Years have passed since Camila’s body functioned as a human, and yet, as the Louisiana heat exudes from the cement sidewalks, she can almost feel the illusion of sweat against her ice-like skin. She stops in front of a real estate agency office with Marie on her trail, and looks at the sign that reads, “Satsuma Group Realtors”.

“Are you sure we should go in?” Marie breathes out, fanning herself with one hand and the other on her hip.

Small beads of sweat pour down her forehead and if Camila stands still enough and observes her, she can pinpoint the same beads on her neck and tan hands.

“Grandma hardly spoke about this woman, and if I’m her only living decedent then…” she shrugs. “We could become rich. Who knows?”

Marie stands still for a moment then opens the glass door, enveloping themselves in cool air, and a large line of people, sitting down. When they head to the front office they’re met with a red-faced middle-aged man, whose neck does not appear despite his shirt's top buttons being gone. He has a bald spot in the middle of his head, while the sides of his head have long silky white hair strands.

“Hello, we are here to see Wilburg Jones. We have an appointment,” Marie begins with a cheery tone that changes the man's scowl but not the color of his face. He smiles at her, but when his eyes reach Camilas, she stares until he returns to his computer.

“Yes…his office is down the hall to the left. You will see his name on the wall.”

As they walk towards the hall, Camila’s senses set. Her sickness shed a good portion of her humanity and heightened her senses for worse. She can smell the sweat around the building whether sweet like cherry soap or sour like ripe fruit. And hear heartbeats, a mixture of thumping-filled rhythms and pauses.

Coffee, the faint smell of candy, laughs, and even the slightest tap of impatient feet reach her ears and nose like the screech of a feral cat. When they reach the office of the agent who called them, they stand by a closed door. Marie’s back hits the wall, oblivious to the soft groans that hit Camila's ears. When Marie’s impatience hits the roof, her knuckles connect to the wooden door.

“Can you hear him? Is he in there?” She turns to Camila, a perplexed look on her face.

Camila nods, “He was just about to finish.”

When Marie’s eyebrow furrows in confusion, Camila makes a crude gesture.

There’s a rushed silence then a squeaked, “Give me a moment.”

They stand on opposite sides of the door, back against the wall. Camila hears the light scraping of fabric against skin and a loud wet pop. When the door opens, a young woman in a short cheetah print dress comes out fixing her dress, not sparing them a glance. Her skin is flushed, and she smells like sweat and tobacco.

Mr. Jones comes outside, his button-up shirt disheveled with the top buttons in the incorrect order. Jones is tall, with a pudgy stomach and bleach-blonde hair that’s slicked back with a few strands touching his forehead. His face is red, and he briefly directs them inside, pointing to a jar of candy. He sits down, the chair slightly creaking, and leans back as his ass reaches the seat.

“I spoke with a ‘Camila’ on the phone…”, his voice trails off looking at them. His breath is worse than the polluting smell of sweat that surrounds them.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I’m Camila,” she responds in a short and sharp tone, trying to conceal her disgust.

The man takes a brief minute to inspect her face before Camila removes her sunglasses. In truth, her look is off-putting. Her black dress covers her from head to toe without an inch of skin on display save for her face. A black beach hat is on her head, covering her scalp from possible spontaneous combustion by the prolonged heat of the summer.

What happened to her did not fully change her appearance. Her two small beauty marks below her left eye and her tan olive skin are the same. The rest of her humanity is always intact except in the moments when insatiable hunger takes over and her canines plunge out of her gums. They resemble that of a feral dog and in those few delicious minutes filled with adrenaline and inhumane thirst, her chestnut brown eyes change into white clouds without pupils or iris.

“We spoke on the phone about…my great-grandmother and a house?” she questioned.

Jones nods, “Yes. Alma Rodriguez. You are her last living descendent, so her house now belongs to you.”

Camila shares a look with Marie until Marie interjects, “Does she not have a son or a child of some sort?”

“Ah yes…Oliver. He died about two years ago, so… you are still the last descendent.”

They nod, and after a moment of awkward pause, he quickly retrieves a computer from his desk behind. He places the computer in front of us and images of a run-down mansion made of dark red brick light up the screen. Camila and Marie examine the pictures, noting the many windows and slanted, odd roof pattern. “Seems kind of far, where is it exactly?”

“An hour outside of the city…very secluded.”

Marie falls back into the chair, a deep breath leaving her lungs, “Very lovely.”

Jones stares as if he is about to pop. “You can take a look today…in any case, if you do not want it, you can sell it but…houses this old have a hard time on the market.”

“We’ll take a look.”

Agent Jones smiles at them, closing the laptop and handing them a golden key. “For the house, and here’s the address.”

He hands me a piece of paper with a long address written on it, and after we say our goodbyes, Camilla can hear Marie buzzing next to her.

“It's big.”

Camila snorts, “You want to leave Grandmama’s house for this.”

They reach the old navy sedan, just as the sun seems to go down. When Camila reaches the hot seat in the back and lets her lungs inhale the scent of cherries, she sighs in pleasure.

“It’s silent, has more space, and we need a change of…scenery,” argues Marie putting the car in reverse and heading out of the city.

Camila almost laughs at the word. ‘Scenery.’ It is incorrect; she believes memory would fit the situation better. Yet Marie's words are not wrong. The old house seems to be riddled with memories of their grandmother's cold corpse. Five years later, her scent still lingers in the baby blue house like the laughter of a dead child.

“Let’s just take one look.” Marie looks at Camila through the rearview mirror. There are bags under her eyes as if she hasn’t had a good chance of sleep in years.

“Okay.”

As they reach the tall trees, heading out of the bustling city of New Orleans, the sun does not reach them anymore. Camila relaxes, feeling her senses begin to blend in with the serene surroundings. She can smell the soil, the damp scent of animal fur, and the spines of trees. From afar, she could hear a stream, and the hop of rabbit. Nature.

For half of the ride, Camila had turned off her senses letting her humanity consume her. A rather dizzying ability, which takes greater willpower than getting up from the floor after a month of not eating. Her senses did not halt but rather dulled until she focused back on breathing rather than keeping her brain shut off. She felt when the car slowed down, and Marie’s heart began to pace at an abnormal rhythm signaling excitement.

As she begins to rise from the warm seats, Marie looks at her through the rearview mirror, with a perplexed grin, “Is that a house?”

Camila’s eyes took in her surroundings ahead of the road, then her ears took in the faint sound of music, then her nose the smell of alcohol and urine. “It’s a club.”

Camila grimaces, “A club in the middle of nowhere.” It’s the perfect feeding ground for night creatures and the occasional foxes. Camila guesses that they’re about thirty minutes from the city.

“A nightclub. This is perfect”, grins Marie, her cheeks blooming pink and her brown eyes sparkling as the car soon closed in on the club.

“It smells like urine,” Camila scowls, scrunching her nose. “How is that perfect?”

“I have great bartending skills. This house is meant for us.”