Fleur Di Lis

Chapter Twelve

New Orleans, 1925

Mona Lisa was packed.

The jazz band was playing an upbeat rhythm in the corner of the room, getting people on their feet with the new dance craze. Tequila, vodka, and whiskey were the spirits of choice, and the bar reeked with its stench alongside the pungent undertone of cheap perfume. In the middle of it all, Michaela was getting flung in the air like a trapeze artist by the navy boys, shuffling expertly like she had been born with the steps in her blood. She looked simply dazzling in her black fringe dress, her hair curled and held together in her hair piece. The blood-red lips and smokey eyes went well with her pale skin, and it appeared the navy boys thought so, too.

"She's a babe," a voice next to me said dreamily, and I turned to see my newest employee, an African boy named Devon, standing next to me. There had been controversy in me employing him, mainly for his colour. The public wanted -- and expected -- white people to serve them. Those of African descent -- blacks, as most people called them -- were supposed to have a corner to themselves to drink. If they were granted that privilege at all.

I, on the other hand, was different.

I had started this bar with a vision -- expect the unexpected. Do the controversial. Employing Devon to be face-to-face with white men who would otherwise lynch him would be the personification of my vision.

Exactly the reason why I chose to do so.

"She's also my cousin," I added, patting him on the shoulder. "I'd rather not have to break up a lynching just because you fancy her."

"Sorry, sir," Devon straightened to attention. A trait drilled into him when being shipped from pillar to post, I imagined with a pang of guilt. Despite my hospitality and my friendliness towards the boy, he was still wary of white men. "I didn't mean that, sir, I..."

I chuckled, attempting to lighten the situation somewhat. "Don't worry about it."

"Cousin!" Michaela bounced to the bar, breathless and beaming with delight. The stench of booze and cheap alcohol clung to her as tightly as her black fringe dress that she wore; her hair piece slanted to one side untidily from the ferocious dancing she had done. Her outfit was the height of fashion. Apparently. Personally, I thought it made women look like glamorous chickens.

"Whiskey, please."

"You've had enough," I noted sternly, checking my watch. "Besides, it's almost midni--"

A familiar scent flooded my senses. A heady, intoxicating scent that numbed every sensation until everything I saw was red; everything I thought of was finding the source of this heady scent. The source of the blood. I glanced at Michaela, whose expression confirmed that she sensed it too. Without uttering a single word, she turned on her dainty black heels and hurried through the crowds, following the scent like a bloodhound. I followed suit, ducking under the bar and throwing a command to cover the bar over my shoulder to Devon as I went. The scent took us through the corridor, where the restrooms were situated. Drunken couples lined the black walls in amorous embraces, some taking it to the next level. The roaring 20's at its finest; liberation, sex, booze all in one place.

At the other end, there was a door, which was ajar and allowing the chilly Autumn air to creep through, bringing with it the stench of blood, stronger now. Almost suffocating.

"Do you think...?" Michaela trailed off, turning to me with her eyes wide. Despite being new to this, she still held some humane traits. An itching to assist people in their dire hour of need.