably the other’s son. He went walking over to the two haggard-looking niggers, downcast and miserable in their chains, and Sour Billy smiled. “Why,” he said, “if it ain’t Lily and Sam. Never thought you two be dropping by again. Must be two years since you went and run off. Mister Julian will be real pleased to know that you come back.”

Sam, a big powerful-looking buck, raised his head and stared at Sour Billy, but there was no defiance in his eyes. Only fear. “We come on ’em up to Arkansas, my boy and me,” the red-faced man said. “Tried to claim they was free niggers, but they didn’t fool me for a minute, no sir.”

Sour Billy looked at the slave catchers and nodded. “Go on.”

“They was awful stubborn, these two. Couldn’t get ’em to tell us where they was from for the longest while. Whipped ’em right smart, used a few other tricks I know. Usually, with niggers, you just scares ’em a bit and it pops right out. Not with these.” He spat. “Well, we finally got it out of ’em. Show him, Jim.”

The boy dismounted, went over to the woman, and lifted her right arm. Three fingers were missing from her hand. One of the stumps was still crusted over with a scab.

“We started with the right cause we noticed she was left-handed,” the man said. “Didn’t want to cripple her up too bad, you unnerstand, but we couldn’t find nothin’ in the papers, no posters out neither, so

…” He shrugged eloquently. “Got to the third finger, like you see, and the man finally told us. The woman cussed him out somethin’ fierce.” He guffawed. “Anyway, here they is. Two slaves like that, got to be worth somethin’ to us for catchin’ ’em. This Mister Julian at home?”

“No,” said Sour Billy, looking up at the sun. It was still a couple of hours shy of noon.

“Well,” said the red-faced man, “you must be the overseer, right? The one they call Sour Billy?”

“That’s me,” he said. “Sam and Lily talk about me?”

The slave catcher laughed again. “Oh, they did a powerful lot of talkin’ once we knew where they come from. Talked all the way here. We shut ’em up a time or two, my boy and me, but then they’d just start to talkin’ again. Some stories, too.”

Sour Billy looked at the two runaways with his cold, malicious eyes, but neither one would meet his gaze.

“Maybe you can just take charge of these two, and give us our reward, and we’ll be ridin’ on our way,” the man said.

“No,” said Sour Billy Tipton. “You got to wait. Mister Julian will want to give you his thanks personal. Won’t be too long. He’ll be back by dark.”

“By dark, huh?” the man said. He and his son exchanged glances. “Funny, Mister Sour Billy, but these here niggers said you’d say jest that very thing. They tell queer stories bout what goes on here after dark. My boy and I, we’d jest sooner take our money and leave, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It won’t be all the same to Mister Julian,” Sour Billy said. “And I can’t give you no money neither. You going to believe some fool story told you by a couple niggers?”

The man frowned, working his tobacco all the while. “Nigger stories is one thing,” he said finally, “but I knowed niggers to tell the truth once in a while too. Now, what we’ll do, Mister Sour Billy, is wait, like you say, for this Mister Julian to come home. But don’t you think we’re gonna let ourself be cheated.” He had a pistol by his side. He patted it. “I’m gonna wear my friend here whiles I wait, and my boy he’s got one too, and we’re both of us handy with our knives. You unnerstand? These niggers learned us all about that little knife you got hid behind your back, so don’t you go a-reachin’ back there, like to scratch on anything, or else our fingers might get a little bit itchy too. Let’s jest all of us wait and be friends.”

Sour Billy turned his eyes on the slave catcher and gave him a cold stare, but the big man was too stupid to even notice. “We’ll wait inside,” Sour Billy said, keeping his hands well clear of his back.

“Jest fine,” the slave catcher said. He dismounted. “My name is Tom Johnston, by the way, and that’s my boy Jim.”

“Mister Julian will be pleased to meet you,” Sour Billy said. “Tie up your horses and bring the niggers on inside. Careful on the steps. They’s rotted through in places.”

The woman started to whimper as they led her toward the house, but Jim Johnston gave her a smart crack across the mouth and she fell silent again.

Sour Billy led them to the library, and drew back the heavy curtains to admit some light into the dim, dusty room. The slaves sat on the floor, while the two catchers stretched out in the heavy leather chairs. “Now,” said Tom Johnston, “this here is real nice.”

“Everything is all rotten and dusty, Daddy,” the youth said. “Jest like them niggers said it’d be.”

“Well, well,” said Sour Billy, looking at the two niggers. “Well, well. Mister Julian ain’t going to be pleased you been spreadin’ tales about his house. You two earned yourself a whippin’.”

The big black buck, Sam, found the courage to raise his head and glower. “I ain’t scared o’ no whippin’.”

Sour Billy smiled just slightly. “Why then, there’s worse things than whippin’, Sam. Indeed there is.”

That was too much for the woman, Lily. She looked at the youth. “He’s tellin’ the truth, massa Jim, he is. You got to lissen. Take us outta here ’fore dark. You and your daddy kin own us, work us, we work real hard for you, we will. Won’t run away. We’re good niggers. Never would have run away, but for… for… don’t wait till dark, massa, don’t. It’ll be too late then.”

The boy hit her, hard, with the butt of his pistol, leaving a welt across her cheek and knocking her backward to the carpet where she lay, shuddering and weeping. “Shut your lyin’ black mouth,” he said.

“You want a drink?” Sour Billy asked him.

The hours passed. They went through most of two bottles of Julian’s best brandy, swilling it down like it was cheap whiskey. They ate. They talked. Sour Billy didn’t do much talking himself, just asked questions to draw out Tom Johnston, who was drunk and vain and in love with his own voice. The slave catchers operated out of Napoleon, Arkansas, it seemed, but they weren’t there much, traveling like they did. There was a Missus Johnston, but she stayed at home with her daughter. They didn’t tell her much of their business. “Woman ain’t got no reason to know about her man’s comin’s and goin’s. You tell ’em somethin’ or other, jest you don’t see if they don’t go and bother you about it if you’re late. Then you got to slap ’em around.” He spat. “Easier just to keep ’em guessing, so they’s grateful when you shows up.” Johnston left Sour Billy with the impression that he preferred topping nigger wenches anyway, so his wife was no loss to him.

Outside, the sun was sinking toward the west.

When the shadows lay thick across the room. Sour Billy rose and drew the curtains and lit some candles. “I’ll go and get Mister Julian,” he said.

The younger Johnston looked awful pale as he turned to his father, Sour Billy thought. “Daddy, I didn’t hear no one ride up,” he said.

“Wait,” said Sour Billy Tipton. He left them, walked through the darkened, deserted ballroom, and climbed the grand staircase. Upstairs, he entered a large bedroom, the wide French windows boarded up, the ornate bed shrouded by a black velvet canopy. “Mister Julian,” he called softly, from the door. The room was black and stifling.

Behind the canopy, something stirred. The velvet hangings were pushed back. Damon Julian emerged; pale, quiet, cold. His black eyes seemed to reach right out of the darkness and touch Sour Billy. “Yes, Billy?” came the soft voice.

Sour Billy told him everything.

Damon Julian smiled. “Bring them into the dining room. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

The dining room had a great old chandelier, but it had not been lit in Sour Billy’s memory. After bringing in the slave catchers, he found some matches and touched off a small oil lamp, which he set on the middle of the long table, so it threw a small ring of light on the white linen tablecloth but left the rest of the narrow, high-ceilinged room in shadow. The Johnstons took seats, the younger one peering around uneasily, his hand never leaving his pistol. The niggers held each other miserably at one end of the table.

“Where’s this Julian?” Tom Johnston growled.

“Soon, Tom,” said Sour Billy. “Wait.”

For nearly ten minutes no one spoke. Then Jim Johnston sucked in his breath. “Daddy,” he said, “look. Somebody’s standin’ in that door!”

The door led to the kitchen. It was black back there. Full night had fallen, and the only illumination in this part of the house was the oil lamp on the table. Beyond the kitchen door nothing could be seen but vague, threatening shadows-and something that looked like the outline of a human form, standing very still.

Lily whimpered, and the nigger Sam held her more closely. Tom Johnston got to his feet, his chair scraping over the wooden floor, his face hard. He drew and cocked his pistol. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Come out!”

“No need to be alarmed,” said Damon Julian.

They all turned, Johnston jumping like he’d been spooked. Julian stood beneath the archway to the foyer, framed against darkness, smiling charmingly, dressed in a long dark suit with a red silk tie shining at his neck. His eyes were dark and amused, the flame of the lamp reflected in them. “That’s only Valerie,” Julian said.

With a rustle of her skirts, she emerged and stood in the kitchen door, pale and quiet yet still strikingly beautiful. Johnston looked at her and laughed. “Ah,” he said, “only a woman. Sorry, Mister Julian. Them nigger stories got me all jumpy.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Damon Julian.

“There’s others behind him,” Jim Johnston whispered. They all saw them now; dim figures, indistinct, lost in the darkness at Julian’s back.

“Only my friends,” said Damon Julian, smiling. A woman in a light blue gown emerged at his right. “Cynthia,” he said. Another woman, in green, stood to his left. “Adrienne,” Julian added. He raised his arm in a weary, languid gesture. “And that is Raymond, and Jean, and Kurt.” They emerged together, moving silent as cats, from other doors ringing the long room. “And behind you are Alain and Jorge and Vincent.”

Johnston whirled, and there they were, stepping out from the shadows. Still more came into view behind Julian himself. Except for the whisperings of cloth against cloth, none of them made any sound as they moved. And they all stared, and smiled invitingly.

Sour Billy wasn’t smiling, though he was vastly amused at the way Tom Johnston clutched his gun and cast his eyes about like a frightened animal. “Mister Julian,” he said, “I ought to tell you that Mister Johnston here don’t intend to be cheated. He’s got him a gun, Mister Julian, and his boy too, and they’re both handy with their knives.”

“Ah,” said Damon Julian.

The niggers began to pray. Young Jim Johnston looked at Damon Julian and drew his own pistol. “We brung you your niggers,” he said. “We won’t bother you for no reward, neither. We’ll jest be goin’.”

“Going?” Julian said. “Now, would I let you leave without a reward? When you’ve come all the way from Arkansas just to bring us a few darkies? I wouldn’t hear of it.” He crossed the room. Jim Johnston, caught in those dark eyes of his, held his pistol up and did not move. Julian took it from his hand and laid it on the table. He touched the youth’s cheek. “Beneath the dirt, you’re a handsome boy,” he said.

“What are you doin’ to my boy?” Tom Johnston demanded. “Get away from him!” He flourished his pistol.

Damon Julian glanced around. “Your boy has a certain rude beauty,” he said. “You, on the other hand, have a wart.”

“He is a wart,” Sour Billy Tipton suggested.

Tom Johnston glared and Damon Julian smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “Amusing, Billy.” Julian gestured to Valerie and Adrienne. They glided toward him, and each took young Jim Johnston by the arm.

“You want help?” Sour Billy offered.

“No,” said Julian, “thank you.” With a graceful, almost offhand gesture, he raised his hand and brought it lightly across the youth’s long neck. Jim Johnston made a wet, choking sound. A thin line of red suddenly appeared across his throat, a little looping scarlet necklace, whose bright red beads swelled larger and larger as they watched, bursting one by one to send trickles down his neck. Jim Johnston began to thrash, but the iron embrace of the two pale women held him immobile. Damon Julian leaned forward, and pressed his open mouth to the flow, to catch the hot bright blood.

Tom Johnston made an incoherent animal noise deep in his chest, and took the longest time to react. Finally he cocked his pistol again and took aim. Alain stepped in his path, and suddenly Vincent and Jean were beside him, and Raymond and Cynthia touched him from behind with cold white hands. Johnston cursed at them and fired. There was a flash and a whiff of acrid smoke, and weed-thin Alain staggered back and fell, driven by the force of the bullet. A flow of dark blood seeped through the white ruffled shirtfront he wore. Half-sprawled, half-seated, Alain touched his chest, and his hand came away bloody.

Raymond and Cynthia had Johnston firmly by then, and Jean took the gun from his hand with a smooth, easy motion. The big red-faced man did not resist. He was staring at Alain. The flow of blood had stopped. Alain smiled, showing long white teeth, terrible and sharp. He rose and came on. “No,” screamed Johnston, “no, I shot ya, you gotta be dead, I shot ya.”

“Niggers sometimes tell the truth, Mister Johnston,” said Sour Billy Tipton. “All the truth. You should of lissened.”

Raymond reached under Johnston’s slouchy hat and got a good grip on his hair, jerking his head back to expose his thick red neck. Alain laughed and tore Johnston’s throat out with his teeth. Then the others closed in.

Sour Billy Tipton reached back and pulled his knife and sauntered over to the two niggers. “Come on,” he said, “Mister Julian don’t need you tonight, but you two ain’t goin’ to be running off no more. Down to the cellar. Come on, be quick about it, or I’ll leave you here with them.” That got them moving right proper, as Sour Billy knew it would.

The cellar was small and dank. You had to go through a trap door under a rug to get to it. The land around here was too wet for a proper cellar, but this cellar wasn’t proper. Two inches of standing water covered the floor, the ceiling was so low a man couldn’t stand upright, and the walls were green with mold. Sour Billy chained the niggers up good, close enough so that they could touch. He figured that was real nice of him. He brought them a hot dinner, too.

Afterward he made his own dinner and washed it down with what was left of the second bottle of brandy the Johnstons had opened. He was just finishing up when Alain came into the kitchen. The blood had dried on his shirt and there was a burnt black hole where the shot had gone through, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. “It’s finished,” Alain told him. “Julian wants you in the library.”

Sour Billy pushed away his plate and went to answer the summons. The dining room badly wanted cleaning, he noted when he passed through. Adrienne and Kurt and Armand were enjoying some wine amid the dim silence there, the bodies-or what was left of them-just feet away. Some of the others were off in the drawing room, talking.

The library was pitch dark. Sour Billy had expected to find Damon Julian alone, but when he entered he saw three indistinct figures in the shadows, two seated, one standing. He couldn’t make out who they were. He waited in the door until Julian finally spoke. “In the future, do not ever bring such people into my library,” the voice said. “They were filthy. They left a smell.”

Sour Billy felt a brief stab of fear. “Yes, sir,” he said, facing the chair from which Julian had spoken. “I’m sorry, Mister Julian.”

After a moment of silence, Julian said, “Close the door, Billy. Come in. You may use the lamp.”

The lamp was made of showy red-stained glass; its flame gave the dusty room the red-brown cast of dried blood. Damon Julian sat in a high-backed chair, his fine long fingers steepled beneath his chin, a faint smile on his face. Valerie sat at his right hand. The sleeve of her gown had gotten torn in the struggles, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. Sour Billy thought she was even paler than usual. A few feet away, Jean stood behind another chair, looking guarded and nervous, twisting a big gold ring on his finger.

“Must he be here?” Valerie asked Julian. She glanced at Billy briefly, contempt in her big purple eyes.

“Why, Valerie,” Julian replied. He reached out and took her hand. She trembled and pressed her lips together tightly. “I brought Billy to reassure you,” Julian continued.

Jean gathered up his courage and stared right at Sour Billy, frowning. “This Johnston had a wife.”

So that was it, Sour Billy thought. “You scared?” he asked Jean mockingly. Jean was not one of Julian’s favorites, so it was safe to taunt him. “He had a wife,” Billy said, “but it ain’t nothin’ to worry over. He never talked to her much, never told her where he was goin’ or when he’d be back. She ain’t goin’ to be comin’ after you.”

“I do not like it, Damon,” Jean grumbled.

“What about the slaves?” Valerie demanded. “They’ve been gone two years. They said things to the Johnstons, dangerous things. They must have talked to others as well.”

“Billy?” Julian said.

Sour Billy shrugged. “I expect they told stories to every damn nigger between here and Arkansas,” he said. “It don’t worry me none. Just a pack of nigger stories, ain’t nobody goin’ to believe it.”

“I wonder,” said Valerie. She turned to Damon Julian, pleading. “Damon, please. Jean is right. We have been here too long. It is not safe. Remember what they did to that Lalaurie woman in New Orleans, the one who tortured her slaves for pleasure? The talk finally caught up with her. And what she did was nothing to…” She hesitated, swallowed, and added, quietly, “… to the things we do. The things we must do.” She turned her face away from Julian.

Slowly, gently, Julian reached out a pale hand, touched her cheek, drew a finger down the side of her face in a tender caress, then caught her under the chin and made her look at him. “Are you so timid now, Valerie? Must I remind you of who you are? Have you been listening to Jean again? Is he the master now? Is he bloodmaster?”

“No,” she said, her deep violet eyes wider than ever, her voice afraid. “No.”

“Who is the bloodmaster, dear Valerie?” Julian asked. His eyes were lambent and heavy and bored right into her.

“You are, Damon,” she whispered. “You.”

“Look at me, Valerie. Do you think I need fear any tales told by a pack of slaves? What do I care what they say of me?”

Valerie opened her mouth. No words came out.

Satisfied, Damon Julian released his hold on her. There were deep red marks on her flesh where his fingers had pressed. He smiled at Sour Billy as Valerie drew back. “What do you think, Billy?”

Sour Billy Tipton looked down at his feet and shuffled nervously. He knew what he ought to say, but he’d been doing some figuring lately, and there were things he had to tell Julian that Julian wouldn’t take kindly to hearing. He’d been putting it off, but now he didn’t see as how he had any more choice. “I don’t know, Mister Julian,” he said weakly.

“You don’t know, Billy? What is it you don’t know?” The tone was cold and vaguely threatening.

Sour Billy plunged on regardless. “I don’t know how long we can go on, Mister Julian,” he said boldly. “I been thinking on this some, and there’s things I don’t like. This here plantation brought in a lot of money when Garoux was runnin’ it, but it’s near worthless now. You know I can get work out of any slave, damned if I can’t, but them what’s dead or run off I can’t work. When you and your friends started takin’ kids from them shanties, or ordering the likely wenches up to the big house where they never come out, that was the start of our troubles. You ain’t had no slaves for more’n a year now, excepting those fancy girls, and they sure don’t stay around long.” He laughed nervously. “We don’t got no crops. We sold half the plantation, all the best parcels of land. And them fancy girls, Mister Julian, they’re expensive. We got us bad money troubles.

“And that ain’t all. Doing in niggers is one thing, but using white folks for the thirst, that’s dangerous. In New Orleans, well, maybe that’s safe enough, but you and I know it was Cara killed Henri Cassand’s youngest boy. He’s a neighbor, Mister Julian. They all know there’s somethin’ peculiar over here anyway; if their slaves and children start to dyin’ we’re goin’ to have us real trouble.”

“Trouble?” said Damon Julian. “We are almost twenty strong, with you. What can the cattle do to us?”

“Mister Julian,” said Sour Billy, “what if they come by day?”

Julian waved a hand casually. “It will not happen. If it does, we will deal with them as they deserve.”

Sour Billy grimaced. Julian might be unconcerned, but it was Sour Billy took the biggest risks. “I think maybe she’s right, Mister Julian,” he said unhappily. “I think we ought to go somewheres. We’ve drained this place. It’s dangerous to stay on.”

“I am comfortable here, Billy,” Julian said. “I feed on the cattle. I do not run from them.”

“Money, then. Where we goin’ to get money?”

“Our guests left horses. Take them to New Orleans tomorrow, sell them. See that they aren’t traced. You may sell off more of the land as well. Neville of Bayou Cross will want to buy again. Call on him, Billy.” Julian smiled. “You might even invite him to dinner here, to discuss my proposition. Ask him to bring along his lovely wife and that lithe young son of theirs. Sam and Lily can serve. It will be just as it used to be, before the slaves ran off.”

He was taunting, Sour Billy thought. But it was never safe to treat any of Julian’s words lightly. “The house,” Billy said. “They’ll come to eat and they’ll see how far it’s gone. Isn’t safe. They’ll tell stories when they go home.”

“If they go home, Billy.”

“Damon,” Jean said shakily, “you can’t mean…”

The dim, red-drenched room was hot. Sour Billy had begun to sweat. “Neville is-please, Mister Julian, you can’t take Neville. You can’t go on takin’ folks from around here and buyin’ fancy girls.”

“Your creature is right for once,” Valerie said in a very small voice. “Listen to him.” Jean was nodding too, emboldened by having others on his side.

“We could sell the whole place,” Billy said. “It’s all rotted out anyhow. Move to New Orleans, all of us. It’d be better down there. With all them Creoles and free niggers and river trash, a few more or less won’t be missed, you know?”

“No,” said Damon Julian. Icily. His voice told them he would stand no further argument. Sour Billy shut up real quick. Jean began to toy with his ring again, his mouth sullen and afraid.

But Valerie, astoundingly, spoke up. “Let us go, then.”

Julian turned his head languidly. “Us?”

“Jean and I,” she said. “Send us away. It will be… better that way. For you, too. It’s safer when there are fewer of us. Your fancy girls will last longer.”

“Send you away, dear Valerie? Why, I would miss you. And I would be concerned for you, too. Where would you go, I wonder?”

“Somewhere. Anywhere.”

“Do you still hope to find your dark city in a cave?” Julian said mockingly. “Your faith is touching, child. Have you mistaken poor weak Jean for your pale king?”

“No,” said Valerie. “No. We only want a rest. Please, Damon. If we all stay, they will find us out, hunt us, kill us. Let us go away.”

“You are so beautiful, Valerie. So exquisite.”

“Please,” she said, trembling. “Away. A rest.”

“Poor small Valerie,” Julian said. “There is no rest. Wherever you go, your thirst will travel with you. No, you shall stay.”

“Please,” she repeated, numbly. “My bloodmaster.”

Damon Julian’s dark eyes narrowed just slightly, and the smile faded. “If you are that eager to be away, perhaps I should give you what you ask for.”

Both Valerie and Jean looked at him hopefully.

“Perhaps I should send you away,” Julian mused. “Both of you. But not together, no. You are so beautiful, Valerie. You deserve better than Jean. What do you think, Billy?”

Sour Billy smirked. “Send them all away, Mister Julian. You don’t need them none. You got me. Send them off, and they’ll see how much they like it.”

“Interesting,” said Damon Julian. “I will think on it. Now leave me, all of you. Billy, go sell the horses. See Neville about the land.”

“No dinner?” Sour Billy asked with relief.

“No,” said Julian.

Sour Billy was the last to reach the door. Behind him, Julian snuffed the light, and darkness filled the room. But Sour Billy hesitated at the threshold, and turned back again.

“Mister Julian,” he said, “your promise-it’s been years now. When?”

“When I do not need you, Billy. You are my eyes by day. You do the things I cannot. How could I spare you now? But have no fear. It will not be long. And time will seem as nothing to you when you join us. Years and days are alike to one who has the life eternal.” The promise filled Sour Billy with reassurance. He left to do Julian’s bidding.

That night he dreamt. In his dreams he was as dark and graceful as Julian himself, elegant and predatory. It was always night in his dreams, and he roamed the streets of New Orleans beneath a full, pale moon. They watched him pass from their windows and their little iron-lace balconies, and he could feel their eyes upon him, the men full of fear, the women drawn to his dark power. Through the dark he stalked them, gliding soundlessly over the brick sidewalks, hearing their frantic footsteps and their panting. Beneath the swaying fire of a hanging oil lamp, he caught a fine young dandy and tore his throat out, laughing. A sultry Creole beauty watched him from afar, and he came after her, hunting her down alleys and courtyards as she ran before him. Finally, in a court lit by a wrought-iron flambeau, she turned to face him. She looked a bit like Valerie. Her eyes were violet and full of fire. He came to her and pushed her back and took her. Creole blood was as hot and rich as Creole food. The night was his, and all the nights forever, and the red thirst was on him.

When he woke from the dream, he was hot and fevered, and his sheets were wet.