The Feast Of St. Joseph
"Saint Joseph's Day is widely celebrated among the Italians in New
Orleans and near-by towns. The date, March 19, is considered a day's respite
from the fasting and spiritual sackcloth and ashes of the Lenten season."
--Gumbo Ya-Ya: Folk Tales of Louisiana
It's the beginning of spring break, and Matt still doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't have money to fly home, but he doesn't really have money to stay here either. Too many friends, and they're always wanting him to go down to Canal with them, because they know he's a nice guy and will always buy a round or two.
Well, at least at Tulane it's easier to find cheap beer than at Duke. The girls wanted him to go there, but after two years he's glad he didn't. Though his local buddies are always saying he's too small-town to catch on to New Orleans, he's big-city enough to know he couldn't live in the shadow of Fell's Church forever.
But he wants to do something different, this vacation. His friends, old and new, will all survive without him. He's just going to hide in his nice quiet dorm, now that his roommate's gone home, until he has something good to do.
The guy he met at Oz last week wants him to go out on the family yacht with him, just the two of them, out the Mississippi delta and who knows from there. A girl with bright pink hair and a navel ring, Kathryn, who works at the bookstore, wants him to join her when she goes home to Houston. "You're the last thing they'll expect from me, she said to him, and kissed him squarely, before ringing up his Scan-Trons. "And you're really very cute."
Both of these options sound like they have far too much relationship potential for Matt's taste. Matt doesn't do relationships, not any more. At some point in the last year he came to the conclusion that he's just too nice to have serious relationships. When he's not happy he's too nice to break it off, and when he is happy and they break it off, as always happens, he's too nice to let them know it upsets him.
But he likes being good friends, and he likes mutually-satisfactory sex. Those are fine, and especially fine in equal amounts from the same person, but that's as far as he likes it to go. Matt has discovered, quite surprisingly, that he likes who he is; he's not about to go and lose himself in someone else.
He gets the letter on Monday afternoon, when he sneaks downstairs to his mailbox, trying not to be seen by anyone he knows. He never gets anything but bills and obnoxious postcards from Bonnie, but today there's a cream-colored envelope with no return address. He runs back to his room before opening it. Inside is a single-page card, matching the color of the envelope, covered in spidery handwriting. It reads:
Messire Damon Salvatore, in celebration of the Feast of St. Joseph, requests your presence at a grand fancy dress ball, the evening of Wednesday, March 19. Transportation to and from Bayou Goula will be provided. It is asked that you bring an offering for the great Saint's Altar.
"Damon god-damn Salvatore," Matt mutters, when he's done reading. "What're you playing at?"
Matt remembers him all too clearly; how could you forget someone like that? But he also remembers that Damon hates him--wants to kill him and eat him, more precisely, if not necessarily in that order. Damon walked away from his brother, from the girl he just might have loved, and their human friends. So now, why's he wanting to party with Matt? And what a weird invitation anyway. Not that he would have expected anything less.
At the bottom of the card is an RSVP phone number, so Matt picks up his cordless and dials, before he can think about it too much. It's two in the afternoon, Matt thinks. Probably hasn't even crawled out of his coffin yet.
Of course, the phone gets picked up on the first ring. "Yes?" and of course it's Damon, because no one else would be too discourteous to even say hello,
would go right past the pleasantries and down to the point.
"Uh...Hi, Damon. This is Matt Honeycutt? I just got your invitation in the mail."
Damon doesn't say anything at all on the other end of the line, and Matt wonders whether he just set the phone down and walked away. Then he realizes that he simply hasn't said anything that requires Damon's response.
He clears his throat. "So I was wondering why I was invited?"
"Your sweet friend Bonnie told me you were in the area. I've invited everyone I...know."
What an odd pause. "Oh. Well, frankly, it still seems kind of weird to me. But I wasn't doing anything else, so....Can I bring a date?"
"If you were allowed to bring a date, it would have said so on the invitation. I'll have a car pick you up at six o'clock, Matt." Damon says his name like it's the name of a favorite dessert. Maybe it is.
And then he hangs up. Matt hadn't actually said whether he was going or not, but he figures if the guy shows up and he's decided to bail, he can just not answer the door. And he still has a night to sleep on it.
The thing is, he's pretty damn tempted to go. He wants to know what this whole thing is all about, and, well, it's not every week he gets invited to some swinging vampire bachelor's party. And he'd been wanting to do something new...
When he wakes up in the morning, he's decided to go. He calls up Justin, the guy with the yacht, to thank him for the offer and graciously decline. "I've got this family party to go to tomorrow night, so..."
"Oh, your fam does the Joseph Day thing too? You should see the altar my mom sets up. A whole nativity, all out of cake, and--"
"Yeah, well, I've gotta go find a place to rent a cheap suit, so I really can't--"
"You need a suit? You're about my size, I think? I can loan you one. I'll give you one. Mom doesn't let me wear 'em in front of her more than a coupla times anyway."
"Oh." Matt thinks for a minute. He really does need something nice to wear, and he has no money to speak of, and he doesn't want Justin to think he's avoiding him. He just doesn't want to be trapped on a boat with him for a week. "That'd be awesome, man. I'd really owe you one."
"Owe me one what?" Justin laughs. "C'mon by tonight, Matt, and we'll find you something."
"Awesome." He hangs up and calls Kathryn, but her recorder picks up, so he leaves a message. Thanks, but no thanks.
Matt looks nice. He's got a simple black suit that fits him well enough, with a white shirt and a blue tie that brings out his eyes. Justin was incredible; he even took him to the drug store to find something to bring for the party. He told Matt that Captain Morgan is always appropriate for altars, no matter who they're set up for. Matt feels good, and unusually excited about the party. Something amazing is going to happen tonight; he just knows it.
The car comes right on time, stopped in the parking lot outside the dormitory. It's a Lincoln. The driver holds the door open for him while he climbs in.
The town car takes him down a long two-lane road, deep into the swamps. Matt tries to resist the temptation to open that nice bottle of rum, just to calm him down a bit. Instead he keeps compulsively adjusting his tie and checking his shirt for wrinkles.
When the car stops, it's in front of a big plantation-house, somehow not sunk into the bayou it's built on, lit through every window with candles. Matt's impressed. There are lights marking a clear path over the grounds, and something that looks like a bonfire in the back, wavering firelight creeping around the edge of the aging building. He can hear drums.
Matt awkwardly hands his driver a twenty, then steps down the walkway, following the lights off the road and into the swamp.
The grounds in front of the house are probably gardens by day, but in the moonlight filtering through the kudzu-covered trees, they look much the tangled mess as the woods surrounding them. The smell of jasmine fills the air, and near the door to the house, Matt spots a great bush of it, swelling with blossoms.
Unbidden, the front door opens just as he reaches it, and a deadpan servant takes his coat, ushering him into the main room, which bustles with people.
The focus of most of the attention is the altar to St. Joseph, which covers an entire wall. A life-sized statue--which Matt quickly realizes is not Joseph at all, but some other bearded man, naked, holding an infant boy--forms the center of the tableaux. On the wall behind are dozens of depictions of the Madonna and Christ-child. And the tables--they are covered to overflowing with sugary confections, many varieties of alcohol, and various notions--Mardi Gras beads, candles, bottles of perfume, coins and cash. Finding no room for it elsewhere, Matt carefully sets his offering at the statue's feet, unceremoniously bowing.
He learned on this date last year the general routine, when his roommate proudly dragged him to some relative's in town, to see the altar there. Matt doesn't really get what the big deal is, not inclined to religion himself, but he at least knows how to show respect.
"That's Silenos, and the infant Dionysos, you see," says a voice right at Matt's ear, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns to meet Damon's amused face, still very near to his own. "A fitting parallel, no? A god-child, raised in the arms of a mortal." He smiles, teeth unsettlingly white and gleaming in the candlelit room.
"Hello, Damon," Matt says.
Conveniently enough, at that moment, chimes ring out from another room. "Come," Damon says quietly, guiding Matt by the arm in the wake of a rush of people, all heading toward the sound. "Dinner is about to be served." He completely ignores how Matt's muscles tense under his hand on his forearm, and pulls him elegantly along.
The other guests might as well be faceless, as far as Matt's concerned. He is watching Damon's every move, looking for some clue as to why he's here.
Chamber music plays in the dining room, but it does not entirely drown out the sound of drums.
Damon doesn't talk to him, all through dinner. He eats his food with obvious appreciation, holding his fork in his left hand European-style, and savoring every bite. He cuts his meat in very precise portions.
Matt doesn't pay much attention to the food. He notices that there's plenty of it, that a lot of it's unfamiliar, and that all of it's good. That's about it. He watches Damon place morsel after morsel into his well-formed mouth.
Damon knows he's staring, of course, and Matt tries to stop several times. It's weird enough that what was originally an innocent search for answers now seems to be crossing the line into lustful fantasy, without Damon occasionally looking at him, as if saying, You know you want me.
The meal is over in a blur of pastries. Damon stands from the head of the long banquet table (and it only just occurs to Matt that sitting next to the host must mean some kind of great honor--he just took it for granted) and clinks his wine glass with a knife. The low hum of conversation halts abruptly, and all eyes turn to him.
Matt doesn't know how one's eyes could be on anything but Damon tonight. He's wearing this all-black suit, impeccably tailored, and his hair is clean and shiny, white hands spreading gracefully over the lace tablecloth.
"The feast is over," Damon announces. "Now let the celebration begin."
On cue, servants appear out of the shadows and pull back the curtain that covers the back wall of the room, revealing glass doors to the rear yard, where a great bonfire does indeed burn. It looks like whole trees have been thrown on that fire.
The servants throw open the doors, and everyone begins to rise and file out.
"So what are we doing now, Damon?" Matt asks kind of nervously, because they're all of the sudden alone together.
"We're having a vodou ceremony, of course," Damon says, with an especially brilliant smile. "What did you expect, in Bayou Goula?"
And with that, he walks out, and Matt sees nothing else to do but follow.
Damon seems to be officiating, so Matt moves to the back of the crowd. They're off to one side of the fire, and a group of women all in white are singing and clapping in harmony with the drummers. Matt really has very little idea of what's going on; of course he knows about vodou--you can't live in New Orleans for more than a few weeks without knowing about vodou--but there's a big difference between your roommate explaining why his mother named him Patrick, and standing in the middle of a swamp listening to mysterious rhythmic chants.
Papa Legba, ouvirier barriere pour moi agoe...
And the chanting goes on, and changes, and he can feel something even if he doesn't know what it is. He's heard, too, about the possessions, but when a rather prim-looking woman near him begins to shake all over, then straightens and begins rocking her hips lasciviously, something inexplicably other about her face, Matt gives a little "oh" of surprise.
Something is going on toward the front, and the other revelers--some possessed, some just excited--are in Matt's way. He pushes cautiously toward the front.
Just when he breaks through, his legs give out. The world goes fuzzy, and spins, and finally seems very far away. He closes his eyes, anticipating--something--and sees nothing at all.
Matt wakes up with no idea where he is, or when. Then he remembers. Now he's standing in the front of the crowd, and--embarrassingly enough--he's got the biggest hard-on he can recall having in months. Not that anyone notices; everything is simply carrying on around him. How did he get up here, anyway?
Someone knocks off his head a top hat he didn't even know he was wearing. Damon, of course.
"Legba, master of the gates," Damon tells him, as if that explains anything. God, he's hard, and the chafe of underwear against his dick's enough to make him have to work to repressed a whine. "That's who you were."
When he turns around Damon isn't there. Then Matt turns back the way he was facing before, hearing an inhuman sort of sickening sound.
And it's Damon again. Matt watches, rapt, as Damon's body shifts from man to wolf to crow to man again, over and over in quick succession. Damon's moaning while it's happening, and it's not sick any more, it's erotic as hell, and Matt unconsciously draws nearer and nearer to that hungry sound.
When Matt's only a couple feet from Damon, the frenzy stops, but looking into those black eyes Matt knows everything isn't back to normal. A broad smile splits the white face before him damn near in half.
"Tell my horse," Damon says expansively, placing what was earlier Matt's hat onto his own head, "that if he's going to keep roosters, he should let them roam free once in a while, eh?" And he's looking right at Matt, and some older women nearby are laughing. Then quick as lightning Damon darts forward and squeezes Matt's cock through his pants. Matt's so surprised and aroused that he yells something that might have been an expletive, but may as well been a prayer.
Damon squeezes again almost massaging inside that grip, and Matt groans, clutching Damon's arm for support. Then Damon (or whomever Damon is at the moment) lets out an almost frightening bark of laughter, and lets go, pulling his hand back as suddenly as he reached it out.
Matt topples to the ground, and looks up to Damon still standing over him, no longer smiling but watching so intently, as if he can see through Matt's clothes, and damn he's hot, and so urgently near.
"God, please," and Matt had never thought he'd beg anyone, least of all Damon Salvatore, for anything, but he also had never thought it was possible to be this hard.
So he's down on his knees in his new suit in the mud, clutching at Damon's hips, wishing he were brave enough to undo the delicate knot in Damon's waistband, get it out of the way. Even having his mouth on someone's cock might be enough to make him come at this point.
Damon's eyes are alien; impossibly distant and intimate at the same time. He's looking at him and he's not even breathing hard. Matt thinks Damon must be reading his mind and the thought of Damon probing around inside him is enough to make him groan, loudly.
Damon reaches down and runs one hand over Matt's head, fingers snagging in his hair. "Ca ou vley?" Damon whispers, softly.
And Matt can feel himself automatically arching into that hand. He hisses when Damon's bare fingers trace over his scalp, imagining that intricate exploration over his inner thigh, his throat. "I want you to fuck me, Damon. God--"
Then Damon's pulling him up and kissing him hard and breathless and so good. Damon sucks Matt's tongue steadily, pulling it deep into the surprisingly hot cavern of his mouth, and Matt doesn't know whether he's whimpering from pain or pleasure when Damon's teeth scrape him, and he bleeds.
Damon pulls away and pushes him, and for a second Matt has the air knocked out of him as he hits the ground, confused. But then Damon's on top of him, one knee between his sprawled knees, not touching anything but his legs, and Damon has one hand holding Matt down and kisses him again, not deep but brutal, and then pulls back, and looks around at their surroundings. Matt's eyes follow.
"Please, Damon," Matt begs, when Damon's eyes stay off him. He's down in the hot bayou mud, the drums carrying on around him, the dancing, and the dancers seem to circle and sway toward them, glittery hungry eyes watching, and he doesn't care. All he wants is for Damon to touch him, maybe nudge his knee between Matt's legs a little higher, give him something to frot against. "Fuck," he gasps, aching in the damp air.
"Ma connasis co on besoin. Mais, on dispose pour servir moi aussi?" Damon's hand on his chest sinks Matt that much deeper into the mud, and Matt wildly wonders if he's actually supposed to understand what was just said. But Damon's hand is sliding inevitably downwards, and it had sounded like a question, so, "Yes Damon, god, yes, anything."
And from the answering sound of the crowd he figures he has no idea what he's gotten himself into, but for the moment he'll do whatever it takes to get Damon's hand on his cock.
Now the noise has suddenly died down. It sounds like the partygoers have moved on to their own pursuits, but Matt can't take his eyes off Damon's long enough to look. Time has stopped, and Damon and Matt's erection seem to be all that exist in the whole world.
"Come here, m'amant," Damon says, rakish grin firmly in place again, and the weight leaves Matt's breastbone as Damon leans on the ground, lowers his head, and kisses Matt's open mouth.
"Oh," Matt moans into the kiss, so liquid and deep, Damon's tongue rough, his long teeth sharp and unguarded. Damon meanwhile is undoing Matt's fly. He reaches in the Y-front of Matt's briefs and--yes, yes, all Matt can think, cool strong hand on his dick, hot mouth sucking the breath right out of his lungs.
Damon pulls away, far enough to strip Matt of his shoes and pants, his socks still on. Damon's eyes never leave his, doing all of this by rote memory.
Damon's hat's long gone, tossed off on the ground somewhere, his hair falling over his forehead. He efficiently undoes his own pants, letting them slide over his narrow hips--no underwear beneath, of course--and Matt gasps to realize that Damon's just as hard as he is, red slick cock standing out boldly from the pale flesh around it.
Then Damon's kissing him again, avidly, intensely. Matt's hands are fisted at his sides, and Damon's parting Matt's legs again. Matt lets them fall open, knees bent, inviting. No time for foreplay any more; he needs this to be over soon or he just might die.
Mouth working violently against his, the taste of blood in Matt's mouth, and, yes, two slick fingers pressing against his opening, fingers twisting and sliding into his ass.
"Ah," and Matt reflexively throws his head back at the sensation, god, yes, just what he needs. He can't stop and wonder where the lube came from, not now, because those fingers twist and seek deeper inside him, until they're pressing up on his prostate--fuck, stroking it in time with the drums, so that Matt is a desperate writhing thing under Damon, unable to do anything but lift his hips and beg, "Please, god, yes, now...."
Damon's mouth kissing his throat now, licking, sucking, his body changing position, fingers pulling out. He lifts Matt by the hips, still clothed knees sliding under him, so that Matt is laid out over his lap. Matt turns his chin down and watches as Damon pulls him to him, Damon's hard cock not needing any guidance to find the right place and push in, in, Matt being greedily stretched and entered and used.
Matt's just plain not going to be able to last much longer. Damon seems to find a pace he likes, deep, twice as slow as the drumbeats, and he leans back down, Matt spread like a dinner platter, his lips and teeth and tongue back on Matt's neck. He growls against him, and Matt shudders.
Matt's trembling right on the edge now, working his hips in time with Damon's, crying out and grunting without restraint. Just like that, yes, just a little longer...
Damon bites him, teeth sliding in like hot knives in soft butter. Matt jerks, and closes his eyes and shivers, all over, and then Damon's strong hand is on Matt's dick again, sure steady grip sliding over him, and he's already so sensitive it's almost like pain, and, oh--
Matt comes in a fevered spasm of thrusts, breathless, hot ejaculate already cooling on his stomach in the open air.
Afterglow leaves him in a haze of hot, low, shocking pleasure, until Damon gives an especially deep, cruel thrust, emptying into him, relaxing and lifting his mouth from Matt's flesh, licking his lips.
"Oh," Matt says, as if that sums up the whole encounter. He can't stop a small whine when Damon pulls out of him, Matt's muscles protesting.
Damon rolls over on his back, next to Matt on the moist earth, eyes looking at the stars. His face is empty of something that was there before, though Matt can't quite place what was there, or what's left behind. "It's almost midnight," he says hoarsely. "The festival's almost over. Time you were headed home."
Matt pants, and tries halfheartedly to sit up. "It's a big house. I wouldn't mind staying. I could help you clean up."
Damon ignores him. He stands and helps him to his feet, picking up Matt's clothes and handing them to him. They're covered in mud, and Matt's filthy all by himself, but he puts them on without argument, his feet squelching into his shoes. Damon is possibly silently laughing at him when he looks at the finished product and simply says, "This way."
So Matt stumbles through the grounds, behind Damon, past the dying fire, people coupling on the fertile ground, past the old mansion, where most of the candles have burnt out.
At the drive, the town car is waiting. Damon opens the door for Matt, and waits for him to get in. "You made a bargain with Baron Cimeterre tonight; he won't forget it. I'll be calling you soon." Then he shuts the door, leaving Matt to ponder what the hell that was about.
It's only as the car's pulling away that Matt remembers he left his new jackets. He leans back in the seat, and carefully marks the car's passage, memorizing the way home.