02:31 May 27 2026
Times Read: 222
Blood Feast
The French Quarter pulsed like a living vein under the sticky Louisiana night. Jazz spilled from open doors on Bourbon Street, mingling with the scent of fried beignets, spilled rum, and something richer—warm, coppery blood just beneath the skin of the crowds.
Seraphine had been chained in the attic of an old Creole townhouse for three decades. A mistake. A punishment from her own kind for becoming... too much. But the wards had finally cracked. Tonight, the blood rage took her completely.
She stepped into the alley behind Saint Louis Cathedral, bare feet silent on wet cobblestones. Her once-white Victorian nightgown hung in blood-stained tatters, clinging to her lithe, powerful frame. Long raven hair, wild and matted, framed a face of terrible beauty: high cheekbones, full lips parted to reveal lengthening fangs, and eyes that glowed like molten rubies. The hunger roared inside her skull, a red tidal wave drowning every thought except feed.
A young couple stumbled past the alley mouth, laughing, drunk on hurricanes and each other. The man’s heartbeat thundered in Seraphine’s ears like war drums.
She moved.
One moment she was shadow. The next, she was on them. Her claws—once delicate fingers—ripped through the man’s throat with surgical precision. Hot blood sprayed across her face and chest. She pressed her mouth to the wound and drank in deep, greedy gulps. The woman screamed, but it turned into a wet gurgle as Seraphine’s other hand tore into her belly, lifting her off the ground like a doll.
The blood hit Seraphine’s system like lightning and bourbon mixed with fire. Centuries of restraint shattered. She dropped the bodies and staggered into the street, chest heaving, mouth smeared crimson.
The rage smiled.
Let the feast begin.
She flowed through the Quarter like a plague wind. At Pat O’Brien’s, she vaulted onto the bar, shattering glasses. Revelers cheered at first—thinking it part of some wild show—until she seized a bearded tourist by the skull and drove her fangs through his temple. Blood jetted across bottles of Southern Comfort. Screams finally rose above the jazz.
She drank from three more before security could react. Each life made her stronger, faster, more monstrously beautiful. Her tattered gown soaked through, turning scarlet. Rivulets ran down her thighs as she moved.
Outside, the night belonged to her.
She chased a bachelor party down Royal Street. The men scattered like startled deer. Seraphine laughed—a sound like silver bells dipped in madness—and caught the slowest one under a flickering gas lamp. She didn’t bother with the neck. She tore open his femoral artery and drank from the fountain between his legs while he thrashed and begged. The copper-sweet taste mixed with terror and piss. She found it exquisite.
By midnight, the Quarter was in chaos. Sirens wailed. Gunshots cracked as terrified police fired at shadows. Seraphine danced between bullets, faster than human eyes could track. She took a cop from behind on Decatur Street, wrapping her legs around his waist as she drank him dry, riding his dying convulsions with savage pleasure. His partner emptied his magazine into her back. The bullets hurt, but the pain only sharpened the hunger.
She turned on him slowly, blood pouring from her wounds and mouth. “More,” she hissed.
He didn’t even have time to reload.
In Jackson Square, under the shadow of Andrew Jackson’s statue, she found a group of street performers and their small audience. Ten hearts. Ten warm, beautiful, terrified hearts. Seraphine moved among them like a crimson ghost. A saxophone clattered to the pavement. A woman’s scream ended in a moist crunch.
She didn’t kill them all. Some she left broken and twitching, blood pooling beneath them like dark mirrors. She wanted them to feel it. Wanted the city to remember.
By two in the morning, the French Quarter looked like a slaughterhouse painted by a mad artist. Bodies draped across balconies. Blood ran in the gutters and mixed with rainwater. The air reeked of death and wet iron.
Seraphine stood atop the Cabildo, naked now, her ruined gown long discarded. Blood glistened across every inch of her pale skin. She raised her arms to the moon, mouth open in a silent howl of ecstasy and bottomless need.
The rage still burned, but it had changed. It was no longer blind. It was alive.
She looked out over the dark Mississippi, toward the Garden District and beyond, where softer prey slept in their pretty houses. Thousands more hearts. Thousands more screams.
A slow, fanged smile spread across her blood-smeared face.
New Orleans had always loved a good party.
Tonight, Seraphine was only getting started.
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