That voodoo that you do...

Cemeteries really should be experienced at night. They were more magical that way. In the daylight the gravestones were just stones sticking out of the ground marking an inert body buried beneath. At night the darkness blurred the edges of everything, including reality, and made it much easier to believe in spirits, ghosts and magic.

They thought they weren't being watched but Shelby was fascinated by their boldness and their willingness to believe. She had been walking by the Holy Oaks cemetery when she saw something flicker beyond one of the graves. Curiosity was ever a weakness of her's so she had moved slowly forward, carefully easing her way into the shadowy depths of the burial site. Her hand had been inside her purse wrapped around the fire arm that she kept there. But once she was close enough to see what had caused the flickering light, she eased her grip on gun.

Kids. Almost adults but not quite, maybe sixteen or seventeen at the most and one or two might have been younger. They were seated in a circle in front of a particularly old grave, holding hands and staring into a grouping of glowing candles, crystals and beads. The small group chanted softly but with purpose and conviction, requesting the presence of Claire Badeau to come and speak with them.

Shelby doubted they knew the woman or anything about her. The stone described a woman who had died in 1833. No, her guess was they picked Claire Badeau because she had a mysteriously cool French name. If you were going to summon spirits then certainly start with the one that might actually have some ties to some Louisiana voodoo.

She watched a little longer, debating whether to try to get a picture without a flash or to simply move back to her car where that was light and sketch what she had seen from memory.

"They are definitely calling on the wrong spirit.” A quiet cultured voice spoke softly beside her. Shelby tensed and gasped in shock, her hand clutching straight for the purse. She looked around and saw a blond man with short curly hair in baggy jeans and a faded t-shirt. He didn't look dangerous; he wasn't even looking at her. His expression was amused as he watched the kids chanting.

"Oh? Why is that?”

Sorin 10 years ago
"Because she's not in that grave.” Sorin smiled at the copper haired woman beside him. His grey eyes leaving the séance in progress and fixing on the woman in front of him. He looked sure of himself, and he had good reason to be, and bored. It intrigued her and in spite of any good judgment she wanted to know more. He could tell.

"How do you know?” Her brows knitted together and he suspected that she was trying to figure out whether or not she should know who Claire Badeau was or if he was trying to play a joke on her. She looked at him and arched one delicate eyebrow. "You hardly look old enough to know her personally.”

Looks could definitely be deceiving. He smiled softly and shook his head.
"If I am then you would have to agree that I have aged very well, don't you think?” Okay, so he couldn't help but ask for a little unknowing flattery to his ego.

"Yeah, your beauty regime must be top notch...” The girl smiled and then looked him over carefully. "But the clothes are a bit disappointing. You would expect a man of your age to have more fashion flair. I don't know, a top hat, tails, a waist coat at least?”

Laughing quietly so that he didn't disturb the humans nearby, Sorin shrugged but made no counter. He agreed with her really and normally he would be dressed in much better attire but that would be one more thing that his hunters would be expecting. The Elder of the Night was a cultured but vain man who loved his status, appearance and luxuries. They wouldn't expect to see him in fraying jeans and a t-shirt with holes in it. He expected them to underestimate him but he wasn't counting on it.

Of course the Hunt and the Night weren't trying very hard to find him these days. His sources told him they had other more important matters to deal with, like the Command Killer and protecting dear sweet Morrigan. His pride would be wounded at some later date when he was safe and able to consider it. Sorin did have to admit though that if you used the scale of vampire murders as a rating system then the Command Killer far out weighed him in importance. He could live with that.

In fact, he intended to.

"So, yeah...” He nodded over to the grave. "I know because she's an ancestor of mine.” Sorin wondered what Claire would think of being his great great grandmother. "Want me to tell you the story?”