Author's note: I am seriously so excited to eventually get some interaction between Fiona and the Axeman, but for now, you're just going to have to wait a bit longer. I still have some of Fiona's backstory to cover, which you can expect in the next chapter. I hope y'all enjoy reading this. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Reviews make my day, and really keep me motivated, so feel free...
As always, I own nothing, but I really, really wish I did.
~oOoOoOo~
The streets of New Orleans were mobbed with garbage, and even trashier citizens—people who shouldn't have been allowed to regard themselves as natives of the cherished city—a city of witchcraft and voodoo. The Big Easy was the modern Salem, home to many a witch, including the occasional warlock. On the flip side, down in the ninth ward of New Orleans, housing thousands of African American people—voodoo practitioners, no doubt—that had a knack for shitty hair saloons and piss-poor manicures and pedicures, were houses that had been run down and ramshackled, all gratitude to Hurricane Katrina. That storm had been thought to be the storm of a lifetime, stealing so many innocent souls along with it. Fortunately, Fiona hadn't been among the casualties—the collateral damage—that accompanied Hurricane Katrina. She had been one of the deadliest and most destructive storms New Orleans had ever seen in 2005.
Speaking of tourist guides… No More Spray. I have been to St. Louis No. 1 and I have seen the tomb of Laveau. Seen the fat tourists from Little Rock to Hackensack drawing crosses on the bricks, making wishes to the bones of Marie Laveau. Little do they know, all they have to do to get their wishes granted was come down here to the Ninth Ward and get their hair braided.
The only reason Fiona hadn't met her demise when Hurricane Katrina rolled into New Orleans, was because she was out of town, exploring the world—India, Sweden, France, the Czech Republic—all the while obliterating her obligations to the coven, and only sating the urgencies that intrigued Fiona. She was, as many would care to describe, a fish out of water when she wasn't out living her life as she saw fit and over-indulging in the finest things that life had to offer to the Supreme. She'd dropped her daughter off at the Academy's doorstep and ran for the hills, chasing after her dreams—dreams that would end up looping back around and biting Fiona right in her shapely ass—and meeting new people, all kinds of individuals of different cultures. The world had so many incredible things to offer, but the world was also a dark place; a place of tragedy, a place of death and corrosion.
The world was, in itself, a blessing just as much as it was a curse. There was so much evil in the world, so many vile people that were responsible for committing the most heinous of crimes. These people were simply given a slap on the wrist by the higher authority that governed over New Orleans, as if they did anything other than sit on their asses and make it appear that they were actually doing something productive, something that would benefit its people.
Productivity was a characteristic that had never quite been instilled in Fiona. She didn't care for others, only herself—she was, in fact, a self-absorbed woman—but that didn't necessarily prevent Fiona from feeling. She experienced so many emotions; feelings that would have unraveled her at her loose seams if she allowed them to. Emotionally, Fiona could have been sent hurdling to her knees quite easily. Physically, was a different story. She didn't just give her body up to any one man. Fiona was finicky, probably too much for her own benefit, and inconsiderate—completely impolite, when surrounded by certain individuals. She wasn't the type of person to be found playing nice with her enemies; keeping her assailants close to her. The only intimacy was the heads of Fiona's enemies watching her from their respected hooks on the wall, their comatose eyes, once harboring beautiful and lively souls, scrutinizing her every move with the worst of intentions, observing as she shared an evening of penchant with one of her many lovers; sometimes, two, in just one night.
The point is, in this whole wide wicked world the only thing you have to be afraid of is me.
Even in her elder years, Fiona was a voluptuous woman. Her hair was a luxuriant shade of champagne. It flowed in locks to embellish her incandescent, porcelain-like skin. Her eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, were an overcast pigment of chocolate—sinister in their nature—and seemed to brighten, as well as blacken simultaneously, the world. A straight nose, one that complimented her high cheekbones wonderfully, full lips—she was the image of utter perfection; an angel that had fallen from heaven too soon—and certainly had lived up to the reputation of a fallen deity.
Had she smiled, the world would sigh with contentment. Had she laughed, the world would laugh with her. And had she wept, the whole world would want to comfort her.
Though she may have been a physically attractive woman, a timeless pulchritude with florid eyes of pyre, a siren that was in favor of indulgence, she was fierce—as menacing and relentless as the harshest of storms, and the most reprehensible of murderers—and would not hesitate to take someone down if she saw fit to do so. When Fiona spoke, her words articulated with such grace, yet an underlying tone of undeniable jurisdiction, people listened. They either convulsed with fear—penetrating apprehension surging through their arteries, as salient and painful as a knife piercing ivory flesh—or they followed her lead, loyal to the cause—either because they truly believed in Fiona's motive, or because they didn't want to suffer the consequences of her vengeful wrath—but either way, Fiona was happy; her scatological appetite sated… for a time.
The time would, however, arrive when Fiona no longer had any flesh and blood to sate that scatological appetite. She craved a man, an ascendant man—a man that wasn't afraid to take over the reins—a man that would suitably tend to the incessant desires of Fiona's body. The men that she chose to associate herself with always believed that they led the dance, the provocative—even arousing—dance that Fiona cavorted to, her body swaying like windchimes in the crisp evening air, responding to the gentle caress of the wind… the intimacy that sizzled within the air of two things so simple, yet incredibly intricate.
It's a dance, a dance no one ever had to teach me. A dance I've known since I first saw my reflection in my father's eyes. My partners have been princes and starving artists, Greek gods and clowns. And every one of them certain they lead. But it's always my dance. I make the first move, which is no move at all. I've always just understood that they will eventually find themselves in front of me. Primitive, beautiful animals. Their bodies responding to the inevitability of it all. It's my dance and I have performed it with finesse and abandon with countless partners. Only the faces change. And all this time, I never suspected the night would come when the dance would end.
The dance. Time and time again, she returned to the concept of her dance—the gossameriness of her fluent movements, the sway of her curvaceous hips, the delicate graze of the pads of Fiona's fingers as they trailed along her naked flesh; exposed flesh—skin that was made to be caressed, to whispered upon, abraded with open-mouthed kisses and the bite of a slick tongue as it traipsed along her curves. Her body was filled to the brim with curves, firm flesh that was so velvety, but in shape. She was, pardon the cliché, as beautiful as the evening stars in the sky. To many men, Fiona had hung the moon and the stars, but not all that glitters is gold. She had a dark side to her, a villain that lurked beneath the masquerade of an alluring face. A monster that roared; howling, surging through her veins—a monster that craved blood, the thrumming heart of a willing lover, like sand that slipped through the spaces between Fiona's fingers.
This monster coveted blood, and would stop at no lengths to sate its pining.
She wanted a lover, a fighter—a rebel—someone to make Fiona feel alive, more viable than in all her years of living.
Indeed, she found that lover. A rough man, about her own age—but beauty was in the eye of the beholder. He possessed all of the bells and whistles that an adequate lover should, finesse—abandon—a profound knowledge of the human body, and in particular, Fiona's body. It was as if they had been cavorting together for several years. Indeed, they were—but Fiona wasn't aware of that. In the brink of death, the most atrocious of fates, she had felt the most alive—really feeling something, for the first time in a long time. But, unfortunately, after that evening, it was back to the drawing board—back to Fiona's now ordinary life, a life that held no meaning—a life that was all routine and work. There was no play. It was all seriousness.
Fiona was, always had been, and would probably always be, one of the shittiest Supremes to ever rise within the coven. She acknowledged that whilst ambling through the Academy's front door, a sigh of complete discontentment escaping her chapped lips, her elliptical face void of any makeup, for she was too preoccupied with the passion-inculcated evening to mind any attention to her appearance.
For the first time in quite a long time, Fiona enjoyed herself.
She thoroughly enjoyed the company that she had been in…
…And she couldn't wait to wrap herself within the man's embrace again—the murderous man, the man with a dead body in his bathtub, hacked to pieces, drowning in his own blood—over and over again.
In such a dangerous love affair, she found purpose—motivation.
Fiona would survive, even if she died in the process of trying.