Dearest gentle reader,

I feel like I should stop addressing you like that, but once Soso puts a thought in your mind, it’s hard to get rid of. Like when she suggested I should tell you more about Rashdell. She says Rashdell is our shipper name, and she ships us. Don’t ask me; I don’t know what it means either.

What she wants me to do is tell you the story of me and Rashid, Talamasca agent extraordinaire. My boyfriend. If you imagine myself grinning like a loon right now, you have the right image. I still don’t know how I deserve such a man. I probably don’t, but I got him nonetheless.

You’ll remember the last chapter of my previous story about “The Night I Met the Vampire” and how Rashid finally approached me on my 23rd birthday, and after two years of – more or less – secretly stalking me, “came out” to me as a Talamasca agent?

Of course, I had no idea who or what the Talamasca was, but they wanted me to join their ranks. Me, former teen hustler and walking blood bank to two vampires. Me? Turns out those were exactly the reasons why they wanted me. As a street kid, I didn’t have much to lose. My life, but what was that worth? And I had “intimate” access to two of the most notorious vampires out there, Lestat de Lioncourt and his companion Louis de Pointe du Lac. (Disclaimer: we never had sex!)

Which made me the perfect candidate. Although Rashid told me later that his first recommendation had been leaning towards no. He felt at first that “my lifestyle” (selling my body for sex, possibly into drugs – I’m not; he didn’t know) made me somewhat “unreliable”. Coming from your boyfriend, this assessment is pretty harsh, but you can say a lot of things about my Rashid – sugarcoating is not one of them.

So, let’s go back to where we left off.

It’s my 23rd birthday. I’m at the Sazerac in my hometown, New Orleans, celebrating in style with a frosty diet coke when this man appears next to me. I know him. He’s been showing up at random places for the past two years, only to disappear into thin air the moment I try to get a better look at him.

This should have made me freak out, but I have to admit that I was pretty into him the moment I saw him for the first time at Lestat’s concert. He has beautiful dark skin, short black hair and brown eyes hooded by a set of prominent brows. As a trained agent, he’s a master of concealing his feelings, but when he smiles, he lights up a room.

So when he sits next to me at the bar, I don’t run for the hills and do the most stupid thing I have probably done in my life – and if you know my story, that is definitely saying something. I flirt with the man. Not even the fact that he knows my name can stop me. It’s my birthday; life is short, and he is gorgeous. I have nothing to lose, and I’m convinced he’ll disappear as quickly as he did before anyway.

He doesn’t. He gives me his expensive-looking business card stating his name and the organisation he works for, the Talamasca. It doesn’t mean a thing to me, but I dropped out of school before graduation, so what do I know? He buys us another round of drinks – diet coke for me, tea for him – and we go to a table in a quieter corner of the bar. He explains that the Talamasca are basically an ancient secret society, going back centuries, described as a secret society set up to research and observe paranormal beings. Of course, I know about vampires, and as a New Orleanian, I can’t say I’m surprised to learn about witches and spirits. But werewolves are stretching it a bit.

He lets the information sink in, sipping his tea. I drink from my diet coke, pretending to process what I just heard, but to be honest, I have a hard time concentrating sitting so close to him. I can’t stop staring at him, and I’m just baffled he hasn’t turned into a spirit himself and vaporised right in front of me.

Rashid continues to tell me how he was recruited when he was still at college (Oxford, of course, on a scholarship… did I mention he’s British?), approached in a very similar manner to me right now: in a pub (in Oxford) by a middle-aged woman. I slightly frown at this because not only is Rashid definitely not a woman, he’s also not middle-aged. He is older than me; that much I can tell. Maybe mid-30s, but not more than that.

In contrast to me, he’d never encountered any supernatural creatures before but had always been fascinated by the stories. The payment was good (he writes down the numbers an agent earns in their first year, and, Jay-zuhs, my eyes are bulging!), so he started as a junior researcher for them and slowly worked his way up in the ranks.

When I’m wondering where this is going, he states they would like me to join them. He lets that bomb drop almost casually between two sips of tea. He doesn’t bring up Louis or Lestat, but I can connect the dots myself. My time as their blood donor is over, but I still work for them. They – or rather their law firm – owns a property in town, and I’m the custodian. We also sometimes go clubbing. Or play chess (Lestat is teaching me). And my cat Bruno is their cat’s offspring. I guess that makes us friends. And I’m not going to spy on my friends.

But I can’t tell Rashid that. If I do – when I do – he’ll be gone. And I can already feel a faint pull in my gut that tells me I’d want to see him again. So I chew on an ice cube – my coke is actually empty by now – to buy some time. I can’t think of anything to say to make him stay other than “Yeah, I’ll do it!” and I simply cannot do that. I can’t betray my friends, the people – vampires – who saved my life. Not even as a pretence to see the hottest guy I’ve ever met again.

Of course, at that point, I don’t know that Rashid has actually history with Louis. He conveniently neglected to mention that he used to work for Louis and his former lover Armand in Dubai while – more or less – secretly spying on them. I found out about that much later. I’m glad Louis is not the resentful kind, so that didn’t make things awkward between us. I wish I could say the same about Armand, but that is another story.

It’s Rashid who helps me out in the end.

“We don’t expect an answer from you right away. We can wait. Think about it. Take your time.” After a pause, he adds, “Unfortunately, we cannot allow you to talk to anyone about this. Not even Josette.”

Damn, these spies are good!

“So what are you going to do if I tell someone? Neuralyze them? Kill me?” I laugh, but a look on his face tells me he is not amused. I swallow. This is serious.

“I won’t tell anyone…”

Given the fact that Rashid was at Lestat’s concert, which I attended with my sister Josie, that should have been a hint. They know a lot about me. I wonder how much exactly. Does Rashid know about my past? Suddenly a knot tightens in my stomach. I wish he didn’t. I look down at my sneakers, feeling shy and a bit sad.

Rashid doesn’t seem to notice, just takes his business card, that’s been sitting on the table between us the entire time, and scribbles something on the back. When he hands it to me, I can see it’s a series of digits.

“This is my phone number. Call me – or text me – if you have any further questions or want to talk.” He clears his throat. “About the offer, I mean.”

He stands up and makes to leave, but I’m not ready yet. I know he’s way out of my league, and if he knows about my past, he won’t even touch me with a boat race oar, but I can’t just let him go. I have to try. Who knows if I’ll really see him again or if this is even his real number? My mind is racing, and I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.

“Rosalie’s!”

He turns around, eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

“I mean… it’s a diner. Rosalie’s Diner.” Close to where I used to hustle… Smart move, Dupree, very smart! Too late now… “They have the best beignets in town.”

“I’ve had beignets…”

“Uh uh… you haven’t had beignets if you haven’t had Rosalie’s. Trust me!” I’m very fond of Rosalie’s beignets. If there were any left at night before she closed, she’d always give them to the homeless. And if that homeless person happened to be me, they always came with a hot drink.

He nods slowly, still slightly puzzled about my outburst. This is almost “I carried a watermelon” level of flirting.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Beignets. Rosalie’s Diner,” he says, obviously making a mental note. He turns to leave again. “Goodbye, Wendell.”

“Would you like to have coffee… or tea… and beignets… with me? At Rosalie’s?” I hope I don’t sound half as desperate as I feel.

He looks at me for the longest time, then his gaze wanders down to his card that is still lying on the table. A shadow flickers across his eyes, but it is as quickly masked as it appears. His mouth tightens ever so slightly until he seems to have reached a decision.

“I’ll text you a day and time. Bye, Wendell.”

He’s gone in an instant, and I’m left wondering what just happened. It’s only when I pick up his card that I realise I never gave him my number.