The witch of New Orleans

came w

h Quarter in a silence so dense it muffled even the call of the night herons. Gas lamps flickered, t

ng halt. Its driver-a man with cataract eyes and a stitched mouth-said nothing. The hor

swung open

woman stepped out-tall, robed in black velvet that shimmered like raven feathers. Her skin was p

ellerose h

ey had burned her

they had slaught

ad whispered "witch" a

d returned, curling thro

flickered in devotion to saints who would not answer. Children were pulled

ng with moss and rot. Ivy choked the iron railings. The fountain in the cour

hand touched the faded sigil carved in

ed, voice smooth and thick

wasn't wind-it was breat

door closed behind her with

f long-dead Belleroses stared down at her, their painted eyes cloudy with time. One had been slashed across the

s flickered to life as she passed-unlit for years, they awakened at her presence. Mag

nded into

wall. A circle had been carved into the floor-old, older tha

e k

l crusted with blood from a past too recent to forget. She drew the blade

sed. The stone b

crets. I offer pain for power. V

en-whispers. Not in her ears, but in

voice rasped, in a

yal. Blood of fire.

y. "Then you remem

h to unma

o make the

glowed red-hot, and from its center, black vines burst upward, twisting, writhing, forming

ng bowed

let it

oody palm clo

own rosary beads. A socialite's throat split open in the mirror as she

eans was

witch had