The Devil's Duet: Chapter 5: Rosebud

Past and present collide

Previously in The Devil’s Duet…

In Chapter Four, Raven took her first real step into the world Lucian promised—where power, music, and something far darker intertwine. The Strip has embraced her, the hunger is growing, and the thrill of the stage is unlike anything she’s ever known.

But every rise has its cost, and the deeper she goes, the harder it will be to find her way back.

Now, the past and present collide, and the echoes of every choice begin to take shape.

Chapter 5: Rosebud

The Algonquin Hotel, 59 W 44th St, New York, NY, 1974

I turned to look over my shoulder at Veronica Moore, the stunning young ingenue I met after my show at The Cavern Club tonight in Soho. I played to another sell-out crowd on the Born From Night tour in the intimate little venue that was so “cozy” the fans were practically on stage with me. The benefit of being this close to my adoring fans was that it made hunting them that much easier.

Before even taking the stage, I could smell Veronica in the crowd all the way from my dressing room. She smelled like the oil that greases the wheels on the subways had intermingled with a field of carnations that shimmered in the sunlight as little beads of freshly fallen rain clung to their petals as their perfumed beauty drifted onto a passing breeze.

Veronica had taken the PATH train in from Jersey to see me and how was I to repay her? Well, ever since Reagan, the only way I could cope with who and what I had become, I began to look at doing what I had to do as a gift in some way.

Sure, I had to feed on the talented to survive, but in a twisted way, their contributions to my talent were more than just life sustaining, I absorbed their full being, their gifts, the music they wrote, and those lives, those experiences, and most importantly, those songs, became a part of me. In essence, I was becoming more because of them, we were all a part of each other now.

Tonight, I sang “Embers” from my recent album, Born from Night. It was fitting that I performed this song as I met Veronica, seeing as how Regan wrote it for me back in 1972 and as I fed on her that fateful night, her song became mine and not just mine but one of my biggest hits to date.

Raven St. Clair - Embers

As I leaned back on this leather lounger in my suite with Veronica, I passed her a glass of whiskey as she threw her head full of curly black hair back and laughed a throaty chuckle. “Man,” Veronica gasped, “I never woulda fuckin’ thought, I’d be here sippin’ whiskey with the ONE, the ONLY, Raven St. Clair. The girls at my salon ain’t never gonna believe this,” Veronica laughed with an accent so thick and Jersey I could practically smell her mother’s marinara recipe on her.

I reached out and playfully but gently brushed a ringlet of black hair over Veronica’s ear.

I caught Veronica looking at my hand and I said disarmingly, “Nothin’ funny, I promise.” I said.

“I ain’t jumpy,” Veronica assured me, “ I can tell you’re one of the good ones,” she said as my heart ached.

“Sing me one of your songs, won’t you?” I asked softly.

“Sure,” Veronica said gamely, “I wrote this one about where I grew up, it’s about going home and finding everyone and everything different,” she said as my heart longed for my own home of New Orleans. The sick thing was I would know this song and her feelings all too intimately soon enough as Veronica began singing, her voice sweetly swelling to fill the suite,

This Street

Been so long, did you miss me?

Since you lived on this street?

Here where you spun your mystery?

Things have changed since the summer nights

I’m hiding here come find me

Memories in the oaks

Whispers on the breeze

I’m hiding here come find me

You can almost hear all our history

Echoing though this street

Where past and present meet.

Veronica sang, her voice dainty and delicate like the sound porcelain would make if it had a voice.

“That’s gorgeous,” I said tearing up a little.

“Can I ask you a question?” Veronica asked disarmingly.

“Sure,” I said letting my guard down uncharacteristically.

“What’s it like?” She asked knocking me slightly off balance.

“Being like you?” Veronica said finishing her thought. “Being famous?”

“You know when you’re standing looking at yourself in the mirror and you see every little zit, every line, every imperfection?” I mused. “Mmm-hmm I do, everyday,” Veronica said.

“So its like that except you are forced to look at this mirror all the time. And no matter how much someone looks at you, they can never see what you see. Its just you and all the shit you hate about yourself locked together forever. Fame doesn’t magically make you better, it doesn’t erase the flaws, it just shows you all the things you really are for better or for worse,” I said as I could see Veronica’s face deflate as I confessed my true self in a way, the only real way I knew how to do so.

As I saw this, I found myself sinking into my own self-loathing. What the fuck was I doing here? I asked myself. Not here in this suite but here in this life. I looked at the door to the suite, I imagined throwing open the door and yelling at Veronica to run while she had a chance, to run far far away. I was hungry as hell but as badly as I wanted to taste Veronica, I wanted to taste being a human more. I wanted her song, I wanted her to become a part of me, wholly. But I also wanted to maybe write a song from my own mind and my own heart. To remind myself what being human feels like, to remind myself what being Raven feels like.

I remember staring off into space and my moment was broken by Veronica’s voice, “To me,” she began, “You’re beautiful.”

“And,” she added, “I get the feeling you don’t get to feel that often,” Veronica said as she reached out to grab my hand. As Veronica wrapped her palm around mine, I sat up to face her. Veronica reached out and stroked the side of my face with the back of her fingers pushing my hair back as a tingle ran down my spine.

Was I really going to consume this girl? I asked myself and then I realized she was about to consume me. Veronica moved in close resting her hand on the inside of my thigh. This was totally foreign territory to me but I let it unfold anyways.

Veronica’s hand made it further up my thigh as she navigated around my underwear and began touching me gently, I shivered and quaked at her touch, so soft and gentle as I thought of my next actions that were not soft and not gentle. Her hand caressed me as I pushed my head forward and our mouths parted.

Our lips pressed together gently as her tongue touched mine delicately, acting as if only on instinct, I began nibbling her lip lightly. But I must have overestimated my strength because I heard her muffle an “ow.” I realized I had accidentally bitten her lip. The coppery taste of her blood touched my tongue and in an instant, her world opened up to me, I could see her street in Kearny, New Jersey as crystal clear as if I were there. I could hear the PATH train rumbling by on the tracks, I could hear the sounds of car horns and voices carrying from street corners and in the middle of it all, I could see Veronica confronting her past as I consumed her present and I could hear a mournful guitar scoring the vision as I heard Veronica’s voice echoing with mine,

I can almost feel all our history

Echoing though this street

Where past and present meet.

I wanted badly to let her go, but with her blood on my tongue, I could fight my inner nature no longer. I kept kissing her and pushed her back onto the lounger, I pulled the strap of her white silky blouse off her shoulder which fell away exposing her chest. I cupped her left breast as she moaned I gently leaned forward and kissed the soft flesh of her breast as she grabbed my head and pushed it closer to her chest. I was so close to her, I could practically feel the vibrations of her heart, the soft pitter patter teasing me with revelations of what ran beneath the skin, so silky, so smooth so ready for me to taste. I kept fighting what I knew I had to do against what I knew I should do and somewhere in this struggle, my inner nature roared to life and I was unable to control myself any longer, my teeth pressed forward as I felt her soft and supple skin break open, her blood, her very life filling my mouth.

The funny thing is, she didn’t struggle, the release of the blood actually lulled her into a calm almost sedate state. Veronica actually kept pulling my head closer into her chest as her blood sustained me, her spirit, her very essence becoming mine.

As I continued to feed on her, I felt the doors to the suite’s bedroom open as shadows swarmed the room. I tilted my eyes up to see Lucian standing above us.

“Good, my little songbird,” Lucian purred as he ran his fingers through Veronica’s hair. And with that I knew my next move in this dance we had practiced so. I reached up and tilted Veronica’s head to the side as Lucian moved in to feed on her neck. As Veronica’s body went cold, I released my hold on her as Lucian moved in to her mouth. I held her mouth open as he pressed his mouth to hers and then I retreated into the darkest corners of the suite. By now, I could no longer stomach the sight of Lucian feeding himself. I heard him groan and huff as he inhaled her soul and turned back just in time to see her turn to ash under the weight of his body.

I found myself looking back at Lucian in horror but he leveled his gaze at me and offered only a cruel, “Don’t fight what you are, do you look at a human that eats a hamburger with such judgement and disdain?”

“I just,” I stammered trying to find my words, “It never gets easier.”

“Do you know what easy is?” Lucian asked me with a sense of rage brewing in his voice, “Easy is a simple, tedious life, where talent and destiny are rejected in favor of mediocrity.”

“But you have a gift Raven,” he said making all sound so rational and almost god damned logical, “You are talented walking the path of your destiny and you have the ability to free others from their pathetic lives where they will never remotely grace the potential you have. You give them the chance to become so much more, for their voices, their music to become a part of something more, something epic, something eternal, something truly everlasting. That is us, Raven. We don’t steal their lives—we transform them into eternal echoes,” Lucian said plainly. “They all become songs that get to be sung through you as opposed to songs that become lost to silence. We are the true creators, shaping music that will never fade into obscurity.”

The Orpheum Theatre, 1 Hamilton Place, Boston, MA, 1974

Following my latest stop on the Born from Night tour, I bolted out of the back door of the Orpheum Theatre into the frigid alley as the Park Street Church loomed over bustling Tremont Street up ahead. As usual there were the regular mix of autograph seekers awaiting in the alley ready to rush the stage door. In most instances, these moments were key to me, this was where I could usually find a young, talented and willing victim to be my next meal. But tonight was different. I saw the bustling crowd of fans all with their eager eyes and radiating glows but then through the crush, I could see one halo that stood apart from the rest. He was a scruffy man with a kind face that belied tales of a life well-lived life and a glow to match. This was a kindred spirit, I could feel the musicality radiating off of him. But something about him was more than just feed to me.

He stepped towards me with a mix of confidence and swaggering bravado I instantly reacted to as my body shivered in the chill of the alley. “Raven,” he said jutting his hand out to meet mine, “Jefferson.” I smiled as I grabbed his hand and in the moment a shot of electricity shot through me, unlike tasting someone, I could feel his essence, his soul, his music in his touch. And something else, a flash of something. Something dark? I couldn’t tell what. He was roguishly handsome too which didn’t hurt none either.

“That was phenomenal,” Jefferson said breathlessly.

“Glad you enjoyed the show,” I said politely.

“Not the show,” he said with a glint in his eye that disarmed me telling me he felt that, too. Who was this strange creature I had just met? I asked myself.

But instead of shrugging him off, I gave in, “Do you know a place to get a nightcap around here?”

Bell in Hand Tavern, 55 Union Street, Boston, MA, 1974

Jefferson and I were getting along like a house on fire as discarded shot glasses of whiskey clinked on the table in between rounds of beer.

I found myself for the first time in a long time, laughing and having a genuinely good time. Jefferson as it turned out was a sound engineer traveling on the Born From Night tour who in the rush of the tour I had never even had the pleasure to meet just yet.

Jefferson confessed to me that he was taken with me from the very first night in Los Angeles and had spent the whole tour working up the courage to approach me. Jefferson admitted that approaching me at the stage door hiding in plain sight amongst the throng of fans was the only way he could safely approach me.

I found this frankly, charming. I also was intoxicated by the fact that beyond his day job, Jefferson clearly knew and loved music as much as I did. We talked at length about the songs on Born from Night.

“I have to say, I loved “Night Falls” from your first album, from the first time I heard it,” he said as I blushed, “And watching you perform it, wow, you just come alive.”

Raven St. Clair - Night Falls

“You’re joking,” I chuckled as Jefferson began to sing, imitating my voice in an off-key but charming way,

The Strip hums softly

Like it knows the song

Summer drawn closer

Though they know its wrong

Jefferson said, humming the song to me in the cozy, warm tavern that was suddenly growing warmer by the moment, “I always love that part,” he said as my eyes traced the bar’s richly polished mahogany.

Before I knew it, his hand was tracing the veins on the back of my hand running his hand up my arm as I smiled and found myself becoming a giddy schoolgirl.

Omni Parker House, 60 School Street Boston, MA, 1974

Jefferson and I returned to my suite at the Omni, overlooking the Common. We kept talking about music and eventually Jefferson retrieved his guitar from his room and returned to mine. We ordered several dishes from the hotel’s room service and Jefferson playfully fed me French fries dipped in ketchup. I found myself transfixed watching him dip the fries in the crimson ketchup. While the burgers and fries were delicious, I was hungering for something entirely different that wasn’t on the menu per se.

“Do you mind?” Jefferson asked reaching into his pocket, he produced a small glass vial with a black cap. I smiled and shook my head as he unscrewed the cap and tapped out two lines of chunky white powder onto an end table. Jefferson also produced a metal straw and pulled a necklace out of his shirt with a razor blade pendant. Using the razor blade pendant, Jefferson waved his hands over the table neatly arranging the powder into two lines that looked like two alpine mountain ranges seen from above.

“Join me?” He asked sweetly as he rocked forward and inhaled the range into his nose. Jefferson passed me the straw and I inhaled. I had never done something like that before but I found myself living in a life of “never done before” so I figured why not?

The resulting effect of the drugs was potent, powerful and prodigious, I found myself peeling away from the guilt and shame of who and what I was if only for a moment, it was as if Jefferson had thrown open a door to a cozy cottage and I was outside of myself in a place that felt like pure release, release from my doubts, my fears and my pain.

Sure, Jefferson was immensely talented and would have made a sustaining meal but something about him was different, he was quickly becoming more than just a bloody cocktail. I saw him as a form of rebellion - rebellion from Raven St. Clair, Lucian Thorne and fame itself.

Tower Place Hotel, 3340 Peachtree Road NE, Atlanta, GA, 1974

As the tour rolled on, Jefferson and I became increasingly inseparable.

As we sat together in my hotel room, Jefferson strung his guitar gently as I laid on our bed while singing,

Come closer, darling, let the music guide you,

Lose yourself in the beat, surrender to the view.

I'll be your siren, calling from the deep,

Luring you closer, secrets to keep.

“I like it,” I said as Jefferson passed me a hand mirror with more fresh coke on it. I took a line and then rolled over to grab a bottle of wine and clumsily fill my glass on the bedside table as we continued to sing to each other.

The night is alive, with whispers in the air,

Your voice surrounds me, pulling me near.

Don’t be afraid to let your senses soar,

On this dance floor, we’ll dance forevermore.

These past few weeks with Jefferson had been intoxicating, almost as intoxicating as the drugs I was growing more and more dependent on in order to be Raven St. Clair day in and day out. I didn’t worry about it much as I figured I was swapping one hunger for another. And at least a little line here and there didn’t kill anyone, most seriously — that was my job, apparently.

I had always told myself that I would never become tethered to anyone, a man, a child, a mediocre life. But meeting Jefferson changed everything. I was already tethered to Lucian, our pact, Raven St. Clair and fame itself. What was one more tether?

And as far as Jefferson, he kept me tethered not just to the Earth but to my humanity. The closer I grew to him, the more the gnawing urge to feed faded. I didn’t need to absorb other people’s talents, I was energized, inspired and feeling more alive than any feed ever could. And when I was around Jefferson, I could be myself, my true self, I could never tell him who and what I really was but around him I could at least be a version of Raven St. Clair that I liked - a version of Raven that I could live with. A version of Raven that wasn’t a walking monument to the souls I had stolen, a tomb for the forgotten and discarded.

And I would do anything to live with that version of Raven. Not because I could, but because I had to.

Olympia Theater, 174 E Flagler St, Miami, FL, 1974

The day of our show in Miami, after rehearsals, I seized the moment to bring Jefferson even closer into my world. I arranged for Lucian to come in and hear an arrangement of “Siren” with Jefferson and I playing together on stage.

Raven St. Clair & Jefferson Prentice - Siren

As the rehearsal wrapped, Jefferson joined me on stage and the house lights dimmed. In the darkness of the theater, I could see Lucian watching dutifully.

As we played our final note, I heard a singular rhythmic clapping from the darkness. I could see Lucian’s figure pushing towards the stage.

“Bravo, Raven and Jefferson,” he said extending his arms like a friendly uncle greeting a boyfriend brought home for Thanksgiving.

Lucian embraced us both. As he had his arms wrapped around us, I could hear him sniffing. Lucian pushed us back to take a look at us, “My my, Jefferson,” he said as if inspecting him, “You’re quite talented you know, you and Raven are electric,” he said lecherously like a lion sizing up a steak.

“Mr. Thorne,” Jefferson protested modestly, “It’s actually Raven, she’s quite the inspiration, truly.”

“Nonetheless,” Lucian said cutting in, “That song has hit written all over it, I want it on Raven’s next album. As soon we get home to LA, I want you both in the studio.”

Jefferson had a sort of “no shit” look plastered all over his face.

“Now if you don’t mind,” Lucian said, “I need to talk with Raven,” he said grabbing my arm and leading me backstage.

“You look happy,” Lucian said in a rare moment of levity, “But don’t forget that you have a job to do.”

“I show up prepared to every show on time and ready to perform my ass off, Lucian,” I protested.

“That’s not the job I’m concerned about,” he said ominously.

“I’m growing hungry and you have not delivered a soul to me since New York City. Surely you must be getting hungry yourself?” He said knowing precisely how to manipulate me.

“He’ll never accept you, you know,” Lucian sneered, “You’ll always surpass him. He’s talented but he does not have what it takes to rise to your level. He can’t make the hard sacrifices.”

“Maybe fame’s not everything for everyone,” I said sarcastically.

“The words of a small mind trying to attack what she does not understand,” Lucian hissed at me.

“I can see that he is important to you,” Lucian said relenting, “So I will let you two have your fun and I will not interfere, Raven,” he said with a touch of menace. “But mark my words, his talent is outmatched by darkness, he will destroy you.”

“He’s no darker than I am,” I told Lucian matter of factly.

“Do not be foolish, Raven, do not let him destroy you, destroy him and take his talent before he takes yours.”

“I will get you what you need,” I said plainly, “But on my own terms.”

“You do not dictate terms to me, child.” Lucian growled as his eyes pierced through me. “You may have been born with a strong soul but I could crush you with a thought.”

I felt my throat closing up and I opened my mouth to scream and found my voice not just hoarse but gone.

I stared into Lucian’s eyes with a searing longing.

“This is a reminder of who’s terms you serve, Raven, I made you a siren, I can unmake you just as easily” he said as he held me motionless as my eyes began to well. And then he released me as I choked and gasped for air.

1245 1/2 France St, New Orleans, LA, 1974

I managed to sneak in a quick escape before my show tonight at The Orpheum to visit my old neighborhood during our stop in New Orleans. When I left home all those years ago, I didn’t just leave New Orleans, I excised it from my very being, the thought of returning could not match the intoxicating pull of promised fame in Los Angeles. Even when I had no fame to speak of, I would rather grind myself into dust working at StarBrews sacrificing my dignity than come back here for anything. I guess one of the reasons I stayed away is because going home is a searing reminder that I came from nothing which made failure sting even more.

“Welcome home, babe,” I said turning to Jefferson half embarrassed to be sharing my home turf with him.

However, this time, driving into the Ninth Ward, I saw the streets of my hometown with new eyes. Instead of seeing a neighborhood and a town I overcame, I saw a city filled with eyes of beaming pride, I was the embodiment of New Orleans, a hometown girl that everyone could rally behind. As I swelled with pride, I entered my familiar old neighborhood and pulled up to the St. Clair residence, a shotgun house with faded, chipping siding holding up sagging gutters and a rusting rail leading up the steps to the door.

As I prepared to climb the steps my eyes were drawn across Urquhart Street, to the ramshackle house that in many ways was a mirror of the St. Clair homestead.

Frail Marie Claiborne was standing looking on from her porch. As soon as she saw us, she quickly dismounted the porch and crossed the street with urgency.

“Sugar!” Marie exclaimed happily as her frail arms wrapped around me with a sincere embrace that pressed us so close together I could almost feel her heart beating against mine.

“Let me look at you, darling,” Marie said easing me back a bit so she could examine me in the sunlight. “Those adorable cheeks,” she said softly as she stroked my face, “Just as lovely as always.”

“Marie,” I interjected as she continued to examine my every line and feature. “This is, Jefferson,” I said motioning to Jefferson.

“A fellow musician,” Marie said wisely as she sweetly leaned in to give him a friendly kiss. “Lovely to meet you.”

Marie’s spindly fingers wrapped around my elbows as she pulled me closer to her. Looking into my eyes again, Marie said gravely, “You know I love you, and I would never want to see you hurt, darlin,’” I figured Marie was trying to impart some kind of motherly advice about Jefferson but I assured her, “He’s wonderful, thank you.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Marie said as her worry intensified, “There is something emanating from you,” Marie said as her eyes pried at my soul, “It’s something powerful, intense, ungodly and it will consume you.”

I looked at Marie and tried my hardest to keep my face from betraying me. “I’m quite fine, Marie,” I assured her.

“You dont understand,” Marie told me urgently. “In order to bring you into this world, I made your soul incredibly strong. But the price of that strength is that your soul is valuable to those who wish you harm.”

“I appreciate your concern, Marie,” I said politely trying to disarm her.

“You dont believe me, baby, but that’s okay, you will,” Marie continued, “The trade off of making you strong, is that I had to take a piece of your mother to do so.” I looked at Marie a bit confused. “She’s been paying for it her whole life, I know you know what I mean,” Marie said as the grave truth landed in the pit of my stomach.

“But,” Marie added, “There is another like you, I can see you two bound by the darkness, and only you can vanquish that darkness together if you work together.”

I was rattled by Marie’s premonition - I had no idea what she meant by another like you. Who out there was like me? I wondered.

“Thank you, Marie,” I said sweetly, “You’ve truly been there for me for as long as I can remember.”

“I brought you into this world, Raven,” Marie said in a way that eerily reminded me of my confrontation with Lucian backstage in Miami. “And no one or no thing is going to take you out of it without my say,” Marie declared defiantly.

As Jefferson and I entered my family home, the smell of stale, still air hit us like a wall. The living room had the curtains drawn bathing the room in an oppressive darkness stunted with the smell of cigarettes.

“Raven?” A hoarse voice called out from down the hallway.

“Dad,” I called out, “We’ve been knocking.”

“Sorry, darling,” my Dad, Louis said. “Let me bring some light in,” he said shaking his head pushing past us to throw the curtains open.

After kissing me, turning to Jefferson, he said, “You must be…” as he thrust his hand out jovially, “…Jefferson?”

“I am, sir,” Jefferson said happily as he grabbed his hand.

“Can I offer you a beer?” Louis asked kindly to which Jefferson agreed.

I could hear my mom slowly lumbering from the back of the house proceeded by a deep wheezing noise. My mother, Evangeline, looked like a walking corpse, her skin was sallow, verging on a brown color and her skin practically hung from her frame as she reached out to me with knuckles that looked like the knotted wood of the steps out front.

“You’re coming to the show tonight?” I asked kindly given that I had already made arrangements for my parents to get a full VIP treatment at the show tonight.

“I saw you on TV you know,” Evangeline said with a snarl in her voice, “Singing that god damned hippie music, you know the one,” she said taking a swipe at “Break on Through.”

Shaking a tight fist in my direction she continued to rail against me, “Why would I want to go watch you sing songs written by those perverted drug addicts?”

Interjecting, Jefferson added, “She really is quite talented, your Raven, Mrs. St. Clair. It would be a shame not to see her on stage with all of New Orleans.”

“I’ve been hearing this shit since she was born,” my mother said oozing spite and vitriol. “Raven’s so talented, she sings so pretty,” she snarled, “What good did it ever do me?” She asked shaking a balled up fist at the house.

I felt a surging wave of embarrassment roiling within me, I was used to this kind of behavior growing up, anytime anyone would divert praise to me, my mother would become, sour, bitter and belligerent. I think this is what Marie meant when she said she had to take a part of my mother’s soul, she had to take a part of her soul that radiated warmth and love and instead replaced it with a blackness that became my mother’s go-to catch all for all her ills as well as a repository for the copious amounts of vodka she’d consume while crying profusely about her embittered life.

I had long practiced being able to hide my hurt and anger in times like this but there was something about this juncture in my life that made it impossible to do any longer, the tears broke through my walls and began welling in my eyes as I choked back the sobs.

Sensing my incredible displeasure, Jefferson wrapped his arms around me and helped me to stand quickly ushering me out of the house and into our car.

The Orpheum Theater, 129 Roosevelt Way, New Orleans, LA, 1974

As I sat in my dressing room at the Orpheum, Jefferson politely knocked on the door. “Rave?” he asked kindly, “I have a surprise for you.” I stood to greet him and smiled. “Oh you didn’t have to,” I said kindly as his smile beamed. He stepped aside to reveal my dad, Louis, and Marie Claiborne dressed to the nines both clutching bouquets of flowers.

“I can’t believe you made it!” I squealed excitedly.

“Listen,” Louis asked me in a hushed tone, “Can we talk?”

I pulled him to the side as he opened up to me, “Your mother is far from perfect, this is something we both know. There is nothing I can say to excuse the way she acts towards you and honestly, there is nothing I should say because the way she speaks to you is inexcusable, I can see why you left New Orleans and why being here causes you such pain. I just want to tell you that I love you and I wish you nothing but happiness.”

“And that Jefferson,” Louis added, “Even after all that, he came back to the house and invited me and Marie to come tonight, I know she’s not your mother but I thought you’d want to have your two biggest champions in your corner tonight.”

“Thank you, Dad,” I said as I felt a tiny bandage affixed to my heart, at least for one night.

As I took the stage, I greeted the crowd warmly, “Hello New Orleans! It’s been so long since I’ve been back home and I’ve been thinking a lot about what it takes to come home after you’ve been away from home for a long time. And so I wrote this song, “This Street” inspired by New Orleans and all you dreamers out there.”

I followed up my opening number with a rousing set filled with songs from Born from Night including many New Orleans-inspired songs like “Willow,” “Prayer,” “Where the Willow Grows,” and “Nightshade.”

Raven St. Clair - Willow

I was home and ready to proudly claim my place as a child of New Orleans. I was made here and tonight I was reminded of the Eliot quote, “One returns to the place one came from, though it may seem strange and changeable, as if everything moves, yet remains the same.”

3333 Beverly Ranch Rd, Beverly Hills, CA 1975

“Wake up, Rosebud,” Jefferson whispered softly into my ear as my eyes fluttered open and saw the daylight dancing in the Eucalyptus trees that encircled his house.

Ever since returning back to LA from the Born from Night tour, I was already deep in recording my follow up album, Siren. I barely had any time to recover from the tour which became a revelatory experience. While I saw much darkness on this tour both in myself and unfolding around me, I also touched moments of light such as meeting Jefferson. We felt so in sync, not just in our lives but in our shared joy of music. And the fact that we were both so beautifully broken helped provide a wellspring of inspiration and emotion to pull from.

So, it made the most sense that upon returning to LA, we move in together. I informed Lucian that I would be moving out of the El Dorado and I made it clear this was what was happening as opposed to a request.

I moved into Jefferson’s ranch style house on Beverly Ranch Road situated in the hills of Beverly Hills with a view of the San Fernando Valley.

Surprisingly, Lucian let me go but not entirely. I still had to feed myself and Lucian regularly so when I was not recording, I had to hunt. I made the open mic nights, bars, cafes and coffee shops of the Strip my hunting grounds creating a steady pipeline of souls and talent for the two of us to keep us sustained.

But then something happened. Being with Jefferson, we spent many of our evenings after dinner sitting on the house’s wrap around deck strumming our guitars coming up with song ideas. I found myself being inspired in a whole new way. I previously relied on my feeds to channel the talents of others be it songwriting or singing but with Jefferson, I reached a point where I was feeding on his energy and his love as my primary source of inspiration and vice versa.

As the inspiration between us bloomed, the hunger faded some. However, the hunger was being replaced with another hunger all the same.

My days were spent recording but my nights and weekends were spent soaked in vodka with a healthy dose of cocaine and pills to keep me comfortably numb. And as is the case in relationships where both partners are so in sync with each other, our demons and our escapes became inextricably intertwined.

I know now that this was just a way to distract myself from the uglier truths about myself. But at the time, I told myself that this nagging addiction to the drugs, the booze and Jefferson were just anchors to keep my hungers in check.

One balmy Saturday afternoon, we sat on the deck scribbling notes and inspirations, as we did so, I was reminded of the pet name Jefferson called me, Rosebud. One of the nights on the Born from Night tour, Jefferson took a rosebud from the flower vase in the room and playfully pinned it into my hair calling me his “rosebud.”

Jefferson sat in a lounger across from me as I scribbled. Jefferson snorted a line off of a plate and pushed the plate towards me. I took a hearty sniff and playfully asked him what he was working on as he took a swig of a beer. “You first,” he cajoled playfully.

I passed my notebook to him proudly declaring, “here’s a song inspired by the love of my life, this is ‘Rosebud,’”

He painted dreams

of endless youth

A life unbound

a thirst for truth

but in his eyes

a flicker of red

a hint of darkness

and words unsaid.

Rosebud, a symbol of desire

Blooming in the shadows, fueled by fire

But rosebuds they pierce

The petals fall

a fleeting beauty holding on,

a taste of power

a bitter sting

the price of freedom

and the song I sing,

Rosebud, oh, rosebud

Forever in bloom

A whispered secret

Sealed in a tomb.

The secret here is that while this was inspired directly by Jefferson, it also served as a sort of confessional song. It was clearly to any casual listener about the promise of love even in darkness but it was also a sort of confession about the arc of my career thus far.

A part of me knows that the life I’m living with Jefferson is unsustainable and fueled by denial, but yet its in moments like this that I cling to the fleeting peace it offers.