The upshot of it was a lot of bowing and scraping on the part of the Muenos and some pretty damn tedious ceremonies.
I’d thought about chucking in my role as the preferred deity, but Pas had been feeding the ferals. He’d also helped turn the tide against Jamon Mondo in the war. I found that kind of worship useful, and damn hard to surrender.
So now we had an agreement. He got to be chief worshipper and I got to call the shots.
Nifty, huh?
‘I need to wash, Pas. Got a dose of drain water.’
He waved me through his open doorway. ‘My house is yours, Oya.’
I lurched toward it. ‘Feed the kid!’ I threw back over my shoulder.
The House of Pas was much like any other Mueno’s, aside from a flashy comm set and some not so threadbare carpet. Chicken feathers, crucifixes, charms and handfuls of candles littered the ledges. I’d been infected by the Eskaalim parasite in a place like this.
Pas’s wife, a thin, worn woman with a shaved head, showed me to a back room and left me on a small, ’crete slab with a drainhole, a hose connected to a tank, and a tub of biokill. I stripped, washed, rubbed my skin with the cream and changed into the fatigues. I had no choice but let my suede suit drip-dry. The fringe had clumped and curled.
Ibis would murder me.
Pas was in the comm room by the time I’d finished. In one corner an ugly attempt at furniture crouched like a gargoyle. The Bone Throne. Last time I’d been on that I’d had a vision come on like a hangover.
‘Oya.’ He gestured me to sit on it.
I flicked Roo a don’t-say-word glare, but he was busy shovelling beans and greasy pastries in his mouth with one of his flick knife digits.
Pas clapped hands at his wife for another plate of food.
I wanted her to tell him to shove it, and get off his fat arse, but she didn’t. I bit my tongue. Oyas didn’t delve into domestic issues.
‘We have waited for your return, Sacred One.’
Oya I’d learnt to handle, but Sacred One . . .
‘How goes it, Pas? What news of Topaz?’
‘The soft belly hides. He knows the Muenos no longer respect him. As you can see they are your people.’
Levering his bulk out of his seat he wound a handle. Metal shutters squeaked opened. Outside, the numbers of Muenos had swelled. Most of them held candles.
‘W-what are they doing?’
‘They’ve come to worship you,’ he said simply.
I wanted to leap up and run for my life at the very thought of it! A clap of appreciation went up as they saw me silhouetted on the throne.
He closed the shutters again and I dimly registered the wink of security gismos hidden among the swinging charms. Pas had had some half serious tek fitted since my last visit.
He watched me keenly, like a parent aware that their youngster wants to bolt from a family get-together. ‘Do not disillusion their belief, Parrish. Hope is the most precious thing of all.’
It was the first time Pas had ever called me by my name. His effusive mask had slipped and I glimpsed the shrewdness underneath. It was kinda uncomfortable - realising your chief worshipper had his own agenda happening.
I changed the subject. ‘There’s a problem that affects all of us, Pas. Muenos, the Tribes . . . the lot. You saw the shape-changer?’
He swore and crossed himself with darting, elaborate hand movements.
I paused, deciding how much to tell. Pas had never crossed me, but we weren’t exactly buddies. On the other hand, I needed him more than ever.
‘Some of us believe the shape-changers are the result of a - a parasite. The parasite changes you at the most basic level.’
‘What type of parasite could do such a thing?’
‘Nothing from this world, Pas.’
His eyes widened. Like any self-respecting Mueno, he had a straight up awe of the spirits and things unnatural. Why else would you spend your time knee deep in chicken blood?
‘I must stop the evil spreading,’ I explained.
‘What do you want from me, Oya?’
‘My place is unprotected while I’m doing this, Pas. Can you send some of your people there?’
He clicked his fingers. ‘Done.’
‘They must speak with my man Teece.’
Pas stroked plump fingers through the waist length of his hair. Mueno male vanity. Like a peacock. ‘I remember him, Oya. He is a man like myself. Strong and virile.’
I choked back a laugh. Somehow I’d missed the similarity. ‘Teece holds my clout and cred while I am away.’
‘Your people are not familiar with our Mueno ways. There may be trouble.’
‘Teece will take care of things.’ As I fibbed I saw my second chance with Teece slipping away.
Pas seemed satisfied with my assurance. ‘What else, Oya?’
‘I’m looking for someone. Cabal shamans are missing. When my people asked questions about it, they had their guts spilled out on the pavement and played with. I figured you would know who’d do this kind of thing.’
His expression froze. His hand moved automatically to the thick hair necklace around his neck.
Pig bristles! Muenos used them to ward off evil spirits.
‘I’m not sure exactly. I have . . . knowledge of a lot of practices.’ Pas shifted uncomfortably like his duds had caught fire. He stroked the necklace for comfort.
‘What knowledge?’
‘As houngan I perform juju, but not everyone is like me. Some invoke the petro loa.’
‘Petro loa?’
He wrinkled his forehead at my ignorance. ‘The petro loa want cruel sacrifice and bring much malice.’
‘So where would I find the people that invoke these loa?’
He puffed his chest a little. ‘Those ones do not practise here any more. I would know if—’
Pas’s wife, Minna, stepped from the shadows of the room. Taking a quick, nervous breath she interrupted him. ‘Husband. The women say—’
He punched her before she could finish.
She swayed but stayed on her feet. It obviously wasn’t the first time.
I caught his arm before he could do it again, resisting the desire to break it. ‘Let her speak.’
She wiped the blood from her lip and got down on her knees in front of Pas. ‘I had not wished to worry you with whispers, husband.’ A glance at me. ‘The women say Dalatto is working with Marinette again. I can show you her place. But you must wear this. Even then I cannot guarantee you will be safe.’
She disappeared and returned with my damp suede suit and two pig bristle bracelets. She handed one bracelet to Roo and one to me. I cupped it in my hand as I shrugged into the jacket and stuffed the pants in my kit bag.
I slid it around my fingers. It smelt of cooking fat. ‘How dangerous is this Dalatto?’
‘No more or less than you, Oya.’
Sweet!
We followed her out through the back of their villa into a washing-cluttered darkness. She led with sure steps, stopping occasionally to broadcast a guttural cry into the night. Each one was answered in kind by a range of female timbres.
Back doors cracked open as an unseen audience marked our route. Mueno women, wired to the back alleys and grease-thick kitchens of their domain.
We stopped several times while Minna calmly helped Pas over rubbish-hewn steps.
More consideration than he deserved.
I was not so composed. Adrenalin and annoyance combined into a familiar mix of irritability. I didn’t like my followers beating their wives. I didn’t like being watched. I didn’t like groping about in the dark, and I surely DID NOT like visiting mojo practitioners in the witching hour.
‘Move it, Pas,’ I muttered.
Roo kept behind me, his mek limbs coping easily with the obstacles. I didn’t have to ask to know his night sight was better than mine.
Finally, Minna stopped. I heard her soft gasp and exclamation.
Pas drew her behind him. ‘Stay outside . . .’
She nodded, her silhouette tense and alert.
Behind me, Roo unsheathed his digit blades and his targeting system hummed on-line. Whoever fitted his hardware never perfected the noise suppression. Maybe that’s why he’d made it into Dr Del Morte’s reject basket.
Pas took a few steps and baulked. I didn’t blame him. The back door to the villa was ajar. Rank blood smells radiated through it. The kind that told you the place harboured old and new death.
The stench, Pas’s hard breaths and Roo lock-and-loaded fractured my nerves. Disregarding Mueno protocol I brushed past Pas and thrust the door wide, Luger in one hand, wire in the other. It was that or turn and run.
I stepped into a nightmare - the kind you were too scared to remember in the morning.
The villa was wired for vodun worship of the ugly kind and the kitchen had been the butchery. Blood. On every surface. Spattered on the walls. Pooled on the floor.
If a petro loa had been invoked, then he-she’d gotten his-her dowry.
In three quick strides I crossed through and into the downstairs living room. Roo was a pace behind me, dry retching.
An altar took up most of the space, covered in a rich brocade cloth, crowded with candles, bottles of liquid and bead-woven objects. In the centre two crudely made dolls lay squashed into a small coffin bed together, genitals intertwined. The female had short and dark hair, legs too long for its body, small breasts and a face marred by irregular features.
Guess who?
The other was male, tall and had a face like a god.
Guess who?
Parrish and Loyl in the cot.
A palpable and suffocating malice lingered around the altar, transfixing me.
Roo on the other hand scanned the room for anything that might be alive.
‘Boss. Over here.’
I forced myself over to where he crouched under the stairs. Something lay there corralled by boxes, barely living, fur and ears matted with coagulated blood. Large hind legs twitched feebly. Fluid leaked from a slit in its belly. Its eyes opened and rolled a little.
‘A true marsupial,’ I said, surprised.
Roo stood by me, pale and still. ‘What type?’
‘I’m not sure. Never seen one in real life.’
He reached in to gently touch the creature. It flinched away from him and trembled.
‘Boss?’ His voice wavered.
I knew what he was asking. As much as I didn’t want to either, I couldn’t let him do it. I was supposed to be the strong one here. I sent him to watch the back door and then I put a bullet in the animal’s head.
Pas joined me. He fell to his knees, crossed himself.
‘Marsupial,’ he said gravely. ‘None of the signs are good.’
‘Meaning?’
He got to his feet and beckoned me into the room opposite.
A woman lay face down buried under some cushions. With sweating effort, Pas kicked the cushions away and rolled her over on her back. The contents of her abdomen stayed put on the floor.
‘Dalatto.’ His face had turned greyer than the marsupial’s fur. ‘I do know this work . . . this is the work of a houngan named Leesa Tulu.’ Fear thinned his podgy features and stole the strength from his voice.
‘Leesa Tulu?’
His hand clung tightly to his pig bristle. ‘Native animal sacrifices are rare. Only two, maybe three houngan in the whole of this country use them. Leesa Tulu is the only one on the east coast. She invokes Marinette. Marinette is a fetishist - she covets certain flavours of flesh to eat. Tulu also has a reputation for disembowelment when she is being ridden.’
‘How do you know so much about her?’
He rolled Dalatto’s body back to hide the hideous sight and wiped his hands on the nearest cushion. Then he blinked away the perspiration from his eyes. ‘We escaped the Merikas’ borders together before the Conformist uprisings banned houngans from their practice. We came to this country under refugee status and were conveyed to the Jinberra Camp. The things she did in there . . . her style . . . attracted people in Viva . . . who bought her way out.’ He sighed. ‘Be grateful for your liberty, Oya. And your choice of friends.’
My skin prickled with something that wasn’t cold. Tulu had connections in Viva. ‘I didn’t know you were a migrant.’
‘There is only one religion in Merika now. No one dares to challenge the creed of the White Veils.’
I didn’t care about the repression in Merika. The Northern Hem had dug its own grave. What I cared about was someone making funny dolls of me and spilling life in The Tert. ‘So where is Tulu now?’ I demanded.
‘I will have my Muenos search for her, though most will be too frightened.’ He twisted his bristle necklace until it threatened to strangle him.
Muenos frightened? I started to pace, fighting off a swarming vision. What would a Vivacity houngan with a reputation want with the karadji? What would she want with me?
The questions circled each other like predators. It was too hard to think . . . to breathe in this place. My scalp crawled as if it was lice-infested. I marched back to the altar in the opposite room and snatched up the dolls, stuffing them in my pocket. Then I kicked over the altar in frustration.
‘Oya!’ Pas danced behind me, wringing his hands together. ‘Do not disturb the offerings.’
Unreasonably, I wanted to smash my fist straight into his face. Had he known his old friend Tulu was here making voodoo coffins for me? Was his surprise genuine? How much could I trust him when it was as plain as pain Leesa Tulu scared him witless?
With effort I controlled an urge to kill him - a wrestle inside myself that I could almost see, like shadow play.
The parasite in me swelled.
‘Boss?’ An insistent tapping on my shoulder. ‘Boss!’
The voice was Roo’s. Sweaty fear in his face. What had rattled him so much?
‘What is it?’
He looked down.
Following his gaze, I saw my left hand restraining my right, which grasped a garrotting wire. My own blood dripped from the tightness of my fist.
Muscles rigid.
Jaw tight.
Motionless.
Pas had backed into a corner, trying not to cower.
How long had I been like it?
With further effort I loosened my grip on the wire and fumbled it away. Minna appeared from nowhere, producing a rag to bind my hand.
‘Thank you for sparing my husband,’ she whispered.
Sick realisation dawned on me - how close I’d just come to killing Pas. Slitting his throat in front of Roo and his woman.
I snatched the cloth from her hands. ‘Go home,’ I ordered her hoarsely. ‘Roo, go back to Teece.’
I turned to Pas, a worthless apology caught in my throat. ‘Burn this place before I get back. Understand?’
He nodded, a tiny frightened movement.
‘If you find anything about her, call Teece.’
Then, crawling with self-loathing, I ran.
Running has always been my way. In the ’burbs when I was younger and Kevin tried to touch me - before I grew big enough to dust him - I’d run.
On occasions when Jamon was still alive I’d done it as well. It evaporated the fear and the anger. I felt solid when I ran. Doubt banished.
But it never lasted.
Soon my breath rasped like grit against my lungs. I stumbled frequently in the dirty dark of The Slag, pushing myself until my muscles trembled with fatigue and my chest burned.
I dropped to a walk long enough to ease the worst of the pain then I ran again, oblivious to the scrutiny of pavement shadows and pitiless eyes. Uncaring that word of my flight passed before me.
In the grey dawn I huddled, exhausted, under some rusted stairs, sharing seclusion with a mound of used derms and an injured canrat.
Canrats lived on the roofs, mainly, but this one had an extra spur on one leg - like a half-formed foot. It dribbled as well, a foul-smelling acid much worse than the average dog
breath. Its coat had rubbed off in patches, leaving a kind of chessboard pattern of scabby pink flesh and attic-stained fur.
‘You need a change of diet,’ I advised it. I was shaking now, with fatigue and shock and general shittiness.
It coughed and growled a bit. Nothing serious.
We camped together until the smell of pastry dragged me out to a food stall. Curious, the vendor took my cred spike and rolled it around in his fingers.
‘Just gimme the food. The cred is good.’
He checked it and served me, and I retreated back to the hideyhole with a wrapper full of hot lumps of sugary dough. By the third lump I couldn’t stand the dribbling. I tossed the cripple some dough. I was no fan of canrats - the Wombat knows I’d killed The Big One - but I was still a sucker for defenceless creatures. Hungry, defenceless creatures - even worse.
Hunger distorts.
The canrat gobbled deliriously, then settled its miserable body with a small lick to its two and a half front paws and sighed. I saw the tremor of improved blood sugar. Knew it well.
‘You’re in bad shape,’ I said out loud.
It twitched a tired ear.
I crouched, watching it doze, letting the pastry weigh in my gut, and thought over my next move. I was on the edge of Tower Town, Daac’s patch. If Leesa Tulu was carving up bodies and making voodoo dolls of Daac and me in bed, he or Mei would be the next logical ones to know something.
Going there would also give me a chance to see if Stolowski was doing OK.
Call it abundant maternal instinct!
Yet the idea of talking to Daac made me feel almost as awful as discovering I’d tried to kill Pas.
Almost.
There was also a small, treacherous part that thrilled at the thought.
I sighed. I didn’t trust many people. Now I couldn’t even trust myself. It gave me a sudden glimpse into complete paranoia, and I locked it up quick and hard.
I hitched my pack on my back. The canrat woke with a start and, seeing its meal ticket about to bunk out, whimpered.
No longer questioning my sanity - it was way, way gone - I shovelled the creature into my pack and strapped it shut.
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