The Blazing: A Vampire Story

By Buffy M. Brinkley

VIVECA
As a child, she was headstrong and defiant, an orphan whose parents were killed in an accident. As a woman, she is a homicide detective trying to solve an unusual murder. All the evidence points to a vampire, but there are no such things as vampires, right? Then a man she believed was a figment of her imagination enters her life. Everything she has known is about to change.

RICHARD
For two centuries, he’s tried to find the cure for what he is. The key lies with the woman he loves, the woman who was once the child he saved from a brutal attack, the one he has watched over all her life. She is the key to his freedom if she will believe in herself, for she is more special than she knows.

THE BLAZING
The blazing is the cure, but it comes with a terrible risk. Can Viveca and Richard find a way through it without it costing them their lives or the love they have come to share?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796061079

Buffy M. Brinkley

BUFFY BRINKLEY fell in love with words at a very young age. Her love of reading sparked a love for writing. Throughout her adolescence and young adulthood, she had written numerous poems and short stories. As an adult, she has continued to write poetry, children's books, short stories, and novels that span the genres. Her love of writing is matched only by her love of family, writing recipes, and the culinary arts. She lives in Central City, Louisiana, where she spends her time developing story ideas, writing recipes, cooking, and running after her two dogs. This is her third book.

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Prologue

February 21, 1903, New Orleans, Louisiana, 1:22 a.m.

Night had descended on the city of New Orleans like an impenetrable shroud. A thick fog rolled through the red-light district, blotting out the stars and the moon, leaving a sheen of moisture on the windows of the buildings and on the patches of grass that grew here and there among the cobblestones. The lanterns that hung on the veranda supports burned with eerie, haloing light.

It was cold. February was the coldest month of winter in the Deep South, and the working girls who stood temptingly under the overhangs of several brothels could feel the icy fingers of the weather stabbing at them through their thin garments. They wished for warmth, but warmth came only with patrons.

From out of the fog, a carriage rolled slowly up the cobblestone street. Its driver was a man of advancing age; thin, with a wizened visage and long bony fingers that gripped the reins tightly and drew the coach and two horses to a halt. The carriage itself was dark and almost sinister; its stillness both intrigued and frightened the girls on the verandas. Then a dark-gloved hand reached outside the carriage window and pressed on the small handle of the door, and the side panel opened outward; a small ledge was then visible as a means to step down from the darkness within it.

One man and then another stepped from the carriage. The shorter of the two gave instruction to the driver, who then drove the carriage toward the stables that lay ahead. The men were dressed smartly in dark trousers, overcoats, thinner adorned waistcoats, silken cravats, and top hats. Their appearance bespoke money, lots of it, and there were only two reasons to pay a visit to the red-light district: one was to employ a bartender, the other to employ a girl for pleasure. The girls readied themselves for the choosing.

∞

In the quiet hours before dawn, the dark carriage made its way back out of the red-light district of New Orleans and headed toward the more elegant parts of the city. Its shades were drawn tight, its occupants seated comfortably within.

I daresay, Richard, I cannot remember when I’ve had such a night.

You killed that girl for fun, Malcolm, Richard said wearily. Why?

Oh, come now, man. That’s what they’re for.

Richard was sulking again. Malcolm stared at him from the seat opposite. Richard, why do you fight it? Your nature will one day catch up to you. I almost pity the poor lass who finds herself in your company when it does, my friend.

Richard looked up then, his stark blue gaze glowing almost angelically in the near darkness. His brows inched closer together in an expression of anger for a moment, and then his facial features relaxed again. I never wanted to be … this. Richard nearly hissed.

Why do we have to have this discussion every time we dine out? Malcolm said drolly. Then upon seeing Richard’s miserable expression, he followed it up with, Oh, come now, Richard. You take human life too seriously.

And you do not take it seriously enough!

Malcolm laughed at this. Ever the martyr. Don’t you grow weary of controlling yourself all the time?

"I told you a century ago I would not change how I chose to manage this … thing we have."

"This thing? Oh, by thing, you mean the gift Alyssa bestowed on us?"

It’s a curse, not a gift.

Are you sure about that, Richard?

Yes. This one word Richard spat out like rotten fruit.

And where would you be without this gift … or curse … or whatever you choose to call it? Dead? Dead and buried and forgotten? Come, man. I brought you to Alyssa because we were the best of friends, brothers. You wouldn’t turn your back on a friend of two centuries for the blood of a prostitute, would you?

Despite her profession, she was an innocent. Haven’t you any mercy for them?

No, I don’t.

The girl you murdered—

Murdered? I did not murder her. I simply asked if she would like to die for me, and she agreed. But not to worry, brother, I made sure she would not return.

Don’t call me ‘brother.’ And you relished in taking that poor girl’s life. We don’t have to kill them, Malcolm.

You starve yourself, and to what end? For a mortal? They are dead anyway or dying. We simply free them.

But why the innocent? If you must kill, why could you not kill those who do harm to others?

Richard. This was not a new conversation, and Malcolm was all too tired of having it. The blood is sweeter, my friend. That is all.

You were a good man and a good friend. Do you really want to be this monster?

There is a fundamental difference between us, Richard. I have accepted what I am. I thrive in its power. And you … you are still fighting it. You waste your strength on trying to hold it at bay when all you have to do to be happy would be to give in.

I can’t exist like this anymore, Malcolm. I value the lives of the innocents too much to take it from them, and you do not seem to care. It’s all a game to you. These … people … Richard’s mind wandered a moment, and then he looked up at Malcolm. Have you forgotten that we were once like them? Don’t you even remember feeling the cold fingers of your own mortality on your shoulders?

And you long to feel those cold fingers again, Richard?

I long to exist in peace, to find a cure for this, whatever it is, and face my judgment when it comes.

Do you think that because you feed but do not kill, you are somehow better than I?

Of course not.

Well, my friend, what do you want of me?

Richard thought for a moment. What did he want from the fiend before him? And to what end, toward the peace he sought? After a lifetime of aimless wandering, he finally knew the answer. He raised his chin a bit and steadied his gaze on the man who was once his friend and brother. Nothing, I want nothing of you, Malcolm. I have remained in your company with the hope that you would see the need for this cure. But now I see this was a fool’s errand. I will take my leave of you tomorrow night and find my own way.

So you would turn your back on me. Malcolm seemed, for a moment, hurt—but only for a moment. Whatever his emotions were, were as suddenly extinguished from his features. Very well. I shall not try to stop you, Richard. But mark my words: one day you will come around, and you will seek me out. I only wonder how hospitable I will be then.

Malcolm, would you truly reduce yourself to hate me?

I don’t know, brother. Let’s see where the next century finds us.

PART ONE

Viveca

1

September 22, 1995, New Orleans, Louisiana, 4:17 p.m.

Viveca Moreau loved to hide from those who directed the church-led orphanage in which she lived. The cunning little girl always found a way to slip from Mother Superior’s attention and find herself on an adventure in the city. Despite the punishment that she might receive later, Viveca was nevertheless drawn toward the excitement of the French Quarter. People were everywhere, and they were always interesting to watch. There, a man was dressed like the Grim Reaper. There, a woman was in the shortest skirt she’d ever seen. There, a family of four huddled close together, lest they be separated by the throng of residents and tourists alike as they passed through the crosswalk on Bourbon Street.

Viveca looked back toward the little shop. She could still see the storefront, and as long as she stayed within a few blocks of it, she was positive she was safe. She was only eight, but she believed she was smart. And despite how many times she’d heard Mother Superior exclaim that she was very stupid to wander off, Viveca could not quench her sense of adventure. This was the perfect time of year for adventures too. The weather was cooler, summer was changing clothes with autumn, and the days were shorter.

She walked happily among the throng, moving toward that huddled family of four and away from the little shop. As she rounded the corner of Bourbon Street onto Canal Street, she headed toward the riverfront. Royal Street was just a block ahead, and she knew she could take Royal up to Saint Peter and make her way back to Bourbon Street from the cathedral. There were alleys she could take along the way to heighten her adventure. The old buildings fascinated her. Once, she’d made it all the way to Jackson Square and back before Mother Superior knew she was missing. It was a game. Whether she got caught or not didn’t matter.

Viveca took Royal and decided to take alleys toward the cathedral. As she approached the alley she intended to take, she found it blocked by the flotsam and jetsam of building renovations. She thought, at first, to turn back and make her way to the shop from whence she came, but she knew that it would take her longer, and Mother Superior would surely be onto her disappearance by then. Instead, she decided to travel one more block. Crossing through one of the alleys would be much faster than walking all the way around again.

As Viveca neared the next alley, the sun was beginning to set, and dusk was settling in around her. She knew that by five, dusk would begin to transcend into full night, and she would be in a lot of trouble. She knew Mother Superior would be leaving soon to take the children back to the orphanage. Oh, why had she decided to wander off? She picked up her pace and rounded the next corner. She could see Saint Louis Cathedral ahead. Perhaps, she thought, Mother Superior would not be missing her yet.

As she made her way down the alley, night began to descend. Viveca felt the day’s warmth ebb away. A light breeze sprung up around her, ruffled her uniform collar, and whispered through her hair. The overhead lamps flicked on and illuminated the alley. Shadows played ahead of her, danced across a collection of trash, waltzed up the building wall, disappeared, and reappeared on a dumpster farther down.

Viveca stepped gingerly around the trash and picked up her pace toward the cathedral. As she neared the dumpster, her pace slowed. She had no wish to go whizzing by and disturb a troupe of vermin. Careful and quiet was best.

She had just battened down her imagination about the rats when a strange sound rose behind her. She whirled and stared back down the alley. The breeze was picking through the trash as if it were a vagrant looking for food. She took a breath. Her imagination had certainly gotten away from her, but a sense of unease settled in her heart. Her heart beat faster; the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She sensed danger.

She peered into the shadows around the trash and listened intently for a moment. There was nothing. If it wasn’t the wind she’d heard, perhaps it was the scurrying of a rat or other animal beneath the trash. When she turned back toward the cathedral, she was suddenly pulled into arms too strong for her to get away from. Her face was pressed into the fabric of a dirty shirt. She flailed her arms about her, trying to wrench free from whoever had grabbed her, but to no avail. She began to scream.

Hush now. A gravelly voice spoke above her head, a man, a dirty one from what she could tell. Hush, or I’ll cut ya.

Viveca silenced her screams but did not cease to struggle. The man smelled of dirt and cigarettes, and she dared not imagine what else. Be still, he ordered her, and she lessened her struggle but did not stop completely.

Be still, or I’ll kill ya! he growled. His voice was menacing. He meant what he said; she was sure of it. She stopped struggling, but she kept her wits about her. If he gave her any chance to run, she would.

Let’s see what I caught myself. He held her at arm’s length. His big hands around her arms didn’t allow her an inch of motion. She dared look up into his face. He was haggard looking with a tangle of long hair spilling out from under a dirty baseball cap. His eyes were dark and beady, his lips full and chapped, his cheeks sunken. He looked like a zombie from one of the comic books some of the older girls read. His shirt was dirty and matted with grime. His pants were dark and reeked of mildew and other things she didn’t want to think about.

Viveca’s eyes grew wide with fright. She didn’t know if he meant to kill her outright, but if he was going to do something to her, she believed she preferred that he just kill her. Lingering a moment longer in the refuse stench of him made her want to vomit.

He leaned down close to her face. He was quite tall and had been looming above her. Now his face was but inches from hers. Ah, you’re a pretty one, ain’t ya? Wanna make daddy a happy man?

His breath was foul, as foul as the grave, she feared. Had the devil himself been before her, she believed even his breath would not have been so foul. She looked into his terrible face. Her lower lip trembled, but she managed to say, No.

At this, he pushed her back hard against the brick of the building. Her head banged smartly against it, and the world flashed bright for a moment; then she could feel herself losing consciousness. In the growing haze of her condition, she felt him reach under her skirt and remove her underwear. These were the ones with the butterflies on them, and she didn’t want him to touch them—ever. Her mind screamed against it.

Then she heard a snap and the lowering of a zipper. She knew enough to understand what was about to happen to her. She prayed for an intervention. She prayed harder for unconsciousness. She did not want to feel the thrust of his filthiness. Tears leaked silently from her eyes. She heard Mother Superior’s admonitions in her mind and wished with all her heart she’d listened.

She waited for his obscene touch, but it did not come. Instead, she heard what sounded like a struggle, a muffled cry for help, a gurgling, and then the sharp snap of bone and the hard thud of something large hitting the alley floor.

She heard footsteps coming near her. Viveca struggled to open her eyes. Her vision was blurred by tears and pain. Sweetheart? a voice asked. It belonged to a different man. This voice was an angelic baritone, smooth and rich with a strange accent. Are you all right, love?

She tried to say something, but the pain in her head throbbed when she moved. She felt him kneel down next to her, and then she felt soft fabric being folded into her left hand. Her instincts told her it was her underwear, and she grabbed hold of it with all the strength she could muster. Tears still flowed ceaselessly from her eyes, but she did not make a sound. What had just happened? Had this new man saved her? I …, she managed to say at last.

Did he hurt you, love?

Viveca struggled to see this new man. She opened her eyes as much as she could. Now daring to move, she brought her right hand to her face and wiped her eyes free of tears. The pain in her head still wobbled her vision, but she could see him. He was kneeling next to her, his expression kind, his blue eyes full of concern. All around them, dusk had deepened toward night, the cathedral lights shone brightly at the other end of the alley, and soft lamps burned overhead. Viveca looked past the man who’d saved her life and let her gaze fall on the still heap that had once been her attacker. Her expression screwed up in pain and fear, and she began to cry again.

The man before her pulled her gently into his embrace. You needn’t worry about him any longer. He will not harm you.

Viveca leaned into him. He smells quite nice, she thought. He smelled of aftershave and soap and something woodsy she couldn’t identify. She associated these smells with safety and protection. He was going to … hurt me.

He will not now, love.

Your voice is funny. Viveca regretted her words almost as soon as she said them, but she was a child, and honesty usually came without filter.

The man laughed lightly, a sound that trilled through Viveca’s soul. This too she associated with safety and protection. Only angels laughed like that. She was sure of it. I suppose it is, isn’t it?

Why is it that way?

Because I’m not from here, love. I’m from England.

Viveca looked up into his face. He looked like a prince dressed in casual clothes. He was as handsome as the princes in her fairy-tale books. His dark hair spilled long to his shoulders. His eyebrows were dark and arched just so above the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. His long, aristocratic nose made him look regal, and his mouth, now curved up in a reassuring smile, was perfect. His jaw was somewhere between square and oval, just square enough to make him look strong and majestic and just oval enough to give him a kindness. He looked like a lion with compassion.

Viveca smiled up at him. This man wasn’t there to hurt her. This man had rescued her. This man was trust. Thank you for saving my life. She was only eight, but she was smart. She knew that was what he’d done.

He smiled down at her. What do you say we get you home?

Okay.

Where do you live, love?

Saint Mary’s.

The orphanage?

Yes, sir.

And what is your name?

Viveca Moreau. What’s yours?

Richard Ambrose. At your service, Miss Viveca.

Viveca smiled. Maybe he was an angel and a prince. Only angels were so kind, and only princes said things like that.

2

October 4, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana, 6:09 a.m.

Viveca Moreau woke with a start. When the weather grew cooler, she had the old dream of the alley, about the man who had nearly raped her and the man who had saved her. Richard Ambrose had carried her all the way to Saint Mary’s that night. She did not want to believe she had imagined him. But Mother Superior and the good sisters were certain that she had imagined him because no one had been with her when they’d opened the door that evening. Only Viveca had been standing at the door, her head still bleeding slightly from the wound, her underwear in hand.

The police had been called, and her underwear, despite her unwillingness to let it go, had been examined for traces of her story. She had been examined as well. The police had searched the alley, but no sign of the man who had attacked her was found and, stranger still, no trace of Richard Ambrose. The only trace of him, she realized, was in her memory, and even that was starting to fade with the decade. She had the sharpest images of him in her dreams. The only thing she remembered vividly, even now, was the exact color of his eyes—blue with hints