Chapter 5: Blood and Bourbon Street
The speakeasy was the kind of place that didn't exist unless you already knew it did.
Astrid followed Julian down a narrow staircase behind a voodoo shop that sold dried herbs and plastic skulls to tourists, the steps creaking beneath her boots with the weight of decades. The air grew cooler as they descended, thick with the smell of damp stone and something older—incense, maybe, or the ghost of a thousand cigarettes smoked by people who had been dead longer than she had been undead.
At the bottom, a heavy door with no handle. Julian knocked twice, paused, knocked three times more. The door swung open on silent hinges.
The room beyond was low-ceilinged and warm, lit by candles jammed into wine bottles and a chandelier that had been converted from an old wagon wheel. A trio played in the corner—upright bass, brushed drums, a piano that had seen better centuries—and the music wrapped around the space like a fever dream. Couples swayed on a dance floor the size of a postage stamp. The bar was mahogany, scarred and beautiful, and the bartender was a woman with silver hair and eyes that glowed faintly red in the candlelight.
"Julian Marchand," the bartender said, her voice a rasp that suggested she'd been smoking since before the Civil War. "Haven't seen you in months."
"Been busy, Marguerite."
"Busy." Her gaze slid to Astrid. Lingered. "I can see that."
Julian's hand found the small of Astrid's back. A possessive gesture, casual and deliberate. "Two fingers of the good bourbon. Neat. And whatever she wants."
Astrid ordered a gin rickey because she liked the way it tasted, even though alcohol did nothing for her anymore. It was one of the small human rituals she kept, like reading the newspaper on Sunday mornings and pretending to check her reflection in shop windows.
They found a booth in the back, tucked into a corner where the candlelight couldn't quite reach. Julian slid in beside her instead of across, his thigh pressing against hers, his arm draping over the back of the booth.
"You're being obvious," she murmured.
"I'm being honest." He took a sip of his bourbon. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
He looked at her then, really looked, his storm-gray eyes catching the flicker of the candle. Something in his expression had shifted since the balcony. He was still hungry—she could feel it radiating off him like heat—but it was different now. Controlled. Purposeful.
"I spent two hundred years hiding what I wanted," he said. "I'm done with that."
Astrid opened her mouth to respond, but the words died in her throat.
A man had walked in.
He was tall—taller than Julian—with skin the color of dark honey and close-cropped hair that gleamed under the candlelight. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, which he probably did, or had at some point. The other patrons parted for him without seeming to notice. Even the band seemed to play softer as he passed.
He was a vampire. Astrid could feel it the way she felt the dawn coming—a pressure behind her eyes, a taste in the back of her throat like copper and old wine.
And he was looking directly at them.
"Julian," the man said, stopping at the edge of their booth. His voice was deep, smooth, with an accent that had been sanded down by decades in the States but still carried the ghost of Haiti underneath. "I heard you'd gone domestic. Didn't believe it until now."
Julian didn't stand. Didn't flinch. But his hand on Astrid's shoulder tightened, just barely, just enough for her to notice.
"Marcel."
"Two hundred years, and you still can't manage a proper greeting." Marcel smiled, but there was nothing warm in it. His gaze slid to Astrid, slow and deliberate, taking her in like she was a piece of furniture he was considering buying. "And this must be the reason you've been ignoring my calls."
"She's not a reason," Julian said. "She's—"
"A pet?" Marcel raised an eyebrow. "A plaything? A little human you've been keeping warm?"
The air changed. It happened fast—faster than Astrid could track. One second Julian was sitting beside her, his body relaxed, his breathing even. The next, he was on his feet, his chair scraping against the floor, his fangs descended and his eyes gone black, black, black.
"Say that again," Julian said. His voice was barely a whisper. "I dare you."
The bar had gone quiet. The band had stopped playing. Every head in the room was turned toward them, and Astrid could feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing, pressing down on her chest.
Marcel didn't move. He looked almost bored.
"Touchy," he said. "I remember when you used to have a sense of humor."
Julian took a step forward. His hands were shaking—not with fear, but with the effort of holding himself back. The bloodlust was rising off him in waves, thick and suffocating, and Astrid could see the veins standing out on his forearms, could hear his heart—silent for two centuries—somehow pounding in his chest.
"Julian." She stood slowly. Carefully. "Look at me."
He didn't. His gaze was fixed on Marcel, and there was something in his eyes that she recognized. Something ancient and hungry and utterly without reason.
"Julian." She stepped between them, her back to Marcel, her body blocking Julian's line of sight. "Look at me."
His eyes snapped to hers. Black. Bottomless. For a moment, she wasn't sure he recognized her.
"Hey," she said softly. "I'm right here."
She reached up and pressed her palm flat against his chest. The same gesture from the balcony, the same steady pressure over the place where his dead heart should have been. She didn't have a heartbeat to offer him, but she had this—this touch, this stillness, this reminder that he wasn't alone.
His breathing hitched. The blackness in his eyes flickered.
"That's it," she murmured. "Come back to me."
"I want to kill him." His voice was ragged. "I want to tear his throat out and watch him bleed."
"I know."
"He called you—"
"I know what he called me." She kept her voice calm, even. "But he's not worth it. Not here. Not now."
Marcel laughed behind her. The sound was sharp and ugly, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Listen to you," he said. "Taking orders from a human. What happened to you, Julian? You used to be something. You used to be feared."
Julian's eyes went black again.
"Don't," Astrid said. "Don't listen to him. Look at me. Only at me."
She could feel the stares of the other patrons, the band members frozen mid-note, the bartender's hand creeping toward something beneath the bar. A fight here would be messy. Bloody. There were too many eyes, too many humans, too many tourists who would remember, who would talk.
She couldn't let that happen.
"I need you to breathe," she said. "I know it feels pointless. I know you don't need to. But do it anyway. For me."
Julian's chest rose and fell. Once. Twice. The blackness in his eyes began to recede, slow and reluctant, like fog burning off in the morning sun.
"I have you," she whispered. "You're okay. I have you."
Marcel made a sound of disgust.
"This is pathetic," he said. "You've gone soft, Marchand. Soft for a piece of human ass. I always knew you'd break eventually."
Julian lunged.
Astrid caught him. Her hands on his shoulders, her body blocking his path, her face inches from his. She could feel the heat of his rage, the tension in every muscle, the way his fangs had lengthened and his nails had sharpened into claws.
"Julian." Her voice was sharp now. Commanding. "Stop."
He stopped.
It was that simple, and that impossible. He stopped because she asked him to. Because somewhere in the blackness of his rage, her voice was the one thing he could still hear.
Marcel laughed again, but there was something different in it now. Something uncertain.
"Interesting," he said. "I've never seen anyone do that before."
Astrid turned to face him. Her hand stayed on Julian's chest, holding him back, holding him steady.
"You need to leave," she said.
Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I said you need to leave." Her voice was calm. Pleasant, even. "Right now. Before I let go of him."
They stared at each other for a long moment. Marcel's eyes were dark and calculating, searching her face for something—weakness, maybe, or fear. She gave him neither.
"Fine," he said finally. "I'll go. But this isn't over, Marchand. You owe me. And I always collect."
He turned and walked toward the door, the crowd parting for him again, the silence following in his wake. The door opened. Closed. The candlelight flickered.
And then, slowly, the band started playing again.
Astrid didn't move. Neither did Julian. They stood in the middle of the speakeasy, surrounded by people who were pretending very hard not to look at them, and she could feel the trembling in his body like an earthquake.
"Let's go," she said.
He followed her without a word.
The alley behind the voodoo shop was narrow and wet, the cobblestones slick with rain that had fallen earlier in the evening and hadn't quite dried. The jazz from the speakeasy filtered up through the vents, low and mournful, and the streetlights overhead buzzed with a sickly yellow glow.
Julian pressed her against the wall before she could take another step.
His body was a furnace against hers, his hands braced on either side of her head, his mouth inches from her throat. She could feel his breath—unnecessary, but there nonetheless—hot against her skin.
"Tell me you're mine," he growled.
It wasn't a question. It was a demand. A plea. A prayer.
Astrid's heart—silent for five centuries—gave a phantom lurch.
"I'm not anyone's," she said.
His hands tightened on the wall. The brick cracked beneath his fingers.
"Tell me," he said again. "I need to hear it."
She looked at him. Really looked. His eyes were still dark, still hungry, but underneath the bloodlust there was something else. Something fragile. Something terrified.
He was afraid she would leave. Afraid that Marcel was right, that he was too much, that she would see the monster inside him and run.
She wasn't going anywhere.
She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling his head down until his mouth was against her throat.
"Taste me," she said.
He made a sound—broken, desperate—and his fangs scraped against her skin. Not breaking, not yet. Waiting.
"Not to feed," she said. "To claim."
He bit.
The pain was sharp and immediate, a white-hot flash that made her gasp. But underneath it, something else. Something that felt like coming home.
He didn't drink. That wasn't what this was. His mouth worked against her throat, his tongue tracing patterns in the blood that welled up from the wound, and she could feel the tension in his body slowly, slowly unraveling.
She pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back scraping against the rough brick. He groaned against her skin and pressed his hips into hers, and she could feel him hard through his jeans, could feel the desperate urgency of his need.
"I'm yours," she whispered into his ear. "I'm yours. I'm yours. I'm yours."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His mouth was stained red. His eyes were still black, but they were his eyes again—Julian's eyes, storm-gray and full of wonder.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
He kissed her then. Slow and deep and tasting of copper and whiskey and something that might have been forgiveness. Rain started to fall again, soft and steady, soaking through their clothes, plastering her hair to her face.
"Take me home," she said against his mouth.
He did.
They stumbled through the streets of the Quarter, past bars and restaurants and tourists who didn't look twice at the couple with bloody mouths and wild eyes. The rain grew heavier, a proper storm now, thunder rolling in the distance like the growl of some great beast.
By the time they reached his apartment, they were both soaked. Julian kicked the door open and pulled her inside, his mouth finding hers before the door had even closed.
They left a trail of wet clothes through the hallway. Her dress. His shirt. His belt. Her bra. They didn't make it to the bed—they made it to the floor, tangled together on the rug in the living room, the rain hammering against the windows like applause.
He was gentler this time. Not slow, exactly, but careful. His hands traced the curves of her body like he was memorizing her. His mouth followed the path of the bite mark on her throat, soothing the wound with his tongue.
When he pushed inside her, she arched up to meet him, her nails digging into his back. He hissed through his teeth and thrust deeper, and for a while there was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the rain and the distant rumble of thunder.
Afterward, they lay tangled together on the floor, too tired and too satisfied to move. Julian's head rested on her chest, his ear pressed to the place where her heart should have been. She ran her fingers through his hair, untangling the wet strands.
"Marcel," she said quietly. "Who is he?"
Julian tensed against her.
"Someone I used to know," he said. "Someone I used to be."
"That's not an answer."
He was quiet for a long moment. The rain kept falling. The thunder kept rolling.
"1812," he said finally. "I was young. Stupid. I had been a vampire for less than a decade, and I didn't know how to control the hunger. Marcel found me in a gutter in Baton Rouge, covered in blood that wasn't mine. He taught me how to survive. How to hunt. How to hide."
"And?"
"And I owe him." Julian's voice was flat. "I owe him for things I can never repay. But he's not my friend. He never was. He saw me as a weapon. A tool. Something to be used."
"Did you love him?"
Julian lifted his head. His eyes met hers, and she saw something raw in them. Something wounded.
"I thought I did," he said. "For about fifty years. But it wasn't love. It was gratitude. And fear. And the desperate need to belong to someone, anyone, after everything I'd lost."
Astrid reached up and touched his face. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw.
"He called you soft," she said. "He's wrong."
"Am I?"
"No." She pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his forehead. "You're the strongest man I've ever known. You spent the whole night feeding on yourself so you wouldn't hunt. You walked away from a fight that every instinct screamed at you to finish. You're not soft, Julian. You're just not a monster."
He closed his eyes. His breath shuddered out of him.
"I don't know what I am anymore," he admitted.
"Then we'll figure it out." She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. "Together."
They stayed there for a long time, tangled together on the floor, while the storm raged outside and the city slept. And when the first gray light of dawn began to creep through the windows, Astrid led him to the bed and held him until his trembling stopped.
The world was still out there. Marcel was still out there. The bloodlust and the guilt and the fear were still out there.
But so were they.
And for now, that was enough.