The characters of the Southern Vampire Mysteries belong to Miss Charlaine Harris. No infringement on my part is intended. The characters on True Blood belong to Mr. Alan Ball. No infringement on my part is intended.
I have no BETA, editor, or other such charming person. All mistakes are my own.
This story is rated M
My christened English family name is William Legge. My French nom de plume is Chantel Wion.
I was born in the cold, snowy month of December in 1820 on our estate overlooking the Bristol Channel.
My young life was non descript. I grew up in the English countryside where my father was the Earl of Dartmouth. My family retains possession of the original lovely manor home there still, as it passes from the eldest son to the eldest son.
I am not the Earl. That should tell you much.
On that cold and bitter day when I was born, I was not the eldest. Nor the second or even the third son. So that is no to the fallback positions of the English military career and the clergy. I was the ninth son. Well yes, there was not even a place for me on the estate to pull the plow, so to speak. So I had to make my own way. And it fell to me to irate as many of the family as I possibly could…and so I did.
I could not be a highwayman, so I did the next best thing. I joined the French Foreign Legion. My spectacular strength and exceptional eyesight and sense of smell made me a warrior’s warrior. Of course, on the nights of full moon I have been known to make myself scarce from my comrades as there is no hiding my Were. But since the vampires have come out, I can only imagine it will not be long before they drag the Werewolves out into the light of the full moon as well.
Almost two centuries have passed since I drew my first breath and I yet live. And I do this living thing very well, lending to my reputation and good repute.
To secure my living, since the 1840’s I have rotated in and out of the French Foreign Legion. I loot things of great value during the fog of war and keep them for several years in my apartment to admire before I sale them.
Every sixty years or so I make my way back to my brothers-in-arms or if I hear the Legion is going someplace of great interest to me I just might re-enlist.
The present day world wide terrorist situation comes to mind.
I just finished a tour in Afghanistan and I am home for Christmas. My gawd, I love those fucking terrorists! They keep me employed and guaranteed of a very good time as I hack and slash my way through their midst taking their gold and selling what arms I can steal! Not to mention to run as the wolf in that rugged mountainous terrain on the nights of the moon that I hunt. And at that time, it is just not terrorists that I bring down!
For a Werewolf, I have lived an exceptionally long and incomparable life with very few hiccups along the way, save for one.
And this hiccup is tall, blond, and vampire. In his circles, he is known as The Viking. In my circle, I call this piece of undead grave dust my tasty meal just waiting to happen.
My father always told me you are told not to carry a grudge. He did not know his youngest so well…or perhaps he did.
I laugh and scoff at this idea of peace for pity’s sake. I am sure this lusting for Northman’s blood is what keeps the embers of hate boiling in my heart, keeping it beating to the pace of frantic cannon fire or the short bursts of a well-oiled FAMAS assult rifle.
My hatred for Northman is long lived and this fuel of disgust keeps me humping along.
You see, I was in Paris one cold, snowy Christmas night in 1840.
I was having a cognac with some witches in a somewhat not socially acceptable part of town in a tavern that had been warded and fouled. My companions for the evening were warming their blood with the alcohol of the saints before they drank the blood of the innocents.
This night, the devil’s own were involved in some exceptionally dark, deep shit and had promised me the bodies to eat after they were finished with them. I am always happy to be of service to such a group of lovely ladies. And they were lovely; their skin flawless, their hands, soft and dainty. Even covered in blood there was no mistaking their pert breasts and their glistening Mounts of Venus. Of which I had tasted first hand…it was a very good night for me. Part of their spell was the tongue of Were had to be applied to their juiciest parts. As they ground on my face and moaned in ecstasy, the blood was painted onto their bodies with willing hands with nipples being pinched and bit and suckled as the moaning increased and the brand in the brazier began to glow cherry red and looked painful even to me.
The often forgotten and neglected lady aristocrats had come out to play and they were naked…with piercings in places that shocked and delighted even me.
Yes, I would get the sacrificed bodies and when I consumed the last one, the spell of death and destruction for my family would fall into place and all my dear brothers and their male offspring would die, leaving the estate and the title to me.
Such were my plans…and they were good plans!
Can I catch a fucking break….?
Well fuck no! Of course not!
By all that is unholy, in blows Northman…literally…! There is a blast that shook the frame of the tavern as his devastating energy hit the doors that caused them to splinter and blow wooden shrapnel into the tavern, killing several of the coven and injuring everyone else. Well of course, not the sacrifices…they were in cages, crying for their mommas as Northman unleashed his cold, undead furry on those that were not yet hell bound.
I think that was the closest I have ever come to knowing fear…
On still cold nights, with no breeze about, I can still smell the soiled bodies of those that lay gasping their last on the floor as dark things to horrible to mention reached through the floor boards to retrieve their own.
And I can hear the blast of the police whistles as they began to shout, “Here, here!”
I can still feel the vibration of their boots thundering in my soul as they made the cobblestones dance to their tune as they forced their way inside.
The fact that one of the ladies had a wooden plank through her chest and had slumped on top of me was the only thing that saved my life. As I looked around, Northman was gone. And so was my only hope of regaining my family’s title.
And so I yet lived and still live…
Years pass and they are not long but they can be lonely. It is the things that I have collected during my life that are like old friends that sit with me on the nights when death’s grip reaches for me.
Perhaps my most prized possession is my Egyptian scarab ring…I know that it enhances my Were. The green stone matches the color of my eyes and does much to offset the color of my cold heart as it twinkles in the firelight as I raise the etched crystal glass to my lips and sip the golden nectar of cognac lightly warmed in my hands.
Oh, such dull and aching self-awareness on this blustery day of December. It is another dark and snowy early morning. Vampires should be seeking their beds, but I bet more than one or two of those fuckers are still out and about. If only one would walk past so I could end his miserable blood sucking life. What would be one more missing body to this vibrant, alive, color driven city?
My home is Paris. Has always been Paris since I left our manor home. It keeps me grounded with my human. With my human brain, I follow the ways of my mother’s people. They believe it is good from time-to-time to step away from the Were and return to civilization. And so I have.
My flat overlooking the Seine River is peaceful and paid for. Every morning I have my croissants with wild plum jam and pink, juicy, salty ham. I lick it gently at first then with fierce abandon, like a lover before I take a bite. My exceptionally black and robust coffee waits patiently as I sit outside on my balcony and watch the weather dictate the pedestrians’ wear. There is snow today and fur coats and sturdy footwear for the slick conditions that are appearing. The fashion forward are even shoveling in front of their boutiques in something more than fuck-me mules.
Christmas greenery is appearing along with advent candles and paper advent calendars with their bits of rich, sweet chocolate and colored electrical lights for the trees and shop windows.
I long for simpler times at my mother’s table and wild moors to run on. And I do miss the smell of roasting chestnuts being hawked by an English accent.
Damn the French for being so fucking French…and Eric Northman as well! For one hundred and seventy-six years I have hated that bastard son of a whore! If I see one more time that vampire commercial of him touting why can’t all of us tax paying citizens just get along, in his flawless French with that Louis Vuitton suit, I just might strip and start howling on my balcony as I beat myself with a riding crop! Which reminds me? Where is my riding crop?
Hm-m-m-m, new text message. Oh how charming. I have not heard from Compton in years. As a vampire, he is not much, but he likes to be used and pays for the privilege.
CB…HRM is having a Yuletide masked ball. I am handling the invitation list. If you want Northman, you are most welcome to try. BC Note: This is a giggle…our initials are the mirror image of each other.
Oh sweet William. You whet my appetite for things other than pork.
Instead of Father Christmas, I fear that Krampus shall visit the New World. With a little help from my friends, this just might be the Christmas I end Northman’s undead life!
Well, a Christmas story….sorta….who knew?
In several of my stories, I have Eric pushing his magic to see if he can out magic the Paris witches. In this backstory, apparently this coven is not much of a challenge for him.
I am hoping this gets more in the Christmas Spirit as we roll along….lol…okay, several of you wanted to me to write something while I was “on drugs”. Be careful what you wish for…lol…(okay…ha ha…I only took narcotics the first week. This is strictly me without drugs…)
The new knee is doing just fine. At the two week 2 day mark I was hitting six-week benchmarks. I am finished with at home PT. I start outpatient PT this week.
Thanks for all you kind thoughts and prayers.
You guys rock!
As always, thanks for reading!
Be blessed and be the blessing and get your Ho Ho Ho on!