When he finished, the Queen said, "You've walked a dark path and made some strange discoveries. But I don't understand how they fit together."
"I don't either," Bellamy said. "But they must, because there are two threads that run through everything. The attacks on priests and shrines, and the werewolves."
"Who turn out to be the guys sending those nasty new spirits against us," Antoine said. "By the way, what are those things, Titus? Now that you've seen 'em yourself, I'll bet you know."
The old man grimaced. "Not precisely. But I can tell you that our Underworld— the Shadowlands, the Ocean, the Lost Kingdoms, Stygia, and all the rest of it—is only a part of a greater metaphysical domain. Creatures we abambo rarely encounter, demons and elementals, inhabit the other levels. Quick sorcerers know how to conjure such entities into the mortal sphere. Evidently the werewolves have discovered how to inflict them on us."
Antoine nodded, mulling it over, his toothy snout bobbing up and down. "You don't suppose that three-armed mutt Frank killed was the only one who knew how to open the door, do you?"
Titus smiled sardonically. "What a pleasant thought. But I certainly wouldn't count on it."
"And so," said the Queen, "in all likelihood, the attacks will continue." She looked at Bellamy. "I'm a hard woman. I've had to be, to climb from slavery to a throne and hold it this long. What I take, I keep. If I gave you, a lowly Lemure, the liberty you want, treated you like a counselor, a chieftain, an ally, people would say I'd gone soft. It would erode my authority still further. Particularly since you're white."
His mouth tightening, Bellamy struggled to swallow his irritation at the racism. It was obnoxious, but irrelevant to the discussion. "I just want an understanding between you and me, Your Majesty. We don't have to advertise it."
"You'd be surprised how difficult it is to keep secrets in this place," said Marie ruefully. "I suppose it's one more sign of the decay of my rule. But never mind that. If you want to be my strategist, Mr. Bellamy, what is your advice?"
"For one thing," Bellamy said, "you have to help me locate Astarte and the Arcanists. I'm sure Dunn and his friends are hunting them too, to finish them off. We've got to find them first."
The Queen sighed as if he'd disappointed her. "Waste precious manpower searching for a band of fugitive mortals. I'm sure you'd like to see your lover protected, but that won't help me win the war."
"Yes, it will," Bellamy said. "I told you about the notebook. Titus sent somebody to retrieve it. We've got it now, but he can't read it, either. Maybe the Arcanists can."
"And perhaps they can't," said Marie. "Or perhaps it doesn't contain any pertinent information."
Bellamy grimaced. "We're short on clues, Your Majesty. We have to make the most of what we do have, hoping it will lead us to the answers."
"I suppose," said the Queen. "Still, to divert warriors to search the city when our Haunts are under assault.. .but perhaps we can spare a few. What else do you propose?"
"Attack!" Antoine rasped. "We're never going to win unless we go on the offensive."
"That may be," said Marie, "but first we'd have to locate the rest of the werewolves."
"Screw the werewolves!" the gator said. "They're working for Geffard. Destroy him and they'll leave us alone."
Marie shook her head. "We don't know they're in league with Geffard. We merely suspect it."
"According to Titus and Antoine," said Bellamy, "the hostile spirits always menace your strongholds and never those of Les Invisibles. That's suggestive to say the least."
"What's more, the devils strike at specific targets," Titus said. "A certain prized fetish, or one particular priest. Granted, the werewolf sorcerers have some ability to peer into the Underworld. Still, the accuracy of their operations indicates they have someone feeding them intelligence from our side of the Shroud."
"But all that's simply conjecture," said Marie. "I can't act without proof."
"Why not?" Antoine demanded. "You're the Queen. You can do whatever you want."
"Once, perhaps," she replied. "Not anymore. The people would rise if they thought I'd acted unjustly. Despite all the pomp and ritual, they don't hold me in awe as they once did. Nor do I dare move against the enemy without a better understanding of the resources at his disposal. Not when he's been winning all the battles." She wearily rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, and as she did, a band of darkness flowed upward from her feet to the top of her head, like dusky pigment streaming beneath her skin.
Bellamy stared in horror, expecting her to vanish into the Void. She didn't. Evidently she wasn't quite ready to give up her hold on existence. But it was obvious that fear and despair were eating away at her like a cancer, just as they were preventing her from striking back at Geffard.
The FBI agent glanced at his companions. Titus shook his head. Obviously the hoodoo man had observed the wave of shadow also, but didn't want Bellamy to mention it. Perhaps he thought that pointing it out would plunge Marie even deeper into her funk.
How much longer, Bellamy wondered, before she just melts away? A week? An hour? He had no reason to love the woman, but he couldn't help pitying her. Besides, if the Atheist conspiracy wanted her destroyed, that was reason enough to help her.
"If you had proof and solid information," he asked, "then would you act?" It was obvious that she had to break through her paralysis of doubt and confront her enemies. Nothing else could save her.
Realizing that he'd impugned her courage, she frowned with at least a measure of her accustomed hauteur. "Of course."
"Then I'll get it for you," Bellamy said. "By going undercover in Geffard's operation. He has his own corps of soldiers and flunkies, right? And since I have this natural talent for jumping across the Shroud, he ought to be glad to add me to the payroll."
"Maybe," Antoine said. "But I don't know if this is a good idea, warmblood."
"I hope you aren't going to tell me again that a poor little Lemure like me couldn't survive on the mean streets of the Necropolis," said Bellamy impatiently. "I handled myself okay when we rescued Titus."
"I admit," the alligator said, "you're tough. But even so, you're going to run into situations that'll surprise you."
"That always happens when you go undercover," Bellamy said. "You just have to stay cool and bluff your way through."
"But that guy Chester will recognize you," Antoine said.
"Not if one of your flesh sculptors changes my face," Bellamy said. "He can turn my skin black while he's at it. No one will expect a newly dead white man to do that, and I'm guessing that it'll make it easier to ingratiate myself with Les Invisibles."
"It could work," said Titus, nodding thoughtfully. "No Masquer can change your deathmarks, but I'm somewhat familiar with this Chester, and he can't have seen them. His talents run in a different direction. Unfortunately, it's still conceivable that if someone with psychic abilities chose to study you, he could sense that you weren't what you claimed to be."
"I'll risk it," Bellamy said. He gazed up at the woman on the ivory throne. "What do you think, Your Majesty?"
"If I could see the face of my enemy," said Marie, "if I could know what forces he commands and what he intends, perhaps I could finally discern a way to save myself.
Ac least it's a chance. So yes, do it."
"We'll begin immediately," said Titus. He salaamed, Bellamy followed suit, and Antoine inclined his head. Then they turned and retreated from the throne.
"You surprised me," the alligator murmured. "I was sure you'd want to comb the city for your girlfriend."
"I do," Bellamy said. "I want it more than anything in the world. But this job has to be done, and as a trained detective, I'm best suited to do it, especially since the bad guys won't be expecting me. The last time Chester saw me, I was being clubbed unconscious and dragged off into slavery.
"And since I am going, I'm counting on you guys. Don't let Marie sit around and brood. Make sure she sends out search parties. Find Astarte."
"We'll do our best," said Antoine. "But New Orleans is a big city."
TWENTY-ONE
When he reached the river-front park at the end of Canal Street, Bellamy stopped to marvel. It was clearly the same place he'd visited with Astarte just a few days ago, yet it seemed utterly transformed. Thanks to the distortions of the Shroud, the two- story facade of the Aquarium of the Americas appeared to be crumbling into ruin. Nihil cracks seethed and glittered in the brick walkways. The grass was sparse and brown, the oaks twisted and withered. The wilting roses smelled of decay, the stench mingling with the sharp reeks of oil and acid rising from the Mississippi. It was as if he'd returned to the site after some terrible disaster.
And indeed he had. Except that the disaster hadn't happened to the park but to him. Dunn had ripped away his life.
A swell of grief rose up inside him. Scowling, he quashed it as best he could. He might be dead, but at least he still existed. And somehow he was going to smash the Atheist conspiracy and reunite himself with Astarte.
When he had himself under control, he strode on through the darkness. Cold, green barrow-flame torches marked the way toward a structure so bedizened with multicolored lights that it resembled a Christmas tree. The sight was sufficiently dazzling that he'd nearly reached the water's edge before he began to determine the structure supporting the lamps.
Geffard had docked his steamboat the Twisted Mirror just a few yards away from the Cajun Queen, as if to invite comparisons with the Skinlands vessel, and why not? His sidewheeler was longer and broader, and its twin smokestacks towered higher. A carved skull face grinned between them. This, like the rest of the macabre, rococo gingerbread—-tangles of bones and serpents, capering gargoyles—covering virtually the entire exterior of the boat, was black. A Strauss waltz sounded from the decks. Bellamy paused for a moment, taking in the spectacle, and then headed for the gangplank.
Two hulking, bare-chested guards armed with machetes stood at the top of the movable bridge. They didn't challenge him, nor had he expected them to. The Twisted Mirror was open to all, a floating pleasure palace extending lavish hospitality to every free ghost in New Orleans. Which likely meant that Geffard conducted any illicit business elsewhere. Still, it was a place to make contact.
"Is the loa here this evening?" Bellamy asked.
"Last time I looked," said the sentry on the right, "he was in his cabin. But he'll come down eventually. He always does."
"Thanks," the FBI agent said, stepping aboard. He sauntered down the deck, through a set of double doors, and into the lounge.
The decor in the expansive central cabin reflected a sort of split personality. Most of the space was given over to the kind of furnishings which had graced authentic antebellum steamboats: rich carpeting, crystal chandeliers, and a mirrored bar, where Sandmen dispensed hallucinatory intoxicants along with what appeared to be the occasional glass of genuine liquid. Gamblers wagered at poker, faro, and roulette, dancers waltzed, and the twenty-piece orchestra played atop its platform. Except for the grotesque aspect of the gingerbread and many of the oil paintings, Samuel Clemens would have felt right at home in such surroundings.
But the far end of the chamber was different. An abstract design of circles and straight lines, drawn in some sort of yellow powder, decorated a section of bare floor. Behind it was a long, low altar covered with a white tablecloth, and atop that reposed a carved wooden serpent on a pole, crucifixes, polished stones, necklaces strung with beads and snake vertebrae, earthen jugs, bottles of amber rum, candles, wicks burning in coconut shells filled with oil, skulls, small packets of cloth, a pair of crossed sabers, an egg, and cigars. To the left of the altar were three drums of different heights and materials not unlike the ones in Marie's throne room, while to the right was a stool. Two more sentries guarded the display. Evidently Geffard sometimes converted the salon into a temple, and revelry gave way to the worship of Les Mysteres.
The waltz swirled to an end, and the dancers clapped. The conductor, a small ibambo with a magnificent, flowing mane of silvery hair—Bellamy wondered if he'd paid a flesh sculptor to create it for him, so as to look like the popular image of a maestro—inclined his head, acknowledging the applause, and lifted his baton once more. But then, instead of giving the downbeat, he pivoted toward a door in the right-hand wall. Others looked in the same direction, and Bellamy peered along with them.
A tall, slender, youthful-looking wraith sauntered into the cabin. From the description he'd been given, Bellamy recognized him as Geffard. The rebel leader wore a blue uniform with gold piping and braid which the FBI agent assumed to be a copy of an authentic Mississippi riverboat captain's outfit. Somehow it looked odd with his plaited dreadlocks.
His white grin dazzling in his dark face, Geffard looked up at the conductor. "Please, don't stop," he said. "You sound marvelous, and our friends want to dance." Instantly, the orchestra launched into the "Blue Tango." Meanwhile, a score of wraiths clustered about their host. Geffard had a handshake and a clap on the shoulder for each of the men, a kiss on the hand or the cheek for each of the women. Once a ghost with a desperate look in his eyes approached him. Geffard whispered something in the ibambo's ear and pressed what appeared to be a phosphorescent red marble into his hand. The supplicant was so grateful he began to weep.
In short, Geffard looked like a born politician taking an ebullient joy in his ability to work a crowd. Pushing his way forward through the press, Bellamy reflected on the contrast to the Queen, isolated and morose on her seat of ivory.
Finally he got near enough to make himself heard. Up close, the loa smelled pleasantly of cologne. "Mr. Geffard?"
Other wraiths glanced at him curiously. Geffard lifted an eyebrow. "Generally, people call me Doctor Geffard," he said coldly. "Or Pere. Or Captain." Abruptly he smiled, revealing that he hadn't really taken offense. It had only been a pretense. A joke. "But Mister is fine. And who are you, my friend?"
"My name is John Oliver," Bellamy said.
"I don't believe I've seen you around before."
"You're right," Bellamy said. "I only got to New Orleans a few weeks ago. I'd always wanted to see it." He grimaced. "If I'd known I was going to die here, I wouldn't have been so eager."
"I'm sorry," said Geffard. "But don't despair. Existence in the Mirrorlands can be just as happy as what you've left behind." He waved his hand at the dancers, the gamblers, and the drinkers at the bar. "Look at them. They're enjoying themselves, aren't they?"
"Yeah," said Bellamy, "at the moment, thanks to you. But I've been dead long enough to find out that not everybody has fun all the time. Some people never have any, because there aren't enough toys and goodies to go around. That's why I wanted to talk to you."
"I'm listening."
"In private," Bellamy said.
Geffard shrugged. "All right. It's a nice, balmy night for a stroll along the decks." He waved Bellamy toward the exterior doors. One of the guards by the altar started forward. "No, that's all right, Jacques. I'm sure I won't need a bodyguard." Given that the loa had surely noticed the shortsword hanging at his waist, Bellamy was impressed by the other wraith's self-confidence.
Outside, the river smelled more of silt and water, and less of pollution. Bellamy chalked it up to a shift in the current, or perhaps the vagaries of the Shroud. Out on the black water, vague shapes spangled with points of light glided along. Sometimes the agent could tell which were mortal vessels and which belonged to the dead, sometimes not.
Geffard led him up a narrow staircase to the uppermost deck. "The view is better up here," the loa said, resting his hands on the ornately carved rail and gazing out across the Mississippi. "Now, what's on your mind?"
"I want a job," Bellamy said.
Geffard snorted. "You didn't have to take me away from the party for that. People ask me for that kind of favor all the time."
"I don't mean some kind of scut work," Bellamy said. "When I was alive, I moved contraband. That's why I was in New Orleans,
to swap guns for cocaine. The deal went south—damn crazy Colombians!—and I wound up taking a bullet in the neck. Now I'd like to put my talents to work for you."
"What makes you think I'd be interested in the services of a professional criminal?" asked Geffard.
"People say you want to take over the city. If so, you're going to need soldiers. Guys willing to get their hands dirty."
Geffard extracted two long, thin cigars from the interior of his jacket. Bellamy caught a whiff of pungent tobacco. "I don't imagine you've seen too many of these on this side of the Shroud."
"I hadn't seen any until I looked at the altar downstairs," Bellamy said, "and I wasn't sure if those were real."
"Of course they are," said Geffard. He handed one cigar to Bellamy. "It would be a terrible insult to offer anything less to Les Mysteres. And just between you and me, making such a sacrifice isn't truly a terrible hardship anyway. I gather that you didn't grow up with the mortal version of our faith."
Bellamy shook his head. "I'm from Albany. Not much voudoun there."
Geffard lit his own cheroot, then Bellamy's. Grateful that he'd taken a token puff on a few cigars in his time, to celebrate the successful conclusion of a case or the birth of a colleague's baby—it wouldn't create much of an impression if he coughed and choked—the detective sucked in a little smoke. Cold like the barrow-flame that birthed it, it chilled his mouth and lungs.
"Well," the rebel continued, "we have a closer, fonder relationship with our Quick counterparts than the Morts—the Queen's people and the Stygians—have with theirs. Our living friends and relations welcome us into their bodies. We can possess them without a struggle, whenever we feel nostalgic for the genuine pleasures of the flesh. What's more, our mounts sacrifice to us, just as we make offerings to Les Mysteres, and sometimes, when they perform the ritual properly, the sacrificial object—a magnum of champagne, perhaps, or a pistol, or a box of cigars—passes into the Mirrorlands."
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