Chapter Sixteen Marie #2
Marie remained silent, unsure of what to make of this warning. Though she could not be certain of the occasion of their visit, she was quite sure they were on a steamboat full of rich folks, not one riddled with monsters and enemies. What need would they have for Voodoo tonight?
At the door, the man bowed his head a little, acknowledging their presence.
The bronze-leafed circlet on his brow shone against the boat’s dangling lights.
When he spoke, it was with the leaden inflection of an actor made to say their lines until all manner of feeling had been dulled down to nothing at all.
“What spills first on the altar of gods in gift? A chalice to toast, or the blade that tears flesh and bone in rift?”
“Wine before blood,” Jon answered at once.
The doorman’s eyes were steady on Jon, then slowly flicked to Marie, silently gauging.
Then his lips lifted into something like a smile but not quite.
“Welcome, revelers. May your thirst be quenched, your appetites sated at last.” He stepped aside like a curtain being drawn back just as the golden doors swung open.
And with that, Marie and Jon stepped inside.
Marie was met with a sight that left her breathless with confusion. In the spectacle before her, she saw none of the old French or Spanish influence that ran through the French Quarter. This was something older, stranger.
It was as if they’d stepped into a different world, a different time altogether.
La Lune’s entrance hall had been transformed into a temple of some kind, the air choked with sweet, swirling incense, sweat, and something unmistakably metallic.
Something alchemical. But there was no Brotherhood here, only the city’s elite dressed in garish Grecian costume.
Musicians plucked on harps and lyres, their strings like shining threads.
Men passed her draped in white and bright red, their heads encircled in gleaming laurels, halos wrought in gold.
The women in black were veiled widows, like herself, and the red-cheeked maidens were almost entirely nude, their sweat-glistened flesh wreathed in holly and hyacinth that coiled over their arms and breasts.
They were maenads, those mad-eyed worshippers of Dionysus, the horned god of Jon’s tale.
Jon guided Marie through the crowd, beneath pillars of white marble twisted with ivy, his hand pressed upon her lower back, the part where the folds of her black gown revealed a tantalizing square of flesh.
Strange as this place was, she felt assured at Jon’s side in a way she had never felt before.
Not even with Jacques. The dark thought rose from within her.
The truth was, least of all with him. She had always felt fragile at her husband’s side, even when she knew her magic was stronger than his, than that of most in New Orleans, and he had never failed to remind her in a thousand small ways.
But not with Jon. At his side, she felt… his equal.
Marie could not help but admire the opulence around her: Men in jarringly angular panther-shaped masks, white-faced bulls, horned stags—beasts favored by the mad god.
They danced and drank wine as she had never seen before—too dark, thick as syrup, heavily spiced with a scent that stung the air.
Fat grapes and olives piled high and glistening as pyramids, fire burning in golden dishes.
But something seemed wrong about it, like she was watching a mirage take hold, and the people moved in a stilted sort of rhythm, their smiles too wooden, their endless laughter crackling the smoked air.
She couldn’t help but feel Jon’s story in the rowboat had been no mere myth.
The widows veiled in black watched her. As Jon led her on through the crowd, their eyes all seemed to be fixed on Marie, as if they could sense her kindred grief.
Although her own veil hid her face well, Marie could not help but think of what they must be whispering amongst themselves: There goes the Widow Paris.
Women watched Jon too, their eyes hungrily latching on to him.
Disguised or not, Jon the Conjurer moved like a man with power—real power—and that drew women in like a honey trap.
Marie’s tongue burned, the words she suddenly wanted to say trapped inside her, hot grease against her throat.
Envy would do her no good. It was a sin she had no right to, none at all.
And yet…Marie bristled. She wanted to be through with this task, with these strange people and whatever business Jon thought he might have in a wild place such as this.
As if sensing her mood, Jon leaned over, his whisper a cool breath at her ear. A shiver coursed through her. “You’re beautiful when you’re impatient, Marie. But you’ll still have to wait, my dark sun.”
At the back of the hall was a marble fountain shaped into stone-white nymphs, their gaping mouths spewing waterfalls of bubbling dark wine.
Behind it, a man stood guard in front of a towering black door marked with a chain of pulsing sigils that ran in strange, concentric patterns.
Truth be told, Marie might have mistaken the man for a ghost or a haint.
Cherry-red circles were painted on the apples of his cheeks, the rest of his face covered in chalky powder, the theatrical pomp of a stage actor.
When they approached, he leaned in close, red cheekbones jutted high as he spoke the words barring their passage in a dreamy lilt: “What follows the flesh when the soul is long gone? What comes to the front when the man in the mirror sings no song?”
From behind the door came a swelled roaring, the great and terrible shudder of a beast opening its maw. Just what was waiting behind that door? “Beast after body,” answered Jon.
Marie silently turned the words over in her mind. Wine before blood. Beast after body. The phrase hung thickly in the air, a spell complete, a dark ritual coming to a close.
For a moment, she was sure that he would turn them away. Then a smile broke across his face, quick as lightning, stretching from ear to ear. “Magnifique! Y’all best hurry on now,” the doorman urged, that smile still frozen into factitious cheer. “Show ’bout to start.”
He led them through the door and down a staircase that spiraled so deep into the boat that it seemed to lead to nothing at all.
Marie reached for the banister that ran along its length, but the moment she touched it, she quickly withdrew her hand.
The metal quivered beneath her fingertips, alive and writhing like a wet-bellied thing.
She held firm to Jon’s hand as they descended.
Down and down they went, the walls growing tighter, closer, the music from above waning with every step as they wound deeper into the steamboat’s shadowed innards.
Marie had been sure there was only one deck beneath them, so why then did the steps lead so deep?
She was sure the staircase should have ended two turns down.
The walls tremored every few seconds, as if something were slowly worming its way through them.
She was beginning to think there was something deeply unnatural about this place. Something very wrong.
When they descended to the bottom deck, their guide led them down a tight passageway hissing with steam, then into a private viewing box that sat high above rows and rows of seats filled with chanting people—widows sheathed behind their veils, maidens, and golden-leafed men—some banging their fists, others hooting and howling, their eyes excitedly trained on a pit carved into the center of the room.
Except the pit was dressed to be more of a stage—covered in a flowing red velvet curtain that was pulled to a close.
If she didn’t know any better, she might have believed they were in an opera house in the Quarter.
But this was not the Quarter. And this place, she knew at last, was no opera house.
It was more of a colosseum. Which shouldn’t be possible.
This place was larger than any steamboat could conceivably contain, even one as abundant as La Lune. There was magic at work here.
“What is this place?” asked Marie.
Jon’s gaze was trained on the pit below. “I would say it was hell. But I hear even a realm such as that has rules. There are no rules here.” Then he turned, considered her from behind the sharp, pointed lines of his panther mask. His voice was flat. Final. “Only misery.”
Frantic chanting overtook the crowd. The sound was deafening. They raised their Hands of Glory in the dark, a sea of silver flames dancing in open white palms. She’d scented something metallic and alchemical on the steamboat’s second deck. And now she knew why. Because they were here.
The Brotherhood of the White Hand.
She counted at least a dozen of them—the alchemists in their hooded robes drawn over their sallow faces.
A man in the front row with long white hair suddenly stood, turning to address the crowd.
It was Gailon. She recognized him immediately—because he was one of the few in the entire chamber who did not conceal his face.
No mask. No covering. And why should he?
In Marie’s opinion, the Grand Wizard was the special kind of idiot who relished in the notoriety.
He wanted everyone to know—to see—the results of his work.
He stood, draped in the Brotherhood’s colors: a long black robe that flowed out around him like rippling dark water, trimmed in glowing white sigils.
The moonstone brooch at his chest shone in the shifting torchlight, the mark of the pale hand.
The alchemist lifted his white staff, then slammed it on the floor, sending a shock wave of power throughout the chamber, hushing the crowd at once.
And then the curtain rose.