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ing into the past to fix things。
We closed up the house again。 Sheets covered the furniture。 The alarms were set。 I didn't look back as we drove away。
PART II
Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon。
Susan Ertz
She sleeps。 And dreams。 Safe happy dreams of times never lived and not imagined。 They fort her and calm her until she sinks。 Sinks down into the long black darkness of her night。
Once； a human discovered what I was。
Like most curious men； he thought that the knowledge would gain him something。 As though knowledge is a safe thing。 Inert and powerless on its own。
It was 1998。
Fin de siecle fever was at an all…time high。 There were riots and hysterical sightings of Ufos； messiahs； and dead celebrities。 I'd bought my home in Scotland a few years earlier for an obscenely cheap price。 An earldom； no less。 Imagine； me a countess。 It was to laugh。
I had settled into a smaller house on this property。 The castle held no interest for me； being large and 'hard to maintain。 I'd acquired quite a large fortune over my many eons。 I could afford to take the； uh； long view on investments。 There are some uses to being immortal…even if they're only financial。
It was from this vantage point that I was watching everything happening around me with great interest。
The signs were beginning。 I knew it wouldn't be long before the magic returned。
So I began to gather together the things I would need to be prepared。 For many centuries I'd hidden artifacts away； waiting for this time。 It was on one such trip that I noticed him；
I'd just arrived from Scotland。 The United States was still whole back then。 The turmoil that would rip it apart was years away。 Though I had spent many years in America over the last two centuries； I tried to stay away from the politics of the place。 They seemed entirely too messy to me。 But that's always been the nature of freedom。
As I ran to catch my connecting flight to New Orleans； I saw him。 He was leaning against one of the pillars that lined the concourse in O'Hare。 He wore a black T…shirt and faded blue jeans。 A scuffed duffel bag lay at his feet like a lazy dog。
There was a look of intense concentration on his face； as though he were looking not at how I appeared； but at what was inside me。 I didn't like it。
This was before the Awakening； and there was no way he could know what I really was for I'd found ways to disguise my true form。 Oh； I appeared human； for the most part。 My features were more delicate； perhaps； than most。 And I was very thin。 But my skin was as black as it ever was； and my hair was dark then； too。 Some of the developments in the twenty…first century weren't all bad。 I'd seen that blondes really don't have more fun； and I found that auburn really didn't suit me。
As I passed； the light reflected off his glasses； obsouring his eyes from me。 I noticed that he had straw…colored hair sprinkled with a little gray。 His beard was clipped neat and close； giving him an almost scholarly look。 But then I could see his eyes again and once more I had the sensation of being looked through。
Frowning； I turned and hurried on down the corridor。 I wouldn't have given him another thought； except that he boarded my plane not more than fifteen minutes later。
He was the last passenger on； probably flying stand…by。 But why was he on this flight？ And why had he been standing there in the corridor； as though he were waiting for me？
But he passed by me； not even making eye contact。 What an imagination I had； I thought。 The idea that he was following me。 It was nothing。 A chance meeting of the eyes； nothing more。
Despite the air conditioning； the air was hot and soupy。 The smell of beignets hit me as I walked through the airport。 One of the charms of the New Orleans airport was the immediate realization that this place was like none other in the United States。 That Puritan priggishness was utterly cast aside here。
Maybe it was the weather； or perhaps the strong hold the French had placed upon the place centuries before； but here there was no hand…wringing over drinking； or gambling； or eating。 In short； it was heaven； of a sort。
I caught a cab to the Fairmont Hotel； a gorgeous place with nine…meter…high ceilings in the foyer； crystal chandeliers； thick rugs； and the almost physical sensation of decadence。 They also made the most fabulous pecan pie there。 A southern confection that I've never liked anywhere else。
As the elevator was closing to take me up to my room； I thought I caught a glimpse of Black T…shirt through the milling hotel guests； but I knew it must be my imagination。
The French Quarter was a five…minute walk from the hotel。 New York was the only other place in America where history butts up so closely with the present。 I went down Chartres Street； then cut over to Royal。 The heavy smell of the olive trees in bloom sweetened the air and almost masked the odor of the river。
Lined in antique shops and small art houses； Royal was my favorite street in the Vieux Carre。 Bourbon may have been more famous； but the smell of vomit every few steps always put me off。 There were some beautiful homes at the eastern end of Bourbon； but they hardly made up for the foul smells and lingering air of dissipation。
I slipped into one of the antique galleries： de Pouilly's。 Over the years I'd made friends with the owners of many of these stores。 They knew me as selective and willing to pay well for what I wanted。 In return； I expected them to keep quiet about my ｜ visits and to let me。。。 wander。。。 in their shops。 ｜ The whole Quarter was rabbit…warrened。 You might ｜ enter an unpretentious storefront； only to discover a ｜ maze of rooms that led you through any number of connected buildings。 I doubt there was anyone who knew all the twists and turns in these places。
A middle…aged man approached me as I entered。 He gave off the superior air of someone who just knew I wasn't the sort who could afford to buy here。
〃May I help you？〃 he asked in a tone that let me know in no uncertain terms that he thought he couldn't。
I picked up a bronze piece （not a very good reproduction at that） and turned it over as though considering。
〃Tell Mr。 Hyslop that Ms。 Sluage is here；〃 I said。 I began fingering a porcelain bowl that looked to be an original Meissen。 The clerk was obviously torn between telling me not to touch the pretties and trying to decide if I was； indeed； on speaking terms with his employer。 Fear won out over officiousness； and he scuttled off like a cockroach。
A few minutes later （I was by now poking around in a large； intricately appointed armoire looking for secret doors）； Mr。 Hyslop appeared with the now very sweaty clerk in tow。
〃Ms。 Sluage；〃 Mr。 Hyslop said as he held out his hand。 〃It's so good to see you again。 I trust you've been able to amuse yourself？〃
As I backed out of the armoire and gave a little sneeze； Mr。 Hyslop produced a handkerchief like a magician performing a trick。
〃Bless you；〃 he said as he pushed it into my h