Archive of Our Own ^beta

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There're many ways  to describe the figure that is Rosalie Lafoye, born and bred in the French quarters of New Orleans, she’s no stranger to the myths and the occult. A true creole through and through, her Grann raised her with stories of the old Haitian religion and mythologies, of the undead with fangs and a hunger for the crimson liquid, creeping in the New Orleans French quarters. Though never believing in her Grann’s stories and cautionary tales, somehow, she carries a cross necklace wherever she goes, half for protection, half because she thought it was a pretty little accessory to match her pretty little self. 

Now 21, a college dropout with a mouth too smart and too fast for her own good, she finally settles back in her Grann’s old house in the French quarters. Back to square one, back to where she grew up. Things haven’t really changed around here, except for the fact that she’s now a grown woman, no longer a tifi running around the aging streets of New Orleans. For once in her life, she feels stuck, with no degree, a dead-end job as a bartender in a rundown old bar, and her only friend an old tarot reader she lovingly calls “Ma belle”. Ma Belle always did say she’ll come back round here, she said it on the day she left town, and she said it again when the movers came around to her Grann’s house. For the longest time she rejected even the slightest urge to come back, alas, her luck ran out one day and she came running back to the comfort of New Orleans, much to her dismay.

Another night of being awoken by nightmares, she stirs on her bed. It’s the same thing over and over again, since the day she left this crooked town. She would never admit it but it’s partially the reason why she came back. A call home, a siren’s singing luring her back to her hometown.

A naked woman lies sprawled beneath a tree, her face hidden behind a curtain of raven black hair. She smiles, and her soft, lilting laughter fills the air around Rosalie.

Rosalie steps closer.

“Marie,” the woman whispers, the only word she ever speaks when Rosalie approaches.

The woman reaches out, her palm warm and soft against Rosalie’s cheek. Slowly, she pulls herself closer. Closer. Closer. Until the only thing between them is the heat of their ragged breaths.

Too close, Rosalie thinks. This is too close.

Their lips meet. The woman’s nails drive into Rosalie’s hips, tearing through flesh. The wet sound of skin breaking fills the air as blood gushes down her thighs. Her other hand coils around Rosalie’s throat and tightens. She can’t breathe. She can’t speak. Her body burns with pain.

She wakes up.

And the dream returns the next night. And the next. Ever since the day she left this cursed town.

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A hundred and seventy years is a long time for a cursed vampire to roam the world. Longer still when the curse binds you to a single city for all eternity. One wrong spell, one demon conjured, one foolish deal, and you’re condemned to immortality. Cursed vampirism is not the most ideal existence, not then, not now, not ever.

A hundred and seventy years is too long for a grieving widow. Especially when you’re the reason your husband is dead. The world doesn’t care that it was an accident. It doesn’t sew his jugular back together. It doesn’t return the blood you drained from his body.

The world doesn’t care that you cursed yourself. It doesn’t care that you walk alone through empty streets, or that you cannot step beyond the city that has become your prison. Morning to night, year after year, you remain, because you do not die.

There’s nothing left to hold on to. Not love. Not life. Not companionship. Not friendship. Existence is a hollow thing when you are a cursed vampire. You curse the demon who damned you, but can you really blame him? You were the one who summoned him. You said yes. You shook his hand. You handed him a vial of your own blood. You sealed your fate.

A hundred and seventy years is too long for a grieving mother. Especially when you blame yourself for her stillbirth. Worse still, when your husband blamed you too. Sweet Marie. What a life she might have lived in the roar of French-migrant New Orleans. She would have been the belle of every ball. At least, that’s what you’d like to imagine.

This is Evelyne Dubois.

Cursed vampire.

French immigrant.

Oldest New Orleans population.

Forever twenty-five.

Forever a widow.

Forever the mother of a dead child.

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I awoke with a sharp gasp, cold sweat soaking through the pillow beneath me. A low groan escapes my throat, frustration, exhaustion. Another nightmare. Her again. Those cold hands trailing down my skin, nails sharp enough to pierce through flesh, her icy grip tightening around my neck.

Three long years of the same images. The same pain. Every night, without fail. Like clockwork. I can’t keep staying awake forever, but sleep means seeing her again. Sometimes I wonder if she’s the one I’ll meet when I finally die.

Today’s my last day in Manhattan. I’ve failed most of my classes at NYU, and my student debts piled too high to keep pretending things will get better. My flight’s at noon. I glance at the clock, 6 a.m., as always. Four hours before I need to leave. The city hums outside my window, Washington Height’s alive even in the early hours, but all I feel is hollow.

Three years of plans, gone. At twenty-one, I’m heading back to Grann’s house with nothing to show for it but a valedictorian high school diploma and no degree to match. It’s not like I wanted any of this. But that dream, her, has stolen everything from me. Sleep is a war I keep losing. I can still feel her hands, the blood, the choking.

The plane touches down in New Orleans at 14:30. Cracking my neck, I take a deep breath and peel myself out of the seat.

The city looks exactly as I remember it, yet strange in ways I can’t name. The French Quarter hasn’t changed, wrought iron railings, weathered balconies, creaking old staircases, buildings that have stood for centuries. I settle into Grann’s place, its familiar walls pressing close like they’ve been waiting for me.

I stop by Ma Belle’s dusty little tarot and herb shop. She beams when she sees me, a self-proclaimed witch and seer, always half in this world and half somewhere else. She offers me a free reading to welcome me home. I decline, half because I don’t have the patience for her “mumbo jumbo,” half because her last words still echo: “You’ll come back.”

I hate that she was right.

Maybe I should’ve listened. Maybe I still should.

I’d hoped the nightmares would end when I came back here. But the other part of me, the part that knows better, feels it deep in my bones: that dream isn’t going anywhere. It will follow me until the day I die.

And that night, as I lay in Grann’s old bed, the women appeared again. Sprawled out under a tree tresses of her hair lightly covering her face, for the first time in three years, the woman showed her face. Her arms reaching out towards me “Marie”, she whispered to no one. I step closer, as I do, she gets up. Every step I take toward her, I study her face more closely. Raven hair spills down her shoulders, lips full and red, teeth as white as pearls,

“Marie, come back to me,” she calls, her voice rising just enough to draw me in.

When I finally stand before her, the ritual begins. Our lips meet. Her sharp nails sink deep into my hips, anchoring me in place, while her other hand coils tightly around my neck.

I jolt awake with a frustrated gasp. 6 a.m. Like clockwork.

But now, I have a face in mind. Thick raven hair, high nose bridge, and red full lips.

Was she a real person, this woman? And who the fuck is Marie?

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Thankfully I managed to get a job at “Cal’s Pub” a bar in the French quarter a few blocks away from Grann’s, well I guess my place now. A shitty night shift gig that barely keeps me afloat on a monthly basis. It’s better than nothing for a college dropout, I thank the stars every night that I did a brief bartending stint in New York to make a living.

The bar is old and a little dingy, dressed up with Mardi Gras beads, New Orleans trinkets, and the kind of worn furniture that has soaked up years of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. Robert, the manager, is an older man with a wandering gaze that lingers too long on the girls who work here, though he’s never actually crossed the line.

Beer on tap and cheap liquor are all we have. Our fanciest drink is an old fashioned that tastes better after a few orders. It’s not exactly the dream job for a high school valedictorian, but it’s not the worst place to end up when you’re a college dropout either.

Most of the customers are older New Orleans locals, blue collar men who come in after work for a cheap shot of whiskey and an even cheaper pint of beer. Unlike Robert, the clientele doesn’t bother hiding their stares. Some hit on me outright. The number of men who ask what time I get off is almost impressive in its consistency. Sherry, one of the waitresses, told me it’s because I’m the youngest here. That thought sent a cold shiver down my spine.

Still, the job isn’t all bad. The money’s steady, the bar has its own kind of rhythm, and after a while the noise becomes something like background music. Sure, there are the occasional wandering hands, but nothing a quick smack on the arm paired with a practiced smile can’t handle.

Months pass, and I finally settle into a routine that gives my life a bit of normalcy and stability. I wake up from the nightmare at 6 a.m. every morning, go for a jog around the neighborhood, eat breakfast, spend time with Ma Belle if she’s free, and have lunch with her. Then I head home to read a book, write in my journal, take a shower, get ready, and walk to Cal’s Pub. Easy does it. A simple rhythm to keep my head on straight.

I get on with my shift as per usual, nothing particularly unusual or worrying happens, other than the hoots and hollers of men when I pass by them. I guess there was this one table of non-regulars who were a bit more forward than the usual one-liners but I choose to ignore it. It was my turn to do the closing shift tonight, Sherry mentioned it to me before she headed off home. I clean up and prepare what I needed to prepare for the afternoon shift, and I make sure everything is locked up safely before I head home. I make it a habit to walk home from time to time since it’s only a few blocks away from my apartment.

New Orleans is lively even at 1am I the morning. The nearby Bourbon Street is bustling with the sound of jazz and people chattering and talking away, once you get to the housing complex it’s a bit quieter though. As I start walking away from Cal’s I heard a wolf whistle directed at me. A warm flush run down my face, I want to ignore it, I should have, it’s the middle of the night and I should keep walking. So, I do, until I heard another shout;

“Goin home, sweetheart?”

It doesn’t sound familiar, so I hasten my pace.

“Awe come on now, don’t run. We’re talking to you, hey!”

I run and I heard fast footsteps catching up to me until I finally feel a hand grab my wrist and waist, yanking me away into the nearby alleyway. I felt my whole back being slammed into the rough walls of the alley, the air knocked from my lungs. A hand clamping my mouth shut, a cold knife against my neck.

“Now, if you’re a good girl and listen to us, this’ll all be over soon, I promise”, he said with a smirk. Behind him I see two other men, I recognize them as the table that was overly forward with me tonight.

I clamp up, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t even let out a pained cry or sob. My first instinct was to stay quiet. It wasn’t until I felt the sharp knife come up my pulled-up skirt and cut the bands of my underwear that I started screaming. And I screamed. I screamed for my dear life, I screamed for my Grann, I screamed for someone, anyone, to please help me. I felt a hand clamp my mouth shut again.

“Now what did I tell you about being good?” the man in front of me said as he pulled the knife up to my neck. He pushes harder; I feel a sharp pain on the side of my neck.

I feel myself dissociating, my vision getting blurry, black spots coming into my line of sight. My body feels weak as it’s basically being held up by another person. As I succumb to my faintness, I hear fast footsteps at the opening of the alley.

Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by bodies. The side of their necks gauged open by force.

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Yet another night spent wandering the length of Bourbon Street. Lonely for me, though never truly lonely. The street is alive, pulsing with music and laughter, drunk on its own endless midnight. I walk these streets every night. It’s the only time the world allows me to exist in it. Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like to simply step into the sun, to let the light devour me whole. The thought always leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. I suppose I’m not that suicidal after all. Somewhere inside, some stubborn piece of me still clings to this world. The demon’s words linger. Reincarnation. That single promise is the only reason I endure. Not to live. No, not that. To survive. So I do. I drink when I must. I emerge when it is safe. I greet the world only when required. And I keep walking through the night, because that’s all that’s left for me.

This night feels particularly dreadful. After ten years sealed away in that damned casket, I finally decide it is time to feed. I stroll through the streets, moving like a shadow. I’ve always had my rules. No women. No children. Only men who deserve it. Then I catch it. A scent. Familiar. Sharp enough to cut through the thick New Orleans air. Instinct turns my head before I even think. My stride quickens, pulled toward it like a tide to the moon. But then another sound slices through the night, a scream. Faint, almost drowned out by the drunken laughter and jazz spilling from the bars. But not faint to me. I run. I pray the scent and the scream belong to two different stories.

When I arrive to the scene the screaming had stop just a little while ago, in front of me I found my prey. And my, what a buffet I shall have. 3 human-size blood bags preying on a helpless girl, just the right amount of food after my 10 years of slumber. I move fast, pace quickening to an inhuman pace.

I take the first from behind. He’s the closest to me, the easiest to fold. My hand clamps at the base of his skull, fingers finding the soft spot where bone yields, and I snap him backward like breaking a twig. His body hits the pavement with a wet finality; a brief pulse still throbs beneath my palm. I don’t bother with theatrics. My nails rake up his spine, little knives shredding muscle and leather, and I taste copper as the first warm blood hits my tongue. It is heaven after a decade of dust. Hot, metallic, bright. He gurgles, flails, the sound cut short when my teeth find the hollow behind his jaw and I draw. He is gone in minutes, and I move on.

The second is braver, or stupider. He squares up as the first falls, it makes him slow. I take him low, my shoulder driving into his ribs, wind leaves his lungs in a bag of air. My other hand clamps around his throat; my fingers find the pulse and press. He struggles, fists punching at nothing, eyes wide with the momentary clarity that comes just before the end. I bite. This time I bury my face into his neck, tongue tasting the ache of fear before I puncture. Flesh under my fangs; blood floods my mouth and throat. He convulses under me, each shudder feeding a frantic rhythm, life, then less of it, then none. When I pull away his skin is damp with my hands and his last breath is a thin thing.

All the while my hands and mouth remember old rituals, how to hold a neck, where to press, how long to linger to draw the right heat without ruining the feast. The scent of them, salt and sweat and cheap beer mixes with something deeper, an old perfume of quick death I have come to know intimately. I savor each note. The man in front of me tastes of stale tobacco and old leather; the first tasted of adrenaline and cheap cologne.

I saved the finest for last. The one who had clutched the girl now stood paralyzed, as though the night itself had turned its gaze upon him. Confusion, I suppose, he had just watched his comrades crumble beneath me, their limbs shrivelled, their bodies emptied, their lives reduced to hollowed vessels. The alley was littered with silence and the scent of death, as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe. He bolted toward the narrow mouth of the alley, but I was already there. Always too slow. His pulse thundered beneath fragile flesh as I caught him by the throat, no grand theatrics this time, no whispered promises or cruel games. Only the inevitable. My fangs found him swiftly, cleanly, with the grace of a practiced dance. What a delightful night to hunt.

As I finish my feed I smell it again, that familiar scent clouding my senses, burying me in it. It’s the smell of Henri, my beloved. It had come from her, from this pretty little unfortunate thing, now lying on the ground, eyes hazy and clouded.