Marcus’s medical practice continued to grow after Ransome’s transformation. The city had swollen considerably in size thanks to the continued influx of refugees from the Caribbean, the slave traders who unloaded their captives on the wharves, and the speculators and land developers who arrived in pursuit of their fortune. Such a plan had certainly worked for Ransome, who was now one of the richest men in New Orleans and planned on remaining in that enviable position for the rest of his days.
Ransome’s future depended on him having his own children. He started with a mixed-race man called Malachi Smith—a small, agile fellow who clambered up the sides of houses and broke into bedrooms to steal women’s jewels. Marcus became a grandfather, and with that title came new worries about the family’s increasing notoriety.
Then Ransome adopted Crispin Jones, a young British fellow newly arrived in New Orleans with a head for business and a taste for young men.
“You can’t keep making vampires, Ransome. If you do, we’re going to get caught,” Marcus warned him one night when they were hunting in the swamps outside the city for something to feed to Ransome’s latest project, a Creole prostitute named Suzette Boudrot who had been run down by a wagon near the cathedral.
“So what,” Ransome said. “What are they going to do if they find out we’re vampires—shoot us?”
“A piece of gunshot between the eyes will kill you, vampire or not,” Marcus replied. “So will hanging.”
“They only hang runaway slaves and felons in the Place d’Armes. Worst I’d get is a day in the pillory with a placard around my neck,” Ransome retorted. “Besides, we wouldn’t have any trouble with the law at all if you would just let me make a few of the police into vampires.”
“You’re too young,” Marcus said.
“I’m older than you are,” Ransome observed.
“In human terms, yes,” Marcus replied. “But you’re still not ready to have more children of your own.” Marcus stopped himself before he could utter more de Clermont logic.
“Anyway, it’s too risky,” Marcus continued. “We’re not supposed to gather in packs. Humans notice when we do. We make them nervous, you see, and as soon as something goes wrong—”
“And it always goes wrong,” Ransome said with the voice of experience.
“Indeed,” Marcus agreed. “That’s when the humans start looking around for someone to blame for their troubles. We stick out from the crowd, just like the witches do.”
“In this city?” Ransome guffawed. “Lord, Marcus. With all the odd bodies in this town, a few vampires more or less won’t make any difference at all. Besides, aren’t you tired of saying good-bye to friends?”
The city was plagued with disease, and every month Marcus seemed to lose someone to the latest illness sweeping through the streets. Reluctantly, he nodded.
“I thought so,” Ransome said. “Besides, all I’m doing is making good on the promise of the revolution you fought to win: liberty and fraternity. Equality Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
Encouraged by Ransome’s conviction that no one would notice, and spurred on by his own need to belong, Marcus began to take note of young people who seemed destined for something greater than their sad lot in life. One by one, he started to save them.
Marcus began with Molly, the Choctaw who worked in one of Ransome’s upstairs rooms and had the voice of an angel. Was it really fair that such a beautiful young woman lose her life, not to mention her looks, because one of her customers had given her syphilis? Marcus felt having a daughter would bring respectability to the family, provide him and Ransome with a hostess in their fine house, and stop the wagging tongues of neighbors. None of these dreams came true.
He tried again with One-Eyed Jack, who ran with Lafitte’s gang of thieves before he fell down drunk onto a wrought iron finial shaped like a fleur-de-lis. The point went straight into his eye. Marcus removed the spike, but not the eyeball, and all of his blood. Then Marcus gave One-Eyed Jack enough of his own blood to bring the man back to life, though the eye never recovered. Instead, the iris turned a hard, flat black that made his pupils seem permanently dilated, and he couldn’t see out of it afterward.
After One-Eyed Jack came Geraldine, the French acrobat who could swing between balconies on Bourbon Street even before she became a vampire, and then Waldo, who dealt the cards at Ransome’s new gambling hall and could spot a cheat quicker than anyone in New Orleans. Myrna, Ransome’s neighbor, who kept too many cats and donated her clothes to the poor—even if that meant stripping down on Rue Royale and giving her bloomers to a beggar—had a heart of gold and a quixotic mind that kept them all entertained, even when the slaves revolted and the British threatened to invade the city. Marcus couldn’t let her die, though her delicate mental state wasn’t improved once she began to drink blood.