The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

78
It was also nearly complete. She’d had days to capture the
view while she waited, ravenous. Familiar with desperation,
Yocelin had always managed to find the bane she needed to
keep herself in the world—to remain one with its color—so
she refused to panic. Just a matter of constant movement and
canny scheduling. She knew every wrinkle of Jersey Island,
Port Louis, Lafayette, Grande-Anse, and Lennoxville. She’d
tasted every crevasse, licking at whatever dregs of bane she
could find.
She might never again have all of England and France
to feast on, but the bane lingered in certain corners, yes. It
waxed and waned with the times and it rolled between continents,
but Yocelin at her hungriest could always feed in the
Outaouais. She always circled back to this fruitful furrow of
southwestern Quebec.
And now the payoff. She focused on her canvas, pretending
preoccupation, as the couple crested the hill. They saw
her at once. She couldn't be missed, nor could her toplessness.
They paused, hand in hand, but rallied quickly and continued
towards the hilltop graveyard. It was a liberal village,
and the visitors seemed determined to prove that they belonged.
They were fetching creatures, their clothes tight, bias-cut,
vintage. The man and woman had been rinsed out by wine
and massage at the nearby hotel and spa—their shoulders
were low and their eyes soft. Now they came to inspect the
best view to be found in Wakefield, directed to the cemetery,
no doubt, by hotel staff.
Yocelin’s wait was rewarded. The colors had finally drawn
people to her aerie. Not the fading color of her naked torso,
which was unremarkable in this part of the world. She
wasn't porcelain or gold or amber or mahogany or obsidian,
but a middling tawny-pink, sporadically freckled. Her hair
was a standard brown and so were her eyes. She'd rolled her
locks into a bun, not to expose an interesting neck but to
capitalize on her bare breasts. If her nipples were pale and