Vampire Magic Read online

  VAMPIRE MAGIC

  The Chronicles of the Immortal Council #4

  by

  D.C. Young

  Other Books in The Chronicles of the Immortal Council

  1. Vampire Abduction

  2. Vampire Exodus

  3. Vampire Sovereign

  4. Vampire Magic

  5. Vampire Vacation

  6. Vampire Reflections

  7. Vampire Enigma

  8. Vampire Spirit

  9. Vampire Regent

  10. Vampire Intuition

  Other Books in J.R. Rain’s Vampire for Hire World

  Burning

  Afterglow

  Radiance

  Dead Ahead

  Dragon Lessons

  Vampires She Wrote

  Wolf Moon

  Fire Warrior

  Fang

  I, Samantha Moon

  Vampire Apocalypse

  Vampire Magic

  Published by Rain Press

  Copyright © 2019 by Rain Press

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  (Vampire Magic is based on the characters created by J.R. Rain; the use of story situations and supporting characters from the “Vampire for Hire” universe is authorized by J.R Rain.)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreward

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Reading Sample

  Foreward

  by J.R. Rain

  Hi there and welcome!

  J.R. Rain here, and I’m so excited to introduce you to my “Vampire for Hire World”! As you might have guessed, these are written by writers other than me. Fair warning, these stories are non-canon (as in, unofficial) but they’re still a ton of fun. I’m excited to see the Samantha Moon world grow, and I’m equally excited to see all these wonderful writers exploring her world with me.

  So, sit back and enjoy Vampire Magic!

  —J.R.

  Vampire Magic

  Prologue

  The House of Benoir

  There’s nothing quite like New Orleans, especially the Vieux Carré or the French Quarter, in wintertime. From Halloween to New Year’s Day, the entire city teems with silent celebration. During the months of October and November, there are several festivals celebrating the arts and cuisine of Louisiana, such as Voodoo on the Bayou and the New Orleans Film Festival. But those are just vehicles by which the city council has lured off season tourists to the South Eastern parishes for years. No one who lives here cares much about those.

  For native New Orleanians, the activities at the end of the year begin with the two feast days of October 31st and November 1st. Once All Hallow’s Eve and the Feast of All Saints have passed, the city seems to melt back into its old resolve, a shroud of calm nonchalant respite, which her faithful residents enjoy so immensely, and patiently waits for December.

  Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, swiftly followed by New Years Day end a rather busy season and the pace slows almost to a halt except for those who will be marching in the street come Fat Tuesday. After all, once the year has begun, the only thing on everyone’s minds will be Easter, and preceding it glorious Mardi Gras.

  No matter the time of year, the city always seems to have something to offer everyone, but we who live here know much better than that. If you ask Madame Moliniere, at the local herb and magic shop near the Rue St. Anne, she would tell you that New Orleans is very much like an onion.

  “It seems like a simple enough thing on the surface, but the more you peel it, the more layers you expose and the deeper you dig, the more likely it is that the city will reduce you to tears.”

  “Why would she say that?” you might ask.

  She would answer, “There are so many factions of magic which reside within these boundaries and those of the neighboring parishes that maintaining the balance of peace is a constant juggling act. The tension is always high in New Orleans, despite its sleepy countenance.”

  No further explanation can be gotten from the eccentric woman on the matter but she will always encourage you to browse her curious shop and purchase any item that ‘called’ to you. Then, when you were ready to leave, she would offer her customary greeting of goodbye saying, “Walk good!”

  My name is Erika Benoir Blackwell and New Orleans is my home town. I was born here, so was my sister, Jade. Our family’s roots run among the deepest in the state of Louisiana. Before us; my mother, Jessamine as well as every woman before us in our matriarchal line going back over three hundred years, were born in Pointe Coupee parish, just fifty-five miles northwest of Baton Rouge. It’s an incredible story, but all very true. And it’s a story… no, a history… that’s been passed down through the generations.

  It was our ancestor, Louisianne Benoir, who Cavelier de La Salle named the territory of Louisiana for; not King Louis XIV of France. Louisianne was La Salle’s love interest, even though she didn’t know he existed; a very talented and powerful witch, she was looking for an escape from the increasingly inhospitable society in Europe. She was among the three hundred and twenty immigrants who sailed with the explorer to find the Mississippi Delta. When he failed to find it, Louisianne abandoned the expedition at the first chance she got. It was obvious that La Salle, and anyone thought to be close to him, were doomed to meet an untimely end.

  In 1686, she left the ship with Henri de Tonti. That year, Tonti established the Arkansas trading post at the site of a Quapaw Indian village, near where the Arkansas River met the Mississippi. She made friends with many of the Quapaw, using her magic to catch on to their language quickly. By 1689, she’d gathered her own store of supplies and made her way down the Mississippi to the settlement of the Natchez people.

  Even then, it was obvious to Louisianne that Natchez would become a well developed and important port on the Mississippi River in a few short decades and it wasn’t her intention to settle anywhere that would soon become over populated. After a few months there, she struck out on her own again, traveling further South to find a suitable place where a witch could put down permanent roots. She found it roughly seventy miles downriver. With the help of the small family of Natchez Indians who had accompanied her, Louisianne spent only three months establishing her homestead. It was a parcel of high riverbank land that featured a meander of the main river as well as the island it created at a place she called Raccourci.

  The old indigo and sugar cane plantation still stands on our land at Raccourci. My sister and I spend the season between Mardi Gras and the Summer solstice there every year. It’s like a witch’s holiday for us during which we temporarily retire from the politics of New Orleans supernatural community. The factions are routinely rather quiet for that time, except for the werewolves during the full moon, and if any trouble were to brew, it isn’t too far to travel quickly back and smooth things over.

  Our mother and grandmother had passed that tradition down to us during their rule over New Orleans; we kept it up for several reasons. The main one being that Erika and I practice a type of magic called crafting. Unlike binders or ancestral witches, the center of our magic comes from nature and to maintain our power, we must draw fro
m the forces of nature. Binders take their powers from other creatures; while ancestral witches gain theirs from the witches who have gone before them.

  A crafter’s magic is creatory and it revolves around different states of being; evanescence, omnipresence and transcendence. Raccourci is the perfect place to commune with nature; it was designed by Louisianne Benoir to be that way.

  Witches in New Orleans are a united community, but divided into the three factions that represent their magical roots. One of New Orleans’ most famous witches, Marie Laveau, was said to be a Voodoo Queen; I know her magic to have been ancestral. The witches retain their power by absorbing the power of deceased ancestors. They do this by ensuring their loved ones’ remains are interred in places which are sacred to their coven. Laveau’s descendants still have a faction based in the Tremé section of the city.

  Those witches who were known as binders included Antoinette Claire, whose offspring lead the city’s ‘Day of the Dead’ parade every year. Their magic requires them to use spells which are tied to people or objects for their efficacy and power. So if they were to silence a person from revealing their secrets they might create a doll without a mouth and use its power to keep their victim from spilling the proverbial beans.

  Now you might wonder why I’ve taken all this time to tell you this tale. The truth is, I thought it was important that you know a little of the history of witches in America before our tale began. Most of what history has recorded about witches in the ‘New World’ has been recorded, and subsequently construed by its students, as being misjudgments and false accusations against innocent people all of which were otherwise easily explained and based fully in superstitious nonsense. Perhaps some were, but I assure you that we are real, us witches, and more powerful and influential than you ‘normals’ might care to imagine.

  The truth is the very fabric of stability on which the everyday world is so reliant, rests solely on the governing situation in the supernatural community. One vile creature on the loose can set the stage for a slew of unsolvable murders and disappearances that could have the best investigative minds up and down an entire seaboard boggled for years. Such was the case last year when the cambion, Set had made his way south to Louisiana. He’d been stopped by a huntress vampire from California called Veronica Melbourne, and her powerful immortal friends.

  We in New Orleans had been vaguely aware of their existence. They called themselves the Western Council of Elder Watchers. Once the deed had been done and the creature was dead, the ever gracious Greek aristocrat, Julia Agrippina, had come to Benoir House to pay her respects to the Guardian of Louisiana… me. And with her, she had brought a dear old friend of mine. Someone I had thought had died a long time ago.

  Bridget Bishop, the witch of Salem, had been a mentor to my mother, Jessamine, during her adolescence and a good friend to her for all her remaining years. After my mother had died, Bridget never came back to New Orleans. If I had known she had received the gift of immortality, perhaps I would have looked her up. I wondered for a long time after the reunion why she had stayed away. It was my sister Jade who pointed out that Bridget may have been thinking about our own safety; seeing that she was, after all, a vampire.

  Chapter One

  Guardian of Louisiana

  New Orleans, Louisiana.

  “Jade!” The halls of the three story French Colonial townhouse rang emptily as Erika called out her sister’s name. “Jaaaaaa-ade! Come on, égoïste petite fille! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? We’re going to be late for the mass.”

  Three seconds later, Jade Benoir Blackwell materialized in front of her; she was fully dressed and sporting a coy smile.

  “See, dear sister? There’s no need to sacrifice being well put together if you know the right places to save time.” She gave her sister a quick up and down glance and then rolled her eyes disdainfully. “If you didn’t insist on using such mundane means of transportation all the time, you’d have more of it to spend on your entirely dowdy appearance.” Jade waved her hand over her sister’s dress. “I mean, please! Couldn’t you find something a little more, ummm… celebratory to wear?”

  “Jade, you and I have a completely different opinion on fashion. I won’t ever be taking tips from you on the subject.”

  “You should!” she retorted. “What do you call that style anyway; eighteenth-century parlor witch?”

  “What do you call that?” Erika asked, not wanting to be left out of the witty banter her sister had started, “Witchy slut?”

  Jade’s cheeks flushed and Erika smiled. It was important for her to take jabs like that at her twin from time to time. After all, Jade might start thinking she could win all their arguments. Before replying, Jade defiantly pushed up her ample bosom in the confines of the too tight blouse she wore, straightened the calf length leather corset skirt and then smoothed her long trench coat out with both her hands. She wore all black, of course, with a touch of emerald green here and there to set off her raven black hair and hazel-green eyes.

  Erika, on the other hand, was dressed in a billowy, cornflower blue dress. The puffy cap sleeves and empire waist gave the gown a semi casual flair and multiple layers of gauzy chiffon created an ethereal look. Over her shoulders, she wore a turn of the century navy blue cape with a gold fleur de lis trim. Her long blond hair was swept up in a curly bun and dangling gold and sapphire earrings made her eyes sparkle.

  She had the same hazel-green eyes as her twin sister but the two had long taken to the habit of dyeing their hair as the mood suited them; Jade favoring brunette and black to their natural brown while Erika had kept hers blonde for years.

  “Whatever, sis, I’m ready to go.”

  “Good, the car’s been waiting.”

  Snide commentary and disparaging remarks about her style in general from her sister was in no way new to Erika Blackwell. They’d been different in their tastes and general demeanor since the day they were born so it was unlikely any of that would change so many years later.

  ‘Dark and light’ was how their mother, Jessamine Benoir Villiers had commonly described her twin daughters. ‘Brick and lace’; that was how different they were. As they grew older, the girls would complain about not liking the same things or disagree about music, books and the decoration in their bedroom and she would often tell them it was made each of them unique.

  “You will be happy that you are so different when you grow up, my darlings, especially since you resemble each other so closely,” she would say and the girls would just shake their heads in defeat and walk away.

  A sleek, black Mercedes Maybach was parked on the curb just outside the courtyard gates of Benoir House, while the driver waited patiently for the Blackwells to exit the beautifully, appointed residence. The townhouse itself comprised of three elegantly terraced stories surrounding a central courtyard. Unlike other examples of similar houses in the Vieux Carré which usually sported a staircase at a corner of the courtyard from which the different levels were accessed, Benoir House featured a centered, double staircase which dominated the open space and surrounded a prestigious carp pond with fountain.

  Azaleas and other fragrant flowering bushes grew in large terracotta pots placed at intervals along the lower level while pygmy banana trees and miniature palms dominated the long gardens along the sides. Black, wrought iron tables and chairs dotted the red brick floor providing places to sit in the shade of the two live oaks set on each side of the tall gates at the front of the courtyard.

  Erika and Jade made their way down the five steps to the sidewalk and while the white gloved chauffeur held the rear door open, they slid into the comfortable leather of the car’s back seat. When the man had returned to his position at the steering wheel, Erika pressed the intercom button and said, “We’re headed to mass at St. Louis then for dinner at the club afterwards, George.”

  “Yes, Miss Blackwell.”

  “I hope everyone received their invitations for tonight, there wasn’t an RSVP required.”

 
“Ha!” Jade retorted, “It’s not like the factions get together that often in a year that anyone can afford to miss a gathering, Erika. If they did they’d literally be out of touch and out of the big decision making for months at a time.” Her sister huffed in concurrence. “The way things have been in New Orleans recently, I doubt any bloc would allow an ounce of power to slip to another group.”

  Erika chuckled. “You’re so right. They have seemed a little grabby lately, haven’t they?”

  “As ever! Whatever happens just remember there’s always the possibility they’re still hung over from yesterday’s revelry for All Hallow’s Eve.”

  “Jade, you of all people should know that as Guardian of Louisiana I would never take that as an excuse for anyone missing a faction meeting.” Jade smirked at the statement. “Tonight is the Feast of All Saints; anyone not in attendance will be struck from attending all calendar events from now until next years’ Summer Solstice, without prejudice.”

  “Amen, sister. Amen!”

  They arrived at the cathedral a few minutes later. George parked the car at the church and ran around to open the back door. The Archbishop of New Orleans was standing at the doorway greeting his parishioners as they entered the church. He shook their hands and welcomed them. Two priests stood inside the doorway generously blessing each person with billows of incense smoke from their swinging thuribles. The parishioners walked down the aisle and took their seats in the pews to wait for the mass to begin.

  There was not much difference when Erika and Jade stepped forward to greet him, as each of them took his hand they dipped in a small curtsey and whispered holiday greetings in Duncan Marchion’s ear.

  The archbishop was descended from a line of catholic priests perhaps as long as Erika and Jade’s family line. The Marchions had sent a son into the seminaries of Rome each generation since the reign of Clovis the first. New Orleans had always been home to a Marchion priest ever since the city was built and as far as anyone could guess, it always would. The priests had come to serve as a sort of bridge between humanity and the supernatural. They kept records about the factions that existed in the city and safeguarded many relics and artifacts which might prove dangerous in the wrong hands. Most importantly, they knew every witch, every werewolf, every vampire and every other supernatural being in New Orleans, by first and last name as well as their family histories.