Chapter Text
New Orleans, April 25, 1862
A crimson sun rose over New Orleans, bathing the city in a garish light. Below in the streets, the gutters were flooded with miniature ruby rivers. Pools of gore gathered between the cobblestones, and the air was choked in sulfur. Those brave enough to venture outside of their homes shielded their faces, scurrying to and fro, gathering the dead, assisting the wounded. In the distance, on the river, the war machines bobbed, their guns pointed outward. Soldiers were gathered on the decks, their navy uniforms gleaming, weapons at the ready. Down below, the Confederate troops huddled, bolstering their forces.
On a balcony in the French Quarter, three women stood side by side, watching it all unfold.
“I don’t think it can be avoided,” the middle of the three mused. Beatrix’s hand strayed to her necklace. She twirled the pendant between elegant brown fingers, her eyes following the path of ragtag group of soldiers.
“It’s long past time,” the youngest, Cecile, spoke, eyes flashing. “We should have made our move months ago.”
“We don’t interfere,” Apolonia, the oldest, spoke sharply, her long braids swinging as she turned her head. “The future will be what it will be.”
“With our help,” Cecile countered. The wind ruffled through her thick mane of dark hair.
“The Union is on track to win without us,” Apolonia pressed. “There is no need to expose us--”
Her words died in her throat as an explosion rocked downstairs, shaking the foundation of their building. The trio exchanged a glance.
“Looks like it has been decided for us,” Beatrix observed, spinning on her heel.
In a line, they descended, skirts swirling as they rushed down the stairs. The halls of their ancestral home were filled. Bleeding soldiers stood in gray, faces grim, guns in hand as smoke clouded the air. Apolonia stepped forward, undaunted.
“How dare you?” she began, hands on her hips. “What need for this is there?”
A few cowered before her rage, but the bravest stepped forward, rifle cocked.
“Where is it?” he asked, voice trembling.
Beatrix and Cecile joined their sister, standing at her side. “Get out,” the youngest threatened, her fists curling at her side.
“Your magic,” the man pressed, turning the muzzle towards Cecile. “We ain’t leaving without it.”
The gun snapped back, striking the man full across his face. Apolonia’s eyes narrowed. She moved closer.
“You will leave,” every syllable was laced in venom, daring anyone to oppose her.
“We know you’re witches!” Another soldier found his voice. He cocked his weapon as well. “And traitors besides. You would have the Union win! You’d see us down to dust.”
His words bolstered the others. They drew tighter together, shifting nervously, their fingers twitching on the trigger.
“We’d see the Confederacy and all those who defend it to the gates of hell ourselves,” Beatrix agreed serenely. “Would you care to go first?”
Behind the soldiers, the doors slammed shut, the bolts locking in place. With a gust like the wind, the lanterns extinguished, the flames guttering out. The red light of the sun bathed the lobby in an eerie glow.
Terrified, one of the soldiers fired. Gunpowder filled the air. None of the sisters moved an inch. Beatrix opened her palm, releasing the flattened bullet. It clattered to the ground. A moment of tense silence spread.
“Well,” Cecile observed, smiling. “Shall we?”
As one, the trio raised their hands. The screaming began in earnest.
When the sisters had finished, the doors flew open once more, banging against the doorframe as though a hurricane raged inside. The limp forms of half a dozen soldiers spilled back out into the road, their bodies slumped, bruised, bleeding. Groaning, they crawled away, some still screaming, others shaking, all fleeing outright. Their fellow troops turned around in shock, eyes staring at the sisters crowded the doorway. They looked no worse for the wear, their clothing still immaculate, even as they rolled up their sleeves.
Apolonia sighed. “I suppose we must fight now,” she exhaled, raising her hands again as the Confederates sprinted towards them, shouting.
‘Witches!” they yelled, firing, screaming. “They’re witches!”
“Obviously,” Cecile huffed, throwing one man through the air. He landed in an undignified pile, screaming like a child for his mother.
“Suited them just fine when they were asking us for help,” Beatrix scoffed, knocking a group flat to the ground.
“Traitors,” another accused, stabbing out with his bayonet. With a thought, Apolonia melted it. The gun dissolved to ash in his hand with a touch of her finger, crumbling down to the wet cobblestones below. The man paled, falling to his knees, anger forgotten in lieu of fear.
“Leave,” Apolonia demanded. “Or we won’t be so merciful.”
The soldiers froze, pausing. From among them, a deep voice began to laugh. One by one, every soldier’s head turned, the path clearing hastily for their leader.
“Well Miss Hawthorne,” the owner of the voice stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “That ain’t very patriotic of you.”
All three sisters’ eyes narrowed.
“Phillip,” Apolonia spat. “Why aren’t I surprised?”
Governor Phillip Blake spread his hands, shrugging as though it were all inconsequential. His uniform gleamed in the red sunlight, unblemished though the fighting had raged through the night. Blake had lost none of his formalities in the wake of such brutality, right at home in the horror that was war.
“I tried reasoning with you ladies,” he declared, loud enough for all to hear. “But that time is past now.”
Behind him, his forces gathered, weapons at the ready.
“Reason?” Cecile’s voice was little more than a growl. It hit Blake in the face like a whip, staggering him back a foot. “You call what you did reason?”
“You left me no choice,” Blake recovered quickly. “All these fine folks, left to die in the streets because of your selfishness.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “I tried reason. I tried begging. I tried pleading. But now,” his grin was mean, eager. “Now, we try it the hard way.”
From above, someone gave a shout. The sisters looked up as one. A young boy was huddled on the balcony on which they had stood not half an hour ago. In his hand, he clutched a ruby bottle.
“I found it,” he cried, holding it aloft. With a grunt, he cocked his hand back, throwing it towards Governor Blake. He caught it, uncorking it.
“No,” Apolonia gasped, raising her hands again.
The soldiers crowded around their leader, forming a barrier. The sisters tossed them aside, fighting through, their blood pounding in their veins. It was all for naught. The light of the sun grew redder still, focusing like a beam on Governor Phillip Blake. He began to laugh again, a hysterical chilling sound, until even his protectors fell back, terrified.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Beatrix crossed herself, drawing in a sharp breath.
“Run,” Cecile instructed, turning to the soldiers, to the citizens peering out at them. “While you still can, RUN!”
Her plea fell on deaf ears, the ground crumbling beneath their feet. The Governor’s rage became a palpable thing, all that was dark and cruel about him pouring out into the streets of New Orleans.
The Governor began to laugh again. This time his voice echoed against the brick, a crescendo growing louder by the moment. His soldiers slammed their hands against their ears, trembling in the wake of what they had just done.
The Hawthorne home began to move, bricks leaping from the walls to shatter on the street below. The boy on the balcony screamed in panic, the metal twisting beneath him like a great snake, scratching at him. Terrified, he lurched forward, plummeting to the ground.
Cecile caught him, delivering him safely to earth. Beatrix closed her eyes, pushing back, saving their home from collapsing. Apolonia shoved her way through the throng, meeting the Governor where he stood.
With a laugh, he blasted her back, hands glowing.
“That’s more like it,” he chuckled, watching as she crumpled to the dust.
With a scream, Beatrix ripped the balcony from their home, hurtling it at Phillip with all her might. It hit him like a cannon blast, sending him careening up the street. His soldiers fled after him, running like naughty children away from the scene of the crime. He did not stay down for long, standing again.
“That wasn’t ladylike at all,” the Governor called to them, voice echoing. He raised a hand, shaking the foundations of the Hawthorne home again. This time, the buildings on either side began to crumble, tumbling down on the trio of sisters. Beatrix and Cecile pressed outward, preventing them from being buried. The distraction bought the Governor the time he sought.
“We’ve got a war to win first, boys! To the river!” the Governor rallied, pointing in the distance.
His troops cried out, delighted by this turn of events. As one, they began their march, leaving the ruined Quarter behind them.
“Sister,” Cecile helped the eldest to her feet. “Are you all right?”
Apolonia dusted her skirts, a look of grim determination on her face. “Come,” she grabbed both of her sisters’ hands. “It is time to end this.”
They pursued the troops and their leader to the river, dogging their footsteps. Union forces had gathered on the decks. They were firing at will, but their bullets bounced harmlessly, dropping like flies. They pushed forward nonetheless, determined to overtake the city.
“Go boys!” The Governor cried out, pushing his troops ahead. “Show these Yankees to hell!”
“What are we going to do?” Beatrix asked her sister, eyes wide.
Apolonia looked on, calculating, her brow furrowed. “It will take all of our strength,” she said quietly. “But we can put him down.”
She looked round at her sisters, squeezing their hands.
“What are you going to do?” Cecile asked urgently, clinging to her.
“End this,” Apolonia said simply. She smiled at the pair of them, bending to kiss each on their cheek.
“Apolonia, wait--” Beatrix tugged at her arm.
Apolonia stood anyway. “Cover me,” she instructed.
Without another word, she spun, skirts swinging, and ran headlong into the fight.
Soldiers flew back as though she was made of dynamite, crumbling in her wake. Apolonia did not stop until she reached their leader, standing resplendent in all of his stolen glory.
“Miss Hawthorne,” he grinned, “So nice to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she responded. She reached for him, grabbing his face, slamming her eyes shut.
The Governor began to scream at once, a terrible pain seizing him. Apolonia trembled with the burden of it, but did not relent, holding tight.
“She needs help!” Cecile rushed to her aide, Beatrix at her heels. They cleared the path for Union soldiers, enlisting their help. Scores of men in blue flooded the shoreline, weapons raised, determined to take the city. The battle began in earnest, the Confederate forces crumbling like a house of cards.
“It’s over now,” Apolonia whispered, her face drawn. She drove the Governor to his knees in front of her.
“I’ll end you,” he cried out, bitter to the end. “Your whole line! You’ll be nothing!”
With a smile, Apolonia bared down, her skin taking on an unearthly glow as the light faded from the Governor.
“Not if I end you first,” she promised.
In a blast, the pair of them disappeared, opening up the ground beneath them like a crater. Soldiers screamed in fright, falling back, but two sisters rushed forward still, tears streaming down their faces.
“They’re gone!” a Confederate soldier yelled, dropping his gun. The others took up the cry. The surrender went quickly, until the whole field had been cleared. The Union swept in, securing the city. 6,000 Confederate soldiers were captured that day. The North pressed upstream, winning Baton Rouge as well. The body of the Governor was never recovered.
The history books would call it a stunning victory, a triumph for the North. The remaining Hawthorne sisters knew better. The gathered the ashes in the field, of Apolonia and Phillip both. No spell could separate them, despite their best efforts.
“She bound him,” Beatrix whispered in despair. “She bound him with her own life force.”
Cecile, for her part, could say nothing. Her grief was too deep.
In the light of the next full moon, the sisters crept outside, erecting a mausoleum in their sister’s honor. Here, they entombed Apolonia, the Governor with her, enchanting the space to preserve her forever. Her sisters visited her often, their daughters with them, and soon their daughters’ daughters.
New Orleans forgot their sacrifice, but did not cease their fascination with the Hawthorne family, seeking spells and potions and solutions at the door at their leisure. The home became a hospital, then a boarding house in turn, guests coming and going, each whispering of the witches that lived there.
Beatrix’s husband fell first, than Cecile’s in quick succession. By the time the two sisters laid down to rest, their daughters were widows as well. Generation after generation met their end, joining those who had gone before them. But as the men died, the daughters thrived, overcoming and continuing no matter what the world conspired to throw at them.
The war ended, the world grew, the city changed, but the Hawthorne home stood tall in the French Quarter, it’s doors open to all those who needed help.
157 years later, its owner stood on the balcony that had once held her aunts, staring out over the city. She looked very much like the eldest, her features betraying her heritage, as all Hawthorne women before her. Now, her face was creased with worry.
She’d dreamed of the man again, the one who so often haunted her sleep. He was coming closer, of that much she was sure. The thought scared her, though she did not know why.
Over the city, the moon waxed, his bright edges trimmed in a crimson glow.
