Southern Charm
folder
+. to F › FAKE
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
4,865
Reviews:
13
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+. to F › FAKE
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
18
Views:
4,865
Reviews:
13
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own FAKE, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Nine: The Hermit
Chapter Nine: The Hermit
Date Written: 12/25/05
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dee/Ryo
Warnings: Homosexuality, murder, hoodoo use, mentioned NC (non consent or rape) and the issues that go with it (I'm not going to write it, though, the closest I'll go is memories)
Disclaimer: Same as Chapter Zero
Spoilers: All the way up through book 7
Notes: Wow. On a roll.
----
Necromancy (Latin necromantia, Greek nekromantia) is the alleged divination by which a person raises the spirits of the dead or, in some cases, merely their corpses. The word derives from the Greek nekros "dead" and manteia "divination". It has a subsidiary meaning reflected in an alternative and archaic form of the word, nigromancy, (a folk etymology using Latin niger, "black") in which the magical force of "dark powers" is gained from or by acting upon corpses. A practitioner of necromancy is a necromancer.
--from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia.
----------
Once upon a time, there was a young man who had a beautiful wife. He and his new bride loved each other very very much.
One day, his wife died when she was still very young. This, of course, devastated her husband. However, instead of grieving for his loss, he went... a little crazy.
He became convinced that his beautiful wife had been cursed by a voodoo priestess by the name of Marie Laveau. The thought of his wife being cursed for something was maddening, and the man began practicing voodoo himself. Particularly the forbidden magic, necromancy.
The man had the talent for it, as it turned out. He quickly became one of the best voodoo practitioners, but no one knew it, save his teacher.
To the man, necromancy was a way of bringing his wife back from the grave. However, all magic comes at a high price.
The price for a life... Is a life in return.
----------
Marie stopped on the way home to throw up her lunch. She didn't need to eat--not anymore--and only did so to keep up appearances.
You see, Marie Laveau was the granddaughter of the original Marie Laveau. However, she told everyone that she was her great-great granddaughter to keep people from asking the very obvious question:
Why would the granddaughter of Laveau look to be close to twenty when she should be pushing seventy?
The answer was more than complicated.
----------
A young mulatto woman shivered apprehensively. her eyes cut up to look at her customer, a figure clad in a black pinstripe suit, a black fedora covering his eyes. The candle flickering on her small table cast faint light and sharp shadows on his face.
His black eyes seemed to suck up what light reached it.
She tore her gaze from his, looking down at her table. She was in the middle of a tarot card reading, her hand hovering just above the final card. Her instinct was to run, leave the reading half-done, and fuck the consequences.
She had never seen a reading this bleak before.
The cards told her that this customer was... evil. That he would kill to gain power.
That he already had.
Her hand barely touched the back of the final card, and she felt a shudder run through her arm. She swallowed thickly, but turned it over anyway.
The Tower Card. The worst card in the entire Major Arcana.
"Well, well, well... Looks like you lose."
Dark brown eyes snapped up to stare at her customer, eyes wide with fear. He grabbed her frizzy brown hair fiercely, knocking the table over. The candle gutted out on the cold stone of Jackson Square, scented wax hardening immediately. She opened her mouth to scream, but found she couldn't. He smiled and waved a gloved hand at her, and she cursed inwardly.
There was hoodoo magic all over it. He had cursed her the moment he touched her.
He yanked her head back, exposing her throat in the pale light of the secluded square. He leaned down, inhaling her scent and licking at her skin.
And she couldn't even shudder. Bastard...
"Bonne nuit, ma petite," he whispered into her ear, reaching across her neck to slide the cool metal of a knife across her throat. He pulled it back towards him, and the blade bit into her skin.
Warm sticky blood spilled across the murder's clothing and the cold stone. Her breathing became short and labored, the blood from her main arteries flowing down her trachea into her lungs. She was drowning, the world was getting darker...
The next thing Marie remembered, that damn man was standing over her, wiping his blade clean and smirking at her as she slowly realized that she couldn't feel. She certainly saw the blood, her blood, all over the street and on her clothing, but she couldn't feel it; nor could she feel the street that she knew should be cold, or the breeze that was moving her hair and her clothing.
And she definitely couldn't feel the gold chain around her wrist, couldn't feel its coldness or its weight, but it was glinting in the light.
Marie unconsciously fingered it as she hurried home, damning the man again and again. She still remembered the horror when she recognized the symbol, a zombie spell around inlaid pieces of yellow glass, the deep engravings stained with her own blood.
Her soul was captured, trapped in a body that didn't have a heartbeat, that was moving solely on her master's magic. His magic was what kept her--and him--young, but it also bound her to him. She couldn't say or do anything that he didn't want her to.
Which is why she had never broken under police interrogation. She could talk about the case, but no specifics. Like being there and watching the man kill innocents, stalking them and sucking their energy until they were empty and then taking their blood as well.
She opened the door to her house--although it was more like a shack--on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. She wrinkled her nose against the stench she knew was there, although she couldn't smell it. Her master was such a slob--he enjoyed torturing her by leaving bloodied knives and clothing, buckets full of dark goopy blood and decomposing bodies attracting flies and maggots and insects of every kind.
"About damn time you got home," she heard him grump, and Marie frowned at the man.
"Shut up, Joe."
"Oh, temper temper!" the man chastised, grinning at her over the top of a thick tome. "How were you lover boys?"
"Fuck you."
The book shut with a loud thump, dust flying from the pages. "Marie. You're not going to talk to me like that." He crossed the room to stare her down, running a finger down her collarbone to trace the top of her shirt. "I am your master and as such I deserve respect."
"Yeah, well, I deserve to be actually alive, you asshole."
He backhanded her, hard, but she couldn't feel the sting on her cheek. The insult stung her pride, however.
"Marie. Stop being a bitch. For that, you're going to take a life for me tonight."
Marie winced, turning her face away. She felt sick, wishing she could throw up. Because of her mouth, someone else had to die.
"Of course..." Joe drawled, tracing lower to dip his forefinger into her cleavage. "There's always other ways for you to convince me otherwise."
Joe was a sick man. He had his fetishes, but if it meant someone else would live to see another day she'd gladly suffer them.
Date Written: 12/25/05
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dee/Ryo
Warnings: Homosexuality, murder, hoodoo use, mentioned NC (non consent or rape) and the issues that go with it (I'm not going to write it, though, the closest I'll go is memories)
Disclaimer: Same as Chapter Zero
Spoilers: All the way up through book 7
Notes: Wow. On a roll.
----
Necromancy (Latin necromantia, Greek nekromantia) is the alleged divination by which a person raises the spirits of the dead or, in some cases, merely their corpses. The word derives from the Greek nekros "dead" and manteia "divination". It has a subsidiary meaning reflected in an alternative and archaic form of the word, nigromancy, (a folk etymology using Latin niger, "black") in which the magical force of "dark powers" is gained from or by acting upon corpses. A practitioner of necromancy is a necromancer.
--from Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia.
----------
Once upon a time, there was a young man who had a beautiful wife. He and his new bride loved each other very very much.
One day, his wife died when she was still very young. This, of course, devastated her husband. However, instead of grieving for his loss, he went... a little crazy.
He became convinced that his beautiful wife had been cursed by a voodoo priestess by the name of Marie Laveau. The thought of his wife being cursed for something was maddening, and the man began practicing voodoo himself. Particularly the forbidden magic, necromancy.
The man had the talent for it, as it turned out. He quickly became one of the best voodoo practitioners, but no one knew it, save his teacher.
To the man, necromancy was a way of bringing his wife back from the grave. However, all magic comes at a high price.
The price for a life... Is a life in return.
----------
Marie stopped on the way home to throw up her lunch. She didn't need to eat--not anymore--and only did so to keep up appearances.
You see, Marie Laveau was the granddaughter of the original Marie Laveau. However, she told everyone that she was her great-great granddaughter to keep people from asking the very obvious question:
Why would the granddaughter of Laveau look to be close to twenty when she should be pushing seventy?
The answer was more than complicated.
----------
A young mulatto woman shivered apprehensively. her eyes cut up to look at her customer, a figure clad in a black pinstripe suit, a black fedora covering his eyes. The candle flickering on her small table cast faint light and sharp shadows on his face.
His black eyes seemed to suck up what light reached it.
She tore her gaze from his, looking down at her table. She was in the middle of a tarot card reading, her hand hovering just above the final card. Her instinct was to run, leave the reading half-done, and fuck the consequences.
She had never seen a reading this bleak before.
The cards told her that this customer was... evil. That he would kill to gain power.
That he already had.
Her hand barely touched the back of the final card, and she felt a shudder run through her arm. She swallowed thickly, but turned it over anyway.
The Tower Card. The worst card in the entire Major Arcana.
"Well, well, well... Looks like you lose."
Dark brown eyes snapped up to stare at her customer, eyes wide with fear. He grabbed her frizzy brown hair fiercely, knocking the table over. The candle gutted out on the cold stone of Jackson Square, scented wax hardening immediately. She opened her mouth to scream, but found she couldn't. He smiled and waved a gloved hand at her, and she cursed inwardly.
There was hoodoo magic all over it. He had cursed her the moment he touched her.
He yanked her head back, exposing her throat in the pale light of the secluded square. He leaned down, inhaling her scent and licking at her skin.
And she couldn't even shudder. Bastard...
"Bonne nuit, ma petite," he whispered into her ear, reaching across her neck to slide the cool metal of a knife across her throat. He pulled it back towards him, and the blade bit into her skin.
Warm sticky blood spilled across the murder's clothing and the cold stone. Her breathing became short and labored, the blood from her main arteries flowing down her trachea into her lungs. She was drowning, the world was getting darker...
The next thing Marie remembered, that damn man was standing over her, wiping his blade clean and smirking at her as she slowly realized that she couldn't feel. She certainly saw the blood, her blood, all over the street and on her clothing, but she couldn't feel it; nor could she feel the street that she knew should be cold, or the breeze that was moving her hair and her clothing.
And she definitely couldn't feel the gold chain around her wrist, couldn't feel its coldness or its weight, but it was glinting in the light.
Marie unconsciously fingered it as she hurried home, damning the man again and again. She still remembered the horror when she recognized the symbol, a zombie spell around inlaid pieces of yellow glass, the deep engravings stained with her own blood.
Her soul was captured, trapped in a body that didn't have a heartbeat, that was moving solely on her master's magic. His magic was what kept her--and him--young, but it also bound her to him. She couldn't say or do anything that he didn't want her to.
Which is why she had never broken under police interrogation. She could talk about the case, but no specifics. Like being there and watching the man kill innocents, stalking them and sucking their energy until they were empty and then taking their blood as well.
She opened the door to her house--although it was more like a shack--on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. She wrinkled her nose against the stench she knew was there, although she couldn't smell it. Her master was such a slob--he enjoyed torturing her by leaving bloodied knives and clothing, buckets full of dark goopy blood and decomposing bodies attracting flies and maggots and insects of every kind.
"About damn time you got home," she heard him grump, and Marie frowned at the man.
"Shut up, Joe."
"Oh, temper temper!" the man chastised, grinning at her over the top of a thick tome. "How were you lover boys?"
"Fuck you."
The book shut with a loud thump, dust flying from the pages. "Marie. You're not going to talk to me like that." He crossed the room to stare her down, running a finger down her collarbone to trace the top of her shirt. "I am your master and as such I deserve respect."
"Yeah, well, I deserve to be actually alive, you asshole."
He backhanded her, hard, but she couldn't feel the sting on her cheek. The insult stung her pride, however.
"Marie. Stop being a bitch. For that, you're going to take a life for me tonight."
Marie winced, turning her face away. She felt sick, wishing she could throw up. Because of her mouth, someone else had to die.
"Of course..." Joe drawled, tracing lower to dip his forefinger into her cleavage. "There's always other ways for you to convince me otherwise."
Joe was a sick man. He had his fetishes, but if it meant someone else would live to see another day she'd gladly suffer them.