Seven Devils - Florence + The Machine
— 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥 𝙢𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙬.
I was born in New Orleans, where the air hums with secrets and the streets are paved with stories. My mother used to say that the city wasn’t just alive—it was listening. I believed her once. Back when my world was bright, and my dreams were bigger than my fears.
I had plans—so many plans. Art school in Savannah. Exhibitions in Paris. A life where my paintings could make people feel something real. I used to believe that I was meant for more, that I could leave my mark on the world with color and canvas. But life has a cruel way of unraveling dreams.
I was twenty-one when my body betrayed me. It started with tremors in my fingers, ruining delicate brushstrokes I once painted effortlessly. The dizziness came next, like the world had tilted just slightly off its axis. Then weakness in my legs, fatigue that settled in my bones like a lead weight. At first, I thought it was nothing—too much caffeine, not enough sleep. But the symptoms lingered, worsened, until my reflection became a stranger’s face.
When the doctors finally gave it a name, it sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else. A rare, degenerative neurological disorder. No cure. No treatment that would save me. Just a handful of years before my body withered, before I became trapped inside myself, unable to move, to speak, to be anything but a shadow of who I used to be.
I remember sitting in the cold, sterile office, my mother’s hand gripping mine so tightly it hurt. My father asked all the logical questions—prognosis, experimental trials, what little hope the doctors could give. My mother just wept. I stayed silent, because what was there to say?
The months that followed blurred into endless hospital visits and hushed conversations that stopped whenever I walked into a room. My friends tried, at first. They visited with forced smiles and whispered reassurances, but pity is a heavy thing to carry. One by one, they drifted away, leaving me alone with the slow decay of my body.
It happened on a humid afternoon in the French Quarter. I had wandered from my usual path, letting the city pull me wherever it wanted. The air was thick with the scent of rain and spices, the streets buzzing with life in a way I could no longer touch. That’s when I saw the shop—a small, tucked-away place with a faded wooden sign that read: Maman Solène’s Remedies & Readings.
Something about it called to me. Maybe it was the flickering candlelight inside, or the heavy feeling in my chest that told me I was supposed to be here. I stepped through the door, and the scent of sage and incense wrapped around me like a whisper.
Maman Solène was older, her dark skin lined with the wisdom of years, her eyes sharp and knowing. She sat behind a low wooden table, a deck of cards spread before her. When she looked at me, it wasn’t with pity, but with understanding.
“You’re looking for something,” she said, her voice like the rustling of old pages.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
That was the first of many visits.
Over the weeks that followed, I came back to her again and again, drawn to the way she spoke of the unseen world. She taught me about the Loa, the spirits who walked the line between the divine and the mortal, the ones who could tip the scales of fate if you knew how to ask. She spoke of the crossroads—a place where deals could be struck, where those desperate enough could barter with forces far older and far more dangerous than they understood.
At first, I thought she was trying to scare me. Maybe she was.
“Magic isn’t a shortcut,” she warned one evening as she placed a bundle of dried herbs into my hands. “It’s a path. And every step changes you.”
But I wasn’t afraid of change. I was afraid of dying.
And so, one stormy November night, I left my house and walked into the darkness, following the pull of something I couldn’t explain. I knew where to go—an old, forgotten crossroads just outside the city, a place where the air always felt heavier, where people swore they saw shadows that moved on their own.
I carried my offerings: a bottle of dark rum, three silver coins, and a black candle I had carved with symbols I barely understood. The rain had started to fall in slow, heavy drops, soaking through my clothes as I knelt at the center of the crossroads.
My hands trembled as I lit the candle. “Kalfou,” I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the wind. “I call on you.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Just the sound of my own breathing, the rustling of trees. I thought, for a terrifying second, that I had failed. That I would leave this place with nothing but wet clothes and shattered hope.
The rain stopped mid-fall. The wind stilled. And suddenly, he was there.
He didn’t appear with thunder or fire, no monstrous form like the devils in old stories. No, he was beautiful, and somehow that was worse. Tall and poised, his dark skin gleamed like polished onyx, and his sharp eyes glowed with something ancient. He smiled, and the sight of it sent a shiver down my spine.
“You called me,” he said, his voice like velvet over steel. “Do you know what you’ve done, little one?”
I swallowed hard. “I need your help,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’m dying.”
His smile widened. “Yes,” he murmured. “I know.”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist.
I clenched my fists. “I want to live. Please. I’ll do anything.”
His gaze flickered with amusement. He took a step closer, the air around us humming with something unseen. “Anything?” he mused. “Such a dangerous word.”
I hesitated, but what choice did I have?
He sighed, almost as if he was disappointed that I hadn’t asked more questions. Then he reached out, a single fingertip tracing the curve of my cheek. His touch was ice and fire all at once, and I felt something shift inside me, something twisting and reshaping itself in ways I couldn’t understand.
“You’ll live,” he murmured. “But not as you were.”
Pain struck like lightning. My body burned, every nerve alight with something unnatural. I collapsed to the ground, screaming, my vision flashing between darkness and stars.
When it was over, I lay gasping in the dirt, my limbs trembling. My body felt different. Stronger. Whole. But when I reached for the nape of my neck, my fingers brushed something warm—a mark, shaped like a butterfly.
Kalfou crouched beside me, his expression unreadable. “Welcome to your new life,” he said softly. “You’re mine now, little doll.”
He vanished before I could ask what he meant.
I'd soon find out... I was alive. But I had never been more trapped. For when he called, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦... I was a part of him now. His 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘺.
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