The Bayou Girl
The Shadows of
Savannah
For Stephen King
Magister Tenebrarum
Stephen Sulkey
Chapter 1
It was a mystery. The crème de la crème of Savannah's business, political, and cultural society had received invitations to a party, and what a party it promised to be.
Each invitation was a masterpiece of calligraphy, its elegant golden lettering carefully inscribed upon fine white linen paper. No one seemed to know who was hosting the affair, yet curiosity alone was enough to ensure attendance.
As evening descended upon the city, the automobiles began to arrive. Mercedes, BMWs, Jaguars, Cadillacs, and Lincolns rolled through the wrought-iron gates and into the circular drive. One by one, their distinguished passengers emerged, ascending the grand staircase that led to the entrance of the magnificent antebellum mansion.
The interior was more than impressive—it was breathtaking. Vast sums of money had been spent restoring the estate to its former glory while seamlessly incorporating modern comforts. Crystal gasoliers still hung from the ceilings, their historic beauty preserved, though they had since been converted to electricity and now glowed with warm LED illumination. Modern plumbing, luxurious bathrooms, climate control, and other conveniences unknown before the Civil War had been discreetly integrated into the structure, allowing the mansion to retain its nineteenth-century elegance without sacrificing twenty-first-century comfort.
As the guests entered the grand foyer, many found themselves momentarily speechless. It was as if they had stepped backward through time into the South's gilded past, while somehow remaining firmly rooted in the present.
Throughout the grand entry hall and adjoining parlors, guests were served champagne, fine wines, and an assortment of expertly crafted cocktails by attentive waitstaff. Some wandered into the gentlemen's smoking room, where cigar smoke drifted lazily toward the ornate ceiling, while others gathered in the ladies' tea room, admiring the antique furnishings and delicate décor. Everywhere, conversations revolved around the same question: Who was their host?
No one seemed to know. Savannah was a city built upon reputation, influence, and old connections, and it was unusual for so many prominent individuals to find themselves equally uninformed. Business leaders exchanged theories with politicians. Socialites whispered their suspicions behind crystal glasses. A few guests even wondered if the evening was some elaborate practical joke. Yet the mansion, the invitations, and the impeccable service all spoke of wealth on a truly extraordinary scale.
Whoever had arranged this gathering possessed not only immense resources but also a remarkable understanding of Savannah's elite. That realization only deepened the mystery. "I hear it’s a woman and she's old money from somewhere deep in the South," one gentleman remarked as he swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass. "Perhaps Mobile, Alabama, or maybe New Orleans."
His companion shrugged. "Whoever she is, she's wealthy beyond imagination. Restoring a place like this would cost a fortune."
"Not just restoring it," a third guest added. "Look around. Every detail is perfect. The furnishings, the artwork, the landscaping, the catering staff. This wasn't thrown together to impress people. It was created by someone who understands elegance."
A woman standing nearby leaned closer. "I spoke with one of the caterers. He claims the owner purchased the estate outright less than a year ago and paid cash." That revelation drew a chorus of surprised murmurs.
"Paid cash?" one man repeated.
The woman nodded. "That's what he said. No bank financing. No investors. Just a wire transfer and the deed changed hands."
The guests exchanged puzzled glances. Savannah's social circles were not so large that a person of such wealth could normally appear without attracting attention. Yet no one seemed to know exactly who their hostess was, where she had come from, or how she had accumulated such an astonishing fortune.
The mystery only grew more intriguing with every passing minute.
Then everything stopped. Conversations died in mid-sentence. Crystal glasses froze halfway to waiting lips. The soft murmur of speculation that had filled the mansion vanished as every eye turned toward the top of the grand staircase. Many guests had expected an older, distinguished gentleman, perhaps a silver-haired shipping or oil magnate, or perhaps an elegant couple whose wealth had been accumulated over decades. Instead, a woman who appeared to be no more than twenty-eight stood motionless above them, gazing down at the assembled crowd.
She was breathtaking.
Clad in a sapphire-blue evening gown that seemed to shimmer beneath the glow of the chandeliers, she possessed an almost regal grace. A necklace of magnificent sapphires adorned her slender neck, each gemstone catching the light and reflecting it in brilliant flashes. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face of extraordinary beauty.
Yet it was her eyes that captivated them most. They were a striking shade of blue, sparkling in the warm light of the hall like the precious stones she wore around her neck.
For a moment, every man in the room felt his heart skip a beat.
The women were equally astonished. Some admired her beauty; others envied it. But all shared the same bewildering question.
How could someone so young possess such immense wealth, such impeccable taste, and such effortless poise?
She stood there like a queen surveying her court, her expression calm and confident, as though she had anticipated their reaction from the moment the invitations had been mailed.
An uneasy silence settled over the mansion. The mystery had finally revealed itself, yet somehow the answer only raised more questions.
Effortlessly, she seemed to float down the grand staircase, each step a study in grace and elegance. The guests watched in silence, captivated by her presence. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way she moved, as though she belonged to another era of centuries past—or perhaps another world entirely.
When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she paused for a moment. Her gaze swept across the assembled crowd, and each guest had the distinct impression that she was looking directly into their eyes. Then she smiled.
It was an extraordinary smile—warm, genuine, and radiant enough to dispel the tension that had settled over the room. More than one guest found themselves smiling back before they even realized it.
"Welcome to my home," she said.
Her voice was rich and melodic, carrying effortlessly through the hall without the slightest hint of strain.
"I am Bedelia Marie Dubois, and it is my fondest desire that each and every one of you enjoys yourself this evening."
The guests responded with polite applause, though many remained fascinated by the young woman before them. She possessed the confidence of old aristocracy, the charm of a seasoned hostess, and a beauty that seemed almost impossible.
As the applause faded, Bedelia's smile widened ever so slightly.
"Please," she continued, gesturing toward the adjoining rooms, "eat, drink, dance, and make yourselves at home. Tonight is a celebration. Let us leave business, politics, and the troubles of the world outside these walls."
A murmur of approval swept through the gathering.
Yet even as the guests relaxed, one question lingered in the minds of nearly everyone present.
Who exactly was Bedelia Marie Dubois?
Afterward, she drifted effortlessly through the crowd, anticipating question after question. Guests seemed drawn to her, eager to satisfy their curiosity about the mysterious young woman who had appeared seemingly from nowhere and purchased one of Savannah's most magnificent, albeit rundown, estates and returned it to its former glory and then some.
Her answers were careful, polished, and always to the point.
She explained that she came from old money in the New Orleans area. Naturally, her guests assumed she was the latest heir to a fortune that had passed down through generations in an ancient Southern family line. Not one of them suspected the truth.
The old money was hers.
Every dollar had been accumulated, saved, and invested over more than two centuries. When asked about the origins of her family's wealth, she explained that it had begun in the lumber industry. The answer amused her more than she dared reveal. There was, after all, a sliver of truth hidden within the lie. When she had been a child, her father had indeed been a logger. He had also been killed by a falling tree, a tragedy that had altered the course of her life forever.
The sophisticated men and women surrounding her accepted every word without hesitation.
Bedelia found that quietly amusing.
Over the years, she had learned that the most convincing lies were those built upon fragments of truth. People wanted stories that made sense. Give them enough truth to occupy their minds, and they would happily construct the rest themselves.
As she moved among her guests, laughing softly at the appropriate moments and charming everyone she encountered, she could not help but marvel at how easily they accepted the fiction she had created.
Their minds remained pleasantly occupied.
Occupied enough that none of them noticed something strangely absent from the mansion.
For all its grandeur, for all its painstaking historical accuracy, there was not a single large mirror anywhere in the house.
No gilded mirror hung above the fireplaces. No polished-looking glass decorated the hallways. No great mirrored panels reflected the crystal chandeliers.
In a mansion of such elegance, the omission should have been obvious.
Yet no one questioned it.
And Bedelia intended to keep it that way.
It would not have served her well if someone realized she had no reflection.
The consequences of such a discovery would be inconvenient, to say the least. She had spent more than two centuries carefully cultivating her existence, adapting to changing times, changing fashions, and changing identities. The modern world was far more accepting of unusual things than the one into which she had been born, but it was still not ready for the truth.
As the evening wore on, several prominent men gradually found their way into Bedelia's orbit. Some were drawn by simple curiosity, hoping to uncover more information about Savannah's mysterious new resident. Others had far fewer intellectual motives.
Bedelia was undeniably beautiful, but her attraction went far beyond physical appearance.
It was the warmth of her smile. The sparkle in her eyes. The effortless wit of her conversation. She possessed a rare ability to make a man feel as though he were the most fascinating person in the room. A slight tilt of her head, a playful remark, a lingering glance, and even the most confident among them found themselves disarmed.
Several of the men surrounding her would have gladly risked everything for the opportunity to spend more time in her company.
Some might even have died for such a chance.
The irony, of course, was that none of them realized how literal that possibility might be.
As they admired the woman before them—the beauty, the mystery, the enigma—they remained blissfully unaware that beneath the elegant gown and charming smile lurked something far older and infinitely more dangerous. Bedelia Marie Dubois could be gracious, compassionate, and enchanting when the situation required it.
She could also be a merciless predator.
Fortunately for everyone present, she was in a remarkably good mood tonight.
Eventually, one of the gentlemen mustered enough courage to ask the question that had been troubling many guests.
"Miss Dubois," he said, "forgive my curiosity, but how have you managed to accomplish so much in only a year? Restoring this estate alone would be a monumental undertaking."
A smile touched her lips.
"The credit belongs largely to Mr. Henry Agron," she replied. "Anyone who has spent time in Savannah knows that Henry is a man who understands how to make things happen. He knows the local economy, the building trades, the contractors, the suppliers, and, perhaps most importantly, the people."
Several guests nodded in agreement. Henry Agron was well known throughout Savannah's business community.
"Without his assistance," Bedelia continued, "I doubt half of this would have been possible."
The explanation seemed perfectly reasonable, and her audience readily accepted it.
What Bedelia did not mention was the true nature of her relationship with Henry Agron.
She did not tell them that he knew exactly what she was.
She did not tell them that he had been one of the very few people she had trusted with her secret.
Nor did she mention that, over the past year, he had become far more than a business adviser. Vampires have a term, ‘familiar’. That is a human who serves or perhaps even befriends a vampire. It is a relationship that most humans could never understand, nor would many wish to.
Some truths were far too valuable to share.
Especially when they involved the only human being in Savannah who understood that the beautiful hostess standing before them had been born centuries before any of their great-grandparents had drawn their first breath.