Something clinked and scraped across the floor.
Bellamy whirled. The pieces of the broken statue were beginning to roll and scoot together in an apparent effort to reconstitute the whole. Already bits of finger and hand had locked together to grip the pistol anew. The remade hand flopped and rocked, struggling to turn itself around to point the weapon at the humans.
Crying out in rage and disgust, Bellamy stamped on the hand as if it were a cockroach. The bits of stone flew apart again. He snatched up the gun and thrust it back in its holster. Then, driven by a common terror, he and Astarte bolted. Phi two old women, now huddled in the far corner of the nave, goggled at them as they scrambled for the exit.
Bellamy surveyed the green fields of Woldenberg Riverfront Park. Camelias, azaleas, and irises were blooming. Smiling, chattering tourists strolled in the sunlight, admiring the plant life, making for the entrance to the Aquarium of the Americas, or heading for the Cajun Queen. The white paddlewheeler currently sat moored at its dock, plumes of white vapor rising from its twin smokestacks, waiting to embark on its afternoon cruise.
It all looked so pleasant. So normal. So real. For a moment Bellamy couldn't help wondering if the horror he'd experienced in St. Louis Cathedral had been real as well.
Impatiently, he thrust the treacherous thought away. Yeah, he told himself, it did happen. Keene was right. The paranormal exists, and it's out to get me. I have to accept that, no matter how much it scares me, or I won't have a snowball's chance in hell of dealing with it.
"Can we stop and rest?" Astarte asked, rubbing her shoulder. Desperate to put some distance between themselves and the church, they'd fled the French Quarter, not quite running—instinct had warned Bellamy not to make himself that conspicuous—but striding along rapidly enough to tire anyone who'd just been through the stress and exertion of a fight.
"Sure," Bellamy said. He knew he needed to stop fleeing. He needed to pull himself together and think.
"You could call the cops in there," Astarte said, pointing at the aquarium.
"I could," Bellamy said. A twinge of residual fright prompted him to look around and make sure nothing was creeping up on him, although, God knew, his experience with the statue suggested that he might not recognize a source of danger even if he saw it. "But it might not be a good idea."
"You still don't think your buddies in the FBI would believe you, do you?" said Astarte. For the first time, Bellamy glimpsed the steel stud embedded in the tip of her tongue. Despite his focus on genuine, indeed overwhelming problems, he winced. How many piercings did she have? How could people do that to themselves?
"What's the matter?" she demanded.
"Nothing."
"You made a face."
"Really, we're okay. To answer your question, yeah, I am worried that my colleagues wouldn't believe me. I doubt that the pieces of the statue are still moving around back there. Any ordinary homicide detective would zero in one fact: Keene was shot with my gun. Heck, that's why the statue bothered to pick it up, instead of just beating our brains out with its hands. It wanted to make it look like I killed you and Keene and then turned the gun on myself."
"You've got me to back up your story," Astarte said.
Bellamy smiled ruefully. "I'm not saying this to put you down, but you're not the kind of person that cops consider a reliable witness."
To his surprise, rather than losing her temper, she grinned back at him. "Isn't that the truth. And when they found out I have a jones for ghoulies, ghosties, long- leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night, that wouldn't help, would it?"
"I'm afraid not," Bellamy said. They started to saunter on toward the water. A pigeon wheeled overhead as if checking;to see if they were likely to drop any food, theasoared away.
"If we're worried about being accused of the crime, should we be worried about being identified by the old ladies in the church?"
"I hope not. I doubt they noticed us at all when we came in, and with luck, they only caught a glimpse of us from across the nave when we ran out."
"Good," said Astarte, turning her head to watch an Irish setter chase a Frisbee. The dog's coat glowed red in the sun. "So what are you going to do next?"
"Catch the Atheist," Bellamy said. When he said it out loud, it sounded so absurdly macho-—heck, just So absurd—that he had to smile. "Why not? I've got plenty of time. I took the whole rest of the week off."
Astarte stared at him. He couldn't read her expression. "You mean it, don't you?" she said at last. "Even after what we just went through. Who do you, think you are, John Canstantine?"
Bellamy didn't know the reference, but he understood what she meant. "No, but I am a gtiy who catches murderers. I like it, and I'm pretty good at it. And I suppose that because I am, and swore an oath when I joined the FBI, I even feel that I have a duty to do It." He looked- at hisccompanion, expecting her to Jeer at what he assumed she would consider a corny sentiment.
But she merely said, "Especially if you think that nobody else is going to do it."
"Yeah. There.may be someone else involved in the inveSCigfttiiSn whcS could relate to the idea that paranormal forces are involved, but if so, it's because he's on the Atheist's side,"
"Do you think somebody is?"
"I wish I knew. I told Hanson where I was meeting Waxman. Anybody else in the officeMpould conceivably have found out from him, and then tipped, off the killer. Of course, I didn't tell anybody where I was meeting Keene, but if somebody was keeping tabs on me..." He shrugged. "The only thing I'm certain of is that I'm on my own."
"I'm not saying you should," Astarte said, "but you could pretend today never happened. Go home and do what the FBI tells you to. Eventually your boss would probably decide you're still trustworthy. Then you could chase a bunch of other murderers."
"If I was still alive," Bellamy said. "Remember, somebody or something just tried to kill me. For all we know, it'll keep trying until it succeeds or I take it down. And even if my life weren't on the line, this would still, be personal. The Atheist has killed two informants right under my nose. He's ruined my deputation, with my colleagues. He's made me doubt my own nerve and even my own sanity. I won't lie to you, this.supernatural stuff scares me, but I have to keep after him. Otherwise I'll lose my self-respect."
He faltered, surprised at hiiTiself. He rarely disclosed so much of his feelings, even to trusted friends like Walter Byrd. He guessed the ordeal in the cathedral had loosened his tongue.
"Do you have any idea how to catch him?" Astarte asked.
"Keene suggested a couple possibilities. I'll pick one and run with it."
"Well, I think we should go to Lafayette," Astarte said. The Cajim Queen blew a blast on its whistle.
Bellamy stared at his companion in amazement. "Don't be ridiculous. You're not going to be involved in this any further. You're a civilian."
"So deputize me or something."
"Not even it I could. I'm stuck in this mess. You're not. The Atheist only knows you as Astarte You can go back home and be safe."
"You don't know that."
The cut in his scalp, where the statue had hit him, began to throb. "It's a reasonable assumption."
"Maybe," she said, "but I'm still not leaving."
"Look," he said, "I realize that your great goal in life is to find a vampire and"— to his surprise, the first image that popped into his mind was too pornographic to express; he paused for a beat to think of another—"uh, get its autograph. But this isn't a game. It's deadly serious."
"Well, that would explain the corpse," she replied sarcastically. "I know it's serious. That's why you need my help."
"Oh, and you've been a huge help so far," Bellamy said. "Keene might have told me a lot more if our conversation hadn't been cut short. But he got killed trying to pull you out of danger."
Astarte stared at him for a moment, and then her face twisted. She jerked around, turning her back to him. He suspected that it was to keep him from seeing her cr
y.
Bellamy had merely told ihe truth as he saw it, but still, he suddenly felt a pang of guilt for making her miserable. He stepped closer to her, catching the sharp scent of her body—evidently she hadn't bathed since leaving home—mingled with the scent of leather and now the moist odor of tears and mucus. Awkwardly, he tried to lay his hand on her shoulder, but she wrenched herself away from his touch.
"I'm sorry," he said, "That came out harsher that I meant it to. I'm as much to blame as you are. I'm supposed to be a professional, but I froze. If I'd started shooting a second sooner, Keene might still be alive. And ultimately, neither of us is responsible. The person or power that made the statue move is.
"All I was trying to say is, you haven't been trained—"
She rounded on him. "Didn't you think I knew Mr. Keene is dead because of me? I was trying not to think about it, but I did. That's part of the reason I want to help you, to make up for it. And I did as well against the statue as you did. I'm the one who finally knocked it down."
"And I'm grateful," Bellamy said. "But you have to admit, it was a lucky shot."
"Maybe so," she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. He noticed that she'd bitten her black-enameled nails to the quick. "But think about this. I've read a ton of books about the occult. Maybe I don't know as much as Vulture did, but he's gone. I'm the closest thing to an expert you've got left. Please let me stay."
"I can buy my own books—"
"If you won't let me stick with you, I swear, I'm going to poke around on my own. Vulture didn't think I could find anything, but I will!"
The hell of it was, she just might, and get herself killed in the process. Certain people had a genius for blundering into trouble, and Bellamy suspected she was one of them.
Maybe he should keep her with him for the time being. There was an outside chance she Could be useful. And once he learned her real name and address, maybe he could arrange for her family to come and drag her back to Ohio. "All right,8 he said, "provided you agree that I'm in charge." She twisted her black lips back into their customary half sneer. "Jawohl, mein Fuhrer," she said.
Montrose's tiny fleet, a motley collection of pirogues, broadhorns, keelboats, and skiffs, glided with the black current. The murmuring water smelled of silt and acidic industrial waste. Gradually, the lights of Natchez faded away astern, leaving only the stars to alleviate the darkness.
Standing with Fink on the bow of the latter's keelboat, Montrose remembered what had happened the last time he took an army onto the water. He hoped his luck had changed.
In an effort to distract himself from his misgivings, he mused on the paradox his miniature armada represented. Generally speaking, Underworld objects weren't solid in relation to matter existing in the Skinlands. Yet the boats at least appeared to sit in the water. Their sails bellied with the breeze, and their rudders, poles, and sweeps >ervd to maneuver them, even though they never raised a splash. It was one of the countless enigmas of Shadowlands physics. Montrose, had watched newly deceased scientists and logicians go half-mad trying to puzzle such mysteries out.
Fink pointed at the shore ahead. "There," he whispered. His crew began to steer the flatboat into the shallows.
Peering, Montrose could just make out the vague shapes of what might be a cluster of houses, and then a vague flicker of movement in their midst. "And you're absolutely certain that this is a Circle of Heretics," he said.
"I'm certain the bastards'll look good in chains," said Fink, and then he grinned. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. I told you, nobody knows more about what goes on along the banks of the Mississip than I do."
Montrose nodded to the Chanteur, a small man protectively cradling a cello case, in the Shadowlands, where material goods of all sorts were scarce and theft consequently endemic, many wraiths carried their prized possessions everywhere, even into situations where they were likely to prove cumbersome. The Chanteur set his instrument carefully on the deck, clambered atop the low cabin in the center of the boat, cupped his hands around his mouth, and whistled a bird call. The sound seemed, so.faint as to be nearly inaudible, but Montrose was confident that everyone in the raiding party would hear it. And sure enough, in a moment the other boats began to turn in toward shore.
The guerrillas beached their vessels, and then Montrose led them southward. As the raiders glided through a stand of mossy, resiny-smelling pines, their commander felt a thrill of anticipation. He'd tried not to relish warfare: when he was breathing. It had scarcely seemed Christian to do so. Yet he hadn't been able to deny that a part Of him delighted in the challenge and the risk, and evidently, despite his expectations to the contrary, his years at his master's court hadn't rendered him too jaded and sophisticated to experience the same excitement now.
A cluster of two- and three-story houses emerged from the gloom ahead. Like many Haunts, the structures were ruinous, riddled with Nihils, and seemingly abandoned by the Quick. They filled the air with the smells of mildew and wood rot. Peering between the derelict buildings, Montrose realized that they formed several concentric circles with an open space in the center. When the breeze gusted, the long, coarse grass in the clearing stirred, revealing crumbling gray tombstones and precariously leaning granite crosses. Scattered among the monuments, vague silhouettes swayed back and forth as if the wind were tossing them as well. A wordless chant like a whimper of pain murmured through the air.
Montrose wondered fleetingly just what sort of Quick village had been morbid enough to focus its communal life on the town graveyard, and then shoved the reflection aside. His business was with the current inhabitants of the hamlet, who had apparently assembled at its center for some sort of Heretical rite, like lambs obligingly congregating for the slaughter.
The Scot peered at the shadowy doorways, windows, and porches of the nearer houses, checking for sentries. Seeing none, he pointed right with the AK-47 and left with his empty hand. His force split up, three wraiths remaining with him but most, Fink included, skulking away in the directions indicated. The guerrillas would converge on the cemetery from every side, surrounding it, making sure none of their prey escaped.
Montrose waited a minute, giving his men time to encircle the Haunt, and then crept into the outermost ring of houses. His companions slunk after him. Rage, agony, and terror, the echo of an ancient massacre, still sang through the soil beneath his boots. A sickening exhilaration juddered up his legs and spine.
Still no sign of any guards. He noticed a Tudor-style door hanging by a single corroded hinge. Long ago, someone had carved lines of text into the top panels. Despite the worm holes and the mushiness of decay, Montrose could still read them. I am a child of the Wasteland. Dust is my drink arid stones are my bread.
The Stygian raised his hand. His three companions halted. He glided forward to peek around the corner of a collapsed porch. As he'd hoped, he now had a clear view of the graveyard.
Standing in a ring, a dozen wraiths swayed and crooned there, their faces slack with mindless ecstasy. In the middle of the circle, and the very center of the village, for that matter, was a bare patch of earth occupied by a single gargoyle-encrusted mausoleum. The tomb's doorway was a glittering Nihil, and what at first glance appeared to be an androgynous angel hovered ten feet above the roof, its iridescent wings beating in slow motion.
On further inspection, Montrose could see subtle signs of the creature's true nature, notably the hungry blackness, a match for the restless dark in the opening to the Tempest, seething in the center of its eyes. Whatever its worshippers imagined it to be, it was actually a Spectre, no doubt risen from the portal beneath its flawless alabaster feet.
Montrose's stomach clenched in loathing and disgust. It was just as he'd told Katrina. Wittingly or otherwise, Heretics were the lackeys of Oblivion. He opened his mouth to shout a demand for surrender, and then a ragged volley of shots rang out. A wraith behind him made a choking sound.
The Stygian spun around. One of his companions, a woman in a parti-colored
red and white mask, collapsed to her knees, fumbling at the crossbow bolt protruding from her neck. Waves of darkness pulsed from the wound, and then she faded away. Behind her, at the edge of town, figures were advancing. Guns flashed and barked, bows twanged, and a Chanteur wailed.
Another missile—Montrose didn't see whether it was an arrow or a bullet— ripped through the back of his inquisitor's mantle, passing between his torso and his arm. He turned again. The Heretics in the graveyard had hunkered down behind tombstones, snatched up weapons which had apparently lain hidden in the tall grass, and begun shooting also. Still floating serenely above the mausoleum, the Spectral angel looked at him and smiled.
Evidently the community of Heretics had grown considerably larger than Fink had imagined, large enough to outnumber the little band of raiders by a considerable margin. And just as obviously, they'd somehow detected the Montrose's approach and set a trap for him, an ambush he'd rendered even more effective by dispersing his force through the Haunt. Now he and his men were the ones who were truly surrounded, and caught in a crossfire to boot.
Unless he could rally his troops and rally them quickly, the expedition was doomed. Throwing off his cape, he turned to his companions. "We have to charge and take the graveyard."
"That's crazy!" replied a squat little Spook with a ruby embedded in the center of his brow. "The Spectre's there, and they've got us outnumbered besides!"
"If we don't pull our force back together," Montrose said, "we're all going to die. And the cemetery is the only place to rally. It's the only area that everyone on our side can see. Now come on!" He ran through the rubble of the collapsed porch, across a strip of weeds, and through the side of a house which listed drunkenly to one side, not bothering to glance back to see if his companions were following him. Either they were or they weren't, and if not, he didn't have time to coax them. He resisted the urge to cloak himself in shadow. If the men were charging after him, they might well falter if he vanished.
Racing through the interiors of houses, he covered part of the distance to the clearing without coming under additional fire. But the moment loomed when he'd have to break from cover. Exerting his will, not allowing himself to break stride, he hurtled through another wall, a broken porch railing, and bounded down onto the grass. Still running, he began to shoot.
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