Flight of the Crow

by Melanie Thompson

  Bryn swallowed the last of her tea. Its warmth and restorative nature had revived her. “Out! If you have nothing more to add, get out of my house.”

  “Tut, tut, so much wrath and ire in such a beautiful woman. It quite destroys my image of you.” He laughed. “But, I will be gone. I believe you should search for Priest in the witch doctor’s hut of the Negro village currently at the Exposition. Why France saw fit to display human beings in such a degraded and disgusting way is beyond me.”

  “Why would he hide there?”

  “The French made a terrible mistake with the village but outdid themselves for stupidity by bringing an individual from darkest Africa who has strange powers. By his machinations are the storms that have bedeviled the Exposition throughout the summer. His gods are angry and he controls the power of the elements.”

  “Is he evil?”

  Lazarus tapped his fang again as he pondered her question. “He can be and his power is like nothing I’ve seen anywhere else in this world. He’s unique in this way and therefore very dangerous. He’s like nothing you have ever encountered. He does not serve any dark masters. He serves only himself and his people, which makes him an unpredictable and dangerous unknown quantity. Who knows what his true goals are?”

  * * * *

  Draak Priest eyed the primitive witch doctor suspiciously from a dark corner of the hut. Why the French had seen fit to incorporate what was no more than a zoo featuring humans into their Exposition was more than he could understand. They’d made a huge mistake bringing the Bantu village here, and most especially their shaman, Kivunjo. Kivunjo had developed a deep and abiding hatred for all white men. He’d cast spells during what amounted to his family’s incarceration in the village that brought terrible thunder storms to Paris, killing many and destroying structures and homes.

  Kivunjo was dressed in furs; his dark brown, almost black body, covered in ashes making it a ghostly gray. The paint on his face was ochre. Strange swirling tribal tattoos covered his upper body and on his face, ritual scarring puckered his cheeks and forehead. He wore a feathered headdress like a halo around that scarred face creating an apparition frightening enough to scare Priest. And the man possessed amazing powers he garnered from the spirits of his ancestors that were forever with him no matter where he went. Some of these ancestors were dark and evil, some were good. It made Kivunjo terrifying and unpredictable. His motives and methods were purely his own. At times Priest had caught glimpses of these ghostly ancestors and they were no joke.

  Kivunjo had allowed Priest to take refuge in one of the huts to examine him and in exchange for a certain stone Priest had in his possession. Unfortunately, the chunk of cinnabar was back in his flat. No doubt Bryn had it, along with Malenfant’s skull. Priest pondered the skull. He needed it to complete the ritual. If not Malenfant, whose skull could he use who was at that level of infamy? He stared at the witch doctor and tried to think of another body buried in the catacombs he could find in the next few hours. It seemed hopeless.

  The witch doctor crouched in front of Priest and rattled off a string of words. Priest understood about half but that was enough to know the man wanted the cinnabar. Priest signed that he would have it soon and Kivunjo spit on his boots. Priest fought the urge to wipe it off. Kivunjo was powerful and Priest needed to hide here during the day. He would make his move later.

  The witch doctor possessed an abiding curiosity about all things associated with white men. He felt it was necessary for the survival of his people which proved how intelligent he was. Priest understood enough of the Bantu tongue to converse in a rudimentary fashion. The clicks and strange noises made by the Bantu were difficult for Priest to mimic.

  Kivunjo squatted around a small fire in the center of the hut chanting. Purple smoke rose in a thread from its center. The smoke smelled of strange herbs, animal dung and a mysterious metallic odor Priest could not place. When the smoke had formed a cloud of shifting changing gray and purple on the ceiling of the hut, Priest looked away. The cloud included faces and Priest had learned they were the faces of Kivunjo’s ancestors and none of them liked Draak Priest. Kivunjo conversed with the faces in the cloud and turned to stare at Priest out of narrowed, yellow-rimmed eyes.

  The witch doctor rattled off a long string of sounds Priest struggled to translate. “You may stay in hut for rest of this day only but no longer and only if you bring me stone.”

  Priest nodded and used hand signs to show his assent.

  “Bad men are looking for you. You will pay Kivunjo more for your safety by taking two wives and four children back to our homeland.”

  Priest shook his head and signed that he couldn’t do that; it was too far away and the village guarded too closely.

  Kivunjo growled and rattled off more clicks. “Then you pay by giving Kivunjo ten plus ten lion skins and tails and the horn of a rhinoceros.”

  Priest had to think about that. He signed back. “Two of the horns and five skins of the lion.” He knew where he could easily acquire these things from a famous big game hunter living in Paris, but not in the quantity Kivunjo wished.

  Kivunjo tossed something else on the fire and plumes of acrid yellow smoke filled the hut. Priest coughed and thought seriously about finding refuge elsewhere. If only Bryn and her sister were not so powerful. Nothing could get in the way of the ritual he planned to perform that very night, nothing. This was as safe a place as he’d found. No one would think to look for him here. He continued bargaining with the wily shaman while he pondered his future as a young man. These fantasies predominantly featured him ravishing Bryn Sahir and her golden sister with the raging erection of youth.

  The shaman fingered Priest’s cassock and the silver cross dangling from the belt. Priest put up with the rude examination until the old man reached into one of the secret pockets in the garment and removed the dagger of Lazarus. Priest snatched it out of the witch doctor’s hands and frowned. “This is mine.”

  The little native grinned displaying filed teeth. The spate of clicks and grunted words were clear to Priest. Kivunjo would reluctantly take the dagger as payment instead of the lion skins and the cinnabar.

  Priest shook his head and attempted to convince the witch doctor through signs and words that he needed it and would present it to him on the morrow, just as soon as he was finished with it.

  The witch doctor’s yellow eyes followed every movement of the dagger. Priest finally tucked it into his shirt. It would be safe there from the greedy little Bantu. The witch doctor finally rattled off another spate of incomprehensible gibberish, Priest understood some of it, the most important part of which was the witch doctor had agreed to wait until tomorrow to take possession of Lazarus’s dagger. The infernal little man had sensed its great power and wanted it badly enough to forego lion skins, cinnabar and rhino horns.

  Priest smiled. He had no intention of giving Kivunjo the dagger. When the time came for him to depart, he would simply kill Kivunjo, something he longed to do anyway. The witch doctor was a thorn in his side and dangerous.

  Chapter 15

  Arthur Tomlinson had watched the battle between the phoenix and the dragon with awe-stricken eyes. He knew the phoenix was Bryn’s sister and the dragon their nemesis, Draak Priest. No one noticed his presence or saw him hiding among the exhibits in the Galerie. Priest did not see him as he blended among the visitors to the Exposition, but Tomlinson saw the evil priest when he crawled out of a storm drain, brushed off his cassock and ran into the village nègre.

  The Negro Village was one of the most successful exhibits of the Exposition. The Parisians were fascinated by the daily life of the small African natives living behind a waist-high fence made of sticks. The fence kept the visitors out and gave the inhabitants some protection. Tomlinson thought the whole thing was disgraceful. They were people, not animals.

  The grass and mud huts inside the recreated village were roofed with more dried grass, the ground trampled into smooth dirt by the bare feet of the natives. Women co
oked over fires and carried their children on their backs or slung on their chests. The authorities had required the women to cover their naked breasts but several squatted around the fire suckling their babies. Curious visitors stared rudely at the residents of the village. Tomlinson was appalled by the display which aside from the Wild West show was the major attraction of the Exposition.

  He sauntered in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner into the crowd of onlookers and searched for some sign of Priest. The evil man had taken refuge in the village somewhere. He saw a frightening individual emerge from one of the huts. The man’s body was painted a ghostly white. He wore furs and was scarred and tattooed. Tomlinson surmised he was the witch doctor. He carried an air of authority and possessed an aura of power. If Priest was hiding in the village, this would be someone he would have to deal with. Tomlinson backed away from the stick enclosure and headed for home. Bryn needed to know this immediately.

  An hour later Tomlinson sat in Bryn’s morning room sipping refreshing hot tea. Quinn sat on the small sofa beside her. “Did you see where he was hiding?” Quinn asked.

  Tomlinson shook his head. “No, I only saw him hop the fence and disappear inside the enclosure. He’s in there somewhere.”

  “If I do a scrying, he will know of it and see me as well,” Bryn said. “But time is running out. The full moon is tonight. We have to get that dagger before he uses it.”

  “How much longer until Lazarus collects on your bargain?” Quinn asked.

  “Tomorrow night. He must have known about Priest’s plans when he named the day. If Priest completes his ritual, we will never get that dagger.”

  “I have the skull,” Quinn said. “He’ll come for that and we’ll catch him.”

  Bryn rubbed her forehead with her thumb and forefinger. Tomlinson thought she looked run down and worried. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her white skin almost translucent. She’d been burning the candle at both ends trying to save Fenix for far too long.

  “I believe he will come for it, but I’m not waiting,” Bryn said pushing slowly to her feet. “I’m going to the Exposition. If Priest is in that village, I’ll find him.”

  Fenix saw her sister stand up and heard every word that was said from her position on the stairs. Once again, her sister was leaving her out of the plans, ignoring her specific plea to be included.

  Fenix leaped up the stairs and dived into her bed yanking the covers up to her neck. If Bryn stayed true to form, she would come into Fenix’s room, kiss her, tell he some lie to fob her off and then go on the adventure without her. Some things just never changed.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later, a scratching at the door announced Bryn. Fenix, angry beyond sense, turned her back on Bryn and pretended to be asleep. Bryn stood staring down at her for several moments, and then pressed a kiss on her hair and tiptoed out. When she was gone, Fenix leaped out of bed fully dressed, and climbed out the window. She ran along the edge of the roof, jumped into the nearby oak and climbed down. Bryn would either ride or take the carriage. Fenix ran out to the street, hailed a cab and told him to take her to the Exposition.

  She’d seen the village of blackamoors. It was disgusting. How could they treat humans like animals in a zoo? They had thoughts and feelings and were being watched by hundreds as they went about their daily lives. It was wrong.

  She entered the Exposition behind the Galerie des Machines. Her fight with Priest had given her a bird’s-eye view of the place. She knew how to sneak in unnoticed. Once inside, she trotted across the open park areas to the village and stood hidden by the crowds to watch. What she saw filled her with hope. A shadow emerged from one of the huts. This shadow slipped through the native village and vaulted the fence behind the largest of the huts. Fenix thought this big hut might be a gathering place for the community.

  She ran around the edge of the fence and saw a frightening apparition following the shadow. The small black man painted with ash, wearing furs and feathers and carrying a strangely carved staff, followed this shadow and jumped the fence. Fenix was sure the shadow was Draak Priest. No one in the crowds of visitors seemed to be able to see the small black man. He flitted through the milling throngs as though invisible and Fenix followed them both.

  Priest headed for the exit followed closely by the black man Fenix was sure must be the witch doctor. When Priest was on the city streets, he slipped into the shadow of a three-story building and stopped. Fenix found a hiding spot and watched as he changed his appearance. She’d seen him do this before. Filled with memories of many centuries of hating Priest, she easily remembered the form he took. Now a handsome young man wearing a dapper but old-fashioned suit, Priest stopped trying to hide. He hailed a cab, climbed in and disappeared across the Seine.

  The witch doctor did not hesitate. He turned into a cloud of gray smoke and followed. Fenix was left with no choice but to become, once again, the phoenix.

  * * * *

  “I’m going to the Exposition,” Bryn said to Quinn. “Are you coming?”

  Quinn shook his head. “You go. I think Priest will come here to collect the skull. I shall wait for him in the bedroom.”

  Bryn accepted a cloak and her riding whip from Fingle. “Stay if you must, but I believe you are wasting your time.”

  Quinn knew otherwise. Bryn was intuitive and had powers beyond his ability to recognize or understand, but she made mistakes when Fenix was floating in the mixture and this was one of those times. He grabbed her arm. “Don’t go, my love. You’re making a mistake.”

  She shook him off angrily. “Never try to override one of my decisions again. If, as Tomlinson says, Priest is hiding in the Negro Village, he will remain there until dark. I’m going to catch him and get that dagger.”

  “Listen to me, Bryn, you’re making this decision because you fear for your sister. Stop for one minute and think about it. Priest must have this skull. He will come for it and we’ll have both him and the dagger. It makes sense, my darling. You’re letting Fenix draw you out.”

  She rounded on him then, her amethyst eyes flashing. “Stay out of my affairs, Quinn. Just because I love you doesn’t mean I’m going to allow you to dictate to me. I’m going to the Exposition. Fingle, ready the carriage. You will accompany me.”

  Quinn’s brain pounded with pain. Frustration was a sour taste in his mouth and pressure in his stomach and chest. She was making a mistake. Why wouldn’t she listen? He reached out for her one last time. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.”

  She turned her back on his plea. “I know what I’m doing. Let us leave now, Fingle.”

  Quinn watched helplessly as she stormed out the door. Not only had she ignored his advice and common sense, but she was now angry with him. He trudged up the stairs to her room and pulled the skull out of a black velvet bag hidden in the chest at the end of the bed. Priest needed this. He would come for it and probably soon. He laid a loaded sawed-off shotgun on the bed beside him, pulled the book of notes on the rosary killer out of the drawer in the nightstand and settled onto the bed to review them and wait. Priest would come.

  Quinn had been reading for an hour when he felt something. The air in the house had subtly changed. A door had opened or someone had opened a window. He picked up the shotgun, ratcheted a shell into the chamber and held it ready. The door slowly opened and he drew a deep breath and aimed at the door. But it was only Samantha. Looking like nine miles of bad road, the witch stepped into the room.

  She grinned around a swollen jaw when she spotted the shotgun. “I see you’re ready, or at least you think you are.”

  “Best I have,” he answered tersely. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “Where’s Bryn?”

  “She took off on a wild goose chase. She thinks Priest will stay in the Negro Village until dark.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Hell no, I think he’ll come get his skull.” He held up the velvet bag.

  Quinn was holding the bag up, a stupid smile on his face, when the door ble
w into a million slivers of wood. Sam screamed and went down under the weight of the wood and a young man in an old-fashioned black velvet suit with white lace ruffles at his wrist and throat stepped over her. The young man pointed at Sam and she fainted. Quinn now knew this was Priest in some different guise or possibly one of his minions. He lifted the shotgun and fired point blank into the young man’s chest.

  The blast from the gun blew the young man’s chest away, but right in front of Quinn’s horrified eyes, the young man melted into a swirling cloud of blood and smoke and Draak Priest stepped out of it. Quinn lifted the gun to fire the second barrel and the gun exploded in his hands. Quinn screamed and looked down at the bloody stumps that used to be his hands. A sledge-hammer hit blow him in the head and blackness claimed him.

  Chapter 16

  Bryn and Fingle had to wait in a line and pay to get into the Exposition. Once inside, they went straight to the Negro Village. Bryn stopped in front of the exhibit, horrified by the degradation inflicted on these people. She’d spent time in Africa. These Bantu were mighty hunters. She recognized this tribe as belonging to the Bumbusi people who built the great Zimbabwe complex on the Zambezi River. They were an old and great tribe.

  “Stay here and watch for Priest,” she told Fingle. His nose had grown again and was trembling as he scented all the different odors coming from the village.

  “Yes, mum,” he said.

  After casting a glance both ways, Bryn raised her hands and wrapped herself in a cloak of invisibility. She stepped into the compound this way and slipped between huts searching for the witch doctor. She didn’t find him, but she found his hut. It was bigger than the rest of the private huts. She recognized the charm hanging over the entrance and ducked inside into the darkness. A woman squatted on her heels next to a fire feeding it bundles of fragrant grass. She looked up when Bryn entered, though obviously didn’t see her. Bryn raised her hands again and allowed the spell to dissipate. The woman didn’t bat an eye. “Who are you?” she asked in one of the Bantu dialects Bryn understood.