A sparkling jewel on the hill. Scores of windows, draped in velvet and gold, tiny portals to the magic within.  Glowing warmth, welcome and refuge to all.

The white fortress–that’s how it was, as I remember it.

This is how it is–the haunted ruin, as I see it.

Darkness and gloom stretch for miles. Acres of fields and garden overgrown. Mother Nature and the bayou, once again victorious.

I brush away dust and mud to reveal what remains of our grand foyer. A lonely tribute  to the the golden age of a Duke and his court.

Countless footsteps, the dizzying waltz, the bold brass band and the tragedy of fire and spilled blood. The old tiles wear history well–still defiant and gleaming after all these years.

Handcrafted in marble and gilded in gold. One simple letter.



The thunder beneath your feet? The sizzle up your spine?

Centuries-old legend scribed by authors, glorified by film makers, embellished in the endless imagination of dreamers–yet faced with proof–all ignore it.

The hiss in the alley, the growl ’round the corner?

Look deep in your liquor, stare hard at your lover, believe what keeps you sane but the answer is simple.

I’m here, I’m home. It was me.

The Match

I watch in awe as both monsters meet their match, the two rolling as one, an imperceptible tangle of mud and limbs.
Heat rises behind my skin as killer instinct floods my throat, triggered by the life and death battle waged in front of me. I crouch close to the edge of the swamp, looking–waiting for a chance to join the fight.
Come on–let me in!
The master finally grants me an opening–truly just a fraction of a second.
I glimpse the lighter coloring of the beast’s underbelly and lunge with all the power caged behind my burning, blue eyes.

Natural born perfection

The royal families claim it doesn’t exist in nature. They say perfection has to be genetically engineered or meticulously bred from potent bloodlines–but we proved them wrong.

Turning Martin was necessary and justified and maybe a bit selfish, but most importantly, it was his choice. Freedom to choose is a rare commodity in this world. He embraced the change, all of it, the civilized and the repulsive, the cravings that bring all vampires to their knees and the ecstasy we chase for eternity.

Martin’s company has kept me sane these years. I suspect he’s taken better care of me than I have of him.

His music, the lyrics, his piano–that piano–resonate like no other. Even in the solitude of his private studio, far from the bright lights, screaming crowds and drama of the stage, Martin’s talent is unmatched.

A genius, a master and a link to my past…our past…that I’ll defend as long as I live.