Kirby not only set up plans for a big cleaning and decoration session for the big night, but he also had made arrangements with Priestess Vivienne to come and bless the bar. Priestess Vivienne was well-respected in the local community. During the week, she worked behind the scenes at the Voodoo Museum as a curator, as well as consulting with some of the more legitimate occult shops in the area and leading some ceremonies and rituals. Liz had never met Vivienne but knew her reputation, and she was impressed by the Vivienne’s credentials. Not only was she a long-time local practitioner, but she traveled and studied in Haiti, France, and West Africa. She studied art history and religion and held degrees in both areas. She often served as a special curator at the New Orleans Museum of Art when they hosted local exhibits where religion and folklore of the area were involved. She was also the author of a variety of books and articles on various aspects of the practice and of the history of the religion in New Orleans, tracing its roots and evolution.
“I’m surprised you managed to get her to agree to something like blessing a bar.” Liz was taking inventory up front, making sure there was enough liquor and beer to get through what she hoped would be a good night.
Kirby smiled. “Well, we have a family connection, apparently. My mother suggested I call her and have her come do the house blessing. She was actually the one who suggested that she bless the bar when she found out you would be the owner.”
They stayed open during the early part of the day and exploited regular customers who came in for Bloody Marys by giving them their own sponge or chore. When Vivienne showed up around noon the bar was clean and ready to fully reopen and Kirby and Liz ushered folks out the door, promising their helpers more free rounds when they returned.
Vivienne arrived with a couple of her male students. She carried a colorful tote bag of the items she needed, and her assistants each carried a large drum. All three of them wore white, cotton garments and for a moment Liz was reminded of a baptismal scene. The men wore plain white tunics with white cotton pants. Vivienne wore a long skirt and white cotton blouse. Both were dazzling in their whiteness. She took her shoes off immediately before crossing the threshold of the bar. Her students did likewise.
Liz was mesmerized by how beautiful and regal the Mambo was. She was tall but curvy and solid, and she wore her hair in many braids that had been caught up and twisted into a large bun. Liz wondered how long her braids were when they were down. When Liz shook her hand and thanked her for coming to the blessing, she noticed the woman’s eyes were almost lavender in color. Her skin was caramel. A shadow seemed to cross her face when she and Liz touched, but it was quickly replaced with a vibrant smile. Liz felt a buzzing, almost like an electric charge in her handshake and the air fairly crackled around her; Vivienne’s life force seemed to radiate from her pores.
“I am so happy to meet you, Elizabeth. We can get to work if that is ok with you? If you have questions afterward, I will be glad to sit with you after sending my students home.” With this, she walked through the bar, looking for the perfect spot. She asked the students to help her move furniture from the center of the barroom floor, and Kirby and Liz helped by taking the chairs and small tables toward the back of the bar.
Once the space was cleared, the students each sat down in a chair, placed the standing drums between their knees, and began beating out a steady rhythm, singing in a language that Liz guessed was Creole. As they drummed, Vivienne started drawing a Vévé for Brigitte, the wife of Baron Samedi, in cornmeal on the floor. Liz was entranced with the beat of the drums and singing and amazed by the sureness of Vivienne’s hand as it placed perfect, even lines of cornmeal on the floor. When the Vévé was complete, Liz noticed that Vivienne was taking other things out of her bag to begin the blessing. Suddenly, she felt herself slipping away, losing awareness of anything other than the drumming.
Kirby watched from behind the bar. At first he noticed Liz begin to sway to the beat of the drum, and he smiled to himself as he was glad she felt comfortable enough to ride the beat and get into the blessing. As we watched, her movements became larger, and she shook her hips in time with the beat, first with her hands on her hips. Then she raised her hands up in the air, her elbows bent, and started to move in small steps, grinding her hips forward and back and flapping her hands up and down as if she were fanning a fire in front of her; he thought she looked a little like a chicken as she strutted. She moved around Vivienne as she drew the Vévé. Once she’d made a circle around Vivienne, she began to spin. He could hear her just over the drums, chanting what sounded like obscenities in both English and French as she twirled faster and faster. Suddenly, she stopped, threw her head back and let out a huge cry. When the sound faded she looked to her left and then right, and her gaze stopped on the offerings that Vivienne had placed near the circle. She lurched forward, grabbing the small glass bottle from the offerings and uncorking it, draining the liquid from it. She threw her head back again, letting out another cry of exultation. As the sound died this time, her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.
When she came to, the drumming had stopped. Kirby had picked her up off the floor and carried her into the office. He’d put a cold compress on her forehead, and he and Vivienne sat with her waiting for her to come to. When they saw her lids flutter, Vivienne took her hand. Again, she felt the jolt of power from the other woman; like flames, it licked her fingers first and then the heat wrapped around her arm and over her body. She could even taste it. “Water, please.”
Kirby ran to the bar and came back with the water. She took a large gulp and sheepishly grinned, embarrassed. “I hope that I wasn’t too much of a distraction. I’m not sure what happened, Vivienne. I was watching you draw the figures on the floor and I saw you setting out the offerings, and that’s all I remember.”
Vivienne looked at Kirby, then back at Liz. “You remember nothing else?”
Liz shook her head slowly, looking first at Vivienne, then Kirby, and Vivienne again. “Nothing.”
“I think that you were mounted or possessed by a Loa, by the Loa I was calling on, in fact. What do you know about Loa?” She could tell that Vivienne was looking for her to tell her something, but she wasn’t even sure what the word meant.
“I don’t know anything, really, other than what local stories and tourist guides tell about Voodoo. I’m not familiar with the word.”
Vivienne recounted what had happened. She described Liz gyrating to the drums, humming and chanting, but not in English—except for the occasional obscenity. She danced on the Vévé, scattering cornmeal. “The most amazing thing, though, is that you drank the kleren from the offering.”
Liz felt her face turn red; she was incredibly embarrassed and was worried she had offended Vivienne. “I am sorry, Vivienne. I know it must seem that I am incredibly rude and just awful. I honestly have no memory of any of it.”
Vivienne patted her hand and laughed. “Oh, it was not rudeness. You drank the offering, which is proof enough for me that it was not you.” Vivienne reached for a small glass bottle in her bag. She held it up for Liz to see and inside were various hot peppers. “You drank the rum in this bottle, Liz. You were possessed by Maman Brigitte, I believe. You should look at this as a great blessing on your business.” She handed Liz the bottle—taking the cork off, she could smell the strong, hot chili vapors. The vapor alone was strong enough to burn her nose; she now knew why her mouth felt like fire when she’d come to.
Once Kirby was sure Liz was ok, he left her and Vivienne alone to talk. He hoped that Priestess Vivienne could help comfort Liz. Neither he nor Liz were particularly religious or spiritual, but they both respected local custom and culture enough to value the blessing and the kind ear. He’d spent some time with Vivienne while Liz was gone and learned a great deal from her. He hoped Liz would too.
After an hour or so, the two women came out into the bar, and Liz poured them each a shot of the best rum in the bar. They silently toasted, clicking the edge of their shot glasse
s together. They sat quietly and drank together. Kirby and Deanie hovered on the other end of the bar, sharing cigarettes and wondering what the two had talked about. Kirby was glad to see an easiness in their conversation, and once her drink was gone, Vivienne hugged Liz and departed.
The party crowd didn’t start coming in until after nine. A lot of the party-goers spent the early evening stuffing themselves somewhere, still living it up before having to return to work and more reasonable eating and drinking habits in a short attempt to behave before Mardi Gras eating started in earnest. As midnight neared the bar was fairly packed, and Liz was well lit. Instead of her usual kiss at midnight from Alex, though, she got Sandy’s last set of keys to the bar.
She didn’t remember getting home; Mike and Kirby basically carried her out to Mike’s car. Not only did the possession exhaust her, but she drank most of the day. She woke up shortly after three in the morning, finding that they had tucked her in bed fully clothed. Thankfully, there was a full bottle of water by the bed. Even after draining it, she felt incredibly thirsty. She got up to get more water, her cottonmouth too distracting to ignore.
Shuffling to the kitchen, she was suddenly ravenous. Once she opened the refrigerator to get a cold bottle of water, she saw some breakfast steaks from the butcher set aside. The meat was thin and lean. She slid one of the cutlets out, fully intending to get out a pan and cook it. Instead, once it was in her hand she felt the overwhelming urge to tear it with her teeth. The metallic taste of blood and raw beef was comforting at the same time the dead coldness of it made her want to gag. She recoiled at the gamey taste of the meat, but she choked the whole thing down. It didn’t stay with her though. As soon as it hit her stomach she felt it boomerang back up, and she barely made it to the sink. As she cleaned up the mess, she realized she hadn’t eaten all day. Surely this was just a weird drunken episode. She felt fevered and suddenly very tired again. She brushed her teeth and went back to bed.
In her fevered dreams, she relived the night of finding Wren covered in Alex’s blood. But in the dream, she did not run away, as she was not scared. Instead, she calmly walked over to Wren and Alex and placed her mouth on Alex’s still pulsing wound in her neck. Her heart beat in the same rhythm as the blood pulsing from the wound, filling her up and soothing her, making her whole. She can feel Wren’s fingers in her hair, and she can hear, just barely audible the same voice she heard in her dreams before—Olivia’s voice, whispering her name.
Elizabeth. . .
In her dream, she pulled herself away from Alex, leaving her to Wren. The sound of Olivia whispering her name distracted her and drew her out of the room. Find me. . . .Elizabeth. . . Find me.
When she woke up, she was lying in the grass in Washington Square Park, and the first fingers of sunlight were struggling to peek through the clouds. She was horribly cold, and as she opened her eyes, she heard faint laughter. The park was empty, save for a man sitting casually on a nearby bench, holding a partially consumed bottle of red wine. She wondered how he wasn’t cold; he wore no coat. Instead, he was dressed in a dark suit, as if he had just stepped out of a party for a smoke. He noticed her as she walked past him and raised the bottle in a silent toast. When she saw his face, she realized he was young and breathtakingly beautiful. His hair was short with a slight wave, and his eyes flashed at her as he opened his mouth in a wide smile, revealing perfectly dazzling teeth.
She heard the laugh again as she passed him, just the faintest chuckle, and realized it was coming from him. She could also smell him as she left the park, a whiff of something like sandalwood. When she returned home, stealing in quietly so as not to wake up Mike and Kirby, she realized the scent was on her hands and in her hair, and that she was far more alert than she could remember being since Alex’s death.
Chapter Thirteen
Tiffany shifted in the chair, waiting her turn. The tattoo parlor was fairly busy for a weekday afternoon, but they were the best one in town, so she was happy to wait. She was nervous about the tattoo, having never gotten one before.
When Wren was arrested, Tiffany went to her apartment looking for her dance bag in hopes that she could score some free clothes. She managed to get Wren’s long black duster, but the boots Wren wore on stage, what Tiffany really wanted, were too narrow for her feet. She took them anyway in hopes that somewhere she could find a similar enough pair that they would look the same. The hot pants and other dance clothes were easy enough to find versions of. She also managed to get some of Wren’s studs and other piercing jewelry that the cops decided were not evidence worthy when they combed through her things.
The tattoo was the first step in what she hoped would revitalize her dance career. She had lucked into being Wren’s dance partner in part because of the sharp contrast between her innocent schoolgirl persona and Wren’s on-stage persona of Morrigan, who was witchy, scary, and dark. The two of them on stage were a sensation, and while Tiffany was still using her schoolgirl persona, without the bad girl partner the act was not getting anywhere near the attention it got before. She needed something to turn business around.
Frank, the manager at the Casbah, came up with the idea that she should slowly start showing signs that she was tainted by Morrigan. Pictures of the two of them were posted in the windows in the front of the club. Pictures of Wren upon her arrest and various candid shots of her in her dance gear and on stage graced the newspaper in the days after she was picked up, too, so Frank figured her signature look would be a draw for tourists and locals alike and that he could have an act that would go on indefinitely, or at least until Tiffany started to get too old or burnt out and he had to replace her. For now, though, he figured they could have a successful run. He wasn’t worried about her old stage persona, either. After all, Brittany Spears look-a-likes were not hard to come by, especially in Louisiana. Brittany doppelgangers got off the Greyhound or hitched into town from small Louisiana towns every day. Hell, if they didn’t, half the sets in all the strip clubs in town would be empty every night.
But the plan would only work if Tiffany could pull off the reincarnation of Morrigan. So, here she was, waiting to get her first tattoo.
“Tiffany? You’re going to be working with Randy. He’ll get you set with the stencil and get things underway.” The tattoo artist led her to a chair where a skinny guy with a Mohawk and a lot of ink was waiting for her. He went through the general procedure regarding their sterilization of the ink guns and that they always opened new ink packs and needles for each customer. Once he had covered all of that, he smiled. “This is usually the moment when people either run out the door or tell me what they want done.”
She smiled at the artist and handed him a drawing she made of the triskele tattoo that Wren wore on her right shoulder blade.
“Where do you want it? And, is this the size you want?”
She nodded. “Yeah, just like that. On my right shoulder blade.” She took the piece of paper back and pulled down the spaghetti strap on the top she wore, clearing her shoulder. She held it over the spot where she wanted it. “Is that going to hurt a lot?”
“Nah, it shouldn’t. I’ll have you sit backwards in the chair so you can hold on, just in case. That’ll keep you steady, too.” He grinned a little, trying to comfort her. “If you’re all set, I’ll go make a stencil of this and we can get to work.”
When he returned, she almost wanted to have him just let her pay him for the stencil or to draw it on with a sharpie, but she knew it needed to look good and that it would pay for itself soon enough. He asked her to sign the consent form and didn’t bat an eye when her name on her driver’s license was Evelyn, not Tiffany. He’d seen her around and knew she was local and what she likely did for a living. It could be a liability to use your real name working in the Quarter. After all, his real name was Dale, not Randy.
When he was done, he went over the basic care of the fresh tattoo and assured her that it probably would not noticeably scab since the lines were fairly narrow.
&nb
sp; “I’m, uh, I’m a dancer. At the Casbah. How long do I have to leave this covered?”
“Just a couple of hours. By the time you’re at work tonight, it should be fine to take the bandage off. We mainly put those on for the walk or ride home only. Just try not to bump it or rub it on anything unsanitary.” He actually winked at her as he said it, snapping off his latex gloves and throwing them in the trash. She tipped him as she paid and suggested that if he wanted to come in for a lap dance, she’d be extra nice to him.
“Yeah, my old lady wouldn’t like that, but thanks.”
“No problem. Maybe when I come back in for more work, I’ll see you again.”
She felt somehow braver and tougher with the tattoo, even though she knew she looked like a dork with the gauze on her shoulder. She slid on her jacket as she left the shop and called the reporter who had left a message for her at the club. She figured she had time to grab a bite to eat on her way home and maybe he could meet her. She needed a nap so she could work the floor longer. Her planned transformation with the tattoos and piercings, professional hair coloring, and clothes was likely to cost a bit and she wanted to be sure she budgeted for it.
“Vaughn Morris.”
She was glad she caught him. “Hi, Mr. Morris. This is Evelyn Banks—Tiffany. You called the Casbah looking for me? Frank, the manager said you really wanted to talk to me about Morrigan. . .I mean. . . Wren?”
They arranged to meet at a coffee shop near her apartment in half an hour. When he walked in, he had to look around a bit to find her. He laughed at himself for thinking that a stripper would be easy to spot in her everyday gear. It’s not like she was dancing for that cup of coffee. She smiled at him as he approached the table. She looked young.
Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles) Page 8
