Moon Over Bourbon Street

September, New Orleans, Louisiana, 1918

Bourbon street was dead. Not literally dead, of course, but the normal hustle and bustle of the night was gone. There was one lonely trumpet player sitting on an old orange crate under the awning, blowing a sad tune. A lonely tune, fitting for the night. Tonight, there were no roaring Jazz numbers drifting from the nightclubs, no cigarette smoke hanging like a cloud over the cobblestone paths.

Behind the trumpet player, standing in the doorway of a dive bar, was a man, hiding behind the smell of whiskey and wine that was now tucked safely away, hidden from sight of the feds. He was tall, with shaggy light brown hair and blue eyes. His shoulders were broad, hidden beneath a knee-length coat. Between his fingers was a hand rolled cigarette, its cloud of smoke chokingly bitter. The tips of his fingers were stained a pale yellow, which barely stood out against the white of his skin. He wore a menacing expression, as if he was daring someone, anyone, to fight him, rough him up a bit.

Flicking the ashes off of his cigarette, he took another drag and stalked towards the jazz man.

“Evening, sir. Sure is dead tonight, ain’t it?”the musician chuckled, motioning towards the deserted street. “You have a request? I can play just ‘bout anything. Ragtime, Waltzes, whatever ya’ fancy is.”

Fighting his instincts, the man took another drag off his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, grinding it under

“I’m perfectly content. Play on,” the man smiled, his Londoner accent heavy.
his foot. The musician shrugged, placed his trumpet to his lips, and started another tune, this one a ragtime, fast and jarring.

As the man stalked away, the musician, eyes wide, tried to deny what he thought he was seeing.

The tall man with the broad shoulders, no matter how elegant he seemed, was covered in blood. The trumpet player jumped off his orange crate and peered into the bar that the man had crept out of. The scene of carnage inside was horrifying. Bodies, limp and broken, drained of blood, were draped over tables, hunched over bars, lying pitifully on the floor.

“Wha-what are you?” the musician cried, watching the man walk away.

“Something straight out of your nightmares, mate.”

The man continued to walk towards the cemetery, and the musician, knees shaking, ran away.

The mysterious man, whose real name was William, but preferred to be called Spike, was indeed a creature out of the musician’s nightmares. Spike was a vampire; one of those creatures of the night, son of Dracula, and all that nonsense. Spike had heard of Dracula, and wasn’t too impressed. Only a weakling would turn into a bloody bat to escape his enemies. A real man would fight. But that wasn’t the point. Spike grinned, staggering slightly as he made his way into the 4th Street Cemetery. It was always nice to drink of people that had been drinking—a nice little buzz was an aftereffect of their intoxication. It helped to take the edge off of the slightest pang of guilt that he always got after a mass murder. Killing everyone in a building, not even drinking of some, always made Spike feel a bit ashamed. When he was with Drusilla, she said it was because of waste. Angel said he was an idiot. Scoffing, he kicked a paper bag that was lying on the ground. It had been exactly a year since he had seen Angelus and Drew. Stupid wankers. Living it up in France while he was here in this rat-hole of a town. The port city, though charming, held almost no pleasure for Spike, unless you counted the drunken revelers, of course. He liked to people watch, and there were so many people in town during Mardi Gras that it was easy pickings, but other than that, the cemetery was cramped, stuffed with so many bodies that it was unimaginable, and the sun shone so hot and bright, all year round. It wasn’t like London, all rainy and damp. During the summer, the heat penetrated the marble walls of his mausoleum, making him miserable. Every now and then, because of the damp and heat, his tomb would crack, letting in dangerous shafts of sunlight, and he would have to huddle in a corner, underneath a blanket, ‘til the moonlight shone and he could find a new place to stay. Tonight though, he wasn’t going to think about any of that. It was September, summer was very nearly over, and for now, the weather was cooling down a bit. He whistled a tune, one that his mother used to sing to him, and walked on down the road, basking in the moonlight and enjoying the slight chill of night. When he was almost to the cemetery, he turned on the heel of his foot, heading in the other direction. Towards the tail end of the French Quarter, where all the wealthy families lived.

“Not even near dawn yet—only nine ‘o clock, might as well enjoy myself,” he muttered. In truth, he wanted to see the girl. To see her. Maria Antoine Thibedeux.

She was not a plaything of his, even though he had those before, nor was she a target. She was more of a fascination. She was young, completely innocent, perhaps 17 years old. A beautiful girl, she was playful and bright, a terror to her governess. She was the daughter of Captain Marcus Thibedeux, owner of 100 ships that sailed the Mississippi and the Gulf of Mexico, carrying spices and silks and provisions for the smaller towns. Sometimes, he even carried passengers. Spike had come over on one of those. Sometimes he thought it was a bit funny, that he came over on one of ol' Marcus’ ships. It was like their fates were tied somehow. Bring a man to the Americas from France, maybe soon he'll become fascinated with your daughter.

When Spike first saw Antoine a year earlier, in her new long skirts and high buttoned boots, a white silken bow slipping out of her raven hair, he had been charmed. She was walking awkwardly down the streets of New Orleans, trailing obligingly behind her governess, listening half heartedly to a lecture on “how talking to men who you are unfamiliar with will sully your, and your family’s reputation”. She sighed, trying to untangle her feet from the unfamiliar lengths of cloth draping around her legs, then looked around, as if something had caught her attention. As she settled her gaze on him, he was alarmed, since he was hidden away, his coat wrapped around him tightly as he stuck to the shadows. But she smiled, a little toothy smile from those shell pink lips, and her eyes twinkled. He smiled back as those eyes bore straight through him. They were dark brown, wise beyond their years, and twinkling with all sorts of repressed mischief. With a rebellious glance towards her governess, she waved, then walked on, ignoring the stodgy old woman's' new lecture about waving to strange men and its inevitable consequences.

Ever since then, Spike had appointed himself as her guardian of sorts; all the demons in the area knew that they were not to bother the Thibedeux family.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked up at the looming brick and ivy house in front of him. Three stories tall and covered in ivy, the largest house on the block. Even the cast iron letters by the front door were grandiose, as big as his hand, and the brick stairway leading to the spacious front porch was swept clean, as always. He ignored those grandiose steps, instead going to the back, where Antoine’s window was. Climbing up a live oak tree, he sat down in the branches, hidden from sight, and watched. Antoine was rambling about in her room, clad in a long, silk dressing gown. Her hair tumbled down her back, and she was working on braiding it. Sneakily, she looked about, then locked her door.

“What have we here, pet? Got a secret?” Spike said, chuckling at the girl he had so much affection for. Adjusting his position a bit, he watched her amusedly. She snuck over to her bed, then threw back the covers, pulling out a lacquered black box.

“And what is this? Something naughty?”

But it wasn’t. Spike was almost disappointed when he saw that it was only cosmetics in the box. They were dark, and he could almost smell them from his perch; the dyes and inks and oils and fats tickling his nose. First, Antoine went for the rouge. All cosmetics were banned from the social circle Antoine belonged to, to her dismay. She wanted to look like the actresses she saw on the movie posters. With two quick motions, she drew the pads of her fingers over the bright pink stuff, then made two streaks on her pale cheeks. Moistening her fingers with the tip of her little pink tongue, she blended the mixture of spit and rouge into her cheeks, giving herself less of a virginal flush and more of a whorish tint. The next thing she sprung at was the lipstick. The stuff was bright red, the color of fresh blood spilt on porcelain. Spike liked it. She smeared it across her lips, then smacked them together, turning this way and that, admiring herself in the mirror.

“That’s enough, Madame Antoine! You are ready for your close-up! The next movie you star in shall be fabulous! All the women will swoon with jealousy, and the men will beseech their young ladies to come see it with them! And you, you shall be the envy of all!”

Antoine’s lilting voice was barely audible to Spike. He chuckled at the little monologue she was performing. He liked the sound of her voice. It wasn’t like the prim and proper girls he had known. No, her voice was not low, but teetered on the edge of husky. It was like silk with a bit of smoke over it. She had surely inherited her father’s Cajun accent, but it was more delicate; she had a bit more of her mother’s French pronunciation.

“Scandal! The daughter of an exiled French Duchess! Her father’s father half Creole! Heiress of the South’s finest shipping company! Your name will be in lights!” she laughed, doing a twirl. Her skirts spun up, and Spike caught a glimpse of her stocking clad legs. Antoine was shapely. Spike could tell from her figure that just recently had childish baby fat shifted into deadly curves. And the girl’s curves were deadly. Whether it was natural or from her from her corset, Spike couldn’t tell, but her waist curved in sharply from a pair of large breasts, then angled back out to deliciously round hips. While she danced, moving those hips in what she surely thought was a seductive manner, the door burst opened and in rushed her governess.

“Maria Antoine Thibedeux! What in the world do you think you are doing? Where did you get those—those devil paints!”

Antoine sat down on her bed, crossing her arms defiantly.

“I was just playing. I found them in Anna Beth’s room. Didn’t think she would mind.”

Spike chuckled lowly, enjoying Antoine’s little show.

“You certainly can put on the theatrics, can’t you love? Baby likes to play.”

The governess tutted like a mother hen.

“You will wash your face, then we are returning those cosmetics. Then you, you are off to bed! No supper for you tonight!”

“But Mrs. Tweed!” Antoine begged, turning those big brown doe eyes towards her governess.

“No. You cannot use those looks on me! They might work on your father, but I am a different story! March!”

Antoine disappeared from sight, and Spike smiled. Jumping out of the tree, he shoved his hands back in his pocket and headed for downtown.

Later that night, after Antoine had returned the cosmetics and apologized profusely to Anna Beth, who looked more ashamed than Antoine was, she made her way back to her room. Closing the door rather sharply behind her, she muttered to herself.

“Dumb Mrs. Tweedy. Wish mama and daddy were here. Daddy would stick up for me.”

Antoine started stripping out of her clothes, letting them slide to the floor. As she leaned to pick them up and drape them over her dressing screen, she smiled wickedly.

“I’ll just leave those there tonight. Won’t hurt it a bit, now will it, Gertrude?” she sneered, mischievous eyes twinkling full force. As she went to crawl into bed, she heard a tapping sound on her window, then her voice, all sing-songy. Her heart pounding into her throat, she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and grabbed a heavy bronze candlestick from her bedside table. As she crept towards the window, her beat faster and faster and faster until… she saw that on the windowsill, there sat a small brown paper sack and a bottle full of cold milk, condensation dripping from the glass sides. She put down the candlestick and opened the window, peering below to see if she could spot anyone.

“Hello? Anyone out there?” she whispered, afraid of hearing an answer. When no one replied, she grabbed the bag and the bottle, latched the window tightly, drew her blinds, and leapt into bed. The bag was hot, and she peered inside curiously. It was full to the brim of beignets, cooked just right and coated with powdered sugar. She pulled one hot and bit into it, closing her eyes with pleasure as the sugar puffed away and the hot oil coated her mouth. She washed it down with a sip of the milk and sighed, wondering who could have left her such a gift. All at once, as she bit into the second beignet, she noticed a scrap of paper that was clipped to the bag. She read it out loud, almost not believing what she was seeing.

Antoine,
Going to bed without supper is a horrible thing. Your stomach’s all growly and you can’t sleep at all. Terrible. Wouldn’t want that happening to my favorite girl. Here are some treats, don’t make yourself sick. And for God’s sake, do something to get back at the stodgy old witch.
With love,
S

Antoine continued to nibble on the beignet, her mind racing as it tried to figure out who this mysterious S was.
She liked him quite a bit.