The Deep

“You guys having fun so far? Alriiiight....” Abbey Rockford, a tour guide with wild aspirations of a future in alligator taming, offered the cluster of visitors a grin. She walked backwards through Colby’s Gator Farm, swinging her thumb at noteworthy features, like an enclosure for hatchlings in the distance and a boat landing where they launched midnight tours of the wetlands. She wore tattered jeans and a hot pink tank top that clung to her stomach. A simple button identified her as an employee. It was only May and the temperature was a sweltering 93 degrees. Once humidity and perspiration were factored in, a tour could turn into a wet t-shirt contest if she wasn’t careful.

Abbey liked giving tours. She craved the attention. Her bombastic personality won her positive reviews, except when a troop of Bible huggers came through. Being good at her job made it easier not to relive her glory days as “Abs”, a mixed martial artist who saw her name painted on signs in glittering letters.

“Now we’re gonna swing through the alligator paddocks. This is where the magic happens. And by that I mean feeding and mating, two of my favorite things.” When the chuckles died down, she propped her hip on a railing. “May is the peak of alligator mating season, which means it’s a great time to go on the boat tours because the males are on the prowl for mates. Who knows, you might even see a little action today. More bang for your buck.”

( Daphne Has Balls )

On the north side of Honfleur, a path wide enough for a single car branched off Waterman’s Way and dove beneath a dense canopy of trees. It led to the old Herne cabin, a sagging structure built in 1930. Its survival through hurricanes and unforgiving years was a marvel to townsfolk. The wood had weathered to gray. The tin roof rusted. The back porch clung crookedly to the house. Despite its poverty, there was love apparent in the upkeep of the place. Petunias spilled from tubs that hugged the steps. A rocking chair perched beside the porch railing in view of the water. Someone had attached birdhouses to the trees. A gray cat with one ear kept an eye on those and yowled at the slightest sign of life.

Late in the afternoon, a screen door slammed shut. Hazel Moreau, great-granddaughter to Nadya Herne, emerged into the wet heat and descended to the yard. She wore a dark skirt that caught in the longest blades of grass as she walked to the lean-to. Her sandals sunk with each step; Here, the water table was so high that the ground remained saturated for days after a good rain.

( For the Low Price of $75 )

While the heavy metal blaring from the nightclub speakers wasn’t Marguerite’s preferred genre of music by any stretch of the imagination, the other aspects of the club more than made up for the assault on her eardrums and good taste. The Dungeon catered to the young and the tourist, especially those that had a fetish for leather and piercings, and the Gothic theme running through the place meant that the dance floor was dark and had plenty of obstructions disrupting the view. All in all, it was a good place to visit when she wanted to feed someplace where she wouldn’t normally go and was unlikely to ever be recognized.

The vampire nursed the mai-tai one of her earlier snacks had provided and surveyed the crowd with a predator’s eye, looking for the one member of the herd that would satisfy her hunger and could be safely removed from the crowd. Eventually her eyes settled on a young man off to one side who looked just a tad uncomfortable with the whole scene. Yes...he’d do nicely, the energy radiating from him made her unconsciously lick her lips with anticipation as she started toward him.

It didn’t take much persuasion to get him to come along once she reached him, just a caress and a few whispered words along with a touch of power and he was hers.