The Grove did not simply stay open late; it thrived in the hours when most of the city began to wind down. Even past midnight, the bar pulsed with a steady, unbroken rhythm, as though the building itself had learned to breathe in time with New Orleans’ nightlife. People drifted in and out with the ease of those who knew the city well, young patrons glowing with the leftover excitement of Bourbon Street, older regulars who moved with the slow confidence of individuals who had claimed this place as their second home, and curious tourists who stepped inside with wide eyes, drawn by the warm lights and the mural outside that seemed to shift whenever someone wasn’t looking directly at it.
From the vantage point of an observer, the booth in the back appeared at first glance to be nothing more than a quiet corner where two men were engaged in a late‑night conversation. But anyone paying attention would quickly notice the interruptions. The way patrons paused mid‑stride when they recognized the tall man with the calm, steady gaze and the gentle smile. They approached him with a familiarity that suggested years of shared history, even though many of them looked far too young to have known him for long.
A woman with silver braids hurried over first, her face lighting up with a joy that seemed too deep for a casual acquaintance. She clasped his hands as though greeting a long‑lost relative. Moments later, a young man in a Saints jersey strode up and clapped him on the shoulder with the easy confidence of someone greeting a beloved cousin. A group of college students whispered among themselves before gathering the courage to approach, their expressions a mixture of awe and shyness, as though they were meeting someone legendary rather than a man sitting quietly in a bar booth.
And each time, Kalenji Oba’Rai responded with a warmth that felt profoundly human. He smiled with genuine affection, offered soft words that made people laugh, and touched their arms with a gentle familiarity that made even strangers feel seen. He blended into the room with an ease that defied logic. Nothing about him suggested the centuries he carried, the divine curse he bore, or the storms he had walked through. He looked no older than twenty‑five, perhaps twenty‑eight at most, with a maturity that made him seem older only in spirit. His presence was grounding, comforting, and impossibly ordinary in a way that made the truth of him all the more surreal.
K’eon McClain watched these interactions with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. Every interruption forced him to pause the interview, and each pause reminded him how strange it was that the man across from him. The man who had spoken of gods, blood, and centuries could pass so effortlessly as human. K’eon found himself studying Kalenji’s expressions, the way he moved, the way he spoke, trying to reconcile the ancient being he had been interviewing with the man who laughed easily with strangers.
It took nearly twenty minutes before the last patron drifted away and the booth settled into a quieter pocket of the bar. The Grove still hummed with music and conversation, but no one lingered near them now. Kalenji lifted his glass, not to drink, but to mimic the gesture of someone lost in thought and K’eon leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the question itself required reverence.
“Are there other vampires like you?”
From the outside, the question seemed to hang in the air with delicate weight, as though the night itself paused to listen.
Kalenji did not answer immediately. He sat still, considering the question with a seriousness that made the space around him shift. Even the bar’s ambient noise seemed to soften, as though the building recognized the gravity of the moment.
“I would not say there are vampires like me,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “I never went out of my way to make another. I would never subjugate someone to the life Oya granted me. Her blessing, her curse, is mine alone to bear.”
He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the liquid move even though he never drank it.
“However,” he continued, “there are vampires that are real. Those European ones the media portrays in films and shows? I have met some of them in my travels. I never stayed long enough to interact beyond acknowledging their existence.”
K’eon’s brow furrowed, his curiosity deepening. “Why? Why not spend time with them? Learn from them?”
Kalenji laughed softly. It was a warm, human sound that contrasted sharply with the ancient weight behind his eyes. The sincerity in K’eon’s question amused him, and the amusement softened his expression.
“Perhaps,” Kalenji said, “because the ones I met centuries ago were no different from their American human counterparts. They were white Europeans with a sense of entitlement that clashed with my own sense of self.”
His tone shifted subtly, not toward anger, but toward a grounded firmness shaped by memory.
“They saw no issue in turning others into what they were. And I, as I said, would never do such a thing. They also saw me as a commodity. An African vampire who gained their gifts through a goddess rather than through whatever curse made them.”
He paused, letting the weight of that truth settle.
“I do not know how they became what they are. Some whispered of curses, of angering a spiritual practitioner. Either way, those I met long ago… I did not care for.”
He leaned back, thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward the dim lights above the bar.
“But the ones I have met in recent years? I would not mind speaking with them. The modern vampires are more… conscious. More restrained. They understand their thirst. They understand consequences.”
K’eon blinked, his voice barely above a breath. “There’s modern vampires?”
Kalenji’s lips curved into a smirk, amused by the boy’s astonishment. “Of course. Keep up, Mr. McClain. Where do you think they have gone? If you are sitting here speaking with me, I am sure you only need to walk down any dark alley, and you’ll run into one without knowing.”
From the outside, K’eon’s reaction was subtle but unmistakable. A slight stiffening of his shoulders, a quiet inhale he couldn’t hide, a flicker of awareness that made the shadows in the bar seem deeper than before. The world around him suddenly felt larger, stranger, and far more alive than he had ever imagined.
Kalenji watched him with ancient patience, the kind that came from centuries of observing human fear, curiosity, and wonder. “You need not fear that you will be attacked by a vampire,” Kalenji said before K’eon could speak again, his tone gentle, almost amused. “Like I said, most vampires who hide amongst humans do not care to advertise what they are. Many have regular jobs just as any person. Besides, with today’s technology and systems, the way to obtain what one needs does not have to result in snatching humans off the streets.”
He lifted his glass, swirling the wine though he never drank it.
“Most get their blood from the blood banks,” he continued, “or from willing volunteers from… what do you call those clubs? Vampire bars or such.”
Kalenji’s expression softened with a hint of nostalgia or perhaps amusement.
“You know,” he said, “I read that author Anne Rice’s novel series, and that show on AMC, Interview with the Vampire, and found myself amused by it. I normally tend to stay away from vampire media, but I admit it was rather engaging. Though the Louis character frustrated me when it came to the young Claudia and his relationship with Lestat. Sam Reid did a great job, but I would have killed Lestat to save myself from all that melodramatics.”
Across from him, K’eon blinked, surprised by the casual mention of television. He shuffled his notes, trying to reconcile the image of an ancient being with the idea of him sitting down to watch a modern series.
“I don’t see you watching TV,” K’eon said, his voice quiet but curious.
Kalenji smiled another small, knowing smile that made him look even more human.
“I don’t really,” he admitted, “but one does need a few hobbies other than owning a bar.”
From the outside, the moment felt strangely intimate. A glimpse into a life that should not exist, a reminder that even beings shaped by gods and centuries found ways to anchor themselves in the modern world. The bar hummed around them, the night thick with music and laughter, but in that booth, the air felt still, as though the world itself had leaned in to listen.
And anyone watching would understand, without needing to hear a single word: K’eon McClain was speaking with something old, something powerful, something wearing human skin with unsettling ease and yet, somehow, something capable of enjoying a television show on a quiet night.
