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The problem with the New Orleans vamps isn't over-population. It's that they all share a similar mind-set, the same mind-set that drew them to the city in the first place. For these vampires, seeing their cultural popularity skyrocket with Ms. Rice's books was like a rock singer seeing his face on the cover of Rolling Stone, the ultimate moment of self-affirmation, when they could say "See, I'm just as cool as I always thought I was." And for the vampires of New Orleans, life has never been the same since.
The Rampart wasn't just a vampire bar in the sense that it attracted vampires. It was actually owned by vampires. As Cassandra explained: John/Hans and two others had bought the place years ago. They'd kept it small and exclusive, a place they could make their own and amuse themselves playing bar owners.
The taxi driver stopped in an industrial district. Security lights dotted every building except the one beside us, which was swathed in a blackness that seemed almost artificial. As I opened the door, I saw that it was indeed artificial. The brickwork and the windows had been painted black. Even the lone street lamp had been wrapped in black crepe paper and the bulb broken or removed.
"Early Gothic Nightmare. How original," Cassandra said as she climbed from the car. "Last time I was here it looked like a perfectly normal bar. No wonder Aaron is getting his shorts in a twist. He can't stand this sort of thing."
"Well, their taste in decor may be criminal, but unfortunately they aren't violating any council statutes. At least they're keeping it low profile. I don't even see a sign."
"I don't even see a door," Cassandra muttered. "They've probably painted it black like everything else. Now where was it the last time...?"
As her gaze traveled along the building, a limo pulled up and belched three giggle-wracked young women onto the curb. Two wore black leather miniskirts. The third was dressed in a long white dress that looked more suited for a wedding than girls' night out. A beefy bodyguard grabbed the bride's elbow to steady her and led the trio toward the building. As the limo reversed, its headlights illuminated the four. The "bride" turned into the lights and squinted.
"Hey," I said. "Isn't that--what's her name--she's a singer."
The quartet had just vanished around the building when a Hummer pulled up and disgorged two young men in undertaker suits. They followed the same path as the bridal party.
"So much for keeping a low profile," Cassandra muttered.
"At least we found out where the door is," I said.
Cassandra shook her head and we circled the building in search of an entrance.
Keeping Up with the Times
WHEN WE GOT TO THE OTHER SIDE, WE STILL COULDN'T find a door.
"This is ridiculous," Cassandra said, pacing along the building. "Are we blind?"
"I don't know about you," I said. "But I can't see in the dark. Should I risk a light spell?"
"Go ahead. From the looks of those fools going inside, I doubt they'd notice if you lit up the whole neighborhood."
Before I could begin the incantation, an ivy-covered trellis moved and a shadow emerged from behind it. A girl, no more than a teenager, stumbled out, her white face and hands floating, disembodied, through the air. I blinked, then saw that she was dressed in a long black gown; together with her black hair it blended into the backdrop of the building.
When she saw us, she swayed and mumbled something. As she staggered past, Cassandra's head whipped around to follow
, eyes narrowing, the green irises glinting. Her lips parted, then snapped shut. Before she tore her gaze away, I followed it to the girl's arm. Black gauze encircled her bare forearm. Around the edges, blood smeared her pale skin.
"She's hurt," I said as the girl reeled onto the road. "Wait here. I'll see if she needs help."
"You do that. I think Aaron is right. You should wait outside."
I stopped. My gaze went to the girl, tottering along the side of the road. Drunk or stoned, but not mortally wounded. Whatever was going on inside might be worse, and I couldn't rely on Cassandra to handle it. I reached past her and tugged on the trellis.
"I meant it, Paige," Cassandra said. "See to the girl. You're not coming in."
I found the handle, pushed the door open, and squeezed past Cassandra. Inside, the place was as dark as its exterior. I touched walls on either side, so I knew I was in a hallway. Feeling my way along, I moved forward. I got about five steps before smacking into a wall of muscle. A beefy face glowered down at me. The man shone a flashlight over us, and smirked.
"Sorry, ladies," he said. "You got the wrong place. Bourbon Street is that way."
He lifted his flashlight to point, swinging it near Cassandra's face. She swatted it down.
"Who's in tonight?" she demanded. "Hans? Brigid? Ronald?"
"Uh, all three," the bouncer said, stepping back.
"Tell them Cassandra's here."
