Essence of Absinthe
By Tony-Paul de Vissage
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Interview with Tony-Paul de Vissage:
Tony-Paul: I’m feeling lazy today so I’m going to simply copy and paste my “Author’s Bio” and let it do the talking for me, if I may?
“Tony-Paul de Vissage is a Southerner of French Huguenot heritage, whose first movie memory is of being a six-year-old viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula’s Daughter, on television. He was subsequently scared sleepless—and that may explain a lifelong interest in vampires.
He is now paying back his very permissive parents by writing about vampires.”
There! I think that says it all!
Crystal: What are you currently working on?
Tony-Paul: Right now, I’m “between engagements,” as they say. That means I’ve got some ideas but haven’t put fingers to keyboard yet on any of them. I’m halfway thinking of doing a sequel to my novel The Last Vampire Standing. During a free moment, I wrote five chapters.
Crystal: Where did you come up with the idea for either your current release or your current WIP?
Tony-Paul: Several years ago, I wrote Absinthe, an M/M Historical Horror novel, on a day, because someone said she didn’t think I could do it. Later, that same someone started pestering me for a sequel…so, what could I do but give in and write it?
Crystal: Do you have a favorite snack that you like to munch on while writing? If so would you mind sharing what it is with us?
Tony-Paul: Don’t laugh…I love boiled peanuts. Hey, what can I say, I’m a Southerner! There’s nothing like a well-drained bowl of boiled peanuts I can dip into and nosh on as I type. A good cold glass of milk goes well with it.
Crystal: Do you have a favorite scene you would like to share with us?
Tony-Paul: I do. It’s taken from A Single Shade of Red, which is the tongue-in-cheek title I’ve given to The Last Vampire Standing sequel.
Once upon a time there was a vampire prince who fell in love with a mortal woman. He loved this woman with all his heart and soul. So he married her and they lived happily ever after.
That’s not the way it went at all.
In the first place, the vampire wasn’t a prince but the son of a mere baron, and he died before he could inherit the title so he couldn’t be called anything but sir, and not even that by his enemies who used much more colorful and earthy terms. Also, the mortal he loved wasn’t the first, but he’d decided she damn well was going to be the last because he refused to suffer that exquisite torture again. Ever. Make no mistake about it, he did love her, though it couldn’t said to be with his heart and soul because, technically, being a creature accursed, he didn’t have a soul.
As for his heart, that organ only beat when it had another’s lifeblood coursing through it, which wasn’t all that often recently, since he was trying to be careful of his beloved’s sensibilities. Considering how self-centered he’d been during his short life and long undeath, others actually questioned whether he could love, but that was because they were unaware he’d experienced that gut-wrenching but totally pleasurable emotion twice before, though centuries apart. While he might still feel lust and passion, he was now having to re-learn enduring that tender yet more horrendously powerful sensation…and he was taking a damnably slow and tedious time doing it because he wanted to enjoy every little twist and twinge of it.
…in a way he was a passion-masochist.
To those who thought he didn’t show his love openly enough, he said they could go fuck themselves. Barring that physical improbability, they should at least remember he was a vampire after all and as a species, the nosferatu were careful to hide their emotions. It wasn’t good form appearing susceptible to the weaknesses love brought with it. So he was having to re-learn that, also.
That’s the way the tale should go.
I’m Vlad Chemare. I’m that vampire, and this is the story of what I did for love.
Crystal: When you are not busy writing wonderful stories to keep us lucky readers entertained, what do you like to do? Do you have a hobby?
Tony-Paul: Believe it or not, I like to read. I’ve twelve bookcases in my rooms, filled with Gothic, mystery, Horror, and SF novels though I don’t usually manages to read anything until I’m in bed at night. Unfortunately, I usually get so engrossed I read into the wee hours so I don’t get much sleep.
Crystal: Do you have a favorite background noise you like to having going while you write (TV, Music, kids playing)?
Tony-Paul:It’s so noisy in my apartment building, I don’t need accompaniment. People stamping up the stairs, elevators dinging, doors slamming, voices chattering in Chinese, Spanish, and Ukranian (oui, I live in an international dwelling). Perhaps tha’s why some of my scenes are written so chaotically. LOL
Crystal: Thanks for visiting. It has been a pleasure having you visit today. Can you think of anything else you would like to share with us today?
Find out more about Tony-Paul at:
Twitter: @tpvissage
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tonypaul.devissage?fref=ts
Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/our-authors/manufacturers/tony-paul-de-vissage
Amazon author’s page: https://authorcentral.amazon.com/gp/profile
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Blurb for Essence of Absinthe:
The noble family of Vaurien has secrets. When the current marquis takes his family from France to escape the murmurs of revolucion, he doesn’t realize he’s taking them from danger to their lives to an even greater threat to their souls.In Nouvelle-Orléans, a secret Étienne and his wife has suppressed for twenty years are about to be revealed.
The city is different from the way it was when the marquis was a young man but some things never change. Hatred and the desire for revenge are at the top of the list. His son David’s resemblance to Étienne’s deceased eldest son, Absinthe, is remarked upon by many but to one person it means more than a mere likeness of features.
Geneviéve, Étienne’s abandoned mistress and Absinthe’s amour, has pined twenty years for her young lover. In David, she sees a chance to get him back…and she isn’t going to let death stop her. In a short time, David’s living body will house the spirit of a dead man who wants once again to live…and love.
Buy Links:
Amazon | Smashwords | Publisher’s website
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Excerpt from Essence of Absinthe:
David decided to ask something always bothering him. “I know you’re not a particularly religious man, sir, but why don’t you like the chapel? They say you haven’t been inside since the fire.”
Immediately he wondered if he should’ve mentioned that, since it brought up a reference to the near-forbidden subject of Étienne’s lost son.
“They?” Étienne’s eyes held a surprising twinkle at his son’s remark. “What else do those mysterious “they” say?” He gave David a direct, near-confrontational stare. “Who are “they,” exactly?”
“I don’t know…servants…townspeople…visitors…” David waved his hands.
“Ah…that hazy and indistinct group which forms our opinions for us.” His father nodded, a finger going to his lips. “I see.” He appeared amused by his son’s vagueness. “You still haven’t told me what else they’ve said.”
“Nothing,” David admitted. “Apparently no one wishes to speak of it.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Étienne’s reply was abrupt. Softer, he went on, “You know I don’t like to be reminded of what I lost that day.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” David truly was.
He acknowledged his father kept a tight rein on his emotions. When in public, even if a mere visit to the village, he was, while not cold, at least aloof…polite and friendly, but reserved and a little distant. Very rarely did the Marquis Delafée let outsiders see his gentler side.
“Not that I haven’t regained it through you, mon fils,” Étienne added hastily, as if realizing how his statement sounded. “It’s simply…” He stopped, shaking his head.
“I apologize for mentioning it at all.” David hesitated, then said, in a softer tone, “It’s only…you never speak of him if you can help it, and that makes me curious, of course…of what happened that day.”
There was silence, broken only when Étienne muttered, “I really don’t want…” He studied his son briefly. “I didn’t intend this to be a day of revelations.”
He stopped again, then replaced the quill he held in its holder with a deliberate movement.
“Perhaps, you should know more.” Étienne sighed, as if in surrender. “Sit, son.” He indicated a chair placed to the side of the desk. “No need to stand like a servant.”
David dropped gratefully into the chair as Étienne continued, grudgingly, “It was his wedding day. He died in that fire before the ceremony could be completed.”
“As did Rouge’s father.” David remembered the inscription on his brother’s vault…that a second body lay in the tomb with him. The engraving chiseled into the granite stated for all to see that his best friend’s father was also buried there.
“Rouge Meurtrier, père …oui.” Briefly, the marquis avoided his son’s gaze.
“My uncle died, also.”
“Uncle?” Étienne looked up. “Whom do you mean?”
“Didn’t Mamère’s brother die that day, too? Jean-Paul? Why don’t they speak of him, either?”
“How do you know about Jean-Paul?” Étienne half-rose from his chair, leaning across the desk toward his son. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“No one, I swear. It’s merely another of the questions I’ve long wished to ask.” Startled, David found himself bending backward as if to escape his father’s grasp though the marquis hadn’t raised either hand. He struggled to keep any condemnation out of his voice. “Once when I went to visit Gran’père Georges, I wandered into the garden. At the end of it, I found the family burial plot. The mausoleum was open and I went in. Morbid curiosity I suppose…to see the names of Mamère’s ancestors,” he added. “You know my hobby.”
His father nodded and relaxed. David was surprised. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized Étienne was tense. Why should he be?
“I found his vault…Jean-Paul la Carrière, Vicomte la Proie.”. Just that and his death date…the same as my brother’s…and Rouge Meurtrier’s.”
“Oui. Jean-Paul died that day also. He was Absinthe’s…compagnon de mariage…”
“Absinthe. Why did they call him that?” David persisted, fearing his father might soon regret reawakening the tragedy and refused to say more.
“Because of his eyes…they were the color of that infernal liqueur.” Étienne took a deep breath, looking away as if to hide the fact his own eyes were also that color, but in his case, he’d been called Peridot.
Using that surnom to differentiate the deceased child from his living namesake had become habit but it still cause an ache. To his son, it sounded as if he were controlling great fury.
“I don’t wish to speak of this any longer, David.”
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