Chapter Ten
The understanding had lodged so deep it seemed like race knowledge. And perhaps it was – the idea of his own racial superiority was wonderfully beguiling – but which race? In one horrible and ecstatic inflow, the blackness had given him centuries of arcane knowledge. Since, his aunt, Marie, had demonstrated its use with gloriously aphrodisiacal and blood-soaked precision.
In old Louisiana, where every structure was replete with ghosts and ghouls both living and dead, he’d not had to search for settings suitable to his activities. The family’s elegant Creole townhouse with its rear carriage house and dank Civil War cellar hidey-hole was surrounded by the French Quarter’s noise, bustle and indelible shadows. Grandpere Charles’ remote mouldering old Mississippi River bank planta
