Harlem, 1970’s

I mentioned before that I ran into other vampires, and though the memory of them still sits in my mind like a stone dropped into deep water, the story begins in the year 1970, during the rise of the Black arts movement and the explosion of Blackxploitation cinema, an era defined by its urban clash, its raw defiance, and its unapologetic reclamation of identity. The late 1960s and early 70s were unlike anything I had ever witnessed in America. They were loud, vibrant, chaotic, and beautiful. They were a time when Black people rose from the ashes of centuries of oppression and began shaping identities that were not tethered to the chains of their past. It was inspiring. It was empowering. It was a spark of home, a spark of Aru‑Odan, that I never imagined I would feel again.

By then, I had left the South. I had buried the persona of Calvin O’Ray, letting him fade into memory like a beloved ancestor whose story had run its course. Remaining in one place for too long was never wise for someone like me, especially in a community where I had become well‑known, where my face was familiar, where my presence carried weight. And with Mama Cleo gone, passing quietly at the age of seventy‑eight, leaving behind a legacy of wisdom and spirit; there was no one left in Louisiana with whom I shared that rare closeness, that rare understanding.

I could have erased myself from their minds. Oya had given me that gift or curse, the ability to slip into the thoughts of others and gently remove my presence, to make them forget that Calvin O’Ray had ever existed. I could tamper with their memories, bend their perceptions, control their actions in ways that would make even the boldest conjure doctor tremble. But I would never do such a thing to my brothers and sisters. The people who had welcomed me into their homes, who had fed me, laughed with me, trusted me, and treated me with a familiarity and kindness I had not felt in centuries. To take their consent, their memories, their truth, would have been a violation far worse than any hunger I had ever known.

So, I packed my things and left quietly, mourning those who had passed, Mama Cleo among them, and carrying their memories with me like sacred charms tucked into my chest. I traveled north, drifting from state to state, and just as I had done in Louisiana, I sought out the Black communities wherever I went. I met the people. I helped where I could. I built fellowship with them. I listened to their stories, their struggles, their triumphs. I watched them carve out spaces of joy and resistance in cities that were colder, harsher, and far more deceptive than the South.

Because in the northern states, racism wore a different mask. It hid beneath layers of smiles and polite gestures, beneath well‑meaning words that concealed sinister intentions. White people were cordial to those of color, but only because they saw value in the gifts Black people possessed. Black people were inventors, innovators, creators; everything the white world envied and sought to profit from. They took our music, our fashion, our language, our brilliance, and lined their pockets with it. I could speak for days about the unfairness of it all, but that is not the story I wish to tell here.

The story I wish to tell is of the vampires I encountered.

It was in Harlem, the beating heart of Black creativity, Black resistance, Black brilliance, that I crossed paths with them. I had been wandering the streets one evening, taking in the rhythm of the city, the laughter spilling from open windows, the smell of fried fish and incense drifting through the air, when I sensed them. Their presence was unmistakable; cold, ancient, and arrogant, the kind of aura that clung to beings who had lived too long without consequence.

They introduced themselves as Casimir von Metternich, an Austrian aristocrat with a face carved from marble, and Eleonora Di Belmonte, an Italian noblewoman whose beauty was sharp enough to cut. They were older than I; old, historic, aristocratic creatures who carried centuries of entitlement in their posture and their gaze. They saw no wrong in killing indiscriminately, draining those around them without restraint, turning men and women into vampires without consent simply because they fancied their faces or their bodies. They did not care about color, or class, or any of the things Americans used to judge a person. They cared only about their whims.

I admit that I have had my moments of gruesome carnage, but I never killed simply to kill. I had my targets, men who brought terror into the world, men who harmed the vulnerable, men whose deaths would bring balance rather than chaos. I left women and children alone. I left the innocent alone. And though I could become a demon when threatened, those moments were rare.

Casimir and Eleonora were different. They were predators without conscience, without boundaries, without purpose beyond their own pleasure. I knew what they were the moment I smelled them. The metallic tang of blood clinging to their skin, the faint scent of soil from foreign lands, the unnatural stillness in their movements. And they knew what I was, recognizing the same signs in me.

To me, the two European vampires were an eyesore; gaudy, arrogant, dripping with privilege. To them, I was a curiosity, a commodity, something to question and study. They wanted to know how an African vampire existed, how I had been made, what goddess had shaped me, what rituals had bound me. I cared nothing for their inquisition. I did not linger in their circles. Why should I? They were white of skin and therefore welcomed into the highest tiers of white society; politicians, mobsters, entertainers, it did not matter as long as they were white of skin, moving through those spaces with ease because their money and their immortality made them untouchable.

I cared only for the Black community; for its growth, its safety, its future.

I stayed in New York for a few years before moving on, and in my travels, I encountered more vampires. Some harmless, some dangerous, some so twisted by immortality that I wished I could throw them into fire and watch the curse burn out of them. Immortality is not a gift for everyone. It rots the mind if one is not mentally and emotionally stable enough to bear the weight of living forever.

And I have seen many minds rot.