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...
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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.
***
Still in the past...
Alastor's eyes opened slowly, wincing as he attempted to swallow. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a pint of liquid acid. He groaned in pain and looked around. He was in a run down, shabby little room. It was clean, but very basic. A shotty table sat beside his place of rest, a small glass of clean water and a half-full bottle of what appeared to be a homemade tonic of some sort.
There was a small handwritten note beside it that read, "Please drink the remainder of this tonic when you wake."
He stared at it warily. The verbiage in the note implied he'd already been given the first half, and judging by the intricate Ayizan voodoo symbol on the label, it was a healing and protection tonic of some sort.
Couldn't hurt, he supposed. His own Mother had taught him quite a bit of the arts himself, so he was no stranger to its powerful usefulness. He popped the cork on the drink and downed it.
Immediately he wretched on the pungent flavor, and for a few uncomfortably long moments, a hot wave of nausea passed through his gut, but soon it was over and unbelievably, the pain in his throat was gone.
He rubbed his head as he glanced around the shabby little room. How did I get here? He strained to remember.
Right, yes. There was a woman, and despite the fact Alastor had never and probably would never find himself sexually attracted to anyone, he had to admit she was quite lovely, unlike anyone he'd ever seen before. In fact, she had skin that matched his own.
And... she'd helped him, god only knows why. If she'd known what he was, surely she would have left him for dead... but those eyes, those impossibly vivid blue eyes seemed to look right into his soul, and yet still she saved him. Why?
He carefully rose from the small bed he was on, but he felt surprisingly strong considering he'd been out of it for God knows how long. In fact, he felt fantastic.
He tried to speak, clearing his throat first, "Hello? Is anyone there?"
He froze. His voice... it sounded... ruined.
That's right... he'd been stabbed in the neck by his latest victim, Landon Price, a man who made a living selling innocent human beings for profit, and the bastard got away. Alastor gritted his teeth. How could I left that fat bastard get the best of me?
And now, he'd ruined the one thing he coveted more than anything - his radio voice. Still, the wounds were fresh right? Perhaps in time his voice would heal, but for now even though it still sounded bold and charismatic, it had strange, scratchy almost staticky quality to it... and the pitch? Completely inconsistent. This was unacceptable.
He ran a hand through his hair in irritation, standing up and walking gracefully over to a small mirror hanging on the wall. He stared into his own reflection, studying the carefully dressed bandages on his neck. He decided to take a look at the wound and see how badly disfigured that bastard had left him.
He quickly tore away the gauze, then froze in disbelief. Though there was most indeed dried blood on the gauze and on his neck, there was absolutely no trace of a wound.
"Impossible." Not even the voodoo magic his Mother taught him could have healed one in such a way.
As amazing as it was, this also likely meant his voice was as healed as it was going to get. A murderous look filled his eyes as he stared hard into the mirror. His savior had damned him to a life with a voice that literally sounded like it was coming out of a busted up old radio.
But he wasn't one to sulk. Alastor was a survivor. A Warrior. And he would have his revenge.
"Quit a pickle we've gotten ourselves into this time, old boy," he said as he straightened his blood-soaked bow tie, "but never mind that," he said as a wide smile spread across his face, "As always, the show must go on."
With that, he stepped out of the room. The narrow, dimly-lit hallway stretched before him, its walls adorned with identical doors. The ambiance hinted at a motor motel, and he proceeded down the corridor. As he descended the stairs, a distant voice echoed from below.
"Yeah, the guy's still up there passed out," came a hushed voice.
"Really? Anything worth taking on him?" replied someone else.
"Nah. I already checked, but the colored dame... the one who bought him the room? Damn, she was such a babe. You know she covered the room for him for a week?"
Alastor heard a laugh, "she might have been a dame, but I saw the way she was dressed. Where'd she get that kind of money? Her hands were bleached like a washer woman."
"That's the best part! She didn't have any money, so we worked out a little deal, if you know what I mean... and let me tell you, she was worth every bit of it. Still, she cried like a baby the whole time. Not ideal, but eh, I'll take what I can get with a skirt that fine."
Alastor's eyes darkened when he heard the way they exploited his mystery savior. Sure, he might have hated her for cursing him to a life with a wretched voice, but she'd let this man use her body to ensure he had a safe place to rest his head while he got better. The memory of his own mother's suffering at the hands of a cruel man resurfaced, leaving Alastor with a resolute conviction: men of such ilk deserved only one fitting fate.
Slowly he descended the stairs and tilted his head in interest as he laid eyes on the depraved degenerates whom he'd heard talking. "My, my...exploiting an innocent young woman as if she were mere chattel, are we? Well, my dear degenerates, I do believe it's time someone taught you a lesson in manners!"
***
After some time, Alastor emerged from the rear of the modest hotel. The taste of the men's flesh lingered on his tongue—a blend of pork-like richness and the coppery tang of blood. Although committing murder in broad daylight wasn't the most prudent choice, he had ensured there were no surviving witnesses. It should suffice. There was no way he was leaving those animals unscathed. Taking a life was one matter, but desecrating a woman's body in such a manner was absolutely unacceptable.
He'd ditched his bloodied attire for some clothing he found in one of the hotel's rooms. It was unfortunate he had to kill the unsuspecting hotel guests. Wrong place, wrong time, but they tasted just as sweet as the rest. He wasn't fully opposed to killing an innocent when it served him.
Now he had more important matters to attend to. He'd nearly been killed by a pathetic slob of a man. This wouldn't do. Alastor had an idea. It was risky, and it was something his sweet late Mother forbade him to ever do, but in light of the current circumstances, he would have no choice but to betray her just this once.
