Vampire Maker

Victor Decimus has been a vampire for over 2,000 years. Once a Roman Legionnaire, for millennia Victor has remained a step or two ahead of rivals, would-be executioners, and the mysterious Dark Kingdom, which sets the rules for vampires' existence. Having left New York and his lover Paul Lewis - the vampire he made then abandoned to escape the vengeance of the Dark Kingdom, Victor sets himself up again - with his thrall - in New Orleans. But in New Orleans, his thrall becomes the point of a new, larger conflict. On the one hand, a local priest seeks to break Victor's hold over the thrall; on the other, the Dark Kingdom fears that Victor is going to become a Vampire Maker - one who continually creates new vampires, while refusing to take his place on the next plain of existence and thus creating an imbalance in the powers of the universe. And between both walks Victor, determined to have his own way, exerts control and remains defiant to the end.

From Publishers Weekly

The fourth Victor Decimus vampire tale picks up four years after 2005's Vampire Transgression. In post-Katrina New Orleans, troubled new priest Charles Boisvert tries to purge his homosexual feelings with the help of therapist Dr. Beauchamp. The appearance of distressed yet beguiling young stranger Kyle at Charles's church jeopardizes the success of the treatment. Charles's family and even his immortal soul are endangered when vampire Victor begins a tug of war for Kyle's attentions while the Dark Kingdom, a sort of vampire government, tries to keep Victor from becoming a rogue vampire maker. Scenes of mostly tame gay sex have less of a chance of offending than the intimations that Jesus, called Joshu, was once Victor's lover. Vampire fans will enjoy familiar tropes with a few tweaks, and flashbacks make the episode so accessible to newcomers that returning readers may get a little bored. (Jan.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

PART IINFERNOPer me si va nella città dolente(Through me the way to the woeful city)—DANTE ALIGHIERI (Sign on the gate of Hell)1Charles Boisvert chained his red Vespa to a balcony’s iron support and stepped out onto Rampart Street, the northern boundary of the French Quarter.The air was heavy with humidity. Wind shook the trees in Armstrong Park across the street. The lamps in the median were still not working after Hurricane Katrina and the neighborhood lay in darkness. But lightning continued to flash on the shuttered shotgun houses and nineteenth-century buildings with their wrought iron balconies. An occasional illumined window and hanging fern announced that a few occupants had returned to their homes after the evacuation.Charles’s big brown eyes gazed wistfully at the houses. Would New Orleans come back to life? That’s what everyone asked. Would everyone return to the abandoned neighborhoods? Find jobs again? Rebuild their houses and their lives? Charles believed they would. Every day at Mass, he prayed they would. New Orleans was his hometown, and he would never lose hope that it would rise from the dead like Christ.Charles wore a black clerical shirt with a Roman collar that hugged his thick neck. His ash-blond hair curled up at the back of the collar and over his ears. He was in his mid-twenties, and his good looks reflected his good nature. He had the kind of face that makes a good-looking man approachable—open, accepting, unpretentious, and even tempered—the face of a self-effacing athlete. His young body was athletic, too, his back and shoulders broad as a linebacker’s, his furry forearms thick and strong, his hands big and square."Father Boisvert?"The sonorous voice behind Charles took him by surprise. He’d heard no one approaching. He turned to find a tall, brown woman behind him. She was serene and graceful, draped in a printed orange tunic that fell to her ankles. Gold brocade adorned the tunic’s scooped neckline, revealing her ample bosom. She wore her hair in dreadlocks, gathered at the nape of her neck into an abundant cataract that fell down her back."Yes." Charles nodded. "Can I help you?""I’m Dr. Beauchamp."Charles recognized the name. When the woman extended her hand, Charles shook it."I was just taking a stroll before the rain started." A hint of a Caribbean accent was in her voice. "I saw your Roman collar. I thought it must be you."Charles had noted the accent in his extended phone conversation with Dr. Beauchamp the week before, but he had not pictured such a beautiful woman, so magnificently Caribbean. Instead, her clinical observations on the phone and the formality of their discussion had summoned the image of a woman in a white lab coat, her hair cropped close—peering at him through horn-rimmed glasses.An advertisement in a conservative religious magazine had led him to Dr. Beauchamp. It invited Roman Catholics to enter treatment to prevent relapses into moral disorders decried by the Church. "Science and Faith can work together," the ad had announced. "Discover your strength to be a faithful Catholic."The ad had seemed to call him by name. Uncannily, it seemed intended for his unique situation. And when he had spoken to Dr. Beauchamp on the phone, she seemed to recognize perfectly his needs—though he provided few details. She told him to hold the information for his first session. She promised him that, whatever the facts, she could help. And he did not doubt her. The connection between them had seemed profound, even mysterious. He felt that God had sent her to him.Charles and Dr. Beauchamp had walked less than a block when they arrived at her office, a renovated shotgun house with bright blue shutters. Beauchamp opened the door and led him into a dimly lit room with a high ceiling.On the wall above a computer station hung an African rendition of the Virgin Mary that bore a remarkable resemblance to Dr. Beauchamp. She was wrapped in a bright orange printed garment, and she swaddled her shiny baby in a cloth of royal blue. Her broad nose was pierced by three rings. She stared serenely ahead like a tribal queen.On one side of the room, floor-to-ceiling shelves displayed more African art—elongated statues carved from dark wood, stylized masks, brightly painted crockery, and baskets. On the opposing wall hung a blanket with a green and white African print. Behind Charles, dark leather chairs were arranged around a glass table, draped with a woven African runner."Please have a seat here at the computer, and let me explain this device."Charles sat down and listened to Dr. Beauchamp’s instructions, blushing as she indicated how he was to attach the device to his penis and how the square plethysmograph would record his responses to the photos as they flashed on the screen. He was relieved when she finally left him alone, disappearing to an office at the rear of the building.Charles positioned himself as directed, unzipped his pants, attached the device to his penis, and viewed the first image. It was a close-up of a wrestling match. The shaggy-haired blond in the photo squeezed the shaved head of his opponent in the crook of his powerful arm.Charles felt nothing on viewing the image. He was relieved. He relaxed, leaning back in the chair, his broad back butterflied against the chair rest, his massive thighs spread on the seat, and his strong, furry arms rested confidently on the arms of the chair. His big hand worked the computer mouse, his finger clicking through more images: two shirtless movie idols, an Asian man in a thong, and a beautiful boy stretched out on the beach. None of the images troubled Charles, but he occasionally glanced at his penis and the machine registering his reactions.When he finished viewing the photos, he removed the device, zipped his pants, got up, and opened the door near the computer table."Finished, Dr. Beauchamp," he called down the dark hallway.A door at the back of the building opened, and the tall silhouette of Dr. Beauchamp appeared. She approached him, and he stood aside to let her in."Please, Father Boisvert," she said, stretching her long, smooth arm toward the seating area behind him. "Make yourself comfortable."Charles sat in an armchair. Dr. Beauchamp tore the report from the plethysmograph and took a seat across from him on the sofa, crossing her legs and sitting back to study the results."This looks good," she said, nodding. "Did you have to concentrate very hard to keep from responding?"Charles grinned and shook his head. "I think I was a little self-conscious.""Of course. That’s to be expected your first time. As you relax, your body will respond naturally.""Or unnaturally," Charles admitted with good-natured resignation.Dr. Beauchamp nodded approvingly. "I’m happy you respect Church teaching. Many people have accepted the relativism of secular society. Even some priests have. It’s good to see a newly ordained priest with your values. I must tell you, that as a faithful Catholic, I would not have accepted you as a client had you told me you were trying to make peace with your orientation. I’m even willing to use methods not approved by my professional associations." She held up the plethysmograph results. "I’m happy you agreed with my program. In our phone interview, you promised to tell me your story. Why don’t you go ahead now?"Charles nodded. "Well, like I said on the phone. I was just ordained in June for the Archdiocese of New Orleans, and I’ve been assigned to St. Louis Cathedral.""What a wonderful first placement. Quite a privilege."Charles nodded in agreement. "What are the odds that a mediocre seminarian ends up in the cathedral?""I’m sure academic credentials don’t much matter. It’s piety that counts."Charles shrugged. "Maybe. But I wasn’t always pious.""Tell me about your upbringing.""Well, my family was Catholic. But who isn’t in New Orleans? We had religious pictures and rosaries around the house. Went to Mass most Sundays. At least, my mother did. My dad was usually catching up on his sleep. He’s a plumber. My little brother and I went to Catholic schools. Then I went to New Orleans U. I was pretty wild. Drank a lot on the weekends. Made the rounds at the gay bars on Bourbon Street. Having lots of unsafe sex. I was lucky for the first three years. Then I got a call from the Health Department. A guy I’d been with had given them my name to contact, when he got his results.""So, you’re HIV positive?" Dr. Beauchamp said."That’s what I thought. Jesus, I knew I was. I’d had sex with the guy enough, in all the right ways. I was scared to death. For the first time in years I started going to Mass—every day. Started saying the rosary. I wanted to change my life. I promised God that I’d stop disobeying the Church if I could just test negative. I mean the Church’s teaching about homosexuality. I’d go through one of those ex-gay programs. I’d quit being gay. I prayed like a saint for almost a month before I finally got the nerve to get tested. And when I did, I was negative for HIV.""You must have been incredibly relieved.""Hell yes! Ran to church, fell down on my knees and thanked God." Charles paused. "But you know what they say about the road to hell. It’s paved with good intentions.""You strayed?""For a month I stayed on the wagon. Then I got horny. Lonely. It was final exam time, very stressful. It was hot and muggy out. I left my folks’ house in the Marigny and took a walk through the Quarter. Café Du Monde was packed with tourists. The tarot card readers and artists had lots of customers on Jackson Square. I just wanted to be with people having a good time. I found myself strolling toward B...

About the Author

MICHAEL SCHIEFELBEIN is the author of six books, including the Lamda Literary Award-nominated novels Vampire Vow and Vampire Thrall. He lives in Modesto, California.

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