VVW-001
St. Valentine's Ledger
Patron: The Deschamps
Date: Aug 12th, 1923 – Mississippi River
Location: Outside of Baton Rogue
Proprietor: Father Voss
From out of my Fox Hole, Nickels and I boarded a boat which moved like a staggered breath along the Father of Waters. We’d chartered it at twilight, when the cypress trees stretched and swayed like ribs between gasps. Spanish moss dripped from the branches like discarded lace. And the air here was warm and wet, thick with the scent of iron, rot, and sludge.
Somewhere ahead, between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, the Deschamps Manor waits half-shadowed, half-shuttered, but always watching. That’s the thing about these old houses, mortal and otherwise: they remember. They bear grudges in their floorboards. Each squeak another confession waiting to be heard.
Nickels is sitting near the bow, quiet as a tombstone. I'm sat further back, fingers interlaced. Not in reverence. In restraint. Because I am about to pray. And I want it to mean something.
Heavenly Father, Bird above, watch over your Canary, and keep him well if you can or could be bothered to do so.
And you there, you Cold Fucking Bastards. You Gelid Breath that gasp between the chords of Fates. You unmaking frost. You false and forgotten Gods. You, in particular, Warden and Watcher of the Lanes Between. I see what you’ve set your hand to. I have seen and heard the weight you place on the boy, The song you want him to sing. The City you want him to wake. Know this by my solemnest of words:
He ain't yours.
Not while I also walk in the Between, same as you. Hear me, Cold and cruel Lords, Sovereigns, Keepers, and Wardens. Unknot the tangle you've tied. Release this thread from Fate's design. Let him choose. Let him chart his own course through the Lanes Between. Because I swear to every other God left limping along in this miscarriaged design, I will not go gently. I will not go holily.
I will demolish every door I have opened in your name.
I will salt your garden until nothing grows again.
Amen.
Silence.
Then a cold wind came from the north. Sharp. Unseasonable. A bad omen. Or maybe a listening ear. I looked up and the manor’s silhouette had begun to take shape. Black iron balconies, warped shutters, a dozen chimneys coughing no smoke. It sits on the water like a vulture on a branch.
We're here.