The Beasts of Old (The Mystic Crescent Series Book 2), page 1
The Beasts of Old
The Mystic Crescent Series, Book 2
Hannah Kate Stallo
Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Kate Stallo. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, scanned, photocopied, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author or publisher, with the exception of brief passages used for review.
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Beasts of Old
e-book edition September 2023
AISN: B0GC5CGX7C
Hannah Kate Stallo
Contents
Dedication
A Glossary of Louisiana French
1. La Danse de Mardi Gras
2. Bitter Iron
3. An Unlawful Assembly
4. The Longest Night
5. The Saint
6. Pulling The Strings
7. Shady Grove
8. House Rules
9. Wrath and the City
10. The Railroad
11. Where It Ends and Begins
12. The Pharisee
13. The God Hunter
14. Landfall
15. Sideways
16. Valse de Bayou Teche
17. The Sun, The Moon, and The Truth
18. The Beasts of Old
19. C’est Fini
20. Come As You Are
Afterward
About the Author
Dedication
For the city and the water,
and everyone they captivate
A Glossary of Louisiana French
“I know you can talk. I know you can—pick a language, I’m happy to oblige.”
Allons – (all-onz) Let’s go.
Ami – (ah-mee) Friend.
Belle—(bell) Beautiful.
Bienvenue – (bee-en-veh-new) Welcome.
Bon a rien—(bon ah rey-ehn) Good for nothing.
Bonjour—(bon joor) Common greeting. Hello/good morning.
Bonsoir—(bon swar) Common greeting. Hello/good evening.
Bon travail – (bon trah-val) Good work.
Ça c'est bon – (sah say bon) It’s good, that’s fine.
Ça va – (sah vah) How are you?
Casséd – (kah-sayd) very drunk.
Catin – (kah-tan) Colloquial word for a young woman.
Cauchemar – (koosh-mah) a creature from Cajun folklore associated with nightmares and sleep paralysis.
Cher – (shah) Common term of endearment. Similar meaning to “dear”.
Congo – (kon-go) Colloquial word for cottonmouth, a venomous aquatic viper.
Couillon – (coo-yon) Fool.
Fifolet – (fee-foh-lay) Featured in Cajun folklore; supernatural light sources often said to drift through bayous, luring humans to their irresistible glow.
Gris gris – (gree-gree) Word used to describe an object, place, or person with strong spiritual power in voodoo practice.
Je t’aime – (jeh-tem) I love you.
Lagniappe – (lan-yap) Literally means “a little something extra”. Something you get in addition to something without necessarily asking for/expecting it.
Laissez les bon temps rouler – (lah-zey lay bon tawn roo-lay) A common phrase in New Orleans. Let the good times roll.
Le frére – (luh fray-her) Brother.
Mais – (may) An exclamation, sometimes used to add emphasis. Similar meaning to “Well then!”
Merci – (mare-see) Thank you.
Merde – (mare-deh) A profane exclamation.
Mère – (mare) Mother
Mon dieu – (mon dew) My god. Typically, an exclamation.
Pauvre bête – (pawv-ruh bet) Poor little thing. Similar connotation to “bless your heart”.
Petit – (petty) Small.
Pichouette – (pish-weht) A mischievous young woman.
Pirogue – (pee-roh) A small boat, like a canoe.
Poulet – (pooh-lay) Chicken.
Rougarou – (roo-gah-roo) A creature similar to a werewolf, featured in Cajun folklore.
Roux – (roo) A sauce traditionally used in Cajun cooking.
Teche (Bayou Teche) – (tetch) Chitimacha word for snake. Bayou Teche is a long, winding Bayou in South Louisiana featured in local folklore.
Tellement bon – (tell-mah bon) Very good.
T’es fou toi – (tay foo twah) Are you crazy?
T’es jamais satisfait – (tay jah-may satis-fay) You’re never satisfied.
Vieux Carre – (voo kah-ray) The French name for the French Quarter.
Quoi d’autre – (kwah d’ought-reh) What else.
Chapter 1
La Danse de Mardi Gras
There was perhaps no more comfortable chaos than that of this particular Tuesday night. It was a spectacle in the most authentic sense of the word; an ode to collective fanfare and grappling in the kaleidoscope of lights and vivid symphony of sounds. Tonight, the tropical heat was forgotten, responsibilities shirked, and the envy of Dionysus invoked.
And there he was, presiding over all of it.
The last time Silas Savary sang La Danse De Mardi Gras, he used the song as a gentle distraction to ground Florence Hawkins in the endless sugarcane fields of the Mystic. Now, those dulcet tones were a stark contrast to his enthusiastic, booming serenade to the city of New Orleans, crowing the French lyrics above the frenzied celebration. Though many of his loyal subjects were ignorant to his true royal identity, he presided over the Bourbon Street with the highest regard.
Florence Hawkins wore a stunning emerald gown, her eyes framed by a scintillating crystal mask as she allowed the serpent god, drunk on euphoria, to guide her down the crowded street. Her acclaim hung on the hinges of a monumental sacrifice made six months prior, and despite her fatigue–having been volunteered into Silas’ revelry since the earliest hours of that morning–she was happy.
“Come on cher, it’s not that hard!” Silas proclaimed, above the raucous volume of the street, smile just as jubilant and crooked as ever, “Repeat after me--les mardi gras sont d'sus un grand voyage tout le tour autour du moyeu--” he sang, raising his cocktail to the full moon.
Florence laughed aloud, bright and airy, and clinked her glass to his, stumbling through a broken but equally enthusiastic rendition of the chorus. Bourbon Street’s colorful after party echoed the serpent spirit’s ballad with clumsy enthusiasm, the Romeo spikes flashing with delicate glass beads like sunlight bouncing off the river’s white caps.
“You’re insufferable. Putting you on a parade float in a crown is the worst thing that this city has ever done for your insatiable vanity.” she taunted, gently tapping the gaudy golden crown that had replaced his usual sunhat. He wore the elegant gold embroidered black suit typically reserved for appearances in the Mystic, his eyes framed by a makeshift mask of scales, bronzy and gilded in the amber light.
Spots of color surfaced along his cheekbones, and Silas leaned into her, laugh crackling in his chest like the last embers of a fire, the smell of bourbon on his breath, “I think, Miss Hawkins,” he hummed, “That despite all your temperance…you might’ve had just a little bit of fun riding with me. Not to mention, round trips to the afterlife warrant a little hubris, wouldn’t you agree? I like to think of myself as a king elected by merit.”
She chuckled and rolled her eyes, her own temple framed by a delicate crystal tiara, “You jumped on a table at the Cottonmouth Club on a busy Friday night and said, “nominate me, and all drinks are on the house tonight”.” she raised an eyebrow, “Just can’t keep you down, can they?” she remarked.
Silas’s expression softened, crown slightly askew on his head, inky curls slipping from beneath its golden band, “Well, why would they? You know my little Lazarus stunt had nothing to do with me. Take a look, Miss Hawkins,” he prompted, extending an arm to exuberant chaos around them; to the maze of red brick and wrought iron, fern infested patios, alive with magic and carousing.
She sighed heavily, and allowed the ambient cacophony to dull for a moment, the flicker of singular flames in street lamps, the distant, nearly drowned hum of cicadas pinpoints of percussion in the sea of excitement, “I...I never get tired of it. We truly belong where the veil between realities is thinnest, don’t we? You and I...immortals, outlaws.” she answered.
He knocked back the remainder of his drink, his neck ornamented with scintillating strands of beads, and placed an elegant hand on her shoulder, “Slow down and pause for a spell, cher. Live in this moment, pick up all its little details and store them somewhere safe. Because you have only yourself to thank for all of this. The magic that's seeped into these old walls; it’ll always fill the cracks because you kept it safe. The goddess of wrath, isn’t that what they’re calling you now? Goddesses and old monsters at Mardi Gras…what a strange home we’ve made indeed.”
Florence laughed aloud, “Silas, it was strange long before I made a deal with the River.”
He winked, “Give yourself a little credit. It’s weird and it’s wonderful. Thank you kindly for keepin’ it that way.” he said, with a dramatic, sweeping bow.
Sh
“Sing it for me again. I want to learn the words.” She requested.
He grinned broadly, “Well, you’ve got nothing but time.”
Silas spun to face the jazz band on the corner of Bourbon and Ursulines, and called out a strained request. As the initial, building notes of La Danse de Mardi Gras began to reverberate through the streets, the witch and the river prince launched into a wild and lighthearted duet, neighboring revelers echoing the jaunty chorus with renewed enthusiasm.
It was only until they had reached the final chorus, and Florence had nearly mastered her pronunciation, that she realized she could no longer detect Silas’s distinct voice amidst the chaos. She turned, frowning upon the realization that he had stopped singing altogether. In fact, he stood eerily immobilized behind her, his fiery eyes fixed on a distant point, leaning against his cane, the gulf breeze stirring his coat tails.
“Silas?” She called, voice weighted with question.
He blinked rapidly, brows furrowed, “Do you hear that, cher?” he replied, voice unexpectedly somber.
Florence paused. She could hear the enthusiastic singing and shouting in the street, the hushed crunch of abandoned beads underfoot, the jazz band, broken down into independent sounds--the trumpet, the saxophone, the tuba and accordion--nothing out of the ordinary.
“I hear...Mardi Gras. Is there...something specific you hear?” she asked, taking his hand.
Silas nodded slowly, minimally, and twisted his head to the side, flashing the thick scarring above his collar. The soft shake of his head almost resembled irritation, “Mhm...you don’t hear it? It’s like chimes, like...wind chimes. It’s awfully loud. I hear them over the trumpet.”
Florence glanced around, confused, gingerly removing her mask and studying him for a moment. His pupils had returned to their natural state--serpentine slits--but they were heavily dilated, and she could see the tell-tale metallic flash of scales climbing up his neck and across his wrists. She knew that the primordial wildness surfacing in his features warned of a greater problem. He suddenly shuddered, as if struck by a violent chill and covered his ears, knees nearly buckling.
“Silas? Silas, talk to me, I can’t hear any chimes, what are you talking about?” she implored gently, gripping his elbow.
He shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the sound from his ears, “I can’t, I--it’s too loud, I’ve gotta...I’ve gotta answer, or it won’t stop.” He decided.
Florence blinked in confusion, “What?”
Before she could stop him, Silas stood rigidly, and turned with newfound purpose, his eyes hazy and dilated, lips faintly parted as if in an unspoken question. She reached for his hand, but he was already following the sidewalk with purpose. Florence paled in alarm, spinning around just in time to make eye contact with a handful of very confused musicians who had witnessed the bizarre episode.
“Silas!” she called, voice high and reedy against the barrage of noise rising up from the street. She watched in helpless panic as Silas continued his entranced procession, wading past the throngs of people and into the night.
She paused, grounding herself, the pink of her birthmark melting into lambent gold beneath her mask, eyes ignited with an eerie emerald glow, exposing them to events normally unseen.
And then, she understood.
Some sort of thick, concentrated magic had coiled itself around Silas’s tall silhouette. She could sense it, see it, feel its tug on the scaffolding of reality. It enveloped him in amber runes, varied in origin, but primarily Beninese, dancing around his shoulders like fireflies. Someone, somewhere, had tethered the serpent spirit with some kind of summoning spell--powerful magic, unbroken until fulfilled.
With renewed dread, Florence broke into a harried jog, wading through the sea of drunken denizens, with one arm outstretched.
“Teche!” she called again, this time layering her voice with reverberating tones of magic--not unlike the voice of the River herself; a haunting etheric echo.
The dancing runes shuddered for a moment, as if caught in a brief gust, then continued their lazy circling around the spirit’s shoulders. He never paused, and instead, broke free of the crowd, eyes intently fixed on the juncture between Bourbon and Governor Nicholls. Florence fought to gain ground as Silas wandered up the street, towards Dauphine, his detached but deliberate gait deeply unsettling. He had all the features of a lost soul wandering the bejeweled banks of the Mystic; all intentions and autonomy forgotten. He paused at the corner, his tangerine eyes and lithe, angular silhouette a harrowing testament to the creature coiled beneath the human disguise.
“Todd and Holata are waiting for us at Esplanade! Don’t you want to flaunt your stupid crown in front of your brother?” She implored desperately.
At that, a soft clink resounded against the cobblestones, and as Florence jogged to catch up, she slid to an abrupt halt. The gilded crown, with its decorative crystals, sat deserted in an oily puddle. She blinked in confusion, and plucked it from the street, sprinting forward to grab his elbow, right hand glowing with shimmering golden light, pressing her own magic against the entranced spirit.
“Silas, listen to me!” she roared, her voice thundering with layers of ancient magic, “I don’t know who’s summoning you! This is strange magic, you have to fight it! It could be leading you to an ill-intending practitioner, or...or worse.” she pleaded, voice shifting to its more mortal tones as images of a four walled church resurfaced in her mind.
Silas finally turned to face her, slowly, as if he had only just registered her presence. His serpentine pupils were still blown wide, scales framing his temples in their usual fashion, the mask facade abandoned. There was no fear in his expression, in fact, given the opportunity to study the magic’s effect on him up close, Florence realized that he appeared tranquil if not entirely complacent, a pacifying warmth swelling in his comely features.
“She’s in...she’s in trouble. The chimes are getting louder. Not too far now.” He assured slowly, his voice sleepy and hushed.
Florence paused. She could be in reference to any number of voodoo practitioners, spiritualists, and witches across the Quarter. She slid the crown over her arm for safe keeping, and furrowed her brow in resolve. She gingerly took his lax hand and nodded slowly, the runes stirring as she curled her fingers around his.
“Alright. We’ll follow the chimes, then.” She agreed.
Whatever waited on the other side of the summoning spell, she would be ready for it. With the consequences of her bargain, she was well-equipped. Florence Hawkins would never be stolen from again.
Silas’s steps grew more deliberate, more hurried, and Florence kept her arm firmly locked around his to keep up. There was an uncharacteristic silence hanging heavy over the streets--the majority of the city was celebrating, not lazily conversing on front porches as they often did. The ember hued runes hummed with life, their eerie light reflected against the bronze of Silas’s few facial scales.
“There’s trouble...somewhere tonight. Trouble hiding in the festivity...trouble is...damn near crawling out of the woodwork tonight.” Silas murmured distantly.
Florence frowned, following his dazed stare down Dauphine, where the amber street lights cast feathery shadows of ferns and palm fronds onto the street. He led them, with abject determination, to the stoop of a plain single shotgun house.
Lips half parted in question, Florence took note of the house, however unremarkable. One of the steps to the front porch was crooked and falling in, the porch was ornamented with tropical plants, pouring out of their pots. There was an assortment of rudimentary children’s toys strewn across the peeling paint of the porch, and hung high above the railing was a set of wooden wind chimes, stirred faintly by the humid coastal breeze. They hardly emitted any sound, but Silas began to grimace, fangs bared, hands clasped over his ears. The door was swung wide open, and candlelight danced across the foyer.
