The Arcanist's eyes narrowed. She seemed about to speak, then lurched around on her deck chair. "Something's happening in the spirit world," she said.
Astarte looked where her friend was peering. Saw nothing but the flat black expanse of the river.
Her blanket sliding off her legs, Marilyn grabbed her crutches and clambered up. Her long coat flapped in the breeze. Unsteadily, looking as if the rocking of the boat might pitch her off her feet at any instant, she hobbled toward the rail. "Tell the pilot to get us closer to the steamboat."
"How's he supposed to do that?" asked Astarte, jumping up from her own seat. "He can't see it. He doesn't even know it exists."
"You help him," Marilyn said. "I know you can't see it either, but estimate."
"Are you going to be all right up here?"
Marilyn dropped her crutches, swayed, and clutched at the rail. "Yes! Go!"
Astarte turned and scrambled down the companionway. She knew she shouldn't resent Marilyn barking orders at her, not when there was obviously an emergency going on. But she couldn't even tell what it was, and despite the alarm speeding her heart and drying her mouth, that blindness made her feel more shut out of Bellamy's world than ever.
TWENTY-FIVE
Lounging on the uppermost deck aft of the wheelhouse, Bellamy turned to look back at the cabin cruiser humming along in the Twisted Mirror's insubstantial wake. With his inhumanly keen vision, he could make out Astarte plainly, even in the darkness. Her pale face, with its black makeup and piercings, wore its usual sullen scowl. The sight brought an intense pang of longing.
Titus laid a final milk-white stroke of color on his right profile, wiped his finger with a handkerchief, opened a second jar of pigment, and began painting the left side of his face blue. The resinous scent of the makeup stung Bellamy's nose, for a moment blocking out the reek of the refinery to starboard. "Does she like you better, now that I've made you white again?" the shaman asked.
"She didn't seem to care about that one way or the other," Bellamy replied. "She just wants to jump back across the Shroud, as often as you'll let her."
Titus grimaced. "Perhaps, on occasion, after things settle down."
"Are they ever going to settle down enough that there won't be Spectres lurking on the other side of the Nihils, and Shadows slithering around inside of each of us abambo, plotting to take control?"
"Sadly, no."
"Then I don't want her here. Particularly not if she's going to float around all wide-eyed and giddy like a kid at the circus. Until we think of a better answer, I'm just going to have to keep building up my Proctor powers, so I can spend more time with her in the land of the living."
"And you think that will satisfy her."
"I hope so," Bellamy said. "I'm assuming that if I build them up enough, my body won't feel cold to her anymore."
"Anyone can see that Astarte truly does love you," the old man said. "But I think you should remember that she didn't involve herself in the affairs of the abambo because of that. She journeyed to New Orleans because mundane existence doesn't satisfy her. Because she's thirsty for transcendent beauties and spiritual transformation, and, may the Orishas have mercy on her, hopes to find them among creatures like ourselves."
"Are you saying that I should keep bringing her into the Underworld?"
"Not necessarily," said Titus. He closed his left eye to paint the lid. "I'm saying that she'll never be content to let you be merely the lover who visits her every day to savor the pleasures of ordinary mortal existence. She'll never stop pressuring you to lead her into the heart of the supernatural."
"You may be right," Bellamy sighed. "We'll just have to work it out somehow, after we deal with the Atheist conspiracy. I wonder—"
A long, low shape scuttled up the companionway.
Bellamy turned to greet Antoine, then nearly flinched back a step. Because the alligator seemed indefinably different. Almost menacing. He stared up at the human wraiths for a moment, then growled, "I know I'm not the hotshot sorcerer of the team, Titus. But have you looked upriver lately?"
Titus and Bellamy peered out over the bow. At first the FBI agent couldn't see any cause for alarm. Then he noticed tendrils of a deeper blackness coiling through the dark air and water ahead. A wind began to gust, first from one direction, then another, rocking the Twisted Mirror but not disturbing the surface of the river. A hot, gritty feeling crawled on his skin.
"Another Maelstrom?" he said incredulously.
"So it appears," Titus said. "Forgive me for not sensing it forming, but I'm all but certain there was nothing to sense five minutes ago."
"You're just useless without your war paint," Antoine said. "What's the plan? Do we put in to shore?"
"I suppose we'd better," the old man said.
"I'm on it," Antoine said. He scrambled toward the wheelhouse to inform the pilot.
Bellamy gazed after the reptile ibambo for a moment. Antoine seemed his usual sardonic self. He supposed it was only his nerves that had made him think he perceived something amiss.
Lord knew, he had plenty to be edgy about, and the frequent storms weren't helping. He wondered if Astarte would be so eager to play tourist in the Shadowlands if she'd ever had to endure a Maelstrom, and glumly decided, yes, she probably would. She'd probably dance gleefully through the heart of it like Gene Kelly performing "Singing in the Rain."
The black riverboat with its macabre gingerbread shivered as it changed course, making for the nearer shore. Visible one second and gone the next among the refinery's storage tanks, shimmered the translucent form of a white plantation house, made up of a central structure with two longgargonnieres. The architecture was fundamentally Greek, but with a high-peaked, West Indian-style roof.
Bellamy had experienced more than his share of unexpected phenomena since entering the Underworld, but this was the first time he'd encountered the ghost of a building. He pivoted to ask Titus how such a thing could exist, and then the steamboat lurched, knocking both men off their feet.
As Bellamy lifted his head, the shadow storm unleashed its full fury. The wind howled, and stung his skin. It felt as if it were full of tiny razors, blades that could fray his flesh to tatters. Shielding his face with his upraised arm, he rose and staggered to the rail.
Glittering black Nihils now dotted the surface of the river like whirlpools. They couldn't swallow the water—they were on the wrong side of the Shroud for that— but a few yawned large enough to damage the boat or even devour it whole.
And the Twisted Mirror seemed to be drifting with the current and the wind. If unable to move under its own power, it would hit one of the rifts in space sooner or later. Stumbling on down the deck, clutching the rail to keep his balance, Bellamy peered down at one of the imposing paddle wheels. Given the; angle, and the fact that the top of the device was hooded with a wooden cowl, it was hard to make out what, if anything, was wrong. But after a few moments he managed to discern that the wheel was turning, but sluggishly. A dark mags of something surrounded it below the waterline, and was evidently hindering its motion.
He turned. Titus was clinging to the rail on the other side. "We've got trouble!" Bellamy bellowed, making sure the shaman would hear him over the roar ofthe gale.
"I know!" Titus shouted, "Sinkinda interfering with the wheels!" He raised one hand and traced a complex pattern in the air. Sparks of emerald light winked on his fingertips. Meanwhile Antoine charged back into view and under the railing. His long body plunged into the black water like: an arrow.
Bellamy drew his Browning and raced down the companionway. He wished he were carrying the automatic rifle stowed in his cabin, but was unwilling to take the time to detour and grab it. If he didn't reach the lowermost deck—from which he eotild shfjot at the Spectres and have at least some chance of hitting them— immediately, he was likely to be too late*
When he staggered onto the middle deck, a shape hurtled out of the darkness. Startled, Bellamy logt his balance and sat down hard on t
he steps, The shape cackled madly and raised a dagger to stab him. Bellamy shot it in the chest.
His attacker collapsed, bands of black fire: rippling through his body. At first, his attention drawn to the eroding body's hyena-like muzzle and long, mottled tongue, Bellamy assumed that the thing had been a Spectre which had clambered onboard from the river. Then he noticed the short, zebra-striped cape, and the thin silver bracelet, cast in the form of a coiling snake, encircling theleft biceps. The creature had been a member of his own expedition until the power of the Maelstrom energized its shadowself and so twisted it into a servant of the Void.
Sickened, Bellamy lurched and made his way to the bottom deck, where several warriors had already gathered fore and aft of the paddle wheel to shoot bullets and crossbow bolts at the writhing black tangle under the water. He assumed that other soldiers had mounted a similar defense on the other side of the boat. Bolts of jagged green light—Titus's doing, no doubt—sizzled down from overhead, triggering muffled explosions beneath the: surface.
Marilyn's cabin cruiser veered crazily back and forth, nearly passing through the Twisted Mirror's stern at one point, then racing on upriver. Though the mortals' craft was impervious to the force of the storm attacking the sidewheeler, the sudden turns seemed likely to capsize; it or run it into, another boat anyway. Bellamy heard Astarte yell, "Left! Come back around! No, not that far!" The bewildered, frustrated pilot snarled an obscenity.
The blind leading the blind. In other circumstances, it might have been funny, but not now, particularly with Marilyn herself swaying on the bow, clinging to the steel rail for dear life, fresh spots of blood blooming on her bandages. Chanting in Latin to absolutely no effect, then crumpling onto the edge of the deck, where the next random motion of her vessel could easily tumble her into the water. Astarte cried out and scrambled topside.
Much as he sympathized with Marilyn's plight, Bellamy knew he could do nothing to help her. Astarte would have to handle that. He could only influence events on his own boat. Tearing his eyes away from the cabin cruiser, he took up a position in front of the paddle wheel, leaned out over the rail, and pointed his gun at the tangle of Spectres in the water.
As he did so, he realized he couldn't pick out Antoine from the mass of foes he was presumably attacking. Praying that he wouldn't hit the alligator, he fired.
Over the course of the next minute, wounded horrors floated to the surface, rotting away to nothingness even as they appeared. Occasionally a Sinkinda scrambled out of the water and on board the steamboat, laying about with fang and claw until the frantic defenders managed to cut or gun it down. But most of the doomshades stayed below the surface and continued to tamper with the wheel.
The wraith fighting alongside Bellamy screamed as the Maelstrom ripped his body into streamers of vapor. His crossbow fell overboard. A few seconds after that, the FBI agent fired the last bullet in his last clip, and peered wildly about for more ammo or a replacement gun.
"Whirlpool!" someone cried.
Bellamy looked down river. As he'd feared would happen eventually, the Twisted Mirror was drifting straight toward a swirling, seething Nihil big enough to engulf it. But a moment later, the paddle wheel began to turn a bit more rapidly. It was obvious that it and its mate were still fouled to some degree, but even so, vibrating with the strain, the black riverboat began to inch along against the current.
The surviving abambo cheered, and attacked the doomshades with renewed energy. Bellamy peered at the river, willing Antoine to surface. Surely the gator could see that the Twisted Mirror had resumed moving under its own power. If he didn't hurry back aboard, he'd be left behind amid the surviving Sinkinda.
But the reptile ibambo didn't reappear, which could only mean he was in trouble. Repressing a surge of fear at what he was about to attempt, Bellamy drew his darksteel shortsword, clenched the blade between his teeth, and clambered onto the rail.
Some well-meaning ally grabbed him by the arm. He wrenched himself free and dived into the water.
Like the air in the world above, the water existed to some degree on both sides of the Shroud. He found that with an effort, he could stroke and kick against it. But paradoxically, he could also feel the cold, liquid weight of it sliding unimpeded through his substance, a sensation so unpleasant that he shuddered in revulsion.
Spears and arrows plunged down around him. A crooked lance of green lightning blew a Spectre's head apart. Hoping to get clear of his comrades' attacks, Bellamy swam deeper, rolled over onto his back, and peered upward at the broad, flat bottom of the steamboat.
Even for wraith eyes, it was difficult to see through the benighted, murky water. However, aided by Titus's flashes, he could just make out the manner in which the Spectres were seizing, clinging to, and weighing down the paddle wheels. Jamming their own grotesque bodies into the works, allowing themselves to be torn apart or ground to nothingness, whereupon their fellows took their place. They plainly had no qualms about throwing their existences away, as long as they could harm someone else in the process.
Bellamy turned this way and that, looking for Antoine. Finally he saw the gator streak through the water, seize a Sinkinda resembling a huge, skeletal eel in his jaws, and roll over and over with the thing. The doomshade broke apart into a cloud of bones. Two other Spectres swam toward Antoine, and he whirled to meet them.
The ibambo's scaly hide was nearly as mottled with punctures and slashes as it had been after the battle on Barracks Street. But he was clearly far from incapacitated. Bellamy could only assume that for some reason Antoine hadn't noticed the Twisted Mirror pulling out of its uncontrolled drift. It was up to his human friend to alert him. Holding his breath, even though he realized intellectually that he didn't need to, Bellamy swam toward the surface.
A Spectre resembling a jellyfish with an anguished human face on its side darted to intercept him, its translucent body pulsing. Its tentacles flicked out. Snatching the sword from between his teeth, hampered by the resistance of the water, Bellamy hacked at the creature's arms. More by luck than otherwise, he nicked the needlelike stinger at the tip of one limb. Even though he'd only touched it with his blade, the contact spiked pain through his hand and up his forearm. But the doomshade flinched back.
Intent on getting close enough to attack the monster's body, Bellamy kicked closer to it. Another tentacle flicked at his head, and he grabbed it behind the stinger.
That hurt, too. It burned like holding a piece of red-hot metal. He hated to think what an actual sting would feel like. Snarling against the pain, he yanked the jellyfish nearer and thrust his point into the center of its writhing face.
The Sinkinda popped like a balloon. Bellamy peered about, locating Antoine anew, and swam higher, the pain in his hands fading rapidly- As he drew nearer to the gator, he felt the churning, the suction, of the nearer paddle wheel. Another seeming impossibility, considering that the contraption didn't actually displace the water through which it rotated, but real nonetheless.
Tail lashing, strands of darkness oozing beneath his hide, Antoine surged up to the wheel itself, yanked a Spectre off one of the paddles, and dragged the monster down, his terrible jaws snapping open and shut. When he'd torn that foe to rags, he gazed upward, evidently choosing another.
And at that point, Bellamy reached him and touched him on the tail. With an agility no human swimmer could match, Antoine executed a sort of twisting somersault, spinning himself around toward the man who'd startled him. Even in the dark water, his eyes seemed to blaze, and his jaws gaped wide.
Bellamy's instincts screamed. He had to fight the impulse to lash out with his sword. Instead he simply raised his empty hand, signaling Antoine to halt, praying that his friend would recognize him before it was too late.
The human saw Antoine's jaws surge toward his shoulder. He imagined the gator wrenching his arm off, heard his shadowself laugh in the depths of his mind. Then Antoine faltered, and pulled back. He peered at Bellamy as if not quite certain he really d
id know him.
Bellamy wondered if Antoine was dazed from a concussion or something comparable. Wishing they could speak underwater, he pointed at the riverboat, creeping upriver toward the refinery once more.
Antoine followed the gesture, gazed at the Twisted Mirror for a moment, then turned and swam toward yet another Spectre.
Bellamy kicked after him. By the time he caught up with Antoine, the gator had bitten a doomshade resembling a man-sized, leprous monkey in two, and picked up a fresh set of gOUges on his snout and neck for his trouble. The FBI agent thumped Antoine on the flank, demanding his attention, then pointed at the steamboat even more emphatically than before. The reptile glanced in that direction, glared sullenly at his companion, then propelled himself upward. But Bellamy could tell from his trajectory that he was intent on tearing another Spectre off a paddle wheel, not boarding.
Well, thought Bellamy grimly, at least Antoine getting closer to the Twisted Mirror was a start. He started after him, then glimpsed a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye.
He floundered around. The largest Sinkinda he'd seen tonight, a monster easily the size of a bus, was rising toward him from the riverbed. The thing looked a bit like a crude mud sculpture of a bear that was presently melting in the stream, with blobs and ribbons of slime breaking away from its body. Despite its ungainly appearance, it was approaching fast as a flying arrow Bellamy frantically pointed his blade at it. The world blazed green, and then turned black.
When he came to, he couldn't recall where he was or how he'd gotten there. He only knew he was drifting underwater. Drowning! Panicking, he tried to stroke toward the lesser darkness overhead, but his numb limbs barely stirred.
A flash of green illuminated the Spectres swirling around him, and the cloud of muck below, and memory came flooding back, including the grimly reassuring truth that ghosts didn't ordinarily need to breathe. Evidently Titus had blown the mud- bear to smithereens. Unfortunately, Bellamy had been so close to the blast that it had stunned him as well.
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