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The Bloody Faithful Chapter One -Hunger- Drip... Drip... Drip... I awoke to impenetrable darkness. I lay naked on my back with an incredible thirst burning inside me. Somewhere nearby water drops struck something solid, a sink bottom or maybe the floor. The sound magnified my need to drink. In the silence surrounding them, each splat boomed like a small explosion. I was amazed how sensitive my ears seemed to be. I could audibly follow the entire life of each bit of H2O, first the launch into the air as the water drop exploded, then falling back down like a tiny raindrop. There were odors too: mold, damp brick and the musky stink of rats. Where was I? I tired to sit up. Something held me. Both my arms and legs were spread wide and bound in place. I thought might be strapped to a table. I could feel the rough surface against my skin. A hood, depriving me of sight, covered my head and was knotted around my throat. I could feel it rub my cheeks when I twisted, filling my nose with the odor of aged canvas.. The sole of a shoe scraped the floor. I wasn't alone. I rotated my head toward the sound and sniffed. The stench of stale cigar smoke combined with the reek of male sweat filled my olfactory cavities. The guy was heavy set and didn't shower on a regular basis. I tried to call out, "Hello." The canvas hood muffled the word. The foot falls came closer until I felt him standing over me. "I've waited for this for a long time," said the man. The voice carried the rough texture of a heavy smoker, the accent East European. The table creaked as the bastard climbed on top of me. His knees pressed against my thighs. I smelled sweat, garlic and greasy hair cream as his body covered mine. "Sorry about the canvas covering your head," he said. "But I can't chance you infecting me with a bite." A bite? Infections? What was this lunatic talking about? He began to nuzzle me like an adolescent boy who hasn't learned how to make out with a girl. The stubble on his cheeks scratched my face and neck. His garlic smell made me want to puke. Done with the nuzzling, he shifted positions, wedging more of his body between my legs, forcing them further apart. I tensed, confused about what he was trying to do. Suddenly intense pain shot through my scrotum. I screamed. Arching my back I struggled to pull away from whatever was ripping me apart. "Like that do you?" the voice laughed. The thing thrust itself deeper inside me, tissue ripped, setting off another blaze of pain. Damaged as I was, I would soon bleed out and it would be over. Then I passed out. I woke for a second time amazed I was alive. Still bound and naked, I now lay on my stomach and could feel a pressure against my chest. For some reason I was very aware of my nipples. But it was the thirst that bothered me most. It was maddening. My captor had removed the hood and I could see some of my surrounding. Cinder block walls were streaked with black mold from where moisture had seeped through the brick. Positioned in front of me was a small wooden table. Several cardboard boxes most of them taped shut, were stacked a little distance away. Cast off items including an antique console radio and an old IBM computer were scattered around. I twisted my head and spotted a workbench and behind it a set of stairs that angled upward, out of sight. I was in someone's basement they used as a junk room. "Evening love," said the now familiar voice. "I brought you a little something. Not too much but enough to keep you functioning so you don't pass out again. There's nothing more boring than humping an inanimate lump of flesh." I wiggled around until I could get a look at my captor. As I'd already guessed, he was heavy set. Shoulder length black hair framed a face that looked to be hastily slapped together with thick slabs of flesh. Bushy eyebrows overhung small beady eyes. A razor thin scar zigzagged from beneath the right eye to the corner of a cruel thin-lipped mouth. He grinned showing a row of small white teeth. I'd seen that face once before. "It's you," I said. "The guy outside the House of Blues on Decatur Street." My voice sounded thin and high pitched. It must have been the thirst. "You remember," said the man. "I wasn't sure you would." "There was a girl with you," I said. "Is she here?" "Indeed she is." Scar face's grin widened hinting there was something humorous about my question and I didn't get the joke. "But we can talk later. Right now I need you to feed. You're beginning to waste away." "How long have I been he--?" Before I could finish he shoved a feeding tube between my lips. A thick, coppery tasting liquid flooded into my mouth. I swallowed it greedily. What ever it was, I craved it. I drained the container. "More," I croaked. My head spun. The stuff was intoxicating delicious. "That's enough for now," said my captor. "Maybe more later, if you're good. We'll see." He ambled over to the boxes. He chose one of the smaller ones and plopped it on the table in front of me. "I thought we'd try something different," he said. I watched as he removed the contents, placing each item on the table: a roll of masking tape, handcuffs, a leather hood, a riding crop and a half dozen sex toys. He picked up the riding crop, studied it, and then nodded his approval. "What are you going to do with that?" I asked, unable to keep the fear out of my voice. He didn't answer instead he shuffled past. I heard him behind me. "Such perfect skin," he said, stroking my back with the tip of the crop. "What kind of crazy are you?" I said. My skin was far from perfect unless he was into acne scars. "You poor deluded creature, you're still unaware of what's happened. I could explain things but it will be more fun to let you to figure it out for yourself." He tickled my shoulder blades. "What do you want?" I asked. "Why are you doing this to me?" "Do you know the purpose of a riding crop?" he asked, ignoring my question. When I didn't reply he continued. "Its purpose is to motivate. With horses, the rider strikes the mount's flank to generate greater speed. Like this." The crop swished through air then bit into my butt cheeks. I squealed. "See," said my captor. "Action reaction, I whack your ass and you cry out. The goal now is to elicit the desired responses. When I use the crop or whatever toy I choose, I want you to beg for more. It's like Pavlov's dog. Pavlov rings a bell the dog salivates. I need you to salivate, so to speak, when I ring the bell. " "You won't get away with this," I said. "People will be looking for me. I've been missing for at least two days maybe three." I wasn't sure how long I'd been here. "Actually," said my captor, "it's been over a week. You were unconscious for several days. It took some effort to bring you back. I was pleased to find you fully awake and in your right mind." If I had been here over a week was anyone still looking for me? If they were, they hadn't found me. I might not even be in New Orleans. I could be anywhere, another state, Canada, South America, which meant it was on me to figure a way out of this. Otherwise he'd snuff out my life when he grew tired of the games. That's what happened in this kind of situation. I had an idea what he wanted. It was the same thing all creeps like this wanted; a sex slave, only this one had a preference for males. But if I could convince him I was a willing partner, I might win his trust enough he'd grant me a little freedom. I'd read about a girl that had done that. She'd convinced her kidnapper to trust her by doing what he asked without putting up a fight. One day he sent her to the store alone and she got to a phone and called the cops. It was a long shot but it was my only option. There was no way I could take him in a fight. The guy was too big. I was tall: six-two, but I was a wimp. While other boys had developed their bodies playing football and soccer I'd holed up in my room studying piano and guitar, mastering scales and copying the licks of my musical idols like Hendrix and Clapton. Music had always been my thing. It still was and I made no apologies for it. That was the reason I was in New Orleans. I'd landed a full music scholarship at Tulane. I was hoping to turn my passion into a career and the Crescent City was the perfect place to do that. It offered an opportunity to watch some of the best musicians in the country perform live. Things were falling in place. It was looking more and more like I would realize my dream. Then I decided to try to catch my favorite band of all time, "Black Salt." "Salt," as fans referred to them, were an odd lot. They were an indie band only getting air play on the handful of alternative music stations that bordered on the lunatic fringe. But even with the limited exposure their music was catching on and a few mainstream stations had added them to their play lists. Their style was a mix of Goth, Punk, and Metal, unified by a melodic thread. That element was provided by their female vocalist, Faith Goodeblood. It was her voice that gave them their unique sound, something between "It's A Beautiful Day" and "King Crimson" sprinkled with a little Metallica or Metal Church. That's the best I can do to describe the sound that poured through my headphones the first time I heard their music. The band was insanely private so there wasn't much known about them. They never gave interviews or allowed themselves to be photographed. They were dark, mysterious, keeping to the shadows, allowing the public little more than a glimpse of their real selves. As cool as their persona was, it was their music that blew me away. There was something haunting about them, the anguish of lost souls, the bittersweet longing of love gone south. Their lyrics were deeply profound and the images they conjured tugged at something inside me. One thing about "Black Salt" was certain. When you heard their music, you were changed. You never looked at music the same again. When word circulated around the campus "Salt" was breaking up I panicked. Apparently the band was experiencing some personality clashes. They'd gone as far as they could as a group. They all wanted to do their own things. They're last performance would be at the House of Blues in New Orleans, the city where they'd formed. After that "Black Salt" would be history. There would be no pre-ticket sales. If you wanted to see "Salt" you had to stand in line. That's how they operated. When I arrived the day of the show and saw the number of people ahead of me, my heart sank. The string of bodies stretched for several blocks and was growing. Though there wasn't a chance in hell I'd be able to get in, I took my place in line and hoped for a miracle. The sun was setting when they finally opened the doors and the line began to move. It was late fall and the wind off the Mississippi chilled the already damp air, seasoning it with the odor of the river mixed with smells of Jambalaya and boiled Crayfish from the open air restaurants surrounding the River Walk. I was cold and hungry, glad when I realized I'd almost made it to the door. The shrinking line fueled me with excitement. The person in front of me slipped inside the door. I was next. I stepped up to the ticket booth my credit card in my hand. Then I saw the placard covering the slot where they passed you the tickets. SOLD OUT SHOW. BOX OFFICE CLOSED. "Sorry," said the girl in the booth closing her cash box. "The guy ahead of you got the last ticket." Tucking the box under her arm she exited through a door in the back of the booth leaving me alone. I stood in front of the ticket window stunned, trying to wrap my mind around what had happened. It was full dark now. Music began to seep through the open doors of the bars along the street. Zydeco, rock and blues competed in a clash of rhythms and styles, an audible gumbo so typical of NOLA. Normally I would have grooved on the blend of sounds but right now it only added to my depression. Feeling defeated, I started the trek back to my dorm. I'd missed the only chance I would ever have to see "Salt." Tonight would be another evening of TVland reruns with a six pack of beer for company. I'd taken maybe a dozen steps when a man peeped around the corner of the building. He was big with shoulder length hair and spoke with an accent. "Hey kid," he said, easing out of the shadows just enough for me to make out his form. "I saw what happened. All that time in line and then getting turned away at the door." I shrugged. "It happens." "You a fan of Salt?" the man asked. "Yeah. They're my favorite band." "So what would you do to get in? There's still time. They don't go on for another hour." "What do you mean?" I asked. I felt the earlier excitement return. Could this guy get me inside? "Help me shift a few things around. The roadies are busy putting together the special effects and I'm a little short handed. Help me out and I'll get you in back stage. You can watch the show from there." "You're with Black Salt?" "You're looking at their manager kid," said the man. I couldn't believe my luck. "So you really can get me inside." "After that favor I asked for." "Okay,' I said. "Show me what you need." "This way," said the man. "It back by the stage door." I followed him to the rear of the club. Two vehicles, a van and a U Haul truck were parked close together in the courtyard that served as a parking area. The open stage door cast a weak light across the cobblestone dead ending at a brick wall. "Over here," said the man. His boots tapped across the cobbles. "Between the van and the truck." I shuffled over to where he stood and peered into the space. It was black as pitch. "I don't see anything," I said. "Oh, it's there," said the guy. "You can't miss it." As I slipped between the vehicles something blew past me. The sensation was similar to the slipstream of a diesel passing very close. The rush of air surprised me. I pivoted around to find a girl smiling up at me. She was small, maybe five-one with long, straight, black hair. Her pale complexion, deep red lips, and dark eyes reminded me of some Goth girls I'd known. She was wearing faded jeans and flannel shirt done in a red and black plaid, open at the front. "Be Kind" was printed across the blue tee underneath. The Goth chick gazed up at me her eyes holding me like a vise as she extended her hand. Just before her fingers brushed my neck I noticed her nails were painted black with white spider web. Then I tumbled into nothingness. The lunatic had gone quiet. I could feel the tip of the crop skip across my skin tickling my back and ass. What was he thinking? Was he going to kill me? He might. The riding crop traced my spine down into my butt crack. I felt the tip wiggle its way inside though not enough to cause serious discomfort. Then he twisted it, shoving it in deeper, sparking the first spears of pain. I tried not to squirm. "Tell me something," he said. "How deep do you think I can work this before it punctures you intestines: four inches, six?" I didn't answer. He thrust further. The agony was nearly unbearable. I sucked in a breath, biting off a scream. "Too flexible," he said drawing it out. The pain lessened. I felt a trickle of blood on my butt cheek. The lunatic placed the crop back on the table. "Are you familiar with the old adage?" he asked stripping off his shirt and then his pants. He rolled them into a cylindrical shape and laid them on the table next to the sex toys. "It goes like this," he said, stepping out of his boxers dropping them beside his other clothes. "If first you don't succeed you try, try again." "That is what we are going to do now," he said presenting himself to me. "We're going to try again." He was fit. Muscles rippled with the slightest movement of his body. His chest and shoulders, covered in thick black hair, was marred by scar tissue. The guy had been in some serous fights. But the most startling feature was the size of his cock. He was hung like a racehorse. I'd always thought of myself as being well endowed, my girlfriends had been impressed. But my tool was nowhere near the size of his. "You're going to rape me aren't you," I said, feeling weak again. "Like male prisoners do to each other." He looked thoughtful. "I suppose they do do that don't they. But rape is such a negative term. I prefer to view it as introducing you to something new, something novel. I understand taking it in the ass can be very pleasurable once one is 'conditioned' to the idea. Think of it as expanding your sexual repertoire." "Please no," I pleaded. The riding crop had done enough damage without this. "Oh, this is just the beginning." My captor grinned showing those small even teeth I was beginning to loathe. "Before I'm done, you'll beg for my attention." I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. A second man stood a few feet away. He was about my height and build. He wore a light blue shirt and tan pants. His short blond hair was swept back from his forehead. He gripped something in his left hand. Catching my eye, he raised a finger to his lips cautioning me to stay quiet. I needed to keep the loony distracted. "Why me?" I asked, careful to keep my eyes on the loony and not the blond guy creeping up behind him. "What did I do to you? I don't even know you." "You still haven't figured it out have you," my captor said. "Very well, I'll explain it to you. I performed a service and you are my reward." "Reward? All you've done is to take me prisoner." "That's where you're wron--" The blond guy slammed the object he held against the back of my captor's head and the loony crumbled to the floor. The blond guy stood over the fallen man gasping for breath. Beads of sweat dotted his face. He looked pale. I thought he might pass out. The weapon dropped from his hand. It hit the floor with a thud. It was a large stone. "How the hell did this happen, Faith?" he asked, inventorying the objects on the table. He picked up the handcuffs, tested them, then dropped down beside the fallen man and snapped them on the guy's wrists. "I told you not to trust this bastard." "Did you just call me Faith?" "What am I suppose to call you?" he asked stepping over the unconscious man to undo the straps binding me to the table. "That's your name." Freed from the straps I rolled off my stomach. Sitting up, I swung around to face the guy. "My name is Pau--" the rest of the sentence caught in my throat. Two small breasts jutted out from my chest. "What the hell?" I cried. They had to be artificial. I grabbed one. It was real. I freaked. Leaping off the table my legs buckled as soon as my feet touched the floor. The blond guy caught me by the arms and helped me stand. We should have been about the same height so why was he a foot taller? Something was wrong. I glanced down at my body; long dark hair tumbled in front of my face. I swept it back with a hand. That's when I noticed my fingernails were painted black with white spider webs. I heard a groan. Scarface's eyes were open and he was trying to work himself to a sitting position. I shook free of the blond guy and staggered over to the loony. He saw me and grinned. "What in the hell did you do to me?" I screamed forming my fingers into claws. I wanted to rip that shit eating grin off his face. Before I could the blond guy grabbed me and hauled me back. "Take it easy, Faith." "I told you my fucking name is not Faith!" I screamed trying to pull away. "And I'm not a girl. He did something to me. He changed me somehow." The blond guy spun me around so we were facing each other. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Did he hypnotize you, are you drugged?" "I don't know." I was trembling. "What in the hell did you do to her, Lucas?" he growled. "Look at how she's shaking. She can't remember who she is?" "She's gone, Ricky boy," the guy croaked. "Never to return. You'll never see your precious little Faith again." "What are you talking about Poole?" Rick's voice had taken on a dangerous edge. "She's right here. I want to know what you did to her mind." Lucas shook his head and then grimaced. "Oh, that hurts," he said pressing a hand against his temple. "What in the hell did you hit me with?" "Nothing as bad as what I'm going to hit you with if you don't give me some answers." "Once was enough. But you may not like what you hear. You may not even believe me but I assure you it's true." "I warned you to quit stall--" Rick began but I waved him off. "Let me," I said. Rick eyed me quizzically but nodded. "It was the girl wasn't it," I said fitting the pieces together. "The one with the dark hair. Behind the House of Blues. In the parking lot. She switched bodies with me didn't she?" "So you've figured it out," Lucas laughed. "And it only took you a day. Not bad for a Gadjo." "Why?" "She wanted to walk in the sun and I wanted some ass." "Why me?" I asked ignoring the ass comment. "We needed someone agreeable to the transfer and that was you." "I didn't agree to anything," I said, "Oh but you did," said the man. "You agreed to help me. That was enough." I open my mouth to ask how it was even possible but he silenced me with a hand. "I'm tired of answering questions," he said. "It makes my head ache. If you want to know anything else, you can ask Ricky boy." That's when I kicked him in the nuts. He howled. "I'm asking you," I said. He rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up to protect himself from another kick. I circled him seeking a place to land another blow. I wasn't finished with the bastard. Rick grabbed me pulling me away. 'Easy," he cautioned. "We need information and that's not helping. For now let's find something to cover your birthday suit. Between you and Poole it's like a nudist camp in here." I glanced down at my bare skin. With everything happening around me, I'd forgotten I was naked. Rick led me to a box of discarded clothes. "My old work clothes," he said digging through the box. "I meant to toss all of this out weeks ago after Faith and I were done fixing this place up. There should be something in here you can wear." He pulled out a man's shirt, sniffed it and then handed it to me. "It's clean, not even any paint on it. Put it on." The shirt, several sizes too large, hung down to my knees. Rick helped me roll up the sleeves so my hands were free. He dipped back into the box while I buttoned up. "Let see if I can find something to cover Poole. I can't stand looking at his bare ass." "Don't bother," I said. Rick stopped his search to glance at me. "Why?" I pointed at the spot where he'd left Poole. It was empty. Only a pair of handcuffs remained. *** The large living room with high ceilings was furnished with richly upholstered furniture that might have dated back to the late nineteenth century. I was seated on on a lavish Turkish rug, dressed in jeans and flannel shirt. A fire roared in the hearth a few feet away. For all its heat, I still felt cold. I'd learned Rick was Rick Crane, Black Salt's real manager. He booked the gigs, hired the roadies, collected the performance fees made sure the band got paid and basically kept the trains running on time. Minutes before, he had disappeared into the back of the house. Now he reappeared with a small glass filled with a dark red liquid. "Here," he said, extending the glass toward me. "This will make you fell better." I studied it warily. My nose detected the same coppery odor that I'd picked up in the stuff Poole fed me. But this was overlaid with the faint scent of wine. I wasn't surprised to find my mouth watering at the smell, the other had been intoxicating. I wanted to snatch the glass and gulp down the contents but I fought off the impulse. Something wasn't right. "It smells like blood," I said, refusing to take it. "It is," he said, "With a little red wine. You need this. You haven't feed properly. You're weak." "You want me to drink blood. No thanks." Even as I said it, a part of me craved what was in that glass. "You want this as much as you need this," Rick said. "I can see it in your face, in your eyes." "It's blood, damn you." I felt tears trying to spill. I was getting emotional. "What kind of monster are you?" You're worse than that other guy. I'm out of here." I struggled to rise then sat back down. "See, you don't even have the strength to stand." He paused, working out what to say next. "Look, er..." "Paul," I said. "My name is Paul Simmons." "Look Paul, I'm asking you to trust me. There's a reason you need this and I'm going to explain why, but first I need you to drink. Okay? It doesn't make you a cannibal or a witch or whatever you're afraid of becoming. You have a condition, one that requires blood as sustenance. You don't need a lot but you do need some on a regular basis. " He waited for me to digest what he'd said. "Trust me?" He asked offering me the glass a second time. I noticed his eyes were blue, reminding of summer skies when I was a kid. I could also see honesty in those eyes. I took the glass. Pressing the rim to my lips I took a sip. An indescribable pleasure swept over me. I drank the rest and then extended the empty glass to Rick. "More. Please." "That's enough for now, Paul," said Rick, taking the glass, setting it on the floor. "Any more would make you sick. I'll show you where Faith keeps her supply before I leave. For now tell me a little about you. We need to get to know each other. We have a lot to discuss." "My name is... or was Paul Simmons. I'm twenty-one and a third year collage student at Tulane." "And a fan of 'Salt' I'm guessing." "Yeah. That's how I ended up like this." I swept my hand down indicating my new body. "I was going to their last show but was too far back in line to get a ticket. That Poole guy said he could get me back stage if I helped him with something. He didn't say what it was." "What happened then?" Rick asked. "I'm guessing you didn't get to see the show." "Poole led me around to where the band was parked in the back. Faith was waiting for me in the space between the band's van and a car. She appeared out of nowhere. When she touched my neck I passed out. I woke up in that little basement room." "Poole said she wanted to walk in the sunlight. That was why she stole my body. What did he mean by that?" "Faith's a Vamper," Rick said. "That's how they refer to themselves." "Vamper like in vampire?" I asked. "Yes and no," said Rick. "You would call them vampires but not the Bram Stoker kind like you see in the movies. They're not undead and they can't turn into bats. Holy water and crosses don't affect them, but for some reason silver does. Mirrors with a silver backing blur their reflection. They're amazingly strong and fast. They don't seem to age. Faith is over a century old." "And they can't handle the sun," I finished. "Yeah, that too," Rick agreed. "What about the blood thing?" I asked. "Do Vampers have fangs and go around biting people?" "Most Vampers fangs are small, barely noticeable. They have to be exercised to grow. Faith gets her blood from blood banks through third parties they call 'Fixers.'" "Fixers? That sounds like a bunch of shady lawyers that work for mobs." "Fixers are humans that offer services to Vampers, like supplying blood, or some other transaction that would expose the Vamper if he or she tried to do it their self. Poole was a fixer." "He said he was Black Salt's manager," I said. "I never said all fixers were honest," Rick said. "Not that bastard anyway." The mood in the room seemed to shift. Rick looked troubled. Something was bothering him. "I've been out of town. When I got back, I came here looking for Faith. The upstairs was empty so I checked the basement. She sometimes used that space to write. She said she needed the solitude it offered and she liked the idea of being 'underground.' When I saw what was happening--what Poole was doing-- " His voice broke and he took a moment to compose himself. "When I look at you, I have to remind myself you're not Faith," he said. "It's a hard to accept she's gone." He turned his face away from me, toward the fire. His features: the broad forehead, the finely sculpted nose, the strong jaw were bathed in orange light. I thought women would find him handsome. "She told me once she hated being a creature of the night," Rick said. "She could never experience colors in their true brilliance like she once had. She said she missed the blue skies and fresh dew on the grass. I thought she and I being together would be enough to make up for that." He dropped his head, covering his face with his hands. "I guess I was wrong." "She'll be back," I said. "She has to." "I don't think she will," said Rick turning to face me again. His blue eyes so warm and trusting moments before cast the vacant look of someone who has seen their end and accepted it. "This house was hers. It's been passed down through her family for generations. We worked on modernizing it together. I guess it belongs to you now. You can do whatever in the hell you want with it, keep it, sell it, burn it down for all I care." "I can't believe you're giving up just like that. You loved her," He gave me a sidelong glance his mouth formed a scowl. "I gave up every thing for her, my family, a promising career in my father's law firm. My parents went ballistic when I dropped out of law school to manage a band that couldn't even get air play on the radio. It was a way of being close to her. I did it for love. I hoped in time she would return that love. I was wrong." "What about the band?" I asked. "Are you going to walk out on them too? They're on verge of national success and it's all because of you. I can't believe you're going to drop everything you've accomplished because a relationship didn't work out." "What fucking business is it of yours if I do?" he barked. "Take another look at me, Rick," I said. "Like it or not this is my business. Your girlfriend made it mine." He glared at me and I glared back. I was ready for a fight. The stoniness faded from his face, now he simply looked tired. "The band's a wash," he said. "They've been coming apart for months. It reached a place where they couldn't stand the sight of one another. They only agreed to do the House of Blues gig because we'd signed a contract and risked a lawsuit if we renigged. It's no wonder Faith bailed on me." He glanced down at his hands. They were folded in his lap. "It's almost dawn," he said looking up. "You need to protect yourself from the sunlight. If it touches your skin it'll give you a nasty burn. It could even kill you. Faith has a special room she sleeps in during the day. I'll show you where it's at. I'll come back tomorrow night to see how you are. In the meantime lock the door and don't open it for anyone." Rick led me to a bedroom in the back of the house. It was small but nicely furnished. A canopy bed occupied the center of the room. A vanity with a bronze mirror was nestled in a corner. A large flat screen television was mounted on the wall, positioned so you could watch it while relaxing in bed. "We had surveillance cameras installed when the band began to go viral. You can access them on the television with this remote." Rick showed me which buttons to press and then demonstrated by activating one of the cameras. I watched the screen light up, an image of an empty, shadowy street appeared. "It's a good idea to check the cameras every few hours," he said switching it off. "Just to be safe." "And if I do see something suspicious?" "Keep your cool. Chances are it will turn out to be nothing." "But if it's not, let's say Poole comes back," It was still mystery of how he'd escaped the small basement room. Rick thought there must have been a secret exit but we hadn't found it. Now I was going to be by myself. I needed advice. "He won't," Rick said, his voice confident. "The Tigani will have whisked him away by now to some place safe until things die down." "Tigani? Who are they? " "Romanian Gypsies," said Rick. "That's what they call themselves. Poole is one. They look after their own." "Is that how he did this to me, Gypsy magic?" I scoffed. I was beginning to feel like I was in one of the classic black and white monster movies. All the characters were there, vampires, gypsies; the only thing missing was a werewolf. "Don't be so quick to discount it, Paul. There are more things out there than you'd imagine." "But," he continued seeing the worry on my face. "To ease your mind, there's this." He opened the bottom right hand drawer of the vanity. Inside was a .38 police special, a box of shells beside it. "Feel better?" he asked. "I've never fired a gun," I confessed. "Not much to it," said Rick. "You just point and pull the trigger. It's gonna jump when you do so grip it with both hands. Aim for the stomach or chest." He slid the drawer closed I followed Rick back through the house. He walked with his shoulders stooped, his hands jammed in his pockets, looking for all the world like a little lost boy. I thought maybe he was. After all, his world had been flipped upside down. But then so had mine. "You promise you'll be back tomorrow night?" I asked when we reached the front door. "I promise," he said. "But after that all bets are off, okay?" "Sure." "Remember," he warned "Don't open this door for anyone but me. I'll see you then." After Rick left I walked over to one of the two large windows that faced the street. Heavy drapes, dyed a deep crimson, hung to the floor and were pulled shut. I tugged the cord that controlled them and they slid apart. In the fire's glow I could see my reflection on the glass. Long dark hair spilled over my shoulders. Thick lashes outlined my equally dark eyes. I placed a hand on one of my small breasts exploring its firmness beneath my plaid shirt. I knew this person. It was the girl that ambushed me behind the House of Blues. Her name was Faith Goodeblood. I had idolized her. Now I'd become her. Despite Rick's warning about the sun, I remained at the window watching the expanding red glow above the horizon silhouetting the New Orleans skyline. Somewhere beyond the confines of this house a stranger occupied my body, moving about, carrying out whatever ambitions they harbored. A ray of sunlight struck my wrist as I shifted the drapes for a better view. What began as a pinprick quickly grew into a searing pain. A thin stream of smoke rose from the spot, the skin around it blackened and charred. I jerked the drapes closed and raced for the small bedroom in the back of the house. Sealed away, I checked my wrist. The burn had already started to heal though I could still feel some of the sting. The realization that I was cut off from the day began to sink in. I still hated the bitch, but I thought I understood why Faith had done it. If I'd been in her place I might have as well. Standing at the bronze mirror I shed my clothes and gazed upon a gilded version of my new self. I ran my fingers through my long dark hair, traced the shape of my breast and then dropped my hand so it glided over the small mound over my pubic bone before my fingers found their way to the soft lips of my vagina. I was a girl but I was also something else, something supernatural. The thought that not only was such a thing possible, but that it happened to me reared up in my mind like a fantastic beast, one that I found terrifying and at the same time inviting. A part of me wanted to run from it while another wanted to reach out and caress it. The dual feelings confused me and suddenly I was afraid. I turned my back to the mirror. I'd had enough of my reflection. I'd sleep. Tomorrow I could approach things with a fresh mind. I dropped onto the bed. The softness of the mattress caressed my body as the first sensations of weariness flowed over me and I closed my eyes. As I lay there, I wondered what my life would be like as Faith. But why I was even asking? This was only temporary. I just needed to get by long enough to get my body back. Once I did, then I could fix anything Faith might have wrecked posing as me. I'd ask Rick to put me in touch with one of the "fixers" when he came around tomorrow night.. I was pretty sure they could solve my problem. Then I drifted into a dreamless sleep.