Chapter Text
He walked through the whitewashed corridors of the giant hospital building. Nurses, doctors, patients and their loved ones filling the eerily quiet halls and walking back and forth. He hated the bright led lighting that hurt his eyes and the strong scent of chloral. It reminded him far too much of when his mother died—two whole days waiting in a hospital. Social services at one end, straight-faced doctors at another and the cold brown eyes of his father, gazing at his young boy’s form menacingly. All he ever knew his father to be was a threat. And here he was, standing in front of room 35D, an aqua colored door separating him from the helpless and dying form of his father on the other side.
It felt all too much like a dream—a very vivid hallucination. Perhaps if he opened his eyes from this nightmare, he would be back in London, laying on a large and comfortable bed, with the woman he most desired right beside him. He had tried to call, but it had not worked a single time. Ethan hoped to God that Vanessa would see the emails he had sent her and the whatsapp messages... although she was never attentive to those. Vanessa was one of those rare antiquated souls who despised the very sound of a phone beeping. She had probably arrived from work and forgotten to take it out of her purse or maybe she’d simply neglected to charge the thing as had happened many other times.
Ethan wished he could hear her calm and soothing voice, whispering pretty words into his ear and filling him with a confidence that right now escaped him. She hoped that right now she would be at home, curled up with a book so old the pages were yellow and almost coming off, a mug of warm coffee—tea was far too weak for her taste—and her cat and dog curled at her feet. She hoped she was all right, because whenever his thoughts reverted to her, he would feel a tightness in his chest as if he could possibly be sensing a pain that she was experiencing. It was all very silly of him—they’d been seeing each other for little more than a month. It felt like much longer, much, much longer. But it felt amazing, right, and far more intense than any other relationship he had ever experienced.
Nevertheless, he was standing here and stalling. The eyes of the passersby burned through his skull and eyed him in a mix of curiosity and irritation, probably asking themselves ‘who is this idiot, staring at some random door as if it were seven-headed, fire-spitting monster?’ Well, this idiot was a man of nearly forty who all his life had suffered at the hands and expense of the man on the other side—a man responsible for the visible scars on Ethan’s back and many others on his heart; a man who had taken away this idiot’s mother in the most vile and brutal of ways. A man who had been abusive, physically and psychologically, a man enslaved by the bottle, the gun, the belt and the cash. A man who in his prime had been involved in so much shady business and caused so much damage... to Ethan, to Michael, to his wife, to people who didn’t even know him personally.
And, as he thought of these things and angry tears began to pool in his eyes, Ethan Chandler took hold of the door handle and turned it, pushing the door open. Inside, four white windows enclosed a small room with a single hospital bed. Na uncomfortable chair sat in a corner, by a floor lamp, empty. On the bed surrounded by beeping monitors and plugged into several wires was the frail and almost unrecognizable figure of Francis Talbot, or Frank as he usually went by. A long time ago, a nineteen-year-old Ethan had decided to take his mother’s maiden name instead, followed by his older brother. He had wanted nothing to do with this balding, gray haired man, eyes closed and color completely washed off his cheeks. He had recently become an adult, free of him, and planned to live his life to the fullest and never look back. Yet, here he was, in Albuquerque all over again.
Ethan took a few steps closer and held on firmly to the rails of the bed—taking in the image of this man, his father, so thin, so fragile... a shadow of who he once was. He couldn’t describe his feelings exactly—disbelief, pity, victory? No, Ethan felt absolute nothing. This was no longer the man he had for so long hated, the man who in his mind towered over him in the most intimidating of ways.
Lost in his thoughts, the cold and almost lifeless hand of the man had moved to cover his. Ethan’s brown eyes locked with those of the older man and the intense anger and agony that stared back at him was the rawest thing he had ever witnessed. Tears pooled the old man’s eyes and his eyebrows creased. His lips were in a stern, straight line. Ethan could tell his father was internally battling himself—for perhaps the last time, trying to be the stronger, emotionless one.
“You really are your mother’s son,” He snarled in distaste. “I couldn’t have taught ya even if I wanted to—I sure tried as hell to make you into a man. She did bad to you, Ethan; she turned you into some weak, dumbass, and sensitive writer.” Ethan paid no mind to his hateful words, the bitter words of a dying, failing, losing man. “Julia screamed so much Ethan—I wish you could have heard her better…” Ethan held on to the railings even harder, his knuckles turning white.
“Don’t you dare pronounce her name—don’t you dare say my mother’s name!” He growled, dark eyes burning holes into those of his father’s. Perhaps Frank Talbot had never seen his son so angry, so little afraid of him. It was failure for the old man indeed.
“Ha! So you decided to man up, did you boy? Ya know, I’m gonna die soon Ethan, and I know I’m goin’ straight to hell. You wanna know somethin’ else that I know?” At this point Ethan just shook his head cursing himself for coming here in the first place, pacing the ceramic floors of the room. “That your mother was a freakin’ cunt, a freakin’ dumbass fuckin’ witch. You better go to New Orleans, Ethan. That’s the fuckin’ place you gotta be. You go to New Orleans, boy, and you’ll figure yourself and your mama dear out.”
The following morning Frank Talbot died. Ethan hadn’t even bothered to attend the funeral. He said goodbye to his brother, Madeline and his niece and nephew. All five of them were dressed in black, but none were exactly mourning. Ethan climbed onto an airplane towards New Orleans, a day ahead of them—the last words his father had spat to him, echoing in his mind. Vanessa, curious as she was, would have urged him to go and so, he did.
Ethan knew not where to look or what to expect, all he knew was that New Orleans for a while now, had been pulling him towards it, like a very strong magnet in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Ethan wanted to know, he needed to know, the story of his mother—and therefor of his life. So like with a book that he would sit and write, Ethan Chandler would embark on a long, tortuous journey—with hopes of a happy ending—an ending that hopefully would take him back to the city of London, where once again the woman in red who he oh-so desired would be in his arms.
…
The famous Bourbon Street in New Orleans was just as he remembered. Crowded with partying locals and wide-eyed tourists—music playing inside the clubs and bars—the jazz that Ethan loved—the French colonial buildings with those lovely iron railings that looked much more like delicate lace. It thrilled him, this place, at times, he would look around and feel himself twenty-two again, enraptured by the notion of happiness, which he sought in an unholy amount of liquor, all of the nameless women he had fucked, all of the bloody fights he had won, the drugs he had sniffed and injected… Now, sober, older—Bourbon street felt almost alien—a place of dreams and nightmares where in reality, he had never stepped foot in.
He entered what used to be his regular bar, slightly dark, woody and leathery inside—a smell of mentholated cigarettes and the finest Scottish whiskey in town. Pool tables had men standing and playing around them—in the booths groups of young people, most likely students, a couple or two and always, always the loners at the bar. For a moment he lit up at the sight of the now graying Elaine—the lady who for as long as Ethan could remember worked behind the bar and concocted some of the finest drinks he’d ever tasted. Her cat-like amber eyes lit up as she saw him. As always, her clothing was borderline exotic—a mix of silk Indian tunics, with large earrings encrusted with turquoise stones and tiny opals, fingers full of the largest and strangest of rings—one had always been particularly interesting, containing a preserved tiny spider within it’s clear green crystal; her long nails were painted black. Elaine’s lips were a deep red and there were much more lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth than Ethan had remembered. Her hands, he noticed, as she manipulated the drinks, were still steady as ever and you never really saw Elaine throwing back a drink herself. And what always, always surprised him; her eyes never stopped keeping vigil.
She was a witch, everyone liked to say, although half in jest and half in fear. She wasn’t much of a talker, but could many times be stern and intimidating—but always sincere and unafraid to speak her mind. Probably that’s why her clients barely ever raised their eyes to meet hers; she could read everyone like a book.
“Ethan!” She exclaimed with a large smile as she took a white dishcloth and dried the insides of some cups. “It’s been far too long, don’t you think?” Ethan shrugged and she chuckled. “Last time I heard of you, you were in Chile backpacking!”
“Yeah, that was nearly five years ago. How’ve you been Elaine?” He asked. Elaine offered him a drink, which he denied and he could see from the sparkle in her eye that she was glad he did. Elaine had seen firsthand Ethan at his lowest. She leaned forward, supporting herself with an elbow on top of the wooden counter and whispered.
“I’ve been waiting, Ethan—both for you to arrive again and for death to come and take me.” Ethan knitted his eyebrows and frowned. Anyone could have thought she’d been joking, but he could tell by her expression that she was beyond serious. There’d always been something about Elaine. She had always watched and cared for him, truly cared.
“My father died yesterday, Elaine.”
“I’m aware.”
“He told me to come to New Orleans, that somehow I needed to be here, to find out about my mother.” Elaine exhaled heavily and called up on one of her waiters to take over the bar for her.
Ethan followed her behind a back door and up narrow and spiraling iron stairs. Suddenly they were in a place where Ethan had never before stepped foot on—Elaine’s apartment. It was just as exotic as she was. Persian rugs, different sizes, patterns and colors covered each corner of her floor like a giant patchwork. She had dusty shelves filled with large tomes of books seemingly from the last century. Incense, jasmine, filled the room with a strong and sweet smell. The room was dark but a few candles scattered about and besides the large leather sofa, worn and soft, filled with silk Indian cushions—there was only a small round table with two chairs and a small wooden box at the middle.
“Pain and hatred is coming your way, Ethan. I saw it in the cards.” She signaled for him to sit in the chair across from her and opened the box, pulling out a marijuana cigarette and lighting it, to his shock, without the means of a lighter. She inhaled and it much reminded him of Vanessa back in London, who was also an adept. “You know, I saw that you were coming to New Orleans—it was I who told your father to order you here. And yes, I do happen to know him—the bastard who killed my only daughter.” Ethan’s eyes widened in recognition and Elaine stretched her arms so that her hands firmly held his in her own. “I hope you know that this will be quite a long story…”
“So you are my grandmother?” Elaine nodded. “You were meant to be dead.”
“Well, I was in a way, dead to your mother—she refused to be a part of my endeavors.”
“What are your endeavors exactly, somehow it doesn’t seem like just a bar…”
“Do you believe, Ethan, that there is a world, between this of the living and that of the dead? Well, I do and more than that, I am a part of it such as your mother was, though reluctantly—such as your beautiful English girlfriend—such as those demons and nightwalkers who haunt her.” Elaine inhaled more of her cigarette and handed it to him, for politeness’ sake. Ethan couldn’t help but savor the heady taste of the drug between his lips and allow for it to liberate and heighten his senses. This all just seemed so God damn absurd…
…
Across an ocean, in the sunrise of the moors, they sat together, Joan and Vanessa by the fire and the older woman, slowly revealed to her the myth-like history of her family—their family. This was all how the chaotic war they were in the midst of came to be.
…
It all began on a lonely, stormy night on the Ballantrae moors—the year was 1612. Desperate cries of pain and agony that came with the blessing or curse of giving life—pushing, squeezing, the sweat dripping from the dark-haired mother’s forehead, sprawled on the floor against a sack of potatoes, legs spread open and windows threatening to burst because of the howling and forceful winds.
This was what life summed up to be, probably. A succession of misfortunes and great sufferings placated here and there by few and ephemeral moments of joy, laughter and contentment—so that this way, people can have something to dwell on and hope for. It had been the utmost joy and pleasure that led her to being here right now, nature showing her it’s cruel façade by exposing her to the most excruciating pain, her body struggling to expel a tiny infant, one more human being that would suffer a great deal, but hopefully, less so than his or hers mother.
1,2,3. 1,2,3. She repeatedly counted in between breaths and pushes. Her heart beat erratically in her chest and as the time approached, she gradually began to feel lightheaded, especially as the tiny body slipped out of her, into her waiting hand. She felt a sharp pang in her womb and held her intake of breath as she took out her knife and cut the umbilical cord, then swaddling the blood-covered child in pristine white cloths as if she’d done this a million times before. She was quick and efficient, as with almost everything she did. A small tap on the baby’s bottom and cries similar to those of a baby goat—hoarse and not too loud filled the room. A girl.
Exhausted, the new mother held her infant child against her naked chest, gazing with wonder at her tiny face, hands gently wiping off the crimson contents of her womb that stuck to the baby’s delicate skin. For the first time the mother kissed her daughter’s little forehead, more afraid than she had ever been. Her baby was so tiny, so fragile. Her precious little girl.
“You shall be Joan, after your father—the only man I ever dared to love and the mighty girl saint. My darling and precious Joan...”
Suddenly, the pangs, similar to very strong cramps continued to ache in her lower abdomen and the pain grew increasingly stronger as the seconds passed—the young mother was now all too aware that it was not yet over. She laid baby Joan, wrapped in the cloths an arm’s length away in a small stack of dry hay, as the agonizing process of labor once again began and in minutes, the angry cries of Evelyn filled the world around them.
Those sisters who once so much loved and adored one another, became the greatest of enemies over a century later, when Evelyn sought the leadership of their coven, that rightfully belonged to her older sister Joan. Calling upon forbidden blood spells and the alliance and intervention of the Father of Evil, Evelyn massacred hundreds of members of their coven, who refused to support her—their aging mother, Viviane, had been one of them. Joan had been branded and defeated—suffered the greatest of humiliations. She hadn’t been strong or capable enough to ensure the safety of her people. The only thing it seemed, she had done right, was to protect the life of their youngest sister, Elaine, a small child, and send her off to the safety of the New World.