La Luxure: Discover Your Blood Lust Read online

  La Luxure

  Discover Your Blood Lust

  By C.D. Hussey

  * * *

  Copyright (c) 2011 C.D. Hussey

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. This ebook may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without expressed, written permission.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover art by C.D. Hussey and Sean McCue

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all the friends who patiently listened to my endless rambling while writing La Luxure. I'd also like to send out a huge thank you to the friends and fans who helped me edit and polish the novel. Your support is truly appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  de Sang Preview

  Chapter One

  To avoid taking another nerve-racking glance at the fragile wings and whizzing engine just behind her head, Julia slid the window shade shut and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes and focusing on breathing deeply.

  God, she hated flying. Statistics and understanding the physics behind lift didn't help, either. Only with sheer force of will and a heaping of logic was she able to keep from screaming in terror. She should have brought some Xanax.

  She didn't used to be such a pansy when it came to the safest form of traveling. It wasn't until she turned 29 this year that her own mortality started beating on her door. Now whenever she boarded a plane, morbid images of scattered limbs and smoldering carcasses tangled in twisted, metal wreckage sped through her mind.

  Fortunately, besides her sister Clare and cat, Beelzebub (affectionately referred to as Bubbers), Julia didn't have anyone that would miss her if she met an untimely death in some Mississippi field. What a blubbering wreck she'd be if she actually had children or a husband to worry about.

  One of the few reasons to be thankful she was still single.

  Not that Julia was desperate to be married or popping out babies, but it would be nice to be in a relationship with a guy that lasted longer than 6 months. Hell, it'd be nice to find a man she could actually envision being in a long-term relationship with.

  Was it wrong to want to experience those first few amazing months of a new relationship everyone was always talking about? The kind where you get butterflies around the other person, all their jokes are funny, and you fuck like rabbits. She wasn't looking for 50 years of butterflies and endless rabbit fucking, but was three months too much to ask? A week? A one-night stand?

  And it wasn't like she didn't constantly meet men. Julia was a civil engineer for the City of Alton in Illinois, about 45 minutes north of St. Louis. She was always around men. Most were just lacking...something.

  On paper, her last boyfriend Jeff had been great. A consultant engineer with Hughes & Ralston in St. Louis, he was good looking, okay in bed, and not super picky or controlling like a lot of engineers could be. Nor was he socially inept. It just wasn't there. For her.

  "It's because you read all those stupid romance novels," Clare had said once. "Your expectations are all skewed."

  Maybe Clare was on to something. Lately, nothing in Julia's life felt right. It didn't make any sense. She had a good job and a nice apartment. The guys she dated were usually decent looking and successful. Yet, she was never quite satisfied. Maybe she did read too much or expect all the wrong things. Maybe she was just too picky.

  She picked up her latest read and glanced at the description on the back.

  New Orleans Blood Lust

  After a tragic fire kills her entire family and destroys her plantation home, Marguerite LaFleur moves to steamy New Orleans to live with her spinster Aunt. When she meets the dark and mysterious Blaise Carmichael, she is torn between a lust that could save her tattered heart and a fear she might be his next meal.

  Normally, Julia liked her romance novels a little edgier, with leather clad, tattooed vampires that had drug problems, or were once sex slaves. The occasional werewolf was nice, or angst-y warlock, or even a tormented, sorcerer werewolf. She'd put away the historical novels years ago in favor of darker, rawer, urban fantasies.

  Still, this book seemed appropriate, considering she was traveling to New Orleans. Of course, she was going for a conference on "Emergency Utility Management During Manmade or Natural Catastrophes", not because her plantation had burnt down.

  Sometimes, Julia wondered what drew her to the paranormal. Unlike Clare, who sported crazy hair colors, multiple tattoos, and numerous piercings, Julia was completely normal. She was the girl next door really, with straight brown hair that floated somewhere between her armpits and bra strap, plain brown eyes, and innocent looking face. She couldn't understand why "normal" life didn't seem to suit her.

  The plane lurched and Julia's heart went with it. The fasten seatbelt sign dinged and the muffled, nasally warning of turbulence piped over the intercom. After cranking down the seatbelt until it cut into her flesh, Julia pried open her book. Something had to take her mind off this wretched form of travel, and the promise of a hot vampire and maybe even some hot vampire sex was just the distraction she needed.

  As soon as her plane had all three of its knobby little tires on the runway and was safely taxiing to the terminal, Julia powered up her cell phone and called her sister. She was preparing to leave a message when Clare unexpectedly answered.

  "Hey," Clare said breathlessly.

  "I'm here."

  Pause. "Great," Clare panted. The sound of rustling fabric sounded faintly in the earpiece.

  Clare was either having sex or running a marathon.

  "Um..." Julia wasn't quite sure what to say.

  "Hey...sis...can I...call you later?"

  Clare was having sex! Geez, it wasn't such an important call that she needed to take it. Julia hoped like hell the next time she was physically involved with a man it was so amazing that she wouldn't even hear the phone ring.

  "Yeah, of course," Julia said, not waiting for her sister's reply before clicking the phone shut. She was surprised at the level of irritation she felt, since answering the phone during intercourse, or even placing a call during sex wasn't out of character for Clare.

  It was just as well that she avoided an involved conversation. The plane had pulled up to the terminal and passengers were reaching impatiently for suitcases and shoving their way towards the exit. Unless she wanted to risk getting clobbered by another harried traveler, attempting to talk on the phone while trying to retrieve her carry-on was probably a bad idea.

  The Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans was small and easy to negotiate. Within 20 minutes, Julia had her luggage and was in a cab heading to he
r hotel in the French Quarter. She'd opted out of staying at the conference hotel, instead choosing a smaller, more intimate inn not far from Bourbon St. It looked to be a short walk to the conference, and Julia was looking forward to ditching her car for a week. Life in the Midwest rarely allowed one to abandon their carbon burping wheeled monster. It would be a refreshing change.

  The city wasn't quite what she expected. Like any good tourist, Julia had thoroughly researched New Orleans before getting on the plane. But the mismatched buildings and flat, sprawling, suburban landscape didn't look anything like the brochure. No iron balconies or hanging ferns or mule-drawn carriages or 18th century charm. Most of the buildings looked like they were built in the 70's or sooner. She did spot a couple of above ground cemeteries, and scanned them eagerly as the cab sped by. Visiting one of the famous cemeteries was on her tourist "to do" list.

  It wasn't until the cab pulled off the highway that the scenery changed into something from her Internet searches. Her face pressed eagerly against the dirt-streaked window as the cab wove its way down narrow streets. She loved it. From the colorful homes with numerous balconies and shuttered windows, to the gas lanterns that lined the streets, it felt like coming home.

  All the trepidation about traveling eased from her system and she felt excited about her weeklong stay in New Orleans for the first time since her boss had told her about it. She had an epiphany right there in the back of the smelly cab. There was something here that beckoned her, a promise of new and exciting experiences. It was time to change, time to be someone she usually was not.

  She vowed to use this trip to break away from her comfort zone and be spontaneous for once.

  * * *

  From the lobby, Hotel Conti-Royal looked nice, with tall ceilings, intricate wood trimmed doorways, and floor to ceiling silk drapes. Her coworkers had warned her that anything deep in the Quarter, except maybe the huge chain hotels that Julia had very little desire to visit, was going to be disgusting. She could stay in a Marriott anywhere. She was only going to be in New Orleans for five days and wanted to really experience the city.

  The concierge was pleasant, if not a bit brusque, and after a quick scan of her company credit card, Julia had her key and was headed for the room she would call home for the next week.

  The elevator wasn't quite as nice.

  Planes weren't the only things that made Julia nervous. She wasn't especially fond of elevators, either. Something about being trapped in a tiny, metal compartment that relied on spindly, metal strings to keep her from plummeting to her death didn't sit well with her. This one was especially unnerving as it heaved and groaned its way to the 4th floor. With an exhausted jerk, it finally stopped, and she determined to find the stairs next time.

  There was a bleach stain on the carpet, and pieces of the Queen Anne headboard were broken off, but her small, quaint room seemed clean enough. A screen-less window overlooked a brick courtyard housing a small pool and gurgling fountain that looked very relaxing. It was a little chilly outside, but not too bad. Maybe later, she'd grab a drink and read some more of her book down there. Marguerite had just buried her family and was en route to her Aunt's New Orleans home. If this book followed any kind of standard formula, it wouldn't be long until Blaise Carmichael showed up, and Julia was anxious to meet the heroine's vampire love interest.

  Julia glanced around the room, unsure what to do next. She could unpack her suitcase and actually use the dresser for more than just a place to toss her purse and lipstick. She could watch TV. Or...she could read a little more. A couple chapters wouldn't hurt anything.

  Plopping on an oversized chair nestled in the corner across from a large, wooden desk, she cracked open her book. She sped through one chapter before her grumbling stomach interrupted. As she reached for the hotel menu, a wave of disgust suddenly washed over her.

  She was in the French Quarter, in New Orleans, and she was going to order room service while reading some romance novel? It wasn't exactly the adventure she had in mind when making her vow on the cab ride here.

  Her cell phone rang just as she tossed the book aside. Grabbing her purse, she flipped open the phone and headed into the hallway. Even if she hadn't planned any activities for this evening, she could at least get a bite to eat, and then wander the streets for a few hours.

  "Hey, Jules," Clare's voice piped in. "Sorry about earlier. I was just a little occupied. You know how Chris is."

  No, Julia did not know how Chris was, nor did she want to.

  "Just don't answer the phone next time," she snipped, once again surprised by her irritable reaction. She felt like a bitter old woman. Why was she so annoyed by Clare answering the phone while having sex? Maybe Julia was jealous. Her vibrator was the only companion she'd had for a while.

  "Um, yeah, no problem," Clare said cautiously. "So what are you up to?"

  "Heading out to get dinner. Have any suggestions?" Julia arrived at the elevator and paused. The stairs had to be nearby. Taking a guess, she pulled open a door near the shaft. She'd assumed correctly, and stepped into a metal and concrete stairwell that looked like it belonged in a bad horror movie where women in stilettos ran screaming from a masked, chainsaw carrying psycho.

  It didn't matter. Anything was better than the elevator.

  "I don't think I've ever eaten while in NOLA," Clare admitted with a laugh just as Julia negotiated the first step. "There is a pizza place on Bourbon by the 'Live Sex Acts' show."

  Julia grimaced. "I'll keep that in mind."

  "The pizza or the live sex acts?" Clare teased.

  "Neither. Well, I'm sure I'll find something."

  "Eat some oysters. They're an aphrodisiac you know. There's a popular restaurant on Iberville St."

  "Oysters do sound good. Thanks, Clare. I'll talk to you later."

  Julia reached the lobby and pulled out her map. Not only had she researched the city, but always the good engineer, she'd also printed out a map and circled points of interest. She'd even calculated the distance and time it would take to get to each one.

  It would be a refreshing change for her to simply be adventurous, actually go somewhere unprepared, truly live in the moment...but at least she knew how to get to Iberville, only two blocks down.

  The sun was slowly creeping behind the downtown skyline and Bourbon Street was already a bustle of activity. The minute Julia stepped off the quiet street her hotel was nestled on, the energy changed from quaint 18th century town to spring break. Music blared from open bar windows. Techno clashed with hip-hop while head-butting a Mardi Gras brass band. People stumbled down the blockaded street carrying huge, plastic souvenir cups most likely filled with alcoholic beverages, and waitresses in overly short skirts balanced trays of brightly colored test tube shots.

  She realized this endless party was part of the city's appeal, but good grief, it was Sunday.

  Something whizzed past her head, and Julia ducked instinctually. A strand of cheap purple beads lay curled on the dirty street. Following the beads' trajectory, she glanced towards the wrought iron balcony across the street. Three overweight, hairy men stood on it, spilling beer over the edge. One lifted his t-shirt and catcalled, shaking his fur covered belly and man-boobs at her.

  Julia tucked her head and geared her stride into New York mode, quickly slipping past two strippers beckoning passers-by into their club, some guy puking into a trash can, and an area that smelled strongly of urine, until she was finally able to escape onto Iberville.

  Once off Bourbon, the energy changed back to quiet calm. It was startling how different it was, like an invisible line had been drawn at Bourbon's right-of-way and she passed from one dimension to the next when crossing it.

  With the palms of her hands, Julia wiped the imaginary scum from her jeans and sweater. She felt like she needed a shower. When she headed back to the hotel later, she'd be sure to take a parallel street.

  Unfortunately, the restaurant with the neon "Oysters" sign blaring in the front window had a line
out the door. Her stomach gurgled angrily. Oysters would have to wait another day. There was a hot dog guy on the corner. She could grab a quick bite and then check out Jackson Square. The temperature was cooler than she expected, and the chilled air was slowly seeping through her sweater, but a brisk walk to the Saint Louis Cathedral should warm her up.

  Holding her breath against the stench of urine and alcohol, she braved getting close enough to Bourbon St. long enough to buy a hot dog and Diet Coke before beginning the short trek to the Square.

  Rue Royal might run parallel to Bourbon, but that was where the similarities ended. It was lined with antique stores, art galleries, and the kind of jewelry shops that attracted women with fur coats and conservative bobs. No beads, no blaring music, no hairy balcony dwellers. Julia might not be the type that frequented antique shops or art galleries, but it was still peaceful.

  She settled into a comfortable stride and lost herself in the fantasy of another time. It was easy to do on the stone New Orleans sidewalks.

  Alton was a historic city too, with dozens of brick streets and plenty of 19th century charm. But at no time did walking the hilly streets of the city nestled on the bluffs of the Mississippi River allow Julia to forget she was in any time but the present. Maybe it was the cars parked on the wide streets, or the huge grain silo paralleling downtown, or the glitzy casino riverboat that masked Alton's historic feel. Compared to New Orleans, Alton felt like just another pre-civil war city that was an infant by the world's standards, and ancient by American's.

  She imagined herself as the character from her book, Marguerite, a stranger in an even stranger city, her wounds still seeping from a recent tragedy, wandering the foreign streets, and looking for something to heal her.

  Julia wasn't all that different. Not that her wounds were as raw, but she wasn't without her scars. About 8 years ago, her mother had died in a car accident. Julia was still in college and Clare had just turned nineteen. Almost immediately after the funeral, their father moved across the state, where he promptly started a family with his new, 25-year-old wife. Up until that moment, the Brown family had fit the American ideal.