AN: this is my first serious fanfic, guys, and I'm going to treat it as a serious story. I'd really like constructive criticism, such as if Naomi is sounding too much like a mary sue. Thanks!

"Oh, Damballah," I moan, writhing about the circle in the center of Lafayette Cemetery, trying not to snicker and give the ridiculously clichéd voudou ritual away. It isn't as if I enjoy ruining the whole point of voudou, but with the unemployment rate skyrocketing, and the whole getting laid off by a misogynist boss debacle, this is the only thing paying my rent at the moment. Aged 33, and I'm already whoring myself out for cash. Though maybe, in the current state of affairs in our united states, maybe I started late on this whole false advertisement thing.

After all, tourists don't really want to see a real voudou ritual, they want possession and agony and sex and blood. And my boss, Andre, a New Orleans native was fine by that. 20% of my tips from the tourists went to him, of course, and according to his business philosophy, 'it ain't pimping if they enjoy it.' Or something similar.

Jah, my partner-in-crime walks over, making contorted faces that to outsiders looked like possessions, but I know is him trying not to scratch at the Halloween grade makeup covering his face, making him look like a skeleton.

"Kaliah," he intoned as I curved around, stretching muscles in my sides that had no interest in being stretched. "you have pleased Damballah. Damballah rewards his followers well." Jah continues, knowing as well as I did that, were this an actual ritual, Damballah would be giving hell. My writhing as though in the throes of lust wasn't a Damballah approved act. The lwa actually preferred offerings in the form of rum, cigarettes, cigars, and small cakes. On an altar. That was blessed and used correctly.

Wrapping a red scarf around my waist, Jah's face twitches again, sweat running down the heavy makeup on his forehead. I hope my makeup doesn't look like that. It's not ghoulish Halloween makeup, just grade A makeup, and I had spent an hour applying and correcting it. And no it wasn't just for the ritual. The makeup application everyday commonly takes an hour or more, as I try to achieve perfection. Hard to do in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, even worse so if you have oily skin and eyelids.

I smile at Jah, hissing, I hope appropriately. And just like that, the pseudo-ritual was over. Thank god. The tourists, mostly from the Midwest, or up north, dropp bills and coins into Jah's overturned baseball cap lying on top of a nearby tomb.

"Shit Jah." I tease under my breath. "Could you have been more obvious about it? I mean I know your makeup sucks, but as Andre says, real actors work through it."

"Shut up Naomi." Jah says in his regular voice, a pleasant cadence very different from the heavy Barbados accent he uses during our little show. "Could you have been more slutty? I mean dear lord, Josie Arlington herself would blush. Also, have I mentioned how awful Kaliah is as your stage name? Come on girl, I mean just come on."

I brush dirt off my spotless white dress, inspecting the hem. "Dammit. Gotta bleach this again. Have I mentioned how much this rain sucks? Look at my dress. Practically brown."

"I'm glad I'm not a woman." Jah hands me a fistful of bills. "Get on home, miss Delacroix, before I sic Papa Legba on you."

"You wouldn't." I laugh, shaking my head. "See you tomorrow. You got cleanup right?"

"Yeah yeah, just get on home. It's dark out and them tourists and shit get drunk round this time of year. They think New Orleans is a free for all. Be careful."

I wave, walking out of the cemetery gates, trying not to shiver at Jah's words. It's true. During Mardi Gras we get lots of tourists who get real drunk and make Las Vegas look downright saintly. Which reminds me. I have to go stop by the St. Louis cathedral tomorrow, buy some more candles from the priest.

As I saunter down the sidewalk, I can't help but notice how quiet it is around the voudou shops and bakeries, and 100 times more alive at the bars, at least at the one on the back way I've chosen as my route. Typical Mardis Gras time, though hardly a scene we natives like to see.

I'm 98% cajun French, AKA boogalee, if you believe the slang, 2% Irish somewhere in there, but all New Orleansian. My family hasn't moved from Louisiana since our family got here in 1796 from France, bringing the Delacroix family name and fortune with us. We populated quickly, and intermingled, breeding like rabbits. Odds are, if you see a pale person with dark brown hair that looks black at times and gray eyes with hints of green in Louisiana, you're looking at another member of the extensive Delacroix legacy. Native New Orleansian's such as myself tend to get hissy around tourist season, and who can blame us? Tourists take over and pollute the city with drunks and druggies all looking to blend in and get a kick out of our party scene.

Like the group of frat boys I see right now, laughing and stumbling down the sidewalk towards me. I look down, trying to convey not interested. But, of course it doesn't work. When does it ever work?

"Hey! Hey you there! Bob cut!" a blonde kid barely out of high school, with a build like Arnold Schwarzenegger's shouts, referencing my no fuss short haircut. "Hey, c'mere! We wanna…shh! We wanna see if Storyville is still…" he pauses to burp. "…alive and well! Hey!"

I walk a little faster, cursing myself for walking home tonight.

"Hey bitch!" the blonde yells, turning to face me, leaning in so close I can smell the absinthe and beer on his breath. "I'm talkin' to ya!" he backs me up against the wall, eyes trying to focus on my face. His buddies gather around, cheering him on.

"Now…slut…whass it gonna be?" he slurs, shaking his fist at me, not noticing the way I'm looking around. Damn, no one in sight. Again I curse my habit of taking quieter back streets. "You gonna come with us? Or we gonna have to force you? Hey! Bitch you listening to me?" he shouts, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look into his bloodshot baby blues. "I asked you…whass it gonna be!"

"How about this option?" a voice calls. But it's not like the loud jeering voices that still keep going. It's refined. And fucking English accented. Rare. Of course, a gentleman trying to help. Maybe it's one of those tour guides. "Let her go or I blow your brains out. Sound fair?"

"The hell?" my blondie asks, wheeling around to face this skinny little guy, maybe 6 feet tall, with curling chocolate brown hair touching his shoulders, dark eyes, and wearing a…velvet frock coat? Oh lord. At least the gun is from this century.

Blodie roars with laughter, and without missing a beat, punches the Victorian guy in the nose at that precise angle needed to kill somebody. The crunch of bone is like the report of a rifle in the night air. Victoriana stumbles, falling to the ground.

Shit. Maybe I should've listened to Jah this time. Blondie here ain't screwing around when it comes to fighting.

"Ok bitch. You gonna go now?" he asks, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile. I nod, trying to flatten myself against the wall, lest a similar nose crunching incident occur to me.

Just as blondie is roughly grabbing my hand, his head jerks sideways in a spray of blood and nasty bits. Let me tell you, the term gray matter is quite inaccurate. It's more white.

Victoriana is standing there, holding the semi automatic gun, watching dispassionately as blondie frat boy falls like a tree, thudding onto the ground. "Timber." He says, eyeing one of the buddies. Who promptly pisses his pants and high tails it back down the street, followed by the rest of Omega Phi Delta or whatever they are.

This skinny guy -whose nose doesn't even look scratched, let alone shoved up into his brain- turns to me, his eyes giving me the once over. And by the looks of it, he's not impressed.

"Are you stupid or just drunk out of your brains?" he asks, finally meeting my gaze.

AN:good, bad, what do you think? Let me know!