Name: Javier LaBeaux
POB: New Orleans
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 190 lbs
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown
Occupation: Houngan, VooDoo Priest
Owner, Studio 7
VooDoo:
The practice of Voodoo is probably as old as the African continent itself. Sometimes written Voudou, Vodou, or Voudun, the word itself means God Creator or Great Spirit. It has been greatly distorted and misused; human sacrifices, vampires, dripping blood, and devil worship all make the stuff of spooky novels and Hollywood movies. Yet none of these originated with or ever belonged to Voodoo.
Voodoo is a life-affirming practice that encourages its participants to understand better the natural processes of life and their own spiritual natures.
If one looks at the dictionary, Voodoo is likely to be defined as an ancient religion from Africa that involves the cult of Ancestors, of various animistic spirits, and the use of trances to communicate with such spirits. Voodoo did indeed originate in Africa. Today, it is practiced by millions throughout the world, in Africa, the Caribbean, Central, North, and South America, in various forms, often with elements of Catholicism mixed in. However, its main purpose remains, as always, to heal: to heal the individual in relationships within themself, with others, and ultimately with God.
Sierra Nevada, 1865
Javier LaBeaux stood apart from the immediate scramble after the explosion in the tunnel, positioned near a stack of timber as though he had always intended to be there. Dark coat. Hat low over watchful eyes. A cigarillo rested between his fingers, ember steady, smoke curling in thin blue ribbons that barely wavered with the breeze. He had seen Alexander emerge. Had seen him falter. Had seen the flame bloom where light touched cloth. He did not react outwardly. Did not call attention. He simply drew once from the cigarillo and let the smoke drift from his mouth slowly, contemplatively, as though committing the moment to memory. When the dust began to settle and supervisors reasserted control, Javier’s gaze shifted toward the railcar, toward the closed door at its rear. Not curious in the manner of gossip. Curious about the manner of recognition.
Later, Javier stood near a supply wagon, half-shadowed, one shoulder resting lightly against weathered wood. The cigarillo traced a small arc of ember as it lifted, flared bright, then dimmed as he drew from it.
Alexander stopped a few paces away. Close enough for conversation. Not close enough to presume familiarity. “You seem to find me quite interesting.”
Javier exhaled slowly, smoke drifting between them, unhurried, as though time itself bent slightly in his presence. He did not turn fully at first. Just enough that his profile caught what little light there was. A beat passed. Then another. He lifted the cigarillo again, took a measured drag, and let it settle between his fingers as he finally looked at Alexander properly. His gaze flicked, not to the man’s face, but lower to the arm. A small gesture followed. Two fingers, the cigarillo held between them, indicating with casual precision.
“Does it still pain you?”
The silence stretched, taut but not yet hostile. Tent City carried on behind them, laughter rising and falling like surf against canvas, but here in the dark, the air felt thinner. Intentional. Alexander held Javier’s gaze. “Why haven’t you said anything?” A measured pause was given. “Do you plan on doing so?” The questions were calm, but held weight. Some answers could end the night badly for either of them.
Javier didn't bristle. Didn't step back. He regarded Alexander the way a man might regard an unfamiliar current in a river, not with fear, but with respect for what it could do. The cigarillo burned low between his fingers. “It wasn’t my business,” he said at last. His voice was even, touched with an accent that refused to belong entirely to one place. “A man steps into the sun, and it bites him. That’s between the man and the sun.”
1975, New Orleans
Some People Never Listen:
The three stood in the lot outside the club in New Orleans. Javier stood calmly, watching Kale as he continued to bluster and rail at them for... asking him to leave.
"You think I'm afraid of you? Big VooDoo man?" Kale leaned to the side and spat as he backed between the parked cars at the curb for the street.
"I would not do that if I were you," Javier spoke calmly, conversationally, as Alex looked between the two men.
"Oh, why?" Kale continued to backstep as he spoke. "You gonna kick my ass? Cast a..." The next sound was the screech of rubber and a sickening thud as the trash truck slammed into Kale and sent him sailing when he stepped out from between the two vehicles into the street.
"I tried to tell him, but he did not want to listen." Javier looked at Alex.
Alex returned the gaze, one brow rising. "You knew that was going to happen?"
Javier just tapped the side of his head with his index finger before taking another drag from that cigarillo. He then turned and started back toward the club's door. Halfway there, he paused and looked back at Alex, noting the awestruck expression on the man's face. He laughed. "Louie is always late on his run, and speeds through here this time every week."