The Red Man went with me. I had started calling him, “Red,” and I was beginning to enjoy his company very much. Yes, I was glad that he was by my side. He was a good helper and friend. Together we flew in his Kharetie spaceship to New Orleans. It was the season of Mardi Gras. The streets were thronged with parades and beads and Bacchic festivities. Strangely, I felt right at home. Red parked his spacecraft in a warehouse packed with parade floats. It blended in perfectly. So did he. We walked up and down the crowded streets of the French Quarter. People put thick beads around his neck and kissed his cheeks because they thought his costume was the best they’d ever seen. I’d never seen him look so nervous. His red cheeks blushed a deeper shade of purple. Only his reserve stuck out like a sore thumb. We spent a few days looking for the right set of people whose blood I should drink and whose Blood Memories I should eat. We squatted in empty mansions and shot gun houses.
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