08-17-2018, 07:16 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-17-2018, 07:17 PM by Rowan Finnegan.)
Rowan grabbed Mikhail’s hand and lead him through the disappearing crowd. She made sure to toss a little extra hip wiggle in with her walk. She had dealt with men like Mik before. They thought with their dicks. That didn’t bother Rowan, so long as he didn’t try to force himself on her. She had to be in control of the situation, otherwise, she’d have no choice but to invoke Papa Legba once more. Perhaps Chango. Chango always gave her incredible results when dealing with the touchy-feely type.
Mik reminded her of home, especially Bourbon Street. The place was always crawling with out-of-towners, and even though Rowan was one in the CCD, Mik’s thick accent made her feel like he was the tourist. It was comforting. She always knew how to show tourists a good time. Keeping that mindset would make the night easier.
The wove their way down the street and Rowan spoke over her shoulder, “The baked goods are all my own recipes. I’ve even got a few… ‘special brownies’ in the back of house. I’m in a sharing mood, so if you’re down with Mary Jane, I’d gladly let you try one. They’d make a nice compliment to the evening we’ve had. No spiders or newts, I’m afraid. That’s for European witches… At least from what I’ve heard.” She turned her head and winked at him. Real witches didn’t use those things… Well, she thought they didn’t. Rowan was well versed in different magical traditions, but it wouldn’t surprise her if there were some out there that took those ancient stories of witches and warts as gospel.
After twenty minutes of walking, they ended up in front of a Queen Anne Victorian style restaurant. It looked out of place on the street, but that was the point. Rowan wanted it to feel like God plucked a French Quarter café right off of Bourbon and set it in the middle of Russia. Father designed it, of course. He had contemplated using Greek Revival or Colonial, but Rowan insisted on Queen Anne. It reminded her of the Garden District mansions she used to obsess over as a child.
The Bottom of the Cup Café had a striking asymmetrical façade with a dominant front-facing gable, seven polygonal towers sprouted up from the roof. A large wrap-around porch encircled the building, wrought iron tables and chairs dotted the wooden floor; a second-story balcony covered the entire ground level porch. Patterned wood shingles shaped into fish scales covered the outer walls, oriel and bay windows jutting out all over. A monumental chimney, painted balustrades, and carved columns set off the rest of the architecture. A wooden fence enclosed the property with an expansive garden separating the fence from the rest of the café. Jazz music and warm smells of sugar, cinnamon, and coffee permeated the atmosphere.
“Welcome to the Bottom of the Cup Café, Mon Dieu,” Rowan breathed into Mik’s ear before dragging him into the front yard of the café and up the wooden steps. The doors opened onto a rowdy scene, not very café like at all. About fifty patrons filled the cafe; three other open doorways lead to rooms in the New Orleans style. There would be no hallways here, except upstairs maybe. The décor screamed ‘The Big Easy.’ Antique French furniture, Low-country antiques, ornamental iron, crystal chandeliers, gilding, tufting, and elaborate plasterwork made the entire place a feast for the eyes. Off to the right was a long counter, cash register atop it, menus scatter about, and candles glowing from every inch of unused surface.
An old, gnarled, ebony-skinned woman sat behind the counter. She wore thick coke bottle lenses set into a golden framework, her bone white hair plaited in a multitude of braids. In her hands, she held a copy of ‘Queen of the Damned’ by Anne Rice, which she looked up from as Rowan and Mikhail walked in. A gummy smile erupted on her ancient face at the sight of them. With her other hand, she hitched her wool knit shawl up around her shoulders and broke out into a hearty laugh.
“Picked another stray up from the alleys, did ya, Rowan? Well… Bring ‘im upstairs and I’ll have Galton bring the poor cat some milk and fish,” the old woman said between giggles.
“Hello, Maman Marie,” Rowan purred at the older woman, “No, no. This is Mik. He’s another- ah – practitioner. Wanted to see the place and try some of your world famous gumbo. Have Galton bring some of that out. How’s business this evening? I see we have quite the rush. Hopefully, my ritual helped. We’ll be over at one of the back tables in the Amber Room.”
“Practitioner, you say? Well, my stars and garters,” Maman Marie quipped. She always thought using old southern terms was funny. Rowan didn’t care for them, but she humored the woman. “Watch your pants boy, Rowan over her has been known to charm the best of ‘em. Quite the witch. Quite. Behave yourselves you two! Or take it upstairs! None of us are gonna be wanting to see that nastiness.” Maman Marie howled with laughter as Rowan led Mik into the room off to the right.
It looked much the same as the other room, same décor and furniture; the only difference was that everything in here was colored in various shades of amber. A large set of French doors lead out onto the porch. A few patrons mingled in here, drinking, eating, laughing, singing. Another large open doorway led into another room off to the left, a live jazz band swinging and playing for a small crowd. The music leaked into the Amber Room and Rowan couldn’t help but nod her head to the beat. She lead Mik over to a chaise lounge and collapsed on it, one of the waiters coming by with a glass of red wine for her. He turned to Mik and asked, “What’ll it be, sir?”
Rowan eyed Mik, “Anything you want, we got. On the house. Let’s get comfy, cutie. I want to know all about you… And your gifts.” She sipped the wine and patted the spot next to her on the lounge.
Mik reminded her of home, especially Bourbon Street. The place was always crawling with out-of-towners, and even though Rowan was one in the CCD, Mik’s thick accent made her feel like he was the tourist. It was comforting. She always knew how to show tourists a good time. Keeping that mindset would make the night easier.
The wove their way down the street and Rowan spoke over her shoulder, “The baked goods are all my own recipes. I’ve even got a few… ‘special brownies’ in the back of house. I’m in a sharing mood, so if you’re down with Mary Jane, I’d gladly let you try one. They’d make a nice compliment to the evening we’ve had. No spiders or newts, I’m afraid. That’s for European witches… At least from what I’ve heard.” She turned her head and winked at him. Real witches didn’t use those things… Well, she thought they didn’t. Rowan was well versed in different magical traditions, but it wouldn’t surprise her if there were some out there that took those ancient stories of witches and warts as gospel.
After twenty minutes of walking, they ended up in front of a Queen Anne Victorian style restaurant. It looked out of place on the street, but that was the point. Rowan wanted it to feel like God plucked a French Quarter café right off of Bourbon and set it in the middle of Russia. Father designed it, of course. He had contemplated using Greek Revival or Colonial, but Rowan insisted on Queen Anne. It reminded her of the Garden District mansions she used to obsess over as a child.
The Bottom of the Cup Café had a striking asymmetrical façade with a dominant front-facing gable, seven polygonal towers sprouted up from the roof. A large wrap-around porch encircled the building, wrought iron tables and chairs dotted the wooden floor; a second-story balcony covered the entire ground level porch. Patterned wood shingles shaped into fish scales covered the outer walls, oriel and bay windows jutting out all over. A monumental chimney, painted balustrades, and carved columns set off the rest of the architecture. A wooden fence enclosed the property with an expansive garden separating the fence from the rest of the café. Jazz music and warm smells of sugar, cinnamon, and coffee permeated the atmosphere.
“Welcome to the Bottom of the Cup Café, Mon Dieu,” Rowan breathed into Mik’s ear before dragging him into the front yard of the café and up the wooden steps. The doors opened onto a rowdy scene, not very café like at all. About fifty patrons filled the cafe; three other open doorways lead to rooms in the New Orleans style. There would be no hallways here, except upstairs maybe. The décor screamed ‘The Big Easy.’ Antique French furniture, Low-country antiques, ornamental iron, crystal chandeliers, gilding, tufting, and elaborate plasterwork made the entire place a feast for the eyes. Off to the right was a long counter, cash register atop it, menus scatter about, and candles glowing from every inch of unused surface.
An old, gnarled, ebony-skinned woman sat behind the counter. She wore thick coke bottle lenses set into a golden framework, her bone white hair plaited in a multitude of braids. In her hands, she held a copy of ‘Queen of the Damned’ by Anne Rice, which she looked up from as Rowan and Mikhail walked in. A gummy smile erupted on her ancient face at the sight of them. With her other hand, she hitched her wool knit shawl up around her shoulders and broke out into a hearty laugh.
“Picked another stray up from the alleys, did ya, Rowan? Well… Bring ‘im upstairs and I’ll have Galton bring the poor cat some milk and fish,” the old woman said between giggles.
“Hello, Maman Marie,” Rowan purred at the older woman, “No, no. This is Mik. He’s another- ah – practitioner. Wanted to see the place and try some of your world famous gumbo. Have Galton bring some of that out. How’s business this evening? I see we have quite the rush. Hopefully, my ritual helped. We’ll be over at one of the back tables in the Amber Room.”
“Practitioner, you say? Well, my stars and garters,” Maman Marie quipped. She always thought using old southern terms was funny. Rowan didn’t care for them, but she humored the woman. “Watch your pants boy, Rowan over her has been known to charm the best of ‘em. Quite the witch. Quite. Behave yourselves you two! Or take it upstairs! None of us are gonna be wanting to see that nastiness.” Maman Marie howled with laughter as Rowan led Mik into the room off to the right.
It looked much the same as the other room, same décor and furniture; the only difference was that everything in here was colored in various shades of amber. A large set of French doors lead out onto the porch. A few patrons mingled in here, drinking, eating, laughing, singing. Another large open doorway led into another room off to the left, a live jazz band swinging and playing for a small crowd. The music leaked into the Amber Room and Rowan couldn’t help but nod her head to the beat. She lead Mik over to a chaise lounge and collapsed on it, one of the waiters coming by with a glass of red wine for her. He turned to Mik and asked, “What’ll it be, sir?”
Rowan eyed Mik, “Anything you want, we got. On the house. Let’s get comfy, cutie. I want to know all about you… And your gifts.” She sipped the wine and patted the spot next to her on the lounge.