Feral Darlings

Prologue

Emris

Walking back through the streets of New Orleans brings a sense of calm to my broken soul that I didn ’ t think I ’ d ever have again. The music, the women, the smell of freshly rolled tobacco and piss down dark alleyways—it ’ s all a balm to the pain I ’ ve endured over the last century.

I like the anonymity this city affords me. Everyone here is too drunk or too self-involved to notice or care about the vampire walking down the streets. Granted, they wouldn ’ t know I ’ m a vampire, but if they were paying attention, they would know I ’ m different. There ’ s an inherent allure that comes with being what I am, and it normally means all eyes eventually drift my way.

But here? Rarely.

I veer to the right, off of Bourbon, and past a few of the seedier saloons in the city. Women and men fall out of the crooked doorways, the laughter and firelight pouring out onto the cobblestones with them. I glance up at the sky, and the waning crescent barely shines through the stormy clouds blowing in off the Gulf.

“ Tu cherches de la compagnie, beau gosse?” Looking for some company, handsome?

Grinning as I take in the woman propositioning me, I shake my head, politely declining. “ Pas ce soir.” Not tonight . “ I already have a woman for this evening, my love.”

“ Your loss,” she calls back, her voice coming out in a puff of smoke from the cigarette held delicately between her knuckles.

I chuckle to myself as I continue on my walk. Not much farther until I reach my sweet Paloma—my estranged progeny who just so happens to run the most successful vampire brothel in North America. Proud doesn ’ t even begin to explain how I feel. Paloma has made a name for herself on this continent in the century I ’ ve been gone, and it affirms everything I felt when I changed her all those years ago.

She is perfect. My little dove. My perfect, sweet, hostile progeny. My God, how I ’ ve missed her ire. I am almost giddy with the prospect of being the object of it once again. My cock stirs in my pants, the thickening length pressing roughly against the zipper as memories of her violent mood swings and attempted physical abuse swarm my brain. It ’ s almost enough to make a man finish in his trousers.

The warm glow of Revelry reaches out into the night as I finally approach, its curtains pulled back on the lower level, letting the expensive new electrical lamps blaze into the night like a beacon. The building itself is quintessentially New Orleans, with burnt-orange brick and black storm shutters at every window. The upper balcony is made of wrought iron with blooming plants and out-of-control ivy tangling through the black bars.

Men and women, human and vampire, laugh and flirt outside, their voices carrying down the small hill as I ascend. As a breeze blows through the moss-covered cypress and oak trees, it carries with it the faint scent of spiced orange and pomegranate. I breathe it in, recognizing the scent I haven't smelled in over a century. My gums ache, and my mouth waters.

“ Paloma,” I sing under my breath as I approach the front door, “ I have come back for you.”