In the heart of 1920s New Orleans, a malevolent force prowls the moonlit streets, claiming lives and feasting on flesh. His reign of terror was destined to be brief, a mere footnote in the city's dark history, but something unexpected happened that...
Authors Note: Unlike my other stories, I do not have the full timeline worked out beforehand on this one. There will be heavy editing in this book as I go along and potential changes along the way as well. The series is in its infancy, so I may eventually go back and tweak things as the series reveals more secrets to us. So, be patient and just enjoy the ride. As always, if you have ANY triggers, avoid this story. It will not be for the faint-hearted.
The first few chapters are setting the stage, so they will be short. Bear with me.
Sometime in the past...
It was 4 a.m and streets of the French Quarter lay hushed and tranquil. The air carried the distinctive blend of briny sea and decaying fruit, a subtle reminder that their humble abode was a mere stroll away from the docks that bustled with life by day. To some, it might seem an unpleasant place, but for Lena, nights in the French Quarter served as her sanctuary—a refuge not only from the labor that bleached her fingertips but also from the condescending glances of those fortunate enough to be born with the right complexion.
In the context of modern times, Lena would have stood as a stunning figure. Her tousled, light caramel waves framed her face and caressed the small of her back, and her piercing gray-blue eyes held an otherworldly quality. Yet, it was her skin that betrayed her. Being a lovely fair mocha hue, neither light nor dark, rendered her a misfit in a society that sought to divide everyone into polar opposites. To those around her, she belonged nowhere.
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By day, she mastered the art of blending in, her presence fading into the mundane ebb and flow of city life. But when night unfurled its inky velvet cloak, she stepped into her own spotlight. Along the bricked streets, her feet stepped lightly and her voice wove melodies, reverberating against the timeworn French Colonial facades. The occasional inebriated souls slumbering under dim streetlights paid her no mind. Here, in the night's embrace, she found liberation.
But tonight was different somehow. An unnatural heaviness hung in the air she hadn't felt before. As she strolled past a dark alley, a scuffling sound caught her ear. She halted, casting her gaze into the obscurity.
"Hello?" she called out softly, taking a few steps in that direction. Then she paused and noticed a trail of glistening red splatters on the dusty brick beneath her feet.
Either someone left here bleeding and hopefully made it to the doctor down the street, or someone was still there, veiled in darkness, possibly bleeding out, slowly dying alone.
Decisions.
She stepped away from the shadows of the alley that gathered at her feet, but she hesitated. Guilt at the thought of moving on weighed heavy on Lena's heart. She knew it wasn't safe, in fact it was downright stupid, but she couldn't walk away and pretend she hadn't seen this. It could be her in huddled alone in the dark next time.
She stepped beyond the barrier of light, the shadows embracing her delicate form as she stepped deeper into the darkness. "Hello? Is someone there?" she called out.
"A smarter woman would keep walking," came a weak but definitely masculine voice from the darkness. She heard a wet cough, then silence.
"Are you hurt?" she asked softly.
He coughed again, and it almost sounded like he tried to speak, but words failed to come forth this time.
Time was running out, and the kindness in her couldn't bear it. The feel of death was growing in the air around her like the cold fingers of corpse on her skin. The reaper himself must be closing in. She couldn't just stand by and let this man die.
She hurried forward into the darkness. Concealed behind a stack of crates she finally saw him, a slender, dapper-looking man propped up haphazardly against the building. His skin mirrored hers, and his eyes, a welcoming shade of warm brown, held a quiet intensity. Clad in leather gloves, he sported a muddy red vest over a pristine ivory dress shirt. His sleeves were meticulously rolled up, as though he'd been immersed in some important endeavor.
He was... breath-taking, but this was no time to fawn over looks. She gasped when she saw an object of some sort sticking out of his neck. "Oh god, you are hurt," she gasped, rushing forward and kneeling before him.
His brown eyes fluttered, but as they focused on her, they seemed to open a bit wider. He coughed and visibly swallowed, "My dear," he croaked, blood dripping down the corner of his mouth, "My soul rightfully dances on death's doorstep. It's too late for me."
Lena may have been just a simple washer woman by day, but before her Mother passed away, she'd taught her quite a bit about medicine and magic. Not the type that requires a wand, but the kind that you summon from the earth beneath one's feet.
It had been many years since she practiced, but as she looked into those deep brown eyes, windows to this stranger's soul, she saw a broken man worth saving. She had to try.
"Don't dance across that threshold just yet... stay with me."
