Jackson Square. The Garden District. The French Quarter.
I was twenty last time I slayed a vamp in New Orleans. Right there, on Bourbon Street. The bloodsucker was having his way with a pretty little lost girl.
It was inevitable that I return to what many consider the birthplace of american vampires. Or is it jazz? The city's seen a lot since my last visit. So have I.
This time I got to see a side of the French Quarter not viewed by many tourists. I was undercover at one of the many gentlemen's clubs. And I'm not talking about the high priced places where the girls actually look like they take care of themselves. I'm talking about the seedy strip joints. The vamp I was contracted to kill ran a string of clubs that catered to bloodsuckers. Nude bodies ready for a lap dance or as a buffet, take your pick.
It didn't take long to infiltrate Pierre's Cabarat. The hard part was cozying up to the owner himself. But, like with all vamps, he was eventually more than willing to accept a willing neck. It's too bad that neck was attached to the body of a slayer. He died in his opulent, crimson covered office with a stake to the heart.
Laissez les bon temps rouler.
Next stop: Bora Bora. A tropical paradise in the middle of the pacific ocean.
My assignment: Take out on of the largest and deadliest vamp families in the world.
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