S-VVW-002
St. Valentine's Ledger
Patron: The Deschamps
Date: Aug 12th, 1923 – Mississippi River
Location: Deschamps Manor
Proprietor: Nickels
It had been at least an hour.
An hour of cicadas sawing through the thick Louisiana air. An hour of Father Voss pacing the porch like a funeral sermon with nowhere to go. An hour of me tracing lines in the dirt and trying to count how many █████ were scratched, painted, or burned into the wood and stone around the Deschamps Manor.
It wasn’t subtle.
██████████, ████████, ███████████—whole pantheon laid out in ██████, █████, ███████████, and ██████ in the stones and sidings. Some so fresh I could still smell the ███ they were sanctified with. Others, older than the house itself.
And that house?
My, what a sight indeed.
It is slouched on stilts above the marsh. Leaning and lurching like it wanted to run away down the river to party in the French Quarter. Grey wood gone silver, roof sagging in the middle, and shutters hanging on by threads. Vines had claimed most of the left side while the right side looked like it had survived a fire no one dares speak of.
But all those symbols? Those little beacons? They kept it breathing.
The Good Father was staring into the bayou, lips moving without sound. Praying again. Probably to some █████████████████ that didn’t want my company either. For a man of the cloth, he sure does pray to an awful lot of █████████████████ things. And he swears more than I would think is necessary in hallowed words.
Finally, the door creaked open.
Slow.
Deliberate.
And there she was—Cécile Deschamps.
Hair piled high and threaded with bone beads and crushed velvet ribbon. Skin the color of chicory and moonlight, veined with time and ancient rites. Her dress was black, of course, with lace sleeves that shimmered like spider silk, and her eyes—Lord, her eyes were sharp. The kind that saw through you. Not past you. Through you. Dark mahogany depths that if I were so inclined to stare into longer than a quick glance, I don't doubt I wouldn't be able to find my way back out.
She looked me up and down like a merchant weighing a fish. Then, finally, to Voss: "Father."
He bowed his head.
She stepped back, slow, and gestured us in with two fingers like pulling thread. And then she vanished into the dark of her house, just like that. No rustle. No sound. Just shadow and the scent of something burning, sweet and strange.
Unsmudge the Ledger
"Angels on Earth."
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