Royce Connoly of Clan Nagaraja, the "St. Claude Cannibal"

February 22nd. A family from Corydon, Indiana flies south for a winter getaway, hoping to escape the February squalls; to find warmth, comfort, culture, and amusement. Instead they find tragedy. Thus ends the story for Royce's mother, father, and younger brother. (The good one. The favorite.) They will go to church and therapy. They will rebuild; recover; remember. Eventually they may even find peace, and know not to blame New Orleans for what happened. If only Royce himself could be so lucky. Every night he slices his tongue on rancorous teeth, and wears the pale skin of a recluse. He defiles the city with blasphemy and bloodletting, drenching her nights in a quiet, subtle dread. Who's next to be slaughtered? they wonder behind their deadbolted front doors and shuttered windows. ''You? Me? Our friends? Our children?''

But Royce was not always NOLA's nightly news—her most prolific serial killer since the Axeman. Not so long ago he was just another thieving, tar-shooting lowlife. And his parents knew it. (The jewelry had been going missing for months.) Nights at the hotel room devolved into shouting, shouting into drinking, and half a bottle of Wild Turkey later, Royce dangled his feet over the edge of the Crescent City Connection, mustering the courage to jump.

A single man, calling himself Edouardo Camille, can be credited with talking Royce down from the ledge that night (only, of course, to kill him later). After an impassioned and euphoric night he can no longer remember, the young deadbeat woke with a mouthful of fangs and a head full of questions. An addiction to human flesh supplanted his addiction to black tar heroin. Likewise, his devil-may-care attitude was replaced with a thirst for answers ... and vengeance.

That was half a year ago. Royce's working theory was voodoo, but ... why? Why would someone turn him into this? What has he done to deserve this?