by Rod Rees
And as she sat she wondered what her new life in the Warsaw Ghetto would be like. The comfortable, pampered life she had enjoyed in this house was over and a new one, a much harder one, was beginning. She didn’t know a lot about the Ghetto except that it was the sinkhole of the ForthRight: it was where all the unclean races – the Poles, the nuJus and, ugh, the Shades – were confined, where all the mongrels – the reviled mixlings – hid themselves, where the HerEticals, Royalists, RaTionalists, Suffer-O-Gettes, ImPuritans, HimPerialists and all the rest of the disaffected and the just plain lunatic had scuttled off to in an attempt to avoid the attention of the Checkya. It was a cesspit where all of the ForthRight’s shit was dumped.
It was most certainly not a place where a respectable young woman ventured. Trixie laughed: she wasn’t a respectable young woman any more. If she was captured she would be charged with Complicity in the Execution of Crimes Against the State and that would mean she forfeited all rights as a citizen of the ForthRight. She would be nonNix, just like Lillibeth Marlborough. But the difference between her and Lillibeth was that the Checkya had caught Lillibeth. And if there was one thing of which Trixie was certain, it was that the Checkya would never take her … not alive anyway.
The séance was scheduled for eight that evening.
Vanka checked his watch: there was less than an hour to showtime. As he strapped his mask over his face, he took a deep breath, trying to settle his jangling nerves.
He felt Ella snake her hand through his arm and when he turned towards her he found himself being given the broadest of reassuring smiles. He wasn’t reassured. He was beyond being reassured. But, by the Spirits, she was beautiful. He stopped himself. Surely, he wasn’t doing this because …
He shook his head: Vanka Maykov didn’t do love.
‘I like your mask, Vanka, very dashing. Do you like my makeup?’
‘You look lovely, Ella,’ he admitted. Even swathed in a neck-to-ankle, all-enveloping black cloak she looked lovely. Even with her face daubed with really quite outrageous stage make-up she looked lovely. Even wearing that strange half-mask she looked lovely.
‘There’s time for one final check,’ Ella said and kissed him on the cheek. The kiss and the sensation of that deliciously soft body pressed against his sent shivers of excitement coursing through him. He wished she’d stop doing that: whenever she kissed him he stopped thinking straight. In desperation Vanka turned his attention to the hounfo and, looking at it in the shadowed half-light of the ballroom, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe they could pull this stunt off.
Dressed in shadows and black netting, the hounfo looked ominous, just like Vanka imagined a temple dedicated to the celebrating of WhoDoo magic should. It was an effect enhanced by the lighting Ella had insisted on using: the ballroom’s gas candelabras were turned down to their lowest setting and limelights had been used to flood the bottom of the walls. It looked decidedly sinister and decidedly spooky.
Which, Vanka supposed, was the whole point.
The sound of loud and insistent hammering from the back of the hounfo brought Vanka out of his reverie. ‘Is everything all right back there, Burlesque?’ he shouted.
‘Yus,’ said Burlesque Bandstand as he appeared from behind the hounfo where he’d been making what he called ‘last-minute adjustments’, which appeared to necessitate him hitting things very hard with a big hammer. ‘Everyfing’s right as ninepence, Wanker. Straight as a die.’ He wiped his oil-blackened hands on the arse of his trousers and leered at Ella. ‘Nice mask, Miss Ella. Iffn you’re innerested I knows a coupla punters who’d pay good money for a bird who’ll dress up like that an’—’
‘Do you remember your instructions?’ interrupted Vanka.
‘Yus. ‘Cors I does. First Miss Ella shouts out “Lord Bondye ‘as come”, then I let off the bangers and Sid and Alf throw the levers. An’ then I just stand around lookin’ all innocent when the dust ‘as settled and they twig that you two ‘ave ‘ad it away on your toes wiv the Daemon.’ A frown crossed Burlesque’s brow, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Yous got the details ov my bank account in Venice all snug, ain’t cha, Miss Ella?’
‘I have, Burlesque, and as soon as I’m able I’ll transfer your money.’
Burlesque beamed.
‘Excellent,’ muttered Vanka.
The three of them stood for a couple of minutes in silent consideration of the hounfo and what they were about to do … to try to do. Their musings were interrupted by an unexpected visitor.
‘Most impressive,’ sneered a voice from the back of the ballroom.
All three of them jumped in surprise. The doors of the ballroom were locked: Vanka had seen Ella lock them behind her. No one was meant to be able to get into the ballroom.
But Aleister Crowley had.
Crowley, dressed in his ceremonial robes, appeared out of the darkness and gestured towards the hounfo. ‘I had no idea that WhoDoo hounfos were quite so profound.’
Disturbed though Vanka was by Crowley’s sudden material-isation, he didn’t miss a beat. ‘Good evening, Your Holiness. A hounfo of this size is needed because, as the subject for tonight’s séance is a Daemon, it is important that all the astral energy the mambo Laveau conjures is concentrated. That is the purpose of this hounfo: it better enables her to commune with the loa – the good Spirits – and so encourage them to possess her body. The loa are needed to aid her to dominate the Daemon’s will.’ As Crowley edged closer to the hounfo, Vanka could feel his heart starting to flutter. If he made too close an examination of their box of tricks, he would be sure to spot its none-too-subtle secrets. Vanka gave Ella a quick, anxious glance and then, remembering the rigmarole she had taught him about WhoDoo magic, he did his best to distract the man. ‘The hounfo also keeps out the djabs and the baka, the devils and the evil Spirits that are associated with Daemons,’ he said at a rush.
Unfortunately Crowley didn’t seem to be of a mind to be distracted.
‘Is that important? Surely a mambo of Miss Laveau’s power won’t be troubled by evil Spirits?’ Crowley mused as he tested one of the gates.
Please …
It was Ella – or rather Ella in her role of Marie Laveau – who saved the day. ‘If any ov dem mischievous baka mount me, Yous Holiness,’ she said in a very dusky voice, ‘den dere ain’t no telling what will happen.’
Crowley paused in his examination of the hounfo and turned to look at Ella. ‘Mount you?’
Ella nodded. ‘Sure ting, Yous Holiness. Dat’s what it’s called when de bad baka take possession of a serviteur like me. But as ah’m up against a Daemon tonight ah need to conjure de Great Lord Bondye himself to help me and to do dat ah’ve gotta look mah best. De trouble with looking mah best is dat if a baka was to see me he might be liking a taste ov some ov what ah’ve got on offer. That’s why I need a hounfo to protect me.’
Crowley’s interest in the hounfo faltered: he eyed Ella carefully. ‘And what would happen if you were possessed by one of these baka?’
She dropped her eyes as though embarrassed. ‘Well, wit you being such a mighty mystic, Yous Holiness, yous know dat de most powerful incantations are made when dere is a lot of sexual energy in de air. Dat’s what ah’ve got to do tonight … rouse de desires of de Spirits.’
‘Why?’ asked Crowley, his voice having risen an octave or two.
Again the coy lowering of Ella’s gaze; the girl was such a tease. ‘WhoDoo magic is de magic ov sex. De union between de Spirit World and de Demi-Monde is best made when de body and de soul are conjoin at orgasm. To be a mambo you gotta search fo’ de constant, de unfailing, de eternal orgasm.’
Vanka pulled at his collar. By ABBA, it’s getting hot in here.
‘So yous see, Yous Holiness, iffn an evil baka was to take me … well, there’s no knowing what ah might do.’
‘And how do you intend to rouse the desires of the Spirits?’ There was more than a hint of excitement in Crowley’s voice.
Ell
a reached up and unhooked the tie that held her cloak. The cloak sighed to the floor, revealing Ella – or, more accurately, the mambo Marie Laveau – in all her glory.
The three men stood stock-still examining the vision of loveliness that stood before them. Vanka had seen such costumes when he’d been to some of the more risqué revues in the Quartier Chaud but he’d never thought any woman in the ForthRight would be brave enough to wear one.
Ella’s costume was remarkable more for what it showed than for what it hid. The black chiffon material flowed over her long, stunning body like a dark mist. From what he could see in the half-light, the costume consisted of a loose dress gathered around Ella’s waist by a five-inch-thick black leather belt. That the chiffon was virtually transparent and that she seemed to be naked beneath it was unsettling enough, but the slits cut artfully into the dress meant that most of her legs and a considerable part of the rest of her body were uncovered. There was a lot of firm young flesh on display, flesh which Ella had decorated with strange symbols and images of snakes drawn in thick black ink.
The ephemeral fabric of the costume left no doubt as to the wonders concealed – partially concealed – beneath. For a moment Vanka wondered whether he should play the gentleman and avert his eyes.
Fuck that.
Crowley had no such reservations: he stepped closer in order to get a better look at Ella. ‘You are a remarkably beautiful woman, Miss Laveau,’ he oozed, his voice thick with lust, ‘and I can see why these baka of yours would try to possess you. You look positively … Lilithian.’
Lilith.
Crowley was right. When Vanka thought about it the way Ella was dressed did remind him of the pictures he’d seen of Lilith. Lilith was meant to have been the most powerful, the most evil woman who had ever walked the Demi-Monde and she’d been a Shade too. He wondered if Ella had adopted the guise of Lilith deliberately. That was when he remembered that she’d pretended to channel Lilith during their first séance.
Funny he’d never thought of it before.
Crowley edged nearer to Ella. ‘You confirm to me that your race, being more brutal and bestial than the Anglo-Slav people, is more closely in tune with the earthier appetites that DemiMondians are sometimes – unfortunately – prey to. And this pandering to these inclinations, as you so rightly say, is vital in the performance of magic. My own investigations have led me to the conclusion that magic is fuelled by sexual energy and I sense an enormous erotic potential in you, Miss Laveau.’ He stretched out a hand and drifted a finger across Ella’s right breast. ‘You have the Mann rune drawn here. Why?’
‘De Mann rune,’ breathed Ella, as Crowley’s fingers orbited her nipple, ‘is de sign ov sensual, erotic love and ov de wearer being one who indulges in de most dissolute sex. Tonight, to conjure de Great Lord Bondye, ah must show him ah am ready to pay for his services. And Great Lord Bondye always demands de use of mah body as payment.’
This Bondye’s no fool, decided Vanka.
Crowley swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps, after the performance, we might meet to discuss WhoDoo magic further?’
Ella curtsied. ‘Dat would be mah honour and mah pleasure, Your Holiness. A mambo like me is always ready to commune wit a powerful magician like yous.’
With that a very red-faced Crowley swept out of the ballroom.
When the door had shut behind him, Ella began to giggle. ‘By the Spirits, he had me worried there. He got a little too close to the hounfo for comfort.’ She giggled again. ‘But then it’s always so easy to distract men!’ She smiled at Vanka and Burlesque and gave them a twirl. ‘So guys, what do you think of my outfit?’
‘Nice tits,’ was Burlesque’s verdict.
The knock on the door of Trixie’s bedroom came just before eight o’clock. When she unlocked it and peeped outside she saw Captain Dabrowski standing there. He examined her.
‘Excellent. Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought. The trousers are good and the boots look very practical.’ He handed her a cap. ‘If you would push your hair up under this, I think we will have a better chance of passing you off as a soldier.’
‘A soldier?’ asked Trixie as she quickly pinned her long hair up and covered it with the cap.
‘You’re very popular with my men, Miss Dashwood; they think you’re very good-looking. So to avoid you being recognised it’s best that we try to smuggle you out disguised as my batman. You’ll need this as well.’ The Captain handed Trixie a leather holster which, when she unbuckled its flap, she found to be holding a small Colt revolver.
‘I have no use for this,’ she announced.
‘This is no time for feminine niceties, Miss Trixie. You must learn to protect yourself.’
‘Oh, believe me, Captain, I understand that. It’s just that I have no use for such a small-calibre revolver.’ She pulled back her jacket to show the huge Mauser she had holstered on her belt. ‘When I shoot at the SS, Captain Dabrowski, I intend to kill them, not frighten them.’
‘Have you ever used a pistol before?’
With a deftness that belied her soft, delicate fingers Trixie pulled her revolver from its holster, snapped it open and checked that it was loaded. ‘Yes, I can fire a pistol, Captain. My father considers me quite the sharpshooter.’
‘Good. Just remember, if things go badly don’t hesitate to shoot. But if I were you, I’d be inclined to save the last bullet for myself. Now, if you’re ready …’
Vanka stood in front of the hounfo, waiting for the audience to arrive, desperately trying to calm himself, to still the trembling in his hands and stop himself conjuring up images of Checkya torture chambers. It was too late now for something to turn up. He was a dead man.
How could Vanka Maykov, the cat who always walked by himself, have got himself into such a dangerous muddle? It was all Ella’s fault. Everything had started to go wrong the moment she’d entered his life. He tried to stop thinking about her, to concentrate on the job in hand; the thought of her in that costume didn’t do anything for his peace of mind.
Ella.
Ella who was now crouched on the floor in the middle of the hounfo completely covered by her cloak. Boy, was the audience in for a surprise.
A wisp of acrid smoke tugged at his nostrils: it was a horrible smell that tickled at the back of his throat. Burlesque had lit the two braziers set up in the ballroom and heaped on dried leaves from a plant Ella called epimedium. Vanka had never heard of the stuff but it was making his head swim, as was the rhythm the drummers were beating out from up in the minstrels’ gallery. ABBA only knew where Burlesque had conjured these maniacs from but they were playing their drums VERY LOUDLY. Ella called the music – music? – she had written for them rada music and said it was a vital ingredient in WhoDoo rituals. Vanka had his own name for it.
He didn’t know how much longer he could handle this unrelenting assault on his senses. He gave his head a shake but couldn’t seem to drive away the fug that was clouding his mind and if ever there was a time to remain sharp-witted, this was it.
Suddenly the doors of the ballroom crashed open: their audience had arrived and it was an august audience at that. Even as he bowed his greeting, Vanka spotted Heydrich, Crowley, Clement, Beria …
Beria.
Foul up tonight and Beria would ensure that his days on the Demi-Monde were very short.
Very short but unbelievably fucking painful.
Striding arrogantly into the hall, Heydrich took the tall chair directly in front of the hounfo with Beria seated to his left and a slim and heavily veiled woman to his right. Next to Beria was Crowley, who was looking decidedly out of sorts, with Comrade Commissar Dashwood perched uncomfortably alongside. There were a couple of other dignitaries making up the rump of the audience but with one exception Vanka didn’t recognise any of these supernumeraries.
The exception was General Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev, unmistakable in his trademark white uniform and ridiculous whiskers.
Skobelev, commander of the ForthRight army and th
e man who had fought the Royalist Poles to a standstill at the Battle of Warsaw. The General was a living, breathing hero and, more importantly, the man who had come within an ace of killing Vanka, the man who had sworn to revenge his family for the insult Vanka had inflicted by bedding the General’s sister.
Of all the rotten fucking luck. Of all the people he hadn’t wanted attending the séance.
Vanka almost panicked and for a moment wondered whether he shouldn’t just grab Ella and run for it. Then he remembered that he was wearing a mask and managed to get control of himself. It was impossible for Skobelev to recognise him; the mask completely covered what was left of the bruise on the side of his face.
He stood up straight and made a signal to the percussionists pounding away in the minstrels’ gallery. The music stopped but unfortunately the hammering in Vanka’s head kept right on going. Taking a deep, calming breath, he strode forward to the front of the hounfo acutely aware that every stride he took brought him nearer to Skobelev. He was sure the bastard was studying him.
‘Comrade Leader … Comrade Vice-Leader … Your Holiness … comrades and ladies.’ He pitched his voice as low as he dared, hoping that Skobelev wouldn’t recognise it.
The bastard was studying him.
‘Tonight, the mambo Marie Laveau, the foremost practitioner of WhoDoo magic in all of NoirVille, will commune with a Daemon. She will use her occult power and her psychic wiles to dominate the Daemon’s will and bend it to her bidding.’
Skobelev leant forward in his chair trying to get a better look at Vanka. Automatically he edged back as far into the shadows as he dared.
