Chapter 26 — The Seven that Wrote the Gospel of Decay

Part 1 — The Black Swan’s Lake

When the prayer’s echo ceased around the Quarter, the night held back its echo as if a reckoning was happening and the world was testifying to its own shift. Silence covered the streets as if a silk shawl were dressing it to the nines. The atmosphere no longer felt heavy and suffocating—it breathed new air. Something was coming, and the world was about to change.

Mylène observed the shift in auras from her boudoir in the Oliver House Hotel as a gust of golden dust from outside danced among the shadows in her room. I have awakened the giant—stanno arrivando per equilibrare il mondo. The time has come for balance to be restored, even if the world is in reverse as it reflects its own sinful ways; it will be cracked but mended. The laws of the universe are ruled by karmic justice; the time for Samsara to turn its wheels is upon the next kin.

Even if there are those that pretend to be what they are not—losing their own identity for a cheap thrill and false self-esteem—the poor fake siren will soon be tried for her sins. Ophelia’s envy has blinded her to her own pain. Karma does not forget or forgive; it yields, then punishes accordingly. Io sono il karma incarnato.

Outside her window, a flock of swans were nesting; as if they felt the world becoming heavy, they began to ruffle their feathers, arranging themselves as if they were dancing Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake—the scene of Odette fighting with the dichotomy of being pure, chaste, and the upcoming omen as the trickster Odile slithered through the shadows.

For a moment, the Quarter turned into a ballet stage, with a script as old as time; you could hear Tchaikovsky’s ballet suite pouring into the cobblestone, each note growing more violent as if it were performing Act IV, waiting for Odette to face her demise. Mylène observed the swans’ performance as they were telling her through dance that something—or someone—was coming through the portals between the divine realm and the mortal world. And absolution would become the new executioner. La morte degli indegni—the cleansing of the world is soon knocking at my door.

Part 2 — The Council’s Whispers

The Swan’s ballet suite crackled through the portal between realms, traveling through glass and the Saint John Cathedral towers as the wind delicately brushed against the bells—cling-clack, swaying in syncopation. The ripple effect of Mylène’s prediction could be felt beyond the Oliver House, passing through Storyville’s docks all the way to Bayou Saint John. The Quarter was alive with the hope that a shift was inevitable.

Sex slavery was Prohibition’s second most lucrative business, besides the speakeasy joints that catered to patrons looking for a slap and tickle—plus that giggle water. For the common folk, these enterprises were the reason why the Quarter was riddled with drunks and poor girls; greedy “businesses” like Mahogany Hall preyed on innocent flower girls who were only looking for a dime to place food on their tables. While others saw it as a get-rich scheme, Lulu White and Silver Dollar Sam were the ones running the Quarter with impunity.

So the Swan’s Ballet was a warning—an omen that their reign of terror was about to disappear. This existential threat began to stir the pot where time folds inward and law becomes optional for the criminal.

The Council of the Seven began to stir with Silvestro Carollo, “Silver Dollar Sam,” as the headmaster. Carollo had just left Le Cœur Noir after giving Frankie Giuliani a list of errands that must be taken care of—a few beef steaks to slice and enough juice to grease some wheels. On his way, he passed by 1113 Chartres Street, noticing how the majestic Beauregard–Keyes House would be the ideal operations den. It was spacious enough to house a few out-of-state guests and even some magical or historical figures, as he was thinking of entering a consortium with Papa Legba and other practitioners of the black arts.

Carollo was a ruthless man—opportunistic, callous, and calculating. He was always five steps ahead of his enemies, able to envision what needed to be done and how his markets were moving toward higher demand. From supplying the whole Quarter with bootleg liquor to running illegal gambling rooms, to becoming the street boss of the Black Hand Mafia under Charles Matranga, Carollo knew how to turn vice into empire.

He made his way up the side steps and knocked on the door. An older Italian signora opened it.

“Buona sera, signora. Mi sto chiedendo se posso comprare la tua casa?”

Carollo’s tone was so soft it sounded almost gentile. That man did not have a compassionate bone in his body.

The lady responded—as soon as she saw his face, she nearly fainted. Carollo caught her, hat in hand.

“I’m sorry, sonny, but my house is not for sale. It’s the only thing il mio marito gave me. But I wouldn’t mind having visits, as I am a lonely widow.”

Carollo helped her back up, then kissed her hand.

“Mia signora, il piacere di verti è tutto ciò che io voglio.” He smiled. “I will be back soon with a few friends.”

That same night, Carollo returned with a few of his goons, including Frankie, bringing gifts and trinkets for the signora della casa.

“Mia signora, è ritornato.” Carollo announced as the old lady opened the door. “I brought you the finest foods we could find, along with a few tokens of appreciation.”

They proceeded to the living room, placing the wood close to the fireplace, fusing the nostalgia of the American Dream with the fire of Creole tradition. The red mahogany floors creaked gently as Frankie Guliani stepped on them—like demons dancing to the jazz pouring from Bourbon Street. He gazed at a golden goblet with rubies that rested atop the fireplace.

“Signora, what an interesting piece of art. How antique is it?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Il mio marito was obsessed with old trinkets.”

Carollo’s eyes immediately turned to the expensive-looking artifact, his gaze gleaming with greed. But this was a lady he would not touch. The first Lord of Crown and Sin was not merciful, but he moved only in calculated steps—and a pesky little goblet was not enough reward for what he could accomplish using this house as the seat of a crime syndicate.

Memory tonight is laced in wine, for the Mother has stilled the wheel, and it turns before the premonition.

Part 3 — The Trifecta of Evil and Their Matriarch

Memory tonight is laced with wine— As Carollo’s lips finished moving, the walls inside the Beauregard–Keyes House began to bleed through the wallpaper, carrying the weight of their conflicting history. The historic home was originally built on a parcel of land owned by the Ursuline nuns, who sold it in 1825. By 1866, it was rented to a Confederate soldier named Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, who resided there until 1868, after the disastrous aftermath of the Civil War.

To Carollo, that piece of history made the house ripe ground for what was about to come—the crime syndicate for the crème de la crème of New Orleans and the other Lords of Crown and Sin with their respective minions.

The black swans that had nested near the Oliver House were silently flying overhead as if they felt the dense air returning to Bayou Saint John to bathe, then fly back to Mylène’s boudoir window—their safe haven. Frankie was near the windows in the Beauregard–Keyes House, observing how the swans, flying silently, suddenly got spooked.

“Frankie, son, move that large table away from the fireplace,” said Carollo firmly.

“Salvatore, hurry up with the stuff. Put it here,” Carollo commanded one of his goons in a calm but stern manner.

The moment the wooden crate touched the red mahogany floor, a shriek escaped the cracks, leaving a strong smell of chicory coffee as dense as molasses spilling through the room.

La Signora Beauregard became uneasy at the sight of the smoke coming out of the wooden crate, along with the chilling laughter.

“Signore Carollo, per favore, cos’è questo?” she asked.

“Rassicurati, non preoccuparti. It’s just a business arrangement, signora mia,” Carollo responded with a half-crooked smile. “A small investment for the foreseeable future.”

With a nod from Carollo, Frankie pulled a crowbar to pry the locks open as the laughing and crackling intensified. Once the lid was open, four gleaming orbs, each one pulsating with faint light, appeared. The first was large and deep purple; the second, small and black as tar and thick as petrol; the third, burgundy like a glass of sauvignon; and the fourth and final orb, yellow as a sunflower.

Once released, the four orbs flew out of the crate, leaving behind a foul smell of rotten rose petals and rancid patchouli.

“The Trifecta of Evil and their Matriarch!” screamed Carollo, ecstatic. “I have been waiting for this for years!”

La Signora Beauregard clutched her diamond cross and pulled the rosary she always carried in her left pocket. “Dio mio… Dio ci aiuti… cosa sono? Ho paura perché non sono sicura di ciò che sto vedendo! Padre santo, Dio mio!”

“Signora… ricordi i Titani nella mitologia greca? Well, these are the engines of order. Just like the Titans kept the world’s balance, they will keep order in this city, as the gods have forsaken us—” Carollo said.

As he finished speaking, the orbs transformed into the most hideous women anyone had ever seen. One was short, with no buttocks—just a back that ran for miles—and a haircut that made her look demonic, ebony hair onyx as her soul. Another had long locks and a body deformed by a massive posterior. The third had teeth like chainsaws, a mole, and pasty skin. The last was tall, with breasts as flaccid as cow tongues.

Frankie was horrified; his gag reflex made him almost throw up. He took a step back, covering his mouth so he wouldn’t dirty the floors.

“Boss, what the hell is this? What are these things?”

“Not hell, ragazzo. Sistema—bureaucracy. La sangue della burocrazia.”

Carollo approached the witches. “My majesties, I am your humble knight and servant.” The matriarch offered her hand. Carollo instantly went into a trance—he saw it all: gangsters, priests abusing their power, slave overseers, prostitutes, Lulu White—and for a second, his eyes turned white.

“I see the future—it has spoken to me. The Mother’s wheel is turning, and it can grind us some juicy profits.”

Frankie was rattled. He knew they were speaking about his Mylène—the eternal quagmire he always faced: his loyalty to Carollo or his love for her. What is a man to do? But he was absolutely sure that if it came to choosing between them, he had no problem offing Carollo if it meant she was safe.

Part 4 — The Hexacroutines’ First Ordeal

The stench of rotten petals and rancid patchouli oozed from the quartet’s pores with every move, filling the air with a dense smoke that shifted the wind toward the gardens of the Beauregard–Keyes House, leaving a trail that lingered like cheap imitation perfume.

Frankie, trying to mask the foul smell, grabbed a bundle of wood, cut the thread that held it together, and threw it into the fireplace. Reaching into his blazer, he pulled out his cigarette case, lit one, and used the flame to ignite the fire. On the mantel, he noticed a bottle of amber and clove oil, which he quickly uncorked. The moment he poured some onto the wood, the flames roared—wild, hungry—as if suffocating beneath the weight of the old, corrupted air.

The four witches felt insulted.

“Are you suggesting that we stink?” one hissed.

“No, signoras,” Frankie replied, forcing composure. “It’s just that I’m under the weather—and this house is cold.”

But in truth, the stench was so revolting that it took every ounce of willpower not to vomit.

The oldest of the witches eyed him from head to toe, her yellowed pupils fixated on his broad chest and strong arms.

“You are quite the handsome fella,” she crooned. “We would like to have you around.”

“Signoras, I’m already booked with errands that il mio padre has given me. I can’t take any more contracts. Hope you understand.”

“I would be more interested in keeping a sight for sore eyes,” the eldest teased coyly, her tone cracked with age yet desperate, “a little candy for the gaze.”

“Signora, I’m flattered,” Frankie replied, his jaw tightening, “but I cannot accommodate such a request.”

Carollo, standing in the corner, was amused by the exchange. In that moment, he realized he had found a weakness—one he could leverage to control the quartet.

“Signoras mie,” Carollo began, voice slick and melodic, “the wheel is turning, the machines are moving. The city is yours to tax, to free from the oppressive rule of the Mother’s Law.”

The Hexacroutines responded, their voices screeching like rusted metal caught beneath the tires of a Ford Model T.

“We know the stakes, Carollo. The wheel of sin turns, and each turn brings a new cycle. The first cycle begins with birth; the second awakens when desire is known. The third cycle punishes us for what we crave but never receive. The fourth manifests as our journey toward liberation from suffering, leading to the fifth—the cycle of wisdom, where we decide if we have learned. The sixth is riddled with dichotomies, where we must unite with ourselves. The seventh… is the void. Liberation.”

Their voices merged into one unified hiss.

“Your offering is accepted—but balance was broken the night the swans danced the ballet.”

A second voice followed—seductive, serpentine, and raspy.

“The karmic mother is plotting which cycle the wheel will stop upon, and what consequences it will bring. A false siren bleeds envy, while the true one carries the law written in her blood and lineage.”

Those words made Frankie’s pulse quicken. He knew they were speaking of her—his Mylène, the woman he would set the world on fire for.

Lurida, the Filthy Matriarch, oldest among the witches—the same one who had flirted with him—rose to her full height. Her sagging flesh glistened like wet parchment, her spine long and bent as if carved by suffering. Upon her head sat a crown of rotted thorns, a cloud of flies swirling around her like jewels of decay.

“She who clutches power with rotting fingers mistakes decay for dominion,” a voice echoed from the crate, as though the darkness itself bore witness to her sins.

Beside her stood Grubelle Noira, pale as milk, her grease-slick curls framing eyes that mimicked innocence. Her voice dripped with honey and venom in equal measure.

“Mercy,” she sighed, exhaling as her gaze lingered on Frankie’s face, pushing her bosom forward to catch his eye, “is the prettiest and most valuable lie a woman can sell to get what she wants.”

Her words made Smelegra Grossa, the long-haired golden witch, burst into hysterical sobs—fake tears streaming down her cheeks. The entire scene was grotesquely comical, a theatrical parody of Lady Macbeth mid-breakdown.

Finally came Grottina Fangula, whose mouth was filled with chainsaw-like teeth that ground with every word she uttered. Her gossip was venomous, her voice a plague that devoured truth itself.

Together, the four bowed before Carollo, their voices blending into a hideous symphony of devotion—sounding like the gates of hell cracking open, the rapture descending upon the room.

“All hail the Council of the Lords of Crown and Sin,” they shrieked. “The Gospel made flesh!”

And thus, in that night of foul perfume and burning clove, began The Gospel of the Unholy Seven.

🕯️ Felt the pull? Let her haunt someone new.

If this chapter moved you, pass it on.
One soul. One shadow. One whisper.
Mylène remembers the ones who speak her name.

📜 Take the Legend Further

📋 Copy Chapter Link 📩 Send to a Friend 🧝‍♀️ Join the Legend

#VelvetMirror #NirvanaNoir #MyleneLives