Rubidoux

The Cold War Kids have motivated me to finally get around to writing something about New Orleans and magic and all the fiddly bits in between. So here's the beginnings of it, because while I think this would do for an introduction to something that I haven't gotten around to writing yet, I also think it stands pretty well on its own. We'll have to see if I do anything else with it.

Nawlans

It was common knowledge that to go to New Orleans was to invite trouble upon the heads of the unwary. It was even more common knowledge that this fact did not stop legions of the unwary from going down to the city every year. This was almost a problem—almost, because even though so many unwary came down, many became wary with alarming speed once they arrived. New Orleans tended to do that to people; it was part of its charm, or allure, or whatever you'd wish to call it.

Much of it came from the music, of course. The blues, jazz, these were forms that found a home quickly in the streets and small, smoke filled clubs that litter the New Orleans landscape. Tiny restaurants serving what they all claimed was the best damned gumbo in the city sat comfortably alongside derelict apartment buildings and old, run down townhouses. The city was alive—not in the way New York was alive with the pulse of its people, or London with its ancient history and forgotten monuments—no, New Orleans was alive in the way it collected filth and dirt; the humidity and smell of the nigh-constant party that now takes place ever since people got too lazy to figure out the precise date of Mardi Gras and decided to hold it year round. It smelled of people, their sweat and their blood. It smells of magic, if you happened to be sensitive to such a thing.

The tourists generally were not, but those who'd grown up in the city knew. Some even went beyond merely knowing what magic smelled like, and knew how to make it work for them. The old voodoo priests in silk top hats, pinched from dumpsters and castoffs, who kept their true names secret, walked down into the markets looking for chicken heads and vials of blood bought from questionable sources and obtained through even more questionable methods. Sorcerers lounged in coffee houses, tracing runes of power into the spilled sugar to scry out the location of some essential component that would make their ascents to power complete—or would aid another in his ascension to power, assuming the price were right.

Those who desired to become powerful yet lacked the knack for it could often be seen knocking on doors that were invariably opened by shifty looking individuals. If he had the right payment, and if he made his case, and if whoever lived inside whichever building he went into was in a good mood, then a deal could be done. Other times there would be a brief shout, followed by silence, and a little while later someone would wake up in an alleyway wondering why his wallet was missing. New Orleans police filed an incredible amount of mugging reports every year, but not one of the older members of the force ever expressed surprise over the amount. Indeed, the entire police force had more than a little inkling as to what went on in the odder corners of their city, and had even more of an inclination to let it happen.

It would not do to offend the sort of people who would be disturbed by any sort of crackdown.