Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, anymore than the great city of New Orleans does.
Author's Notes: Now that my mini-saga is between installments, I sat down to compose this much shorter little story that came to me over the course of the last month. I hope it's half as well-received as "Unexpected" was; if it is, I shall be one darn happy writer.
Look for a little bit of heat in this story, and I'm not just talking about the weather or the food. New Orleans is probably the headiest, sexiest city in the country, and if you've never been, book a flight immediately. Fuck Virginia, Louisiana is for lovers;)
****
Manumission
by Kristen Elizabeth
****
Manumission: (French) To grant a slave freedom.
****
It was the lack of a sign that caught her attention. In a bedlam of sticky tourist traps, street vendors, and dried vomit from the previous night's debacles, Rogue felt herself strangely drawn to the one tiny corner of Bourbon Street that didn't scream merchandising.
She slipped through the crowded street without notice; at the heart of the French Quarter, a woman with prominent white streaks through her auburn curls was hardly worth noting. The anonymity was refreshing. As she dodged a horse-drawn carriage, Rogue wondered if Remy felt the same way when he came back to the place of his birth. Did his eyes blend in here, or were they too much for the superstitious city?
Had he not been tied up in…negotiations with the Thieves Guild, she might have asked him. As it was, she'd been left, for the fourth day in a row, to guide herself through New Orleans. It irked her. This was supposed to have been their vacation together. All right, so it couldn't be too romantic, but that didn't mean they had to carry on entirely separate agendas, meeting only for quick dinners at the Court of Two Sisters or just a Po' boy stand. It was bad enough that they spent their nights sweating in the cloying heat on opposite sides of a wrought iron-framed bed, which had obviously been designed decades earlier for much more exciting bedroom activities.
Was it too much to ask for a little time for just the two of them? Without the Guild, without the tourists, and without their clothes?
The entrance to the shop was set back from the sidewalk and painted a foreboding black. As soon as Rogue touched the aged wood to push the door open, she felt it. A cold fist gripped her heart, turning the sweat of humidity into the clamminess of blood loss. She took a breath. At the same time something was telling her to turn around and just buy some fruit at the Market, something else was compelling her to push the door open, go in, look around…find what she was searching for.
There was the gentle jingle of bells over her head as she tentatively entered. She walked into cool air that was heavy with the pungent scents of incense, patchouli and musk. There was something nauseatingly sweet, too. Like decaying flowers, Rogue decided. It stuck in her throat, coating it, and she found herself unable to swallow.
At first, she saw only darkness, like someone had draped a black cloak over her face. But as she moved further inside, the void gave way to light and she found herself emerging from a narrow hallway into a shop lit with a hundred fat, white candles. There were shelves and counters, just like any of the stores she'd ducked into that day. But whereas those stores boasted plastic skulls and rubber snakes, tacky magnets and coffee mugs, she was quite sure that the row of skulls to her left were real, and there wasn't anything in sight that was branded with the word "Naw'lins."
Next to the skulls, there were bottles, topped with cork and filled with powders, oils, and herbs. Her gaze swung to her other side, and she nearly screamed. Snakes crawled over each other in a huge aquarium, their colors mixing together. Black, brown, red and yellow stripes. She was surprised she hadn't heard the hissing. The shop was silent, and she was, as far as she could tell, the only customer.
It didn't take a lot of brain power to figure out what she had wandered into. How many guidebooks had she browsed through over the past four days that talked about New Orleans Voodoo? How many stories had Remy told her about sneaking down to Lake Pontchartrain as a child to watch the feverous rituals and ceremonies on the Day of the Dead? It was all too easy to write it off as local history or propaganda, and Remy's stories as just that, stories. But she was there, surrounded by the reality of the mysterious religion.
And she wasn't frightened. Except the snakes making her skin crawl. Rogue backed away from them, and slammed into something solid. She whipped around, coming face to face with the biggest woman she'd ever seen, and considering the sort of people she'd encountered in her life, that was saying a lot.
The woman's skin was almost as dark as the paint on the door. She towered a good foot over Rogue and was dressed in a brightly colored caftan with a matching piece of fabric twisted around her head. Her eyes stood out in stark white contrast to the rest of her face as she stared down at Rogue.
"W'at you look fo'…you find here," she said. Her English was lilted like Remy's, but flavored with something different. Something heavier, earthier, but unworldly at the same time.
Rogue shook her head slightly. "Ah have no idea what Ah'm lookin' for."
The woman snorted, unfolding her arms. "Dis be yo' first time t'de city o' de dead?"
"Ah…Ah came with my…he's my…we're kinda…not really." She licked her lower lip. "Yeah."
The woman's eyes narrowed and were nearly lost in rolls of dark flesh. "You don' be human, chil'." She paused. "M'tant."
"So?" Rogue found herself replying, defensively.
"Not'ing wrong wit' dat. Dere're t'ings in dis world dat de ones who be walkin' freely in it won' ever let demselves see." The woman turned around. "Follow Mamàn Naquin."
She hesitated as the woman was heading for a door, really nothing more than a black velvet curtain. "Ah'm not sure Ah…"
"Dere somet'ing you be wantin', chil'." Naquin turned her head slightly to look back. "It's dere…in dose eyes." After another second, she continued on her way. "Dere be ways you can get it."
Her heart pounded beneath her breast, but not out of fear. As formidable as the woman looked, Rogue knew she could take her down within seconds if necessary, by force or by her powers. It was just the startling truth behind what she said that had her body racing. There was something she wanted, something she wanted for so long that she couldn't even remember a time when she hadn't wanted it. But it was only within the past few days that it had elevated into a painful, all-consuming desire.
She bit back her hesitations and followed the woman past the velvet and into the inner sanctum of her store.
Naquin had settled herself on a pile of worn cushions, cross-legged. As Rogue entered, she gestured to another pile of cushions in the middle of a circle formed out of more dripping candles of various heights and shapes. "Sit," she ordered.
When Rogue had situated herself directly in front of the woman, Naquin reached to her side and picked up a wooden bowl from the piles of bottles, bags and bones that sat around her, creating a strange sort of altar. She held it out in front of her. "Do you believe?"
"Believe in what?" Rogue asked.
"Anyt'ing, chil'. De old-world magicks…dey work fo' dose who believe."
She lifted her shoulder. "Ah don' know what Ah believe in anymore. But Ah guess…yeah, Ah believe in somethin'. Ah mean, there's gotta be a reason why Ah was born like Ah…" Rogue stopped.
Naquin fingered the contents of the bowl, spreading a fine, white chalk on her fingertips. "Yo' man…does he believe?"
"Remy?" The cold parts of her body warmed just thinking about him. He was so full of life wherever he went, but here, in his city, he was a hundred times more so. His eyes crackled just a little brighter, his smile was just a little bit wider, and his accent was just a little bit thicker. She remembered the way he had touched his heart when they passed by Jackson Square and the grand cathedral that flanked it. "Ah think he believes."
"Dere's great love w'en you speak o' him." The woman closed her eyes. "But you be innocent, chil. Dere's blood on dose lily white hands o' yo's…but dere be no mark o' pleasure."
Rogue fought to keep breathing. "Ah…Ah've never…Ah can't…" Her mood snapped. "Ah don' need ya to tell me all the stuff Ah already know 'bout myself."
With her eyes closed, Naquin swayed slightly, around and around, back and forth. "He waits fo' you..."
"That's all he can do," she whispered.
Naquin's eyes opened. "You want him." She reached for Rogue's hands.
Rogue drew them away before the woman could touch her. The heat had prompted her to leave her gloves in their room that morning. "Don' touch me!"
A full minute passed as Naquin considered her. Finally, she said, "Tell Mamàn w'at you want."
Her chin trembled as she wrung her hands together at her breast. "Ah want…Ah wanna touch him. Ah wanna show him…that Ah love him."
"Fo'ever, chil?"
Rogue wanted to say yes, but she ended up shaking her head. "Just once…it'd be enough."
Silence swamped the tiny room. "Dere no room for de selfish in magick. But you don' do dis fo' yo'self." The woman nodded. "I can help you, chil."
"Wha'do Ah hafta do?" She brushed away an impending tear. "Don' Ah hafta believe in yer gods or somethin'?"
"De key t'dis kind o' magick be in de heart," Naquin replied. "Close dose eyes." When Rogue hadn't complied after a second, she half-smiled. "No harm come t'you, chil. Mamàn be t'inkin' dat you stronger den anyt'ing she could do t'you wit' her gris-gris."
Conceding, Rogue closed her eyes. She could hear wood tapping against glass, gentle snapping sounds, like dried flower stems being bent in half. The scents intensified, stinging her nose. Had her eyes been opened, she was sure they'd be watering.
"In de heart…de key…is de 'magination," the woman said suddenly. "W'en people come t'me an' be wantin' a spell…or a curse…I ask dem t'picture w'at dey want. If you don' see it clear in yo' head, den de magick do not'ing t'make it come true. Understand?
"Ah think so." Rogue felt a tug on her hair, like it was being picked up off her shoulder. "What's that?"
She heard the soft snip of a scissors before the question was even completely out of her mouth. "Bit o' you for de bag," Naquin murmured. "Up t'you t'get some o' him." As she worked on whatever it was she was doing, she began to hum. It was a low, rich sound that soothed away Rogue's last lingering doubts. She felt her entire body relax, inch by inch, until she too swayed with the rhythm of the song.
"See it in yo' head, chil," Nanquin intoned. "See w'at you want…"
Rogue's breathing evened out. In the darkness of her mind, a picture began to form, starting with the bed they'd celibately shared for the past three nights. The white sheets were rumpled, and a breeze made the scarf-like pieces that hung from the high, wrought-iron frame dance. Her body materialized first, naked, spread, and flushed from head to toe. She watched herself throw her head back, chestnut and cream curls spreading out over the sheets.
And then he appeared, as naked as she, settled between her legs. Where she was all curves, he was all muscle as he held himself up over her, thrusting slowly, tenderly. Her breath caught as she saw his lips lower to hers, taking her tongue as smoothly as he took her body.
She heard him then, whispering words of French comfort and love, nearly drowned by her own hoarse moans of pleasure.
"Ah love ya, Remy," Rogue whimpered, not even realizing she was speaking out loud.
The picture disappeared with a snap of Naquin's fingers. When Rogue opened her eyes, she was embarrassed at the fine sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. The woman handed her a woven bag no bigger than a child's fist. "Put dis under de pillows after you add some o' his hair."
She took it with trembling hands. "Ah don' understand. How can this…"
"Believe, chil. In de world o' de saints an' de gods an' de dead, dere is no m'tant or human. Dere just be magick." Naquin nodded towards the door. "Go now."
Rogue stood, unable to feel her knees, but clutching the bag tightly. When she reached the velvet curtain, the woman called out to her. "Dis work 'til de sun rise again. Don' be comin' back fo' anot'er."
"But…" she began.
"Go," the priestess ordered, her voice rumbling.
She emerged back into the busy flow of Bourbon Street, shaken, but steady at the same time. The bag was coarse against her hands and smelled faintly of lavender and dried blood. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what else besides her hair was in it.
And she still wasn't entirely convinced that it was going to work at all. What did she know about magick or voodoo? There was no guarantee that a hot visualization and a bag of trinkets would be able to overcome her mutation. Nothing else ever had, at least not sufficiently and conveniently enough to allow her the sort of prolonged, intimate contact that she wanted with Remy.
But as she looked down at Nanquin's charm, hope coursed through her. Maybe, just by believing hard enough, it would happen. There was really only one way to find out.
On the way back to the loft he'd rented for them, Rogue wondered…had she bothered to pack any lingerie?
****
To Be Continued
A/N: All voodoo knowledge comes from the website, Voodoo Authentica. It is a real religion, it is not devil worship, and I hope I've accurately portrayed it here;)
Author's Notes: Now that my mini-saga is between installments, I sat down to compose this much shorter little story that came to me over the course of the last month. I hope it's half as well-received as "Unexpected" was; if it is, I shall be one darn happy writer.
Look for a little bit of heat in this story, and I'm not just talking about the weather or the food. New Orleans is probably the headiest, sexiest city in the country, and if you've never been, book a flight immediately. Fuck Virginia, Louisiana is for lovers;)
****
Manumission
by Kristen Elizabeth
****
Manumission: (French) To grant a slave freedom.
****
It was the lack of a sign that caught her attention. In a bedlam of sticky tourist traps, street vendors, and dried vomit from the previous night's debacles, Rogue felt herself strangely drawn to the one tiny corner of Bourbon Street that didn't scream merchandising.
She slipped through the crowded street without notice; at the heart of the French Quarter, a woman with prominent white streaks through her auburn curls was hardly worth noting. The anonymity was refreshing. As she dodged a horse-drawn carriage, Rogue wondered if Remy felt the same way when he came back to the place of his birth. Did his eyes blend in here, or were they too much for the superstitious city?
Had he not been tied up in…negotiations with the Thieves Guild, she might have asked him. As it was, she'd been left, for the fourth day in a row, to guide herself through New Orleans. It irked her. This was supposed to have been their vacation together. All right, so it couldn't be too romantic, but that didn't mean they had to carry on entirely separate agendas, meeting only for quick dinners at the Court of Two Sisters or just a Po' boy stand. It was bad enough that they spent their nights sweating in the cloying heat on opposite sides of a wrought iron-framed bed, which had obviously been designed decades earlier for much more exciting bedroom activities.
Was it too much to ask for a little time for just the two of them? Without the Guild, without the tourists, and without their clothes?
The entrance to the shop was set back from the sidewalk and painted a foreboding black. As soon as Rogue touched the aged wood to push the door open, she felt it. A cold fist gripped her heart, turning the sweat of humidity into the clamminess of blood loss. She took a breath. At the same time something was telling her to turn around and just buy some fruit at the Market, something else was compelling her to push the door open, go in, look around…find what she was searching for.
There was the gentle jingle of bells over her head as she tentatively entered. She walked into cool air that was heavy with the pungent scents of incense, patchouli and musk. There was something nauseatingly sweet, too. Like decaying flowers, Rogue decided. It stuck in her throat, coating it, and she found herself unable to swallow.
At first, she saw only darkness, like someone had draped a black cloak over her face. But as she moved further inside, the void gave way to light and she found herself emerging from a narrow hallway into a shop lit with a hundred fat, white candles. There were shelves and counters, just like any of the stores she'd ducked into that day. But whereas those stores boasted plastic skulls and rubber snakes, tacky magnets and coffee mugs, she was quite sure that the row of skulls to her left were real, and there wasn't anything in sight that was branded with the word "Naw'lins."
Next to the skulls, there were bottles, topped with cork and filled with powders, oils, and herbs. Her gaze swung to her other side, and she nearly screamed. Snakes crawled over each other in a huge aquarium, their colors mixing together. Black, brown, red and yellow stripes. She was surprised she hadn't heard the hissing. The shop was silent, and she was, as far as she could tell, the only customer.
It didn't take a lot of brain power to figure out what she had wandered into. How many guidebooks had she browsed through over the past four days that talked about New Orleans Voodoo? How many stories had Remy told her about sneaking down to Lake Pontchartrain as a child to watch the feverous rituals and ceremonies on the Day of the Dead? It was all too easy to write it off as local history or propaganda, and Remy's stories as just that, stories. But she was there, surrounded by the reality of the mysterious religion.
And she wasn't frightened. Except the snakes making her skin crawl. Rogue backed away from them, and slammed into something solid. She whipped around, coming face to face with the biggest woman she'd ever seen, and considering the sort of people she'd encountered in her life, that was saying a lot.
The woman's skin was almost as dark as the paint on the door. She towered a good foot over Rogue and was dressed in a brightly colored caftan with a matching piece of fabric twisted around her head. Her eyes stood out in stark white contrast to the rest of her face as she stared down at Rogue.
"W'at you look fo'…you find here," she said. Her English was lilted like Remy's, but flavored with something different. Something heavier, earthier, but unworldly at the same time.
Rogue shook her head slightly. "Ah have no idea what Ah'm lookin' for."
The woman snorted, unfolding her arms. "Dis be yo' first time t'de city o' de dead?"
"Ah…Ah came with my…he's my…we're kinda…not really." She licked her lower lip. "Yeah."
The woman's eyes narrowed and were nearly lost in rolls of dark flesh. "You don' be human, chil'." She paused. "M'tant."
"So?" Rogue found herself replying, defensively.
"Not'ing wrong wit' dat. Dere're t'ings in dis world dat de ones who be walkin' freely in it won' ever let demselves see." The woman turned around. "Follow Mamàn Naquin."
She hesitated as the woman was heading for a door, really nothing more than a black velvet curtain. "Ah'm not sure Ah…"
"Dere somet'ing you be wantin', chil'." Naquin turned her head slightly to look back. "It's dere…in dose eyes." After another second, she continued on her way. "Dere be ways you can get it."
Her heart pounded beneath her breast, but not out of fear. As formidable as the woman looked, Rogue knew she could take her down within seconds if necessary, by force or by her powers. It was just the startling truth behind what she said that had her body racing. There was something she wanted, something she wanted for so long that she couldn't even remember a time when she hadn't wanted it. But it was only within the past few days that it had elevated into a painful, all-consuming desire.
She bit back her hesitations and followed the woman past the velvet and into the inner sanctum of her store.
Naquin had settled herself on a pile of worn cushions, cross-legged. As Rogue entered, she gestured to another pile of cushions in the middle of a circle formed out of more dripping candles of various heights and shapes. "Sit," she ordered.
When Rogue had situated herself directly in front of the woman, Naquin reached to her side and picked up a wooden bowl from the piles of bottles, bags and bones that sat around her, creating a strange sort of altar. She held it out in front of her. "Do you believe?"
"Believe in what?" Rogue asked.
"Anyt'ing, chil'. De old-world magicks…dey work fo' dose who believe."
She lifted her shoulder. "Ah don' know what Ah believe in anymore. But Ah guess…yeah, Ah believe in somethin'. Ah mean, there's gotta be a reason why Ah was born like Ah…" Rogue stopped.
Naquin fingered the contents of the bowl, spreading a fine, white chalk on her fingertips. "Yo' man…does he believe?"
"Remy?" The cold parts of her body warmed just thinking about him. He was so full of life wherever he went, but here, in his city, he was a hundred times more so. His eyes crackled just a little brighter, his smile was just a little bit wider, and his accent was just a little bit thicker. She remembered the way he had touched his heart when they passed by Jackson Square and the grand cathedral that flanked it. "Ah think he believes."
"Dere's great love w'en you speak o' him." The woman closed her eyes. "But you be innocent, chil. Dere's blood on dose lily white hands o' yo's…but dere be no mark o' pleasure."
Rogue fought to keep breathing. "Ah…Ah've never…Ah can't…" Her mood snapped. "Ah don' need ya to tell me all the stuff Ah already know 'bout myself."
With her eyes closed, Naquin swayed slightly, around and around, back and forth. "He waits fo' you..."
"That's all he can do," she whispered.
Naquin's eyes opened. "You want him." She reached for Rogue's hands.
Rogue drew them away before the woman could touch her. The heat had prompted her to leave her gloves in their room that morning. "Don' touch me!"
A full minute passed as Naquin considered her. Finally, she said, "Tell Mamàn w'at you want."
Her chin trembled as she wrung her hands together at her breast. "Ah want…Ah wanna touch him. Ah wanna show him…that Ah love him."
"Fo'ever, chil?"
Rogue wanted to say yes, but she ended up shaking her head. "Just once…it'd be enough."
Silence swamped the tiny room. "Dere no room for de selfish in magick. But you don' do dis fo' yo'self." The woman nodded. "I can help you, chil."
"Wha'do Ah hafta do?" She brushed away an impending tear. "Don' Ah hafta believe in yer gods or somethin'?"
"De key t'dis kind o' magick be in de heart," Naquin replied. "Close dose eyes." When Rogue hadn't complied after a second, she half-smiled. "No harm come t'you, chil. Mamàn be t'inkin' dat you stronger den anyt'ing she could do t'you wit' her gris-gris."
Conceding, Rogue closed her eyes. She could hear wood tapping against glass, gentle snapping sounds, like dried flower stems being bent in half. The scents intensified, stinging her nose. Had her eyes been opened, she was sure they'd be watering.
"In de heart…de key…is de 'magination," the woman said suddenly. "W'en people come t'me an' be wantin' a spell…or a curse…I ask dem t'picture w'at dey want. If you don' see it clear in yo' head, den de magick do not'ing t'make it come true. Understand?
"Ah think so." Rogue felt a tug on her hair, like it was being picked up off her shoulder. "What's that?"
She heard the soft snip of a scissors before the question was even completely out of her mouth. "Bit o' you for de bag," Naquin murmured. "Up t'you t'get some o' him." As she worked on whatever it was she was doing, she began to hum. It was a low, rich sound that soothed away Rogue's last lingering doubts. She felt her entire body relax, inch by inch, until she too swayed with the rhythm of the song.
"See it in yo' head, chil," Nanquin intoned. "See w'at you want…"
Rogue's breathing evened out. In the darkness of her mind, a picture began to form, starting with the bed they'd celibately shared for the past three nights. The white sheets were rumpled, and a breeze made the scarf-like pieces that hung from the high, wrought-iron frame dance. Her body materialized first, naked, spread, and flushed from head to toe. She watched herself throw her head back, chestnut and cream curls spreading out over the sheets.
And then he appeared, as naked as she, settled between her legs. Where she was all curves, he was all muscle as he held himself up over her, thrusting slowly, tenderly. Her breath caught as she saw his lips lower to hers, taking her tongue as smoothly as he took her body.
She heard him then, whispering words of French comfort and love, nearly drowned by her own hoarse moans of pleasure.
"Ah love ya, Remy," Rogue whimpered, not even realizing she was speaking out loud.
The picture disappeared with a snap of Naquin's fingers. When Rogue opened her eyes, she was embarrassed at the fine sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. The woman handed her a woven bag no bigger than a child's fist. "Put dis under de pillows after you add some o' his hair."
She took it with trembling hands. "Ah don' understand. How can this…"
"Believe, chil. In de world o' de saints an' de gods an' de dead, dere is no m'tant or human. Dere just be magick." Naquin nodded towards the door. "Go now."
Rogue stood, unable to feel her knees, but clutching the bag tightly. When she reached the velvet curtain, the woman called out to her. "Dis work 'til de sun rise again. Don' be comin' back fo' anot'er."
"But…" she began.
"Go," the priestess ordered, her voice rumbling.
She emerged back into the busy flow of Bourbon Street, shaken, but steady at the same time. The bag was coarse against her hands and smelled faintly of lavender and dried blood. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what else besides her hair was in it.
And she still wasn't entirely convinced that it was going to work at all. What did she know about magick or voodoo? There was no guarantee that a hot visualization and a bag of trinkets would be able to overcome her mutation. Nothing else ever had, at least not sufficiently and conveniently enough to allow her the sort of prolonged, intimate contact that she wanted with Remy.
But as she looked down at Nanquin's charm, hope coursed through her. Maybe, just by believing hard enough, it would happen. There was really only one way to find out.
On the way back to the loft he'd rented for them, Rogue wondered…had she bothered to pack any lingerie?
****
To Be Continued
A/N: All voodoo knowledge comes from the website, Voodoo Authentica. It is a real religion, it is not devil worship, and I hope I've accurately portrayed it here;)