Knowledge is Pain - Part Two

Laurent learns a few things.

Previously On - Laurent, a faerie who had been trapped in Hell, was summoned by someone. Unfortunately, he killed the summoner before he could find out why. He’s only got till sunrise to try and extend his stay.

Now on to part two.

Stairs wound their way up and down. They were in little better shape than the door. The building seemed ready to collapse from age or world-weariness. Flying would take too much energy, so I opted to walk to street level. I imagined myself as being light as a feather until I weighed no more than a child. My footfalls were silent as the grave, and the risers made no noise. I kept one hand on the knife’s hilt at all times.

Once at the bottom, I walked through the outer door and left the drab little apartment building behind. When I reached street level, I knew where I was, in much the same way as I knew when I was. Instinct. This was New Orleans. I wasn’t sure of my precise location, but by the smell, I was near Lake Pontchartrain. This century had better sanitation than the last, but there were other smells, strange ones. 

The streets were laid out in grids as I remembered. At this hour I saw no dancers or loud parties. The buildings around me were darkened and marred by crude drawings and mildew. The last time I had been here things were different. It was cleaner now —humans were such filthy creatures— but the filth, or lack thereof, wasn’t it. No square of the city I knew from its past felt this dead or neglected. Despite appearances, the city’s heart hadn’t changed.  Underneath the decay, there was an energy I felt in my fingertips. It spoke to me more than the smells or sights. 

This city was madder than ever. Given the hedonism they were capable of in the early 1800s that was saying something. It wasn't just the very debauchery in the air that led me to believe that so much. It was a clear sense of desperation. A cataclysm occurred here not long before my arrival. I drank the insanity in, like nectar. This was one of the reasons faeries were drawn to this plane. We couldn't experience this level of frenzy, given our lifespan. The different drew us in like magpies to shining silver. 

I didn't have much time to fully appreciate it before a voice snapped me out of the appreciative frame of mind. "You're in the wrong place, cracker."

I turned to see the group of dark-skinned men. One of them leered at me. "You know what negro, I couldn't agree more."

He pulled out an item my brain recognized as a gun. It had been so long since I had seen one. This particular variety was angular and more vicious looking than its ancestors.

"What'd you call me, bitch?"

"Negro. Isn't that what your people are called?"

The gunshot assaulted my ears indicating that the label had fallen out of fashion. The bullet passed through me, my flesh no more than a wisp of smoke to it. Only silver or cold iron could harm one of us. I drew the summoner’s knife from my belt and flicked it. The blade buried itself up to its hilt in his stomach. I closed the distance and pulled it free with a twist, sidestepping the spilled intestines.

The other men ran without making a sound. I cleaned the blade on his colorful jacket and re-sheathed it. Kneeling beside him I whispered, the words sung in my native language. "Speak to me creature of clay. I would know more of your time." 

The man's lips moved, and my head filled with knowledge. The tang of gun smoke and the blood of a hundred victims assaulted my nose. The rush of hate and what this place called drugs invigorated me. I knew the thousand names these people called each other in love, hate, and laughter; their cries echoing in my ears. My hands gripped weapons, flesh, money. Everything that passed through his hands tickled my fingers. It would have broken the mind of a lesser being.

I filtered through the sensorial onslaught, the experiences of three decades in as many seconds. This one was ignorant, even for a man, but he was schooled in the ways of the street and the knowledge would serve me well. Finally, under the mental mire, I found a gem. He passed on the name of a houngan, the local voodoo priest. The primitive religious practitioners had often been helpful on my last visit.

Now I knew a little about the laws of this world. I could move through it unimpeded. The clock was ticking, the feeling odd for one not usually a slave to it.

I pulled on his knowledge of these streets and sped towards the houngan’s house. Sunrise was a few hours away, and I would be back in Hell if the person I went to see couldn't help me. Cars honked as I leaped over intersections. One woman screamed as I bowled her over. Blocks passed behind me without thought. I arrived at the address winded.

The house was small, even by human standards. There was one door in the front and another at the back with windows running its length. It sat among similar hovels, all with arcane symbols on them. I knew from the dead man's knowledge they were nothing too mysterious. A storm the likes of which this coast hadn't seen in years had taken many lives and these signs were tallies. The house I looked at had blank walls and looked untouched by the weather.

There was great power here. I smelled it under the pollutants and the damp green odor that permeated everything in this city. It was the portent of a gathering storm. My skin tingled. I couldn't tap into it though. Whenever I reached out to the power, it receded like outgoing surf. 

I walked towards the door, poised to kick it down and take what I wanted from inside. There was precious little time. When I crossed the top step, pain crashed through my body, a tsunami of torment. It didn't come close to what my soul felt in the darkness I inhabited prior to arriving. It rivaled anything I experienced on the mortal plane.