Page 1 of Blood Ties (City of Blood #1)

Elina

When New Orleans fell, it fell as a lamb. That is to say, at the slaughter.

I’ve never even known this place as New Orleans.

When I came screaming and bloody into the world, it had long since been Ville de Sang.

The City of Blood is a dramatic name for a city but here—where the streets often run crimson with blood—there is no better name.

Behind the tall walls guarded by the Shadow Court, we humans live our lives as normally as possible—if normal is even possible.

“Lilly! Get out here or I’m coming back there and dragging you out!

Rian is so tired of your shit. You’ve got a client waiting and I’m sick of you fucking up my tips,” I yell into the hallway behind me.

“Ungrateful, little shit,” I mumble under my breath as I push through the door behind the bar, wine glass in hand.

Wednesdays are slow in the bar, and tonight is no exception.

It’s almost cozy in its intimacy on a night like this.

The dim lighting creates a comfortable atmosphere, with the customers spaced around the room, while the piano man plays relaxing jazz interspersed with covers.

People put in requests which he puts his own blues-style twist on.

The stage is not set up for dancers tonight, but rather, the three piece band that works occasionally for tips.

Crooning from the stage, I hear a rendition of an old Louis Armstrong hit.

“Here you go, Lucian. Lilly will be right out,” I say, smiling at the dark, broody, and quite frankly, pissed vamp sitting across the shiny wooden bar top from me.

He drums his fingers against the wood, exuding aggression, his hand holding his glass tightly.

There is an unusual darkness in his grey eyes.

His sharp cheekbones are shadowed by the long black hair that hangs in his face.

He’s a regular and Lilly is his favorite.

I don’t blame her one bit for hiding in the back though, the bite doesn’t have to hurt—it can even be pleasurable, or so I’ve heard—but tonight he’s in a particular mood and when he’s in a mood, it doesn’t matter that he came to the Velvet Tomb on his own, that he’s paying for her time, her blood, her body.

He won’t make it easy for her.

A few hours later, as the sun rises over the Mississippi River, I slide into the backseat of a hired black sedan and lay my head back on the headrest. Trying to decompress in the twenty minute ride from the French Quarter to Little Woods is crucial if I want to get any sleep at all before it’s time to start over again.

The streets are quiet this early, after the Sanguine Nocturnus have retired to their dark windowless tombs for the day, and before the humans start to move about in the sun.

It’s the way things are now—humans keep the city running and moving forward in the day and the vamps prowl the streets at night, staining them red with their brutality and disregard for human life.

A lot of residents of Ville de Sang have long since abandoned any hope of escape or change.

As the car pulls to the curb in front of my house, I push a $20 through the slot, thank the driver and climb out. Trudging up the path to my house, exhausted and half dead on my feet, I grab the mail from the box and place my palm on the reader on the door.

“I’m home! Grand-mere? You around?” I bellow as I enter the warm interior of my family home.

We’ve lived here since before the Closing.

These walls are our sanctuary, our protection from the monsters that go bump in the night.

They are also where all my happy memories live.

The smell of creole spices always permeates the air, as though its part of the very foundations of the house.

The well-loved matching floral-patterned living room furniture I’ve gotten yelled at far too many times for jumping on, and the worn, but functional, tables and chairs make up the painting of the first 28 years of my life.

Within this safe haven, Grand-pere Jean drew his final breath, my mother took her first, and I came into the world—only to lose her too soon.

Three generations of Girards, born, lived, and lost in the same place.

My Grand-mere Celeste lived here with Grand-pere Jean when the walls went up sixty years ago, and my maman was born upstairs in the second room on the right.

And I was born in the first room on the left twenty-eight years ago.

This little house is the only place I ever fully relax or feel safe.

No one has ever invited a member of the Sanguine Nocturnus inside and we are as safe as we could ever be.

Safety in The City of Blood is always an illusion though.

“Elina? In the kitchen dear.” Who else would it be, I think as I roll my eyes.

Grand-mere Celeste is cooking when I wander into the kitchen.

It smells like cayenne and maple syrup in here as Grand-mere stands in front of an ancient stove, cast iron skillet on the fire.

Her long, blue, satin night-dress clings to her wide hips and moves slightly as she sways.

The deep tan of her skin never fades and is a testament to her creole heritage.

The white braid all the way down her back speaks of a long life lived.

“Would you like some ho-cakes? Bacon?” She doesn’t approve of the Velvet Tomb and my work within it, but she stands as my staunch supporter and her warm breakfasts help bring me back to humanity when I emerge from the darkness.

“No thanks, I just wanted to say hi before I head upstairs.” I pause, rifling through my bag.

“I’m putting money in the jar.” I drop $200 into the family jar—not a bad take for a Wednesday night.

Climbing the old creaky stairs, a few at a time, I trail my hand up the worn banister, feeling the warmth of home flow through me.

Pushing my door open, I find my tiny room at the top of the stairs as I left it, bed unmade, piles of both clean and dirty clothes spread around.

Memories of my childhood littering every surface, reminding me of when life was simpler.

Flopping facedown on the bed, I am asleep in minutes.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Four too-short hours later, my alarm drags me from the pit of sleep.

I fight against its hold though my exhaustion overwhelms me.

The beeping doesn’t stop. Sighing, I sit up.

I’m covered in a fine sheen of sweat and my sheets are damp.

I don’t know if it's from the heat or from the nightmares that often plague me, it’s impossible to tell.

March in Louisiana is only the beginning of the heat, and its still suffocating here.

Peeling off my clothes and heading down the hall to the bathroom, I start compiling a list of things I need to do before work tonight; laundry, check on Sarah, weekly blood donation, pick up vitamins from the pharmacy.

Mundane human tasks that seem so normal if you don’t think about the fact that Sarah is recovering from a vamp attack in the street, or that my weekly blood donation is for La Casa del Corvo di Sangue.

And that my vitamins, iron supplements and B12, aren’t for wellness but to keep me able to continue donating and not collapse from blood loss.

I stand in front of the cathedral in my tour-guide uniform in the afternoon, tugging on the hem of my black polo. I haven’t slept enough but there aren’t any more hours available for sleep today. The small group gathers around me, languishing in the bright sun.

Sucking in a deep breath, I prepare to begin speaking.

“We are going to begin the tour of Ville de Sang here in front of Cattedrale del Trono Notturno or Cathedral of the Nocturnal Throne. Formerly St. Louis Cathedral, the Sanguine Nocturnus renamed the historic church multiple times in the last sixty years and it has had its current name since 2006. It’s been twenty-five years since La Casa del Corvo di Sangue overthrew L’Empire des Ombres Nocturnes for control of the city.

The Blood Ravens currently control the city with the Malvani family sitting in court within these very walls every night.

Re Marcus, as he is known, is for all intent and purposes, the King of Ville de Sang.

I warn you though, humans are not safe at night so do not venture out of your hotels without an escort at any time. Questions before we move on?”

“Are there any places where humans can interact with the vampires safely?” A short, heavy, blond woman asks from the back.

Goddamned tourists. Why they want to come here and gawk at the humans trapped within the confines of the concrete barriers and play pretend with the vamps, I will never understand.

At least the forsaken tours help pay the bills.

“Safely?” I laugh. “No, but if you want to pretend for the night there are places that cater to…curiosity. Please set up safe transportation with your hotel. 21+ and over only.” I hand over a card.

At Piazza della Luna, as it’s been called since the Jackson Square name was stripped away, I take in the low wall by the water and the evenly spaced guards, in their perfect black suits, one about every 25 feet.

The concrete surround is only about eight feet high in this part of the city, the river on the other side.

I guess the aesthetics of a water view won over the practicality of a higher fortification.

Where the walls meet the highway, they tower fifteen feet off the ground, making it impossible for a human to scale them.

The guards studiously ignore us, uninterested unless someone were to try to run.