Love & Exorcisms | 18+ | COMPLETE |

- Chapter 2 -

I smiled tightly. "Of course, Mary. You're right. I'll get a jacket."

Mary immediately changed her tune. Her pursed lips turned into a mother's affectionate smile. "Oh yes, be sure to freshen yourself up, dear. He's paid a pretty penny for you after all."

I had to stare at the far wall lest I roll my eyes in her full view, which would land me out on the streets for good, no doubt. "Does this gentleman have a name?" I queried.

"Hearst," Mary said tartly, and put the the paper back up, blocking her old face from my view. "Damian Hearst."

I bit my tongue, leaving the room in silence to get myself dressed. Mary had helped me when I'd had nowhere else to turn, when I had come to the end of my road and was ready to plunge myself into the abyss. I had been finished with life when she found me; but as she proved, life was not finished with me. She liked to bring up this charity she bestowed upon her girls, but we were all well aware that it was not charity at all. Mary was a woman of business, and her business was sex and all of its pleasures. She employed girls all across New Orleans and probably beyond. Like it or not, I still needed her.

I returned to my room, where I wrapped myself in a dark fur jacket and paused in front of my mirror before I headed back down. My face had grown far more pale since coming to the city, as a result of all the time spent indoors. I adjusted the neckline of a my dress: a low-cut, lace-y affair that hugged my bosom just high enough to keep my scars hidden. I gave my cheeks a good pinch and painted a dark red rouge over my lips, just the right amount of devilry in an unassuming package.

Downstairs, in one of our three lounges, a remarkably tall and skinny man awaited me beside the fireplace. He gave me a long look-over as I came in and said, "Alright then. Are you Mr. Hearst's man?"

He gave a curt nod. "Yes, miss. My name is Octavio. I'll be escorting you."

I gave my best sly smile, and watched his Adam's apple bob as he gulped. "Aww, how sweet of you. Let's go then."

Two horses in lead of a black carriage awaited us by the streetside. The carriage was of expensive make, made of smooth wood and fine metals, and it made me wonder why its owner would not simply have bought an automobile instead. The driver was bundled up against the inclement weather, faceless, wrapped in a scarf with his bowler hat worn low. I gave a small wave to Mary-Ann and Genevieve at the door, and climbed into the carriage alongside Octavio.

The young man insured we rode in utter silence. The moment the door closed and we settled on opposite bench seats, he withdrew a small book from his jacket and began reading. I sincerely hoped that I made him terribly nervous, if only to equally inconvenience him for not bothering to engage me in conversation.

The carriage rattled along Storyville's narrow, muddy roads, past small pleasure houses and the lit windows of clubs and bars. Storyville was a crowded, teetering place: businesses formed the foundations of tall, precariously looming apartments that strung their laundry over the neon-lit street below. Mary's Doll House was one of the few well-built establishments there. Many of the others had fallen victim to the loamy damp of the Mississippi River that seeped into the soil, and the buildings became crooked as they slowly sunk a little too deep into the earth. But what they did not have in structural integrity, these places made up for in flashy looks, wide windows, lights, and lavish, rich interiors.

I had scarcely even known of the marvel of electricity before I had come here. I had grown up outside of an odd little town known as Lily Dale in the north of New York state. The townsfolk were eccentric, to say the least: superstitions of faeries, gnomes, and spirits were abound, all while nestled beneath the shadow of an overbearing church to which my family was fiercely loyal. I was not allowed in town alone, as my father feared I would be fed lies by the more spiritually-inclined folks and lose my way. But they were kind, pleasant people: it was a simple place. On clear days we could watch the buoyant flying machines overhead, ferrying folks about on their pleasure rides from the cities. When the rain fell it brought out the rich scents of the earth and trees. Although I had run from that place – and would never, ever go back – I still clung to my memories of it with a fondness that felt tragic.