The Deer Woman

Prologue
Blood

New Orleans
March, 1893

The fog settled heavily on Bourbon Street; but in the early morning hours, few people were awake to care. Barnabas Israfel, however, did not have the luxury of being one of those lucky souls. The previous night's humidity mixed with the dew of the coming morning created a sweltering environment the likes of which Barnabas had never felt during his life in Europe, soaking him clear through to the skin. The heavy scent of salt water and rotting fish carried in from the docks, mixing with the litter of the streets, fermenting in a stench that could nearly be tasted. The street left the usually beautiful city in a hateful orange-red glow from the dying street lamps, and the only human voices came from shuffles of thieves and the moans of whores. This hour was one that was essentially offensive to all senses.

But there was little in way of an alternative option. It was the only time he found himself able to walk the city without fear of these same people who now slumbered. Or worse yet, fear of that hateful sunlight.

And this hour gave way to bountiful prey, the bars finally closing their doors and the last of the stumbling drunks were finally thrown out into the streets. Drunks barely capable of standing up, let alone fighting off an attack from a half-starved vampire.

Not that the sober ever stood much of a chance either.

Behind him, he heard the sound of footsteps emerging from an alleyway. When he turned, he saw something that made all the time spent in the disgusting city night worth it: a lovely young woman, copper-skinned and buckskin-clothed, dancing out across the pavement, her shoes clicking sharply against the stone. Her large brown eyes seemed to catch every trace of light the dimly lit streets had to offer. In every way, shape, and form, she bared the pure essence of a wild creature, unspoiled by the pollutants of life in the civilized world.

Softly putting her rhythm-less dance to an end, her eyes met Barnabas', and she slinked closer towards him, finally leaning against the brick building, as though waiting for him to come to her. Fair enough, Barnabas thought to himself. If she wanted him to play before he feasted, he could indulge her.

"Enchante." He tipped his hat to the wild woman. "I must confess, I have lived in this city for many years, and yet I have never laid eyes on a woman as beautiful as you."

At the compliment, the young woman offered a coy laugh. She threw her head backward and flicked her black hair from side to side, the flesh on her elegant throat nakedly exposed.

"A gentleman does not stand so close to a lady without knowing her name." Barnabas leaned the wall as well, moving closer despite his words. "Would you be so kind as to tell me yours?"

The young woman smiled, her delicate fingers moving across her cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. A heavy earring of turquoise and silver dangled from side to side, drawing the vampire's eyes back to her lovely neck.

"I am Mo'eme'êhne'e."

An Indian, then; a rare delicacy indeed. Most Creole had some traces of Indian blood mixed in from years of intermarrying with the other races of Louisiana, but Barnabas had ever tasted it in its purest form.

"What a lovely name," he remarked, bending down to kiss the Indian woman's hand. "Almost as lovely as its beholder, ma cher."

She answered Barnabas' words with a flirtatious giggle, then pushed herself away from the wall and turned as though to leave. At first, the vampire believed tonight's meal would indeed be preceded with a hunt, but when the young woman reached the corner into the alley from which she came and before Barnabas could ready himself to attack, she turned back around to meet him with large doe-like eyes. Cocking her head to the side, she beckoned Barnabas back into the darkness. Hardly needing the invitation, he followed the young woman into the alleyway. She was just making this far too easy.

Barnabas ran his tongue over his fangs and prepared himself to strike. But the wild little Indian girl got to him first. She pushed him up against one of the buildings that created the alley, pinning him against the brick wall and tearing his jacket in half as she ripped it off his shoulders. For such a lithe young woman, she had just shown a remarkable display of physical strength.

"You certainly don't waste any time, do you?" he said as the young woman ripped his silk shirt open, tearing off most of the buttons in the process.

The humid wind brushed against Barnabas' bare skin, as did the Indian woman's hands, moving swiftly and instinctively. While the wild young woman took what she wanted, Barnabas waited. Humans and their insatiable needs. This was not the first time they had forced him to wait for a meal. Just as well, though; once done, humans always seemed punch-drunk by the aftereffects of it all, making them even easier prey.

But at last, after feeling as though he had waited for far too long, the Indian woman gasped and shuddered against him, finally bringing her head to rest against his shoulder. She stretched her beautiful neck mere inches away from his lips, as though offering herself to him. And so he took her, kissing her neck softly at first, then sinking his fangs into her pristine flesh, taking his first taste of her exquisite blood.

Then stopped, although he still did not remove his fangs from her neck. Something was very wrong. True, this was his first taste of pure Indian blood, and although he thought he may not be able to imagine the taste, he felt certain that this was not what it should be. It was unlike any human race he had ever tasted before, the crimson drink bearing more resemblance to that which he drank when surviving off the blood of rats and dogs when for lack of a better food source.

Finally, he withdrew his fangs so he could meet this strange creature face to face once again. She looked up at him with those large doe eyes of her, though all traces of their previous flirtatious nature had all but vanished. That coy smile still rested on her face, but it had now also adopted a cunning nature as well, the sly nature of a hunter, alerting Barnabas that it was he who had just become the prey.

"You are not human," he remarked, more to himself than the young woman, who clearly new exactly what she was.

Swiftly, his vampire reflexes not even able to react in time, Barnabas found himself thrown to the ground by a tremendous force too fast to be seen. Little did it matter now anyway, for the vampire found himself pinned to the ground by the young woman, holding him in place with her heel of her shoe against his throat.

Not a shoe; not even a heel.

"Die, white man," she hissed at him, an expression of bloodlust tracing its way across her face.

__________________________

Moments later, a lovely young woman, copper-skinned and buckskin-clothed, her skirts trimmed with blood, danced out from the alleyway, her shoes clicking sharply against the pavement. And the vampire known as Barnabas Israfel was no more.