Bloodletting
Part One
By Cathy Roberts
huntersglenn@yahoo.com

Rating: R
Archive: No
Category: "E.R."

Disclaimer: "ER" and all its characters belong to Warner Bros. No infringement of their copyright is intended. This story was written for the enjoyment of "ER" fans everywhere, and may be downloaded for your own pleasure.

As usual, my eternal thanks to Melissa, my editor, who keeps me on my toes and had to work quickly to get this edited in time for posting on Halloween. I owe you one, Melissa, thank you. When a song lyric challenge was issued on the ER FanFiction Critique Corner list, the idea for this story was born. It quickly evolved into something bigger than a single chapter and has been months in the making. I hope that you have as much enjoyment reading it as I did writing it. I encourage you to search out information on New Orleans and at least give yourselves the chance to visit the city electronically.

Background: It was the city of New Orleans where native Anne Rice set her novel "Interview With A Vampire", making her hero Louis, a native of Louisiana. And it is the city of New Orleans where author Barbara Hambly has set her books about Benjamin January, a free man of color who stuggles to make a living there in the 1830's as both a trained physician and as a musician when he's forced to abandon his training as healer because white people won't allow him to touch them. In his travels around New Orleans, we are shown the life of the blacks, both slaves and free people of color. His sister is a voodooeine, one with a lot of power, but she can't quite eclipse the power and majesty of Marie Laveau, who had the confidence to declare herself to be the "Pope of New Orleans". To this day, people visit her tomb to pray for her help, leaving gifts for her and marking the tomb with crosses. New Orleans conjures up images of dark swamp water, voodoo rituals, vampires, the wildness of Mardi Gras. It's humidity that drains your energy, a stifling heat that overpowers even the heartiest of soul. New Orleans is Jazz at it's best, the birthplace of that wonderful artform. Immortalized in song and literature, it's a town that has an almost magnetic lure. So, as autumn embraces us all, sit back and take a journey back to the summertime. Sit down in the shade and relax. The shadows of the past won't bite you. Much.

The song "Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)", is by Johnette Napolitano and performed by Concrete Blonde, from the album "Bloodletting".

"There's a crack in the mirror
And a bloodstain on the bed
There's a crack in the mirror
And a bloodstain on the bed.
O you were the vampire and baby
I'm walking dead
O you were the vampire and baby
I'm walking dead.

The air was heavy with water, yet there was no rain and no chance for it either, according to the noon forecast. Leaves sagged from their branches; moss stood out brightly against tree trunks and low garden walls. If one looked closely, moss could probably be seen growing on anyone foolish enough to be out in the heat of the afternoon.

Someone like me, John Carter muttered to himself as he wiped sweat from his brow. He admitted to himself that visiting New Orleans in August was not the best idea he had ever had. Still, when his therapist at the clinic had suggested he take a short vacation before returning to Chicago, New Orleans had popped into his head. At first John had resisted the urge to go, but his therapist had encouraged him to trust his initial instinct to go. And now he was walking on Royal Street, looking for the B & B where he was to stay and sweating buckets. After Atlanta, he should have been used to heat and humidity, John mused, but this was downright brutal. A stranger who had stopped to give him directions had smiled and assured him that the city cooled
down quite a bit once darkness fell and John was looking forward to that. John hoped he found the B&B soon, he was tired and thirsty and his back and left leg were beginning to ache from all the walking. Taking a cab didn't seem like such a bad idea in retrospect, John thought. But, no, he wanted to see the French Quarter up close. He just hadn't counted on it being so oppressive.

John stopped short as he finally found the house. He peered through the vine-covered gate; it was the only opening in the old stone wall that seemed to surround the house and small front lawn. There was probably a back entrance off an alley, but John's information on the B&B directed him to go to the front door.

John had to push hard to get the gate to swing open and he made sure to close it back before making his way up the moss covered walkway to the porch. Along the way he looked up, taking in the details of the house and yard. Here, as he had seen often on his search for the place, Spanish moss hung limply from the branches of the trees that shaded the yard. It should have been cooler here in the shade, and might have been if it was only the sun that was making him miserable. The house itself was three stories tall; maybe four if the nearly full story under the porch was taken into account. Except for that detail, he house was typical New Orleans architecture. The brochure had stated that the house had been built in the late 1700's when New Orleans was still under Spanish control. John set down his suitcase and was about to ring the bell when he caught a flash of
something or someone out of the corner of his eye. He looked to his left, catching a glimpse of something red going around the corner of the wrap around porch.

"Hello?" He walked over and turned the corner, then pulled up short as he saw that the porch ended halfway down the length of the house. A porch swing was at the end, swaying slightly, but there was no one in sight. There was no stair that would have been taken to reach the yard, and no door into the house behind the swing. Just a closed and shuttered window. John touched the swing and stopped it from moving, catching a scent of perfume on the air. Someone had been there. John stood still for a bit, waiting to see if the woman - at least he hoped it was a woman, since it was perfume and not cologne that he was smelling -- decided to return. The scent slowly faded, replaced with an unusual smell. John sniffed deeply, his nose wrinkling as he decided that it was not a pleasant smell at all. It was a strange combination of musty and something rotting away out of sight. Shaking his head to clear away the odor, John walked back around to the front and rang the bell.

The door actually creaked as it was opened and a middle-aged man smiled warmly at John.

"Doctor Carter?" Even though the man's voice had a southern lilt to it, there was an underlying accent as well, not one that John could place though.

"Yes." John picked up his suitcase and stepped into the air conditioned comfort of the entry hall. The presence of antique furniture and accessories made John feel as if he were at his grandparents' house for a visit. That thought reminded him that he had no idea what he was going to do about his living arrangements once he returned to Chicago. His grandparents had assured them that he was welcome to stay with them for as long as he wanted. His grandfather almost sounded eager to have John stay. John was tempted to take them up on their offer and stay there indefinitely. But, he had been living there when he first began to abuse his medication and he wanted a clean start without those memories. It was going to be difficult enough returning to the hospital, but he couldn't help that. Where he lived, though, he could do something about.

"Is this all your luggage, sir?"

"Yes, it is."

"Please allow me." The man took the suitcase from John, then began to head up the large stairway to the right. "I'm Perault and I'll be here to answer any questions you might have. Mrs. De la Farcy is your hostess, but she works nights and sleeps most of the day. You'll meet her this evening."

John followed Perault up the stairs. As they walked down the hallway, John noticed that a door was ajar to one of the other guestrooms. He paused on the doorsill, taking a good look inside. It was a pleasant room, nicely apportioned and clean. The only thing that seemed out of place was the cracked mirror on the dresser. Perault walked back to where John stood and looked in as well.

"The dresser, like most of the furniture in the house, is original or fairly close. It belonged to the second family that lived here."

"I thought the brochure said that the house had been in the same family for generations?" John asked.

Perault nodded. "It's been in the De la Farcy family since 1815. They were the third family to live here."

"It looks like there's a stain on the bedspread," John said. From the doorway it looked like blood, although he was beginning to doubt if he could still recognize a bloodstain after three months away from work.

"It too, is old. This way, sir." Perault walked away, clearly expecting John to follow.

John took one last look around the room, then followed his temporary host to his room. It was a corner room at the back of the house and while only one window looked out to the side yard and the house next door, a set of French door led to a balcony that overlooked a meticulously kept garden. A fountain in the middle of the garden made the area look inviting, as did the ferns and other plants hanging on the balcony. John wasn't quite ready to leave the comfort of the air-conditioned house, but he definitely intended to get out on that balcony later and enjoy the sights and smells of the garden.

"Once you're settled in your room, please feel free to explore the house. I wouldn't recommend going outside until later in the afternoon. It's much too hot outside to enjoy yourself." Perault put the suitcase on top of a trunk at the bottom of the bed. "There are a few rooms that are off-limits to guests, and they are marked with signs. You will be on your own for all meals with the exception of breakfast, so you should let me know later when you wish to partake of breakfast."

"When do the other guests eat?" John asked. Maybe he would get a chance to find out who the mysterious woman was that had run from him on the porch.

"You are our only guest, Doctor Carter. There was a couple here from Pennsylvania, but they departed yesterday."

John frowned. "You're sure? I thought I saw someone outside when I was on the porch." He dropped his carryall to the floor beside the trunk.

Perault shook his head. "It might have been a child from the neighborhood. There isn't really any place around her for the children to play, so they go into the gardens where it is much cooler. If it bothers you, then I will chase them away."

John shook his head. "No. She didn't bother me." John didn't bother pointing out that it couldn't have been a child since his mysterious woman had been wearing perfume and the image he saw was too tall to be a child. "Please, don't chase off the children on my behalf."

Perault smiled warmly at him. "Welcome to New Orleans. I hope you find your stay enlightening." And with that the man left the room, gently closing the door as he went out.

John sat down in a wing chair that he estimated to be at least a hundred years old. The room was a little smaller than the one he was using at his grandparents' house, but the age of the house and the furnishings gave the room an air of opulence that made it seem huge. The décor was tasteful and John had the impression that he was seeing the room as it must have looked when the house was new.

Spying a few books on the nightstand, John walked over and sat on the bed, thumbing through them, most of which were on local history. The house was pictured in a few of the books, with a vague mention of a "legend" which surrounded it. None mentioned just what the mysterious legend entailed. Oh, well, he thought, just about every old house had legends or tales connected with it.

John kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, closing his eyes and enjoying the pure bliss of the cool air that surrounded him. Within minutes he had fallen into a dreamless sleep, something that had evaded him during his ninety days at the clinic.

In the same room, but in a place out of time, voices were discussing his arrival.

"Is he the one? Is he truly?" a deep male voice asked in a Spanish accent.

"He is the one that was called," came the reply. The speaker wore clothing from the early 1800's, her head covered with an ornately tied scarf, her skin the color of café au lait, giving testament to her mixed heritage. Her voice held a strong French accent. English had come much later to her, but the circumstances here, trapped with those from all times, had forced her to use the language more than she liked.

"He looks like Etienne, Marie," another accented voice said, this one belonging to a woman with skin so pale that she stood out against the darkness. As was the woman she addressed, this one was also clad in clothing from another time.

"And that will matter with her," answered Marie. The voodooienne then returned to the current task at hand, making a gris-gris to keep John Carter safe. He just might be their last chance for freedom and she wasn't going to take any chances with his life. He was also the last chance the young couple had if they were to avoid her own fate. Trapped as a spirit in a place where time never passed, kept from her appointment with Heaven or Hell, as the case might be. It was time to leave here and find peace in one place or the other. As Marie sewed the pouch closed, she looked around the room, her eyes finally settling on the figure of a small child. She motioned the boy over, then quietly gave him his instructions. By nightfall, John Carter would have the first of many protections she would give him. The rest would be in the hands of God.

I got the ways and the means
To New Orleans I'm going
Down by the river
Where it's warm and green
I'm gonna have a drink and walk around
I got to think about, oh yeah.

When John awoke from his nap, it was nearly time for dinner and his stomach wasted no time making him aware of that fact. John quickly washed up and changed his shirt, then headed downstairs to see if Perault - didn't the man have a first name? - could recommend a decent place to eat. John didn't care what cuisine was on the menu as long as it was edible. Since John didn't bother with a rental car, Perault gave him directions to a small eatery not that far away.

It was a good meal and John decided to walk it off by taking a walk down by the river. If his back began to hurt, he would take a taxi back to the B & B. He was quietly enjoying the approaching dusk and the subtle shift in the air. With night falling, the humidity was easing up a bit and the tourists and locals outside seemed to appreciate it.

"Sir?"

John looked down into the face of a young child. He knelt down so the boy wouldn't strain his neck by having to look up to talk to him. "Can I help you?"

The boy shook his head. "This is for you." The child shoved something at John and John reached out for it, seeing that it was a pouch of some sort. There was even a long thong at the top to make it easier to carry or to even wear.

"Thank you. What is it?" John didn't want to insult the boy by rejecting the gift, but he wondered if this was some sort of sales spiel.

"A gris-gris. It will keep you safe in that house tonight. Wear it around your neck always."

"And how much is this going to cost me?" John asked.

The boy shook his head. "It is from Marie."

John smiled as he shook his head. "There must be some kind of mistake then. I don't know anyone named 'Marie'. You've got the wrong person." John held his hand out but the boy backed away, refusing to take the pouch back.

"No mistake. It is yours." The boy then turned and ran away, leaving behind the same scent that John had caught on the porch at the B&B earlier that day.

John frowned, then straightened. He looked to see where the boy was headed, but the child was out of sight. Looking at the pouch in his hand, John wasn't quite sure what to do with it. If obviously wasn't meant for him, but the child had told him to wear it. A deep whiff told him that the pouch had been touched by that very same perfume. The scent was faint, but there, nonetheless. He couldn't wear anything like this. Could he?

John eyed the pouch, then shrugged. Hell, why not? John asked himself as he slipped the thong over his head. The pouch felt lighter against his chest than it had in his hand. But all things considered, that was the least strange thing of all that had happened since he had arrived in New Orleans.

John kept walking along the river until his back began to ache. He looked around and spied an outdoor café where he ordered an iced tea, then sat down to listen to the voices of those surrounding him. The southern accents he had become accustomed to in Atlanta were missing from here. But, listening to the dulcet tones helped him keep his mind off of what would happen once he returned to Chicago. His therapist had told him that he was worrying too much about things that might not happen -- like arriving to work and being treated like a criminal or junkie. He could admit now that he had been out of control and in danger. But he had not reached the point of being a junkie. It had been close, though. Too close. And that scared the Hell out of him.

John had pushed his body too hard in such a short amount of time. A good portion of his time at the clinic had been spent letting his body recover from the injuries he had received in February. Now he was faced with trying to undo the damage he had done to his career, his friends, and most importantly, his family, especially his Gamma, during that time.

A few iced teas later, John began the walk back to the B&B. The sun was beginning to go down and the sidewalks were getting more crowded. Now that it was cooler the locals and tourists would be out in droves, John thought. He thought about going over to Bourbon Street to check out some of the jazz clubs, but his back was still sore, so he figured that it would be best for him to postpone the club hopping until tomorrow night. He grinned as he thought about how jealous Benton would be when he discovered that he had been able to hear authentic New Orleans jazz in person.



End of Part 1