The Bayou Girl
A Woman to Die For
The Bayou Girl
A Woman to Die For
For Anne Rice
Vera Regina Damnatorum
Stephen Sulkey
Chapter 1
She was only sixteen.
At any other time, that might have meant something.
Tonight, it meant nothing at all.
She was running for her life.
The humid night air of New Orleans clung to her skin like a damp blanket as she sprinted through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the ancient brick pavement slick beneath her feet. The air carried the familiar scent of the city—wet stone, stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the muddy breath of the nearby Mississippi River. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely trumpet still played, the last mournful notes drifting from a bar that had not yet surrendered to the approaching dawn.
Behind her came the pounding of footsteps.
Three sets.
The same three men she had met less than an hour earlier.
They had seemed harmless enough at first. Friendly. Amused by the pretty girl who looked just old enough to belong in the crowded Bourbon Street bar. They had bought drinks, smiled too often, and stood just a little too close.
Then they followed her outside.
"Hey, stop!" one of them shouted.
His voice echoed between the centuries-old brick buildings.
"We're not going to hurt you!"
The lie only made her run harder.
Her shoes slapped against the uneven pavement as she raced beneath wrought-iron balconies draped with ferns and flowering vines. Pools of warm light spilled from old gas lamps while darkness gathered in the spaces between buildings that had watched over New Orleans for more than two centuries. These streets had survived pirates, yellow fever, hurricanes, great fires, and war.
Tonight, they offered her no sanctuary.
Her lungs burned, and every breath came in ragged gasps that tore at her chest. She fought the growing ache in her legs and forced herself onward, driven by the simple instinct that has carried frightened people through history.
Run.
An empty beer bottle rolled beneath her foot, skittering across the pavement before smashing against a wall. The sharp crack shattered the silence of the sleeping street, but she barely heard it. Panic had narrowed her world until only one thought remained.
Escape.
It was well after midnight. Most of the tourists had already disappeared into hotels and guesthouses, while Bourbon Street slowly settled into the uneasy calm that followed another long night of celebration. Neon lights still flickered in the distance, but the laughter had faded.
Only a skinny alley cat sitting beneath a flickering streetlamp witnessed her desperate flight.
The animal watched her rush past with luminous yellow eyes before silently slipping into the darkness, as though it already knew something she did not.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to scream.
Mostly, she wanted to be home.
The fake ID had seemed like such a brilliant idea only a few hours before. A little makeup. Different clothes. One exciting night pretending to be older than she really was.
Now she understood just how foolish she'd been.
The men had watched her all evening. At first she thought they were flirting. Then the comments became cruder. The accidental touches lingered too long. Finally there were the looks.
Those looks.
There had been no kindness in their eyes.
No romance.
Only hunger.
If she survived the night, she swore she would never walk into another bar alone for the rest of her life.
Ahead, she spotted an alley—a narrow passage between two weathered brick buildings.
Hope flared inside her.
Perhaps it opened onto another street.
Perhaps there would be people.
Perhaps someone would help.
New Orleans was a city of contradictions. One block could pulse with music and laughter while the next felt abandoned by the living altogether.
Without hesitating, she darted into the alley.
The city vanished behind her.
The walls rose high on either side, stained by decades of rain, mold, and neglect. Rusted fire escapes clung to the brickwork overhead like the ribs of some ancient skeleton. Water dripped steadily from somewhere above, each drop echoing in the confined darkness.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The alley smelled of everything the city preferred visitors never notice—rotting garbage, spoiled food, stale alcohol, damp brick, urine, and beneath it all, the sweet, sickening odor of something that had died days ago in the summer heat.
Still, she ran.
Then she stopped.
"Damn it."
The words escaped as little more than a whisper.
"Damn it."
A chain-link fence blocked the far end of the alley. It stood nearly ten feet high, crowned with coils of razor wire that shimmered beneath the dim light like metallic serpents. A narrow gate sat in the center, but it was wrapped tightly in heavy chain and secured by a thick padlock. Beyond it lay an abandoned storage yard littered with rusting machinery, broken pallets, and deep shadows.
No escape.
The alley had become a trap.
For a long, terrible second, she simply stared at the fence, unable to believe what she was seeing. The city itself seemed to have betrayed her, guiding her into a dead end.
Then she heard them.
The footsteps were much closer now.
They echoed between the brick walls with an unsettling confidence, slow and unhurried. The sound belonged to men who knew they had already won.
Her heart sank.
They hadn't lost her.
"Hey, girl," one of them called, his voice carrying an almost playful amusement. "Where do you think you're going?"
"We're not going to hurt you."
Another laughed.
"No," he said. "We've got much better plans than that."
The third man grinned as he stepped into the mouth of the alley.
"You looked awfully sweet back at the bar."
He took another slow step toward her.
"I think it's time you gave us all a little sugar."
The three men spread out instinctively, cutting off every possible escape. There was no rush. Why should there be? The fence stood behind her. They stood in front.
She was trapped.
"Please..." she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm only sixteen. I have a fake ID. I won't tell anyone. I swear it. Please...just let me go."
For a brief moment the alley fell silent. Somewhere beyond the narrow walls, New Orleans continued as though nothing were happening. A car passed. Music drifted faintly through the humid night.
Then the leader laughed.
"Sixteen?"
His smile widened into something ugly.
"We like them young, don't we, boys?"
The others answered with low, knowing chuckles.
The sound turned her stomach.
"Don't be afraid," he continued. "You'll enjoy it."
Something inside her finally broke.
The last thread of hope snapped.
The men moved forward again.
Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to run, but there was nowhere left to go. The fence blocked one direction. The men blocked the other.
The leader stopped only inches away.
He was broad-shouldered, thick through the chest, and dressed so ordinarily he might have blended into any crowd in the French Quarter. Faded blue jeans. A khaki work shirt. Cheap boots.
Only one thing stood out.
Around his neck hung a heavy gold chain, and from it dangled a small golden Thor's hammer that swung gently as he breathed.
Strange, she thought.
Such a tiny detail.
Yet somehow, she knew she would remember it for the rest of her life...
...which, at this rate, might only be another few minutes.
Without warning, he shoved her backward.
The chain-link fence exploded against her shoulders with a metallic rattle, sending a sharp bolt of pain through her back. She gasped as the smell of whiskey washed over her.
His eyes wandered slowly across her body.
There was nothing human in that look.
Only possession.
Only cruelty.
Only appetite.
When his hand slid across her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut.
This was it.
This was how she died.
"No," she whispered.
Then louder.
"No! Please!"
"I'll scream!"
The man laughed.
It wasn't simply cruel.
It was the laugh of someone who had lived his entire life believing there would never be consequences.
He glanced casually around the deserted alley.
"Go ahead."
He leaned closer until she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"No one will hear you."
Then he smiled.
"Even if they did..."
His voice became almost conversational.
"...no one would give a shit."
"I do."
The words were quiet.
Almost gentle.
Yet they carried through the alley with astonishing clarity.
Every head turned.
The leader released the girl so abruptly she nearly collapsed against the fence.
For the first time that evening, uncertainty flickered across his face.
A woman stood at the opposite end of the alley.
No one had heard her approach.
No footsteps.
No rustle of clothing.
No sound whatsoever.
One heartbeat she had not existed.
The next she simply...
...was.
The girl stared.
The stranger possessed a beauty that seemed almost unreal. Long black hair fell over her shoulders like polished silk, and the black dress she wore appeared to drink in the dim light instead of reflecting it. Her pale skin seemed almost luminous against the darkness, while eyes the color of winter ice regarded the three men with quiet amusement.
The alley itself felt different.
The shadows seemed deeper.
The humid air suddenly felt colder.
Even the sounds of the city faded, as though New Orleans itself had paused to watch.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the men demanded.
The woman smiled.
It should have been a reassuring smile.
Instead, it sent an involuntary chill through everyone standing in that alley.
Instead, the smile sent an involuntary chill through everyone in the alley.
"I am no one," she said.
Her voice was soft and cultured, carrying with it an accent that was difficult to place. There was a trace of the South in it, perhaps, but also something older. French, maybe. Or something that had existed long before either language had settled into its modern form.
"I merely thought I might join your little party."
The three men exchanged uncertain glances.
Something was wrong.
The leader felt it as clearly as the damp night air clinging to his skin. Every instinct urged him to leave, but pride and whiskey had never made good companions. He straightened his shoulders and forced an easy grin.
"Is that right?"
His eyes wandered over her body.
"So...you like to watch?"
The woman tilted her head ever so slightly.
"No."
Her smile never changed.
"I play."
The words settled over the alley like a faint mist.
The girl felt her pulse quicken.
The woman's eyes shifted toward her, and for the first time those extraordinary blue eyes met her own.
She felt as though she were falling.
Not because she feared the woman intended to harm her.
Quite the opposite.
There was something impossibly ancient, looking back at her. Something that had watched kingdoms rise and vanish; civilizations flourish and crumble into dust. There was kindness there...but also terrible power.
Those were not human eyes.
The woman returned her attention to the three men.
"Why don't you let the little girl go home?"
Her tone remained calm, almost conversational.
"You don't really need her."
The smile widened just enough to reveal perfect white teeth.
"You have a real woman standing right here."
The leader threw back his head and laughed.
His companions eagerly joined him, their laughter bouncing off the brick walls.
"I don't think so, sweetheart."
His expression hardened.
"We were planning to have ourselves a little fun."
His smile became ugly.
"But maybe now we can have twice as much."
He pointed toward the stranger.
"Joey."
A thin man with greasy hair stepped forward.
"Bring her over here."
Joey grinned drunkenly.
The whiskey flowing through his veins made him fearless.
Or perhaps simply stupid.
Likely both.
He swaggered confidently toward the woman.
The girl watched, and something unexpected happened.
She wanted to warn him.
The realization shocked her.
Only moments ago, these men had intended to rape her, perhaps murder her in this filthy alley. Yet as Joey approached the woman, a strange certainty settled over her.
He had no idea what stood before him.
None of them did.
Too drunk.
Too arrogant.
Too blind.
Joey reached out and grabbed the woman's arm.
Instantly his smile vanished.
Every trace of color drained from his face.
Her skin was cold.
Not cool from the night air.
Not chilled by rain.
Dead cold.
Like polished marble inside a crypt.
Like touching the hand of a corpse.
He jerked his hand away as though burned and stumbled backward.
The woman never moved.
She never so much as blinked.
She simply continued smiling.
The leader frowned.
"What the hell's wrong with you?"
Joey opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he found himself completely without words.
The woman ignored him.
Instead, she looked once more at the girl.
Those remarkable blue eyes seemed brighter now, almost luminous in the darkness.
The girl caught her breath.
Looking into them was like standing on the edge of an endless ocean at midnight.
Beautiful.
Bottomless.
Dangerous beyond imagination.
Then she understood something.
The men were already afraid.
They simply hadn't realized it yet.
But they would.
Oh yes...
They would.
The woman raised one elegant hand and pointed toward the alley entrance.
"Run."
She barely whispered the word.
Yet it struck the girl with the force of a command.
For an instant she stood frozen.
Then instinct took over.
She ran.
She exploded past the three men before they even realized what had happened, her shoes pounding against the wet pavement as she sprinted toward the street. None of them reached for her. They remained transfixed by the woman standing quietly in the alley.
As the girl passed within a few feet of her rescuer, she stole one final glance.
The woman appeared utterly untouched by the filth surrounding her. Her black dress remained immaculate despite the damp alley, and her pale skin seemed almost to gather what little light remained. She stood with the effortless confidence of someone who had never, not once in her existence, doubted the outcome of a confrontation.
The girl felt no relief.
Only awe.
And an even deeper fear.
Because she now knew something with absolute certainty.
Whatever that woman was...
...she was not human.
Moments later she burst back onto the street.
The sounds of New Orleans rushed over her once more—music spilling from distant bars, the rumble of passing cars, laughter echoing somewhere along Bourbon Street. Ordinary life returned in a flood.
She was going to live.
Behind her, the leader watched her disappear before slowly turning back toward the woman.
Every instinct screamed at him to leave.
Run.
Get away while he still could.
Instead, he forced another drunken grin.
"Do you see what you've done, sweetheart?" he asked, spreading his hands dramatically. "Our romantic evening's ruined. You let our little friend get away."
The woman said nothing.
The silence disturbed him more than any threat could have.
His companions shifted uneasily.
The alley seemed darker now.
Colder.
It was as though the warmth had been drained from the night itself. Even the sounds of New Orleans seemed strangely distant, muffled beneath an oppressive stillness that settled over the bricks like a funeral shroud.
The woman smiled.
For the first time, all three men noticed her teeth.
They looked...
different.
Slightly longer.
Slightly sharper.
The leader blinked.
Surely it was a trick of the light.
"You know," he said, forcing confidence back into his voice, "I guess that means we're just going to have to take more of you."
The woman laughed softly.
It was a beautiful sound.
Warm.
Musical.
And utterly devoid of humor.
"...Oh, but you will have me."
The words slipped from her lips almost like a purr.
Soft.
Feminine.
Almost intimate.
Yet beneath that velvet voice lay something else.
Anticipation.
The terrible anticipation of a hunter who had finally found suitable prey.
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The leader took another step forward, gripping his bravado as tightly as the knife still hidden in his pocket.
"What's so funny?"
The woman tilted her head.
The movement was subtle.
Graceful.
Yet it reminded him of a cat studying an injured bird.
Or a wolf deciding exactly where to bite.
Her blue eyes glittered.
Not with reflected light.
With something from within.
Something ancient.
Something immeasurably old.
Something that had looked upon mankind long before these three fools had ever drawn breath.
For the first time since she had appeared, the smile reached her eyes.
"You know," she said quietly, "there was a time when men like you frightened me."
The smile widened almost imperceptibly.
"A very long time ago."
Silence settled over the alley.
None of the men laughed.
None of them spoke.
The woman took a single step forward.
The movement possessed an effortless elegance, almost regal in its confidence.
Yet all three men instinctively stepped backward.
None of them realized they had done it until afterward.
The leader's face flushed with anger.
Embarrassment quickly overcame fear.
He cursed and jerked a knife from his pocket.
The blade snapped open with a metallic click that echoed sharply through the narrow alley.
"There are three of us."
The woman lowered her eyes to the knife.
Then she looked back into his face.
Amusement danced quietly in those impossible blue eyes.
"Yes."
Only one word.
Yet somehow it made him feel ridiculous.
Then he noticed something.
The alley had become completely silent.
The rat that had scurried through the garbage moments earlier had vanished.
Even the insects seemed to have disappeared.
Beyond the alley, New Orleans still lived, but its sounds had become strangely distant, as though the city itself had stepped back and was waiting.
The world seemed to be holding its breath.
The woman smiled again.
This time there was no mistaking what he saw.
Her teeth were changing.
Slowly...
Almost gracefully...
Two elongated canine teeth slid into view.
White.
Perfect.
Deadly.
The knife shifted in his trembling hand.
"What..."
His voice cracked.
"What the hell are you?"
For the first time that evening, genuine fear replaced arrogance.
The woman considered the question as though deciding whether he deserved an answer.
Finally she nodded.
"I am what waits in the darkness for men who mistake themselves for predators."
She took another slow step toward him.
"I am death."
Every trace of color drained from the leader's face.
At that exact instant...
...she moved.
The girl never saw what happened.
By then she had burst from the alley and back into the streets of the French Quarter.
She had no desire to look behind her.
She simply ran.
But she heard it.
First came a growl.
Not the growl of any animal she had ever heard.
It was deeper.
Older.
It carried a terrible authority that froze her in mid-stride for the briefest instant.
Then came the screaming.
A man's scream.
Not of pain.
Of terror.
Pure.
Absolute.
Animal terror.
Another scream followed.
Then another.
The cries echoed through the narrow streets before dissolving into the humid Louisiana night.
The girl forced herself to keep running.
Faster than she had ever run in her life.
She never looked back.
She never would.
Years later, she would remember the woman dressed in black.
The impossible blue eyes.
The gentle voice.
The smile.
She would remember the moment salvation stepped from the shadows of the French Quarter.
And she would remember the screams.
Most of all...
She would remember the screams.
Far behind her, hidden within the darkness of the alley, an ancient predator reminded three evil men that there were monsters in the world far older...
...and far hungrier...
...than they could ever imagine.