Not that the view was any treat- Quite the contrary. When Geffard perished in a ball of fire, Dunn turned to his companion on the aquarium rooftop. "Shit!" he said.
Cankerheart grinned, revealing yellow, pointed teeth. As was the case with most Black Spiral Dancers—Dunn was a rare exception who could easily mingle with humans without attracting notice each of the sorcerer's five forms was deformed to some degree. In addition to.its dental abnormalities, his man shape sported pointed ears, black nails, and orange eyes with diamond-shaped pupils. "Does it pain you to see our noble ally fall?" he cooed, all false solicitude. "Such a tender sentiment! A Dancer shouldn't feel loyalty to anyone Or anything except the Wyrm and the Tribe as a whole. And a Ragabash, to play his appointed part; must make himself particularly callous and treacherous."
Dunn grimaced. Cankerheart might be a hotshot hexer, but as far as the rogue FBI agent was concerned, he was also a bore and a condescending fool. "I don't give a rat's aSs about Geffard," he said.
Cankerheart smirked. "Or your friend with the computers either?"
To his surprise, Dunn had felt a slight regret that Chester evidently hadn't survived the battle on Barracks Street. God knew why, the prissy, nagging ghost had always gotten on his nerves. In any caSS, he; knew better than to reveal such a sentiment to the warlock, or any other Dancer for that matter. "Or him either. It's the principle of the thing." He waved his hand at the scene below the rampart. The African super- ghost, or whatever the hell it had been, had vanished, taking its patch of unnatural darkness with it, but the assembled spooks were still On their knees. Dunn had a hunch that snotty Queen Marie might keep them there a good long time before allowing, them to rise. "The enemy won. I know that Geffard himself warned us off, and I understand why. But still, if the rest of us conspirators had jumped in the thick of this, it might have worked out better than it has."
"Or perhaps we would have died along with Geffard. There aren't many of our Spectre friends in New Orleans. I seem to be the only Dancer wizard left in the city| and with the portal in the Barracks Street house lost to us, I couldn't have transported Banes into the Underworld quickly: enough to make a difference. And few of the other Dancers can reach through the Surface :to attack a ghost at all."
Dunn glumly had to admit that all that was true. He himself was cut off from events in what Les Invisibles called the Mirrorlands. It infuriated him to watch Bellamy bopping around the park and know there was no way of getting at him. What a shitty world, where you couldn't rid yourself of a pest even by electrocuting him and ripping the corpse to shreds. "I should at least kill Sebastian," he said, "if only so we can say we got a lick in. It's a hell of a long shot for a pistol, but I can make it." He reached inside his suede.jacket for his Desert Eagle.
"Wraiths have senses as keen as ours," said Cankerheart. "They'd discern where the shot originated, and come after us."
"And you're afraid that your hoodoo is no match for theirs?"
The shaman scowled. "Of course not, but there are hundreds of them down there. I'd have to contend with the Queen and Titus both, plus whatever powers the others might bring to bear. For all we know, the god is still lurking about, just beyond the limits of my perception. And through it all, you'd be no help at all."
No, thought Dunn wistfully, but he was willing to bet he could do a first-rate job of slipping away while Cankerheart drew the enemy's fire.. "But doesn't it bother you to see those bastards win?"
"Why should it?I'm not the one they've made a fool of, time after time." Dunn's muscles ached. His body wanted to grow into wolfman or dire-wolf form, and gut this impudent ass who dared to mock him. "Besides which, it doesn't matter who rules New Orleans."
Dunn struggled to quash his anger, and the pains in his flesh subsided. "And you accuse me of not toeing the Dancer party line. To hear the Philodoxes tell it, no battle, no chance to destroy, is unimportant."
"In the greater scheme of things, this one is. We needed Les Invisibles to teach our Spectre partners to possess the living. Subsequently we had to give Geffard the help we'd promised, or he might have told someone what he knew about our intentions. But since the fool had little else to offer us, we're well rid of him and our obligations to him."
"We'd be a lot farther ahead of the game if we were rid of Bellamy, the girl, and Sebastian," said Dunn. "They aren't going to quit sticking their noses in our business, you know."
"Who cares? Let them poke around New Orleans to their hearts' content. We'll be in Natchez, completing our work."
"I'll bet you they trail us there. One way or another."
Cankerheart cocked his slightly lopsided head. "I think you've lived too long among the humans. You're whining like a querulous pup. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were afraid of Bellamy."
The ache pulsed in Dunn's limbs and shoulders. His skin tingled as fur tried to sprout there. Once again, he resisted the change. "Keep needling me, old man. Keep it up, and see what it gets you. I'm not afraid of that son of a bitch. I'm just sick of his luck. Sick of the way he keeps slipping out of my jaws and popping up again. I want to be done with him."
"You nearly are," said Cankerheart. "We have Natchez firmly under control. If Bellamy and his friends show up there, we can deal with them easily, even before the ritual. And afterwards, well, if you want revenge, that will be ideal. He won't be able to hide behind the Surface then, will he? It will be so thin that you'll be able to reach right in after him, just as our Spectre friends will be able to molest any mortal they please. Though in single combat, I wouldn't put it past him to kick your mangy backside again. But with a few hardy Ahroun warriors backing you up, you can finally send him to what the ghosts call Oblivion and regain what passes for your honor."
Dunn grinned. For some reason, Cankerheart's mockery had gone from annoying to amusing. Perhaps it was because the FBI mole liked the notion of Bellamy being trapped on the same level of reality with him. Then Dunn could hunt him at his leisure, toy with him, maim him a bit and set him free to run again. "Okay, I admit, that does sound like a plan. Maybe while I square off against Frank, you can go one on one with Sebastian. It would be a hoot to watch a decrepit old witch doctor like you try to throw down on a genuine Awakened human mage."
"The hermaphrodite may have been awakened, as you put it," said Cankerheart, "but it hasn't been schooled in the proper uses of its power. When the time comes, I'll crush it like a gnat." He peeked over the rampart again, and Dunn followed suit.
Below, the wraiths were finally vacating the park, in what seemed to be a victory procession. Someone began to chant in what the werewolf spy assumed to be an African language, and over the course of the next few seconds, nearly everyone joined in. Dead or alive, the hairless apes loved to babble.
"Guess the show's over," said Dunn. "We'll give the ghosts a couple minutes to clear completely out, then take off ourselves."
Killing time, he took out his pistol and sighted in on Sebastian, Astarte, and especially Bellamy, over and over again. "Pow," he whispered. "Pow. Pow. Pow."
As usual, the attack, if that was the proper term for it, began as a simple act of perception. Manuel Gayoso de Lemos, Anacreon in the service of the Smiling Lord, one ofthe three Governors of Natchez and the surrounding territory, and commander of the current crusade against the Heretics, looked at the brass, triple-branched candelabrum and recognized it for the fragile piece of junk it was. With his newfound strength, he could twist it apart with his bare hands.
His desk and other pieces of office furniture were just as flimsy. A good kick or two would smash them to kindling. Nor could the puny, sluggish Legionnaire bodyguards in the corners withstand him should he choose to assail them, their cutlasses and Skorpion Model 61s notwithstanding. He could rend them to tatters of ectoplasm in the blink of an eye.
Awareness swiftly gave rise to the desire to act. To the conviction that items so worthless and contemptible, non-sentient or otherwise, should be destroyed. The urge was like a nagging itch, one w
hich, at this moment, he couldn't scratch. How glorious it would be when he was finally the sole and absolute ruler of Natchez, and could indulge every whim, no matter how outrageous, the instant it entered his mind.
Another sentry stepped into the gloomy office. "The dwarf is here to see you, milord," he said. "Along with some vagrant girl from down in the Necropolis."
Gayoso grimaced. It was too bad it wasn't Prudence who'd turned up. Using her Pardoner's Arcanos, the Doppelganger had had a fair measure of success in helping him control the desires he'd developed since his transformation. As a general rule, he could at least defer their satisfaction until it was safe to let himself go. He wondered what Valentine wanted, and promised himself he'd give the little man a beating if it wasn't important. "Show them in," he said.
The Legionnaire stepped aside. Valentine shuffled into the room, followed by a small woman in bellbottoms, love beads, and a hand-tooled leather headband decorated with peace signs. At the sight of her, Gayoso felt his free-floating hatred wax a notch stronger. He hadn't cared for the Quick hippies of the 1960s, and as a rule, he liked their ghosts even less. Most of them flouted the authority of the Hierarchy whenever they could get away with it. Of course, Gayoso was now in the process of flouting it himself, but that bit of irony failed to blunt his resentment of a group that had proved an irritant for the past three decades.
"Good evening, milord," said Valentine. "This is Belinda Talley. She works in Under-the-Hill."
I'll bet she does, the Anacreon thought. As a slut of one sort or another. Perhaps Valentine had become infatuated with her. After all, she wasn't too much taller than he was. He wondered how the dwarf would react if his master grabbed the bitch, tore her clothes off, raped her atop his desk, and then drove his rapier between her legs, up through her torso, and out her mouth, right here and now. His lips tried to twist into a leer, and he did his best to push the fantasy from his mind. "What do you want?" he asked.
When Bellamy found Astarte, she was restlessly prowling the corridors of Marie's Haunt, inspecting the grimy portraits and landscapes on the wall by the light of a stubby white candle. The sharp scent of the smoke stung his hypersensitive nose. Unbeknownst to Astarte, several abambo had gathered around her to gawk at the Quick girl who'd had the audacity to impersonate the Queen.
"Hi," said Bellamy to the other ghosts. "Gould you guys give us some space? I want to talk to her, and I'd really appreciate a little privacy."
A lanky warrior in a zebra-striped cape, his cheeks and forehead ridged with ritual scars, nodded respectfully. "Sure, Agent Bellamy. No problem." He and the others moved on down the gloomy hallway. Bellamy wondered if they'd actually stay gone. Many abambo were shameless when it came, to spying on events on the warm side of the Shroud. They seemed to regard all of mortal life as nothing more than a show provided for their entertainment.
But there was little Bellamy could do about it if they did decide to pry. He wouldn't even know they were watching. So he went ahead and jumped the Shroud, noticing with satisfaction just how easy the crossing had become, at least here in the Haunt where the barrier between the worlds was thin. His Proctor powers were growing. "Hi," he said.
Astarte turned and threw herself into his arms. Her leather jacket creaking in his embrace, they kissed until, finally, shivering, she drew away from him. "It's about time you showed up," she said. "I'm bored out of my mind. There's nobody to talk to except the Arcanists, and they don't want to. They're too busy trying to translate the notebook."
"I'm sorry," Bellamy said. "I've been busy too, helping Antoine and Titus interrogate Geffard's lieutenants. Unfortunately, none of them seems to know any more about the overall conspiracy than we'd figured out already. Wouldn't you know it, they claim that Chester was the only one who did. We've also been hunting out hunting for werewolves, or suspicious Pardoners who might be Sinkinda in disguise, but we didn't find any. Either they're lying low or they've pulled out of New Orleans altogether."
"To Lafayette? That's supposed to be where the werewolves came from in the first place."
The FBI agent shrugged. "Maybe. It seems plausible, but my intuition tells me different. Lafayette is too far from the Mississippi. Most of the Atheist murders occurred in towns along the banks. So have most of the other atrocities. I think whatever the conspirators are planning next will happen in that corridor as well."
"Makes sense," said Astarte, hugging him again. "How long can you stay with me?"
"A while," he replied. "I seem to have a lot of psychic strength tonight. I feel the Underworld trying to tug me back, but I always feel that. It isn't pulling hard yet. I'm not straining to anchor myself in place."
"But probably not for more than an hour? Maybe even less?"
He sighed. "Well, yes."
"In that case, it would be better to have Titus put me to sleep and yank me over into your dimension."
Bellamy hesitated. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
Astarte cocked her head. "Of course it is. We can be together longer. You won't have to worry about keeping your brain clenched, or whatever it is you do to hold yourself here, and I won't freeze my ass off when we touch."
"I know, but I hate to drag you over here where everything's dangerous and ugly."
She snorted. "Like I haven't run into any danger on this side of the wall."
"I know, but—"
"And it wasn't ugly to me. Everything was magick. I had magick, at least sort of, when I was using the Queen's weapons."
Bellamy scowled. "Did the spirit world seem all that wonderful when Geffard was about to burn your eyes out?"
"I admit, that was a little scary. But I got out of it, so what the hell. Anyway, so what if he'd burned them out, as long as he didn't kill me? I wouldn't have stayed blind, would I?"
"I don't know. Even Titus isn't sure. A real ibambo wouldn't, but maybe you would, even after your spirit returned to your body. You might have wound up with a lifelong case of hysterical blindness."
"A pack of rabid guinea pigs might attack me the next time I walk down the street, but I'm not going to waste time worrying about it."
Bellamy grimaced at her flippancy. "What really concerns me is that when you were out of your body, you didn't worry about anything. You were in danger every moment, but it never even fazed you."
"Ever since we've been toget her, you've been telling me I'm reckless. Poor Marilyn said the same thing. So if I was taking chances, that wasn't anything new."
"The difference is that when you were over here, you took your recklessness to a whole new level. You acted like you were high, or drunk, or a little crazy."
"Because I was excited. It was the peak experience of my life."
"I think there's more to it than that. I think the living don't belong in the land of the dead."
"You might just as well say that ghosts shouldn't jump the Shroud and visit the living. Because if they were meant to do it, it wouldn't be so hard for them. If we start worrying about the way things are supposed to be, we're going to lose each other. And I don't want that."
Bellamy hugged her tight. "Neither do 1.I think I'd fall right into this Oblivion the other Restless talk about. But we have to find another way."
She held him as tightly, as lovingly, as he was holding her, but her voice held its familiar edge. "How do you know there is another way? And even if there is, how come you get to decide what I'm going to do?"
"Well, for one thing, I doubt Titus will bring you across if I ask him not to."
She squirmed from his embrace and stepped back to glare at him. "That is so fucking typical. You always have to be the big cop boss of everything, don't you?
Well—'
Bellamy glimpsed motion at the corner of his eye. He pivoted, his hand shifting reflexively toward his pistol. But it was only Titus, materializing on the bright side of the Shroud. His wrinkled face crimson on the left and blue on the right, the old man looked a little uncomfortable.
"Forgive me for intruding,"
he said. "But the Arcanists have deciphered a part of the notebook. I thought you'd want to come and hear Marilyn explain what they've discovered."
"Yeah," Bellamy said, "I guess we'd better." Titus turned and headed back down the hall. The younger ghost and Astarte fell in behind him.
The mortal girl took Bellamy's hand. "Our conversation isn't over," she murmured.
Marie's followers had installed the Arcanists in the old mansion's cluttered library, then illuminated the place with an assortment of candles and kerosene lanterns, though they'd hadn't bothered to sweep away the sheets of filthy cobweb. The air smelled of dust, old paper, tobacco, and Marilyn's blood. Evidently her bandaged wounds were still bleeding at least a bit. The transsexual sat slumped in her wheelchair beside a large globe, her legs and torso swaddled in blankets, the notebook resting in her lap beneath her mangled hand.
Bellamy noticed that neither the very pregnant Joan Crosby, chain-smoking Alan Fong in his garish Hawaiian shirt and Yankees baseball cap, nor any of the other surviving Arcanists had elected to sit particularly close to Marilyn. Perhaps her injuries repelled them, although that didn't seem likely. Surely the occultists had seen their share: of carnage in the course of their investigations into the supernatural. Maybe they were in awe of the colleague who'd moved beyond them. Who'd become a supernatural being in her own right. Or maybe they were jealous of Marilyn's newfound magick, despite the grisly price she'd had to pay for it.
When, still unaccustomed to the presence of the dead, they saw Titus and Bellamy, the Arcanists abruptly fell silent. Astarte scurried to Marilyn's side. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
Half of Marilyn's mouth was visible through her facial bandages, enough to show her smile. "I'm fine, dear. You have to stop clucking over me like a mother hen. Guilty or not—and you shouldn't be—the role doesn't suit a truculent little smartass like you."
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