1898.
Lucie wove the fine hair between her fingers and around thin wire, its softness slipping across her skin like a mother’s caress. The rhythm charmed her, begged her mind to visit times gone by, invited her to stay. Her fingers moved of their own accord, as they always did when she crafted hair pieces, and now this masterwork. Her attention hummed as it dipped into the past, luring her from her body. Each memory brought the smell of soft perfumes, taste of warm milk, sound of a gentle lullaby. But as soon as her mother’s face came into focus, the reverie dissipated like smoke, wafting into the ether.
And she was alone again with her task, braiding and dreaming and weeping for what once was.
She had long ago filled the tear catchers; their crystal hollows brimmed with salty liquid that might never vanish. Her mother had been gone for almost three months now, poisoned by the laudanum that had called to her so. It loved her too much. Just thinking about it now made the girl’s body yearn. A sweet red apple begging for a bite, tart beneath the skin, with hints of spice. Bitter cinnamon swirled against merlot in her memory with honey and saffron notes.
Lucie batted at the sensations, banished them from her awareness. She resisted the nectar’s kiss —something her mother could never do.
Her mourning persisted from dawn to dusk, breathed its way into every moment, nestled in beside her under the bedsheets, then reached into nightmares. She longed not only for her mother, but her mother’s confidantes, those who had taken Lucie in like Aunties. She’d lost them one by one to the dragon’s nectar.
Now nights blended together, cloaked under a veil of braided threads. Ebony, chestnut, fire, gold, and taupe. They shrouded her face like intricate lace, woven memories of the women who’d sprouted the hair. She called each into her mind, whispered their names, saw their lifeless forms frozen in the wake of seduction. The poison ran thick in their blood, a weight that finally dragged them below the surface and into the pool of death. Now all that remained were their tresses.
The veil was an ornate headpiece, woven of their collective locks, her mother, Clara’s, essence the most powerful. The crown was a wreath of intricate reverse chain, striped snake, eight square, and flat twist braids winding back and forth in flowers and coils. The plaited fringe that hung below swayed before her eyes, obscuring her features. She wore it like armor, for while others thought her in hiding, it cloaked dark intentions.
It was a mask for revenge.
*
Lucie locked the gate to the courtyard garden behind her and tucked the skeleton key into her sash. The French Quarter streets were alive with passersby returning from dinner and salons. Gas flames flickered as she passed, her matte crape dress soaking up the light and reflecting none of it. The mourning clothes enveloped her in shadow, made her all but disappear against darkened doorways. An unaccompanied woman at this time of night was a rarity in Vieux Carré, but she feared neither seduction nor death, for she had already bested them both.
As she walked up Toulouse, turned down Rampart, and made her way toward Basin Street, Lucie imagined her life summed up in The Times-Picayune headlines if she was to be caught: “Daughter of Dead Storyville Seamstress Wanted for Murder.” If that was her fate, then so be it as long as she took the Devil down with her.
She was only fourteen but had a fire in her belly and bitterness in her heart. She had lived and wept more than most women in their twenties. Her father passed before Lucie was even born, but her mother had always been there, had always protected her. The girl’s earliest memories were of maternal hands sewing—pinning, cutting, threading, stitching. Her mother put food on the table by performing less than desirable work, fitting gowns for women of the night in the lascivious Storyville District.
Thus, from a young age, Lucie was accustomed to seeing the naked female body with its soft curves and delicate silhouette. And by seven years old, she was fashioning her own costumes, of materials both traditional and unexpected. The demand for other artistic endeavors grew, as male appetites for women with more elaborate hair and less clothing increased. The child was innocent of the vice she served and saw only adorning the body and its pinnacle with beautiful ornaments. But time and proximity had opened her eyes.
Eventually she saw things not meant for the innocent—bodies contorted in pleasure, pain, and in between. She’d witnessed violence that went unpunished, and how easily powder and blush covered bruises and cuts. She’d watched as the women she called Auntie were seduced by vicious substances that gripped their necks like boa constrictors. Then her mother was taken by the snake in the Devil’s hand.
Now Lucie plotted for his head.
As she neared the Storyville District, Anderson’s came into view, its windows beacons on Rue Bassin. She passed by men on their way into the Annex, but they paid her no mind, ignoring the woman-in-mourning as if she was but a shadow. It’s exactly what she intended.
She imagined Auntie Josie inside the saloon, the loyal but calculating woman leaning against the bar delicately as she surveyed her “nieces”, the working girls endearing themselves to men. “Sazerac,” she’d purr to the bartender, who would have a glass already in hand for the madame. Lucie longed to visit her mother’s friend but dared not reveal her presence.
The girl was careful with her footing as she crossed the cobblestone street and followed the cast iron gallery to the back of the bordello. Joyful jazz notes floated into the night with each opening and closing of the door and a lump grew in her throat as she thought of the players, with their rich laughter and dark, warm eyes. She might never offer them a fond farewell, but if she perished tonight, it would be an exit no one would forget.
She shook such notions from her mind, chided herself for losing focus. In punishment, teeth gnashed down hard on her tongue, the thick taste of blood fueling her lust for more.
She would not leave this place without taking him down with her.
A hush fell as Lucie left the bustle behind her, rounded the corner into the back alley where rats scurried and tainted fluid dripped. Her heart quickened and she gulped down fear that tested her will, begged her to retreat. From within her sash she pulled her father’s pocket watch, the only thing she had from him; it said she was right on time.
She caressed the glass vile that hung between her breasts, just above her heart, where it soaked up more wickedness while it laid in wait. Lucie’s pink lips curled at the edges as she considered the liquid death inside—the sticky purple juice she’d extracted from the belladonna berries. She’d cultivated the “beautiful lady” from seeds, nurtured it like a proud mother until its purple bells wept with dew and its dark berries bulged on pentacle beds.
How poetic that a beautiful lady would take his life.
When she saw him exit his apartment behind the Annex, then disappear around the corner for a night of sin and debauchery, she snuck inside to await his return.
*
The Devil’s lair was a clammy room that stank of bachelor, tobacco smoke, crawfish and spices. While the latter two might normally appeal to Lucie, the combination with the prior was putrid. But as the night wore on and she sat in the dark, her senses dulled to the stink and for that she was glad.
She toyed with the idea of lighting the gas lamp, but aimed to leave no trace of her presence. So she did her work by the light of the full moon, streaming in through the window. It cast a heavenly glow on the table like an angel come to bless her task.
She uncorked the bottle from which she’d seen him imbibe on prior occasions. It once held Peychaud bitters, an amber glass container with an aged label. Now it was his chalice for laudanum, that bittersweet nectar that had stolen her mother. She emptied the contents out the window then replaced it with a combination of wine and belladonna for his evening dose.
Now all she had to do was wait behind the closet door and hope he drank before noticing a difference in flavor.
*
When the Devil stumbled into the apartment hours later, Lucie was kneeling on the closet floor, the veil beside her. She welcomed the pain in her legs for it meant she was still alive—she just had to endure the pain a moment longer. She watched him light the oil lamp through the cracked door, casting long shadows onto the wall, then held her breath as he reached for the bitters jar.
His mouth opened and he sipped.
Down the liquid went.
With each moment that passed her blood pumped harder and her smile grew until her teeth were bared in a jubilant growl. Her fingers enclosed upon the braided veil and pulled it to her crown, planted it there like a laurel wreath. Then she pushed the door open slowly, the creaking hinge crying as it swung.
He turned in alarm, his golden curls catching the lamplight, shimmering with an unearthly hue. His strong jaw and hazel eyes had captured many in his web, as only a Devil could. He wobbled on his feet, unsteady from the night’s absinthe but not yet feeling the poison. His eyes were almond slices, narrowed and searching for movement. His handsome face was a trick of the mind for his soul was sick with rot.
“Who’s there?” he said, reaching for a chair to steady himself.
She giggled like a child, a tinkle of a sound in the manly chamber, unwelcome and unfitting. Perhaps that’s why it scared him so.
He jumped back, stumbled, then righted himself again.
The words crept from her mouth in a lullaby, soft and alluring despite their message. “I’ve brought you a present to eat you from the inside out,” she said.
“I said who’s there!” His voice was commanding now, a lie masking his fear.
Lucie moved into the room, aware her silhouette looked not like a woman. It devoured the light from the lamp, her charcoal dress larger than the petite form it cloaked. The braids swung in front of her face, calling to her prey, ensnaring him, enticing him into Mesmeric sleep.
“Witch,” he choked before leaping to his feet and bounding toward the door.
But she got there first, throwing herself against the exit, not caring that it hurt, desperate to keep him trapped. They struggled but her small frame was no match for his panicked bulk.
When her head hit the wall, she heard a crack then everything went dark.
*
Lucie heard his heaving before she opened her eyes. It was followed by a groan and the smell of vomit was rank in the air. When her lids lifted she saw the sky dark outside; the moon had hid her face. Her head pounded with vigor and the taste of blood was upon her lips. She glanced down to find only her chemise and an overabundance of naked cream skin.
The Devil had torn her clothes and maybe more. It was a heavy price, but the belladonna had begun her attack. He writhed on the floor like the snake he was, victim to the exorcism.
“What did you do, wagtail?” he growled. When he looked at her his eyes were almost black, pupils consuming color.
“Peeling you from the inside and hoping you feel one painful rip for every life you’ve broken.”
The insults continued to fly from his mouth between sins that escaped in a web of mucous and blood. Lucie watched as she gnawed at the meager knot at her wrists, ripping and pulling until she was free. The binding left bruises behind, tender and purpling, but her work was not yet done.
She approached him slowly, a wounded animal retching and writhing, then begging for mercy. “Make it stop!” he cried, his black eyes pools of emptiness, his golden locks dripping with sweat.
With each step she whispered their names like a chant, mumbling at first, then growing louder as she closed the distance between them.
“Clara. Gertie. Sabine. Rita. Camille.”
“What?” He croaked the question.
She bared her teeth. “Clara. Gertie. Sabine. Rita. Camille.”
His face contorted into understanding. “The whores?”
Forcefully, she repeated: “Clara. Gertie. Sabine. Rita. Camille.”
“Every man on this street gives them laudanum. Not just me!” he shook his head, tried to scramble away.
She shrieked: “Clara! Gertie! Sabine! Rita! Camille!”
Her spit was upon his face and the braided veil was in her hands. She stretched the crown out like a band, plaited fringe waving in celebration, catching the flame from the oil lamp, shining ebony, chestnut, fire, gold, and taupe.
She whispered slowly, the names drawing together as one. “Claragertiesabineritacamille…” The mantra became a growl the tighter she pulled the ligature.
As his black eyes rolled up into his head for the last time, the braided veil relaxed across his neck like a banner, a masterwork fulfilled.
Lucie stared down at the man, broken and limp, no longer a Devil. His eyes would remain open– staring into death forever. With a kitchen blade, she sliced a link of curl from his brow and she conceptualized a new design. His would be the first of many hues to be captured in her next woven prop—one with an evil destiny.
Then she donned her dark clothing once again, cloaked in shadow, trophy tucked in her sash. She replaced the braided veil to hide her wicked smile and she walked back home to her garden, for she and the beautiful lady had more work to do.
Leoson teaches English and psychology courses at the college level in Cleveland, Ohio. She loves to write with her dogs at her feet and survives on decaf coffee and protein bars. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Cleveland State University (NEOMFA – Fiction), an MA in English & Writing from Western New Mexico University, and an MS in Psychology from Walden University. Her writing has been featured in the Twisted Vine Literary Journal, Coffin Bell, TWJ Magazine, The Write Launch, GNU Journal, The Gyara Journal, Genre: Urban Arts, Obra/Artifact, and on NPR’s “This I Believe” series. You can learn more at www.maryleoson.com
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