A/N Gondolier is a fantastic writer, and a superb beta. My incredible thanks! I loff you like whoa!
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil?
The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
New Orleans was a city in suspended animation. Built on quicksand and slush, it was in constant motion, trying to build a solid foundation where none was possible. Nothing stayed buried; nothing ever could.
Erik could not go underground, for there was no underground to which he could retreat. He longed for the sanctuary of the earth, a place fitting his manner of being and his work-both bloody and musical. As the light of day faded into a buzzing night of lights and even more noise, he released his violin from under his chin and crouched over the case.
About forty dollars. A rather nice taking for only a few hours of playing. This bodes well for the immediate future, he thought; this was easier, if only marginally more satisfying, than killing to replenish his funds. Touching a finger to his cheek, he conceded that a killing would have to happen soon, but not tonight.
Tonight was for his exploratory pleasure. He was loath to be forced into finding a suitable space to carve and work the supple skin around his face. The flesh on his visage was only five days old; surely he could milk a another day out of it. The cold weather was an advantage: no one questioned a man raising a scarf around his face, tipping the brim of his hat low, avoiding the gazes of others.
Actually, in the half-day he'd been in this city, he was amazed at how little curiosity his unholy figure inspired.
Pocketing the money and picking up his case, Erik made his way down the wooden stairs that deposited revelers in the basin of the Vieux Carré. Horse-drawn carriages plodded down Rue Decatur as Erik set his sights on the green plaza in front of him. During the day, such things were to be avoided. Under cover of night, he could indulge in a bit of strolling.
Jackson Square, he murmured on his breath, and slipped through the arch to find himself in a garden park. He scanned the perimeters, noting the many vagrants holed up in the corners and on benches, and pushed the idea from his mind. This would not do for a residence. Wandering forward, he saw the great iron statue of Andrew Jackson, and briefly mused on the significance of the man to this city.
They do like heroes, don't they? And the thrill of battle.
The brightly-lit St. Louis Cathedral loomed just beyond the statue. Erik felt a momentary pinch in his chest: Beauty never failed to move him, and this was an elegant if simple construction. Crossing through the Square, he found himself staring up at the Cathedral, feeling an unusual sense of smallness as he had to tip his head back to take it in.
He was used to enormous buildings, having lived the last several decades in New York. He'd seen more ornate structures in Europe for damn sure. This consecrated space was unremarkable in comparison- and yet, it was earnest. Erik had never been attracted to such a weak concept, but he enjoyed looking at this little Cathedral, cast in the middle of drunken party-goers and tarot-card readers. It seemed… steadfast, perhaps, and Erik knew something about fortitude under duress.
Even if this place belonged to God, he could still appreciate it. "Perhaps I'll dare to fill you with my music," he said aloud, hoping an avenging angel might hear. "And then we might see your true beauty."
Someone stumbled behind him, and he turned around.
A woman struggled to keep her much larger companion upright as they tripped forwarded. "Come on, the hotel's just a little farther," she moaned. "And if you fucking throw up on me, I will leave your ass here and just see what happens to you then."
Erik smirked, and watched them bumble along. He walked the length of the Cathedral to a sidewalk, and continued his meandering. The next street he encountered was Rue Royale, a decidedly calm thoroughfare with only a handful of people who seemed content to peer into windows and study the contents soberly. On the corner, guitar player strummed a few chords, and looked up hopefully as people passed.
One more block took him to the center of the racket: Rue Bourbon. Erik had heard of this place, and it was living up to its filthy reputation. The street, closed off to vehicular traffic, was packed with bodies writhing and carousing. The smell of urine was everywhere, such a contrast to the peace of Rue Royale.
Part of his nature was disgusted. Part saw great potential.
A quick stroll informed him of the layout: Alcohol dispensers, nightclubs, music venues (that was intriguing) and strip clubs to appeal to any deviance desired. In New York, he'd been able to seduce women more easily, not having to simply rely on his voice or hide in the shadows. His face was no obstacle.
Here, he would have to pay again. But there seemed to be no shortage of bodies for sale, to look at and then to have, he knew for certain. As he gazed at the girls on the steps in front of their clubs, he felt a race a heat down to his groin. It had been too long.
How nice it would be to have a woman near him, beneath him, and accepting his body. Opening herself up to his passion. And this time, her name needn't be Christine.
He's bend the body forward, quickly rip the underwear off just to give her the proper amount of fear, and then he'd stroke her into readiness. He remembered the feel of a woman slick against his fingers, gasping and encouraging him on even through the quivering voice. The fear intensified his pleasure immensely, knowing that he held her life and her pleasure in his hands. He would have her face away from him, so that he could watch her back, hear her moans and imagine himself anywhere he wished to be. Behind Christine—that idea used to thrill him into orgasm. Now he was free to lose himself into a warm body and fantasize on a new dream.
Not tonight, of course. He had to settle himself here. Find his way before he could find a good fuck.
He wrapped his duster around him and kept walking.
St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 was at the west end of the French Quarter, on the very edge of the mania. He crossed North Rampart and stood in front of the whitewashed wall. Erik found a dark corner in the rear of the plot and climbed over the wall, cautiously balancing the violin case as he did so.
Harming his violin would be like castrating himself.
The large crypts and tombs charmed Erik; this was indeed a City of the Dead. He meandered down the walkways, reading the French and Spanish names carved into the stone homes. These were the burial places of the cities' founding families, the priests who had come to minister, those who had fallen to violence and plagues of yellow fever. The bodies buried in the 1700s were prone to rise from the ground, not from any devilish intent, but from the high water table beneath the city. Or at least, that's what people believed. So they constructed grand mansions to death, glorious houses for their families to still hold a semblance of "court."
Erik felt an unfamiliar contentedness, and sat down near a large white structure marked on every side with red Xs. He unlocked the case and retrieved his violin. A mournful song, full with the contrasting ease of his heart, would feel right tonight. Just as he settled down comfortably and raised the instrument, he heard a whining voice penetrate the stillness.
"And here we have St. Louis Number 1, the oldest cemetery in the city. Behold, feel the ghosts around you!"
Erik frowned as he stood and moved behind the sidewall of the tomb.
"Yes, the dead may rise tonight!"
Erik peered around the edge to glimpse a man in a hooded cloak, his face painted white with dark circles colored under his eyes. This man's party was moving closer!
"This is the tomb of Marie Laveau, the famous voodoo priestess-"
A small voice behind the costumed man whimpered, "Did she worship Satan?"
Before the he could answer, Erik touched the bow to the violin and drew out a moaning sound.
"What the hell is that?" cried someone from the group.
Erik smiled, and played the note again, stretching it out into oblivion.
"Oh dear god it's the devil himself!"
"Jesus Christ, I got my money's worth…"
A strain or two of Gounod's Faust flew from his instrument.
The crowd took off scampering back through the gates.
Erik stepped from out of the shadows to see the cloaked boy quaking.
"So," he said softly, "this Marie Laveau. You purport her to be a soul given to Satan?"
The smell of urine filled the air. The boy could not move even to cover his stained jeans.
"And you did not think that the devil would guard his servant's resting place?"
Tripping on his own feet, the boy ran as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him.
Erik Destler smiled and leaned against on the whitewashed crypt. Tonight, he had found a home. Tomorrow, he would find a house.