Naughty Gras: Tales of Fat Tuesday

by Sable Jordan, Jessa Callaver, Perri Forrest, The KWEEN

  And that’s how she’d ended up here.

  Dead in the center of boring.

  A fogged over, provincial town in France. Miles and miles away from the action in New Orleans; from trinkets baked in King cakes and zydeco music and the Jerry Springer-worthy antics of Bourbon Street; from the first story idea to have piqued her interest in a long time.

  Tenure, it seemed, counted for diddlysquat.

  Tayden grit her teeth. She hoped Katie did bring those Mardi Gras beads back. “I’ll shove ‘em straight up her pert little, untenured ass.”

  Three miles and an hour of self-loathing later, Tayden entered the village. The fog was a light mist here, revealing one main street of packed earth. Lining either side were simple, timber-framed houses intermingled with those made of fieldstones.

  Soft music filtered from the darkened window of a nearby home, and she tilted her head to hear. The Foo Fighters? Okay, so archaic architecture didn’t necessarily preclude the locals from being current on musical selections. Nearby, a group of people in tattered clothes juggled and danced for a woman standing in her doorway.

  “Excuse me,” Tayden called, moving closer. “Anyone have a phone I can borrow?”

  The revelers broke into song, begging the woman for potatoes and cracklin’, brightly colored, cone-shaped hats bobbing and swaying in rhythm. Tayden repeated her question and each time she asked the singing grew more raucous. Were they deliberately ignoring her? And people thought city-folk were rude!

  A mangy dog shot by, dirt caked on its paws and a giggling child dressed in red hot on its heels. The boy stopped abruptly and turned his wide brown eyes on her.

  “The manor?” Tayden asked.

  He cocked his head to one side. Two little horns peeked out through his hair, pointing in the same direction as his outstretched arm. At the top of the hill, the manor was little more than a dark square, the path leading to it so steep and twisted it made San Francisco’s Crooked Street look like a cakewalk.

  Dammit, Carson! Tayden’s legs hurt, she was tired and hungry, and now she had to hike Everest to get to a story she didn’t even want to write? Honestly, everything about the roots of Mardi Gras could be dragged up with a couple strokes of the keyboard.

  “Does it get any worse?” Tayden fished the card from her pocket and checked both sides again. Blank. She frowned.

  By the time she looked up, the manor’s double wooden doors were in front of her. The knocker bore a shape familiar to French monarchy—a fleur de lis. The cast-iron piece was almost impossible to lift, but as she tried, the door swung back on rusted hinges. It opened up to a long hallway lit at intervals by wall torches. Tayden glanced behind her. Not a trace of the village. The fog had come in and swallowed it up.

  “Hello?” She stepped inside tentatively, her echoed greeting and the crackle of the flames the only noise. Fog, spooky old house, long dark hallway… This was how horror movies started. Another step in and the floor creaked. “I-I was hoping to use your phone. My car broke down…”

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  Keep calm. Breathe in, breath ou–

  “Mendigot!” a voice called in French.

  Wide-eyed, Tayden swiveled her head left and right. She melted against the door, reaching behind her for the knob. It wasn’t there. It had to be there!

  Eyes fixed on the hallway, she groped along the smoothed wood. Her tote slid off her shoulder and down her arm. It landed at her feet, but she was too frightened to reach for it and shift her gaze from the obvious direction of attack.

  Tayden lurched forward violently, as though someone had kicked her in the back. She stumbled down the corridor. Her knees hit the floor, palms slapped down right after.

  Oh, god! This was how she’d die!

  Damn you, Carson!

  On all fours in the middle of the flickering hall, Tayden stayed perfectly still. Maybe whatever was haunting her—hunting her?—would go away. She took shallow breaths in through her mouth, wishing she were at her apartment, curled in the safety of the blankets on her bed. She could almost feel the warmth of her comforter, could almost see herself back in New York…

  If not for that thing brushing against her cheek.

  She slammed her eyelids shut and screamed.

  Or, she tried to scream, but the sound didn’t come. Her heart lodged in her throat, thumping so hard she was sure it’d jump straight out of her neck. She tried to move but her arms and legs were rooted to the spot.

  Get a hold of yourself, Tayden.

  Easier thought than done. Pulse racing, she peeled one eye open and then the other. Her gaze darted left and right.

  No one was there.

  A blanket draped over her back—who’d put it there and when?—and the hallway was brighter. A draft came from somewhere overhead, focused on her face. She rolled to her butt; inched across the floor to lean into the wall, pulling the blanket tight around her. Whoever was out there could probably shred it easily, but the illusion of safety was nice.

  The voice whispered again, soft and coaxing, and Tayden whimpered. Why would someone do this to her? Why would Carson send her here?

  “Mendigot.”

  Beggar. Her? For needing to borrow the phone?

  Doors lined either side of the hall, each one separate by a torch. She squinted to make out the engraving on the one across from her, but it was too far to see clearly.

  Swallowing down her fear but keeping the blanket in place, Tayden got to her feet and ventured closer to read the wooden panel: Belgium. She crept over to the next portal: Rio. Spinning around, she checked the one behind her: Trinidad. She tried the door, but the knob wouldn’t turn.

  Tayden kept moving, read panel after panel. Some were marked with cities she knew, others she’d never heard of. Then she came to one that made her heart speed.

  New Orleans.

  Drumming erupted from the other side followed by the flutter of a horn set free. A bass joined in, its deep baritone countering the trombone’s tenor note for note. Voices came next, singing, talking, all of them lively and one of them certain to belong to someone with a phone.

  She knocked, waited for it to open. No answer.

  Tayden reached for the handle but there wasn’t one. She knocked again, banging her fist against the wood harder and harder. The plank shook in the frame but didn’t budge.

  As far as she could tell, this was the only room in the whole place with any activity on the other side. And it was the only door with a city she actually wanted to be in.

  She was getting through this door.

  Bracing her shoulder against the wood, Tayden pushed hard. She grunted with the effort, feet scrabbling for purchase on the manor’s floor. The door cracked inward an inch; swung back with so much force it knocked her into the hatch on the opposite side of the hall. The slightest touch sent that door flying wide, and Tayden landed on her ass in a jumble of blanket and skirt and sports coat. The back of her head hit the floor and her vision went wonky, spinning sideways so that left and right became up and down.

  Groaning, she sat up. And just as her head stopped swimming, her belly sank. The hair at her nape stood on end.

  She wasn’t alone.

  “The beggar.”

  Tayden flinched. The words sounded ethereal, distant and close at the same time. A shiver inched down her spine. She squinted at the open door, trying to make out the word on the panel: Fra…—it didn’t really matter. Her tormentor was at her back. She considered making a run for it, but an overwhelming paralysis had her firmly in its grip.

  Stuck.

  “I just needed to borrow the phone,” she said so low her voice rivaled Carson’s on a really bad news day. Shaking off the stupor, Tayden shifted to her feet and spun around. “My car bro–”

  The words died in her throat; her mouth and eyes went wide.

  A guillotine sat in a corner, the blade’s sharp edge glistening in the firelight. Tayden stared so long she nearly missed the three people seated at a
circular table in the center of the small room. Each wore a costume of superior quality. A woman with flaxen hair donned a long, silky white robe. Two gold wings protruded from either side of her back, and a pleasant smile touched her lips. Angelic. Gorgeous in a way that made Tayden slightly uncomfortable to admit. Another woman, just as beautiful if a little disheveled, wore a light blue robe. A nimbus of light circled her head like she’d stepped out of a stained-glass window. She had an open face and sat in a way that oozed calm.

  Tayden glanced again at the angel in white and then at the man. One word came to mind: Mysterious.

  Slender but defined, with sun-kissed skin and dark hair. A black mask covered his face, a gold fleur de lis painted on one cheek. His eyes were barely discernible through the slits in the mask, but she thought she detected a hint of a twinkle. His chest was bare, and since his seat faced the door Tayden could only hope he had on pants. Not that she’d be opposed to it if he didn’t. A soft dusting of hair covered his chest, and she imagined running her hands–

  Stop that! What was wrong with her? These people were playing some sort of sick mind game, trying to scare the crap out of her, and she was busy imagining herself beneath the masked man’s hard body with the angel not too far away.

  She shook her head to focus, inhaled a breath. There was something familiar about them, the man especially, but since she’d never been to the village before, Tayden couldn’t pinpoint why.

  Her gaze zipped around the room—paused on the guillotine, a painting of the Arc de Triomphe, the woman with the wings, the clock on the wall displaying 6:18—before finally stopping on the table and the cake resting atop it. The dessert was divided into four equal parts, three of which had already been distributed.

  “Sorry for crashing the party,” Tayden said, backing away. “I’ll…uh…just see myself out.”

  “Beggar!” the man boomed. He extended his hand toward the available seat. Tayden hesitated. Then her legs reacted with a mind of their own, bringing her to the table where she sank into the roughly hewn wooden chair.

  The final portion of cake had yet to be claimed, and she studied the colors frosting the confection: purple, gold, and green.

  A King cake. Per tradition, the host cut the dessert into as many guests at the party plus one. The extra was “the share of the poor,” given to the first beggar to grace the owner’s doorstep.

  Tayden smiled. Looked like she’d get her slice after all.

  Without asking, she dragged the plate closer and dove in. Moist and sweet, and sure it’d go straight to her hips but right now she was happy to be eating. What exactly had she come to the manor for? Another bite and Tayden crunched down on something hard.

  Three heads swiveled toward her.

  “La fève,” the woman in blue whispered.

  Bean?

  Tayden spit the broad nugget into her hand and raised her arms. “I won! I won! I’m queen for the day!” Giggling, she clapped her hands together. Finally, her luck was changing! Then three heads shook and her celebration came to a swift end. “But that’s the rule. Whoever gets the bean is king or queen for the day.”

  “The one who gets the bean,” the man said, rising with the others, “is the sinner.”

  Sinner? Tayden stood so fast she toppled the chair; stumbled over the leg as she backed away from the approaching group. “I… I-I don’t understand.”

  Her gaze went back to the guillotine, an ominous presence in the corner. She brought a hand to her neck and massaged it. Was that the punishment for sinning? What had she even done?

  “Would you like a pillow?” the winged woman asked.

  Had everyone in the world gone mad?

  “Look, I just needed–”

  “A phone,” the man said.

  “Yes!” Thank god he understood. “To call for help with–”

  “They can’t help you. Sinners must help themselves. T’is the day of the shrive,” he said calmly. “Do you know what a sinner must do?”

  “Confess,” the woman in blue whispered, “and be set free…” She came straight at Tayden as though on attack, and then she was gone. The door closed with a discordant boop, soft as a wind chime.

  Tayden had to get to that door. Best to leave without provoking these strangers further. Ignore her journalistic instinct to ask questions. Forget the phone. Forget the car. She’d foot it to the next town if she had to, achy legs and all. Just keep quiet and get to the door.

  “Confess what? I’m not a sinner.”

  She slapped her hand over her mouth as the man spat, “Liar!” He appeared at her side in an instant, the eyes behind the slits of the mask trained on her.

  Tayden kept backing away; he tracked her step for step. It felt like she was walking in molasses, movements slow and heavy. Still, something kept tugging at her, urging her to move toward the table and the gold-winged woman now laying on it; urging her to let loose her feelings.

  “I’m not ly–”

  “Liar! You lie to the most important person in this room!”

  Him? Tayden didn’t know, couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The door was still so far away. Her hope of reaching it faded; the pull to walk forward grew stronger. She dropped to her knees, hot tears pressing behind her eyes. Fear prickled over her skin and her trembling chin met her chest. Who were these people? What did they want and why were they doing this to her? When would this nightmare end?

  She wanted to go home now. Curl into the blankets and forget this ever happened.

  “Okay, just…tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it; what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Confess,” the pair said in unison.

  She huddled into the coat. “To what? I haven’t done anything!”

  “Hiding.” Bare feet and the hems of his black slacks moved out of her field of vision. “Stop hiding.”

  “I beg you… Leave me alone.”

  Silence.

  Tayden wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth. Prayed this ordeal would end. It stayed quiet so long she thought she was alone. She lifted her head to check, silently hoping they’d left her.

  No such luck.

  The woman in white sat on the table naked, creamy thighs spread wide and knees bent over the edge. The man stood behind her, kissing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. His hands skimmed around her side, smoothed up her belly to cup her breast.

  The woman’s head lolled, hips rocked forward to press her cunt against the wood. A translucent, semi-rigid string of purple spheres—growing in size from tip to tail with an open ring at the far end—lay on the table outside her leg. Beside them, two small, gold spheres no bigger than marbles.

  Tayden couldn’t stop staring. She wanted to–

  No. That wouldn’t be right.

  The woman moaned, her hands gripping her thighs while the man tweaked her nipples. He twisted them hard, pulling color into the pale orbs.

  Need tightened Tayden’s belly and, still on her knees, she inched closer. But the niggling at the back of her mind brought her progress to a halt. She should run. The door was close enough to reach while the pair was occupied. She could get away from here, not have to witness this wickedness.

  For god’s sake, go! There’s a guillotine in the freakin’ corner!

  Go!

  Tayden tilted forward, whispered, “What do you want from me?”

  “What do you want from you?” the man fired back. He materialized beside her, crouching, the ominous mask so close their cheeks brushed.

  The angel’s moans grew louder, fingers lightly massaging her clit.

  Electricity surged through Tayden’s body, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t want–”

  “Liar.”

  “I d-don’t,” she stammered, “I don’t know!”

  “Liar!” he roared, long and loud.

  Tayden hid her face in her hands. Her breathing raced; panic gripped her chest so cold and hard it was a physical ache in her breast. She pressed ha
nds to her thighs, curling her fingers into the cotton skirt. He knew. Oh, god, he knew.

  How?

  It’s fine…don’t fuss—never fuss.

  That’s needy. Clingy.

  Controlling.

  –Confess

  Next time.

  Slut. What a dirty little slut you are.

  You’re not a slut, right?

  Breathe. Forget it.

  Just smile.

  –Confess

  Nod.

  Don’t be a bother.

  He’s tired.

  Next time.

  The thoughts took shape, became tangible mass that raced around the room and morphed into a vortex. It encircling the trio, creating a strong wind Tayden felt directly on her face. Loose notebook pages got caught in the cyclone; pens became missiles no longer guided by her personal radar.

  “I confess!” Tayden screamed, tears streaming down her face. She slumped against the man and pleaded, “I confess.”

  Her eyes opened.

  Everything was calm—no wind, no spiraling papers. The masked man and angel were still on the table. Tayden felt his gaze on her, but he didn’t stop fondling the breasts in his hands.

  Go. They were busy; she could reach the door if she ran now. Tayden glanced at the clock—6:18—the statue, the guillotine.

  Go!

  She pushed to her feet and backed away easily, the draw of escaping far overpowered that small tendril tugging her forward. The man watched her, unfazed, still pleasuring the other woman. Tayden’s back hit the door quicker than she expected and the handle was in her grip half a second after that. Freedom was only inches away.

  She turned the handle and paused, whispered, “I confess.”

  “Not to me.” He stood beside her now, arm extended toward the woman on the table. “Her.”

  When had she wronged this woman? Tayden’s legs reacted of their own accord, covering the distance in two steps. “I–”