Day Two:

Chapter Five:

"The skull and bones and cross, good sir- Were nothing but a tease-

The evil waited nearer still - infecting like disease-"

The Baker Plantation -

Quint Cetcham(*1*) was sitting in his living room with a laptop, a latte, and a little notebook.

Quint, on a good day, wasn't a handsome guy. He was short and had a hooking jaw that was often referred to as "witchy". His blue eyes were hidden behind big glasses with thick lenses. Sadly for Quint, he wasn't a candidate for Lasik surgery so there was no hope of every saying goodbye to the glasses. His bald had was all natural, since he suffered from alopecia and had pretty much lost most of his body hair by the time was he was in his twenties.

His birdlike nose was currently nostril deep in whatever research he was finding on the laptop. He glanced up as Leon eased into the kitchen to hunt up coffee.

Quint, in his nasally drawl, informed him, "French roast, you're welcome."

With a grunt of ascent to show his appreciation, Leon poured himself a cup. He moved to the porch and left the door open to light a smoke.

From the couch, Quint called, "Good news and bad news, boss. Which you want first?"

Leon shrugged a shoulder non-nonchalantly. "Dealers choice."

"I got an address on Wong for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Last living family member is a woman named Ada. No kids. No husband. No information anywhere that isn't flattering. She's a socialite, runs the companies and holdings left behind by the dead namesake, seems to prefer to wear red and has her picture in about eighty five different papers for different charities and community work."

Leon lifted a brow at him, leaning on the railing. Quint grinned a little, "Exactly. Squeaky clean usually means..."

He trailed off and Leon offered the rest of the statement, "Dirty as fuck."

"Exactly." Quint shrugged himself now and kept on typing, "The address is ritzy fartsy, upscale Garden District...you'll never guess where?"

Leon waited, brow still arched as he inhaled, exhaled, and sipped the bitterly wonderful brew in his mug. "Enlighten me."

"Smack dab in the middle of three important places: the cemetery, the home of your very dead "suicide", and the last known residence of the Wesker family."

Leon shook his head, laughing derisively, "Coincidence?"

"I think not." Quint laughed and clicked on the keyboard again, "Now the bad news."

"Hit me."

"You'll never get in to see this woman. Ever. I can't find a single person around who can put us in touch. And you need an audience with the queen of the social butterflies buddy, no lie there. You can't just go up and knock. Her staff will laugh you all the way back down the drive in your cheap t-shirt and jeans."

Quint tossed a folder on the table. There was a pretty monarch butterfly atop it - clearly the relevant image for the woman who was the social "butterfly" of the south. She didn't look like any fashionista, turned socialite diva that Leon had ever seen though. She was statuesque, sure, and she was gorgeous - no getting around that - but there was a coldness on her that looked more than skin deep. It was the eyes, Leon mused, they were empty, shrewd, and calculating. She wasn't worried about hair and makeup, this one, she was just using that as a cover. He'd stake his fucking left nut on that.

He'd spent a good amount of his life reading women - he was, by no means, an expert - but he wasn't an idiot either. He could see what lay beneath the guise of a pretty face. It was how he knew Redfield was deeper than she let on. It was how he knew Sheva Alomar was hiding something. And it was how he knew Ada Wong had secrets she would die to protect.

Sadly for everyone involved, he was going to need to get under all these woman's guises to get the answers they needed. Some of it could be done with a little flirting, some of it done with a little digging, and, if necessary, some of it done with a little blackmail. He wasn't above doing all three.

Quint mused, lips pursed, "Not even your legendary charm is going to get you into this one's "inner sanctum", my man. Good luck."

Leon pursed his lips, considering. The grittiness of the nightmare plagued rest was fleeting. It was par for the course anyway with him. He'd dealt with insomnia and demons his whole life - nothing a little coffee, tobacco, and fresh air rushing by on his bike wouldn't cure. He could practically feel the catharsis of a open road in his dick as he stood there, waiting for the spiritual healing that came with all that horsepower roaring beneath him.

"I have my ways, my friend, don't you worry."

Quint studied him, hating him on principle in a totally harmless way. It wasn't enough the guy looked like a GQ model. He was also graced with enough smarts to be good at what he did. He was pretty freaking decent at playing the guitar. He didn't entirely suck at dancing. All in all, it was an unfair advantage to the rest of the modern world to be Leon Kennedy.

But you couldn't work with him and not take it with a grain of salt. He was, also, hilarious and a great guy to work for. He paid on time, he was laid back about how you gathered your intel, he didn't ride your ass to show up at 9 a.m. on the nose. And he often got a drink with you at the end of the day. More than once, he'd even been the wingman for Quint to get laid.

All in all, a great guy to know.

But even Kennedy had his limits. Without some subterfuge and wily pulling of puppet strings, he was going to have a hard time getting in to see Wong. She had a reputation for only popping up when she wanted and otherwise being impossible to pin down.

Leon picked up the newspaper lying on the table. He studied the face of Marianne Costas staring back at him. He didn't need to see it in black and white to remember it. It was burned into his brain.

He dreamed of her again the night before. He'd dream of her every night until he unraveled the web of mystery that waited around her.

It was how he worked.

All his life, he'd been drawn to it: the strange and unusual. He'd come across the journals of some ancient old guy related to him in his parent's attic after his father had died. Some dude around the time of the great witch hunt that had sprung up after the Werewolf Witness Trials in Mississippi in the late 1800s. The first of the "hunters" they'd called in to weed out the truth or the lies of it.

They were mostly written in old shorthanded an gaelic, so it was hard to decipher, but what Leon gathered was that his ancestor suffered from the same dreams. The same. Prophetic, rich, detailed - and often true.

A fascinating thing.

And apparently it skipped generations because he didn't read about it again until he'd stumbled upon his mother's diary from when she was a little girl. She'd dreamed, not of unicorns and princesses, but of shadows and screams. She'd seen doctors at first, when she dared speak of it, and finally - after a week in the nut hut, the fear of people despising her like Joan of Ark had driven her to silence, she'd simply kept her own journals to document her dreams.

She dreamed of witches and warlocks and murder. She saw demons and ghosts and darkness. She tried to stop the dreams by cutting. She found bleeding her legs at night before bed would give the dark an "outlet" that left her with a little peace. She'd married his father and go on to be ok.

There were years where the journals were missing.

And finally?

The last one after he'd been born: a long rambling madness of hate and worry and loss. I'm drowning, dying, dreaming, she'd write, I'm losing hope. I'm lost. I'm forsaken.

She'd slit her wrists in the bathtub on his fourth birthday.

Her demons had finally devoured her.

His father had shut down. He'd made it another three years after she died before drinking himself to death in her memory. A sad story, filled with little to no happiness, but it was ok. He'd been so small. He had only stories of them to remember. He had smells and thoughts of them both, but little more than that.

His grandmother had raised him after that. A quiet woman with a big laugh and alot of smiles.

He'd never been unhappy with her. She'd spoiled him rotten, figured out real quick the ladies adored him, and tried ever since to instill some kind of chivalry into him.

Maybe there was a gaping hole in him for the parents he'd never really known, but she'd filled that hole pretty well most of his life.

As it stood, he was the man he was because of his grandmother. He didn't regret a moment of time spent with her.

But the nightmares had started so young. Too young. He was barely old enough to understand them.

She'd nurtured, she'd listened, she'd loved him - she'd understood because her daughter had had them all her life. It was easier when his grandmother would hold him after one.

Of course, she still would, he knew, if he called her. But he was a grown up now, allegedly, and didn't need her anymore.

Allegedly.

When he'd been young, he'd wanted to go to a concert. His grandmother had flat out told him no. No way. No way, no how. Well, as a young teenage boy tended to do, he'd decided to defy her. So he'd stolen her car while she was sleeping and driven out of town to the concert.

He didn't have any money to get in, so he knew he'd need a good plan to guarantee he'd see the band.

Ten seconds after parking the car, the plan had formed: who usually got into concerts free of charge?

COPS.

So, he'd stolen a badge with a little slight of hand from a pretty cop that he flirted with by the concession stand, hooked it to his belt like some hot shit detective, and snuck his way free and clear into the concert.

A great night.

Until he'd gotten home and found his grandmother wide awake and waiting. Lesson learned, after a month of being reduced to dishes, trash duty, and no dating, no social life, and no mercy. LESSON LEARNED. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

He picked up the phone and dialed Redfield. One thing was true - he might not need his grandmother quite like he used to (at least that was his story and he was sticking to it), but he needed to get in to see Ada Wong.

And nothing worked better, than a little trickery.

As long as his grandmother never found out, of course.

Outside the Precinct - Central N.O.P.D.

Claire Redfield was waiting outside of the precinct when he roared up on his bike. She pursed her lips, watching him, "This is illegal, Mr. Kennedy."

He tilted his head, waiting. "What? The no helmet thing again?"

"Not just that...this." She sighed and offered him the badge, "Your friend will probably notice it missing soon enough. Why did I steal it?"

Leon winked at her, "Long story. Plausible deniability says you're better off not knowing. I'll get it back in one piece, and probably with alot of information we need. You need a lift somewhere?"

She considered him. He was wearing a white and green raglan style t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up his toned forearms. On the front, it proudly proclaimed - Whatever Tickles your Pickle with a picture of a grinning pickle. The jeans and brown boots were worn and faded. The hair was attractively windblown.

There was a days worth of whiskers on his cheeks that made him look rakish and charming.

Claire mused, "If you're going to pretend to be a cop, you may want to change your look a bit. Just an FYI."

He grinned, winking at her again, "Don't you worry, chere. I know what I'm doing. You want that lift?"

She shook her head, "I'm all set, thanks. I'm going to hit up the Voodoo Temple I found in the paper this morning. Might have something useful for us on Samedi or the rituals used."

"Good idea. Why don't you meet me back at the Wesker tomb around lunch time? I might have a way in."

She lifted her brows, curious now. "You planning to illegally enter a closed mauseluem?"

Leon chuckled, lightly, "Not illegal if you're with the FBI, right?"

"...I don't have a warrant."

Leon shrugged, "So? You smelled weed or something from inside. Probable cause or something?"

"...do you EVER do anything that isn't against the law in one way or another?" Claire studied him to see if he was serious.

"Hey hey hey...I tread carefully on the line, darlin, but it's all for the greater good."

Claire rolled her eyes, "I don't know about that, Mr. Kennedy. But I think you might be dragging me with you into questionable ethics territory here."

"Bah. No fun playing by the rules, Claire Redfield. Live a little. Being bad can feel pretty good if it gets us what we need." He gunned the engine on the bike, "Last chance for a ride."

"I'm good. I'll stick to the safe interior of my very boring sedan."

"Pfft. You're a stick in the mud, kid. But we'll fix that, I promise." He winked and took off, roaring away toward the end of the square.

Claire watched him go, and couldn't stop the smile.

She climbed into her boring sedan and turned over the engine. It wasn't nearly as exciting as cruising around on a Harley, sure, but it got the job done. She looked as professional as she could get while he looked...like somebody's idea of a modern day James Dean.

She tilted the mirror to examine her carefully controlled bun and glasses, her high neck blouse in baby blue and the black pencil skirt and suit jacket she wore. She looked like an agent. She looked like a professional. She didn't think Kennedy knew how to look like one.

She eased the car forward and caught the streetlight to turn toward the temple (*2*).

It was a small little cottage on Creole Street. The little cottage was adorable from the outside, welcoming the viewer the delights of the beyond within.

The Voodoo Spiritual Temple was established in the late 1800s by the Priestess Cemani Ayum. It was the only "formally" established Spiritual Temple with a focus on traditional West African spiritual and herbal healing practices currently existing in New Orleans.

Claire eased open the big wood door and helped herself to the inner sanctum. She was meeting with Priest Loup Blanc, known to his followers as the Silver Scorpion with a little tongue in cheek since scorpions, traditionally, were living beings not very well accepted in society because they caused fear and were related to deadly poison. That he was the great, and well known, healer of his people was not without some sense of irony. So, the "Silver" tag of a saint was applied to the scorpion nickname and a great joke was spread amongst the community. He was the scorpion who healed with his "poison" and was, in many ways, the shaman and shepherd of those who sought his skills.

Silver Scorpion was at the altar that waited in the heavily decorated gathering area within the cottage. A sign hung above the heavy wood door that was painted with tribal symbols and dangled bags of gris-gris and stones on fraying, hand woven hemp.

The sign proclaimed all the things you could expect to find from the Priest who's attention you sought:

Events and Seminars

Oil Blends

Handcrafted Voodoo Dolls

Mojo Bags

Wedding Blessings

Baby Blessings

Funeral Masses

Special Blessings

Private Rituals

Consultations

Prayer requests

Claire considered her needs in the scope of that. Would hunting a killer fall under special blessings? Consultations? Prayer requests?

All three maybe.

The handsome face of the man in question turned. He was coffee with three creams and eyes the same shade as whiskey in sunlight. A lovely blend of green and gray and gold with enough red to make you curious what combination of beautiful genes it took to bring about such a rich kaleidoscope of color.

He wore a white t-shirt and jeans, surprising her. Because what? She'd expected some kind of ceremonial robe or something?

Apparently, she was falling in with the stereotypes after all.

There was a tint of strawberry blond to his long hair that settled in a pretty ponytail down his back as he came toward her. She offered a hand and he shook it. The elekes, or the string of beads he wore around his neck were dark and red and lovely, offering her an idea of what he used in his rituals. She was sure there was significance to the beads and their stone but she didn't know enough to guess.

He guided her to sit as they talked, exchanging pleasantries and answering questions. He was charming, wise, and open. He didn't hide anything from her and wasn't in the place to begin to play games. If she asked about certain icons on the walls, or certain items on the altar, he happily engaged her in conversation regarding their purpose.

He was happy to explain about New Orleans voodoo and the practice of it in modern American.

"Popular culture has strongly associated Vodou with devil worship, torture, cannibalism, and malevolent magical workings. This is largely the product of Hollywood coupled with historical misrepresentations and misunderstandings of the faith."

He offered her a voodoo doll - pretty with a straw smile and sleepy eyes - "But you see, Agent Redfield -"

"Claire..please."

"Claire," He smiled, softly, "The seeds of these misconceptions began much earlier than anything seen in the movies. A well-known incident in 1791 at Bois Caiman marked a crucial time in Haitian slave uprisings. The exact details and intent are a matter of historical debate. It's believed that witnesses saw a Vodou ceremony and thought the participants were making some sort of pact with the Devil to thwart their captors. Some people - even as recent as 2010 after the devastating earthquake there - have claimed that this pact has perpetually cursed the Haitian people. In the Vodou-influenced areas such as Haiti, slavery was extremely violent and brutal; the revolts of the slaves were equally as violent. All of this led white settlers to associate the religion with violence and also helped fuel many unfounded rumors about Vodouisants."

Claire touched the little straw doll's mouth. Something vibrated in her finger tip...or maybe she was just look way too hard into things. "So, voodoo is a scape goat for simply evil minds?"

"In a way, isn't all religion? We use it as a reason to war. A reason to slay. A reason to spread our seed. If we seek to back our deplorable nature with faith, it grants us a way to absolve ourselves of the sin of our own actions. Using voodoo as the devil's work is another way of blaming something beyond our understanding."

Claire offered him the doll and he took it. "What if someone was practicing legitimate voodoo, not for acclaim, but for the purpose of personal glory or gain? Would you be able to tell, just by looking at a ritual scene or site?"

He considered this and finally nodded, smiling. "I believe so. You have an idea of which lesser being they're invoking?"

"Samedi." She studied his face and saw him nod. He shook his head, sighing.

"Samedi is a popular one in this town. For various reasons. Vodou is a monotheistic religion. Followers of Vodou - known as Vodouisants - believe in a single, supreme godhead that can be equated with the Catholic God. This deity is known as Bondye, "the good god."

"...I had no idea." She eased down to watch him now, setting aside her notebook where she'd been jotting information.

Scorpion shook his head, sighing, "Most modern americans don't. Why would they? Vodouisants also accept the existence of lesser beings, which they call loa or lwa. These are more intimately involved in day-to-day life than Bondye, who is a remote figure. The loa are divided into three families: Rada, Petro, and Ghede. The relationship between humans and loa is a reciprocal one. Believers provide food and other items that appeal to the loa in exchange for their assistance. The loa are frequently invited to possess a believer during ritual so the community can directly interact with them. Vilokan is the home of the loa as well as the deceased. It is commonly described as a submerged and forested island."

Claire nodded, taking it all in, "Samedi...he's Ghede?"

"Yes. Yes he is." Scorpion shifted and withdrew a leather volume from the altar. He leafed through it and offered her the pages he'd found with symbols and Samedi's diagram, "It's improtant to note, Claire, that there is no standardized dogma within Vodou. Two temples within the same city might teach different mythologies and appeal to the loa in different ways. So what I can tell you of Samedi may not be what is being invoked with your suspect."

Claire touched his wrist, watching his face eagerly, "I understand that. But anything, anything at all, that can start me looking in the direction is what I'm here for."

Scorpion offered her the volume and she leafed through it as he spoke, "In some ways, Baron Samedi seems to be a walking contradiction. He rules over sex and death, he loves a party but also enjoys his solitude, he has a wonderful sense of humor -the dirtier the better- but yet is reverent towards the dead, especially as they cross over to the other side. When the Baron shows up, you know something big is going down. He is extremely honest. Don't ask him a question if you don't want to know the answer. One of the most important ideas that Baron teaches us is that life is too short to be unhappy."

Claire glanced up at his face, running her finger over the sign of his veve. "Would he be involved in the murder of children?"

Scorpion shook his head now, adament. "Not unless grossly perverted from his course. And even then, I doubt he would answer invocation where children are harmed. He loves children and they will become very curious when he is around. "

Claire studied his face now, "What about raising the dead, Father? Would he? Could he?"

Soothing her, he patted her arm, "Baron Samedi is Lord of the Dead. We cannot connect with those who have gone before us without him. He doesn't just end life either. He can end a situation, an argument, a relationship, etc. Baron is also there at the end of a job well done. When you take that deep breath after finishing a big project, you are feeling him. He helps the newly dead cross over and find peace. In this aspect, we should not fear him but appreciate him for the care and concern he will show us all in the end. If someone is so bad off that are lingering on the border, the Baron will make the ultimate decision whether they live or die."

Claire shook her head, feeling a cold shiver in her guts, "Somebody is invoking him to kill, Father. They are using him to shepherd the dead to their purpose. Is it possible? Would he, for the right offering, allow the dead to serve the will of someone who called him?"

He didn't like the answer. She saw that all over his handsome face. He was tall and thin and attractive, and angry. Because he didn't like someone perverting his faith either for such things. But he said, "They could, as the Baron loves sex. Loves it. Groups and orgies and offerings of sex and death combined, he would...couple with such things. He would adore it. Normally the question I get asked most often is how can the Baron be Lord over sex and death? Aren't they complete opposites? So, I prayed to him one day and the answer I got was "Good sex is the closest to death the living can get without crossing over." If you think about it, "true" sex is about joining souls in a blissful union. Death is about crossing back over to join with the Great Spirit. As spiritual beings, two of the times we are most open and vulnerable is the moment of orgasm and the moment we die."

Claire studied his face and something like horror eased in her guts, "Would he allow someone to resurrect the dead for sex?"

Scorpion considered her, he didn't look happy, he looked angry again, "Because of his lordship over sex and death, some might be think that the Baron is involved with necrophilia but this absolutely not true. Any form of disrespect towards the dead would be absolutely taboo."

"...well, that's something."

But he didn't look happy. She eyed him, waiting, "What is it? What?"

"After they were resurrected. After his offering claimed...who could say what they would do with those they'd brought back?"

Lord.

That was something she didn't want to think of.

Were these girls being killed, being raised again, being raped...and being used to summon something sinister and evil? Were they being raised by a necromancer and used to create something else?

She had no answers.

Just more questions.

She considered the priest and finally queried, "Father...if I brought you to a crime scene, as an expert witness, could you give us an idea of what might be lingering there?"

He smiled, gently, but there was the rage of a pious man in his pretty eyes, "Claire, I would be honored to help you stop this monster. In anyway I can."

"Would it be possible to perform some kind of exorcism on whatever might have risen?"

A good question, mused the Priest, and proved she was both smart and capable. He was enjoying her company in more ways than one. She was beautiful, intelligent, and clearly educated. She was also determined and true. These were qualities he favored and fostered in his flock. He respected truth, in all its forms, and was looking forward to both spending more time with her and helping her slay whatever demons were currently perverting his faith for their own nefarious purposes.

"I believe anything is possible, Claire, with the right amount of faith."

Wong Residence - The Garden District -

The knock on the door was loud. It echoed. The whole thing was a scene out of Gone with the Wind. He was standing at the door to Tara, waiting for Scarlet O'Hara to walk down the stairs and declare she'd never go hungry again.

It was answered by a sallow faced man with a long chin. The second Leon saw him, he thought, "Nosferatu!" From the pointy ears to the elongated mandible, the old guy looked like a 1930s silent movie vampire.

He eyed Leon with no less than a far amount of disdain. Apparently, a black leather riding jacket with a raglan t-shirt beneath wasn't what he expected to see when one flashed a badge, "I'm Detective Ryman, I'm here to see Ms. Wong."

The old guy gave him a long look, sighed, and intoned, "Ms. Wong is at prayer. But you may wait for her in the study."

And Leon Kennedy was granted access, with a little help of a possibly illegal white lie, into the inner sanctum of Madam Butterfly herself.

As he passed through, he whispered, "Will you walk into my parlour? Said the spider to the fly. Oh no no...said the little fly...to ask me is in vain, for who goes up your winding stair can never come down again..." (*3*)

And the door closed quietly at his back.

Post note: *1* Quint can be found under the call sign JACKASS in Revelations. You can google him. He's often times my go to guy in the games for a pretty fantastic "Q" type for Leon.

*2* The Voodoo Spirtual Temple is a real place. I just stole the idea of it here for the sake of the story. No person mentioned bares any relations to the real owners or operators.

*3* The Spider and the Fly is a poem by Mary Howitt (1799–1888), published in 1828. The first line of the poem is "'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly." The story tells of a cunning Spider who ensnares a naïve Fly through the use of seduction and flattery. The poem is a cautionary tale against those who use flattery and charm to disguise their true evil intentions.