‘Spectamus et semper ibi sumus’. We watch, and we are always here. The Talamasca motto. The first, most basic training you receive as a Talamasca recruit is ‘to see without being seen’, blend into your surroundings, and become invisible, if you need to be. And never interfere.

Lighting someone’s cigarette to covertly getting a good look at their face? Smart.

Holding their hand and giving their shoulder a reassuring squeeze? Not exactly textbook protocol. Pretty sure this isn’t in the field manual. There isn’t one, but this is definitely not how Talamasca operatives are supposed to behave.

But I got to see his face. I achieved what I wanted. Time to be a professional again. I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders before I shoot a quick glance across the street. He’s still there. Crouched on the ground, leaning against the fence that seals off the unoccupied plot of land like he means to melt into it. Disappear into it.

I pull out my phone and access the vampires’ file. Being a Level 6 agent does come with some advantages; remote access to the Talamasca mainframe computer unfortunately isn’t one of them. But I managed to copy the file from Hotchkiss’ tablet to my mobile phone while he was running errands for me. He really shouldn’t have left the device unlocked with me. Just another tally mark carved into the wall of his doomed career. But if it is helping me identify the boy while following him on the streets of New Orleans, I won’t hold it against the man.

I scroll to the section that says ‘Known Associates’ and flip through the pictures. The boy’s face had seemed familiar, but I need confirmation. I find the image I’ve been looking for, and yes – it’s him. The blood donor. I click to read any additional information the New Orleans division might have collected so far.

Name: Wendell [last name unknown]
Alias: Remy
Age: 19 – 22 [estimated]
Residency: no fixed habitation

There’s more, but I glimpse some motion out of the corner of my eye. He’s on his feet. Moving again. I follow him. The kid. Wendell. He turns right into St Ann Street. A quick check of my phone tells me we’re headed in the direction of Armstrong Park. We pass by a ‘Vampire Cafe’ and a ‘Boutique du Vampyre’. Classic New Orleans. There are some authors out there who have a lot to answer for. Neither Wendell nor I pay too much attention. Apparently we both have intimate knowledge of vampires. Real ones.

I’m trying to make sense of him. The file says he’s a blood donor. I’m still not sure if he’s on drugs. This would be consistent with Louis’ hunting habits in the past. Back in San Francisco he left a trail of bodies – 128 known cases – where he’d find his victims in various gay bars across town and lure them to one of his apartments with the promise of top-shelf narcotics and sex. They usually got both before he drained them, only to get high on the drugs in their system.

In Dubai, Louis was much more in control of his urges. No recorded killings since Y2K. When he craved human blood, he got it from The Farm or regular blood donors like Damek. They were usually in their prime, buff and healthy. Not kids. Wendell seems small. Bone tired. And so goddamn young.

It could be drugs. The twitchy, unpredictable movements, the way he jerks away from even the lightest brush of contact – classic signs. But his skin, when I touched him, was cold but not clammy. Dry. It doesn’t add up. I’ve seen addicts before. This doesn’t have the same hungry edge. He keeps his head down, hood low, face hidden like he’s bracing for a blow. If he’s using, he’s functioning. Maybe it isn’t drugs after all. But what is it, then?

Since the Talamasca have a file on Wendell, it means this is not his first donation. Then why did he bolt from the townhouse in such a frenzy? What went wrong? Why did Louis and Lestat butcher a bunch of guys in an alleyway early in the evening, when they have a blood donor waiting for them? The puzzle pieces don’t match. I need more information.

We’ve reached the park. The kid – Wendell – continues his erratic behaviour. I can’t make any sense of it, but it’s fascinating. He sits down on a bench but jumps up as if Lucifer’s hellhounds are chasing him when an elderly lady sits down next to him. He paces the length and breadth of the park – I’m definitely getting my 10k steps in today. This isn’t helping me find the missing puzzle pieces, though. This is a dead end, and I’m wasting my time. I check my phone just as Wendell dry heaves behind an Azalea bush. It’s late afternoon, and it’s been a long day after a short night. I should contact the agent on call and retreat to the Maidstone.

I take one last look at Wendell, still half hidden behind a bit of greenery. Whatever happened to him, I won’t find out by following him looping the park. He’s squatting down, face hidden in his hands. Maybe staying a few more minutes won’t hurt. He rubs his knuckles over his face and pushes back his hood, raking his fingers through his hair – a wild mop of black curls, clearly untamed and unbrushed. It’s the first time that I see his eyes open – wide, dark brown, and alert. Too alert for a junkie. He blinks, and a shiver runs through his body as he scans his environment. Before he can spot me staring, I bend over my phone and turn away slightly.

When I think it is safe to look again, I realise he’s gone. Shit! Did I lose him? I scan the path ahead until I find him. Basically right next to me. Twenty feet, maybe less. Near enough to make me feel suddenly exposed, though I know I’m still technically in the clear. Any sudden move might reveal my presence, so I keep it subtle, pretend to study my sleeve, and pick at a bit of imaginary lint.

I steal a glance at him. He’s taken off his hoodie. Underneath he wears a simple black tank top that he slowly rolls up while being constantly on the lookout. When he concentrates on tying a knot into the hem, I slide behind a tree that gives me cover and allows me to continue my observation. Fuck, that was tight. I’m starting to suspect even Hutchkiss would be doing a better job than me. I’m getting sloppy…

My gaze drifts back to the boy. He’s tugging his jeans lower, just enough to flash a bit of his white boxer briefs – a sharp contrast against his dark skin. He’s thin – too thin, nearly malnourished – but the fabric hugs his stomach, directing attention toward his waist. I can feel my eyebrows knitting together. What the hell is he doing?

We’re in a quieter area of Armstrong Park, away from the main paths; no comparison to the bustling streets nearby. The sun is slowly setting, dragging long shadows across the open spaces. Here, between the trees and shrubbery, the light is already dimming, dusk settling in sooner than in the open parts. The air is still thick with heat and dampness. Not long now until the iron gates will shut, and the park will fall into a deep slumber until sunrise tomorrow.

Not in this corner. This part just seems to be waking up. There’s some tentative movement in my peripheral vision, eerily quiet, like players around a chessboard getting ready for the game. The boy is one them. His shoulders lean against the bark of a tree, hips slightly pushed out. One of his hands is resting idly on his stomach, fingers curled into the coarse hair leading from his navel down into the waistband of his boxer briefs. In his free hand, he holds another cigarette, steadier now. His lips curl around the butt, his cheeks hollow as he’s sucking air and blowing it out in lazy circles of smoke while his mouth is forming a perfect O.

He seems so relaxed and composed that I’m questioning my own sanity. How can this be the same person I’ve been following for hours and who, not too long ago, was a sobbing mess huddled against a fence? But it is the same person, and the signs are still there: the slight tremor of his fingers, the faint wobble in his exhaled loops. His face is turned the other way, so I can’t see his eyes, but I’m sure that on the inside there’s still the scared kid on the verge of losing it. Only the exterior has changed in a very practised way that I recognise all too well. In business, emotions have no place. You bury them and put on the mask. The outside world doesn’t need to see – doesn’t get to see – what is going on underneath.

I take another sweeping survey of our surroundings, the figures drifting in and taking up their spots like it is just another shift. Half-hidden in the shadows but still visible to anyone who wants to see. Two puzzle pieces click together, and I only check his file on my phone for confirmation.

Ethnicity: Black [French Creole background unconfirmed]
Distinguishing Marks: Wrist tattoo “V 0 IV” (504, NOLA area code)
Sexuality: Non-heteronormative [confirmed]
Occupation: Street-based, unregistered sex work [confirmed]

Well, I’ll be damned. It is Louis the Pimp all over again.

It doesn’t take long for a man to appear in front of the kid. He’s white, in his mid-50s maybe, with a sagging belly that presses awkwardly against the buttons of his shirt. His khaki shorts look stiff with starch, like he dressed for a golf course and took a wrong turn. Receding grey hair, sunburnt scalp, and a mouth that gapes slightly open. A local, probably. The type who says ‘sir’ to waiters but never tips more than ten per cent.

Khaki Shorts keeps his distance, uncertain, but the kid leans forward, tracing a finger down the man’s face, peering up at him through long, dark, thick lashes, biting his lower lip. A quick exchange of words, and then the man nods, reaches into his pocket and draws out a couple of bills that he covertly hands over to the kid with a nervous peek around. The kid fans the bills out – two twenties as far as I can see – and lets them glide into his back pocket. Khaki Shorts gawks, and his tongue darts across his lips with an excited flick. Basically salivating.

With another casual check that they’re unwatched – I duck behind my tree just in time to avoid detection – the kid takes another drag from his cigarette and flicks the butt to the ground. Then he saunters towards a tight cluster of trees a little further away, exhaling the smoke from his nostrils, the man at his heels. I don’t think I need to follow them. They’ll be back. Just out of curiosity I start a timer on my phone.

I’m aware that what is happening in that thicket is illegal in Louisiana. If they were found, the kid would be punished with a hefty fine. If he’s lucky. If not, it is jail time and registry as a sex offender. For the kid, not the client. It doesn’t really make sense to me, but then I’m not a lawyer. In my opinion this is a transaction between consenting adults and no one else’s business. Best case scenario, at least. Not too different from my one-night stand. Of course, there was no financial exchange involved, and we both equally enjoyed the encounter. Probably. Come to think of it, most of what we did last night is also illegal in some parts of the world.

If the kid (or anyone else) were forced into this line of work, however, then he should be the one who deserves protection, not punishment. As a Black, gay, homeless kid making a living the way he does, he’s exactly the kind of person who’s vulnerable to harassment, assault, and worse. Law or no law, I can’t find it in me to condemn him for what he does. My mind briefly wonders how exactly the Talamasca confirmed the kid as a sex worker, but before my brain can come up with images of Hotchkiss doing the deed, Khaki Shorts emerges from the grove, zipping up his trousers with a scope of the area and a smug smile tucking around the edges of his mouth. One satisfied customer.

I check the counter on my phone. 2:47. Well, I’ll be damned. Forty quid for under three minutes – that’s more than my bedfellow last night probably makes in his line of work. Now that’s some impressive wristwork.

I wait until I see the kid come out again. He wipes his hand on a plant nearby, probably getting rid of any cum stains left by Khaki Shorts, spits into the bushes and then retrieves his hoodie from underneath a bench, where he must have stashed it earlier when I lost sight of him. He wraps it around his waist and walks towards the park exit. Outside, he makes a beeline for a street vendor nearby. A sign on top names it as “No Moo Brew”, one of those too-cute, self-righteous coffee carts that proudly proclaims its oat milk use and has a tip jar that reads ‘karma points’.

Wendell shows the girl behind the stall one of the twenty dollar bills he just earned. She laughs, reassuring him with a dismissive gesture. Apparently, she’s happy to accept cash. Her pink and blue hair positively glows in the setting sun as she starts to run the coffee maker behind her. She keeps batting her eyelashes at the kid and tugging her hair behind her ear. I realise, half-amused, that she’s flirting with him.

My focus returns to Wendell, trying to gauge his reaction. Generally I’d say it classifies as ‘not interested’. He seems polite and friendly but otherwise immune to her charms. He points at a bottle of hand sanitiser on the counter, and Coffee Girl lifts her hand in a go-ahead kind of move, her gaze lingering a moment too long. She passes him some tissues, and he wipes off his hands, probably getting rid of the last of Khaki Short’s residue. He keeps his head down, not making eye contact and fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. He’s a jittery ball of nervous energy, and I catch myself smiling.

Coffee Girl beams at him as she slides over his beverage in a paper cup. He pays with a twenty, and she hands back a bunch of small change. He nods in thanks and drops some of the coins into the tip jar. Earning some Karma points. Just as he turns to leave, she calls him back and offers him a cookie from a plate. It’s the last one, and they’re probably closing soon. Wendell hesitates a moment, then dips his chin again and accepts the cookie, flashing her a shy smile.

He walks off, just around the corner, where he seems to be searching for something. Or someone. When he finds it, it turns out to be a mass of blankets and plastic bags. He squats down, giving it a light touch, and a wild mane of grey hair emerges from the pile. Wendell exchanges some words with the elderly woman and then presses the paper cup and cookie into gloved hands before leaving her again. Did he really just buy another homeless person a hot beverage? He’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle, this one.

To my surprise, he’s not heading back to Royal Street. Not back to the vampires’ townhouse. We’re going further west. There are fewer people around, which makes it harder for me to stay hidden. When Wendell comes to a halt at a bus stop, I have to walk by. There isn’t anywhere to hide behind, so I just pretend I’m waiting to cross the street at the next traffic lights. This is getting too risky.

I dial the number of our New Orleans office, and it doesn’t take long for a female voice to answer the call.

“This is agent 2300844, calling for access. Confirmation: looking glass.”

“Hi Rashid, I was wondering when I’d be hearing your voice. You went MIA on Hotchkiss, and he panicked.” The female voice, who I recognise as our Communications Acolyte Maya Okoro, laughs.

Honestly, Hotchkiss really needs a babysitter.

“I’m still following the potential lead, but I’m getting a little exposed here. Do we have anything else on file on him? The file number is Delta-Three-Seven-Kappa.”

“Let me pull that up for you. Just a second.” Maya promptly replies. “If you’re working with Hotchkiss’ version of the file, it’s probably missing some updates.” I’ve worked with Maya before. She’s still new to the Talamasca, but I like her pragmatic, no-nonsense style.

“Got it,” she says after a moment. “Name’s Wendell Dupree, 20 years old, blood donor to the vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac, goes sometimes by the name Remy, lives mostly on the streets, but we do have two addresses that he frequents regularly. Where are you now, Rashid?”

“Near a bus stop at N. Villere and Basin.” I can hear her clicking away on her keyboard.

“Yes, that makes sense. He’s probably boarding the number 32 bus to Leonidas. The next one departs at 6:37pm. He’s got family there. I have the address. Want me to send someone over so you can call it a day?”

“Yes, please, Maya. Someone discreet, if you can.”

“Not Hotchkiss then…” I can hear the amusement in her voice. “Sure, can do.” After a beat, she confirms: “Samir Das is on his way.”

Excellent choice.

“Anything else I can do for you?” Maya asks.

“No, thank you, that’ll be all…” Before I can hang up, my stomach reminds me that it might be time for some nutrition. “Wait… Maya?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you recommend a place where I can get some decent food near my hotel? Céleste booked me into the Maidstone on Tulane Avenue.”

“There’s a place called ‘Paolo’s Pizza’ not far from it. They do delivery and takeout. Personal recommendation is the pepperoni and mushroom pizza, but they also have some amazing vegan and vegetarian options if that’s more to your taste.”

I smile at her promptness. “Thanks, Maya.”

I end the call just as a number 32 bus drives past, and I turn around to see Wendell get on. It’s not quite dark yet, but the inside of the bus is lit. Wendell fumbles with the fare box inside and the change from Coffee Girl, then slumps down in a seat in the back.

I watch the bus pull away, and whatever scraps of energy had kept me upright seem to vanish with it. All I want now is something to eat and a decent bed at the Maidstone. I am officially done for the day. Wherever that bus is taking Wendell, I hope he finds the same – food and some comfort.