Chapter 6 I Want to Go Home
SIX
i want to go home
“I don’t understand,” I answer after an intensely long stare off.
“What’s not to understand? When your training is complete, you will choose who purchases you.” Cyrus’s answer is simple, as if he’s told me a million times before.
“What if I don’t want to be sold?”
He scoffs. “I’m afraid that’s not an option.” He moves to the apartment door. “Go take a shower, Violet.” He closes the door behind him. “Be smart,” his voice echoes through the wooden door.
Out of the options I have, he’s right. I’m safer here. I can’t take the chance on harming my family, or…I wipe a silent tear…or my friends. I concentrate on walking slowly to the bathroom, making sure to walk at human speed. I’ll be damned if Cyrus is going to teach me everything.
I step into the modern bathroom, finding all the latest hair and face products. Locking the door behind me, I laugh at the ignorance that motion means. A door lock won’t stop Cyrus. Hell, I’m not sure a brick wall would stop him.
I take a much longer shower than necessary, using every provided product.
Staring into the mirror, for the first time, I see the woman I’ve become.
Bright red hair and large brown eyes stare back at me.
The dirt-brown they’ve been since birth has been replaced with an amber glow.
Soft intentional freckles cover my cheeks, rounded out by bright pink lips.
“Who are you, Violet Du Four?” I ask the woman staring back at me.
She doesn’t answer…just continues to stare.
I wrap a towel around me and move into the adjoining bedroom.
A large chifforobe against the wall catches my attention.
I open the door, surprised by what’s inside.
A full row of dresses that rival the one in the dress shop window.
I swallow the lump in my throat at the memory of my friends and the simplicity of that moment.
My hands glide across the silk fabric. Is this real?
Pulling a light blue silk dress from the cabinet, the beadwork around the neckline is the first thing I notice. Each intricate ball is hand-sewn together to form a beautiful flower. This is a work of art in fabric form, simple, elegant, and screams sophistication and grace.
I glance through the rest of the dresses.
All are equal to the first in their complexity and beauty.
I slide my first choice over my head, making sure to tie the sash into the perfect bow.
I pull red hair high on my head and take time to apply all the makeup products I can find.
Other than the dyed hair, the Violet in front of me is almost… dare I say, pretty?
Back in the living room, I’m surprised to find Cyrus sitting on the couch. “I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, stopping in my tracks.
“I’m quiet like that.” He looks me up and down. “You look…nice.”
“Thank you. The clothes in the closet are perfect.”
“I thought you’d like them. I had a bit of help picking them out.” He takes a sip from the open bottle of blood in his hands. “They’re yours to take with you.” He holds a bottle in my direction. “Care for one?”
I shake my head. “No.” After nearly killing the man in the alley, the hunger pangs have subsided for the moment.
He nods toward an uncovered window. “The sun is starting to rise. After the dye is removed, we’ll leave for Florida.”
“Why Florida?” I ask.
“I have a home and friends there. You’ll be safe and away from the possibility of running into someone you know.”
Sadness fills me with his words. “I want to tell them goodbye,” I whisper.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m sorry.” He slides forward on the couch. “They think you’re dead, Violet. That’s the best closure you can provide.”
“That’s not closure,” I retort.
“What would you tell them? You’re a vampire and afraid you’re going to eat them, or maybe that you’ve met someone and are moving to another state without discussing anything with them?” Long arms cross his chest. “Do either of those provide closure?”
He’s right, and it pisses me off. “No,” I answer, refusing to look at him.
“The salon opens in thirty minutes. There’s a suitcase in the bathroom.
Fill it with the clothes you want to take.
What’s left here, we will get later.” I turn without another word and follow instructions.
I manage to fit most of the dresses inside the suitcase, trying not to wrinkle them in the process.
I don’t bother with taking anything else and am in the living room several minutes later with my suitcase in hand.
Cyrus doesn’t speak as he leads me through the door and out onto Bourbon Street.
The smell of warm blood brings my stomach back to life.
“Fight it,” he whispers for my ears only.
I do as he suggests, focusing my attention on the few workers who are preparing for the day.
Most businesses are still closed, which makes the walk easier.
I laugh at my thoughts. Businesses, meaning speakeasies or bars. It’s way too early for them to open.
We move through the city at human speed. My instincts have strangely changed from hunting the intoxicating smell of humans to having to fight to remain at a constant speed. Cyrus stops in front of an unsuspecting door on Royal Street. “This is a salon?” I ask, inspecting the plain door.
“At times,” Cyrus answers mysteriously, leading me inside.
We enter a narrow exposed brick hallway.
Overgrown greenery lines the walk as we continue moving ahead.
The hallway leads to a large courtyard. Unlike most courtyards I’ve seen in the city, this one is surrounded by glass, combining the outside and inside together.
The greenery that lined the hallway is nothing compared to what’s inside.
A few oak trees, nearly two-stories tall, surround the room, reaching for the sun high above.
“Ah, mon amour!” a young woman greets, as we enter the open room.
Her French accent is strong, and the warmth of her voice offers instant relief.
She wraps thin arms around Cyrus’s shoulders, pulling him close.
“You look better each time I see you.” She steps back, patting him lightly on the shoulders, looking at me. “Is this her?”
I clear my throat and hold out my hand. “Violet Du Four,” I greet her.
The warmth of her hand reminds me of the blood that crossed my lips not long ago.
Dark hair is curled tightly to her scalp.
Her dark eyes are the perfect shade to match her ebony skin.
She’s beautiful in a way I’ve never seen before.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Violet Du Four. My name is Monique Devereaux.”
I look around the home/courtyard. Honestly, I don’t know what it is. “Do you live here?”
She smiles warmly. “I do.”
“Monique is a green witch,” Cyrus answers.
A witch? I look the woman up and down, not sure what to think. “What’s a green witch?”
She points to the beautiful greenery that surrounds us.
“Think of it as an overactive green thumb.” She motions toward a chair in front of a mirror.
“Come. Let’s see what we can do about that hair.
Harrison?” she asks my buyer. He answers with a deep laugh.
“Yeah, it looks like his work,” she answers, leading me toward the empty chair.
Monique wraps a cape around me, protecting the silk dress from stains as she pours a milky-like substance on my hair. The scent is a mixture of floral and earthy. “What is that?” I ask.
“This is my special concoction. It’s about the only thing that will cut through that cheap dye Harrison uses.”
“In other words, she made it,” Cyrus says.
“Forgive me if this is offensive. Is it a spell?” I ask.
Monique’s sweet laugh fills the room. “Not a spell, dear. A potion.” She massages the liquid into my hair. In the mirror, I can see the red disappearing as soon as the liquid makes contact.
“It’s working,” I declare, watching the progress.
“It is.” She continues working. “What a beautiful color your real hair is. I don’t know why that man insists on making everyone a redhead.”
“Because he’s obsessed with her,” Cyrus answers. “So obsessed, he tries to turn every woman into her. When they don’t behave as he wants, he discards them.”
“How much did she cost?” Monique asks.
“Twenty,” Cyrus answers. The witch stops rubbing her potion in my hair and whistles softly.
“Twenty thousand?”
The vampire’s eyes grow larger than before, and he nods with his words. “Twenty thousand.”
“Damn. He’s either getting bolder, or…” She looks at my reflection. “This one’s special.”
“I’m right here,” I remind them. “I can hear you.”
Monique gathers the mass of my hair into her hands, running the last of the liquid through it.
“I think that’s all of it. Let’s go wash, shall we?
” she asks while pulling me up by my brown locks.
I follow her to an oversized sink in the kitchen.
“Stick your head under the faucet. A good wash will get whatever remains out.”
Ten minutes later, I’m washed four times and conditioned with something I suspect is another potion. Monique wraps a towel around my head, leading me back to the chair and mirror. After a few perfectly placed curls, she pulls out something I’ve only seen in fashion magazines.
“Is that a handheld hairdryer?” I ask in disbelief.
“It is,” Monique answers. It looks like a misshapen gun.
She plugs it in, and it roars to life. The amount of air blowing from it feels more like a hurricane than a blow dryer.
I watch as she forms and sculpts my hair into the perfect hairstyle.
She turns the dryer off and continues to work until it’s perfect.
“Done,” she says, stepping away from me. “What do you think?”
Turning my head in the mirror, I take in every angle. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
She smiles a toothy grin. “My pleasure, mon amour.”
Cyrus holds a hand toward me, helping me climb from the chair. I’m not sure why. I don’t need help standing, but I don’t refuse.
“Payment as usual?” he asks my witchy hairdresser.
“That’s perfect,” she answers.
“It’s already in your account.”
Monique disappears behind a large bush, returning seconds later with a paper bag. “This is what you asked for. Don’t use it all at once.” I stare at the bag, curious what’s inside.
“Thank you, Monique.” Cyrus raises the witch’s hand to his lips, kissing it gently. “You are as spectacular as always.”
She giggles, reminding me of a schoolgirl. “You flatter me, Cyrus.”
“I only speak the truth,” he retorts, making her cheeks turn pink. He offers his elbow toward me, and I wrap my arm through. Back on Royal Street, Cyrus motions toward a large black car waiting by the curb.
“Is this for us?” I ask.
“It is.” He opens the door, allowing room for me to step inside. Sliding into the seat from the other side, he issues an order to the silent driver, and we’re speeding toward the train station minutes later.
……
“Good morning, Mr. Knight,” an older man greets us as we climb aboard the locomotive-driven train.
“Good morning, Rupert,” Cyrus responds, handing the man two tickets he pulled from nowhere. “Is my usual available?”
Rupert smiles. “It is. I try to keep it open in case you’re aboard.” He turns toward the back of the train. “Follow me, please.”
Cyrus places a hand on the small of my back, directing me to follow the train conductor through the overcrowded seats. “Cover your nose,” he whispers as we pass through a mixture of smells. I lift a hand to my nose, trying not to appear obvious.
“Here we are,” Rupert announces, opening a private door in the very last car. Cyrus ushers me inside. “Is there anything you will need for our trip, Mr. Knight?”
“I don’t believe so, Rupert.” He hands the man a twenty-dollar bill. I focus on not letting my eyes grow large with the amount of money he shared.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll check on you in a few hours.” Rupert makes eye contact with me before turning to leave. His look tells me this is nothing new for my buyer.
The train car is decked out lavishly. Four large leather chairs face each other, sitting on top of plush red carpet. Dark wood covers the walls, making the space feel more like a hotel room than a train car. “This is very nice,” I say, lacking the right words.
“It is,” he agrees. “This room is away from other passengers. You shouldn’t be tempted to eat anyone on the trip over.”
I resist the urge to show how much his words annoy me. “Thank you,” I answer, lying.
Not long after settling into the seats, the train begins to move. Strangers at the station wave as we pull away from New Orleans. “Is this your first time on a train?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully. “My family hasn’t gone many places.” My heart lurches at the thought of my family.
“You should stop that,” he answers.
“Stop what?”
“Stop thinking of your family.”
I stare at Cyrus, not sure if I want to kill him or cry. “I know,” I choose to answer.
“Read this,” he says, handing me a book thicker than the phone directory I use at work. The unsuspecting cover gives no clues as to what’s inside.
“Why?”
“Must you question everything?” he scoffs.
I bite back the snark that wants to escape my lips. Opening the cover, I’m met with something that looks like a mixture of letters and numbers. “What language is this?”
“English,” he answers with a smirk.
I flip several pages, seeing the same as the first. None of it makes sense. “This is not the English I’m used to.”
“It’s a sypher. You will have to decipher it using this.” He hands me a round piece of cardboard with the same symbols on the outside rim and a smaller circle in the middle that turns to match.
“You expect me to decipher each letter of this book in order to read it?” Frustration sounds through my voice.
“Yes,” he answers, pulling another book from his satchel. “Is there a problem?”
I stare, not sure how to answer. “Maybe.” I choose, making him laugh.
“Get started.”
I sigh, turning the circle to the first letter. Asshole.