A/N Wee Boat (also know as Gondolier) is one amazing writer and a fantastic beta. This would not work at all without her. Read Fraternié on FFN. You will be amazed, and worship like a mad person.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
The Lotos-Eaters, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Carrie Fortier stepped outside Jean Lafitte's and lit her cigarette.
One of the other waitresses poked her head out of the open door. "Hey, Stephanie could take a break with you, if you want."
"No thanks," said Carrie, exhaling. "I'm okay. I'll stay right here on the side, I promise."
Ever since the body was found just up the street from the bar, the wait staff was vigilant about taking smoke breaks in twos. Carrie pretended to not be afraid, and gamely joked with Vincent that she'd mace the asshole before he ever got near her face.
She fingered the silver and black talisman that hung from a long chain around her neck. Her grandfather would have understood, yet mortally horrified at her contradictory habits…
"And Marie Laveau would give the potions to the young men. To make the young ladies fall in love with them."
She sat on the floor next to the leg of her grandfather's worn La Z boy.
"Did it work?"
"Of course."
"How?"
Her grandfather rubbed a calloused hand over his bald head.
"It's better not to know."
"How is ignorance better than knowledge?"
"Darlin'," he sighed, "you don't want to go opening doors that you know don't how to close up again. Don't ever underestimate that magic. The young people, they don't believe in it, don't have respect for it. They crack jokes, buy trinkets and make a mockery of a belief system older than dirt."
"I'd never disrespect it.
Papere met her gaze squarely. "Don't go playing at it, neither, you hear?"
A cold wind broke her from her reverie.
Erik hadn't been to the bar in two days, and Carrie felt a slight twinge of concern. He seemed like someone destined to become a regular; plus, he was the best tipper Carrie had ever seen. And he repeatedly asked to be seated in her section.
True, it had only been a few nights in a row, but Carrie still anticipated seeing him last Friday night. When he didn't show up then and the next day either, she wondered if he, like so many drifters, had either moved on or been arrested for God knows what.
People come and go, she thought, and he's probably just skipped out on the last Greyhound or something.
She wished she would have walked down Bourbon to hear him play. Like so many other opportunities, this one had been squandered and she felt stupid. Carrie doubted that Erik was a better musician than Vincent, but something about him impressed in her recognition of artistry.
I'm seeing in him what I wish I could see in myself.
She took another drag off her cigarette and sighed.
"Good evening."
Carrie jumped and shoved the necklace down her shirt. "Holy shit, you scared me!"
Erik touched the tip of his fedora. "You seemed lost in thought. Forgive me."
Carrie laughed nervously. "Well, I guess everyone's a little jumpy. Where have you been?"
"Were you expecting me?" he asked with a sly grin, an expression she could actually see since he had lowered the scarf.
"No! I mean," stammered Carrie artlessly, "you just seemed to be part of the scene these days."
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting tonight, then." In truth, Erik wasn't the least bit sorry. He'd been watching Carrie carefully since the disastrous incident at the strip club. He knew that she was about to get off of work, and had waited to approach her when she was available.
"Oh, it's okay. Actually, it's good to have someone I know to stand out here with me."
"And why is that?"
Carrie stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. "Does this bother you?"
Erik shook his head.
"Well, we're just keeping an eye out for each other, what with the murder and all."
"The murder?"
Carried gaped. "You don't know?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't," Erik admitted slyly. "I don't take the paper, and I certainly don't have a television."
A group of tourists decked out in beads and boas pranced in front of Carrie and Erik.
"Right. It happened just up the street," she said in a low voice. "It was really awful. The Times-Picayune reported it, but I've heard other details."
"Such as?"
"It was gruesome." Carrie scrunched her face. "Overkill, like they say on CSI. More than just a regular mugging and murder. I hate to say it was worse than a 'regular killing,' because that's so cruel, but this was anything but routine for around here."
Erik stepped closer to her. "And this frightens you."
Carrie nodded. "Kind of, yeah." She shuddered. "Yeah, it does. But sadly, it's good for business."
"What do you mean?"
"Straight mugging-shootings, tourist killings, that hurts. People get scared to come here and spend money. But this," she gestured with her hand up Rue St. Phillip, "this is exotic. This will draw a crowd, especially if it happens again. People are already talking. At least it was done with a knife and not an axe."
"What do you mean by that?"
Carrie's eyes widened in fear. "Nothing. Quarter locals have very active imaginations. And good memories."
"What are they saying?" Erik murmured. Carrie couldn't help but stare into his eyes.
"Things that shouldn't be spoken of. Trust me."
"Perhaps I will."
Carrie finished her cigarette and checked her watch. "I'm sorry. You came here to get a drink and I keep you standing outside in the cold. And I've got to go get some dinner. Have a good evening—"
"Surely you aren't going to walk to your car alone?" He knew she didn't have a car.
Carrie frowned. "No, I'm going over to a place near the Cathedral. No car. I'll be fine."
"Carrie, you are afraid to stand outside this bar by yourself," he suggested, watching her fidget nervously. "Surely you don't want to journey that far alone. Please, let me walk with you there."
"Oh no, I couldn't ask you to do that! Really, I'll be fine," she said.
"I truly must insist. It would be my pleasure," Erik purred.
"If you're sure it's not too much trouble, I'd really be grateful. Let me go grab my bag." Carrie ducked back into Jean Lafitte's. Erik watched her disappear behind the bar and then emerge with a backpack. Tossing it over her shoulder, she met him on the street.
"I guess it would be faster to go that way," she pointed down Rue St. Phillip, "but I don't want to walk by where the body was."
"But we would avoid the disgusting Bourbon Street crowds if we did that." Erik didn't wish to run into the dancer who was repulsed by his visage. Thanks to a tube of the make-up recommended by Henny, Erik felt comfortable baring his fresh flesh. But he didn't want Carrie to witness an awkward or ugly encounter. Not when she was so receptive to his conversation and his company.
How receptive would she be tonight?
They began to walk towards the river, Erik on Carrie's right, closer to the buildings. With the wind blocked, the chilly atmosphere was invigorating; Erik wrapped his duster around him and breathed in the crisp air. He heard Carrie gasp, and pinch the material of her shirt near her breastbone.
Shaking her head, she hissed. "My God."
"What is it?" Erik knew they stood right where he'd left the body.
"It's just… disturbing. Sorry, this way." She walked much faster than before. Several paces up, they turned onto Rue Royale, and zig-zagged their way to Chartres. Pausing for a second in the middle of the street, Carrie regarded the brightly illuminated Cathedral.
"Pretty, huh?"
Erik stood beside her and clutched his violin case. "Very."
"I've been going to Mass there ever since I was little. Even when my parents moved us out to Old Metairie, my mamma used to bring us back down here on Sundays."
Erik kept his gaze on the bright white profile of the majestic structure, but nodded softly. "I should like to see the interior."
"Well, I usually go to the 8 am Mass. We could meet sometime, if you didn't want to go alone."
"Perhaps."
Carrie shifted her backpack and walked to the corner.
"What the hell?" she cried. Erik turned to watch her put her hands on her hips.
"It's closed! Bastards!"
"Your restaurant?"
The Napoleon House was indeed closed for the week. Carrie huffed and pouted. "I swear! This place is the best. Most perfect muffalettasever."
"Excuse me?"
"Muffalettas. Italian sandwich. Ideally served with a tall Abita beer, preferably on draft." Carrie stamped her foot. "Well, now I've really wasted your time."
"Not at all. I've enjoyed your company." He stood beside her and read over the menu. "Where Napoleon was to be rescued from exile?"
"Yep. Jean Lafitte and the Governor hatched the plot. It never came to fruition. But the place is gorgeous. And closed. Dammit."
"What shall we do now?"
Carrie sighed. "I'll just grab a cheap beer off of Bourbon: Liquid dinner is fine with me. I really appreciate you taking the time to walk me here. And I'm—"
"Please, do not apologize again. Let me ease your disappointment."
Erik knelt and unlatched his violin case. In the darkness of the overhang, Carrie could only barely make out his movements as he tested the bow against the strings. He spoke so softly she could barely hear him.
"This is one of my own compositions."
Carrie felt the sound as he played, feeling every long note stretch in her chest, causing her to tremble slightly as he moved from phrase to phrase. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wrought iron post. She felt a growing tightness in her belly as she listened to the seductive music, and she let her head fall back, the tightness melted into a hot fire that spread down her legs.
Erik kept playing, watching her knees start to bend. Her breathing quickened, and he slowed down the tempo of the piece, lulling her away from the frantic sensation into a hypnotic repose.
He didn't want to pull her into a physical release. Not with the music. The devil's music would surely work upon her body in a most delicious manner; it already was.
He wanted to sit on the sill of the Napoleon House's window, and pull Carrie onto his lap. He wanted to forced her little black skirt up over her hips, and push her underwear to one side. He wanted very much to enter her, to move inside of her in the dark of the lifeless street corner, kissing the tender flesh of her neck as she let him grab at her hips. Her scream would bring him such pleasure.
Screams always did.
She snaked a hand up to her neck, rubbing her skin slowly. Her other hand pushed softly at her belly, her fingers splayed as though she wished to touch lower.
Erik stopped playing. Carrie didn't open her eyes.
"I should like to take you home, my dear."
Carrie wanted to say no, but she could only nod in consent.