I Put a Spell on You
The last day of the Infectious Diseases conference in New Orleans wasn't much better than the first, as far as Dr. Gregory House was concerned. Not only were the speakers mind-numbingly boring, but more than a few were ridiculously off-base in the hypotheses they presented. It was taking everything in his power to keep from heckling all of them. This only made him question why he was still sitting in Hall F of the Convention Center in a much too uncomfortable chair on what he was certain was a beautiful Saturday afternoon.
Minutes passed and the first half of a particularly long-winded presentation finally ended. House took advantage of the break to make his escape to the nearby historic French Quarter. Regardless of how many times he had been to New Orleans, for business or for pleasure, he always fell under the spell of the beautiful old city on the Mississippi River.
The cab he had hailed in front of the convention center dropped him off five minutes later at the corner of Royal and Canal Streets, just outside the Quarter. He began to walk at a leisurely pace past several quaint antique shops and old-world Vieux Carre hotels, bars and restaurants. It made him think of Paris and how much he had wanted to bring Stacy there when they were still two people who were very much in love. Sadly, after his infarction and the subsequent breakup, he had no desire to ever set foot or cane in the place.
The day was bright and sunny, the extreme humidity reminding House of the time he had spent as a child on the island of Guam where his marine colonel father had been stationed. Having taken off his cream-colored jacket immediately after exiting the coolness of the cab, House felt like he was walking through a damp sponge as the moisture clung to his forearms, neck and face.
The right corner of his mouth turned up slightly into the tiniest smile as the lines to "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" ran through his head. After walking another two blocks, he found himself on a shady side street called Rue Madeleine in front of a shop called J & M Botanica.
Like other botanicas he had seen in his global travels, House knew that the little shop would specialize in all manner of charms and talismans, candles and herbs, voodoo dolls and gris gris bags that had found their way to New Orleans via Haitian slaves who had arrived in the early part of the 1700s.
The cool air that poured from the little shop was a welcome relief from the nearly 90 degree heat, that apparently the locals had somehow grown used to. Goosebumps began to rise as the air conditioning continued to cool his heat-flushed skin. He had been strolling more and more slowly due to the heat and the protestations from his throbbing leg. A brief stop inside the cool, dark shop was just the break he needed.
House could see that there were few modern amenities in the centuries-old shop with its exposed brick, high ceilings and semi-dark interior. The only exception being the beautiful woman straightening a countertop display of tall votive candles and varying sizes of gris-gris bags.
Her caramel skin and dark green, slightly almond-shaped eyes were mesmerizing. He guessed her age to be around 39 or 40, due to the faint age lines around her eyes, but the smooth, velvety finish of her skin made her look at least 5-7 years younger.
He found himself almost rudely staring into those cat-like eyes the way women often stared into his very own cobalt blue ones--falling deeply under their azure spell. Then, of course, he would open his mouth and spew something rude, crude or socially unacceptable and the spell would be immediately broken. Right now his mouth was open, but no words were forthcoming. He wondered what that was about.
The exotic woman stared back at the tall, lean man with the close-cropped beard and bright blue eyes, who leaned much too heavily on his cane. She held his gaze for what seemed like eons, before she felt a shockwave of pain emanate from him, making her look down at the counter, before daring to look up into his eyes again. It wasn't just physical pain that she felt, but psychic pain radiating in waves from his very soul. She sensed that he had not had a very happy life, especially after whatever had caused the injury to his right leg. She also sensed that, in spite of the pain, there was a playful, caring spirit within him--one she knew he only chose to show to a handful of very special people. She wondered exactly what was the price one had to pay to get into that inner circle.
Squaring her shoulders and smoothing her hands down the front of her brightly colored, floral print sun dress, she broke the contact first. "May I help you?" she asked, in a lilting Caribbean accent that washed over him like the sea itself.
"I-I'm just looking," he answered lamely, while willing his body to not react embarrassingly to her melodic voice. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them, so that only the ancient glass display case separated them.
"I think you're looking for something for someone you like very much,"she stated, peering at him, her head slightly tilted as she studied him. "There's actually very few people you like; but you like this one the way a teacher likes a student. Yes, it is the young brown one who brings you to my door."
House's eyebrows raised so far up that they almost disappeared into his close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. He was a man who wasn't shocked by much, mostly because he believed everybody lied, but there he stood, completely baffled, but accepting her scary, yet true observations.
From the moment he looked up and saw the small white shop sign with the red voodoo doll and black cursive lettering, the seeds of his next prank against the extremely superstitious Lawrence Kutner were sown. This was indeed going to be fun.
Kutner, House's youngest and most promising fellow, had proven to be a formidable, if sometimes gullible opponent for House's ongoing practical jokes. The score was currently even with House having coughed up fake blood, well actually cranberry juice, on Kutner's crisp, white hospital coat; and Kutner having confessed to letting "a cat" that could somehow predict patients' deaths, "pee" on House's favorite Eames office chair.
Ever since the peeing Death Cat incident, which House thought was actually pretty damn clever and ballsy--though he'd never tell Kutner that--he had been trying to find a way to get back at the cheeky monkey. He knew the botanica would be just the place to gather all the right supernatural tools he'd need to scare the bejeezus out of his cocky young fellow.
Overcoming his initial shock at her observations, he felt the need to explain why he was in the store, besides the free air conditioning. "One of the members of my team thinks he's ready to play with the big boys; ready to take on the Prank Master."
"And you are the Prank Master?" she asked with a smile.
"Most people know me by my other name, House. Gregory House." He struggled to keep the flirtiness out of his eyes as he extended his rather large hand to the petite Creole beauty.
"Chantal DuBois," she said softly, feeling flush as her small hand remained engulfed by his larger one for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. "I am the owner of J & M Botanica."
She was unsettling him in more ways than one he decided."What's the J & M stand for?" he asked as a means of covering his sudden uneasiness.
"My parents--Jean Paul and Marillon. They inherited the shop from my grandmere, Yvette Trudeau, who was a renowned spiritualist and the best Gumbo cook in New Orleans, if I should say so myself, and she inherited it from her father who was a free man of color.
As fascinating as it all sounded, House cleared his throat, deciding not to let himself get pulled in by her charming history lesson. He was, afterall, a man on a mission. "I just need a few of your magical doodads to help teach the boy a lesson once and for all."
"So, you're not a believer," she stated more than questioned. "If you don't mind me saying, I don't think the spiritual arts are something to play with, Monsieur House."
The hint of warning he heard in her voice didn't escape him, but it was not enough to deter him from wanting to pull what he felt could be the ultimate prank.
"Please, just call me, Greg. And no, I don't really believe in Voodoo or any religious mumbo jumbo, but I know he does and that's all I need to know to get even with him," House said, already feeling victorious.
She looked at him again, surveying the planes of his ruggedly handsome face and deep blue eyes. "I have a feeling there's very few people you like enough to take the time to play these kinds of games on. I see another man, he is like a brother to you, but this one you want to play cat and mouse with, he seems to be most like you in many ways. A kindred spirit of sorts. For some reason, he inspires hope within you."
"Hope is for sissies," House snarked, getting more and more antsy at her eerie comments that were hitting just a little too close to home. "OK, what are you? A psychic...a Witchie woman... a CIA operative?" She smiled at his guesses, knowing full well that his gruffness and deflections were just his way to keep from acknowledging that he did indeed have hope deep--very deep--inside of him. That when all was said and done and we were at the end of our rope, hope was truly all that any of us really had left to hold on to.
Their conversation continued for a few more minutes before House's leg forced him to take a seat on an old beat up stool in front of the glass display case. The case held a variety of colorfully, hand-painted glass candle holders with pictures of both Catholic saints and Haitian deities. He was busy rolling his eyes at the candles and gently touching a row of chicken feet displayed against a square of black velvet when he saw it. On the shelf behind the counter he found what he knew would absolutely terrorize the superstitious Kutner--a Voodoo Doll that looked amazingly like him!
"Let me see that little brown one," he said, pointing to a six inch doll that looked uncannily similar in color to Kutner. "Cool," House said as she handed him the doll with the spiky black hair. Written across its body in small black print were the words: heartache, headache, upset stomach, foot pain and a variety of other ailments waiting to be healed.
House knew that while many thought Voodoo was part of the "Black Arts," designed to only bring harm to others, Voodoo was really a blending of elements of European folk magic, indigenous herbology and beliefs, and elements of Catholicism that became a functional and positive spirituality. Serious practitioners only used it for positive healing. Since most people only knew the Hollywood version of Voodoo--sticking pins in dolls and causing great physical harm to ones enemies--he knew that a movie buff like Kutner would "believe" whole-heartedly.
"How many of these do you have in stock?"
Chantal gave a small, defeated sigh, not really happy with what he was planning to do, but also knowing she probably couldn't stop him, if she wanted to. "I think I have some in the storeroom. If you'll wait a moment, I'll go check." She turned and headed through a red beaded curtain that led to the backroom of the small store. House leaned over the counter to watch her walk away from him. Her full hips swaying like a palm tree in a tropical breeze.
House stifled a quiet moan and shook his head trying to clear the lustful thoughts gathering there. He fantasized for a moment about what he would like to do with those softly rounded hips, that long dark hair, those kissable lips... The throbbing of his leg rudely interrupted the throbbing of another body part.
As much as he thought it might be nice to convince her to hang the "Closed" sign on the door of her little shop and join him for a mint julep and a little afternoon delight in real life, he knew he didn't actually have the time. Considering he was flying back to Princeton later that evening on an 7:00 p.m. flight, the rare and elusive, daytime booty call was just out of the question. Besides, as much as she intrigued him, if he truly admitted it, he was also the tiniest bit afraid of her witchie ways. He had gotten her card. Maybe he'd look her up next time he was in town...or not.
The longer he stayed in the store, the more his plan for pranking Kutner came together and the more excited he got. He knew that if he left the little voodoo dolls in a variety of places around the hospital where Kutner could easily find them, he would be able to convince him that it was just one doll that was following him around PPTH or perhaps that there were no Voodoo Dolls at all!
With a little help from Wilson and the rest of the team, it was going to be so sweet to watch Kutner slowly come undone. He could even start a pool on the day Kutner would come in wearing a crucifix and a string of garlic or something equally idiotic to ward off evil spirits. Now, how do I do this without the ultimate she-devil, Cuddy, finding out? he thought, feeling almost giddy.
Fifteen minutes later, saying his goodbyes to the scary, but adorably sexy Chantal DuBois, House stepped outside into the blinding midday sun and walked up to the busy corner of Decatur and Rue Madeleine to grab a taxi. He held the small box of Voodoo Dolls securely under his arm and smiled a crooked smile thinking about what it was going to be like explaining to the TSA why he had a dozen Voodoo Dolls in his backpack. This could definitely land me on the no-fly list, he thought. Cool! As he waited on the curb expertly juggling the package, his cane and his jacket, he took out his phone and dialed PPTH. He left a short voice message and then continued to watch for an available cab.
Amidst the sounds of a funky brass band, the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages and tourists laughing way too loudly from imbibing too many Hurricanes, the strains of "Waltzing Matilda" filled the air.
"Chase, my boy, how'd you like to be part of a little operation involving our young friend Kutner?" Chase listened intently as House rattled on, finally giving him the last of the instructions.
"You're evil," Chase dead-panned. "Count me in!"
THE END