Crossroad Blues
Madam Isadora
The house was small, shabby, and within spitting distance of Bourbon Street. Located in the French Quarter, it was halfway between an old Convent and a Cathedral. It didn't look like a good place for a young woman to stay and Dean made a mental note to say something. Rascal would be offended at this chauvinistic comment, just like he wanted. Dean lived to push buttons.
As he and Sam stood from the Impala, Rascal was already out of her car and walking toward them. She had a bag over her shoulder and keys in her hand. As she neared, Dean geared himself for another round of witty repartee.
“This house is owned by a friend of mine. She’s a voodoo priestess, so there may be some,” she paused, apparently searching for a word, “activity and paraphernalia. But trust me; she’s one of the good guys.” Dean made a skeptical noise.
“Why are you friends with a voodoo priestess?” Dean asked as Rascal turned reproachful eyes toward him.
“Look, I don’t have to give a rundown of all the relationships in my life, okay? If you want help, this is how you’re going to get it.” She moved around the Impala and toward Dean, not stopping until she was right under his nose, shoving a finger into his chest. “And you damn sure better be polite. She don’t take no gruff from nobody. Especially not from some punkass like you.”
“Fine.” Dean spoke with the same forceful reprehension as she did. She shot him another glare, stepped back, and turned to Sam. “Follow me.” She sauntered away, leaving the men to stumble over the pockmarked yard after her.
Rascal opened the peeling door and ushered them into an eclectically furnished living area. The patter of feet came from somewhere in the depths of the house and soon, a full-figured, blond-headed woman came padding toward them on bare feet. She gave off a motherly feel even dressed in all white with soot under her eyes.
“Hello, you must be Dean and Sam.” She came forward, hand extended. Sam took it graciously as Dean spoke.
“What told you?” He asked dryly, receiving a painful nudge in the ribs from Sam. Both he and the woman smiled, though hers held a touch more sincerity.
“Wild guess, Dean.” She said, voice purring with a creole accent. “My name is Madam Isadora.”
“Wait, how’d you know I was Dean?” He asked incredulously. Madam Isadora’s smile grew short of a grin.
“Our dear Rascal painted an interesting, albeit unflattering, picture of you during our last conversation.” Dean spared a look toward Rascal, who was leaning on the door frame leading further into the house with a smirk on her face.
“Just though you should be prepared,” Rascal shrugged, laughing slightly at Dean’s expense. Dean opened his mouth to shoot a nasty response Rascal’s way, but Sam touched his shoulder.
“Dean,” Sam said softly.
“Listen to your boy, Dean, and play nice.” Rascal couldn’t help but pick at the man, but Isadora rounded on Rascal with warning in her face.
“Leave it, cherie.” Isadora’s voice rolled with soft heat.
“Of course.” Rascal bowed her head so she didn’t react to Dean’s self-assured smirk. Isadora smiled and turned back to the men.
“If you would like, I can show you to your rooms.” She suggested.
“Oh, we don’t want to impose.” Sam stammered as Dean shook his head.
“Please, I insist. We should stay close, given Dean’s,” she paused, searching for a word, “predicament.” After a moment of pondering and then Sam shook his head slowly.
“Fine. Let’s go get our stuff.” He said the last to Dean, who stood silently hoping they could leave. The whole place gave him the creeps.
“Oh, before you go out there, here.” She pulled two red cloth bags out of the white apron wrapped around her waist. The men took one each, and Dean had to ask.
“What’s this?”
“Gris-gris, cherie. To protect you from evil. A temporary measure, I’m afraid.” She added the last to Sam’s questioning look.
“Thanks.” Dean said, pocketing the bag and turning around. Sam followed his brother out of the house. After nearing the Impala and opening the trunk, Dean turned to Sam.
“What do you think?”
“You mean, can we trust her?” Sam asked and Dean nodded. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?” Dean sighed.
“Yeah, okay.”
As he and Sam stood from the Impala, Rascal was already out of her car and walking toward them. She had a bag over her shoulder and keys in her hand. As she neared, Dean geared himself for another round of witty repartee.
“This house is owned by a friend of mine. She’s a voodoo priestess, so there may be some,” she paused, apparently searching for a word, “activity and paraphernalia. But trust me; she’s one of the good guys.” Dean made a skeptical noise.
“Why are you friends with a voodoo priestess?” Dean asked as Rascal turned reproachful eyes toward him.
“Look, I don’t have to give a rundown of all the relationships in my life, okay? If you want help, this is how you’re going to get it.” She moved around the Impala and toward Dean, not stopping until she was right under his nose, shoving a finger into his chest. “And you damn sure better be polite. She don’t take no gruff from nobody. Especially not from some punkass like you.”
“Fine.” Dean spoke with the same forceful reprehension as she did. She shot him another glare, stepped back, and turned to Sam. “Follow me.” She sauntered away, leaving the men to stumble over the pockmarked yard after her.
Rascal opened the peeling door and ushered them into an eclectically furnished living area. The patter of feet came from somewhere in the depths of the house and soon, a full-figured, blond-headed woman came padding toward them on bare feet. She gave off a motherly feel even dressed in all white with soot under her eyes.
“Hello, you must be Dean and Sam.” She came forward, hand extended. Sam took it graciously as Dean spoke.
“What told you?” He asked dryly, receiving a painful nudge in the ribs from Sam. Both he and the woman smiled, though hers held a touch more sincerity.
“Wild guess, Dean.” She said, voice purring with a creole accent. “My name is Madam Isadora.”
“Wait, how’d you know I was Dean?” He asked incredulously. Madam Isadora’s smile grew short of a grin.
“Our dear Rascal painted an interesting, albeit unflattering, picture of you during our last conversation.” Dean spared a look toward Rascal, who was leaning on the door frame leading further into the house with a smirk on her face.
“Just though you should be prepared,” Rascal shrugged, laughing slightly at Dean’s expense. Dean opened his mouth to shoot a nasty response Rascal’s way, but Sam touched his shoulder.
“Dean,” Sam said softly.
“Listen to your boy, Dean, and play nice.” Rascal couldn’t help but pick at the man, but Isadora rounded on Rascal with warning in her face.
“Leave it, cherie.” Isadora’s voice rolled with soft heat.
“Of course.” Rascal bowed her head so she didn’t react to Dean’s self-assured smirk. Isadora smiled and turned back to the men.
“If you would like, I can show you to your rooms.” She suggested.
“Oh, we don’t want to impose.” Sam stammered as Dean shook his head.
“Please, I insist. We should stay close, given Dean’s,” she paused, searching for a word, “predicament.” After a moment of pondering and then Sam shook his head slowly.
“Fine. Let’s go get our stuff.” He said the last to Dean, who stood silently hoping they could leave. The whole place gave him the creeps.
“Oh, before you go out there, here.” She pulled two red cloth bags out of the white apron wrapped around her waist. The men took one each, and Dean had to ask.
“What’s this?”
“Gris-gris, cherie. To protect you from evil. A temporary measure, I’m afraid.” She added the last to Sam’s questioning look.
“Thanks.” Dean said, pocketing the bag and turning around. Sam followed his brother out of the house. After nearing the Impala and opening the trunk, Dean turned to Sam.
“What do you think?”
“You mean, can we trust her?” Sam asked and Dean nodded. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?” Dean sighed.
“Yeah, okay.”