The Witch's Thirst. Deborah LeBlanc

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      And that’s all there was to it.

      Squaring his shoulders, he began walking again, and Ronan followed him. They moved along the streets of the Quarter, Lucien using hand signals to guide Ronan in one direction or another.

      Lucien looked over the faces of the people on the streets. Surveyed those who stood or sat in the bars and restaurants he strolled into and out of. He tried to remember the things Evee told them to watch for. The whiteness of the Nosferatu’s skin, sunglasses in the dark because some couldn’t tolerate any form of light. The problem was, after much searching, everyone started to look the same. Men—women—drunk.

      After an hour of looking, they still hadn’t turned up anything. Lucien tried thinking like a Nosferatu, one hungry, away from its clan, not knowing where its next meal would come from or how it would get back to the catacombs. Maybe the missing Nosferatu didn’t want to connect with its clan again. Maybe it wanted the newly found freedom.

      Lucien clearly remembered what Evee had said about the lost Nosferatu. If they weren’t reunited with their clan for feeding time at the compound, they’d find something or someone to drain of blood.

      Once again, putting himself in the shoes of a Nosferatu, Lucien knew he’d go to a place with the most noise, the biggest cluster of people it could find. Once it defined its prey, it’d probably lead them down some dark alley.

      The one place Lucien knew that fit this compilation, with many offshoots and empty, dark alleys, was Bourbon Street. First they had to study the street with the beat—Bourbon. A place whose streets and sidewalks held the footsteps, vomit or piss of some of the most rich and famous people from around the world.

      Following that logic, Lucien signaled Ronan to his side, told him his game plan. Then they parted, each man taking a side of Bourbon.

      Just as Lucien expected, as they walked the crowded street, glancing down one alley after another, they were faced with large groups of people laughing, talking, cramming the bars. How were he and Ronan supposed to identify a Nosferatu in this cluster? It felt like an impossibility.

      An idea struck Lucien and gave him pause as he allowed himself back into the mind-set of a Nosferatu. He knew it would find an alley to make the kill. Its prey might be found in the crowded streets, but the kill would be done in seclusion. Not public.

      So what made sense to Lucien was to walk Royal Street, which ran parallel to Bourbon, then straight ahead, checking out every alley between Iberville to Esplanade, which crossed the parallel streets. He signaled for Ronan, told him to focus on the alleys between the streets he felt were the likeliest place a Nosferatu would strike. They’d walk in tandem as much as possible.

      It wasn’t until Lucien reached Barracks Street that something caught his attention. Sucking sounds, mouth to flesh. He looked across the street for Ronan and saw he was ahead, near Esplanade, dodging into yet another alley. He didn’t want to call out to him and warn whatever he’d have to face in his own alley.

      Lucien removed his scabior from its sheath and made his way toward the sounds he’d heard.

      The only streetlights he had to work with were the weak streaks shooting from pole lamps on Royal and Bourbon. So the farther he walked down Barracks, the darker it became.

      He heard a woman moan. “Oh, baby, yes! Put it in now!”

      Lucien walked faster, zeroing in on the woman’s voice. As he made his way toward the voice, a skinny, haggard-faced woman approached him, a hooker looking for a john, wanting a good time, a night’s wage. He ignored her and had walked another half block when a drunk stumbled out of a side alley and bumped into him. The drunk threw a punch at Lucien as if he was the reason he’d misstepped.

      Lucien dodged the fist and quickened his pace, his ear still tuned to the woman’s voice.

      “Oh, yeah, baby. Give me more. I want more.”

      By the sound of her voice, Lucien suspected she was already copulating, or was about to, with whatever man she’d picked up on the street. From where he stood, Lucien noticed the woman had her back to him in an alley that grew darker with every step he took.

      Even in the darkness, however, Lucien noticed something white just over the woman’s left shoulder. No question, it was a Nosferatu in midtransformation.

      “What the f-fuck?” the woman said.

      There was no mistaking the balding white head, the large vein that bulged from its forehead. Quite noticeable even in the dark.

      Despite her slurred speech, a testament to heavy alcohol consumption, the woman evidently didn’t care for what she witnessed, either. That white bald head, the cauliflower ears, the pointed fangs that should have been front teeth. Her screams, when they came, told Lucien she had suddenly turned stone-cold sober. But her cries for help were drowned out by revelers shouting, laughing, talking up in the Quarter, where the action was at an all-time high.

      Lucien remembered what Evee said he should do if he spotted a Nosferatu. Yet he stood mesmerized, watching the Nosferatu’s clawlike hands wrap around the woman’s arm, holding tight. Its head tilted back, fangs showing, ready to strike.

      Suddenly snapping out of his stupor, Lucien placed two fingers against his bottom lip and let out a loud, shrill whistle.

      So far, the only thing his whistle did was create a diversion for the creature. It turned to Lucien, hissed, then sank its fangs into the woman’s throat. Its eyes rolled back in its head as it drank, sucked, consumed the meal before him. As much as he wanted to do something to save her, Lucien knew he was no match for a Nosferatu. He didn’t have the weapons or the magic to send it to its knees.

      In what felt like the blink of an eye, he found Ronan at his side.

      “Son of a bitch,” Ronan said, looking at the Nosferatu feasting on the woman.

      “No shit,” Lucien said.

      Evidently irritated by the sound of Lucien and Ronan’s voice, the Nosferatu abruptly threw the woman it had been feeding on to one side. And a second later, it stood right in front of the Benders, a hand on each of their throats.

      “You stupid, little men. What were you whistling for? Your dinner or mine?” the creature said.

      Its grip on Lucien’s neck felt like a band of steel. Its fangs were exposed, twisted and yellow, and dripping with blood.

      In a flash, Lucien did the only thing he knew to do. He kneed the Nosferatu in the groin. He didn’t know if it would have the same effect as it would’ve had on a human, but he didn’t care. In that moment, he had to do something.

      Fortunately, Lucien’s effort threw the creature off balance, which caused it to release Ronan and Lucien, giving them time to unsheathe their scabiors.

      Although he had his weapon in hand, Lucien wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. There’d be no pushing the creature back into another dimension, because it belonged in this one.

      When the Nosferatu regained its balance, it grabbed for Lucien again. Instinct kicked in, and Lucien used the bottom, steel part of the scabior and quickly skewered the Nosferatu’s right eye. Lightning fast, as if on the same brain frequency, Ronan jumped into the fray and jabbed the steel rod of his scabior into the creature’s left eye.

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