a terrible beauty

by Unknown Author

  The panther was still waiting for her on the beach, but he wasn’t alone. His master, the loa Erzulie, sat next to him, rubbing his head between his ears and eliciting a rumbling purr that sounded like steam escaping from a leaking pipe.

  Somehow Sara didn’t feel uncomfortable in her nakedness before the loa, though she was glad that it was Erzulie and not Papa Legba who sat before her.

  Erzulie stood, brushing the grains of sand from her palms with a business-likecgesture.

  “Papa Legba asked me to come see you,” she said grinning, “though, seeing you, I’m sure he would be sorry not to be here himself.”

  That almost made Sara blush, though she said, “It seems like I don’t have a choice when I come here or how I’m dressed.”

  Erzulie laughed.

  “How little people know. You are here because you want to be. You need help. You are vexed by terrible problems that need solutions. You sense that you can find the solutions here, but you are groping about, unsure how to find them. Tonight you found the tranquility that you crave. It has refreshed your body and soul, no?”

  Sara nodded. She had been desperately weary. Now she felt ready to take on almost anything. Even Guillaume Sam. Perhaps even the voices and the Witchblade.

  “We cannot solve your problems,” Erzulie told you. “That, mainly, is up to you. But we can provide a place where you can solve them for yourself. This—” she gestured around them at the beach “—is one such place. You come here searching for peace ... and find it, ultimately, in your own heart and mind. There is another place where you may be able to solve another problem.”

  Sara followed where Erzulie was pointing, and saw past the beach, past a line of trees to iron gates highlighted on the horizon. Iron gates that enclosed a forest of crosses. The cemetery looked ancient and frightening, and alive, not dead. Alive and waiting.

  “But when you go there, blanc,” Erzulie said in gentle warning, “be careful. Be very, very careful. For some problems, you see, are solved simply, by death. And that, I think, would not'be a solution to your satisfaction. No, not at all.”

  Sara awoke before the alarm went off, still feeling more refreshed than she had any right to be. She even smelled clean. The stink of sweat and gunpowder and underground goo was gone from her body, as if they had indeed been washed away by clean water with a salty tang and the residue of tropical breezes.

  If it was a dream, she thought as she rummaged through her closet for clean clothes, it was quite a powerful dream. She shimmied into underwear and pulled on a new pair of jeans. If it wasn’t a dream ...

  For some reason her mind refused to complete the thought.

  Sara concentrated on getting dressed and down to the precinct. She and Jake and Detective Dickey from Brooklyn had a meeting scheduled that morning with Captain Siry about their progress—or lack thereof—in the Machete Murderer case. She would, Sara knew, have to walk a fine line with Siry this morning.

  Siry greeted her in an almost human manner as she knocked and entered his office. Jake was already seated before Siry’s desk, looking only a little worse for wear. He was young, almost as young as Sara, and his recuperative powers were enormous. That, and his thirst for justice kept him going when almost^ eveiyone else would have quit.

  “Come in, sit down, have coffee.” Siry made it more of an order than an offer, but Sara shook off the coffee anyway. Her stomach was squishy enough as it was. She didn’t think it could survive a cup of precinct-house coffee. She had barely settled in her chair when Lieutenant Dickey from Brooklyn came in. Today, he was wearing his too-large grey suit.

  “Come in, sit down, have coffee,” Siry repeated.

  Dickey moseyed around the captain’s desk and helped himself from the pot on the adjacent credenza.

  “Donut?” Siry offered.

  Dickey declined. “I’m on a diet,” he said, emptying a couple of packets of Sweet’N’Low into his little plastic coffee cup.

  “Looks like it’s working,” Siiy grunted.

  “Thanks.” Dickey sat down carefully, looked carefully at Jake’s face. “That’s something new since I last saw you,” he observed.

  “Yeah,” Jake said ruefully. “Ran into some difficulty when I was following up some leads on the green-card aspect of the case.”

  “And what would this ‘green-card aspect’ be, exactly?” Dickey asked as he sipped from his little plastic cup.

  Jake looked at Siry and the captain nodded. Jake glanced at Sara and then launched into a somewhat edited version of his investigation, leaving out any mention of the abandoned subway station and what had gone down there the night before. He made it sound as if he’d run into a couple of heavies while running down info on the green card scheme, but although he’d gotten in a fight and been damaged’he’d managed to escape. Or as he put it, they’d managed to escape him.

  “So you think Guillaume Sam is behind this?” Dickey said thoughtfully.

  “It seems like'jt,” Sara offered. “Heard of him?”

  Dickey shrugged heavy shoulders. “Of course. Everyone round the ’hood has. He's a big man with big influence in the community.”

  “Does it surprise you that he’d be mixed up in something like this?” Sara asked.

  Dickey turned his dark, soulful eyes on her. “Detective, nothing on this job surprises me any more. Nothing.”

  I bet I could show you a thing or two, Sara thought, but kept quiet and only nodded.

  . “Sounds like it’s time for an old-fashioned door-kicking raid,” Siry said. “I’ll get a judge to issue the papers. Dickey, can you supply uniforms from your precinct?”

  The lieutenant: started to nod, but Sara suddenly spoke. “Captain, maybe it’d be better if we used our own uniforms. Like Dickey said, Guillaume Sam has big influence in the Cypress Hills community.”

  “You suggesting that one of my men might tip him?” Dickey asked sadly.

  Sara shrugged. “Like you said. I’m not surprised at anything anymore in this job.”

  Sixy looked steadily at the Brooklyn detective. “It’s your call, Carl.”

  The big detective drained his coffee cup and tossed it, empty, into the basket by the side of Siiy’s desk. He sighed, seemingly from the bottom of his shoes.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll use Manhattan men.” He stood. “I’ve always wanted to see the upper crust in action.”

  “Mind if I smoke?” Guillaume Sam asked the uniform who was rummaging through'Sam’s desk drawers as Sam sat behind it. He had cigar and end-clipper ready to put into action. ' f

  The officer glanced at him. “I do. I’m allergic.” “Besides,” Sara said, “it’s bad for you.”

  Guillaume Sam grinned, showing rows of even, white teeth. “I’m not going to die of lung cancer,” he said. “I’ve been assured of that.”

  “By Baron Samedi?” Sara asked with raised eyebrows. “Oh, yes, Baron Samedi himself,” Guillaume Sam assured her.

  “How are you going to die?”

  Guillaume Sam laughed. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m going to live forever.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The search team from Sara’s Manhattan precinct had been at it for hours, but besides confiscating a couple of computers for detailed analysis at HQ, they’d found nothing remotely incriminating. Or even remotely interesting. Guillaume Sam had been so accommodating that Sara figured there was nothing dirty on the premises to find. Clearly Club Carrefour was and had always been clean as a whistle, or Guillaume Sam had been tipped and he’d hustled any evidence of illegal activity out the door.

  He put the unlit cigar in his mouth and rolled it around zestfully.

  “Tell me,” he asked Sara, “how’s your partner?

  McCarthy, I believe his name is? I heard he ran into a little trouble yesterday.”

  “He’s fine,” Sara deadpanned. “He’s checking out some rooms downstairs, I believe. Tell me. How’s Jean and Gene?” . ,

  For a moment'Guillaume Sam’s face darkened in
a frown, then it lightened and he laughed aloud.

  “You do like to play rdugh, Ms. Pezzini.” He took the cigar out of his mouth and studied it carefully. Finally, he said, “Jean had to leave my employ. That was unfortunate. She will be missed. Gene, however ...” Guillaume Sam shrugged. “We shall see about Gene. We all shall see.” Intrigued, Sara was going to try to push him further, but one of the cops looking at the altar that dominated the rear of Guillaume Sam’s office picked up an opaque lidded jar, held it up to his ear, and shook it.

  “What’s in here?” he asked.

  Guillaume Sam looked at him and sat straight up in his chair, the frown back on his face. “Careful with that, fool! It is a pot-de-tete. It contains my soul.”

  “Sure,” the cop said laconically, and put it back down on the altar.

  “Okay, boys,” Sara said. “I think we’re done here. Let’s go collect Detectives McCarthy and Dickey and the rest of the team.”

  “Finished so soon, Ms. Pezzini?” Guillaume Sam asked. “We’ve seen enough.” Sara paused. “By the way, where’s your rat?”

  “Possum, Ms. Pezzini. Baka is a possum. Being nocturnal, he’s having his afternoon sleep.” Guillaume Sam grinned widely. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. “But you’ll see him again. Soon. I promise.”

  , CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  V

  F

  1 rom the outside St. Casimir’s rectory looked shabby. The stone was grimy with accumulated city grit. The shingled roof was obviously in need of repair. Even the welcome mat was so worn that you could no longer read the large welcome imprinted on it.

  The battered outer door had a brass knocker. No newfangled electric doorbell for St. Casimir’s, no sir. Father Baltazar answered the door after Sara rapped-not too hard, because she was afraid that a solid blow would bring it down.

  “Come in,” he said, gesturing Sara inside the vestibule with a welcoming wave.

  From the inside, though, the rectory was charming.

  The furniture was old, but old furniture is often well-made and costly when in good repair, as Father Baltazar’s was. Sara couldn’t tell Chippendale from Louis XXIV, unless they were dancing barechested before her in collars and cuffs, but she could tell quality when she saw it. The desk, chairs, glassed-in bookcase, and even the old sofa in the cozy office-library that Father Baltazar ushered her into oozed quality. The room was filled with dark wood and old books and was well-kept, well-dusted, and extremely neat.

  “Who’s your maid?” Sara asked, looking around. “I could use her around my place. I have about a fifth of the stuff you do and my apartment is five times as messy.” Father Baltazar laughed. “I am,” he said. “I’m afraid that I’ve always been excessively neat. It’s one of my character flaws.”

  “It must be your only flaw,” Sara said, sinking into what turned out to be a most comfortable sofa, “as you’re brave, reverent, and cheerful. I’d guess you’re thrifty as well, or else you wouldn’t have accumulated all these books on a priest’s salary.”

  “I don’t have to pay rent,” he said, taking the end of the sofa. “That counts for a lot in this town.”

  He was, Sara saw, trying to keep things light, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She was afraid to admit to herself what she really wanted, but she knew that she longed for more than light-hearted comradely from the hand-some-and brave, and loyal, and cool headed; God, she could go on and on-young priest.

  “I meant what I said,” Sara said. “About your flawless character.”

  “I’m blushing,” Father Baltazar said, though he looked more troubled than embarrassed. He leaned forward and took Sara’s hands in his. “You’re a remarkable woman, Sara. Beautiful, terribly tough, brave, yet oddly vulnerable. I’d back you in damn near anything-and I already have. I’ll stand with you against anyone-and, before this is over, I fear that I will. You have to realize one thing, though. I’ll be the best friend to you I can be. But that’s all I can be.”

  His hands were warm and strong and felt good on hers. She wanted more from them.

  “I know you're a priest. I know you have vows—”

  ”1 do,” he said solemnly. “I live with them every day and have never broken them. But, Sara, even if I weren’t bound by my vows what I just told you would still be true.” j •

  She looked into his cfeep dark eyes and saw the truth there.

  “You understand?”

  She nodded reluctantly, feeling like a fool. Of course, he would be gay. The best man she’d met in years. Handsome, brave, intelligent... She tried to pull her hands away, but he wouldn’t let her go.

  “Do you forgive me?”

  ■ Suddenly she felt ashamed at the flash of anger she’d felt. “Forgive you? Father—Baltazar.” Suddenly she didn’t know what to call him. “Father” seemed way too formal, “Baltazar,” way too cumbersome. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “How about a hug, then?”

  She came into his arms and they hugged fiercely. The voices were disapproving, but she ignored them. At least for a while. It felt good to be in his embrace, as chaste as it was, and Sara realized that perhaps she needed a friend even more than she needed a lover.

  “Call me Caz,” the priest said. “All my friends do.”

  “All right,” Sara said. “Caz.”

  “Good.” He let her go.“Now tell me what’s been troubling you since you ran from the confessional that day we first met.”

  Although they separated, Sara realized that from that moment on they’d never be totally apart. There was a bond between them, a bond not only of shared experiences, but of understanding and of emotional closeness such as she had with no one else. Not even her sister. Not even her partner. She had to hide things from both of those people. With Father Baltazar-Caz-she could discuss those very things she had to hide from others. He’d understand. He might, even be able to help.

  Despite the voice's 'warnings she told him about the Witchblade, at least the little she really knew about it. She told him how she’d acquired it, seemingly by accident but actually, as she’d come to realize, by some sort of strange cosmic design. She told him what she’d done with it. Of the men and women she’d killed, of the strange menaces she’d faced, of the battles she’d fought and not dared tell anyone lest they think she was insane.

  • As she spoke Sara was surprised to realize how little concrete knowledge she had of the Witchblade. She told him about the reservations she had, of how it often acted against her will, how sometimes it even tried to trick her into doing something bad like killing Sandro, which had not only been against her wishes but also without any conscious warning.

  Father Baltazar was fascinated by the stoiy. “I’ve certainly never heard or read of anything exactly as you describe, though there are obscure writings and even more obscure legends about such a thing ... Paul Narcisse may know more. He's much more of an expert on the occult than I am. I’m just a dabbler, really.” He stared thoughtfully into the distance. “There are obvious parallels between what happens to you when the Witchblade takes control and what happens when a voudon initiate is ‘mounted,’ as it’s called, by a loa. Though nominally at least you seem to have more control over the object known as the Witchblad?, clearly there is some kind of force lurking in it that can take control if you’re not constantly vigilant, if for some reason it feels it really wants control."

  “I noticed the parallels myself,” Sara said. “In fact, I was wondering if'you or Paul could help me. Could—I don’t know—give me some kind of guidance to help control the thing.”

  Father Baltazar shook his head. “Paul’s the expert on possession. I’m just an interested observer.” He checked his watch. “He should be here soon. We can either consult him, or set up some time to talk about your, uh, problem, privately.” He looked at Sara speculatively. “I don’t suppose you could give me a demonstration of this Witchblade in action?”

  Sara shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I call u
pon it only when I feel I must. Otherwise, I’m afraid that I’d lose even more control.” The voices in her head chuckled, and Sara grimaced. “The voices are laughing. That’s a pretty good indication that my fears are valid.” Father Baltazar frowned in disappointment. “I suppose you’re right. In any case, it seems that this Witchblade is nothing to fool around with for trivial reasons. We may need it in the fight against Guillaume Sam, but I guess you’re right to call upon it only when you feel it’s absolutely necessary. Still,” he said, his gaze turned inward, “it would be something to see.”

  “Be careful of what you wish for,” Sara muttered.

  As if on cue, the knocker boomed loudly against the front door, making an impressive percussive sound that reverberated through the cozy rectory.

  “Excuse me,” Father Baltazar said, and went to answer the door.

  He returned with a troop of visitors. A serious-faced Paul Narcisse led the way. He nodded solemnly to Sara. Behind him were Alek and Kris Gervelis. Father Baltazar had mentioned that Alek was going to be present at the gathering, but Kris’s attendance was something of a surprise. Neither brother looked particularly happy, but Kris was especially uncertain.

  “Well,” Father Baltazar said, “we’re all here. Please find a seat. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Alek nodded, smiled at Sara, and sat down next to her on the sofa. The others distributed themselves around the room, the priest taking the chair behind his desk. The five of them pretty much filled up the room. Sara had thought about bringing Jake, but ultimately had decided against it. She’d decided that the less Jake knew about such matters, the better. He wasn’t one for mystic conspiracies. She hadn’t even considered inviting Lieutenant Dickey.

  Paul Narcisse took control as they all settled in. “I’m sure you all know why we’re here," he said, looking at each in turn.

  Kris Gervelis was patently uncomfortable. “I’m not. Not really. Alek has told me some pretty wild stuff. Stuff I think the police should investigate. Or maybe the Church. I don’t know anything about such things.” Eveiyone looked at Alek, who grinned a little weakly. “I had to tell him. Kris has to know what’s going on with Mountains. He’s not only in charge of us business-wise, but Roger and Jerry were our friends, for Christ’s sake.” “No one’s saying you shouldn’t have told Kris what’s happening,” Father Baltazar said. “But, anyway, what exactly did you tell him?”