Page 12 of Blood Ties (City of Blood #1)
Bash
Now that I have tesoro mio committed, I have to decide what to do with her.
Walking quickly toward the cathedral, I arrive in time to run into my uncles, Marcus, Victor, and Darius, who look almost identical, long black hair tied at the nape of their necks, walking with their heads bowed as they murmur amongst themselves.
“Kept it a bit late today, Nephew?” Uncle Darius calls as he watches me striding across the black-and-white checkered floor.
“Si, c’erano tesori da catturare. Ville de Sang has such beautiful treasures,” I tell him with a roguish wink.
“What treasures have you captured, Bash? Anyone we know?” Darius follows up in an almost interrogatory way.
I smile cryptically and incline my head respectfully before heading through the chapel, toward the exit.
This exit is the closest way to my loft without going through the sun lit streets.
I can feel the sun’s presence in the world despite being unable to see it in the windowless room. It drives me to bed, to rest.
“Keep your secrets then!” comes a shout and a laugh from behind me.
Undressing quickly once I’m in my bedroom, I brainstorm date ideas. I haven’t taken anyone on a proper date since before La Casa del Corvo di Sangue conquered Ville de Sang, quite a few years before, if I’m being honest. Settling in for the next 12 hours, a plan starts to form in my head.
I awake right at sunset and have less than an hour before I have to pick her up.
After a quick shower, I dress in a black henley and black jeans.
Of course it’s my traditional black outfit, but a bit more casual for her.
After running my fingers through my hair a few times, I head down to the cattedrale for a bite.
“Good evening, Stellino, don’t you look nice?
Very relaxed. Where are you off to?” my mother says as I walk into the room.
She eyes me, missing nothing, as usual. Her auburn tinged deep brown hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and she wears a designer pant suit, her usual overdressed outfit.
A trait she has passed on to me. Moving toward the warm blood on the counter, I give her a secretive smile, hearing the thick liquid fill my tumbler.
Sipping blood from my glass, I wonder if Elina is in it.
“Out for a few hours, I’ll be back for council. And stop calling me that—I’m nearly 500 years old,” I playfully scold her for my nickname.
“You may be ‘nearly 500 years old’, but you’ll always be my little star. Have fun darling and don’t get into any trouble.”
Finishing my breakfast, such as it is, my appetite is suitably satisfied, but warmed blood donations are hardly what my body craves.
My teeth still ache to tap into an artery.
I stop to wonder what Elina would taste like, her blood flowing into my veins and filling me with life.
I have to pause that train of thought before I embarrass myself.
Walking toward the garage that stores my family’s cars, I ponder whether a comfortable sedan, a sports car, or even a bike would be the best choice for tonight.
I decide on the Ferrari Roma—sleek, black, and fast. If tonight doesn’t go well, at least I will have fun driving. And if it does go well, I can take her for a quick drive through the empty city. Does she like fast cars? Would she like a motorcycle? I’m going to ask her.
Heading east on I-10, I open up the 611 horsepower engine and top 130 miles per hour before slowing as I get into Little Woods.
Pulling up to the curb in front of the small two story house Elina shares with her grandmother at exactly 8 o’clock, I reflect on how differently we grew up.
I spent my childhood running the halls in the Castello di Fenis with my cousins and friends, and she grew up behind these walls in this modest house with only her grandmother.
I want to know so much about her life here.
I want to ask her everything, but more than that, I want her to want to answer me.
Climbing out of the car, I walk up the path and watch as she slowly opens the door and steps onto the porch.
She’s absolutely gorgeous, and taking in her outfit, I think I should have brought a bike.
She is wearing worn-in Converse sneakers, black holey jeans that hug her curves like they were made for her, a lacy tank top that shows the perfect amount of cleavage, and a black, leather riding jacket.
Her brown hair falls in curls around her shoulders and down her back.
Her blue eyes are ringed in kohl and look glacial and inhuman contrasting her dark tawny skin in the moonlight. She’s perfect.
“Stunning,” I breathe as I extend my hand toward her.
A smile breaks across her face and her eyes light up as she takes me in.
“Not so bad yourself, l'immortel,” she sasses, as she takes my hand and lets me help her down the stairs. I’m reluctant to let go on the path but she pulls her hand from mine. “Could you have picked a more excessive car?”
“Probably,” I shrug. “Do you not like fast cars? Or is it this car you object to specifically?”
“It’s the unnecessary flaunting of your money, Bash. Look around, read the room.”
So I do. I try to look objectively at the human neighborhood.
I don’t spend any time in these communities.
The French quarter is almost all vampires now.
The homes were probably nice at some point but a lot are showing their age.
They are run down or have peeling paint.
I can tell that the people in this neighborhood genuinely care about their houses and lawns, but only so much can be done.
Their cars are old, some rusty or with broken windows covered in plastic.
“I didn’t…I don’t–”
“I know Sebastien, why would you? Let’s just go.”
Taking her elbow I guide her around the car and open her door so she can slide into the seat.
Moving quickly to the other side, I get seated and pull away from the curb.
We ride in silence; I’m itching to reach over and touch her warm hand.
I can see the flush of blood under her skin and she’s glowing in the moonlight.
She looks over at me occasionally, but doesn’t say anything and I don’t know where to even begin.
“Where are we going?” she asks me as we get off the highway and I don’t go into the French Quarter.
I don’t immediately respond as I pull over to the curb in front of the gates to St. Louis Cemetery No.1.
Her eyes widening and a smile trying to break through, she looks at me and back to the gate.
“The City of the Dead?” She looks at the closed gates of the oldest cemetery in the city, a little starry eyed.
“It’s been closed since, well forever. Since before I was born.
Bash, this is so amazing,” she says excitedly, trying to open her door.
I jump out and rush around to the other side before helping her to her feet.
“Don’t jump out, ok? Wait for me—it’s safer that way,” I say and she rolls her eyes. “I thought you might like a little history lesson, if you’re up for it.”
“Yes, Sebastien. A million times yes!” I can’t believe how excited she is. I was hoping for something better than the disdain I usually get but this is more than I could have asked for. I reach out, take her hand in mine, and lead her to the gates.
“We’ve seen Marie Laveau and that pyramid that was never used, but what I really wanted to show you is over here.
” I pull her through the rows and rows of aged tombs.
Coins and trinkets sitting outside of them for blessings and protection.
“Did you know the voodoo priestesses and priests have been entombed here for far longer than Marie Laveau? Their names are lost, but practitioners still come here to clean their tombs, leave offerings, and ask for protection. Witches, too. A lot of the people who were laid to rest here are unknown. There are even tales of people being buried in the ground under the tombs—mass graves for yellow fever victims,” I trail off to give Elina a chance to ask a question or offer a thought.
“What about vampires? Before the Shadow Kingdom and the Blood Ravens, I mean.”
“Let me tell you a story while we walk. In 1740, a man appeared at the court of King Louis XV and began to work for the crown as a spy and a diplomat. He traveled to different courts and engaged with kings and princes across Europe. At the time, he claimed to be 100 years old. He traveled all over the world for the French throne.” I look over and see her rapt attention on me, her eyes following my mouth.
“He hosted parties where he neither ate, nor drank, only partaking in thick red wine.
People who encountered him, years—even decades—apart claimed he was an alchemist and used magic to avoid aging.
In 1784, he was reported to have died in Germany, though no one ever saw his body and the funeral observation was never completed.
“In 1810, a man matching every description—even his name—appeared in the war camps of Napoleon and talked war strategy with General Francois-Joseph de Saint-Hilaire, attempting to turn the tide of the Napoleonic wars. He was unsuccessful. And sometime in the 1910’s, a man named Jacques St. Germain, a wealthy European aristocrat, showed up in New Orleans.
A man who, supposedly, did not age despite looking decades younger than his purported age, who never ate or drank. Have you heard of him?”
A gasp. “Wait, I know this story. He threw lavish parties all night until, one day, a woman threw herself from his balcony claiming he attempted to bite her.
Then, he disappeared. They later discovered wine bottles full of blood, presumably human.
His house is on my tour. He was New Orleans' first vampire.” She turns her wide eyes on me. “Was he actually a vampire?”
“Imagine. Vampires are real and exist right here in this very city?” I feign surprise and excitement. Elina looks at me confused for a minute before breaking out in laughter.
“Did you just make a joke?” she asks me incredulously and I’m momentarily caught off guard that she has never heard me joke. I guess it makes sense since we didn’t talk much at the bar.
“Yes, Tesoro mio, I did. Stop looking so surprised, I’m actually quite funny.
Now look, this is what I wanted to show you.
St. Germain may be the reported ‘first vampire’ in New Orleans, but I assure you, we Italians have been here a lot longer than that.
This is the Società Italiana di Mutua Beneficenza tomb.
It's the largest, most elaborate tomb in the cemetery and was built specifically for the benefit of the Italians who settled in New Orleans in the mid and late 19th century. At the time, we were ostracized and pushed out of society by the French settlers. Even then, there were Malvani’s here.
The Black Hand mafia boss, Luciano Matranga, was not one of us, but he had vampiro muscle that ran the streets at night.
They lie in rest here.” I stop speaking to give her time to take in everything I’ve shared with her.
This time, she grabs my hand and drags me down Conti Alley until we reach Alley 10. Among the vaults, she stops in front of one that reads the name Girard. I realize that, because she has never been here, she has never seen this tomb before but she knew exactly where it was.
“We’ve been here a long time too,” she whispers, leaning against my arm and taking a breath that sounds a little like she might be crying.
I don’t move, for fear that she might get spooked.
I want to ask her how she knew where to go, but this moment feels heavy, important, so I just stand quietly.
After what seems like a long time, she lets go of my arm, steps back, and claps her hands once.
“Ok, time to go. What’s next?” and the moment is officially broken.
“To the car, Tesoro mio,” I say and I lead the way back out toward the street.