Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  "You all right?" he rasped.

  "I think so," Bellamy replied.

  Before he'd even finished, the gator was turning, surveying the room, where, the human observed, the fighting had come to a end. The monsters had all perished or withdrawn, leaving a litter of wounded wraiths on the floor. "Damn it!" Antoine said. "I think they got Titus!"

  "Who's Titus?" Bellamy asked, drawing himself to his feet. Gunfire and the twang of crossbows still sounded elsewhere in the house. He picked up the: skeletal creature's shortsword and stuck it in his belt.

  "One of the root doctors," Antoine said. Giving his head a shake, he managed to dislodge some of the quills still stuck in his gums. "One of the most powerful ones we had. I wouldn't be surprised if killing him was the point of the whole raid."

  "Was he a bald old man with one half of his face painted red and the other black?"

  "Yeah," Antoine said.

  "Then they didn't kill him," Bellamy said. He retrieved a fallen pistol and ejected the clip, making sure it still contained ammo, then slammed it back into the gun. "At least, not in here. He was still okay when the metal spider carried him through the wall."

  "Then I've get after him pronto," Antoine said, "before they do hurt him."

  It occurred to Bellamy that here was a second chance to slip away, but this time he didn't feel even mildly tempted. He suspected the excitement of combat had made him stupid. "Let's do it," he said.

  ELEVEN

  When they reached the street, Bellamy discovered it was night. Imprisoned in the mansion, he hadn't been able to tell. Hissing faintly, Nihils cracked and pocked the ruinous facades of the old houses. Still not entirely used to the patina of decay the Shroud cast over the world of the living, he winced. Somewhere to the north, a dog was barking. Tinny jazz and rock music sounded from the direction of Bourbon Street, and a warm breeze carried the mud-and-pollution smell of the Mississippi.

  Bellamy peered warily up and down. He couldn't see any sign of the junk spider, or any other monsters, for that matter. "Do you have any idea which way to go?" he asked.

  "I will in a second." Antoine hunkered down, his pasture suggesting intense concentration. Bellamy wondered if the alligator was working some sort of magic. After several moments Antoine said, "Damn it."

  "What's wrong?" Bellamy asked.

  "Another of those damn quills," Antoine said. "In the back of my tongue. It hurts so much I can't think. Can you get it?" He opened his jaws wide.

  Trying not to think about his companion's profound hunger for meat, Bellamy reached deep into his cavernous mouth, gripped the offending object, and tugged it out.

  "Thanks," Antoine grunted. He crouched down, and his eyes narrowed. Eventually he nodded toward the river. "The spider took him that way."

  They started walking. Gripping his pistol, Bellamy peered ahead, watching for the enemy. "How do you know this is the right way?" he asked, pitching his voice low. He didn't want the spider to hear them coming.

  "I smell—and taste—the nasty hot metal of the monster's body," Antoine said. "I smell old Titus, too, except that I'm not really smelling them. It's a trick, like an Arcanosi. except that nobody had to teach me. I just have the knack." He paused. "I

  didn't expect to see you again so soon. Why aren't you out looking for your girlfriend?"

  "I don't know, exactly," Bellamy said. "I felt sorry for you guys, being attacked by monsters. You enslaved me, but at least you're people." More or less, he added silently. "And I sensed that my shadowself wanted me to abandon you, so I figured I should do the opposite." He frowned. "Although now that I think about it, it could have been faking me out with reverse psychology."

  Antoine snorted. "That's the worst thing about being one of the Restless. Knowing that a part of your own mind has turned against you. You can never trust even your own ideas and feelings, let alone anybody else."

  "How do you stand it?" Bellamy asked.

  "I don't know that anybody does," Antoine said somberly, "not over the long haul. Maybe the Void swallows us all in the end, when we run out of the will to carry on."

  Bellamy grimaced. He saw no point in dwelling on such a depressing notion, particularly when there were practical issues to consider. "I'd like to hear about the Queen's problems now, considering that we seem to be chasing one of them."

  A soft, scuffing sound issued from the shadows ahead. The two hunters froze until a flicker of orange and silver light appeared, outlining the body of a wizened old Quick woman in a long, filthy coat. She tottered out of an alley with a plastic grocery bag stuffed with rags and trash dangling from either hand. The breath wheezed and whistled in her throat, and to Bellamy's horror, he could see a lumpy black mass inside her chest, just as if he had X-ray vision. He realized it was a tumor that would eventually kill her.

  Discerning that the bag lady had nothing to do with their search, Antoine slithered forward. "I think the Queen's problems come down to one man," he said, "an ibambo named Geffard."

  Bellamy tore his gaze away from the sick woman. "Who's that?" he asked. "Somebody who wants to be King?"

  "Bingo," said Antoine, "but there's more to it. I told you that New Orleans is part of Africa."

  "Uh huh," Bellamy said. For a moment, he thought he smelled a putrid odor, something distinct from the complex stench of garbage and wood rot that enveloped this rundown section of the French Quarter, but when he inhaled deeply, it was gone.

  "Well, there's another country, another culture, another reality of ghosts based in the Caribbean," Antoine said. "In Haiti and places like that. Not all that different from the Queen's gang, but not exactly like them either. We call ourselves abambo, and they call themselves Les Invisibles. We bow down to the Orishas, and they worship spirits called Les Mysteres." He stopped for a moment, then led Bellamy around a corner and down a street even narrower and shabbier than the one they'd been following. Many of the crumbling houses were dark, with boarded windows, or shutters dangling from a single corroded hinge.

  "I think I'm starting to get the picture," Bellamy said. "Some of the Caribbean wraiths live in New Orleans. They'd like to see the city run according to their beliefs. And this Geffard is the leader of the rebels."

  "Right again," Antoine said. "Leader and head loa—big kahuna priest. Up until recently, the rivalry between the two groups wasn't too bad. Geffard and his gang defied the Queen when they thought they could get away with it, but subtly, without violence. A lot of the time, she let their disrespect go, like a soft-hearted mama coddling a bratty child. Maybe she figured they couldn't do any real harm, and it might be a good idea to let them blow off steam."

  Bellamy paused for a moment to peer into the shadows ahead. He didn't see anything threatening, but intuition warned him that Antoine knew where he was going. The metal spider was ahead of them, and not far, either. He swallowed away a dryness in his mouth. "But then things changed."

  Antoine nodded. "People began to disappear. Gradually we learned that there were. ..things stalking us. They've been picking off the Queen's most loyal supporters and magicians. Disrupting ceremonies and rituals. Desecrating shrines. Getting bolder and bolder. But they never hit a major Citadel before tonight."

  "Attacking holy men and sacred places," Bellamy said. "I was right. Your problems are part of the same thing as the Atheist murders."

  Antoine shrugged. "I guess it's possible, although I don't know why Geffard would bother to mess with the Quick. How would it help put him where he wants to be? I'll tell you this, though. Belief means everything on this side of the Shroud. It's the fuel that makes the magic work. If the Queen's hoodoo men keep getting whacked, and her gods keep getting insulted, then people will think she's losing her mojo. And once they believe it, it will be true. Geffard will overthrow her and take her throne."

  "She should move against him before things get any worse," Bellamy said.

  "I think so, too," Antoine said. "But there's a problem with that. He claims that her problems don't have anyt
hing to do with him. And the raiders sure don't seem like Les Invisibles or any other brand of ihambo anybody's ever seen, not even Spectres."

  Bellamy remembered the hot fire the baboon-headed woman had wielded against him, and the way the skeletal creature had melted away without the usual ripples of black light. "I noticed that."

  "She doesn't want to move against Geffard without proof that he's behind it all," Antoine continued glumly. "There are a bunch of Les Invisibles who don't care about overthrowing the government. But if they think the Queen is persecuting one of their own unjustly, they might decide it's time for a change after all."

  "Maybe we'll find the evidence she needs tonight."

  "That would be nice," Antoine said. "But I'll be happy if we just get Titus back. We aren't the first guys to chase these new devils into the night. With luck, we will be the first ones to survive."

  Bellamy smiled. "You really know how to build up a person's confidence. Why didn't they just destroy Titus back at the Haunt? Do they want to interrogate him?"

  "Could be. Or maybe one of them is Mia Watu, Maybe they can steal his mojo if they kill him in a special way."

  Antoine turned another corner and led Bellamy down another blighted street. The homeless, weirdly beautiful in their shimmering auras, sprawled on stoops and huddled in doorways, reeking of sweat, urine, feces, tobacco smoke, and cheap wine. One gaunt little boy stared at the ghosts for a moment and then began to laugh, a demented, honking sound. No one asked him what was so funny. Evidently he was alone; nOne of the other unfortunates was taking care of him.

  Bellamy sighed and tried to put the abandoned child out of his mind. It wasn't as. if he could help him. "You asked me why I'm here," he said to Antoine. "Why are you? What does an alligator care about a conflict between two human political factions?"

  "The Dark Kingdom of Ivory has smart wraith animals," Antoine said. "Near as I can make out, Les Invisibles don't. If Geffard takes over, then maybe zappo! All of a sudden I'm dumb as dirt again, or maybe I don't exist at all. But really, I guess I'd be here even if my own tail wasn't on the line. You wake up into death and find out you can talk. You're going to be lonely if you can't find somebody to talk to. And the Queen's people were decent to me. They made a place for me, and most of them don't treat me like a freak."

  Bellamy-shook his head. "I'm envious. They treated you better—"

  "Quiet!" Antoine snapped. "We're real close now. I can feel it."

  The human obediently fell silent. Antoine peeked around another corner. After a moment Bellamy warily did the same. The passage before him was a short, narrow cul-de-sac strewn with sheets of newspaper and other bits of trash. Several jagged- edged Nihils sufficiently large that a person could fall into them seethed and glittered in the brick pavement. A few pieces of litter appeared to float at the top of the pits, because in the reality of the Skinlands, the cavities didn't exist.

  Antoine sniffed the air. "I think they're in that building at the end of the alley." He glided forward, using shadows, telephone posts, and the occasional garbage can for cover.

  Crouching, Bellamy sneaked after him. He peered this way and that, looking for sentries. He didn't see any, but for a moment he caught a hint of the same fetid odor he'd smelled just outside the Haunt, almost but not quite indistinguishable from the complex stench of the garbage decaying all around him.

  A soft rustling sounded from overhead. His head snapped up, and he saw the faceless demon on a rooftop. He just had time to realize that the stink was the smell of its oozing sores, and then its arms whipped through the air. A round, shadowy shape expanded against the sky.

  Bellamy shouted, "Look out!" and barely managed to leap clear. Caught by surprise, Antoine wasn't as lucky. Thudding to the pavement, the plummeting net enveloped him, then instantly began to bunch in around him as if it were woven of pythons.

  Bellamy snapped off a shot at the faceless thing. The spirit lurched backward. Then something rattled at the end of the passage.

  The FBI agent pivoted. The junk spider finished sliding through a wall and charged him, claws upraised.

  Bellamy settled into a marksman's stance and fired at it. The darksteel bullets clanged into it and knocked away bits of rusty metal. One shot shattered a mismatched glass eye. But it kept coming. Meanwhile, the faceless man jumped down into the alley.

  Still shooting, Bellamy backpedaled toward one of the Nihils. He didn't entirely understand what the holes were—openings into another dimension, apparently— but he'd been warned that large ones were dangerous. He hoped it was true.

  Trying to keep his eye on his adversaries, he slightly overestimated the distance to the pit. He stepped backward, and his heel came down on nothingness. Thrown off balance, he flailed his arms. The Nihil seemed to hiss louder. He almost imagined he could feel it sucking at him.

  By the time he recovered his equilibrium, the spider was nearly on top of him. He fired his last shot, held himself still for a split second, then ducked its first clawing attack, sidestepped, dropped the pistol, and grabbed the side of its body.

  The jagged bits of scrap tore open his palms and fingers. Ignoring the pain, he heaved with all his might. The momentum of the spider's charge helped him tumble it into the pit.

  Twisting, scrabbling, the demon caught hold of the edge of the hole. Bellamy was horribly certain it was going to haul itself out. But then its body began to buckle and crumple as if it were being crushed in an invisible vise. One by one, its clutching limbs lost their grip.

  Bellamy heard footsteps pounding at him. He whirled. The faceless man lunged at him, intent on pushing him into the Nihil. The FBI agent lurched aside, threw a clumsy punch at the monster, and missed.

  The two opponents began to circle one another. Belatedly remembering the shortsword in his belt, Bellamy eased his hand toward the unfamiliar weapon. Just as he touched the hilt, the faceless man pounced at him.

  Bellamy punched the demon in the throat. A solid hit this time, but it didn't stop the creature. The monster grabbed him by the shoulders, sinking fingertips as hard as stone into his flesh. Streamers of bloody pus writhed out of its sores and across Bellamy's body, seeking his head. The slimy, reeking tendrils gouged at his eyes, burrowed into his nostrils and ears. One slid down his gullet, choking him. He thought he felt them boring into his brain.

  He tried to tear himself free, lost his balance, and fell onto his back without getting rid of his mask of squirming filth. The demon dove on top of him, its knees slamming into his chest.

  Bellamy desperately groped for the sword, fumbled it out of his belt, and stabbed blindly.

  The blade sunk into something solid, and the weight on his chest disappeared. The pus clinging to his head evaporated.

  Sobbing and gagging, he sat up, and saw that when he'd fallen, he'd just missed dropping into the same Nihil that had swallowed the spider. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered over to where Antoine lay thrashing, tail slapping the pavement, still entangled in the net. The mesh had drawn so tight that the gator's scaly hide bulged between the strands. Bellamy suspected that, given time, it could slice his companion apart.

  He grabbed a handful of net and sawed at it with the sword. The cords squirmed, trying to avoid the blade, but they weren't nearly as good at defending themselves as they were at crushing someone caught inside their coils. Gradually they came apart, and the more he cut, the more feebly they struggled, until finally Antoine wriggled free.

  "Thanks," the gator croaked. He looked Bellamy over. The FBI agent wondered fleetingly just how wild-eyed and frightened he appeared. "What do you think, warmblood? Shall we go on?"

  Bellamy took a deep breath. He knew he didn't need it, but the action felt right.

  "Why not?" he said. "We're winning so far."

  "So far," Antoine said sardonically. He crawled toward the door at the end of the alley. Bellamy stalked after him, expecting some other horror to leap out at them at any moment.

  But nothing did. Maybe the
faceless man and the junk spider had been the only two monsters in the vicinity. Maybe Titus was alone inside the dilapidated building, bound or unconscious. Perhaps Bellamy and Antoine would be able to get him back to the Haunt without any more trouble.

  An encouraging thought. But then the two companions heard the soft growling murmuring through the wall.

  Antoine looked up at Bellamy. "That sounds like a big, mean dog. Except, not exactly."

  Bellamy nodded. "You can hear complicated patterns in the noise, as if the thing is speaking a real language. I told you there were werewolves involved in this mess. I think we're listening to one now." He thought of Dunn in his bestial form, clawing him, finally electrocuting him, and shivered.

  "A werewolf," said Antoine. "Son of a gun. I've always wanted to see one. Part man, part beast, it figures I'd be curious, right?" He started up the sagging steps to the tenement's back door.

  "Be careful!" Bellamy said. "They're dangerous."

  "To the Quick, they're dangerous," Antoine replied. "Your furry friend won't be able to touch us, remember? Odds are, he won't even see us. I just hope there aren't any more spirits around. They're the only thing that guys like us need to worry about."

  The reptile slipped into the building. Wondering if his companion actually knew what he was talking about, Bellamy followed him into a foyer with a row of doors lining the wall on either side. The rhythmic snarling issued from one on the left.

  Bellamy crept forward, slid his face through the panel, then caught his breath. Beyond the door was a dilapidated apartment, its cracked walls crudely painted with black spirals and some of the other symbols he'd seen in the werewolf stronghold. In the center of the room, too tall to stand erect beneath the low, stained ceiling, crouched another gray-furred beastman, this one with only one external ear, a twisted leg, and a withered, useless-looking third arm sprouting from the left side of his chest. A necklace of long fangs and rough, dimly glowing crystals hung around his neck, and he held a human femur in each of his good hands, slowly twirling them in a way that reminded the FBI man of a tai chi practitioner performing his exercises. His aura was a murky crimson shot through with glittering flecks, and his fur gave off a zoo-cage reek similar to Dunn's. Now that Bellamy had the exquisitely sensitive nose of a wraith, the stench was even fouler.