A/N: I would like to thank dorkshadows on tumblr for the inspiration for this story!
Rated M, as all the best fics are, for language, alcohol use, tobacco use, probably drug use at some point, who knows with me, violence, sex, and adult themes.
Also, though I have noticed they've been calling him "Blavat" in the official translations, I'll stick with "Bravat."
Hazy white sunlight streamed in through the attic window, a grainy spotlight on the strange, gothic scene: three men, clad in old-fashioned black clerical robes, and a rangy, pinched-looking couple huddled together, all hunched over a thrashing figure on the bed at the head of the room.
"God, the father in heaven," The man who spoke first had wild, light hair, tinted purplish in the deep afternoon light. It lent him an ethereal air, otherworldly and reassuring against this unknown evil.
"Have mercy on us." The other priests responded solemnly, the girl's parents mumbling along a half-second off beat.
"God, the Son, Redeemer of the World."
"Have mercy on us." The parents spoke just as weakly as before, but in time with the priests.
The girl on the bed's thrashing increased in ferocity, the mattress squeaking pathetically in time with her movements. Her wrists and ankles were held to the bedposts with thick leather cuffs—"for everyone's safety," the light-haired man had said as he'd fastened them, when her mother had uttered a stifled noise of protest—but her back arched hideously, and her head whipped back and forth to a frantic tempo. Her mouth was opening and closing, her eyes rolling back in her head.
"God, the Holy Spirit."
"Have mercy on us." The shorter priest, with the soft brown hair and glasses, laid a hand on the mother's shoulder. Her hands were clasped together in fervent prayer.
"Holy Trinity, one God."
"Have mercy on us."
"Holy Mary, pray for us."
"FUCK ME, SATAN," the girl screamed in a raspy growl. Her mother let out a cawing sob; her father's mouth settled into a hard line.
"The demon is trying to provoke you," the glasses priest reminded the couple in a quiet voice, as the light-haired man continued with the Litany of Saints. "We are calling upon its enemies for strength; it senses defeat and it is trying desperately to fight us."
The parents wound more and more tightly into each other; they seemed so tense that they might snap in half.
"FUCK YOUR FUCKING WHORE MOTHER!" the girl cried in that same hoarse voice—"not her voice, a strange man's voice"—the mother had said urgently, a rosary gripped tightly in her fist.
"From all evil, deliver us, O Lord." The room itself was sweaty, stifling. All but for the girl on the bed, the scene was preternaturally still, as if to counter those wild words and movements. The mother dabbed daintily at her eyes with a hankie that, despite its brief appearance, seemed worn and tired. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind; everything in the house, from the couple who owned it to the patchwork bedspread in the attic bedroom, seemed dilapidated.
All except their oldest daughter; she was too alive, too vibrant. Too full of ugliness and hate.
"I command you, unclean spirit," spoke the light-haired man in a booming, velvet voice. He plowed on faithfully as the girl screamed hideous curses at him. Patiently, he uncorked a crystal vial, sprinkling its contents over the girl, as he continued to speak. She screamed hideously, panting like a sick beast.
The parents excused themselves before the ritual was complete—the man claimed his wife didn't feel well, couldn't handle the stress—but relief had been written across his face as well.
At last, sweaty and stupefied from the filtered heat, the three men spoke the final words of deliverance. "Amen."
A silent, still tension followed, the girl limp in her restraints, breathing shallowly. They all breathed a sigh of relief. She would have nightmares, but she would awake whole, unaware of the possession, the memories and dreams falling away from her conscience like dead leaves.
They descended the stairs slowly, like old men. It's done, they said.
Finally, a soft breeze trickled in through the open windows, and the house began to cool down.
New Orleans was decaying, a moldy relic of a prosperity that had ended almost a hundred years ago.
A buyer's market, for sure: Bravat had gotten a great deal on his Creole townhouse.
The city was fitful; perhaps it was the blurry heat or the restless and angry dead, locked in their marble boxes above ground. The people sweated and cried out in church; they spoke in tongues and they got possessed by demons.
Except, of course, they didn't.
Bravat struck a match, a cinematic schhick! and lit his ornate ivory pipe. He'd started smoking a pipe as a smirking in-joke with himself, and an in-joke it had remained: people assumed he was trying to fit in, trying to be a true Southern gentleman.
Oh well. The rush of nicotine hit him all the same.
He figured the girl was acting out; usually the really histrionic ones, the ones who shrieked obsceneties—fuck me, satan, really, she must have read that in some dime-store paperback—were kids wound a little too tightly who'd found a way to have their cake and eat it, too. They could scream and rage for a little while, and then step right back into their neat little lives.
After he rounded the corner, he paused and swung off the dusty black robe he'd found at a church sale, the same one where he'd found his two assistants and a particularly nice flowerpot. The assistants were, unlike Bravat, real priests; maybe they even believed they were performing real exorcisms. But they didn't ask many questions, and they seemed pious and eager.
Beneath his robe he wore light linen trousers and a simple white shirt; its rolled-up sleeves revealed tattoos of the constellations. He tilted his head to look at the stars; hardly any were visible in the blurry summer sky. He lifted his pipe to his lips and ran the other hand through his spiky, purplish hair. He'd meant to bleach it blonde, but he'd mixed up the chemicals wrong. He quite liked the result.
The evening was a cacophony of quiet; bullfrog song, the faraway streetcars, and the muffled sounds of record players behind closed doors. That was something Bravat loved about the city: the heavy nights were always lush and alive. He began to whistle a snippet of an Irish drinking song as he approached the front door, nearly hidden behind a curtain of flowering vines that spilled from the top porch.
The front parlor where Bravat saw his clients was stuffy and oppressive, stained with the smell of incense and crowded with odd little knickknacks. By comparison, the kitchen at the rear of the house was fairly sparse: old-fashioned checkerboard tile; a rounded red refrigerator that had been scrounged from the curb where it had been abandoned; simple round wooden table with three chairs. But at least there was a fan in here. One of these days, he would really look into getting air conditioning.
He rummaged in the icebox and extracted a bottle of expensive Russian vodka and a jar of pickles. He sat at the table, alternately sipping and crunching. The next-door neighbor's jazz filtered in through the wall: Lester Young, maybe? He should really invest in a record player, too.
Outside, the darkness was coiling and alive.
First, he'd been an odd child: Mommy, there's something on your shoulder. Then he'd been a dreamy teenager, waltzing into medical school on the grace of his excellent scores and reverent letters of recommendation. He'd even watched a surgery, fervently taking notes from the top row of an operating theater.
He'd seen the things, winged, with dumb slobbering underbites and wickedly sharp talons, hovering over the body, waiting. He knew by then that he was supposed to ignore them, and he said nothing. When they'd dissected cadavers, he'd seen the skinny, snake-like things nibbling its organs and sipping its rancid blood.
Pointless, all of it. Bravat had lasted a year and a half, never quite able to roust himself from a warm night's blankets to return to school. He knew enough.
He was alive, and that was all that mattered.
The ladies wore heavy clothes, proper and rigorously feminine despite the heat. The base part of Bravat's brain couldn't help but appreciate the low necklines and pinching corsets that pushed busts up and out, and the beads of sweat dripping lasciviously along curves. The younger women forsook hosiery, and skirts and petticoats swished about shiny bare knees.
Though the sun had only just begun to set, the inside of the bar was dim and mercifully cool. The evening hadn't yet begun in earnest, and the jazz trio—three young black guys who played here every Friday night there wasn't football―was still setting up. Bravat waved hello, and they offered him a murmured round of greetings before returning to their instruments.
The place was integrated, a little oasis amid the outcry over desegregation. There was live music more often than not, and everyone was content to drink too much, laugh, and dance. The white bars were all too quiet and tense: a distinct sense that no one was having a good time. Doubly so for the ones in the wealthy neighborhoods.
Bravat grabbed a handful of peanuts, dropping the shells carelessly to the floor as he leaned against the bar, and ordered a vodka. No pickles, and the stuff he kept at home was much nicer, but he liked the live music and the chaos of people. He scoped out the room; about half the tables were full. Incubi and succubae were pooled hopefully in the dark corners, waiting.
He surreptitiously shooed a handful of them away from a dusty table and sat with his drink and the bowl of peanuts he'd swiped from the bartop. He watched the girls two tables away; one of them was already pink-cheeked, laughing and talking animatedly. Her companion seemed a little abashed by this, glancing around occasionally to see if anyone was reacting.
As the workday ended, people began to filter in, and soon the girls were hidden among the crowd. The music started, straight-ahead jazz, and a few people got up to dance while others clapped and cheered. Bravat lit his pipe and shut his eyes to listen.
"How about a cigarette instead?" A low, sultry voice cut through the din, and Bravat snapped to attention.
His heart pounded, hard, and a surge of adrenaline thudded through him like an aftershock.
It was a demon.
He was far too pale for the merciless sunshine, and his black hair was pulled back into a low, messy ponytail. He smiled wolfishly, his angular features almost aggressively inhuman.
"You..." he trailed off, wide-eyed.
The man lowered his eyelids the tiniest bit. His lashes were long and plush. "Sebastian."
Bravat glanced urgently around the room. "Sit down," he said. "Sebastian," he added dryly.
Reaching across the table, he grabbed the collar of the demon's fitted white tee-shirt and pulled him forward. "You are...not human, right?" he whispered.
The demon froze. He leaned back in his seat, giving Bravat a stunned, questioning look.
He waved a dismissive hand. "I can tell by looking. But yeah, I'm human." A smile crept onto his face. "And by the way, you might want to tone it down a little. I can't believe I'm the first one to call you out."
The demon's face became pouty. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Bravat chuckled and took a sip of vodka. What a weird night. "I mean, your hair, your face, the way you talk. And you're way too pale."
"Well, it's too late to change that now." The demon's voice was clipped, irritated. "And you were the one smoking that stupid pipe."
Bravat was unfazed. "Nice touch on the name, though. Suits you."
Still seeming a bit ill at ease, the demon extracted a cigarette from a plain leather case. He hesitated for a second, then offered one to Bravat.
He gestured with his pipe. "No thanks."
The demon continued to stare at him baldly. Clearly, he got the joke, and he didn't think it was funny. A bit cowed, Bravat pocketed it and accepted the cigarette. It felt oddly light and underwhelming. He smoked a bit clumsily, and the demon seemed amused. They were both quiet for a moment.
"So what do you want?" Bravat asked. "You must have come up to me for some reason."
The demon grimaced delicately. "Ah. I'd heard there was an exorcist in this neighborhood, a real miracle-worker. I figured it had to be you, based on the description."
"Kind of seems like playing with fire, doesn't it?" Bravat was overly casual and friendly, taking a drag from his cigarette. He could tell it annoyed the demon.
The demon glanced at him sharply. "How can you tell what I am? Can you see the others?" He gave a little jerk of his head out toward the bar, toward the incubi and succubae curled around their drunken prey.
"Yeah." He took a lengthy sip of his drink, the demon eyeing him intently. "Dunno, I've always been able to. Have to say though, you're my first demon."
The irony wasn't lost on either of them, and they shared a smirk before the demon grew serious again. His eyes were like dark wine under the greasy bar lights. "So you really just do exorcisms?"
Bravat stubbed out his cigarette. "Yeah, if you can call it that. Pays the bills. But, like I said, you're the first demon I've ever met." The thing eyed him warily for a moment. "Hang on, I need another drink." Bravat made a show of rattling the ice cubes around in his empty glass before sliding off the tall chair and wading through the crowd.
When he returned, the demon was still there. He seemed to have regained his composure, greeting Bravat with a haughty smile. Bravat set the fresh glass of vodka on the table and started to scramble back up into his chair when the demon picked it up and took a sip.
"Hey, that was mine!"
The demon shrugged, holding the glass with comfortable grace; posing.
Bravat huffed. "Whatever." He went straight back to the bar for another.
"So what are you doing here?" he asked without preamble when he returned.
The demon smiled slyly. "A man has needs." His voice was honeyed and sultry.
Bravat rolled his eyes. "Not here here, demon. I mean in New Orleans, in the human realm?"
"It's Sebastian. I'll humor you, since you bought me a drink." He took a long sip of it, and Bravat crossed his arms sternly. The demon―Sebastian―seemed to be getting a little too confident that he held the upper hand. Bravat didn't like it.
Sebastian leaned in, the light forming a grungy halo around his dark hair. His eyes were half-lidded, sleepy. His lips parted. Bravat swallowed unconsciously. "I was bored."
Bravat let out a huff of breath, breaking the spell. "Whatever. You know what, it doesn't matter anyway. Have a nice night." He made to climb down from his chair.
"Shouldn't you pay for those?" Sebastian hadn't flinched at the outburst and was draped lazily in his chair.
Bravat knit his brows in annoyance. "I have a tab, and you're one to talk."
Still with that elegant and predatory air, Sebastian shifted, leaning over to fold his arms on the table and rest his head on them. "Maybe I was telling the truth. Or," his voice fell to a sharpened hush, "I was paying you back by not telling you."
"Yeah, well, forgive me if I'm not impressed by favors from a demon."
Behind Sebastian's mock pout was a hint of sincere displeasure, quickly smoothed over into a flawless look of boredom. "Put it on my tab, then."
Bravat turned to leave, waving a hand carelessly behind him in parting.
Sebastian watched him, lighting another cigarette. Interesting.
TBC