Gracie Musica/Southern Charm                        page 2

Chapter 5, The High Priest -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hurricane Drink Recipe 2 ounces amber rum 1/4 cup passion fruit juice, or 1 tablespoon passion fruit syrup 1 teaspoon superfine sugar 1/2 teaspoon grenadine Juice of 1/2 lime Cherries and orange slice to garnish Ice cubes In a cocktail shaker mix the rum, passion fruit juice and sugar until sugar is dissolved. Add the grenadine, and lemon juice and stir to combine. Add the ice cubes and shake. Strain Hurricane into a cocktail glass. Garnish with orange and cherries. Yield: 1 serving Interesting tidbits of the origin of this famous drink: The creation of this passion-colored relative of a Daiquiri drink is credited to Pat O'Brien. He is reported to have invented the Hurricane in the 1940s in New Orleans. Rumors say he needed to get rid of all the rum that Southern distributors forced him to buy before he could get a few cases of other spirits. He poured the concoction into hurricane-lamp-shaped glasses and gave it away to sailors. The drink caught on, and it's been part of the celebration ever since. Pat O'Brien operated a speakeasy during prohibition known as, "Mr. O'Brien's Club Tipperary". The password to get in was, "storm's brewin'". In 1933, after the repeal of prohibition, he moved across the street, opened Pat O'Brien's, and later down to the present location at 718 St. Peter, in the French Quarter. During W.W.II, it was difficult to get whiskey, but rum was in ample supply. With the help of the liquor salesman, this cocktail was born. It is served in a 26 oz. Hurricane glass, which is named after the shape of a hurricane lamp and the drink. --from Cajun Cooking Recipes -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Bourbon Street was loud, crowded and flashy. Bars lined the street, studded with strip bars and voodoo shops. Drunks and cops mingled on the street, along with men and women (both usually dressed as women) hawking topless bars and prolonged Happy Hours. Dee loved it. Ryo, however, was watching everything with eyes the size of tea saucers, his hand firmly grasping Dee's. They stopped momentarily at Pat O'Brien's for a drink, and continued down Bourbon with large paper cups full of blue slush. Dee watched Ryo shake his cup apprehensively. "It kinda looks like a blue sno cone," the blonde told his lover, prodding at the vivid blue mixture with the clear straw they had been provided. The green-eyed man shrugged, lifting the white cup to his lips. The powerful scent of rum and sugar hit his nostrils, and his eyes widened in surprise as the slush slid over his tongue. Ryo laughed as Dee lowered the cup. "That bad?" "It tastes like battery acid," Dee replied, swallowing thickly. Ryo chuckled, but took a sip anyway. Dee watched the bright blue drink travel up the straw and disappear between Ryo's lips. Dee shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the sight instantly aroused him. "Well?" he asked when the half-Japanese man pulled his mouth from the straw. "Sweet. Not too bad, actually," Ryo replied before sucking on the straw again. The two continued drinking their Hurricanes and walking down the street, the alcohol relaxing their reserves. Eventually the two were walking down the street with Dee's arms around Ryo's waist (and a hand down one of the blonde's side pocket), ignoring all the looks they were getting. At the end of Bourbon Street there was a small voodoo mom-and-pop-style shop, and the two climbed the stoop to enter the shop. A sign on the door displayed a voodoo doll stuck full of pins above the words "shoplifters will be prosecuted". The two snickered to themselves and pushed the door open. The shop was brightly lit and slightly musty from the racks of incense and walls full of different herbs. Bookshelves were overflowing with books, statuettes of idols to worship and candles which were neatly lined up on the wooden shelves. A glass case by the cash register displayed necklaces and other oculist jewelry, along with packs of tarot cards. A young man, around twenty or so with a long brown ponytail, was leaning on the case, reading a newspaper. He looked up when they walked in, pushing his glasses up on his face. "Hey, y'all be careful with those Hurricanes, ok?" Dee and Ryo nodded, and the man grinned back. "Y'all lemme know if y'all need anything," he replied before going back to reading his paper. The two slightly inebriated detectives perused the shelves, giggling like teenagers at the books on sexual voodoo and moving along the scented incense and herbs. They parted momentarily, Dee taking his time reading about the uses of certain plants while Ryo went to another bookshelf to look. "Hey, Dee, c'mere," Ryo called, his head popping out behind the bookshelf. Dee looked up from a glass jar full of rosemary ('use in memory potions') and walked over to Ryo, wrapping his arms around the blonde from behind. "This candle smells really good," the detective told him, holding up a red candle for him to inspect. Dee leaned over and inhaled, the scent of flowers mingling in his mind. "Mmm, it does," the dark-haired man replied before burying his face into the crook of Ryo's neck. "You smell better though," he mumbled against the pale skin, grinning inwardly at the way his lover squirmed under the movement of his lips. "Dee, for Christ's sakes..." Ryo's protest trailed off as Dee pressed kisses against the sensitive skin along the blonde's neck. "Shhh..." Dee replied, slipping a hand under Ryo's shirt to massage the soft skin of his stomach. Ryo whimpered under the touch, leaning back against the taller man. "If'n dis keeps up, I'm gonna hafta use all dis aura in a spell." The two lovers jumped, and looked over to find Marie smiling at them, her lean milk coffee colored arms crossed over a black silk shirt. Instead of the usual distaste that most people viewed their relationship with, she was smiling. "Damn, don' stop. Trés chaud, ver'y hot." "Why do I keep running into you?" Dee asked as he saw Ryo's ears turn bright pink in embarrassment. "B'cause 'm fond of y'all," she replied, smiling and introducing herself to Ryo. Ryo, in turn, frowned inwardly. She seemed familiar, from someplace other than du Monde's. He shook it off anyway, smiling and conversing with the girl. She explained how a voodoo doll worked ("t'ree strands 'o 'air and a personal item from da person"), teasing them in a good-natured way about their relationship and suggested a few hoodoo aphrodisiacs (which Ryo quickly nixed, much to Dee's dismay) while she did her shopping, loading candles and incense into her arms before taking them over to the checkout. The two natives engaged in a friendly conversation that was laced with French (mostly on Marie's part) and local slang. The man smiled warmly at the girl, who blew him a kiss and informed him that she'd be praying for him. The three left the shop together, Marie curtsying politely to the two before turning a corner and disappearing into the crowds off Bourbon. Dee and Ryo headed back towards St. Anne's street, but Dee was surprised when Ryo pulled him into a side alley, pushing him up against the brick wall of one of the buildings, pressing up against his body to kiss him passionately. Ryo's fingers were digging into Dee's clothing, clutching at him with a force that was close to fabric-ripping, and Dee grabbed the older man's wrists, pulling the frantic man away from his body (which protested fiercely) to look down into his eyes. "Not that I'm complaining, but what the hell has gotten into you?" Dee asked, his brows furrowed. "I don't know," Ryo panted, straining against the touch to try and kiss any part of Dee he could get in contact with him. "But if I don't have you now, I'm going to go insane." "Ryo," Dee said with a calmness he didn't feel. "We're in a side alley of a VERY public street and you're looking at me like I'm a freakin' steak. Now I don't know if it was the drink or what, but can this at least wait until we get back to the hotel?" "I don't know!" the blonde replied, fighting against his lover's grasp. Dee spun them around so Ryo was the one with his back to the wall. "Then I'll give you a little something to tide you over," Dee replied, leaning up against Ryo, sandwiching between himself and the cold brick wall, kissing him hard. Ryo moaned into the kiss, kissing back with unusual--but not unwelcomed--ferocity. The blonde tried to wrap his long legs around Dee's, but the dark-haired man motioned for him to remain standing. Dee slid his hands up underneath Ryo's tee, his mouth moving down to suck on the blonde's pulse point, grinning against inflamed skin as Ryo panted with pleasure. The tips of his fingers skimmed lightly over Ryo's sensitized skin, scraping his fingernails over the tightened nubs, enjoying the way his lover arched into his embrace. While one thumb teased a nipple, the other skimmed down Ryo's stomach, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants... Afterwards, Dee held his shivering body, pressing kisses against his face and lips. Dee smirked as he pulled back far enough to smile into his lover's face. "We'd better get back to that hotel room." Ryo smiled as looped his arms around Dee's neck. "Let's run" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dee and Ryo tore out of the alley, Ryo in the lead, their hands linked. Underneath a pinstripe awning, someone dressed in a black suit and a fedora was smoking a cigarette. The two lovers nearly ran into the man, Dee calling out an apology as they continued on their way to the privacy of their hotel. A gloved thumb pushed the fedora up enough to reveal eerie black eyes. An evil grin contorted the face. Unnoticed, hanging out of Dee's back pocket, a silver charm clinked inaudibly.

Chapter Six: The Lovers -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Marie Laveau (1794? - June 16, 1881?) was an American practitioner of voodoo. For such an important figure in American folklore, very little can be known certainly about her life. She is supposed to have been born in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana in 1794, the daughter of a white planter and a black woman. She married Jacques Paris, a free Black, on August 4, 1819; her marriage certificate is preserved in Saint Louis Cathedral in New Orleans. M. Paris died in 1820 under unexplained circumstances; after his death, Marie Laveau became a hairdresser who catered to wealthy white families. She took a lover, Luis Christopher Duminy de Glapion, with whom she lived until his death in 1835. Of her magical career, little definite can be said. She is said to have had a snake called Zombi. Oral traditions suggest that the occult part of her magic mixed Roman Catholic beliefs and saints with African spirits and religious concepts. It is also alleged that her feared magical powers came in fact from a network of informants in the households of the prominent that she developed while a hairdresser. On June 16, 1881, the New Orleans newspapers announced that Marie Laveau had died. This is noteworthy if only because she continued to be seen in the town after her supposed demise. It is claimed that one of her daughters by M. Glapion assumed her name and carried on her magical practice after her death. She is buried in Saint Louis Cemetery #1 in New Orleans, in the Glapion family crypt. The tomb continues to attract visitors who draw three crosses (XXX) on its side, hoping that her spirit will grant them a wish. --from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Beneath an overhang across the street from Place d'Armes, a man in a black suit and fedora leaned against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette. He pushed his hat up slightly, smoke curling around his face and hat before drifting skywards. Dark eyes fixed on the open second-story window of the hotel across from him, and he grinned. Lustful energy poured from the window, free of the love and care that had been mingling in it only days before. Not that the few people walking Jackson Square and St. Anne's could see it: It was only something that a hoodoo user could see, although others could feel the effects of it. He noticed that a few drunken couples were groping one another further down the street, the fringes of the aura mixing with the alcohol in their blood. A gloved hand slid into his pocket, pulling out a blood red stone. His dark eyes greedily watched the aura trickle into the stone, a small flame flickering deep inside it, growing brighter and brighter in his hand. The flow ebbed from the window, but his face didn't show any worry. He had hidden a trump card with the two lovers. Their bodies needed rest at the moment, but soon would be supplying him with more sweet energy. Soon... I'm so close... "What the hell are you doing here?" The voice was clipped and accented, but the English was almost formally perfect, not the normal jargon he was used to hearing in that voice. He tapped ash off the end of his cigarette, not looking up. He tried to discretely slide his hand into his pocket, hiding the jewel, distracting his opponent by taking a drag on his cigarette, the cherry end flaring as it burned paper and tobacco. "Hello Mademoiselle Marie Laveau." "I said it once, I'll say it again. What the hell are you doing here?" Marie demanded, crossing her arms. The man dressed in black took another long drag on his cigarette, drawing the tension out a little longer, making her sweat. "Good vibes." "Good vibes?" the woman nearly spit his own words back at him, her face contorted in fury. She gathered up her long skirts, storming across the paved street to stand eye to eye with him. "You'd better leave those two the fuck alone." "Ooh, so you've gotten wind of them as well." The man smirked down at her. "They're pretty as well as useful, no? Interested, ma petite? Hoping they'll let you participate, or do you just prefer to watch?" "You're sick." "I am." Black eyes lingered on a black choker around her neck, and he brought a finger up to trace the front. "So graceful. You shouldn't cover your body like that." Her hand moved before he could see it, catching him across the cheek. The skin stung, and his hat fell to the ground, his face still hidden by shadows. The man tutted, putting a hand over his cheek. "Now now, my pet." His hand snatched out to grab her throat, and he pressed her up against the wall, smiling at her in a way that sent shivers down her spine. "You shouldn't exhibit such behavior towards your master," he scolded, bringing his face to her ear and licking it wetly. Marie shivered, but pushed him away. "Bastard. One day I'm going to kill you." "Yes, yes, and you'll dance on my grave, won't you Marie?" the man replied, brushing a thumb over her bottom lip. "Go draw your silly x's on your grandmother's grave. Then come see me. My magic's stronger than a dead woman's." He pressed two fingers against his lips, then against Marie's. The woman flinched, turning her face away. The man laughed, stooping briefly to pick up his fedora before disappearing into the shadows of the French Quarter. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dee Laytner yawned, leaning against the railing clad in nothing but a towel. The city was quiet, the predawn stillness reminding him vaguely of the New York. Even Bourbon Street was relatively calm, with only a few late-late night drunks stumbling around the streets in the predawn light. His entire body felt sore. Since Ryo's... exuberance... the night before on Bourbon Street, the quickie in the alley had done nothing to put an edge on the blonde's sex drive--in fact, they had ended up taking the stairs because they missed the floor three times taking the elevator (although, and Dee smirked as he thought of this, there were only two floors in the hotel), and even then the two had ended up fucking like animals halfway up the flight, Ryo's back pressed up against the wall as he sat on the railing, moaning like a porn star as Dee took him. By the time they ended up at their room, both their hands fumbling to unlock the room, whatever that had gotten into Ryo had also gotten into Dee. The two barely made it to their bed, both men stripping clothing off themselves and one another, fingers ripping at stubborn clothing and catches. Finally, with minimal preparation, Ryo had been bent over the mattress, crying into the comforter as his lover thrust into him hard and fast. Dee raised a hand to his face, rubbing the skin in an attempt to keep himself awake. He had never thought that he would be able to have sex with Ryo as much as he had the previous night, but it had been no effort at all (although now he was feeling the effects). At the moment, his lover was sleeping soundly in their bed, but something had drawn him to the window. Now he knew why. The peacefulness over Jackson Quarter at the moment was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. He heard Ryo stir in the bed behind him, and turned towards the sound. Seeing Ryo sleeping in their bed, the sunlight streaming through the open windows and turning his tousled dark blonde hair a lighter shade of blonde, and his pale skin standing out even more against the dark comforter. The man sleeping before him was without a doubt the most beautiful thing in his world. As he walked towards the bed to join his lover, his foot caught against the leg of his jeans. The pants moved along with his foot, and the detective stopped momentarily when he heard something clink against the floor. He reached down and rooted around in his pockets, his fingers curling around something cold and metal, which he hauled out to get a look at. It was a half-dollar sized charm on a chain, all in silver with what looked like sunrays around the face of the charm, which were inlaid with pieces of yellow glass. The face of the charm had a deeply engraved mark on it, filled in with a slick red paint. Dee held it up by the end of the chain, staring at the charm as it spun this way and that in the early morning light. What the hell is this? Ryo stirred in their bed again, dark brown eyes sliding open. He smiled as he saw his lover, raising his hand towards the dark-haired man. Dee tossed the charm over his shoulder haphazardly, not noticing when it skidded over to the balcony--and off the side--to fall into Ryo's arms. The blonde snuggled up to him, nuzzling his neck and pressing warm kisses against the skin. "Ryo, baby, I love you but I'm tired," Dee protested, and the blonde chuckled. "Me too. But I sleep better when you're next to me." The two lulled themselves to sleep, hands stroking up and down bare skin, and the gentle beating of one another's hearts playing soothing lullabies to the tired lovers. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When he awoke later that day, Dee didn't even remember the charm.

Chapter Seven: The Chariot -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One of the more distinguished aspects of New Orleans Culture is the Jazz Funeral. Architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe noted in 1819 that the New Orleans Jazz funerals were, "peculiar to New Orleans alone among all American cities. The late JazzMan Danny Barker writing in his book Bourbon Street Black noted the funeral is seen as "a major celebration.The roots of the Jazz Funeral date back to Africa. Four centuries ago, the Dahomeans of Benin and the Yoruba of Nigeria, West Africa were laying the foundation for one of today's most novel social practices on the North American Continent, the Jazz Funeral." The secret societies of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people assured fellow tribesmen that a proper burial would be performed at the time of death. To accomplish this guarantee, resources were pooled to form what many have labeled an early form of insurance. When slaves were brought to America, the idea of providing a proper burial to your fellow brother or sister remained strong. As time passed, these very same concepts that were rooted in African ideology became one of the basic principles of the social and pleasure club. The social and pleasure club guaranteed proper burial conditions as did many fraternal orders and lodges to any member who passed. These organizations were precursors to the concept of burial insurance and the debit insurance companies. The practice of having music during funeral processions, Danny Barker said, was added to the basic African pattern of celebration for most aspects of life including death. As the Brass Band became increasingly popular during the early 18th Century, they were frequently called on to play processional music. Eileen Southern in The Music of Black American wrote, "On the way to the cemetery it was customary to play very slowly and mournfully a dirge, or an 'old Negro spiritual' such as "Nearer My God to Thee," but on the return from the cemetery, the band would strike up a rousing, "When the Saints Go Marching In', or a ragtime song such as "Didn't He Ramble." Sidney Bechet, the renown New Orleans JazzMan after observing the celebrations of the jazz funeral stated, "music here is as much a part of death as it is of life." The traditional New Orleans Jazz Funeral is as much a part of the fabric and rich cultural traditions of New Orleans as red beans and rice. --from neworleansonline . com -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A young woman standing on a wooden soapbox in Jackson Square sang to the passersby in a sweet a cappella. A few people stopped to listen, and she thanked those that dropped cumpled bills into the bowler hat at her feet. She was talented, so there was quite a pile of cash before her. And she was pretty, in a sort of 'white trash' bleached-blonde with dark roots kinda way. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream." "Burns," Ryo wispered to his partner as they listened to the singing. Dee looked at his lover, dark eyebrows raised in curiosity and slight alarm. "What burns?" "The song," Ryo replied, smiling at Dee. "The lyrics are by Robert Burns. It's his poem Afton Water he wrote about the Afton River in Scotland." "How do you know that?" Ryo fixed his dark gaze on the singing street preformer, avoiding Dee's intense emerald eyes. "My father was fond of Burns. He used to read his poetry to me when I was little." Dee put an arm around Ryo's shoulders, pulling his partner close to his side and pressing a kiss against the pale forehead underneath the dark blonde strands. They applauded politely when the song ended, Dee tossing a folded up fiver into the pile growing at the girl's feet. The taller detective looped an arm around the shorter's waist, hooking his thumb into one of Ryo's belt loops as they wandered the Quarter. There was a wide range of stores linging the streets, but by far the most were souvenir shops. It gave the city a very New York-ish air, with the tacky t-shirts and 'New Orleans' memorabilia displayed in the windows and local music flowing from the speakers, spilling into the streets. And where "I HEART NY" was plastered over everything at home, here the colors purple, green and yellow were everywhere. Ryo tugged at his shirt sleeve as they wandered, stopping him. "Look, Dee," he motioned, pointing across the street. What looked like a prayer garden behind an old church was full of people. Whitewashed wrought iron had ivory vines twined around the intricate ironwork, the dark deep green contrasting against the bright white. Beyond the fence, he could barely make out marble slabs, about a foot thick but buried in the wild ivy. "Huh, it's a graveyard," Dee replied. He looked over into dark eyes. "Wanna go over?" Ryo shook his head furiously and Dee laughed. "Gives me the willies, man," the half-Japanese man said, shivering. Dee tightened his arms around the other man, pulling him closer and thoroughly enjoying the unconscious flush that covered the man's pale cheeks. "Y'know... you look so cute when you blush." "Stop," Ryo protested, his blush deepening when his lover leaned over to nibble the top of his ear. "Really makes me want to go get you a Hurricane." "Dee Latyner!" the blonde hissed, turning bright red and elbowing his lover in the stomach. Dee, in turn, laughed. He knew his partner was just playing--hell, he hadn't even nudged him hard. As the wandered the Quarter, they gradually became aware of the sound of jazz music. And not the music that was coming from the street preformers or splashing out onto the street from open stores, but the same type of music, a mix of upbeat gospel music and jazz improv, growing louder and louder. Finally, as they turned onto Bourbon Street, they could see a procession coming down the street: A horse and buggy, followed by a gathering of people walking behind it. The two could make out umbrellas--most either black or yellow, which threw Dee off a bit--over some of the people, who were spinning them around and dancing with them. Between the procession and the cart, however, was a small jazz band: a trombone player who was as tall and thin as his instrument; a white female clarinet with unruly brown hair and a blacked-out face so she could blend in with the rest of the band; a trumpeter who was playing with his all while still being able to pull off a look of arrogance; and a large tuba player dancing behind his three peers as if his instrument was weightless. "I thought Bourbon Street was a closed road," Ryo whispered as the group drew closer. The wagon passed them, the stench of sweaty horse strong, and in the cart behind the animal, through the clear glass sides, they could make out a coffin. "I guess they make exceptions," Dee replied, watching the funeral pass. Directly behind the band was an elderly black woman, dressed in grey and carrying a framed picture of a large black man, sobbing into a hankerchif while a man who looked like her son carried a black umbrella next to her. Themusic switched from the upbeat 'When the Saints Go Marching In' to a jazzy rendition of 'Amazing Grace', the procession slowing to stop before a bar. All of Bourbon Street was relatively quiet when the trumpet's last note sang high, echoing slightly in the silence as the golden instrument was lowered. "Ladies and gentlemen!" a middle-aged white woman was standing on the second landing of the bar, a megaphone up to her mouth. She was dressed in black as well, but her crimped hair was festooned with green, yellow and purple ribbons. "Today we have all come to say good-bye to our very dear friend, Mr. Timothy Hebert. Tim was a part-owner here, and became an owner so he wouldn't have to pay for his drinks no more." The crowd chuckled and some of those gathered behind the casket lifted their umbrellas in a 'here here' motion. "Now Tim, he had himself a philosophy. He often said the only things he ever needed was his wife, a bottle of Jack, and the Lord God." The megaphone went silent for a moment as the co-owner leaned over to get something next to her. Dee could hear the sniffling of the widow ten feet from him, and he hugged Ryo to him. Give me just a little more time with him, please. "Well, Timmy, you're with God now. And we're gonna hang onto that pretty wife o' yours; she's needed down here a little while longer." She showed a full bottle of Jack Daniels to the crowd, the white and black label unreadable from the height but unmistakable nonetheless. "Here's your Jack, to hold ya over." With that, she tipped the bottle over, the clear amber liquid dribbling from the bottle and splashing onto the casket. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "That was rather interesting," Ryo remarked as the procession turned off Bourbon Street, the jazz music lively once again as it faded off into the distance. "I think 'interesting' is quite the understatement," Dee agreed, nodding his head. "I forgot ya Yanks ain't neva seen a jazz funeral," came the soft feminine reply, signaling that Marie was around them. "You know, there are anti-stalking laws in this country for a reason," Dee remarked, turning to mock-glower at her. "I can' help it; y'all got such good energy I'm just attracted to y'all," she replied, grinning. "With all the negative energy floatin' around, it's refreshin' to come in contact with some postitive once'n a while." Ryo was watching where the funeral party had disappeared. "Those are called jazz funerals?" Marie nodded, curly brown hair bouncing. "They with th' Good Lord now; so instead o' mournin', we celebrate. They happy up there, why should we be sad for them?" A distant look crossed Marie's face. "Although that man was taken before his time, cha. I feel sorry for his pauvre Madame, I do." "He was in an accident?" "Murdered," Marie replied. "N'awlins has got itself a serial killer, it do. Usin' tarot cards." Dee and Ryo exchanged glances. "Can you tell us more about this, Marie?" Ryo asked, cocking his head to one side. Marie grinned. "Sure, but have y'all eaten yet? It's a long story, and I'm starvin."

Chapter Eight: Strength -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The muffuletta (with numerous alternate spellings) is a type of Sicilian bread, and the name of a sandwich from New Orleans, Louisiana made using it. The bread is a large, round, and somewhat flat loaf, around 10 inches (25 cm) across. It has a sturdy texture, and is described as being somewhat similar to focaccia. The muffaletta sandwich originated in 1906 at Central Grocery, operated by Salvatore Lupo, a Sicilian immigrant. The sandwich is popular with city natives and visitors, and has been described as "one of the great sandwiches of the world". Central Grocery still serves the sandwich using the original recipe; however, other variations of this sandwich are served throughout the city. The locals have differing opinions on which shop serves the best muffuletta. A typical muffuletta consists of one muffuletta loaf, split horizontally. The loaf is then covered with a marinated olive salad, then layers of ham, salami, mortadella, and provolone. The olive salad is considered the heart of the sandwich, and consists primarily of olives, along with celery, cauliflower, and carrot. The ingredients are combined, seasonings are added, covered in olive oil and allowed to combine for at least 24 hours. The sandwich is often heated through to soften the provolone. --from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The line at Cafe Maspero was almost around the corner when Marie, Dee and Ryo queued up. "Th' wait 's worth it, though I'm sorry we gotta stand in line," Marie said, smiling at them. "Don't worry, it's the same in New York," Ryo reassured her, a smile gracing his face. Marie laughed. "True Yankees! Y'all live in the city?" "Born and raised," Ryo replied. "Moi aussi, me too. Nothin' like big city livin', it's an experience all it own. Ev'ry city's got the same elements, but they've got their own auras. N'awlins has the air of both party central and mysticism." "I have heard the word of God!" The three turned to look down the line where a woman was preaching, her clothes ragged and dirty and her hair messy. Others were watching her, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. "Oh, yes! And God has said Don' trust the po-lice!" The two detectives exchanged knowing looks, biting their lower lips to keep from cracking up. "And, of course, like every other city, we have our religious nuts," Marie commented, rolling her eyes. Dee snorted and managed to turn his chuckles into a coughing fit. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Maspero was packed, which Marie assured them was the norm. "Th' food ain't all that great, but it's better than some," she said as they sat at their table. "It's a lan'mark, ya just gotta come an' eat here." "Oh, Marie! Ca va?" The three turned to look at their waiter, a young, scrawny white man with a greasy-looking ponytail and a stained tee shirt who was smiling at the young woman. "I'm fine, Christophe, and not everyone at this table speaks French," she said calmly, smiling as she gently rebuked the man. "Sorry," he said, his English accented but not as heavily as Marie's. "I just assumed, since you were with Marie. I'm Chris, by the way." Ryo and Dee shook the young man's hand, and Marie explained how she knew the young man. "Christope's grandmother is a client of mine." "Yeah," Chris agreed, grinning and sticking his pencil behind his ear. "Maw Maw's a big believer in voodoo. While I don't necessarily believe in what Marie does, I just know that she makes that poor ol' woman feel a lot better," he finished with a laugh. "Pshaw, a lot of voodoo's mind over matter anyway--just like everything else," Marie added with a laugh of her own. "Nonsense, today's on me anyway." Chris took his pencil out from behind his ear and pointed the eraser end at the two detectives. "Y'all vegetarian?" Dee and Ryo exchanged glances before Ryo answered for both of them. "No..." "Jewish?" "No." "Okay, three muffulettas and three cokes. We've got Coke, Sprite, Dr. P... What do y'all want?" "Coke sounds fine," Dee said, and Ryo nodded in agreement. "All righty then, it'll be out in two shakes, Yankee boys," Chris said with a grin before walking back into the kitchen to put the order in. "Christophe's a good man, but he's not quite all there," Marie said with a grin. "Just like his Maw Maw." "I thought you just read tarot cards," Dee said, propping his chin in his hands to look at the girl. "I do that on occasion now," Marie replied. "I've got a lot of personal clients who have me do spells an' mix potions for 'em--mostly elderly people, the younger generations don' believe in magic and voodoo outside of movies anymore." "But you seem to be pretty comfortable," Ryo replied and Marie grinned. "Thanks to my clients. Most pay me in barter--I get fed for my services, most times. Tourists such as y'selves pay for tarot readings, mostly. Exotic an' all that." "Yeah, the first time we met you we found that tarot card," Ryo replied. "Ah, so y'all are the detectives from N'York. Didn't peg y'all for cops, honestly," she said calmly, smiling up as Chris brought them their drinks. "How'd you know?" "N'awlin's finest came and found me after y'all gave my sketch to 'em," Marie replied, taking a long pull from her straw. "'Cause of who I am, they think I'm good for the crimes--despite my many alibis." "Because of who you are?" Dee echoed, the two detectives exchanging looks. "Marie's the descendant of Marie Laveau!" Chris exclaimed, frowning at Dee and Ryo. The two New York natives gave the young man a blank look back. "Tourists," Chris muttered, walking away and shaking his head. Marie chuckled. "My great-great-great grandmother was one of the most famous voodoo users in the area. People still go out and pray at her tomb." "And you kept up the family practice," Ryo replied. Marie nodded. "What people don' know scares the hell out of 'em. Which is why this case is freakin' people out. "Th' papers ain't got nothin' about it, but everybody knows. Someone's killin' people, puttin' down tarot cards next to the body. At firs' people thought it was a vigilante, wipin' out the sinners an' such, but now they're not so sure. Word says it's voodoo killin's, got people up at night prayin' rosaries." "Voodoo killings?" the blonde asked, taking a sip of his own drink. Marie looked around before leaning in closer. "I only know this 'cause the cops've questioned me three times--the bodies are us'lly found drained of blood. 'Cause of the cards, they think it's some sort of ritual." The girl leaned back, smoothing out the folds of her skirt that were gathered on her lap. "What mos' people don' know, they make up--ya got the Church, ya got voodoo, ya got all sorts o' things others don' dare dream. I'm sure as cops y'all understand when I say there's a lotta stuff that's pretty damn hard to explain, either up here--" she tapped the side of her head, "--or in the natural world. So when people start showin' up with about 1/10th of the blood they're supposed to have in their body, people tend ta freak. They think vampires, usually, but... Some strange shit's been happenin' around town, too." "What do you mean?" Dee asked, his forehead furrowing. "N'awlins is ten feet below sea level, which is why our dead our buried above ground," Marie explained. "Someone's been goin' around at night, desecrating graves, writing stuff on 'em. An' the cops told me during one o' my interviews that some of the blood from the victims has showed up on 'em. An' the bodies go missing three days after they're laid to rest. Which makes the cops think that it's some sort of twisted religious psycho thing." The conversation paused when Chris brought out their muffulettas, which were about four inches thick and eight inches across, perfectly round and spilling over with veggies and meat. The two detectives tried to cut it down to size--or at least in half--while Marie simply picked up the entire thing and chomped into it. They ate in relative silence, more intent on the meal than the case, although Dee wasn't stupid. This had piqued Ryo's interest and nothing would deter him from doing a little amateur snooping around. Might as well join him so he doesn't get shot or jinxed or anything... "There is one interesting fact about the murders that the cops never picked up on, though," Marie said, pausing before finishing her last few bites to wipe at her mouth with her napkin. "All the victims were mixed." "Pardon?" Dee asked around a mouthful of bread and meat. "Mixed. Mixed race. Like me, an' Ryo here, an' ya too Dee." She grinned, brushing a lock of unruly hair behind her ear. "Ev'rybody gives off their own auras. Those of mixed race give off diff'rnt ones than people who are jus' white or jus' black. It's hard ta explain if ya can't see it." "So are you saying that people of mixed heritage are at more of a risk?" Ryo asked. "I dunno, but I can tell ya this," Marie answered, picking up her drink to take a sip. She paused after a second, pulling the straw from her mouth. "If it is a voodoo killin'... He's usin' some of the best materials for dark magic."

Chapter Nine: The Hermit -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Necromancy (Latin necromantia, Greek nekromantia) is the alleged divination by which a person raises the spirits of the dead or, in some cases, merely their corpses. The word derives from the Greek nekros "dead" and manteia "divination". It has a subsidiary meaning reflected in an alternative and archaic form of the word, nigromancy, (a folk etymology using Latin niger, "black") in which the magical force of "dark powers" is gained from or by acting upon corpses. A practitioner of necromancy is a necromancer. --from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Once upon a time, there was a young man who had a beautiful wife. He and his new bride loved each other very very much. One day, his wife died when she was still very young. This, of course, devastated her husband. However, instead of grieving for his loss, he went... a little crazy. He became convinced that his beautiful wife had been cursed by a voodoo priestess by the name of Marie Laveau. The thought of his wife being cursed for something was maddening, and the man began practicing voodoo himself. Particularly the forbidden magic, necromancy. The man had the talent for it, as it turned out. He quickly became one of the best voodoo practitioners, but no one knew it, save his teacher. To the man, necromancy was a way of bringing his wife back from the grave. However, all magic comes at a high price. The price for a life... Is a life in return. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Marie stopped on the way home to throw up her lunch. She didn't need to eat--not anymore--and only did so to keep up appearances. You see, Marie Laveau was the granddaughter of the original Marie Laveau. However, she told everyone that she was her great-great granddaughter to keep people from asking the very obvious question: Why would the granddaughter of Laveau look to be close to twenty when she should be pushing seventy? The answer was more than complicated. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A young mulatto woman shivered apprehensively. her eyes cut up to look at her customer, a figure clad in a black pinstripe suit, a black fedora covering his eyes. The candle flickering on her small table cast faint light and sharp shadows on his face. His black eyes seemed to suck up what light reached it. She tore her gaze from his, looking down at her table. She was in the middle of a tarot card reading, her hand hovering just above the final card. Her instinct was to run, leave the reading half-done, and fuck the consequences. She had never seen a reading this bleak before. The cards told her that this customer was... evil. That he would kill to gain power. That he already had. Her hand barely touched the back of the final card, and she felt a shudder run through her arm. She swallowed thickly, but turned it over anyway. The Tower Card. The worst card in the entire Major Arcana. "Well, well, well... Looks like you lose." Dark brown eyes snapped up to stare at her customer, eyes wide with fear. He grabbed her frizzy brown hair fiercely, knocking the table over. The candle gutted out on the cold stone of Jackson Square, scented wax hardening immediately. She opened her mouth to scream, but found she couldn't. He smiled and waved a gloved hand at her, and she cursed inwardly. There was hoodoo magic all over it. He had cursed her the moment he touched her. He yanked her head back, exposing her throat in the pale light of the secluded square. He leaned down, inhaling her scent and licking at her skin. And she couldn't even shudder. Bastard... "Bonne nuit, ma petite," he whispered into her ear, reaching across her neck to slide the cool metal of a knife across her throat. He pulled it back towards him, and the blade bit into her skin. Warm sticky blood spilled across the murder's clothing and the cold stone. Her breathing became short and labored, the blood from her main arteries flowing down her trachea into her lungs. She was drowning, the world was getting darker... The next thing Marie remembered, that damn man was standing over her, wiping his blade clean and smirking at her as she slowly realized that she couldn't feel. She certainly saw the blood, her blood, all over the street and on her clothing, but she couldn't feel it; nor could she feel the street that she knew should be cold, or the breeze that was moving her hair and her clothing. And she definitely couldn't feel the gold chain around her wrist, couldn't feel its coldness or its weight, but it was glinting in the light. Marie unconsciously fingered it as she hurried home, damning the man again and again. She still remembered the horror when she recognized the symbol, a zombie spell around inlaid pieces of yellow glass, the deep engravings stained with her own blood. Her soul was captured, trapped in a body that didn't have a heartbeat, that was moving solely on her master's magic. His magic was what kept her--and him--young, but it also bound her to him. She couldn't say or do anything that he didn't want her to. Which is why she had never broken under police interrogation. She could talk about the case, but no specifics. Like being there and watching the man kill innocents, stalking them and sucking their energy until they were empty and then taking their blood as well. She opened the door to her house--although it was more like a shack--on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. She wrinkled her nose against the stench she knew was there, although she couldn't smell it. Her master was such a slob--he enjoyed torturing her by leaving bloodied knives and clothing, buckets full of dark goopy blood and decomposing bodies attracting flies and maggots and insects of every kind. "About damn time you got home," she heard him grump, and Marie frowned at the man. "Shut up, Joe." "Oh, temper temper!" the man chastised, grinning at her over the top of a thick tome. "How were you lover boys?" "Fuck you." The book shut with a loud thump, dust flying from the pages. "Marie. You're not going to talk to me like that." He crossed the room to stare her down, running a finger down her collarbone to trace the top of her shirt. "I am your master and as such I deserve respect." "Yeah, well, I deserve to be actually alive, you asshole." He backhanded her, hard, but she couldn't feel the sting on her cheek. The insult stung her pride, however. "Marie. Stop being a bitch. For that, you're going to take a life for me tonight." Marie winced, turning her face away. She felt sick, wishing she could throw up. Because of her mouth, someone else had to die. "Of course..." Joe drawled, tracing lower to dip his forefinger into her cleavage. "There's always other ways for you to convince me otherwise." Joe was a sick man. He had his fetishes, but if it meant someone else would live to see another day she'd gladly suffer them.