BEWARE THE FRENCH QUARTER GATE TO AVALON_WEP post

“People with weaknesses get killed by those who lack them. Notice I am not dead.”
- Oyggia, High Queen of Faerie 

{Image Courtesy of the Genius of Leonora Roy from END OF DAYS}

In the terrible days following Hurricane Katrina,

 a strange school appears in the French Quarter, offering aid only to the children of the elite.

Soon after, gruesome murders begin to occur. 

To discover the truth behind this "school," McCord sends three girls 

who only want their own deaths slightly more than the deaths of each other.

Read Alice Wentworth's account of their first entrance into St. Marrok's:

 

Our first sight of St. Marrok’s was … impressive.

The Sidhe were also called the Wild Ladies.  

They, who decide and unwind the distaff of Man’s expectations.  It is said our dreams are but a reflection of the sparkling, efflorescent vapors of their spirits.  Here we were met with light and shadow and madness.

Achuzzah Street should have been flooded but was not.  

High walls of slowly moving water bracketed our path to the lacy Iron Gate leading to St. Marrok’s.  Swimming effortlessly up and down and along those “walls” were exquisitely beautiful water fae.   

They eyed us with love, warmth, and concern.  It was their magics which held back the waters from flooding over us.

Becca was mesmerized, “Oh, they are like fragile little angels.”

Trish looked ill.  I remembered her contact lenses touched with the magic of the Turquoise Woman.  Obviously, Trish saw the reality before us.  

 I sucked in a breath, willing myself to see through the fae glamour.  I went somewhat ill myself.

The black gates slowly opened inwards, and Becca whispered, “I guess we ain’t tardy.”

“Lucky us,” grumbled Trish.

We walked cautiously through them.  My feet became mist.  I slipped between Becca and Trish, lifting them up as I floated above the sparkling gravel.  

 We would enter on our own steam as it were, touching not what could be cursed ground.

Becca cooed, “Oh, neat!”

Trish smiled at me, and then frowned.  “You thought the ground was booby-trapped somehow, didn’t you?”

I nodded, willing a bit of my spirit to touch each of them.  Now, we three would be anchored to each other.  Even in Avalon, the power of three was a force to be reckoned with.

Becca eyed me.  “You did something else, didn’t you?”

“Outside I will tell you exactly what.  Here, inside the lion’s den, we must beware of what we speak aloud.”

Trish looked all around us.  “Oh, my!”

St. Marrok’s stunned me.

Trees, majestic and towering, branched a canopy of lush green over our heads.  Exotic blossoms were in full bloom on every branch, lilting tunes whispering from their petals.  

 It was a dream described in greenery, golden flowers, and verdant trunks breathing as if with lungs.

White does scampered among the trees, looking innocent and beckoning.  I blinked my eyes to clear them of fae glamour and saw their needled teeth.  Snow flittered down upon the bubbling fountain to our right.  

 I blinked again.  The flakes were tiny skulls melting in the frothing blood being spouted by the marble fountain in the shape of a grotesque human heart.

Tall statues of brooding, sad scholars and elegant fae ladies looked down upon us.  The scholars were whispering, whispering.  One caught my eye.  His stony lips moaned:

“Along Faerie paths, the resting place of the soul.”

Becca grumbled, “Hell of a school song.”

One statue of a tall, troubled fae lady whispered, “The Sidhe are like beautiful children, oh, so charming, but oh, so without conscience.”

Trish said low, “Can we go now?”

“Too late,” laughed a young human-looking girl as she scampered up to us. 

She was dressed in huge hiking boots, frayed jeans, and black tank top.  She pointed at Becca’s similar wardrobe and squealed.

“That is so neat!  We dress alike.”

She leaned in close.  “On these first paths, the new students drift like beautiful clouds, passing from the shade into the sun, looking like they are searching for their souls.”

She frowned.  “But not you.  Why?”

Becca snorted, “Why not?”

The newcomer laughed wide … and cold.  “Why not indeed?  You can call me Maxine.”

Not that her name was Maxine.  But that we could call her that.  How informative of her despite her subterfuge.

Becca put out her hand which I knocked down, and I said, “We are the Three Musketeers.  We were sure that you were D’Artangan.”

“Maxine” laughed for real.  "I like you.  You talk like a Sidhe.”

Becca looked thoughtful for a moment, and then smiled with only her lips, murmuring, “Better than talking like a ‘he,’ wouldn’t you say?”

Maxine laughed again.  “My, but you are fun, too.   The three of you might just live out the day.”

{Image Courtesy of Leonora Roy}